Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The world was burning.

Fang couldn’t feel her legs. The edges of her vision were blurring; the sky cracked with lightning, real and forged from memory. She tasted blood. She smelled ash. The battlefield was a storm of screaming winds, broken terrain, and blinding light.

It had happened in a flash. Kira’na, eyes cold and resolute, had surged forward with her blade crackling with stored energy. She aimed for BoBoiBoy, whose body was mid-shift, branches sprouting from his arms, vines twisting through the air as he tried to complete his transformation into Rimba.

Time seemed to freeze as Fang saw the lightning gather.

Without hesitation, she moved.

There was no thought. No plan. Only instinct. She launched herself forward and shoved BoBoiBoy out of the path of the strike.

The electric shock hit her squarely in the chest, ripping through her nerves like molten fire. The explosion of power swallowed her scream.

She felt her body twist mid-air from the force of the hit. Pain wasn’t just pain—it was everything. Her memories. Her guilt. Her failure. Her love.

Black lightning scars tore across her skin as if branding her with every mistake she'd ever made.

BoBoiBoy caught her before she hit the ground, his arms locking around her trembling frame with desperation.

His transformation into Rimba had just been completed—his form cloaked in white, threaded with green highlights, the air around him breathing with life. A flowing scarf trailed from his neck like a banner of the wild. His light green hair shimmered under the sky, the stark white streak at his fringe pulsing faintly like lightning before a storm. Energy pulsed through vines and leaves that curled around his arms and shoulders—nature’s fury held in human hands.

But right now, all that power—the strength of the Earth itself—felt utterly useless as Fang lay cradled in his arms, her body far too still.

He felt the static clinging to her skin. The residue of the lightning blast was still warm against his palms, laced with scorched fabric and the coppery scent of blood. Her body was burned along the edges of her jacket, the electrical scarring blackening the skin near her ribs. Her breaths came in brittle gasps. Her eyes, once so fierce and filled with silent defiance, were dim now, fluttering like a candle struggling not to die.

“Fang,” he breathed, his voice cracking. “Fang—no, no, no—don’t you dare—!”

He dropped to his knees with her, shaking, holding her tighter. His mind broke under the weight of it all. A memory surged forward like a wave crashing on fragile shorelines:

It was raining. He had curled behind Tok Aba’s shop, shaking with silent sobs after his first failure in battle. He had let people down. He thought no one saw him. Until Fang came.

She didn’t say anything.

She didn’t have to.

She simply stood beside him, an umbrella in hand, shielding both of them. No judgment. No words. Just silence—solid, present, and unwavering. She stayed until the rain stopped. That simple gesture, that quiet companionship—he never forgot it.

Now she was silent again.

Too silent.

BoBoiBoy's voice shook as he pulled her against him. “Fang... stay with me. Please… please stay. Don’t leave me. Not you, too. I’m not ready—I can’t—”

Desperation seized his body as instinct took over. Glowing vines from his Rimba form wrapped around her midsection, pulsing green with life energy. He pressed his hand to her chest, just above the heart.

“Come on… I have to be able to fix this. I have to...!”

He poured his power into her—the regenerative flow of Rimba’s Touch, the sacred healing drawn from nature’s deepest roots. Green light shimmered around her, the leaves and vines wrapping like a cocoon—but her body barely responded.

The blast had struck near her heart. The damage was too deep.

"No," BoBoiBoy whispered, voice trembling. "No, this should be working. Why isn’t it—?"

BoBoiBoy's breath caught. His hands trembled as he pressed them against the wound near her chest, green energy flooding into her—his Rimba healing. “Come on. Please work. Please...!” He poured more into her. Nothing. It was like the forest itself recoiled.

“No, no, no!” His voice cracked, and for the first time in a long time, BoBoiBoy felt truly powerless.

Then came the voices in his head. Not his thoughts—his elements. Each one stirred, reacting to Fang's limp body with the full weight of their emotional origins.

Solar was the first to speak, his voice sharp and frustrated, trembling behind a brittle arrogance.

“This isn’t supposed to happen. She was meant to survive—wasn’t that the whole equation? The probability—this defies every logical pattern!”

Ice said nothing for a moment. Just a long, frigid silence. Then, in a quiet murmur:

“She was always calm, when we weren’t. I liked that about her. Don’t make us freeze over again...”

Thorn, the 2nd youngest, whimpered. His voice was soft and afraid.

“Master... she’s not moving. Is she sleeping? Can you wake her up? Please wake her up...”

Blaze snarled, his fury barely contained, raw and explosive.

“HOW COULD THAT MONSTER DO THIS?! LET ME OUT—LET ME TEAR HER APART! SHE WAS OUR FRIEND! SHE WAS—SHE WAS—!”

His voice cracked, heat flaring and sputtering like a wildfire choking on ash.

Taufan—usually full of jokes and laughter—was dead silent. Then, he spoke in a whisper.

“I… I can’t make her smile, can I? Not this time…”

Gempa, ever the leader, the steady one, tried to speak with composure.

“Master. You need to breathe. You need to think—”

But even his voice trembled with the weight of loss.

“I… I don’t know how to lead you through this.”

They were all breaking.

Just like him.

“Fang—” BoBoiBoy gasped, cradling her limp, bloodied form. His hands glowed with blinding green energy, Rimba’s gift, desperately pressing against the wound in her chest. “Stay with me—please—stay with me! You’re gonna be okay! Just—just breathe!”

But nothing he did was working.

The healing—at it's strongest—burned too bright, flickered too fast. His powers were failing, breaking apart beneath the sheer terror in his chest. The ground cracked beneath him, vines withering from overexertion, even as he poured every ounce of himself into her.

“Come on, Fang—please—don’t do this—don’t leave—” His voice was hoarse, shaking, tears falling freely. “You have to stay—you have to.”

He wasn’t ready to lose the only person who had ever understood what it felt like to be alone in a crowded room.

The only person who made him feel whole and free.

And inside him, the elements screamed.

Solar surged with fury, bright and unbearable: “We were fools. Arrogant, blind—we saw her, we watched her, and we never realized what she meant to us until it was too late.”

Ice’s calm shattered into regretful silence: “We thought it was admiration. We thought she was just… a light to follow. We didn’t know it was love.”

Thorn was crying, raw and childlike: “She was always kind… always warm… And we never said anything. We thought there would be time…”

Blaze roared with pain: “We pushed her away. We kept my distance. We thought we were protecting her—and now we’ll never get the chance to say—anything.”

Taufan, usually joy incarnate, was silent—his laughter long gone: “She’ll never smile again. Not because of us. We’re losing her, and she doesn’t even know how much we care.”

Gempa’s voice trembled with guilt and helplessness: “We’re supposed to protect people. We should’ve protected her. She’ll die thinking she was alone…”

BoBoiBoy gritted his teeth as his body trembled.

He wanted to say something—he wanted to scream the truth. He wanted to say “I love you,” just once, just so she could know she was never unloved, never forgotten, never just a friend. 

But… he couldn’t.

Not like this.

Not when the words would only wound her more—false hope in her final breaths. A confession too late, with nothing left to give but grief.

And so, instead, he broke.

“You’re gonna be okay, I promise, just hang on—” he whispered, voice cracking under the pressure of the truth he couldn’t say. “You’re not alone. We’re here—we’re all here…”

He pressed his forehead to hers as his powers faded.

And in that silence, the elements wept—not just for her dying breath…

…but for the love, they only realized as they watched her fade.

And Fang—she felt everything. The warmth of his arms. The weight of his voice. The tremble of his breath against her skin. And guilt. So much guilt.

She had always felt it, the ache of not being enough. The sting of walking in his shadow. Of watching BoBoiBoy be brave, kind, strong… while she struggled just to stand beside him. She remembered every moment she had

envied him, resented herself for not being like him.

‘I’m always the one breaking,’ she thought bitterly. ‘And you’re always the one trying to hold the pieces.’

Tears pooled behind her eyes, too heavy to fall.

‘I made you cry. I made you suffer. Even now, I’m still hurting you.’

Her heart screamed with shame.

‘I was supposed to protect you. But you’re the one holding me again. Always the same. Always you…’

She couldn’t say it. Couldn’t tell him how sorry she was. How much she hated that this was the only way she knew how to show she cared—by breaking in his arms again.

‘I’m sorry,’ she thought. ‘I’m sorry I was never strong enough.’

Kira’na froze, her blade trembling in her grasp. The electric hum of the weapon dimmed, then died, as if the very energy recoiled in horror at what had just occurred.

Her eyes, wide and unblinking, locked on the bloodied and scared figure crumpled in BoBoiBoy’s arms.

Fang.

'No. No, not Fang.'

She hadn’t meant—she didn’t mean—her blade had meant to punish, to win, to end it. Not her.

A scream tried to claw its way up her throat, but got stuck, crushed beneath a flood of memories that slammed into her like a tidal wave.

Fang, seven years old, laughing like sunlight as they raced across the grassy hills of Kira’na’s war-torn planet. Kira’na had tripped and scraped her knee on jagged stone, though she didn't really feel any pain from her injury. Fang, still a little shy, had knelt beside her and wordlessly pulled a crumpled candy from her pocket, hand trembling. “For when you feel sad,” she had whispered, lips wobbly but sincere. That moment—that moment—Kira’na had first called her sister.

Not out of duty.

But out of love.

Now, her “sister” lay dying because of her.

Because of her.

Kira’na dropped to her knees. The blade clattered to the ground beside her, forgotten.

"No…" the word escaped in a cracked breath, trembling like her limbs. Her hands, still slick with energy residue, hovered over her mouth as if to hold back the horror threatening to erupt.

“No… Not her… Not Fang.”

Inside the blade, Halilintar howled — a soundless, suffocating cry that tore through the core of the sword and echoed into nothing.

No one could hear him.

No one could feel the way his soul cracked apart inside the prison forged to contain him.

But his storm responded — red lightning flared in jagged, violent bursts, arching out like wild claws, only to choke back into silence, into self-loathing stillness.

“YOU STUPID—! FUCKING—! SHIT-!"

His voice was hoarse even within his mind, snarling through the overwhelming haze of rage and heartbreak.

“YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO BE SAFE! YOU WEREN’T— YOU WEREN’T SUPPOSED TO FUCKING—”

He slammed against the barrier of the sword again and again. But there was no give. No door. No voice that would reach out and say it was going to be okay.

She had always been a blur of contradictions—messy ponytail half-falling apart after missions, but still somehow graceful; long purple hair streaked with engine oil and sparks; crimson red eyes that always hid behind her visor or glasses, but glowed when she laughed like thunder rolled in her chest.

“Damn it, Fang… I never fucking told you… I didn’t even KNOW… I didn’t get to—”

His voice broke. His lightning cracked again—but this time, it dimmed, shuddered, like it had been strangled.

Memories assaulted him. Fang rolling her eyes and calling him a “dumbass” with a smirk. Fang humming while she worked on her new moves. Fang yanking him back from enemy fire with a curse sharper than his own. Fang teasing him. Fang saving him.

And now Fang… dying. Her body was bleeding out in his master's arms, his lightning the one that had run her through.

“FUCK! FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT SWORD—LET ME OUT! LET ME OUT!”

He slammed again. The red lightning flared up in a jagged crown—then vanished, extinguished by his own grief.

No one could hear him.

No one even knew.

Except for the sword. And it just sat on the ground, vibrating with restrained stormlight, useless now. A monument to everything he hated.

To what he had done.

To what he had lost.

He had loved her. He loved her so goddamn much it hurt worse than anything he’d ever felt.

And he only realized it now—when it was too late. When the one person who might have loved him back was slipping through their fingers, one heartbeat at a time.

“I never told her…” he whispered, collapsing inside the silence, as his lightning finally faded. “I didn’t even know. I didn’t even—FUCK!”

BoBoiBoy’s eyes rose to meet Kira’na’s, blazing with fury, heartbreak, and a kind of desperation that cut deeper than any blade.

His whole body trembled as if it could no longer contain the weight of the storm brewing inside him.

Tears poured freely, soaking his cheeks, his breath rattling in sharp, uneven gasps. He looked like a storm—finally broken.

“WHY?!” he screamed, and the world answered.

The ground beneath him cracked violently—Gempa’s voice thundered from his throat, his eyes burning in a golden fury, the soil surging like it could swallow Kira’na whole.

Then came the wind—Taufan’s howl, fierce and wild, as BoBoiBoy’s hair and cloak whipped wildly behind him, his eyes flashing blue and white.

“OF ALL PEOPLE, WHY HER?!” he bellowed again, as thorns erupted from his arms, pulsing with Duri and Rimba’s dark green fury, lashes of pain cutting through the stone underfoot.

Solar light curled along his skin, eyes burning bright white and yellow—Solar’s rage casting his silhouette in blinding heat. The very air shimmered.

His breath turned to mist—Ais was next. His voice cracked and frayed with ice, his pupils a frozen light blue, the chill in the air suddenly sharp enough to cut. Frost formed in blooming rings beneath his feet.

Then came the inferno. Blaze. His scream melted into fire, his form flickering into burning bright orange, voice deeper, more guttural, filled with a wrath that wasn’t just human.

Element by element, BoBoiBoy cracked apart. All of them cried out through him—his tone shifting, his very body morphing with each syllable. From the green of Rimba to the fury of six others—he was no longer one. He was all of them. All of them screaming.

Kira’na took a move backwards—not in fear, but in the hollow realization that she’d unleashed something she couldn’t control.

The sword left carelessly on the ground, the one that had killed Fang. The blade that was meant for BoBoiBoy.

But instead, it had pierced through Fang’s ribs.

And now, Halilintar’s essence screamed within it.

The blade trembled, crackling with electricity—raw bolts surging and leaping into the air, lashing toward the sky like a caged storm. Lightning arced from its tip to the ground with violent intent, but there were no words. No voice. Only fury.

Halilintar was trapped. Bound within the sword. His screams couldn’t be heard, so they became lightning—wild, untethered, furious. Sparks leapt from the hilt like desperate claws trying to reach out, to comfort, to avenge.

But he couldn’t. He was sealed. Silent.

And yet, Kira’na felt the rage in her bones.

BoBoiBoy collapsed to his knees, clutching Fang’s broken form. His sobs were raw, ragged, almost inhuman. The roots of the earth curled violently around his legs. Flames and frost licked across his skin. Thorns wrapped around his arms, and his shadow shimmered with silent lightning that mimicked the rage of the blade.

“You said—” his voice cracked, multiple tones bleeding into each other. “You said you’d stay…”

He buried his face in her neck, shuddering like the earth itself would fall.

“You promised you’d stay…” he whispered "You said you weren’t going anywhere."

Fang felt herself slipping.

Everything around her—voices, screams, the clash of elements, the weight of dying—it was all a blur. Sounds came to her in warped echoes, like she was hearing from underwater. Pain consumed her—white hot, then cold, then nothing.

She couldn’t focus. Couldn’t hear him. Couldn’t feel anything except her own failure.

'I was never enough,' she thought. 'I always made things worse.'

She heard fire crackling. Then wind. Then ice.

'Are they fighting?' she wondered. 'Is BoBoiBoy angry?'

But none of it felt real—until she heard his voice. Clear. Fractured. Breaking.

“You promised you’d stay.”

That... she heard.

And it hurt more than the blade ever did.

Fang’s eyes fluttered, lashes wet with tears. For the first time, her focus sharpened—not on the pain, not on the chaos. But on him.

His arms were wrapped around her, trembling. And she saw the boy—not the hero—just the broken heart holding her together as she fell apart.

Kira’na could barely breath. Her hands trembled violently, as though trying to shake off the blood she couldn’t see but could feel down to her soul.

She had killed someone who once held her hand on the darkest day of her life.

She had silenced the girl who called her sister, who had reached for her with warmth when the world had gone cold.

“No…” she croaked, a broken sound that barely escaped her lips. “No, no, no…”

She tried to stand and stagger forward, as if she could somehow undo it—rewind the moment, unsay the words, unswing the blade. But her knees buckled again and she fell, dirt grinding into her skin, but she didn’t care. She didn’t feel it. All she could hear was Fang’s laughter, gentle and distant, like a memory fading behind closed doors.

Her breath hitched on a sob. “Please… not Fang. Anyone but her.”

She had destroyed the only person who ever called her ‘sister’ and meant it.

And BoBoiBoy—he—

His scream didn’t come from his throat.

It tore from his soul.

"NOOOO!"
"FANG!"

The cry echoed not once, but sevenfold—each voice layered and distinct. It was BoBoiBoy, but it was also Blaze, Ice, Duri, Solar, Taufan, Gempa. Each element screamed with him, through him, their tones warping the very air.

His eyes flashed with unnatural, primal green light, pulsing with jagged streaks of orange, light blue, blue, golden, green and yellow. His Rimba form remained intact, but his body trembled as though it couldn't contain the raw anguish ripping through him.

The land around them shook. The earth cracked.

It wasn’t just a name they screamed.

It was everything they had never said.

Everything they had just realized.

And everything they were now losing.

The world stopped.

The battlefield fell deathly still.

Everyone turned.

His scream shattered the fog of war like a blast of divine fury. For one heartbeat, even time itself seemed to falter—frozen in the wake of something far more brutal than pain: regret.

And that was the moment everyone knew—

Something had gone terribly, irreversibly wrong.

And no one—not even the one who wielded the blade—would ever be the same again.

And in her final moment, as Fang's lips cracked into a faint smile, she felt the warmth of BoBoiBoy’s tears soaking into her shoulder. She couldn’t lift her arms, but she could still feel the weight of his grief. She wanted to tell him

it was okay that this time she chose this, but the words never made it past her lips.

Everything was slowing, like the world itself was mourning.

Kaizo was roaring her name, shoving aside enemies with a rage that had no shape, no target—only pain. His eyes were wild, his voice breaking, raw with the agony of someone who had already lost too much.

A memory flashed through him—holding her as a newborn, so tiny she fit in the crook of his arm. Their mother had just given birth to her, Kaizo, only a child himself, had whispered a promise into her sleeping ear: "I'll protect you. Always." He had kept that promise every day since—until now.

He had raised her, fought beside her, and now he was watching her slip away, powerless to stop it.

Yaya’s voice cracked over the comms, yelling for medics, backup, anything. Her hands were trembling as she flew, her discipline shattered.

She remembered that first day Fang entered the classroom. Awkward. Silent. Standing stiffly by the chalkboard as the teacher introduced her, Everyone had whispered, suspicious. No one knew where she came from. Or why her eyes looked so hollow. Yaya had offered her a seat. Fang didn’t speak. Days passed. Still silence. Cold. Withdrawn. Watching them all like they were ghosts. Walls are built sky-high, until they crumble.

Then came the problem of Ochobot collapsing every time he saw her.  Everyone believed she had stolen the power watch and assumed she had forced Ochobot to give it to her. While Yaya hadn't been among the ones who confront her with their suspicion without investigation, she hadn't defended her either. Fang defended herself—eyes narrowed, jaw clenched, voice shaking but unwavering. "I didn’t force him," she said, the words cracking through the tension in the room. "I don’t even remember how I got it."

There was fear in her tone, yes—but also fury, born from being cornered yet again. The others flinched at her intensity, but beneath her anger was something more fragile. A girl who was tired of being accused. Tired of being alone.

Later, when they found out the truth, Ochobot had given Fang the Shadow Power Watch because she protected him, shielding his tiny frame from harm. Yaya remembered the way guilt had punched her in the gut.

She apologized. They all had. Fang didn’t accept it at first. But then, one day, she quietly slid into the seat beside Yaya and asked, "What’s for lunch today?"
That was when they truly became friends.

Ying was a streak of light and tears, moving faster than she'd ever moved in her life, begging the world to let her be fast enough.

She remembered how she had been wary of Fang, too, back then. But after the apology, she offered Fang a hair clip in class—a simple gesture. Fang didn’t say anything, but the next day, she was wearing it.

From that moment on, Ying always made sure to walk beside her between classes.

Gopal had dropped everything, his shield, his food, his jokes. He ran as if his heart had taken over his legs, eyes wide and wet. He remembered putting a snack on her desk every day without a word. And then one day, Fang turned and handed him back half.

"You need it more," she had said.

He’d grinned and sat beside her, and from then on, he never let her eat alone again.

His chest hurt from how tightly it was trying to hold back his panic.

They were all running.

For her.

And Fang saw them—blurred shapes she loved more than life, more than herself. Her heart ached with sorrow, with gratitude… but most of all, with unbearable guilt.

And then—

Kaizo.

His voice cracked through the chaos, raw and ragged, a sound that didn't belong to someone who had always been their steady storm.

“FANG!!”

She couldn’t lift her head.

But she felt the quake in the earth as he skidded to her side, the smoke clinging to his torn coat, his bloodied face streaked with panic. He dropped to his knees, his breath hitching as his hand hovered—then cradled her cheek like she was something fragile, something already slipping away.

“No—no—no, no, no,” Kaizo choked, over and over, as if repetition alone could undo it. “This isn’t happening. This isn’t real. Pang—look at me—LOOK at me!”

BoBoiBoy held her tighter, his jaw clenched so hard it hurt. His whole body trembled. “I-I tried,” he rasped, barely audible. “She—she saved me... she—”

“Why would you do that?!” Kaizo’s voice cracked like a whip, eyes blazing, voice torn between fury and despair. “Why would you take the hit?! WHY, FANG?!”

She couldn’t speak. But her heart screamed it.

Because I love you. All of you. And I was tired of being the one you had to save.

Kaizo grabbed her shoulder, shaking, trembling violently. “You’re gonna be fine, do you hear me? The medics—they’re coming. Just hang on—please, Pang, just stay with us—stay with me!”

Fang blinked slowly, but her gaze was slipping.

“Don’t close your eyes!” Kaizo begged, gripping her hand like it was a lifeline. “Please—don’t do this to me!”

Yaya’s scream pierced the air, then Ying’s sob echoed after it. They reached her next—Yaya dropping beside Kaizo, her voice cracking as she grasped Fang’s arm.

“No. No, she’s okay—she has to be okay! She’s just tired, right? RIGHT?!”

Ying fell to her knees, burying her face in Fang’s shoulder. “Fang—please, please wake up. You always get back up—you always do!”

Gopal stumbled into them, his hands bloodied from rubble, falling to her other side. “She’s gonna make it,” he muttered desperately, over and over like a prayer. “She’s gonna make it—she promised we’d eat ice cream after this! She promised!”

Their voices blurred, overlapping in a symphony of desperation. Kaizo shouted for the medics again—though he knew they weren’t coming fast enough.

And Fang, still and fading, could only think:

'I hurt them.'

'I made them cry.'

'I was supposed to protect them… and now they’re the ones breaking.'

She wanted to tell them she was sorry. That this wasn’t what she wanted. That she only ever tried to keep them safe.

But no sound came out.

Just the weight of their grief pressing down on her chest—hot, heavy, and unbearable.

And for a second, she thought she heard Kaizo whisper again, softer, more broken than ever:

“Please… don’t leave me too.”

Fang’s breath slowed.

Silver bled into her vision, cool and soft—like the light that came after a storm. Her chest barely moved now, her pulse a thread unraveling.

'Please,' she thought faintly. 'Let this be enough. Let their hearts be safe. Let them live the future I couldn’t.'

A soft glow pulsed beneath her.

At first, no one noticed. Too lost in the devastation of watching her slip away, her body cradled in BoBoiBoy’s shaking arms, her blood still fresh on the broken ground.

But then—the earth shimmered.

Dust stirred with quiet reverence as light etched itself into the soil, carving ancient lines like moonlight writing a memory only the stars remembered. A circular seal bloomed beneath her body—silver and white, radiant and alive.

At its center, a crescent moon pulsed gently, as if exhaling. Lines spiraled outward from it in soft arcs, wrapping around her form like vines of light.

BoBoiBoy jolted, breath catching. “No—no, what’s happening!?” he gasped, his arms tightening around Fang’s limp body. The light curled up her sides, climbing in gentle tendrils. “Stop—don’t touch her! Don’t take her too!”

His voice cracked into raw panic. “She’s already—please—don’t hurt her more!”

And then the Elements surged.

Light erupted at his hands. Vines rose in defensive walls. Wind screamed around them. Earth split beneath his feet. Ice bloomed like spines from his shoulders. And fire flared—roaring in his throat.

His eyes flashed with every color of power.

But the light... didn’t flinch.

It didn’t burn. It didn’t recoil.

It wrapped around them both—calm, whole, soft as snow on flame.

And slowly, the fury… dimmed.

BoBoiBoy’s flames quieted. His winds fell to a hush. The ground stilled. Even Solar’s light began to settle.

The Elements stirred.

Within the Blade — Halilintar

The sword, still buried in the bloodied earth, hummed.

Not with rage.

Not with vengeance.

But with something older. Something aching.

Within the sealed spirit-forged metal, Halilintar mind cleared for a moment from his grief. Thunder in his chest, lightning in his bones. He blinked against the silvery light bleeding into the corners of his prison.

“The hell is this…?” he growled, voice rough as a broken storm. 

This wasn’t cold fury. This light wasn’t born of vengeance or wrath.

It was vast. Gentle. Steady.

Like skies after a thousand tempests.

Like peace.

“No. No, no—don’t you dare take her! I felt her slip in his arms—I felt that spark go out! I am not losing the last piece of her!”

He slammed his fists against the walls of spiritsteel, thunder howling in the void.

“She gave everything! You hear me, whatever-the-fuck-you-are?! You don’t get to show up now like some glowing saint and act like you have the right to take her!” His storm flared, fists glowing, anger cracking the air. 

Lightning arced—wild, desperate.

But the light… didn’t strike back.

It wrapped around him, too.

And he froze.

Because he knew it.

He remembered it.

Not an enemy. Not a threat.

A presence long forgotten. A missing part of something whole.

A heartbeat that once stood with theirs.

A name buried in starlight.

“…No way,” he whispered. “That’s not just some power… that’s--that’s Lunar.”

Outside, the other Elements Remembered too.

Within BoBoiBoy, six voices stirred—each one not being able to believe that they are seeing something they thought long lost.

Ais, ever cool and detached, spoke in a rare tone of reverence, his voice low and distant like drifting snow.

“That light… I know it. We've seen it before, in the quiet remnants of our old masters’ memories. The Moon Crest. The Lunar Element. It wasn’t lost… it was waiting. All this time…”

A soft pause, then a rare gentleness crept into his voice.

“For her.”

Blaze, whose flames had always raged with stress and fury, choked out a laugh, half-sob, half-joy. His fire flared not with anger—but with wild, burning hope.

“It’s her. It’s her! How the hell did we miss it?! That power—she’s Guided by it!”

His voice broke again, this time in wonder.

“She’s not breaking. She’s burning brighter. She’s still here!”

Solar, steady and wise, bowed his head in quiet reverence, pride coloring his tone.

“She is its heir. That bond… older than even we can remember. The Lunar Element remembers its Chosen. And it will not let her fall.”

Duri, innocent and pure, clapped her hands together with a delighted little cry, her voice full of light and bursting with joy.

“I knew it! I knew Fang was special! She was always kind and strong and… and this proves it! The Moon was always watching! Protecting! She’s going to be okay!”

He beamed, near tears,

“Fang is the balance. The world loves her!”

Taufan, wind still dancing even as his voice trembled with emotion, laughed through watery eyes.

“I thought she was gone! I really did!”

He spun in place, as if dancing with the wind, unable to contain the elation rising inside him.

“But this light—it’s like she’s laughing with us again! Like she’s saying ‘Not yet!’ That’s our Fang!”

He threw his arms wide, wind surging joyfully.

“She’s going to be okay!”

Gempa, the steady heartbeat of the group, smiled—a wide smile that shook the ground.

“Something sacred has returned. Gentle. Ancient. And it found her worthy. The Earth recognizes her—always has. She carries the weight of the world like it’s nothing… and now the Moon walks beside her.”

And from within the blade—still sealed in silent agony—Halilintar, the group's tsundere, laughed softly, bitter and shaken and deeply, deeply proud.

“…It was her,” he whispered, trembling with tears.

“Fang. She didn’t just borrow its light. The Lunar Element chose her.”

His voice cracked with guilt, anger, and overwhelming relief.

“And none of us saw it. She gave everything—even her goddamn life—and now this power… it’s answering her scream.”

A pause, then a soft, reverent chuckle.

“It’s not here to take her away…”

“It’s here to bring her home.”

The seal widened across the battlefield. Silver and white swallowed the torn earth, the metal, the scars. Moonlight washed over blood.

Yaya knelt beside her, breath trembling. “It feels… peaceful.”

Ying swallowed. “It’s not hurting…”

Gopal’s shoulders shook. “She’s… glowing.”

Kaizo didn’t speak. His hand stayed on Fang’s cheek, eyes locked on her face.

And BoBoiBoy—still cradling her—blinked back tears as the light curled around them both.

“She’s not in pain…” he whispered.

Fang’s eyes fluttered closed as her vision faded into white.

'Is this… just the light of dying?'

'It’s… beautiful.'

The silver circle pulsed.

And something moved.

Not just in the battlefield.

But everywhere.

All at once.

Beneath their feet, the light carved into the ground trembled—then expanded in a slow, rippling wave. It passed through the grass, through stone, through air. Through skin and soul. Through stars.

Yaya gasped and dropped to her knees, her breath stolen.

Gopal clutched his chest, not in pain—but in something that felt like awe.

Even Halilintar shivered.

Kaizo staggered, eyes wide, mouth dry.
Ying reached for Boboiboy’s hand, her own glowing faintly, as if absorbing something too ancient to name.
Boboiboy, clutching Fang tighter in his arms, winced.

“It’s doing something,” he breathed. “To all of us…”

Even the elements froze in their ethereal forms, staring. The battlefield held its breath.

Then—

The light surged.

Too bright. Too blinding. Too much.

The world vanished in a veil of silver.

Fang floated.

Or rather—her body did.

Her battered, bleeding frame now suspended in a space that was not sky nor ground, but endless white. Like standing atop a silent lake of light, smooth and undisturbed beneath her.

And above that radiant stillness… the figure sat.

A woman cloaked in flowing robes of white and silver and deep royal purple, embroidered with constellations that shimmered like living stars. The veil she wore fluttered softly, though there was no wind—only calm, and quiet, and care. She shone not with blinding brilliance, but a soothing glow, like the moon in its fullest bloom.

And in her lap, she cradled Fang’s head gently.

One hand rested lightly against the girl’s hair, fingers splayed as if shielding her from all harm. The other hovered above her chest, palm alight with silver. Her touch was not heavy—it was comfort. Presence. A vow unspoken.

Fang did not stir.

Yet the light around her pulsed—gently, lovingly.

Then, her wounds began to glow.

The deep slashes sealed. The bruises faded. The blood evaporated in silver wisps.

Even the torn flesh near her heart mended. Slowly. Carefully.

Her chest rose. Then again. A steady rhythm. Her heartbeat, once fading, now growing stronger with each thump.

And then—her body began to change.

Her legs shortened. Her face softened. Bones realigned, hair shifting in length.

The girl lying there… was no longer sixteen.

She was eleven again.

Still unconscious. But glowing with life.

Wrapped in moonlight.

And in the stillness, the woman’s voice echoed—not in sound, but in warmth. In understanding. In love.

She said nothing yet, but everything in her touch whispered: I am here. I will not ask. I will not force. I am only offering. You are not alone.

The woman’s hand moved slowly over Fang’s hair—fingers barely brushing the strands, as if to soothe rather than stir. The girl lay curled in her lap, eyes closed, breath slow, wrapped in silver light.

She gazed down at her, face hidden beneath a veil that seemed woven from starlight itself. But there was no mistaking the tenderness—no mistaking the love that poured from her touch.

She whispered, soft as wind over still water.

“My little moon…”

A smile in her voice, a kind of aching pride.

“You shine even when you cannot see it. Even when all the world feels dark—you shine.”

She rested her palm against Fang’s temple, brushing a lock of hair away like tucking a piece of sky back into place.

“You gave everything… and you never asked for anything in return. You held others when no one held you. You stood guard when you were breaking. You forgave what hurt you. You carried more than you should have ever had to.”

Her hand moved to Fang’s chest, where the light pulsed gently—an echo of her heartbeat, steady and true.

“You earned this second chance, star of mine. Every piece of it.”

There was no grandeur in her tone—only reverence. Like she were bearing witness to something holy.

“The Lost Element came to you because you were brave—but it stays because you are kind.” She paused, voice gentling further. “It chose you… because you choose love. Even when the world did not show it to you.”

The air shimmered softly, full of warmth. Not power. Not command. Just the kind of presence that waits, open-armed.

“But know this, little moon.” She bent low, her veil brushing Fang’s forehead like a kiss. “It will never make you do anything. It chose you… but it will never chain you. Because it knows you will always find the right path—even when it winds through shadow.”

Her voice trembled, just once.

“You do not have to fight again—not unless you wish to. This power, this path… will always be yours to leave or to keep.”

Then, quieter still:

“You do not have to prove yourself again, little star. You already did. Every time you stayed. Every time you stood back up.”

The world fell silent. No sound but the hush of breath and the echo of light curling protectively around them, like a sky made just for two.

“Sleep now,” she said, stroking Fang’s hair. “When you wake… you’ll remember your past. But you will see what you are becoming.”

And the silver glowed brighter—not blinding, not loud. Just enough to hold her.

Just enough to say.

You are safe.

Chapter Text

Silence.

There was no pain. No light. No weight of her body pressing against the ground. Only the sound of her own heartbeat—soft, distant, like it belonged to someone else.

Fang opened her eyes with a sharp inhale, but she didn’t move.

Her body felt… weightless. Not numb—empty. Her chest wasn’t burning. Her limbs weren’t shaking. The smell of smoke was gone. So was the ringing in her ears.

Her breath caught. Not from fear—yet—but from the dissonance.

'Where was the wind? The ash? The screaming?'

She blinked slowly.

She was standing.

The ground beneath her was solid. Clean. A little too clean. She turned her head, sluggish, cautious—as if sudden motion might break whatever illusion this was.

And there it was.

The gates of Sekolah Rendah Pulau Rintis rose ahead of her, pristine and golden beneath the morning sun. The school looked untouched by time, like it had been frozen in the exact memory of a perfect day.

Fang’s brow furrowed. Her limbs—whole. Her uniform—neat, pressed. No mud, no torn sleeves, no blood.

Her skin was pale but unmarked. She stared at her arms.

No scars.

No lightning.

No shadow watch.

Something was wrong.

Her mouth didn’t move. No words came out. But inside, the question thundered:

'Where am I?'

She turned slowly in place. Students streamed past her, laughing, chattering, and running toward the front doors. Familiar faces. Younger. Simpler. Not even one looked at her. Not even by accident. No stares. No gasps. No whispers. Just… nothing.

Fang felt her heart skip.

She took a step back.

‘No one sees me.’

Another step.

‘No one hears me.’

Her pulse pounded now—her only anchor to her body. She inhaled sharply through her nose, trying to ground herself. But the scent of sun-warmed pavement and fresh grass felt too vivid. Too clean. Too fake.

Then, a wave of memory slammed into her—Kira’na’s blade crackling with electricity, BoBoiBoy’s scream, the pain lancing through her chest. She gasped, clutching at her torso—but there was nothing. No wounds. No warmth. No fire.

Just… stillness.

'This isn’t real,' she thought.

And slowly, as the breeze toyed with the ends of her hair, she accepted the one truth circling her like a vulture:

'I’m not supposed to be here.'

'I’m really dead. I’m a ghost. Maybe that’s why no one sees me.'

Then suddenly—

A girl brushed past her shoulder with a huff, and Fang flinched hard, too hard. Her breath caught as her hands flew up, fingers curling into claws, instinct screaming enemy. For a split second, her muscles surged with the phantom memory of shadow, a command echoing in her bones—summon, defend, survive.

But nothing came.

No swirling darkness. No crackling energy at her fingertips. No shadows responding to her call.

Just the girl, now walking ahead without a second glance, oblivious.

Fang’s chest heaved as the world around her solidified. The sun was warm. The air smelled faintly of detergent and bread from the nearby canteen. The chatter of students filled the air, their uniforms rustling as they passed, books clutched to their chests like nothing had ever gone wrong.

Her fingers trembled. Her arms hung limply at her sides. No blood. No lightning. No battlefield.

But her body didn’t believe it.

Her legs locked. She looked down, expecting ash, cracked earth, and debris. Instead, there was smooth pavement. School shoes. White socks. A Sekolah Rendah uniform—crisp, ironed, too clean. The blouse was starched white with a single purple stripe tracing the edges of the sleeves and collar, the pleated skirt a muted violet. On her chest, a badge she didn’t remember pinning on: Fang 5 Amanah.

Fang hadn’t worn that since she was eleven. Her breath caught in her throat. “No…” Not a dream. Not a vision. This was real. Somehow—she was back.

Her stomach turned.

'What is this?' her mind whispered, frantic. 'Am I dreaming? Did it all—'

A bell rang—shrill, final—and the flood of students thickened. Shoulders brushed against hers. Someone laughed nearby. Someone else called out for a friend. Too close. Too loud.

She flinched again, staggering back a step, fists halfway raised. She almost attacked, but managed to hold herself.

But there was nothing. Just a hollow absence where power should have answered.

No one noticed. No one looked back.

And Fang stood there, shaking, choking on adrenaline her body couldn’t use. Her mind reeled. Her heartbeat thundered. Her eyes burned.

'Ghosts don’t get pushed,' she thought, wild and breathless.

Her breath hitched.

'I’m not dead.'

Not yet.

Not if this was real. Not if this wasn’t some twisted hallucination, a dying flicker in her mind. Not if she could still feel—the pounding heart, the trembling hands, the sunlight on her face that didn’t burn like lightning.

But the relief didn’t come.

Instead, a single thought rose in her like a sob:

'I want Kaizo.'

Her throat closed. Her legs nearly buckled under the weight of it.

'I want Abang.'

She wanted to feel his arms around her, steady and warm. She wanted him to pull her close like he did when she was six and scared of storms, pressing her face into his chest while he whispered, “You’re safe. I’ve got you. Everything’s okay.” Back when she could still believe those words. Back when their parents were still alive

Her vision blurred—not from pain, but from longing. A raw, aching need to be small again. To be held. To be told the world hadn’t shattered, even if it had.

But she was standing there alone. In a place that shouldn’t exist. In a body that shouldn’t be whole.

The battlefield was gone, but her fear had followed her.

This wasn’t the battlefield. She wasn’t bleeding. BoBoiBoy wasn’t screaming her name. Kaizo wasn’t roaring through smoke.

She was… here.

Wherever here was.

Her eyes darted around, searching for anything that made sense—any anchor in the impossible quiet. But nothing came. No clues. No answers. Just a sharp, cold ache burrowed deep in her spine, blooming into the hollow of her chest. It was the kind of silence that swallowed screams.

She wasn’t ready for this. Not the confusion. Not the stillness. Not this strange, empty peace that mocked her like a lullaby played after a funeral.

Her breath hitched, caught between fear and instinct.

'Kaizo would know what to do.'

That thought pierced through everything. Clear and desperate.

She could almost hear his voice—not the adult Kaizo, not the warrior, but her Abang as he knelt beside her when she was small and scared. He'd brush her hair back from her face with rough, calloused fingers, eyes warm despite everything they'd lost.

"You’re the bravest thing I’ve ever seen, you know that?"

That memory cracked something inside her, because he wasn’t here now. And she wasn’t brave. She was lost.

Her fingers twitched, aching for the feel of his coat sleeve, the sure weight of his hand gripping her shoulder, steady, grounding. She could almost hear his voice, low and firm, cutting through the chaos:

"Fang, look at me. Just breathe. I’m here. You’re not alone."

A sob threatened to rise, but she swallowed it.

She wasn’t six anymore.

And yet—her heart screamed for him anyway.

So she breathed. Shallow. Uneven. Like her lungs had forgotten how to draw air without being told.

And then she took a step.

Just one.

Then another.

If this were a dream, she’d walk through it. If it were a memory, she’d follow. If it was punishment—some twisted echo of a life that could’ve been—she’d endure it.

But she was still waiting for him. For Kaizo to burst through the haze, furious and breathless, wrapping her in his arms, whispering that she was safe, that it was over. That he’d found her.

But he didn’t come.

So she kept walking.

With the others. With the tide. Letting herself be carried by, because standing still would mean thinking, and thinking would break her.

Her heart pounded like war drums in her chest, each beat begging for comfort she no longer believed she deserved.

She didn’t speak. Didn’t ask. Didn’t run.

Not yet.

But oh—how she wanted to turn, to see him waiting for her at the gate.

To fall into his arms and let herself be the little sister again, if only for a second.

Moments Later

She didn’t remember walking to the classroom.

One moment, Fang was being pulled by the current of bodies up the school steps—and the next, she was standing just outside 5 Amanah’s door, fingers curled around the frame like she needed permission to exist.

The hallway smelled of dust and markers. Light filtered through high windows in sterile beams, dancing across the speckled floor. The buzz of conversation inside the room barely registered.

Her breath trembled. Her limbs felt heavy again—not like before, not with pain—but like she was made of smoke trying to hold shape.

The teacher noticed her at the door and gave a start. “Ah. You must be… Fang, right?”

Fang nodded once, slowly.

The way she said her name felt strange. New. Like it was being said for the very first time.

The teacher smiled and opened the door wider. “Come in. We’ve been expecting you.”

She stepped forward. The room fell quiet for half a second as the class turned toward the door. Just a girl in a violet-trimmed blouse and pleated skirt. Cold. Silent.

And something else.

Something in her eyes.

She didn’t make eye contact. Didn’t look at the faces staring back. Didn’t notice the three sets of eyes that followed her every step.

But they noticed her.

Gopal’s snack paused halfway to his mouth. His usual grin slipped just slightly. There was something wrong—he could feel it like an itch under his skin. This wasn’t the usual new-kid quiet. This was something different. She was quiet like an echo. Like something emptied and forgotten to refill itself.

Ying blinked at how Fang’s steps didn’t match the rhythm of the room. Like she moved a beat behind reality. The girl’s face didn’t twitch with curiosity or nervousness. It was frozen. Hollow. Ying’s fingers curled tighter around her pen. Something in her gut twisted, and she didn’t know why.

Yaya’s eyes narrowed. Not with suspicion. With recognition. The girl moved like someone walking through fog—like she didn’t see the desks, the chalkboard, the students. Just something far behind it all. Yaya didn’t know what kind of past that could do to a kid, but she’d seen haunted eyes before. Fang wore them like her purple glasses.

And yet—despite the unfamiliar face, all three of them felt it.

A jolt of déjà vu, sharp and inexplicable. A flicker of something too deep to be memory—more like muscle memory of the soul.

Their hearts surged.

They didn’t understand why they suddenly wanted to run to her. To wrap their arms around her and never let go. To whisper apologies they didn’t remember owing. To protect her from things they didn’t yet know existed.

Joy.

Guilt.

Relief.

Something inside them cracked open at the sight of her, and for one trembling heartbeat, they almost wept.

But none of them cried.

Because they didn’t understand.

Because they didn’t know this wasn't the first time they’d seen Fang—and yet, their souls remembered.

Memories lost to time.

Emotions from lives before.

Fang never looked at them.

She walked to the back row as if pulled by memory, not choice.

The teacher cleared her throat gently and gestured. “Class, this is Fang. She’s joining us for the rest of the year. Please help her feel welcome.”

There was a murmur of polite greetings, but Fang didn’t acknowledge them. She’d already sat down; her hands folded in her lap. Back straight, but loose. Like it was the only posture her body remembered how to hold.

The teacher didn’t press.

She moved on.

The trio exchanged glances. Quiet ones. Uncertain.

‘Who is she? Where did she come from? Why does she look like she’s seen the end of the world… and walked back?’

They didn’t have answers.

And Fang didn’t offer any.

She stared at the chalkboard like it didn’t matter. Like nothing here mattered. Her fingers trembled once, then stilled.

Her eyes didn’t scan the room.

Not for exits. Not for familiar faces.

Not even for him.

BoBoiBoy’s desk was empty.

But he’d been one of the last people she saw.

He’d held her, screamed for her.

Her blood was on his hands.

And now he was gone. Like it hadn’t happened yet. Like none of it had.

And she didn’t dare ask why.

She sat in the last seat at the back of the classroom, unmoving.

From a distance, she looked ordinary. Quiet. Maybe a little shy.

Teachers let their eyes slide past her.

The trio—Yaya, Ying, and Gopal—glanced her way now and then, their whispers hushed, more puzzled than unkind.

But Fang didn’t see them.

She wasn’t there.

Not really.

Her mind still bled smoke.

The battlefield hadn’t let her go.

She could feel it—burning at the edges of her thoughts, rising in broken flashes, jagged and wild.

Ash in the air. Lightning in her lungs.

The memory seized her all over again.

BoBoiBoy, mid-transformation—Rimba blooming around him, branches twisting, vines coiling as he summoned the forest to protect them both.

Too slow.

Kira’na with her blade alight with lightning, eyes like steel.

Fang moving.

Throwing herself forward, a single shout on her tongue—his name, just his name.

BoBoiBoy.

The blade struck.

Her chest exploded in white-hot pain.

Electric agony ripping through her, her shadows gone wild, her scream swallowed by thunder.

She hit the air like a broken doll—but she didn’t hit the ground.

Because he caught her.

BoBoiBoy’s arms wrapped around her, anchoring her to life even as hers slipped through the cracks.

But even with all that power, he couldn’t stop the blood.

“Fang—Fang—” He choked, voice cracking as he knelt with her in his arms. “No-no-no—stay with me, please!”

She couldn’t speak.

But she could feel.

The tremble of his hands. The wet warmth of his tears on her cheek. The way he curled around her like he could shield her from the world.

The shame lanced through the pain in her thoughts.

And then—

Kaizo.

His voice, raw and torn with terror, thundered across the chaos.

“FANG!”

She felt him. Smoke was clinging to his coat. Blood down his face.

Dropping to his knees. His hand cupped her cheek, trembling.

“No—no—no, no, no,” Kaizo choked, over and over. “This isn’t happening. This isn’t real. Pang—look at me—LOOK at me!”

BoBoiBoy’s arms only tightened.

“Why would you do that?!” Kaizo’s voice cracked, torn between fury and despair. “Why would you take the hit?! WHY, FANG?!”

And Fang—she couldn’t answer.

But her heart still screamed the same words.

Because I love you.

The battlefield blurred.

The light shone.

And silence swallowed her whole.

Lunch break time

The classroom emptied around her.

Chairs scraped. Footsteps echoed. Voices faded into the hallway, carried off by the rush toward the canteen and sunlight.

But Fang didn’t move.

Not yet.

She sat in the back row, surrounded by silence.

Not the silence of a battlefield, filled with smoke and the threat of something worse.

But the kind that came after.

The kind that waited.

She breathed in. Shaky. Shallow.

But real.

And slowly—like dust settling after a storm—her thoughts began to piece themselves together.

She remembered everything.

The pain.

The tears.

The love.

The shame.

But also—

The hands that caught her.

The arms that held her.

The voices screaming her name like a lifeline.

She remembered how it felt to die.

And yet, here she was.

Alive. Whole. Breathing.

A second chance.

Her fingers curled against the wood of her desk.

Her arms—unscarred.

Her uniform—clean.

Her chest ached, but intact.

This wasn’t a dream.

It wasn’t punishment.

It was a reset.

And this time… she wouldn’t waste it.

She wouldn’t be reckless.

She wouldn’t be angry.

She wouldn’t let her fear turn into something sharp that cut the people who tried to hold her.

She would get stronger, not just in power, but in heart. In discipline. In purpose.

She wouldn’t be a weight BoBoiBoy had to carry.

She wouldn’t be a weakness for Kaizo to always have to protect.

She would protect them.

Before it was too late.

Fang sat up straighter.

Her hands were still trembling, but she didn’t hide them anymore.

She had a long way to go.

But she had time.

From where they stood near the door, Yaya glanced back.

“She hasn’t said a single word,” she whispered.

Gopal followed her gaze, his brows furrowed. “I don’t even think she looked at the teacher. Did you see her eyes?”

Ying bit her lip. “Maybe she’s shy? Or nervous?”

“Or scared,” Yaya offered, softer now. “She’s new, right? Maybe she’s just… homesick.”

“Yeah,” Gopal agreed, but the words came slower. “Maybe she’s just scared to talk. Maybe she didn’t want to be here.”

None of them wanted to say the other thing.

Not out loud.

That her eyes hadn’t just looked quiet or distant.

They looked hollow.

Like someone had drained all the light out of them and left only a reflection behind. Like she’d seen something too big, too much, and hadn’t come back whole.

But that was too much to say.

Too heavy for a conversation by the door.

So, they stayed in the shallow end of guesses—safe ones. Ones that didn’t ask hard questions. Ones that didn’t demand painful answers.

“She probably misses her old school,” Ying added, almost to convince herself. “New school. New class. It’s a lot.”

“Yeah,” Gopal nodded, watching her just a moment longer. “That’s all it is.”

And maybe it was.

Maybe that was the only truth they needed today.

But as they stood there, quiet and uncertain, something else settled between them. A pulse of emotion none of them could explain.

“I… felt something when I saw her,” Yaya murmured, her voice barely above the hush of the hallway. “Like I knew her.”

Ying’s eyes widened. “You too?”

Gopal blinked. “Wait, seriously? I thought I was just imagining things. But when I looked at her, I felt… happy. Like I’d found something I’d lost. But also—guilty. Like I failed her somehow.”

Yaya nodded, eyes distant now. “I wanted to hug her. Like I’d been waiting forever just to see her again.”

Ying rubbed her arms, suddenly cold. “I almost cried. And I don’t even know why. That’s never happened to me before.”

Silence passed again.

Not awkward. Just… thick with something unspoken.

None of this made sense to them.

None of them had ever met Fang before.

But still, the emotions clung to them—joy, guilt, relief, love—too real to ignore. Too deep to be new.

They didn’t know it, but those feelings weren’t born in that moment.

They were echoes.

Memories from another life, reaching forward to remind them.

Then Yaya stepped forward first, gentle and steady.

“Um… Fang?” she said softly.

Yaya’s soft voice pulled her back to the present, just as she breathed in—steady this time.

Fang blinked.

She hadn’t noticed them getting close.

Ying stood beside Yaya, offering a hopeful, uncertain smile. Gopal peeked from behind her shoulder, a curry bun half-hidden in his hand like an awkward truce offering.

“We were just…” Ying gestured toward the door. “Going to eat. In the cafeteria. You can come with us. If you want.”

“No pressure,” Yaya added quickly. “But… it’d be nice.”

Fang looked at them.

Really looked.

And something in her chest gave—not painfully this time, but gently. Like a knot easing loose. Like a wall letting in light.

They didn’t look afraid.

They didn’t pity her.

They just looked… kind.

Just like they always were.

Fang’s lips parted as if to speak, but no words came out. Only the barest breath.

Then, slowly—without thinking, without planning—a small smile formed.

Soft. Subtle.

But real.

The trio froze for a heartbeat, stunned.

Yaya’s eyes widened.

Gopal blinked.

Ying’s breath caught in her throat—but her grin bloomed like sunlight through cloud.

She smiled.

And they all silently promised, with something tender and fierce in their hearts:

We’re going to protect that smile.

Ying was the first to move, voice light with bubbling relief.

“Okay, c’mon,” she grinned, reaching for Fang’s wrist. “You’ve got to try the cheese bread. I mean, it’s cafeteria bread, but Gopal swears it’s life-changing.”

“H-hey!” Gopal protested, walking beside them, waving his bun. “Only if they don’t run out again—Yaya, back me up!”

Yaya gave Fang a gentle nudge forward. “We’ll save you a spot. Always.”

And just like that—without drama, without fanfare—Fang was swept up in it.

In the motion. In the voices. In the way Ying chattered in her ear about which drinks to avoid, and Gopal offered her advice on food like it was top secret, and Yaya’s hand brushed her back just once, like a silent welcome.

It was too much.

And not enough.

And it felt… good.

Fang didn’t say much on the way to the cafeteria.

But she didn’t have to.

Because she didn’t feel as alone as before anymore.

And the smile—

They never stopped watching it.

They didn’t need answers yet.

Just that she’d smiled.

And that she’d said yes.

The cafeteria was bright, noisy, and filled with the smell of fried chicken and rice.

Fang blinked at the sound—the chatter, the clatter of trays, the rush of footsteps echoing over tiled floors. She moved in the middle of the trio like she was caught in the slipstream of a wave, not entirely sure if her feet were even touching the ground.

Ying was still chattering beside her, pointing out the stalls and warning her about the lukewarm curry noodles (“unless you like pain”) and Gopal’s obsession with the cafeteria’s limited dessert shelf and the canteen's sweets.

Yaya walked on her other side, silent but watchful, a steady presence in the crowd.

Fang had never been surrounded by so much noise while feeling so… okay.

Not fine. Not good.

But okay.

Safe.

They lined up at one of the food stalls. Gopal immediately started loading his tray like he was feeding a family of six. Fried rice, fried chicken, nuggets, one tofu skewer, two egg rolls, and a jelly cup.

“Gopal,” Ying sighed. “That tray’s going to break.”

“It’s an art form,” he replied proudly. “Balance is key.”

Fang, still not used to choosing lunch when she wasn’t rationing energy between injuries, glanced at the options without much thought. She ended up with a simple nasi lemak and some chocolate milk.

“Any dessert?” Gopal asked, half-turning, his voice casual. “They’ve got donuts, kuih, some pudding stuff today—what’s your favorite?”

Before she could stop herself, the answer slipped out.

“Red carrot donuts.”

Gopal blinked.

Then—without hesitation—he marched to the dessert corner, scanned the trays like he was identifying battlefield targets, and bought the last two red carrot donuts.

He came back with a grin and placed one on her tray.

“Welcome to school,” he said, smiling a little too brightly. “This is your official Gopal-certified dessert starter pack.”

Fang stared at it.

Then at him.

Something in her chest fluttered—not the crushing panic she was used to, but something lighter. Warmer. Because she knew, with quiet certainty, that Gopal had never done that before.

Not for just anyone.

Yaya raised an eyebrow as she watched Gopal pretend he wasn’t grinning ear to ear.

“Gopal,” she drawled, a teasing note in her voice, “are you gifting donuts now?”

“Is this the beginning of your ‘Food Ambassador’ era?” Ying added with a smirk.

“What? I’m being nice!” Gopal huffed, shoving a nugget in his mouth. “It’s called hospitality.”

Fang didn’t mean to smile.

But she did.

Again.

Soft. Quiet. Genuine.

And this time, all three of them saw it, and none of them hid their joy.

They found an empty table near a window and all slid in—Yaya and Ying on one side, Gopal and Fang on the other. The sunlight fell warm over their trays. The noise of the cafeteria became background hum.

Fang’s eyes flickered briefly to the empty seat beside her, the one BoBoiBoy usually took—but she quickly looked away, focusing instead on the warm chatter around her.

It was Ying who broke the silence first.

“So… we’ve officially welcomed you with food,” she said, resting her chin on her hands. “Now it’s time for the important stuff.”

Fang blinked.

“Important?”

“Yeah,” Gopal said through a mouthful of rice. “The real questions. You know—favorite color, favorite movie, that kind of thing.”

“Oh!” Ying leaned forward. “Okay, okay. We’ll go first. Mine’s blue.”

“Pink,” Yaya chimed in.

“Green,” said Gopal.

All eyes turned to Fang.

She hesitated. Just for a breath.

Then—“Purple.”

There was no shame in it this time. No fear of being too bold. Just the truth.

Yaya smiled. “Nice.”

“Royally too,” Ying added.

Gopal nodded. “Solid choice.”

Ying tapped her fingers. “Okay, next: favorite movie.”

“Ooh, I got this,” Gopal said immediately. “Return of the Fried Tofu: The Reckoning. It’s a real movie, I swear!”

Yaya rolled her eyes. “The Wind Chaser. You know, the one with the flying gliders?”

“Detective Kuning,” Ying said with pride. “Iconic. Never beaten.”

They waited for Fang’s answer.

She thought for a moment. “The Seventh Sky.”

Yaya’s eyes lit up. “The one with the sky whale and the memory orbs?”

Fang nodded.

“That one made me cry,” Ying admitted.

“You cry at toothpaste commercials,” Gopal teased.

They laughed.

So did Fang. Quietly. A soft huff of breath that felt more like music than sound.

The questions continued. Favorite drink. Favorite fruit. The last book she read. Her least favorite vegetable. What kind of pet does she want? Whether she liked spicy food.

And with every answer, she didn’t feel like she was defending herself.

She felt… known.

Not fully. Not deeply.

But seen.

Piece by piece, Fang let the silence inside her break.

And this time, it didn’t hurt.

The lunch buzz continued, their trays half-empty now, laughter drifting in waves between bites and sips. Somewhere between teasing Gopal for his dramatic chewing and Yaya daring him to eat an entire curry bun in one bite, Ying clapped her hands lightly.

“Oh! Powers. We haven’t told you our powers.”

Mid-sip of her milk, Fang blinked, her heartbeat skipped a beat once. But she stayed still, calm, attentive.

“We’re not just ordinary students,” Ying added with a wink. “Well, not entirely.”

Fang tilted her head slightly, her expression quiet but attentive.

Yaya grinned. “We all kind of… got powers after BoBoiBoy showed up. Long story. Involved some aliens, a bit of trouble, and boom—now we’re awesome.”

“I’m strong!” she added, puffing her chest with playful pride. “Like, really strong. I can lift almost anything. Even Gopal.” She jabbed her thumb in his direction.

Gopal, mouth stuffed with fried tofu, raised a hand. “I can make food. Out of anything. Best power ever, right?”

Ying chimed in, “And I can move super-fast. Like blink-and-you-miss-it fast. Pretty handy when you forget your homework on the other side of the school.”

Fang’s lips twitched—almost a smile. She leaned forward just slightly. “You all got your powers… from BoBoiBoy?”

“More like... because of him,” Ying said, twirling her straw. “It’s kind of a long story.”

Gopal gave a dramatic sigh, eyes cast to the ceiling. “And now he’s goooone!”

Fang startled slightly at the sound, her shoulders jerking, fingers tightening around her cup. She still didn’t feel completely safe in loud spaces—and Gopal’s volume had just spiked like a bad alarm.

Yaya and Ying both turned on him in perfect sync.

“Gopal,” Yaya said flatly, arms crossed. “It’s only been a week.”

“Stop scaring her,” Ying added, flicking a balled-up napkin at his forehead.

“But I miss him!” Gopal whined, clutching his donut like a brokenhearted soap opera star. “He used to sit with us! Eat my food! Take my food! Treasure my food!”

“You act like he died,” Yaya muttered.

And then—just as some of the nearby students were starting to tune back into their own lunch conversations—Gopal took a sudden, deep breath…

…and let out a loud, theatrical wail.

“OH BOBOIBOY, WHY DID YOU LEAVE USSSSS—”

A group of younger students, two tables over, jumped, blinking wide-eyed. One of them even dropped a spoon into his soup. Half the cafeteria paused to stare.

Fang flinched hard in her seat, her milk almost slipping from her grasp.

Yaya and Ying both snapped to their feet.

“Gopal!” Ying hissed, stomping over and smacking the back of his head. “What is wrong with you?!”

“You cannot yell like that, especially around Fang!” Yaya added, hands on her hips, eyes narrowed into a withering glare.

“Ow! I was just expressing my—my inner grief!” Gopal whimpered, rubbing his head and dramatically collapsing sideways across the table. “This pain must not be silenced! This donut shall bear witness!”

“People are staring!” Ying snapped.

Sure enough, several students were now openly gawking at their table. One girl whispered something to her friend, both of them glancing back at Gopal with a mix of confusion and secondhand embarrassment. A boy passed by muttering, “Man, is he okay?”

“I—I didn’t mean to scare anyone!” Gopal tried, sitting up straighter. His donut had been squished in the drama, icing smeared on his cheek. “I just—my soul aches! My heart breaks! My stomach—empty!”

“You’re eating a donut!” Ying snapped again.

“But is it shared with BoBoiBoy? No! So it’s hollow—like my soul!”

“Gopal,” Yaya said sharply, her voice a warning.

He froze, halfway to another dramatic wail.

“Shut. Up.”

He clamped his mouth shut with a squeak, raising both hands like a captured criminal.

Yaya turned back to Fang, now crouching beside her with a gentler tone. “He won’t yell again. Right, Gopal?”

Gopal gave a frantic nod.

Fang’s shoulders were still hunched, but she let out a breath. “…Okay.” Her voice was quiet. “I just… wasn’t expecting it.”

Ying, now calmer, sat down again and gently pushed a new cup of chocolate milk toward her. “It’s alright. We’re with you, okay?”

Fang nodded slowly, taking the cup. “Thanks.”

In the background, Gopal wiped a fake tear from his cheek and murmured mournfully, “She talks… she drinks milk… It’s like watching a flower bloom in a warzone…”

“OUT!” Yaya and Ying barked in unison, pointing to the far end of the cafeteria.

“But I live here!” Gopal yelped, scrambling up with his smushed donut and jogging away from the table as several students turned to stare. A few chuckled. One kid even pointed. Whispers rippled across the cafeteria, amused and confused.

Slowly, the chatter and noise resumed as the focus shifted away. Gopal tiptoed back a few minutes later, dramatically holding his donut like a peace offering. He slumped into his seat with a theatrical sigh, quieter now—just a faint sniffle and a muttered, “You’ve all gone cold-hearted…”

The table calmed.

Fang looked down at her tray.

The food blurred slightly as her gaze settled somewhere beyond the surface—beyond the here and now.

Then, very softly, she asked, “BoBoiBoy… what is he like that?”

She didn’t need the answer.

Not really.

She already knew the sound of his voice when it cracked her name like it was made of glass. She knew the feel of his arms around her, shaking—his tears hitting her cheek long after her own had run dry. She remembered the way her body had gone limp in his arms, the flicker of light in his eyes when hers had faded. And now, those memories were all she had—ghostly, too fragile to hold but too loud to forget.

She missed him.

With every quiet second of this strange second chance, she missed him.

And the worst part?

Six months.

No more, no less.

That was how long she’d have to wait. To see him again. To speak without breaking the timeline. To help him without being a burden. To matter to him the way she used to.

Ying’s voice broke the silence, bright and unknowing.

“Oh, you’d like him. He’s really brave. And kind. Always wants to help people.”

“He’s kind of goofy,” Yaya added with a fond smile, “but he means well.”

“He’s our friend,” Gopal said, quieter now. “He makes things feel safe. Like nothing bad can happen if he’s around.”

Fang nodded. Her fingers curled slightly under the edge of her tray, digging into the plastic as if to steady herself.

She understood that feeling.

She’d died with that feeling in her chest.

And now, she was alive with the ache of missing him.

The conversation turned again, light and easy, talking about comics, favorite teachers, and worst homework. Then it drifted to family.

“My cousin’s coming to visit soon,” Ying said. “She’s loud but fun. What about you, Fang? Do you have any siblings?”

Fang’s breath caught.

Then she nodded. “An older brother. His name is Kaizo.”

The name came out too gently. Her voice is too soft.

A beat passed before she added softly, “He’s… very important to me.”

She didn’t mean to look down, but she did. Her eyes burned—not enough to cry, but enough to make her blink fast. She held the tears back. She always did. The ache lived just beneath her ribs, sharp and steady.

But they noticed.

Gopal glanced at Yaya. Ying’s smile softened.

“She misses him,” Ying said gently.

“She is definitely homesick,” Yaya echoed.

Gopal leaned forward across the table and offered her the last piece of his donut. “Brothers are the best,” he said. “Bet he’d like us.”

Fang let out a breath—not a laugh, but close. “He’d… probably warn me not to talk to strangers.”

Ying’s eyes twinkled with mischief. “Does your brother bite, though?”

Fang’s lips curled into a small, knowing smile. “He doesn’t bite,” she said softly, “he stabs.”

The trio exchanged wide-eyed glances.

Fang raised her hand in a gentle, joking gesture. “I’m kidding,” she added quickly, though the quiet certainty in her voice suggested otherwise.

Yaya chuckled, shaking her head. “Well, that’s reassuring.”

Gopal laughed nervously. “I’ll make sure not to get on his bad side.”

That made them laugh.

But it was a kind laugh, warm like sunlight.

Fang let herself smile too, though her eyes flicked down to the untouched corner of her tray.

Inside, a quiet crackle of amusement bloomed. If only they knew. The first time Kaizo had met her friends—really met them—they’d all ended up flat on their backs, groaning and bruised. BoBoiBoy had tried to mediate. Gopal had tried to talk. Kaizo had responded with fists and icy silence.

It had been awful. Hilarious. Unforgettable.

Her chest ached.

She missed him. Not just his presence—but the silence that didn’t need explaining. The way he knew when to step in and when to stay back. His lectures. His protection. The quiet moments where they just sat together, not saying a word, yet still understood everything.

Nine more months for her to see her Abang again.

Fang’s throat tightened. Time was moving, steady and merciless, and every second away from Kaizo felt like peeling off another layer of herself. She hadn’t realized how much of her spine was shaped like him. How much safer the world had felt when he was beside her.

She hadn’t meant to die with his name clutched like a prayer on her tongue.

But now, she wasn’t sure how to live without hearing him say hers.

Just then, a breeze drifted through the open window, brushing a strand of Fang’s hair across her face. She moved to tuck it away, but Ying was faster.

“Here,” she said, pulling a small hairclip from her bag.

Silver with a violet sheen, shaped like a wing.

Fang stared. It was the same one. The one from before. From the old timeline. Ying had given it to her then, too, when Fang had been at her lowest.

Her fingers closed around it slowly.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

She slid it into her hair. It caught the light just right.

Ying blinked at her for a moment, dazed. Then said softly, “You kind of look like… I dunno. A fallen angel or something.”

Fang blinked, tilting her head like a confused and startled kitten. “A… what?”

Ying’s eyes widened slightly, suddenly realizing what she’d said out loud. “I—I just meant—like, not the dramatic kind! You know, just… quiet and pretty and mysterious?” She shrank slightly in her seat, cheeks going pink.

“Like… good mysterious.”

Gopal let out a theatrical gasp, slapping the table. “Ying has a crush!”

“I do not!” Ying squeaked, her face going red.

Yaya leaned in with a sly grin. “Next, you’re gonna say Fang glows in the moonlight and speaks in riddles.”

“Oh no,” Gopal added, eyes wide with mock awe. “She’s writing poems already. ‘O Fang, winged sorrow of the skies…’”

“Stop it!” Ying groaned, burying her face in her arms as the others laughed.

Fang, caught somewhere between confusion and amusement, blinked again—and then, unexpectedly, laughed. Just once. Just a breath of laughter.

But it was enough to make the teasing pause.

Yaya glanced at her sideways and smiled. “You’ll get used to us.”

“Eventually,” Gopal added cheerfully. “If you survive Ying’s poetic phases.”

Ying shot him a mock glare. “Hey! Those poems are art.” Gopal grinned. “Art that needs saving from itself.” The others laughed, and the warmth around the table grew even softer.

Fang shook her head gently, that soft smile still lingering on her lips. It was real, even if she didn’t quite realize it yet.

They didn’t know who she had been.

But today, they knew who she was.

And that was enough.

When they returned to the classroom, the teacher had already begun instructing them to return to their assigned seats. The brief closeness was broken as they were once again scattered like leaves in the wind.

Fang settled silently into her seat by the window. The sunlight poured across her desk in warm streaks, but her heart felt anything but warm. She stared blankly at the wooden surface for a moment, the familiar grain reminding her of desks she had once sat at—lifetimes ago, it seemed.

This second chance… it wasn’t something she could waste. Not again.

A sense of quiet urgency settled in her chest. She reached into her backpack and pulled out an old leather-bound notebook—faded, battered at the corners, and comforting in its age. It had been with her for a long time unused, but now she had to use it.

‘I need to write everything down. Everything I remember. Before it slips away again.’

Her fingers trembled slightly as she opened the notebook to a blank page. The familiar scent of old paper drifted up to greet her, grounding her in the moment. She began to write—long, steady strokes of her native language flowing like a river from memory to ink. It was a language that no one on this planet could read anymore. No one but her—and Kaizo.

She wrote with fierce concentration, channeling every scrap of knowledge she could recall. Wars. Betrayals. Names. Coordinates. Political movements. Events. Her death. Each word was like carving a scar into the paper, a battle to preserve what once was, and what might still be avoided.

Her handwriting was meticulous—clear and deliberate. This wasn’t just for her. A small, fragile part of her clung to the hope that she might one day show this to Kaizo. That somehow, against all odds, they would meet again.

And if they did—if there was even a sliver of a future where he would believe her—she would hold out this book and tell him everything.

That thought made her blink rapidly. She paused, pressing her fingers over the ink to keep it from smudging. Her heartbeat was a heavy thud in her ears. She would not cry here. Not yet.

By the time the final bell rang—shrill and slicing through the classroom like a blade—Fang had filled her notebook. She barely noticed the flurry of activity around her as students gathered their bags and dashed out the door in a rush of footsteps and chatter.

At the front of the room, Yaya, Ying, and Gopal lingered near the door, waiting for her. Yaya leaned against the wall like a stern commander, arms crossed, while Ying had one brow raised with the same energy as a cat who'd just found something to bat off a shelf.

“So, Gopal,” Ying began, her voice sweet enough to be suspicious, “did you actually finish the math homework this time? Or are you planning another heroic sacrifice of ‘forgetting’ it for the greater good?”

Gopal’s eyes went wide. “Traitor!” he gasped dramatically. In one swift motion, he dove behind Fang’s chair like it was a riot shield, peeking out from beside her elbow with the desperation of a man hunted. “Fang, protect me! They’re trying to make me... learn things!”

Fang blinked, then burst into a soft, unexpected laugh. It slipped out before she could help it—light and clear, the first in what felt like ages. Somehow, Gopal’s panic was contagious.

“Come on, Gopal,” Yaya said, advancing with a dangerous glint in her eye. “This is your third ‘accidental’ homework amnesia this week.”

“Yeah,” Ying added, smirking. “And I skipped a year. You’re dragging the class average into the Mariana Trench.”

“I am not dodging!” Gopal protested, clutching Fang’s sleeve like a lifeline. “I’m just conserving mental resources! You know, like a phone on battery saver mode!”

Fang nudged his shoulder with a mock-serious expression. “You’re gonna hit ‘shutdown’ at this rate.”

Yaya cracked her knuckles. “If we have to tutor you again, we’re charging you. In snacks.”

“Cocoa drinks,” Ying agreed. “Per hour.”

Gopal sagged with the weight of impending doom. “Fine. Fine. I’ll do the stupid homework. Eventually. Probably. If the wind is favorable. And Mercury isn’t in retrograde.”

Yaya deadpanned, “Mercury is in retrograde.”

Gopal wailed and flopped dramatically onto the floor like a medieval hero fallen in battle. “Then I’m doomed!”

Fang laughed again, unable to hold it back this time. Her chest ached a little less.

The four of them exited the classroom together, the fading sun casting golden rays across the corridor. As they walked through the bustling hallway, whispers followed them like shadows—some hushed, some not so much.

“Did you see her? Fang?”

“She’s so pretty it’s not even fair—like, movie-star levels of pretty.”

“I heard she transferred from some elite combat school. Like, secret-agent level stuff.”

“No way! I heard she took down a whole gang on her first day.”

“She doesn’t even talk much. Mysterious and deadly? Ugh, iconic.”

“Why’s she hanging out with them, though? The weird trio?”

“Yeah, seriously. Gopal’s like, ninety percent food and ten percent chaos.”

“Yaya's cookies are deadly, I tell you. I’m not even joking.”

“Ying hacked the school timetable before homeroom even started.”

“I swear they’re building some kind of nerd-chaos alliance.”

“They’re probably collecting her for some kind of super team.”

“I give it a week before Fang realizes she’s too cool for them.”

“She could be hanging out with the top class crowd, and she’s stuck with the... lunchroom comedians?”

Fang didn’t hear the rumors swirling behind her. Her thoughts were still tangled on the ink drying in her notebook, and the faces of a brother and a friend she missed more than her heart could fully bear.

Outside the school gates, the air was fresh with the crispness of late afternoon. The low hum of student voices filled the space, and a flock of birds scattered overhead, silhouetted against the light.

“So,” Yaya asked gently, “are you heading home now?”

Fang nodded. “Yeah. I haven’t finished unpacking yet. It’s been… a lot.”

“Want help?” Ying offered, stepping forward with a hopeful smile. “We could carry things, help you set up your room…”

Fang shook her head. “Thank you, really. But I think I need to do this part alone. It helps me settle in.”

Gopal slung his bag over his shoulder and grinned. “Alright. But you better save dessert for me when you’re done.”

They all laughed.

“See you tomorrow, Fang,” Yaya said warmly.

“Yeah. Tomorrow,” Ying added, giving her a soft wave.

Gopal raised two fingers in a mock salute. “Later, friend.”

Fang watched them go. The sun dipped lower behind them, turning their figures into silhouettes as they disappeared down the street. The warmth they left in her heart, however, remained.

She turned to walk the other way, her bag weighted with memories and warnings etched in secret ink.

But her steps were a little lighter than they had been that morning.

“See you tomorrow,” she whispered to herself, already feeling less alone.

As Fang walked alone, her bag slung over one shoulder, the city buzzed in the distance, but the streets here were quiet, worn down with time and shadow. Her path led her through narrow backroads—past shuttered shops and overgrown sidewalks—toward the forgotten part of town.

Toward the crumbling mansion she called home.

Every step closer made her chest heavier. Not from fear, but from memory. This had been her home for a few years when she first arrived on Earth.

She was almost at the gate when it happened.

A metallic shriek split the air.

Fang froze.

Another scream—robotic, panicked, and unmistakably familiar.

Her head snapped toward the sound—an alley nearby.

‘No. It’s too soon.’ Her heart stopped. ‘It’s too soon to meet him.’

But she was already moving.

She sprinted into the alley and skidded to a halt—just in time to see a glowing yellow figure crash into a pile of trash.

Ochobot.

Two figures lunged after him.

Adudu—short, square-headed, green-skinned, snarling, with blasters raised—and Probe, a twitchy purple robot buzzing through the air, cackling like a maniacal blender.

“There you are, Ochobot!” Adudu roared. “I’ll plug you in and finally become the strongest power sphere hunter!”

“Yeah!” Probe squealed. “We’re gonna suck your power till you’re fried!”

Ochobot struggled to rise. His glow dimmed.

Fang’s chest locked.

He looked just like he used to.

But he didn’t know her.

He didn’t know the battles they’d fought together. The pain. The laughs. Their happy time together.

Not yet.

Her breath caught in her throat because this was before all of that. Before her. Her existence meant nothing to him.

Her heart cracked open with the weight of it.

But she didn’t freeze.

She moved.

A broken pipe lay nearby. She snatched it mid-run and slammed it into Probe’s face with enough force to rattle his bolts. He screeched and spiraled into a trash can.

Adudu turned, caught off guard—but Fang was already on him.

She struck his wrist, knocking the blaster off-target. Then an elbow to the ribs, a knee to the thigh. “Run!” she barked to Ochobot.

He hesitated. “But—”

“Go!”

Ochobot zipped into the maze of alleys. Fang followed. They ducked behind bins, climbed fire escapes, and leapt fences. Adudu’s roars echoed behind them, Probe shouting nonsense about “vengeance” and “microwaves.”

Finally, they collapsed behind a rusted dumpster, panting. Safe—for a moment.

Ochobot turned to her, his voice small and electric. “You… who are you?”

Fang’s breath stilled.

That voice.

Once, he’d said her name like it meant everything.

Now, it was like a stranger.

“I’m…” Her voice cracked. She swallowed hard. “…Fang.”

He blinked, processing.

Then, softly—too softly—he asked, “Why did you help me?”

Fang froze.

That question. So simple. So, innocent.

She couldn’t answer it.

Because how could she?

How could she explain that she had once fought beside him, laughed until she cried with him? How could she explain that this wasn’t a choice, not really? That even if the whole world forgot her, she couldn’t forget her very first friend on earth.

She just couldn’t.

She turned away quickly, her shoulders tense, her fingers clenched. Her hair fell like a curtain between them, hiding her face as her breath hitched.

Trying not to fall apart.

Trying not to let the sound of his voice—familiar, but empty—break what little was left of her heart.

But the moment broke too soon.

A clicking sound. Metal.

Adudu’s shadow fell over them.

“There you are,” Adudu sneered, gun raised. “Now hand him over.”

Ochobot floated protectively in front of her, though his glow flickered uncertainly. “Run, Fang—!”

Fang stepped in front of him.

Firm. Silent. Unmoving.

Adudu cocked the gun, aiming it directly at her chest. “Try anything, and I vaporize you.”

Ochobot’s processors stalled.

She didn’t run.

She didn’t flinch.

She stood between him and the barrel of a plasma cannon like it was nothing. Like her life meant less than his. Her shoulders were squared. Her jaw set.

Then her eyes—cold, sharp, gleaming red—met his.

“If you shoot,” she said, voice like steel, “you better pray you finish the job.”

Adudu blinked. Just for a moment. That small flicker of uncertainty. He hadn’t expected her to speak. He definitely hadn’t expected that.

Because it wasn’t just a threat.

It was a promise.

And something in Ochobot cracked.

She didn’t know him. He didn’t know her.

But she was choosing him.

And then—a spark.

Ochobot's core pulsed with black-purple light, something ancient waking in his circuits. His gaze locked on her—this girl who had shielded him without hesitation.

A burst of energy ignited from his chest, raw and instinctive, arcing toward her wrist like lightning finding its mark.

Fang gasped.

The Shadow Power Watch materialized in a flash of heat and light, slamming into place around her wrist with a magnetic snap. The metal was cool against her skin. Familiar. Like it had always been there, just waiting.

Her eyes widened.

‘No… way.’

‘Just like last time… but earlier. Too early.’

And then the shadows answered.

A surge of energy roared through her veins. Her knees buckled as shadow pulsed from her skin. The air cracked open around her. Wind howled. The sky seemed to tilt.

And then— He came.

A great wing of black flame tore through the air as the Shadow Dragon exploded into being. Its roar split the city. Windows shattered. Lights flickered. Smoke rose in spirals from the pavement where it landed.

Its wings cast the alley into darkness.

Its eyes—two burning coals—locked on Fang.

And then—

You…

Fang’s mind rang. A voice—not from outside, but from within.

Lunar warrior.

She staggered, gasping.

You live again.

She couldn’t speak. She didn’t need to.

Her grief surged toward the dragon like a flood

You remember me…

The voice in her head rumbled with ancient warmth. I never forgot. Not through death. Not through time. You called me once with blood. You call me now with your soul.

Fang's knees almost gave out.

Her hands trembled. Her throat burned.

The world had forgotten her. Her friends. Her team. Even Ocho.

But her shadows— Her shadows remembered.

I’m still me, she whispered in her mind. Even if no one else knows. Even if I had to come back alone.

Not alone, the dragon replied. Never alone.

It turned toward Adudu and Probe with a hiss that melted brick—literally. The wall behind them was blackened and cracked from the sheer heatless pressure of its breath.

Its eyes burned like twin eclipses. Smoke curled from its jaws.

“W-what is that?!” Adudu shrieked, clutching his weapon with both hands. “WHY DOES IT LOOK LIKE MY NIGHTMARES?!”

Probe screamed, flailing his arms, “I’m too pretty to die! I haven’t uploaded my will! My search history will survive me!”

The dragon roared—a sound that shook glass in its frames and sent flocks of birds scattering into the sky. The ground trembled beneath its talons.

Then it lunged.

Not with fire, but with rage. Pure, ancient, coiling fury.

It smashed through crates like kindling, slamming its tail into the alley walls, sending concrete chunks flying. Sparks ignited as metal twisted and fell. The very air darkened, thick with smoke and shadow.

Adudu fired wildly—shouting curses in five different alien dialects, one of which sounded suspiciously like “MOMMY!”

Probe zipped in panicked spirals, yelling, “RETREAT, MISTER BOSS! BACKFLIP STRATEGY GAMMA! I REGRET EVERYTHING!”

Fang didn’t move.

She was surrounded by it.

The chaos.

The screaming.

The power.

And in that moment, it didn’t scare her.

Because the shadows didn’t burn her.

They shielded her.

A thick aura of black and violet aura coiled around her body, rising like mist. It shimmered against her skin—lightless and alive—crackling with sparks of dark energy that flickered violet and obsidian.

The Watch on her wrist pulsed like a heartbeat. Steady. Heavy. Ancient.

Unseen by anyone, even her, beneath her clothes, a black lightning scar bloomed across the place where she had the wound that once killed her.

“Fang!” Ochobot cried, floating near her shoulder, his voice static-glitched with panic. “You need to stop, the dragon is going to destroy everything!”

She gritted her teeth.

Shadow dragon wasn’t mindless.

Its fury was hers—but it needed a voice.

And that voice was hers.

She raised her arm slowly, the aura thickening like a storm ready to break. Her shadow spread across the pavement in jagged wings and claws.

She pressed her palm to the Watch. Closed her eyes.

Stop. Enough. They’re not worth this.

The dragon paused mid-air. Snarling. Quivering. Wings fully unfurled, its black fire curling upward like smoke on a moonless night.

It turned to her—slowly, reverently.

As you command, Luna.

Her thoughts whispered back, tired, but firm.

Rest. You’re free. You don’t need to protect me anymore.

With a final low, guttural growl, the Shadow Dragon folded in on itself, dissolving into smoke, curling upward into the sky, and diving back down into Fang’s own silhouette.

A pulse of black-violet light rippled outward from her as the last flicker of wings vanished into shadow.

Silence.

Adudu and Probe were long gone—their terrified screams echoing.

Fang swayed.

Then crumpled to her knees, gasping for air as the aura slowly faded.

Her hands trembled. Her skin buzzed like static. But she was whole.

And her eyes shimmered—not from power, but from quiet, aching tears.

Because in a world that had forgotten her name…

Her shadows hadn’t.

And for today, that was enough.

Fang was still on her knees, her arms hanging limp by her sides. Her breath came shallow and quick.

Ochobot hovered near.

He didn’t speak.

Because when he looked at her—this girl who had stepped into a fight she shouldn’t have survived—he felt something tighten in his circuitry. Not fear. Not confusion.

But hurt.

She was crying.

Not loudly. Not with sobs.

Just quiet, unstoppable tears, trailing down her cheeks like ghosts. Like a part of her had hoped—truly hoped—that someone, something from before still remembered her.

And when the shadow had obeyed her… it had.

He watched her wipe at her eyes roughly with the back of her sleeve. As if embarrassed. As if she didn’t deserve to cry.

“I’m fine,” she rasped.

“No,” he said, floating closer. “You’re really not.”

Fang stiffened.

Ochobot hovered closer again, voice gentle. “Thank you, you saved me. And I don’t even know who you are… but it feels like… like I should.”

She didn’t look at him.

Didn’t speak.

Because how could she tell him the truth?

That he had known her. That once, he'd called her family.

And now… he didn’t even recognize her face.

“I’ll walk you home,” he offered.

She flinched. “No.”

“It’s not safe for you to be alone,” he insisted. “Come with me. I know somewhere good.”

“I said no.”

But her legs wobbled as she tried to stand. Her knees threatened to collapse. She caught herself against the wall, breathing hard.

Ochobot paused… then floated up beside her again.

Without another word, he nudged at her shoulder with quiet insistence.

“Come on. Just this once. Tok Aba’s stall is still open.”

She stared at him like he was speaking a different language. “I’m not going to Tok Aba. I don’t need—”

“Yes, you are,” he said more firmly than she’d ever heard him speak. “You fought Adudu and Probe with nothing but shadows and a pipe. You probably haven’t eaten. You’re hurt. You’re tired.”

“I’m not—” Her voice cracked. She looked away. “I’m not a stray you can just feed and fix.”

Ochobot tilted his head. His glow flickered softly. “You’re not. But… I want to help you.”

Fang’s breath caught in her chest.

She didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

The words lodged deep in her throat—too raw, too close to everything she had buried. But she didn’t push him away either.

So when Ochobot floated a little closer and said gently, “This way,” she didn’t argue.

She just nodded once. Barely.

And followed.

The walk wasn’t long, but for Fang, every step felt like dragging herself through wet cement.

Ochobot hovered at her side in silence, keeping pace easily, but not too close. He didn’t guide her, didn’t offer his arm—just stayed beside her like a quiet anchor.

And he watched.

He watched the way her shoulders hunched forward slightly, like they were carrying something that had long since broken her back. The way her steps faltered when she thought he wasn’t looking. The way she flinched from loud sounds—a car door slamming, a cat knocking over a can in the alley.

Her hand occasionally brushed the wall or a streetlight pole as they walked—not for balance, but as if to make sure the world was still solid beneath her.

And the Watch… it pulsed on her wrist in gentle beats, still warm. Still alive.

Her eyes, though… her eyes never once lifted from the ground. Not to see the soft glow of streetlamps blinking on. Not to glance at passing windows. Not even to look at him.

Ochobot slowed his speed ever so slightly.

She was limping. Just a little. She kept trying to hide it, favoring her right side, masking the pain with controlled movements. But she couldn’t hide it from him.

She was hurting.

And not just in her body.

There was something about the way she carried herself—like a soldier who had come home from a war no one else remembered. The kind of tired that rest didn’t fix. The kind of grief that got stitched into your skin and made a home in your silence.

She didn’t ask for help. Not once.

She just kept walking.

Ochobot’s circuits hummed quietly. A strange heaviness settled in his chest. He didn’t understand it. But he knew this much:

He didn’t like seeing her like this.

Not because she was broken.

But because someone, somewhere, had let her believe that she had to be.

The closer they got to the park, the slower her steps became.

Her knees buckled once, just slightly. She caught herself with a hand against the brick wall of a convenience store, breathing shallowly, her hair falling into her eyes.

Ochobot didn’t speak.

He just waited.

When she straightened again, he hovered beside her, just close enough that if she fell, he could catch her.

And then—

There it was.

The faint glow of lanterns between the trees.

The warm lights of Tok Aba’s stall, tucked beneath the leaves.

The smell of cocoa and fried buns drifted through the summer dusk like a lullaby.

The park looked the same as Fang remembered.

But Fang stopped at the edge of it—her feet frozen on the path.

Ochobot turned back to her. She hadn’t moved. Her eyes were fixed on the glow ahead, wide and uncertain.

He waited a second.

Then offered softly, “You don’t have to go all the way in. We can sit on the edge. Or I can bring you something, and you stay right here.”

Fang’s hands curled into fists at her sides.

“…I can walk.”

Her voice cracked.

But she stepped forward again.

And Ochobot moved beside her, quiet as ever.

He didn’t say it aloud. Didn’t make it awkward. But he noticed the way her steps were steadier with someone at her side.

And he was okay being that someone.

Even if—for now—she didn’t know how to say thank you.

Even if she never would.

Because he wasn’t doing it for thanks.

He was doing it because no one should have to walk that kind of tired alone.

Not again.

Not ever.

Fang walked slowly beside Ochobot, her steps unsteady, her eyes locked to the ground as if she looked up, the world might break her all over again.

The Shadow Watch pulsed quietly on her wrist—its weight felt somehow grounding. Her shadows, the only things that hadn’t forgotten her, whispered softly beneath her skin. A presence. A memory. A promise.

Even if no one else remembered her… They did.

She could see it now, just ahead—glowing between the trees like a pocket of peace untouched by time.

Tok Aba’s cocoa stall.

The warmth of it struck her like a wave. The soft glow of hanging lanterns, the smell of roasted cocoa and fried buns, and the faint clink of mugs and laughter. It was all the same.

Too much the same.

Her steps slowed. Then faltered.

She couldn’t go any closer. Not yet.

Ochobot noticed immediately. He stopped just a little ahead, hovering gently, then turned back to her.

“Fang?” he asked softly.

She didn’t answer.

She couldn’t lift her head.

Her arms felt like lead. Her chest ached with something she didn’t have a name for. Being this close—hearing those sounds, smelling that cocoa—it was like opening a wound that hadn’t finished scabbing over.

Ochobot floated toward her again, slower this time, more careful.

“Just one step at a time,” he said quietly.

Fang swallowed hard, her throat raw. But she nodded.

She followed.

Together, they crossed under the canopy of trees. The lantern light painted golden patterns across the dirt path, and the warmth from the stall grew with every breath.

Ahead, Tok Aba stood behind the counter, humming as he wiped a tray clean. The moment he looked up and spotted them, his face lit up.

“Ochobot!” he called, beaming. “You’re back late—” He paused, noticing the second figure beside the Power Sphere. “—and with company?”

Fang froze again, only a few steps from the edge of the lights. Her breath caught. Her shoulders tensed.

Ochobot floated forward like it was nothing. “Tok Aba,” he said with a tired smile. “We ran into some… problems.”

The old man’s eyes narrowed immediately, his warmth replaced by worry. “Trouble?”

“Adudu and Probe,” Ochobot replied. “They cornered me.”

Tok Aba scowled. “Again? Are you alright?”

“I am now,” Ochobot said, and then—without hesitation—turned to Fang.

“She saved me.”

Tok Aba blinked and looked at her again. This time, more closely. His gaze swept over the dirtied uniform, the scraped knees, the faint smudges of dried blood on her hand.

“She did?” he asked, voice lower.

Ochobot nodded. “She fought them off. No powers. Just… a broken pipe and stubbornness. She didn’t stop, even when she was hurt. She protected me.”

Tok Aba raised his brows. “Brave girl.”

Ochobot hesitated, then added, “The last Watch… it activated. It picked her.”

Fang stiffened. Tok Aba’s eyes dropped to her wrist, where the black metal of the Shadow Watch shimmered faintly in the warm lantern light.

He took a slow breath.

“That’s… rare,” he murmured. “Those don’t bond with just anyone.”

“She called a Shadow Dragon,” Ochobot said. “And when it lost control… she brought it back. Talked to it, and it listened to her.”

Fang didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

Her jaw clenched as she looked away, ashamed of the way her fingers were shaking.

Tok Aba stepped out from behind the counter. He approached slowly, not like a threat, but like someone trying not to scare a stray.

“You alright?” he asked, softer this time.

She gave a stiff nod. Still didn’t meet his eyes.

“Name?”

“…Fang.”

He paused. Blinked.

Then smiled. “Strong name. Suits you.”

Fang’s breath hitched. Her fingers curled tighter. Because she remembered when he’d said that the first time. Back when she still lived here. Back when she was part of something.

And now he said it again.

Like it was new.

Like she was a stranger.

Her heart clenched.

But before she could say anything, Tok Aba clapped his hands lightly. “Well then. You saved Ochobot. That means you get cocoa. House rule.”

Fang shook her head quickly. “No—I’m okay, really—”

“Nonsense,” he said, already waving her toward one of the folding chairs. “You’re bleeding and standing like the world sat on you. That’s a clear cocoa emergency.”

Fang opened her mouth to protest again.

He gave her a look.

She stopped.

Ochobot floated beside her and nudged her arm gently. “You earned this,” he said. “Just let it happen.”

So Fang—hesitant, aching, uncertain—sat.

The chair creaked a little as she curled into it, her arms resting on the small round table. The lantern light caught the dust in her hair. She stared at the tabletop like it might give her the strength to hold herself together.

Behind the counter, Tok Aba got to work—pouring cocoa into a white mug with the shop sign on, adding extra powder, a swirl of condensed milk, and a dusting of spice. His motions were calm. Familiar. Like a ritual from another life.

When he brought it over—with a small plate of fried rice, his specialty, still warm—he set it down gently in front of her.

“There,” he said with a grin. “One hero’s meal.”

Fang stared at it. Her fingers brushed the side of the mug. Slowly, they curled around it.

The warmth seeped into her palms.

She didn’t know if she could drink it. Didn’t know if she could swallow anything without choking on the lump in her throat.

But she whispered, hoarse and small, “Thank you.”

“Anytime,” Tok Aba said simply, stepping back.

Fang stared at the cocoa. Let the scent wrap around her like a blanket. Let the warmth chase the chill in her bones.

She took a sip.

And for just a second… She didn’t feel like she was disappearing.

‘My shadows remembered me,’ she thought. ‘That’s enough. That has to be enough.’

The late afternoon sun stretched low across the park, casting a mellow gold over the food stalls and benches beneath rustling trees. Lanterns swayed gently above Tok Aba’s café—half stall, half memory—filling the air with the scent of caramel buns and spiced cocoa. Laughter echoed softly from a nearby table, the world quieting into dusk.

Fang sat at the far edge, tucked into a folding chair with her shoulders curled in. A mug of cocoa rested between her hands, still warm, untouched.

She hadn’t taken a sip.

Not since Tok Aba handed it to her with a kind smile and a tone that left no room for refusal. She hadn’t had the strength to argue, and truthfully… maybe she hadn’t wanted to.

A few feet away, Tok Aba leaned on the wooden counter, drying a clean mug with a practiced rhythm. Ochobot hovered beside him, quieter than usual, his light pulsing gently as he watched the girl across the lot.

“She hasn’t said much,” Ochobot murmured, careful not to be overheard. “But… she stayed.”

Tok Aba hummed thoughtfully. “Some kids don’t talk with words. They speak in presence. In silence. That kind of stillness… usually means they’ve had to carry more than they should.”

Ochobot’s glow dimmed a little. “She didn’t ask for anything. Just followed me. Quietly. I don’t even know why.”

“Maybe she didn’t come for something,” Tok Aba said gently. “Maybe she just needed a place to land.”

They let the silence rest between them after that.

And a few steps away, Fang sat quietly, the cup steady in her grasp—but her thoughts anything but.

The air was cooler now.

Late sunlight spilled golden through the trees, casting long shadows across the quiet park. The warmth in the cocoa hadn’t faded, but her grip around the mug had tightened.

The Watch on her wrist still pulsed quietly with shadowlight, like a second heartbeat. A reminder. That this wasn’t a dream.

That the dragon had been real.

That Adudu had aimed to kill. That Ochobot had nearly been taken. That she had thrown herself in the way without thinking. That the shadows had answered. That she was no longer alone.

‘It all came too fast,’ she thought. ‘No warning. No time to understand. One second, I was surviving. Then… everything changed.’

She didn’t blame anyone. Not the shadows. Not the Watch. Not even fate.

She just didn’t know what to do now.

Around her, unseen by everyone else, her shadows stirred.

The tiger rested at her feet like a silent guardian.

The eagle perched above the canopy, wings tucked but alert.

The mouse curled beside her arm, tail twitching.

The serpent looped gently around her wrist.

And the dragon—massive and ancient—coiled in the space behind her seat, smoky and still, with glowing violet eyes.

They said nothing at first.

Then, as the sun dipped lower, one by one, they moved closer.

You are unsettled, my lady, the serpent whispered, its voice curling in her thoughts like cool silk.

Fang gave a soft breath. “I’m not angry,” she murmured. “Not at you. I just…” Her voice thinned. “I didn’t expect to feel anything again. Not like this.”

The tiger stretched, brushing its fur against her leg.

You were not meant to live invisible forever, it purred.

“It’s not that I don’t want to feel. It’s just…” Her throat tightened. “Why now? Why me?”

Because time does not wait for readiness, the dragon rumbled, its voice like distant thunder. It moves without permission. But sometimes… when a spirit is strong enough, time bends. A story returns.

She shook her head faintly. “This doesn’t feel like my story anymore.”

And yet it is, the eagle said softly. It’s been rewritten. But the pen is still in your hand. You are a returning echo. The Lunar Warrior reborn.

Fang gripped the mug tightly. The ceramic edge pressed into her fingers.

“I didn’t choose this,” she said. “I didn’t choose to remember. Or to fight again.”

You didn’t choose, the mouse murmured. But you answered. You stepped forward when others ran. You stood between danger and a friend. You chose to protect.

And that, Luna, is why you were called, the dragon said. Not because you were ready. But because you were needed.

Her breath hitched.

“I’m not who I was,” she admitted. “Not fully. I’ve changed. I’ve… I’ve forgotten how to be her.”

The serpent pressed closer, cool and steady. Then be this version of her. The one who survived. The one still standing. You do not need to go back to move forward.

We have changed with you, the dragon added, lowering its great head beside her. We were shaped by silence, too. But we are still yours. And you—still ours.

The Watch pulsed again. Not urgently. Not like a call to war. Just… present. Real.

A tether.

You feared being alone again, the eagle said gently.

Fang’s voice was barely a whisper. “I still do.”

Then let us stay, the tiger said. Let yourself be seen again. The story will change. But it does not have to leave you behind.

Their voices carried no command. No pressure. Only presence. Warm. Ancient. Faithful.

This world is different now, the mouse whispered. But so are you.

You do not have to rush, said the dragon. You need only breathe. One moment at a time.

Fang didn’t respond.

She didn’t have to.

Somewhere deep inside, the ache that had lived in her chest for so long began to shift. Not gone. But no longer unbearable.

The shadows didn’t ask her to be brave. Or healed. Or whole.

They just reminded her that she was not alone.

And slowly, she opened her eyes.

A gentle wind stirred the lanterns above. Ochobot was still by Tok Aba, his glow quiet. They hadn’t approached. Hadn’t pushed.

They had simply waited.

Watched over her.

‘My story,’ she thought. ‘Still mine. Even if it doesn’t look the same.’

Behind her, the dragon exhaled—warm, quiet breath brushing her back.

When you are ready, my lady, rise. The world will not stop turning. But you do not have to chase it. You need only walk alongside it.

She looked down at the cocoa. The steam had thinned, but the warmth lingered.

She lifted the cup to her lips.

Took a sip.

And breathed.

It tasted like memory.

Like something once lost, returned in silence.

Like a beginning that didn’t ask for her permission, but offered her a place anyway.

And just as that thought settled—

“Hey,” came Tok Aba’s voice again, soft and careful.

Fang blinked and looked up.

He stood near her table, not looming, just waiting. A dish towel was slung over one shoulder, and his eyes were kind.

“Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean to pull you out of your thoughts.”

Fang straightened a little, the mug still warm in her hands.

“I wanted to ask,” Tok Aba continued, “are you planning to stay in town for a while?”

She hesitated… then nodded slightly.

A smile pulled gently at his face. “Good. We could use someone like you around here. You’ve got calm hands. Steady presence. If you’re open to it… We could always use a bit of help after school. Just part-time.”

Fang blinked.

Help?

Work?

Stay?

She didn’t answer right away. But beneath the table, the tiger gave a low, contented purr. The eagle rustled its wings. The serpent warmed against her skin. The dragon didn’t speak—only waited.

‘Accept,’ the silence said. ‘You are worthy of more than survival.’

Fang swallowed. “…Okay,” she whispered.

Tok Aba smiled, satisfied. “You’ll start tomorrow. No rush. No pressure.”

“I can help show her the cocoa machine!” Ochobot piped in, hovering closer now.

“Let’s not overwhelm her,” Tok Aba chuckled. “She just sat down.”

Fang’s lips twitched.

Barely. But it was real.

They stepped away again.

She curled slightly over her mug, folding her arms around it like an anchor.

And slowly… finally…

She let herself rest.

The shadows settled again.

The tiger at her feet. The eagle above. The serpent curled near her heart. The dragon coiled like smoke behind her seat.

You are not forgotten, Luna. You are remembered. You are needed. And now… You are safe.

Ochobot watched from a short distance, his glow flickering faintly with quiet thought.

“She looks tired,” he whispered.

Tok Aba nodded. “She looks like she has been carrying a heavy weight.”

He turned back to his work.

“Let her sleep.”

Evening had fallen completely by the time Tok Aba packed away the last of the chairs. The canopy of stars stretched wide overhead, framed by soft clouds and the rustling silhouettes of leaves. The lanterns above the stall had been dimmed, the warmth of the day folding into the hush of night.

Fang hadn’t stirred in some time.

She remained curled in the same chair where she’d first let herself rest. Her arms wrapped loosely around the now-cool mug of cocoa, her head nestled into her sleeve, cheek pressed against the table like she’d grown roots there.

Her breath was soft. Steady.

Ochobot floated a few feet away, his glow dim and gentle as he watched over her.

“She’s really asleep,” he murmured.

Tok Aba, rolling down the stall shutters, glanced over. “Good. She needed it.”

There was no need to say more. No need to mention the way her face had looked earlier—drawn, quiet, haunted. Or the way her shoulders had been tense even when she’d said yes to his offer to work at the stall.

No one pushed. No one asked. She’d accepted.

That was enough.

“I’ll carry her,” Ochobot said softly, hovering closer. “It won’t wake her.”

“Careful,” Tok Aba replied, his tone light. “She might bite if startled.”

But the old man’s voice held no real worry. Just familiarity.

Ochobot moved slowly, limbs extending to cradle her gently. She didn’t jolt or protest. Her body leaned naturally into the motion, her hand slipping slightly across his casing. Even asleep, she trusted him more than she realized.

Tok Aba slung her bag over his shoulder and flipped off the last switch. Together, they left the stall behind, disappearing into the quiet of the neighborhood.

The streets whispered under their steps. Porch lights glowed. Wind threaded through branches. The soft ring of a chime welcomed them home.

The guest room was small, but clean and quiet. Ochobot laid her down gently on the bed. The pillow caught her head. The blanket settled over her shoulders. He took off her glasses and hairpin pin putting them on the desk across from her bed.

She didn’t wake. But something in her posture eased.

Tok Aba stood in the doorway, watching her for a beat.

“Looks like she will be working with us soon, then?”

Ochobot nodded once. “She said yes. Not loudly, but it meant something.”

Tok Aba’s mouth lifted into a tired smile. “It always does.”

He stepped forward just enough to tuck the blanket a little higher. “I’ll leave her some slippers for morning.”

He paused at the doorway, switching off the light with a soft click.

“Goodnight, Fang.”

And the world quieted.

That night, Fang dreamed.

Not of fire. Not of fear. But of silver wind, and a moon that did not belong to Earth.

The forest around her pulsed with memory. It was ancient and unfamiliar, and yet… it welcomed her.

The trees were tall and thin, bleached pale like starlight-scorched bone. Their branches curled skyward like reaching hands, weaving together in a vast canopy of black and violet. Above them, constellations flickered across the heavens—unknown and uncharted, yet Fang felt them pull at her bones like lullabies she once knew.

The ground beneath her boots shimmered with cold-white dust, like frost with no chill. Each step stirred the light like ash from long-dead fires. Her footsteps made no sound. Her voice did not rise. But she moved anyway.

Something was calling.

Above, the moon hung full, massive, alive. It pulsed slow and steady, like a second heart. It cast no shadows. It drew them in.

And under that impossible moon, someone danced.

Barefoot. Weightless.

She spun through the clearing in wide, graceful arcs—ribbons of moonlight following her like breath. Her dress shimmered in white, silver, and royal purple, stardust stitched into every seam. Galaxies spilled from the hem, and the veil over her face glimmered with broken light. Her hair—long and white as snow—spilled down her back, glowing faintly with every motion.

And though her features were hidden beneath the veil… Fang knew.

Eyes like twin eclipses peered through the fabric. Red as a crimson ruby. Familiar as her own skin.

They weren’t a stranger’s eyes. They were hers.

Not a reflection. Not quite.

A possibility.

The woman’s hands traced slow patterns into the air—glyphs made of silver arcs and half-moons that glowed for a moment before fading like breath in frost. And as she moved, the forest responded.

Petals bloomed on trees that hadn’t flowered in ages. Leaves turned upward. Water rippled where none should have flowed. Light bent with every step, as though time itself dared not interrupt her rhythm.

Above them, the moon pulsed again.

Symbols bloomed across its surface—circles, crescents, and markings Fang didn’t know how to read… but her Watch did. It glowed softly in response, shadowlight flickering at her wrist even here, in this place beyond places.

Fang didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

She only watched. Heart aching, breath still.

The dancer’s rhythm shifted—slower now, like the winding down of a great clock. And just once… her veil tilted.

Her chin rose.

And Fang saw them clearly: Red eyes with a silver ring in them. A crescent sigil glowed faintly at her brow. White veins of moonlight tracing her arms like starlit rivers.

Fang’s chest tightened. She didn’t understand. But she felt it.

Pull. Familiarity. A promise.

Then the forest trembled.

Shapes stirred among the trees—not menacing, but ancient. Watching. Protecting.

A phoenix shimmered into view, wings alight with flame that didn’t burn, eyes glowing with eternal dawn. The phoenix tilted its head, silver feathers like it was made from the moon, catching the moonlight like fire caught in motion. Its eyes glowed—not with challenge, but recognition. Like it saw the ashes she’d risen from, and knew her flame would burn brighter this time.

A doe with a coat like budding spring leaves stepped forward, antlers blooming with small white flowers. The doe’s eyes met hers—calm, unwavering. There was no fear in them. Only a quiet knowing, like it had been waiting for her. Like it had always believed she’d come.

And beside the doe, a lion with a mane of white mist breathed slow and steady, the ground firming beneath his paws. The lion stood close, its mane swaying like tall grass in a storm, but its eyes held no roar. Only strength, unwavering and calm. It didn’t demand anything from her. It simply stood—like it had always stood behind her, even when she hadn’t known.

Above them all, an owl circled silently—its wings patterned with silver and white feathers. The owl blinked slowly, perched in perfect stillness, its feathers rippling with unseen wisdom. Its gaze wasn’t piercing—it was deep, ancient, understanding. As if it had seen every version of her soul and waited patiently for this one to awaken.

They were not strangers to the dancer. They bowed their heads in reverence—silent kin, not servants.

And Fang felt it, deep in her marrow: they knew her too.

Not who she had been, but who she could become.

The woman’s dance slowed to stillness. The forest quieted with her.

Then, the dancer stepped forward. Her veil shimmered once—and fell away.

And the voice that spoke was not loud, but it wrapped around Fang like warm night air. Familiar. Motherly. 

“There are many paths, little star. You’ve wandered through shadow… but shadow is not the end.”

She extended a hand—open, glowing, gentle.

“You are not what was taken from you. You are what still rises. You are the breath between endings. You are what comes next.”

The animals gathered close—watching, waiting, radiant with joy.

“Will you let us walk beside you? Not as answers. Not as chains. But as companions in who you are becoming.”

Fang trembled. She didn’t understand. Not really. But something deeper than thought stirred inside her—a knowing without language. An ache that felt like home.

And she reached out.

Her hand, small and callused from battles far too heavy for her age, touched the figure’s.

And the forest sang.

Light bloomed like dawn. The phoenix rose with a cry of joy. The lion roared, steady and proud. The doe danced in circles of life. The owl drifted lower, wings like prophecy. And the moon—massive, alive—pulsed with radiant laughter.

The woman smiled, full and wide and beautiful.

“Then rise, little moon,” she whispered. “You are not broken. You are becoming.”

The sky cracked open.

—and Fang saw a future she wouldn’t remember.

A battlefield swallowed in shadow. A sky gone dark. Her own figure—older, fiercer—standing at its heart, arms raised. Voice silent. Eyes alight. The Watch glowing brighter than ever before.

And the world… obeying.

Then—

A pulse.

A breath.

A single wordless vow.

And all of it—

Gone.

Fang shifted gently under the covers.

Her brow furrowed… then eased.

The Shadow Watch on her wrist flickered with a soft light—silver and black entwined—before settling again into stillness.

She didn’t wake. She didn’t remember.

Not the dancer.

Not the glyphs.

Not even the moon that had once whispered to her soul in a voice older than memory.

But something lingered.

A feeling. A rhythm. A warmth she couldn’t name—yet somehow trusted.

Outside the veil of sleep, her shadows kept their quiet vigil.

The dragon, smaller than before, curled near the bed with a hum in its chest like a lullaby returned.

The eagle perched high in the rafters, feathers sleek with pride, watching not for danger—but in reverence.

The tiger sprawled near the rug, tail flicking once, then still—its breath slow, content.

The mouse nestled beside her heart, as if it had always belonged there.

And the serpent, ever silent, coiled protectively near her wrist, its gaze soft and sure.

They remembered what she could not.

They had seen the moment her hand reached toward the figure in the moonlight.

And though she had not understood, she had chosen.

And that was enough.

They did not need words.

Only the bond—newly awakened, ancient in its roots—echoing through them like light through glass.

The girl who once wandered now slept in a house that no longer felt hollow.

It reminded her of warmth.

And now, so did they.

Far above—in a sky she had never yet touched—

The moon pulsed once more.

And whispered:

“The path has turned, child of moon and shadows.

Sleep now…

For the door you’ve opened will not close.”

Chapter Text

The light was soft when it found her, golden and hazy as it streamed between the curtains, warming the edges of the bed like a memory she hadn’t meant to keep. Fang stirred slowly, eyelashes fluttering open against the morning haze. For a moment, she didn’t move—only blinked at the ceiling above her.

And she knew. Instantly.

This room—the guest room in Tok Aba’s house—was etched into her bones. She had stayed here before, in another time, another life.

The ceiling was old, speckled faintly from years of steam and age, its corners joined by a line of wooden beams she once traced absently with her eyes when sleep refused her. The air was still the same: aged wood, faint laundry detergent, the ghost of old cocoa—and something else now.

The lingering warmth of the cocoa's steam still kissed the edges of the mug, and with it came the scent of burnt sugar and cardamom, a combination so distinct it tugged at something deeper.

The warmth of the ceramic mug beside her seemed to hum against her skin, mirroring the quiet thrum of the medbay’s walls from her memory. For a second, the aroma wrapped around her like a blanket, drawing her back to a quiet morning at the ship's medbay—Kaizo’s silhouette framed by the sterile lighting as he set down a similar mug beside her, pretending, as always, that it wasn’t for her.

That moment had smelled just like this: cocoa and spice layered over cedarwood, jasmine, ozone, and steel. That scent, that clung to Kaizo—an invisible tether to safety, both foreign and dear, was now forever stitched into the fabric of her mind. It hit her like a wave.

Her stomach lurched.

It hadn’t changed. Beige walls scuffed at the baseboards, a desk with worn corners opposite the bed, a single window with sun-faded curtains fluttering in the morning breeze. A place caught in memory, quiet and undemanding.

But it wasn’t the familiarity that stunned her.

It was the mug—the same chipped rim, faint steam curling like a ghost, and the rich scent of cocoa spiced with clove and cardamom.

Her fingers trembled as she reached for the mug. It was warm. Real. A memory made solid by morning light. She could almost hear the low hum of the ship’s engines and the soft tap of Kaizo’s boots retreating down the hall.

The world lurched sideways.

It hadn’t been a dream.

Her pulse thundered in her ears, shame crashing through her like a breaking tide. But it wasn’t just shame twisting her gut.

For a fragile, flickering moment, she’d hoped it had been a dream—that she was still sixteen, that Kaizo was near, calling her lazy from the doorframe, knocking softly, asking if she was still hiding from breakfast.

That Ying and Yaya would shout her name with laughing urgency through the open window, dragging her out into sunlight and safety.

That Gopal would show up late with snacks and silly warmth, BoBoiBoy right behind him, shaking his head at his friend's silliness with a fond smile.

That Kira’na had never started that war, that her death was just a phantom—bad sleep—and she hadn’t seen her brother’s grief or her friends shatter, trying to reach her in time.

Most of all, she wished Kaizo hadn’t had to break for her.

She could still picture the cracked edge in his voice when he said her name, the trembling hands holding her too late.

The silent devastation in his eyes—the same she’d seen once before, when they were children and their home was attacked, after Kaizo understood what was happening, that their mother was buying them time to run, she was still a clueless six-year-old who thought she and her brother were going on a trip alone the look in his face confused her, but she didn't have the time to address it back then.

She hoped this was just a nightmare, that maybe, just maybe, he was still whole—and near. If she reached for him now, she’d feel that safety again: the warmth of his coat draped over her shoulders, the weight of his hand ruffling her hair, the quiet promise that nothing could hurt her while he stood watch.

But it wasn’t a nightmare.

Her chest ached as if something heavy had pressed down overnight and nested there. Her eyes burned, not from sleep, but from the loss she hadn’t let herself feel.

Her breath snagged in her chest.

She bolted upright with a gasp, the blanket falling from her shoulders. Her muscles screamed in protest, her heart stammered as heat surged up her neck. Her face burned crimson. Her hands flew to her lap, gripping the covers tightly.

She had fallen asleep—something her exhausted body desperately needed. Part of her, still cracked by grief, had quietly wished it all could be undone, just for a moment. Just long enough to pretend she was still sixteen, still safe, still not shattered.

The chipped mug beside her, still faintly warm, carried that bittersweet comfort. The rich scent of cocoa spiced with clove and cardamom mingled with a sharper undertone—cedarwood and jasmine—that she instantly recognized.

It was the smell of Kaizo’s coat, the scent she’d clung to in the medbay, the quiet promise of safety he never spoke aloud but always offered. She could almost hear his voice fading down the hall.

But the warmth of the mug only sharpened the ache inside her.

What if they had seen her like this—broken and vulnerable? What if her Watch had flared, betraying her pain? What if she had cried out in her sleep, whispering Kaizo’s name in her grief?

The shame curled tight and ugly in her chest.

Beneath the bed, the shadows stirred.

The dragon, massive and curled close like a sleeping hearth-fire, shifted with a lazy rumble. The serpent slithered under her pillow, cool and still. Their presence was steady, but unapologetic.

You needed sleep, murmured the eagle from the rafters.

We stood guard, said the tiger.

The words echoed with weight, carrying her back to another life.

Her breath hitched.

“Oh no no no—” she whispered, eyes darting wildly around the room.

The last thing she remembered before waking here was the cocoa, the shadows, and the silence.

A cold knot twisted in her stomach.

Her pride shattered beneath the weight of the realization. Beneath it, a sharp, twisting fear: What if they saw too much? What if they tried to comfort her when she wasn’t ready?

She buried her face in her hands, shoulders curling tightly, nails biting her scalp. “Why didn’t you wake me?!” she hissed, voice muffled and trembling.

The shame clung to her like sweat. Humiliation carved sharply against the edges of a wound she didn’t dare name. She hated this—feeling exposed. Helpless. Weak.

Not again. Not in front of others. Not when she had spent so long learning how to survive unseen.

Her breath hitched. She squeezed her eyes shut.

And from downstairs, the world moved on—pots clinking, the soft scrape of plates, something warm and familiar drifting up through the floorboards. Toast. Clove. Chocolate.

Her body remained frozen, locked between gratitude and grief.

With a low sigh, Fang peeled herself from the bed, every movement stiff and reluctant. She blinked against the brightness, brushing her fingers through her tangled hair, and froze.

Her glasses were gone.

Her fingers hovered uncertainly at her temple. Panic bloomed in her chest.

Then she spotted them—neatly folded on the desk next to the cocoa mug. Her purple, round-lensed glasses. Designed to dull her red eyes and make them seem almost blue. And beside them—Ying’s hairclip. Wing-shaped, violet-silver, the one she just got back yesterday, catching the light with a shimmer like memory.

Fang’s heart twisted sharply.

She walked to the desk on shaky legs, fingers trembling as they hovered above the precious items. She slipped on the glasses. The pin slid into her hair with practiced motion.

But her hands lingered there.

She whispered, barely audible, "You didn’t wake me."

Fang scowled faintly. Her voice came out strained. “You let them carry me?”

They were gentle. The mouse squeaked by her elbow. You were safe.

You could not walk, the dragon rumbled. Would you rather we let you fall?

Her jaw clenched. She looked away, eyes shining with a pain she didn’t speak aloud.

“…No,” she whispered. “I just… I didn’t want them to see me like that.”

The admission dropped like a stone into water, and the echo it left in her chest was sharp and aching. It wasn’t just shame that gripped her now—it was the sick ache of old fear returning, the kind that wrapped around her ribs and whispered that needing help was the same as being weak. That being seen broken would make them all walk away.

Her arms folded tightly around herself. She stared down at the floor, lips pressed in a thin line, the corner of her mouth trembling despite her silence. Her breath came shallow, shaky.

“I didn’t want to… be a burden again,” she muttered, barely audible.

The dragon at her side stirred, heavy and warm like a protective hearth. Its voice rumbled softly. You never were.

You needed sleep, murmured the eagle from the rafters, repeating its words.

And we stood guard, said the tiger, curling beside her feet.

The words echoed in her mind, the same ones it had once told her after another long night, in another life, when she’d collapsed on frozen ground and woken in the warmth of their circle. Back then, they had shielded her body.

Now, they shielded her shame. Her breath caught, not from grief this time, but from the quiet recognition that someone had always been watching, and never left. Just as we always have. Just as we always will.

The serpent lifted its head, voice a low whisper beside her ear. Even warriors must rest, my lady. Shame does not live here.

The words settled deep in her chest, echoing with a warmth she hadn’t known she still craved.

For a split second, Fang's breath hitched—not from pain, but recognition.

Someone had once said something like that to her before, when she was too proud to lean on anyone: Kaizo, after she collapsed from exhaustion, training for days without pause.

She remembered the cool metal tang of the ship’s corridors, the sharp antiseptic of the medbay, and the distant hum of the engine reverberating beneath her boots.

Kaizo's voice, low and clipped over the intercom, had barked orders in the background—but when she collapsed, it had softened.

He’d caught her without a word, his coat brushing her cheek, and she’d known it was him instantly—not by sight, but by the scent: a blend of ozone and iron, threaded with faint jasmine and cedarwood. It was the smell of storms contained, and it had always meant safety.

His grip had been firm, steady, and though the ship’s lights had been dim, she could still see the worry masked behind his usual silence.

Back then, she hadn’t understood it. But now, that moment came back with searing clarity: the low thrum of the medbay’s generators, the faint buzz of distant conversation muffled behind reinforced doors, the slight static of his comm still crackling.

And the scent—his scent—woven into every part of the moment. Ozone and iron, like lightning, split through steel. But beneath that metallic sharpness, there had always been a subtler thread—faint jasmine and cedarwood, like the brief quiet after a storm.

It was the smell she’d clung to when consciousness wavered. She knew it even when blindfolded, half-lost, pulled from darkness by that scent alone. It meant Kaizo. It meant safe.

She’d woken to the rhythmic hum of the engine beneath her, her cheek pressed to his shoulder as he carried her without a word.

His coat had wrapped her like armor, and she had clung to that scent as much as the warmth. The lights had been dim. The silence was unbearable. But that scent had anchored her—storm, steel, and the whisper of home.

Back then, she’d thought he was just being a grumpy captain—stern orders, narrowed eyes, that perpetual furrow between his brows.

The younger her had mistaken it all for indifference, convinced herself he didn’t care. She remembered one time, vividly—during a scouting mission, she’d twisted her ankle leaping down a ravine.

Kaizo hadn’t paused. He’d barked for her to keep moving, his voice clipped, cold. The wind had howled down the rocks, stinging her skin as she limped after him, cheeks burning, eyes stinging—not from the pain in her ankle, but from the sting of perceived rejection.

She remembered the scent of ozone trailing behind him, sharp and unyielding like his tone. She’d cursed him under her breath then, called him a heartless drill sergeant.

It wasn’t until later—years later—that she understood the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw had clenched not in anger but in fear. That he hadn’t looked back because if he had, he might’ve broken cover to help her, and made her a target. That he’d trusted her to be strong because anything else would’ve endangered them both.

But the next day, when she opened her locker, she found a small care package: pre-treated support wraps, her favorite salve, even a folded cloth with a note in his stiff handwriting—' For next time. Don’t be reckless.’ She’d rolled her eyes then, scoffing at the gesture, chalking it up to protocol. But now, older and quieter, she knew better.

That note had been his way of worrying. That silence had been protection. He'd built walls not to keep her out, but to keep the world from seeing she was his weakness.

And she remembered—more vividly now—the time his hands trembled when catching her after she collapsed from overtraining. The tension in his jaw wasn’t anger—it was fear. The burn in his eyes wasn’t frustration—it was desperation. And when his voice finally cracked, gruff and furious, it was the truth breaking through: “You can’t prove you’re strong by breaking, idiot.”

That had been the only time he’d let the mask slip. Just for her.

She hadn’t known then that she was his weakness. That he had to hide it. That if anyone knew, they’d come for her.

Now, she understood all too well—and missed him with a depth that made her bones ache. Missed the way he always stood between her and danger. Missed the feeling that if Kaizo were here, then maybe she could afford to breathe. Maybe the world wouldn’t fall apart.

That old memory stirred now like a ghost, brushing her ribs gently. Her arms loosened around herself, just slightly. The shame didn’t vanish, but it dulled. And something else stirred beneath it—something not quite peace, but not despair either. A seed of healing, barely sprouting.

She breathed in slowly, the words of her shadows wrapping around her like armor spun of night and memory.

Fang’s hands shook slightly. She turned away from them, but not in anger—in fear.

Fear that if she let herself be comforted, the fragile shell holding her together would crack.

Fear that they saw too much while she slept—that she cried out, that her vulnerabilities had spilled into the room like broken glass.

She wasn’t ready to face what they might have seen, or what it might mean to be cared for so openly.

Fear of the tears pressing too close, of letting go when she wasn’t sure how to start holding things again.

The mouse crept along the desk, tail twitching. You were safe, it said gently. And you are not alone.

The warmth in their voices—unflinching, ancient, real—cracked something small inside her. Not enough to break. Just enough to breathe.

She stood in the stillness of the room, still caught between who she had been and who she might yet become. But the suffocating weight of shame loosened, even if only slightly.

And through it drifted the scent of the world moving forward.

A new day.

Forgiveness is waiting in the hallway.

She took a breath.

And stood.

From downstairs came the comforting clatter of morning: the clink of metal on ceramic, the soft pop of a toaster, the scent of something spiced and sweet wafting through the floorboards. Her stomach gave a small, reluctant twist.

She was still tired. Still unsure.

But she wasn’t falling.

Not today.

And in her mind, a whisper: “One step. One breath. Still here.”

Kaizo used to say that. She never understood it—until now.

The wooden stairs creaked faintly beneath her slippered feet as Fang crept down from the guest room, clutching the edges of her jacket around herself.

The slippers, left thoughtfully by Tok Aba beside the bed, padded her steps in soft rubber.

The sleeves of the jacket swallowed her arms in gentle cotton.

Her uniform clung awkwardly to her—wrinkled and smudged with faint traces of yesterday’s fight: dust, dried dirt, and fabric rumpled from where she had fallen.

Her damp bangs stuck to her forehead with lingering sweat, and a smudge of soot clung stubbornly near her temple.

Her hair was a tousled disaster: long, thick purple strands jutting out at wild angles, clumped with sweat and flattened where she’d slept on them—as if she’d fought a windstorm and lost. Tangled in the chaos was her violet-silver, wing-shaped hairclip gleaming like a stubborn spark of grace in the disarray.

The shadows followed her in silence, curling behind her steps, unseen by all but her. The dragon’s tail brushed the wall gently. The serpent coiled itself along the stair railing. The mouse perched on her shoulder like a tiny guardian no one could name.

Warmth drifted up from the kitchen, mingled with the scents of toasting bread, sizzling garlic, and something faintly sweet. She paused at the bottom step, the hem of her rumpled pants brushing the floorboards, and peeked around the corner.

Tok Aba stood at the stove, humming an old tune under his breath as he flipped slices of golden-brown roti on a hot griddle.

A pot of thick kaya simmered gently beside him, its sweet, coconutty aroma mixing with the sharp scent of sizzling garlic from a nearby wok of stir-fried eggs and mushrooms.

A kettle hissed softly behind him, steam curling toward the ceiling. Ochobot hovered nearby, spinning a ceramic plate between his small hands with delicate precision, while a short stack of napkins floated beside him, folding themselves neatly.

Fang froze like a startled cat at the sudden voice, shoulders snapping up, eyes wide, clutching her jacket tighter. She’d thought she was sneaking in unnoticed.

“Ah—sleeping beauty awakens,” Tok Aba said without looking up, as if nothing about her awkward descent had escaped his notice. “Come on. Sit. Breakfast’s almost ready.”

The shadows paused, too, coiling closer with silent amusement. The serpent flicked its tail along the baseboard while the dragon huffed softly, its breath stirring the corner of her jacket.

Fang lingered awkwardly by the doorway, arms still wrapped around herself like armor. Her cheeks flushed with warmth—not just embarrassment, but a quiet shame she couldn't quite name.

She didn’t want to be a burden. Not to Tok Aba, who had already done more than enough. The scent of breakfast filled the space between them, but she hesitated, as though crossing that line meant asking for more than she deserved.

“Thank you… But I should really head to school,” she said, voice tight, eyes flicking to the door. “I can come back after.”

Tok Aba turned just in time to intercept her with a warm cup of tea, steam curling like sleepy mist into the air.

He offered it with both hands, expression kind but firm, though a flicker of something deeper passed through his eyes—an old memory, maybe.

For a moment, the way Fang clutched her jacket and averted her eyes reminded him of his son, long ago, trying to hide bruised knuckles and a bitten lip. And later, his grandson, doing the same with scraped knees and trembling hands.

That familiar reluctance. That stubborn refusal to be seen hurting. It was all there again, etched in Fang’s stiff posture. A déjà vu so sharp, it softened his smile without him realizing it.

“No offense, kid,” Tok Aba said with that signature Tok Aba blend of mischief and warmth, “but you smell like someone who fought a dragon, lost, got hugged by a dumpster, and then slept in her boots.”

Ochobot let out a tiny beep that suspiciously resembled a snort, spinning the plate in his hands like it was applause.

Fang nearly choked on air. Her entire face ignited. She stiffened, curling in on herself like a wilted flower. She mumbled something like, “It was just one fight,” but her voice was muffled by the rim of the teacup, her shoulders hunched to hide the red blooming down her neck.

The shadows rippled softly around her. The mouse covered its face with tiny paws. The dragon emitted a low, amused rumble. The serpent coiled tighter along her collar like it, too, was wincing.

Tok Aba’s expression softened further. “Hey, don’t worry. Happens to the best of us. The smell of adventure’s just... strong on you this morning.”

Fang flushed deeper, mortification knotting in her chest. Her fingers curled around the cup like a lifeline. Her mouth opened—then shut. She cared about appearances. Too much. And right now, she looked like she’d fought a washing machine and lost.

She wanted to disappear.

But indignation sparked through the shame, yanking her out of the spiral.

“I didn’t—!” she started hotly, then remembered who she was talking to and stopped herself mid-outburst.

Tok Aba waved her off gently. “You don’t have to explain. But you’ve still got yesterday’s dirt on you—and that uniform’s seen better days. Go on. Take a shower. Leave your clothes by the door. I’ll throw them in the wash. They’ll be ready by the time you finish eating.”

Fang opened her mouth to protest, but Tok Aba was already at a nearby cupboard, pulling out a folded towel and a stack of clean clothes.

“These are from my grandson,” he said casually, not looking at her. “He left a few things behind last time he stayed. Should fit you well enough.”

She took the bundle without a word, fingers brushing against the worn cotton. Something about it was comforting—soft, quiet, and offered without judgment. For a heartbeat, she imagined what BoBoiBoy might say if he saw her in these clothes: a teasing grin, maybe a dramatic gasp of horror, or a quiet joke about fashion emergencies.

The thought flared embarrassment in her chest again—tinged with reluctant amusement.

The shadows nudged her gently. The mouse chirped, Fuzzy socks. The tiger muttered something about clove-scented soap. The serpent added, Clean skin is easier to defend, my lady, with regal insistence, giving her a slight nudge toward the hallway.

Ochobot floated beside her with an encouraging beep. “You’ll feel better after,” he said, his eyes blinking a soft blue.

Fang pouted. “I don’t smell that bad,” she muttered—but even she knew she’d lost that argument. Her fingers clenched around the bundle of borrowed clothes, nose brushing the soft cotton.

There was something safe in the scent—mixed-flowers detergent, warmth, and maybe the faintest trace of cinnamon. Her pride bristled. But beneath it, a flicker of relief pulsed.

Her embarrassment still simmered, cheeks warm from Tok Aba’s teasing—but the absurdity of it, paired with the quiet support of her strange companions, dulled the sting.

The dragon huffed a breath through its nose like a sigh of approval. The mouse offered a miniature thumbs-up from her shoulder.

“Now go on,” Tok Aba said with a warm smile, handing her the towel and gently nudging her down the hall. “Your uniform’s going in the wash. You go rinse off. We’ve got toast waiting, and you’ve got school in two hours. No heroic sulking in my kitchen.”

Ochobot chimed cheerfully, hovering toward the hallway with a spin. “This way to the bathroom!” he announced. Fang followed, bare feet muffled by the slippers Tok Aba had left for her. The shadows padded silently behind, their presence like a protective mist. At the threshold, Tok Aba handed her a folded washcloth and a towel, his smile gentle and knowing.

She paused, then turned to Ochobot with a small, grateful smile. “Thanks,” she murmured. Then, without speaking aloud, she sent a firm mental command to the shadows: Wait outside.

They obeyed without question, settling near the hallway in a quiet, watchful formation.

Once inside the bathroom, she began to undress, removing her rumpled, battle-stained uniform with slow, tired movements. She folded the pieces carefully and placed them outside the door, just as Tok Aba had asked.

Then she turned to the mirror—and froze.

There, faint but unmistakable, was a jagged black lightning scar etched near her heart—like a bolt frozen in mid-strike. It pulsed faintly, shimmering at the edges with a sickly sheen, as if it remembered the pain it carried.

The sight alone made her flinch.

Her hand flew to her chest.

The scar flickered violently, branching like cracks in glass. For a heartbeat, she felt the pain returning. Her knees buckled. Her vision swam.

But she inhaled sharply and forced the terror down. She clenched her fists. With the first breath, the veins paused. With the second, they began to recede—curling inward like ink pulled from water. The flickering subsided. The black marks shrank until they vanished beneath her skin once more.

The message was clear: the scars were real. And they fed on instability.

Her fingers trembled as she reached for the faucet. The cold metal bit at her skin. Her breath came uneven, like each inhale might collapse into a sob. But she squeezed her eyes shut, clenched her jaw, and forced herself to move.

With a shaky breath, she turned the handle.

Warm water splashed against her feet, rising into steam, fogging the mirror. She stepped in stiffly, like a soldier bracing for battle.

“Just water,” she whispered to herself. “Just water.”

And slowly, as the heat wrapped around her, Fang’s shoulders sagged. The tension loosened. Her legs remained braced, but her hands—once clenched—unfurled.

The water poured over her like a second skin. Warm. Unrelenting. The gentle scent of clove soap mixed with rising steam.

Her thoughts, sharp and fragmented, began to soften. The sting dulled. The roar of the water became a balm.

She stayed longer than she meant to, hands pressed to the wall, eyes closed.

By the time she shut off the tap, the weight inside her had shifted.

Not gone.

But no longer unbearable.

She stepped out slowly, the towel clutched tight around her as steam curled around her feet. On the bench rested the clothes Tok Aba had promised—an oversized hoodie and long joggers, clearly not made for her but clean and soft. She recognized the fabric from earlier, and for a moment, she held the hoodie in her hands.

BoBoiBoy’s hoodie.

She hesitated, thumb grazing the frayed edge of the cuff like it was something fragile—sacred. It was soft and worn from use, but there was something deeper threaded into the weave. Warmth. Safety. A lingering calm that reminded her of late-night campfires and the low, steady sound of his voice when he wasn't trying to be brave for everyone else.

It hung off her like a blanket stolen from a bigger world. The sleeves swallowed her hands whole, and the hem brushed past her knees. She could lose herself in it—had lost herself in it. The faint scent of clove soap clung to the collar, familiar and grounding. And beneath it… a note of something unmistakably him—sunlight, maybe.

She imagined him walking in, eyes going wide for a split second before his whole face lit up with that crooked grin. His brows would raise in surprise—teasing, but soft.

“Hey… is that mine?” he’d ask, voice pitched with a playful lilt.

And then he’d laugh—warm, breathy, a sound that always made the air feel lighter.

Would he reach out, ruffle her hair without thinking? Tug gently on the sleeve that draped over her hand and joke that she looked like a walking laundry pile? Or worse—would he smile in that gentle way of his, like it meant more than it should?

Her heart stuttered at the image. She hated how easily it formed. Hated how her fingers curled tighter into the fabric, holding it like it might disappear if she let go.

She told herself it was comfort. That it was about the team. About missing him.

But the burn in her cheeks, the ache blooming behind her ribs—that wasn’t just longing.

That was something she hadn’t dared name yet.

Then she frowned.

Her fingers pressed briefly to her chest.

"Why now?" she whispered to herself. "Why did they show up like that? And vanish again?"

No answer came—but the silence wasn’t empty. Her reflection stared back at her from the foggy mirror, and for once, it didn’t look like a stranger. Just a girl trying to hold herself together.

She let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. Her damp hair clung to the sides of her face, the faint scent of clove soap rising with each inhale.

Pulling open the door, she stepped into the hall, the warmth of the hoodie settling around her like a shield. Her long purple hair, damp and tangled, cascaded to the small of her back like ink-dark silk, a few strands still clinging stubbornly to her cheeks. Outside, the shadows stirred, their presences flickering with worry, having felt the surge of her panic earlier.

"I'm fine," she whispered quietly in her mind, sending the reassurance their way. The shadows responded with a quiet shift of energy, hesitating only a moment before resettling themselves, still watchful but soothed by her calm.

She tightened the hoodie around her, the soft scent of clove soap mingling with a strange comfort that lingered from the fabric's previous owner. Even as she stepped forward, part of her mind remained curled inwards, recovering—but grounded by the quiet strength walking beside her in the form of unseen allies.

And for now, that fragile peace—that tiny sense of stillness—was enough.

When Fang stepped back into the hall, her long purple hair hung damp and tangled, cascading down to the small of her back like ink-stained silk.

Strands clung stubbornly to her cheeks, the tips still dripping faintly against the oversized hoodie that swallowed her form.

Her hairclip had remained clipped near her temple, the only polished thing about her. Her sleeves dragged past her fingertips, and the joggers bunched awkwardly around her ankles, completing the image of a girl more kitten than warrior.

Tok Aba and Ochobot looked up from the kitchen as she emerged, the soft pat of her slippers muffled by the floorboards.

Tok Aba blinked once, then chuckled. “Like a lost kitten trying to play tough.”

Ochobot's panels shifted warmly. “She’s adorable.”

Fang flushed instantly, ears turning scarlet, her entire posture stiffening as if she'd been caught mid-crime. She defensively pulled the sleeves over her hands, which only made her look smaller. “I will vanish,” she hissed, mortified.

The shadows stirred with barely suppressed amusement—especially the mouse, who quietly snickered. The dragon rumbled with something suspiciously like laughter, while the tiger’s tail flicked in visible amusement. Fang’s pout deepened, her cheeks glowing red.

"Don’t encourage them," she grumbled under her breath, which only made the mouse giggle harder and the serpent hiss something that suspiciously resembled a chuckle.

Tok Aba chuckled as well, a teasing lilt in his voice. “You sure you’re not part kitten? All fluff and hiss.”

Ochobot swiveled around. “Adorable fluff,” he agreed, panels flashing with amusement.

Fang let out a scandalized gasp, face burning. "I am not fluffy!" she hissed, her voice a mix of mortification and defiance. Her long purple hair, still slightly damp, had begun to fluff at the ends, framing her face in unintentional curls that bounced with every flustered movement. The oversized hoodie made her sleeves flop comically past her hands as she gestured, only adding to the unfortunate image.

The shadows snickered louder, and the mouse rolled over itself in mirth. The tiger's shoulders shook with restrained laughter, and the dragon let out a soft puff of smoky amusement. Even the serpent flicked its tongue in silent, smug approval of the moment.

Fang’s pout deepened as she realized none of this was helping her case. Stop laughing! It’s the humidity! she snapped in her head, trying to smooth down her hair, but only succeeded in making it springier. Her indignation only fueled their laughter, which did not help her case.

“I am leaving,” Fang announced dramatically, twirling halfway toward the door like she might actually vanish on the spot.

“Not before toast,” Tok Aba said again, barely hiding his grin as he gestured to the table.

Still flustered, Fang padded to her seat, the faint scent of cloves and cocoa in the air grounding her. Steam rose from a plate of toast and soft-boiled eggs. Tok Aba glanced at her as she sat, quiet and slightly hunched.

Tok Aba leaned in slightly, curiosity dancing in his eyes. "So, Fang," he began gently, "where are you from?"

Fang blinked, caught off guard. "Uh... farther out. Near the forest," she said vaguely, pulling her sleeves over her hands.

Ochobot hovered a little closer, his tone curious but friendly. "Do you have family there?"

Fang hesitated, then gave a noncommittal shrug. "It's... complicated," she said, her voice dipping low. "I only really have my Abang, Kaizo. But... he broke his phone, so I haven’t been able to talk to him." Her eyes dropped to her sleeves, fingers fidgeting beneath the fabric as if trying to hold onto the thought of him. Her throat tightened. "I hope he’s okay."

A shadow of deeper sadness flickered behind her eyes, as if the distance between them stretched impossibly far. She knew that it would be a long time before she saw him again, and the ache of that truth clung to her ribcage.

Sensing her sorrow, the shadows stirred subtly around her, their presence brushing lightly against her thoughts like a comforting breeze. Mouse nudged her ankle gently. The tiger exhaled a silent huff of warmth. Even the dragon lowered its massive head, quiet and steady in its silent support.

Tok Aba noticed the way her shoulders had dipped and gave her a warm look, not pitying, just present. Ochobot, hovering nearby, beeped softly, shifting closer with a worried light blinking in his panels.

“You’ll get to talk to him again,” Tok Aba said gently, not making promises—just hope. “And when you do, you’ll have one heck of a story to tell him.”

He offered her a casual smile, though it lingered just a moment longer than expected. “You know, you remind me a bit of someone,” he said, voice softening with memory. “My grandson. He used to sit like that when he was trying to hide something.”

Ochobot tilted his head curiously, but Tok Aba only chuckled quietly, the warmth in his eyes tinged with something older—nostalgia, maybe. “It’s in the way you shrink when you feel seen, like you’re not sure if it’s safe to be caught... but hoping someone will catch you anyway.”

Fang paused, running her fingers over the hem of the hoodie absently. She tilted her head, feigning mild interest. “Your grandson?”

Ochobot perked up immediately. “BoBoiBoy! He is a hero and my best friend! He’d like you, I think.”

Fang stiffened just slightly, the faintest twitch at the name. But she masked it quickly, blinking once before replying, “Oh. Is that the same BoBoiBoy Yaya, Ying, and Gopal told me about?”

Both Tok Aba and Ochobot blinked in perfect sync, eyes wide.

Ochobot immediately gasped—an exaggerated digital intake of breath. "You know Yaya, Ying, and Gopal? Those three? Really?" His panels blinked with excitement. "That means you’ve met my other best friends too!"

Tok Aba raised his brows, amusement and curiosity mixing in his voice. “You know them?”

“They were… kind,” Fang murmured, tucking her still-damp hair behind her ear.

Her voice was quiet, but emotions flickered behind it—an echo of a girl who once thought she had to face the world alone.

Her fingers paused at the silver-violet wing-shaped hairclip Ying had given her, the one gleaming softly against the damp fluff of her long purple hair—a quiet reminder she wasn’t alone.

Ochobot beeped softly. “Then they were helping you?”

She nodded again, a shy smile ghosting her lips, though it flickered with something deeper—nervousness, maybe, or the ache of holding something precious. “Yeah… I guess they’re trying to help me adapt.”

A tiny, wry smile tugged at her lips. “And Gopal… he bought me dessert. My favorite one.”

Ochobot gasped again—loud and theatrical, like he'd just witnessed the climax of a space opera finale. His panels lit up in exaggerated blinking red. “HE WHAT?! Gopal bought food?! For someone else?! Willingly?!”

Fang blinked, visibly startled by his outburst. “Apparently, this was a huge thing for Gopal to do, according to Yaya and Ying,” she mumbled, mostly to herself, even though the faintest upward curve tugged at her lips. “I didn’t really get why at first. It was just a dessert…”

Tok Aba let out a low, impressed whistle. “He must really like you. That boy guards his snacks like a dragon guards treasure—and he forgets his wallet all the time. I’ve seen him cry over dropped curry puffs.”

Ochobot nodded solemnly. “One time, he refused to talk to us for a whole hour after someone accidentally ate the last piece of his cheesecake. He had a whole funeral for it.”

Fang tilted her head, still pretending to be confused—yet her fingers unconsciously drifted to the violet-silver hairpin Ying had given her, brushing it gently.

She simply said, voice soft but firm, “I appreciated it.”

The weight of her past and the warmth of the hoodie merged inside her chest like opposing tides.

For a heartbeat, she considered staying quiet. But then she let the words linger. She was the one to tell them first, and part of her—the part still raw with memories from a different path—felt oddly proud of saying it aloud.

Tok Aba smiled warmly, nodding to himself. “Then you’re already part of the team, huh?”

Her chest pulled tight. She had always been in her previous life. And now, somehow, she was again.

The thought flickered in her chest, quiet but stubborn—like a spark catching on kindling. A tiny ember of belonging kindled into a fragile but insistent warmth. For the first time in what felt like forever, she let herself believe she had a place—wanted, chosen, and accepted. Her fingers curled slightly into the hem of the hoodie as if anchoring herself to that truth. It wasn’t loud, but it was real. And for once, it was hers.

The rest of breakfast passed in a calm sort of quiet—the kind Fang hadn’t known she’d missed. Tok Aba spoke lightly, guiding the conversation to safe topics: favorite food stalls, clumsy customers, the time Ochobot mistook salt for sugar in a cake recipe.

Fang listened more than she spoke, the warmth of the toast grounding her, the oversized sleeves of the hoodie curled around her hands as she chewed quietly. She didn’t need to say much; the comfort of presence was enough.

The shadows lounged nearby, watchful but at ease. Mouse, ever the opportunist, darted up the table leg and snatched a sugar cube with glee, scurrying off before anyone could stop him. Fang let out a soft snort into her tea.

Tok Aba noticed her snort, and his smile widened.

Then, as he refilled her cup, he said it simply, not looking for a reaction, “Some people protect with power. Some with kindness. Some with stubbornness.”

Fang glanced up, caught by the softness in his tone.

He met her gaze, calm and sure. “You’ve got all three.”

Something quiet settled in her chest. Not pressure. Not expectation. Just… recognition. A little light tucked into the center of her being.

She didn’t answer aloud. But she didn’t need to. Her eyes said enough.

After breakfast, the dishes were cleared with quiet teamwork—Fang drying as Tok Aba washed, and Ochobot managing the stack of utensils with robotic precision.

Soon after, Fang emerged from the bathroom holding her freshly cleaned uniform, only to find Tok Aba already reaching for the iron.

"I can do that—really," she said quickly, stepping forward.

"You should rest, kid. Let me—" Tok Aba began.

Fang narrowed her eyes just slightly. "I’m not helpless," she muttered, snatching the fabric gently from his hands with a determined but polite grip.

Tok Aba blinked, then chuckled and raised both hands in surrender. "Alright, alright. Just don’t burn my table."

She smiled faintly, victorious in her small rebellion, and finished pressing the uniform with practiced care. After slipping into it, the familiar fabric warm from the dryer, she toweled her thick purple hair one last time.

The strands fluffed around her shoulders in soft waves, the dampness lifting into volume that made her look even more kittenish. With a sigh, she gathered the thick locks and pulled them into a high ponytail, the hairclip catching the light as she secured the last stray strand in place.

Tok Aba moved to unlock the café’s front stall while Fang rolled up her sleeves and stepped outside without being asked. She paused at the doorway, the soft clack of her ponytail brush against her uniform.

“I’ll help set up before heading to school,” she said quietly, glancing back at him.

Tok Aba smiled and gave her a fond pat on the head. Fang blinked, surprised by the warmth of it, then ducked her head quickly, cheeks pink. A small, involuntary smile tugged at her lips despite her best effort to hide it. Something about the simple gesture lit a flicker of warmth in her chest that she hadn’t realized she missed. “Alright, kid. Let’s get to it,” Tok Aba said, his tone light.

The morning air carried a hint of spice and steam, and the streets hummed with early stirrings. Tok Aba raised an eyebrow when she went straight for the chairs and menus.

“Someone’s been trained,” he remarked with a knowing smile.

Fang ducked her head, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “I… helped out before, in a cafe at my hometown,” she said, shyly.

“Mm,” Tok Aba hummed. “Shows.”

She moved with silent efficiency, setting up the sugar jars, flipping the menus to face outward, and arranging the napkins the way she remembered. Her motions were graceful, deliberate, like a memory retracing itself in the body.

Tok Aba watched for a moment longer, then let out a low whistle, clearly impressed. “You’ve got good hands, kid.”

Fang blinked, caught mid-placement of a ketchup bottle, and felt a flush crawl up her neck. “Thank you,” she murmured, her voice soft but touched.

Ochobot, nearby, dramatically clutched his chest as if struck by a sudden heart attack. He floated backwards, voice cracking with mock despair. “She’s stolen my job! Replaced by someone with hair so magnificent, it blinds the very sun!”

Fang laughed softly despite herself, and Tok Aba let out a soft chuckle.

The sound of her quiet laugh startled Ochobot, who brightened immediately, beeping joyfully. “Did you just laugh? Can you do that again?”

Fang opened her mouth to say something, but Ochobot was already zipping in front of her, face inches from hers, blinking rapidly with exaggerated innocence. “You can laugh again, can’t you? I’m sure you can! Just once more?” His glowing eyes widened to impossible size, mimicking the most pitiful puppy-dog expression imaginable.

Startled by his antics, Fang let out a quiet huff—then an honest, startled laugh escaped her lips.

Ochobot immediately shot backward in joy, twirling midair. “I knew it! Twice! I got two laughs!” He turned dramatically toward Tok Aba. “Mark the date! This is a miracle!”

Trying to regain her composure, Fang shook her head, cheeks tinted. “Enough,” she said, attempting to sound stern. “It’s time to work.”

Ochobot slumped midair like a marionette with cut strings. “Nooo… work... again,” he whimpered theatrically, floating to the table like a kicked puppy. “So cruel. So heartless. All I wanted was joy…”

Tok Aba chuckled, folding a napkin. “Drama aside, kid’s right. Let’s finish up.”

Fang hid a grin behind her hand, trying and failing to suppress it. The shadows at her feet snickered quietly—especially the mouse, who clambered up the edge of a table to whisper smugly, “You laughed again.”

Fang rolled her eyes, but her smile lingered longer than she meant it to.

The shadows were quick to assist as well. The dragon nudged a crooked chair into alignment with its snout, the tiger flicked stray leaves off the step with its tail, and the mouse arranged napkin holders with almost comical focus. Even the serpent, normally aloof, coiled itself near the threshold, alert but content.

Fang glanced around at the small, bustling scene and let out a quiet breath. The café stall was almost open, warm and welcoming.

She turned to Tok Aba and bowed her head slightly, a rare show of gratitude. “Thanks again… for everything.”

Tok Aba just grinned. “That’s what family does, even if you’re just borrowing it for a while.”

As the clock neared school time, Fang checked her bag, adjusted the strap, and took a deep breath before heading toward the door. "I’ll get going now," she announced.

"Hold on a second," Tok Aba called from behind the counter, his voice light, but something in his eyes flickered—a brief shadow of conflict before it vanished beneath his usual warmth. He didn’t want her walking alone, not really, but he masked it well with a casual grin, making her stop mid-step.

He walked over and handed her a cocoa bun wrapped neatly in paper.

"For later," he said warmly, placing it in her hands. "Heroes need snacks."

Fang blinked down at it and nodded, her fingers curling gently around the warm bun. A small, genuine smile tugged at her lips—gratitude rising like warmth in her chest. She waited until his gaze shifted away before letting it show fully, her heart quiet and full.

The shadows stirred at her feet, ready to follow, and Ochobot hovered near the door—his glow dimming slightly, pulsing in uneven intervals like a heartbeat trying to steady itself.

He didn’t move.

Tok Aba glanced at him, catching the quiet struggle in the robot’s posture. His arms were tucked close, his normally cheerful expression unusually subdued.

Ochobot’s voice, when it came, was soft—too soft. “Can I go with her to school today?”

Fang turned, surprised. “Why?”

Ochobot hesitated. “To see Yaya, Ying, and Gopal. It’s… been a while.”

But his glow gave him away. There was more he wasn’t saying. A worry that tugged just beneath the surface. In truth, he didn’t want to let her out of his sight. Not after what happened yesterday. It made him feel a strange ache of helplessness. And though he couldn’t remember why, something deep inside something felt like that if he let her leave alone again, he might not get her back.

Tok Aba met his eyes, understanding flashing behind his gaze, but he didn’t press. “Go on then,” he said gently, the corners of his mouth lifting. “Make sure she doesn’t get into trouble.”

Fang looked between them, something twisting quietly in her chest. Ochobot’s glow had steadied, but there was something in the way he hovered closer, like he didn’t quite trust her to be okay on her own.

She narrowed her eyes slightly, suspicion prickling. He said it was to see the others… but that flicker of worry, the way he asked Tok Aba instead of her—it didn’t line up. Still, she let it go. She didn’t have the space to untangle his motives, not today.

Her chest tightened as another thought surfaced, the Watch. Her grip tightened slightly around the bun Tok Aba gave her. How was she going to explain this to Yaya, Ying, and Gopal? They’d barely known her for a full day. Would they think she had somehow manipulated Ochobot into giving her the Watch, like in the timeline she’d rewritten?

The memory came back like a slap—the doubt in their eyes, the accusations, the silence that had cut deeper than any blade. She had been alone then, not because she wanted to be, but because trust had shattered beneath their feet.

She sighed, giving a small nod. “Alright. Maybe… it’ll help when I tell them about the Watch.”

Ochobot hovered a little closer to her side, his glow flickering steadier now, as if comforted by the permission by her presence.

They stepped onto the streets. The air was crisp, the sun's warmth brushing over the rooftops. As Fang walked, she looked up once at the sky, the shadows padding behind her.

“One step. One breath,” she whispered, voice tight with emotion. “I’m still here.”

Ochobot drifted close beside her, his glow a gentle pulse that echoed the thrum of her heartbeat. He hovered in silence for a moment before glancing at her with faint concern.

"You okay?" he asked, voice soft, almost hesitant.

Fang gave a half-shrug, eyes still focused ahead. "Define 'okay.'"

Ochobot tilted slightly. "On a scale of one to existential crisis?"

Despite herself, she huffed a breath through her nose, trying to keep her expression even. "Maybe hovering around seven," she muttered, voice clipped with dry restraint. Then, after a pause, she added dryly, "Though that number tends to rise the closer we get to the gates."

Ochobot tilted in the air, blinking. "Why would it rise?"

She glanced sideways at him, not slowing her pace. "Because the number of people bound to try and talk to you—or take you—increases by the second."

Inside, her thoughts swirled louder, stormy with doubt.

Had she really earned that high a number, or was she just playing the part, trying not to let her trembling heart show?

Her chest ached faintly, the ghost of lightning scars stirring beneath her skin—as if her own body knew the truth before she could admit it.

She drew in a slow, deliberate breath, silently commanding herself to calm down, to control it.

Her emotions had betrayed her once before, and she couldn’t afford that again. Not here. Not now. But this small exchange with Ochobot—so light, so absurd—gave her something else to focus on. Just enough to settle the tension. Just enough to pretend she was fine. For now.

"That's… not ideal." He paused, then added brightly, "Could you carry me? I can transform. Soccer ball mode is still comfy."

Fang blinked at him, startled. "What is that?" she asked, narrowing her eyes just slightly, voice flat but eyes glinting with feigned confusion.

"Oh! It’s a vital emergency function," Ochobot declared proudly, puffing up with robotic enthusiasm. Compact, portable, and travel-friendly! When I turn into a soccer ball, I’m easy to carry—and I bounce! It’s proven to be a 67.3% morale booster. Also… It’s kind of cute, if I say so myself."

She rolled her eyes. "Mm. Didn’t realize I adopted a bouncy first-aid kit."

"Technically, you did," Ochobot chimed cheerfully. "You’re very lucky. I’m a limited edition."

"With an overinflated ego," she muttered, but the faint curve of her lips gave her away.

Ochobot gasped, hovering indignantly. "Excuse you! I’ll have you know my self-confidence is a finely calibrated setting!" He floated closer to her face, making wide, exaggerated puppy eyes, despite not technically having pupils.

Fang blinked, startled at first, then tried to hold her deadpan. The seriousness crumbled as she snorted, trying—and failing—not to laugh.

"There it is!" Ochobot cried dramatically. "She laughed! I have witnessed it! Joy has been achieved for the third time today!"

"You're ridiculous," Fang said, barely able to hide her grin.

"You love it," he teased with a dramatic twirl in midair, his voice smug. "Admit it. You’d miss me if I didn’t follow you around like a floating genius."

Fang arched an eyebrow. "That’s debatable."

"Rude!" Ochobot gasped, pretending to be mortally offended. He spun in place with exaggerated flair, then declared, "Fine! If my presence is so tolerated, allow me to assume a form you clearly appreciate more."

With a soft whirr and an even softer pop, he transformed into a compact soccer ball and dramatically rolled to her feet, spinning once in place like a bow.

Fang stared down at him, fighting the amused twitch tugging at her mouth. She bent down and scooped him up with a mock sigh, cradling him to her side. "You’re absurd."

"You’re lucky I’m adorable," he said from within her arms.

"You’re lucky I tolerate you," she replied, but this time, her voice carried a smile she couldn’t quite hide.

The shadows fanned out protectively again, and Mouse snorted amusement in her mind.

Serpent hummed low. He's loyal.

He’s nosy, Fang muttered internally.

He cares, Serpent corrected.

Fang didn’t argue.

With the disguised Ochobot snug in her arms and the shadows flanking her sides, her steps found a steadier rhythm.

With each step toward school, Fang felt her pulse grow louder in her ears. Her shoulders stiffened—but her back stayed straight, and her head stayed high.

Students were already gathering near the gates, and the buzz started almost immediately. This time, the whispers didn’t hide.

“Wait—is that her? Fang?”

“She looks like she stepped out of an anime.”

“Pretty in a scary way, right? Like, ‘don’t mess with me’ vibes.”

“She’s so pale—it’s like looking at a ghost. Or royalty.”

“I heard she never smiles. Like, ever.”

“She’s the Ice Princess, right? Cold but stunning.”

“She looks like she could break you in half without blinking.”

“I heard she’s some kind of prodigy from a combat academy overseas.”

“No way, she’s got that haunted backstory look.”

“Rumor says she took down three seniors blindfolded during orientation.”

“She doesn’t even flinch when people talk about her. Icon.”

“I’m obsessed. Like… she could start a cult and I’d join.”

“She’s too cool for this school.”

Whispers trailed her like a tide, half awe, half speculation. Her name—Fang—surfaced in hushed exchanges, but it was “Ice Princess” that caught on more quickly. It rippled between clusters of students as if it had already marked her.

The nickname rippled through the morning crowd like static, charged, electric.

And still, she walked.

But what bit harder than that nickname were the voices that followed.

“I don’t get why she was sitting with them yesterday.”

“She could have joined the top class crowd, and she picks the misfit table?”

“Yaya talks to flowers, I swear.”

“Gopal’s like a walking snack dispenser.”

“And Ying? Didn’t she reroute the school’s Wi-Fi on her first day?”

“Ice Princess or not, she’s wasting her cool factor on the chaos club.”

“I give it a week before she ditches them.”

Fang’s boots clicked a little sharper against the pavement. Her eyes didn’t waver. Her arms tightened slightly around Ochobot.

She didn’t speak. But her expression shifted—barely. A small, taut line drew at the corner of her mouth. Not sadness. Not embarrassment.

Irritation.

Not at herself. Not even at the nickname. But in the way they dismissed her friends—as if they were just quirks and oddities to joke about.

They didn’t know anything. Not about Gopal’s loyalty, or Ying’s strength, or Yaya’s heart. They saw the surface and assumed it was all.

Fang kept walking, wind in her hair, shadows close at her side.

“I’m still here,” she whispered again.

This time, it wasn’t just a mantra.

It was a quiet sword unsheathed.

And it was a warning.

Fang stepped into the quiet classroom, her arms wrapped gently around a soccer ball—Ochobot in disguise. The warm murmur of casual conversation from Yaya, Ying, and Gopal filled the air until they noticed her entrance.

“Good morning,” Fang said softly, almost shyly.

“Fang! You made it!” Gopal called out with a big grin.

Ying brightened. “You look way better than yesterday. Sleep helped, huh?”

“We were going to come find you if you didn’t show,” Yaya added, hands on her hips in mock scolding.

Fang allowed a small smile to tug at her lips. “Hehe, sorry.”

Before Fang could say anything more, Ochobot suddenly shot out of her arms like a blur of yellow energy. "SURPRISE LAUNCH SEQUENCE ACTIVATED!" he shouted dramatically as he zipped over their heads, did a flip in midair, and landed with a twirl in his true Power Sphere form, hovering above the floor.

"WAHH!" Gopal nearly tripped backward.

"Aiyaa, Ochobot!" Yaya scolded, hand on her chest as she laughed. "Don’t scare us like that!"

"Seriously?" Ying gave him a look, though she couldn't fully suppress her amusement. "We thought something exploded."

Ochobot snickered, clearly pleased with himself. “Prank successful!”

The trio quickly surrounded Ochobot, scolding him half-heartedly through their laughter, clearly surprised to see him with Fang.

Floating a little higher, Ochobot’s eyes glowed with pride. He looked at the trio and raised his voice a little. “What, no hello? No, 'Ochobot, why are you here with Fang?' I expected at least one dramatic gasp.”

Yaya folded her arms. “Fine. Ochobot, why are you here with Fang?”

“Thank you,” he said with mock grace, then turned serious. “Fang saved me yesterday. Adudu and Probe ambushed me on my way back to Tok Aba's shop from a delivery. I would've been captured if she hadn't stepped in.”

“She saved you?” Ying asked, her eyes widening. “That’s how you two met?”

Fang gave a shy nod, her shoulders drawing in slightly. Her gaze dropped, and her hands clasped behind her back. She shifted her weight gently from foot to foot, fingers curling somewhat like a cat kneading at the air. She looked like a timid kitten trying not to be noticed.

Yaya, Ying, and Gopal exchanged quick glances, their internal voices melting into a collective Awww.

'She’s so soft when she’s shy,' Yaya thought, holding in a squeal.

Gopal was grinning. 'So cool and cute at the same time…'

“Mhm, she didn’t even hesitate,” Ochobot continued. “Even without powers, she stood between me and danger.”

Yaya’s expression softened as she turned to Fang. “Really! That's brave of you.”

Fang shook her head slowly. “It wasn't bravery, really. I just reacted. I just… reacted.”

“And so,” Ochobot declared with theatrical grandeur, “I bestowed the Shadow Watch upon her.”

Gopal pointed slowly. “Wait… so… he gave you a Power Watch?”

“Indeed!” Ochobot beamed. “The Watch even bonded with her.”

Ying leaned in, impressed. “That’s amazing… So it’s yours now?”

“Yeah,” Fang said softly. “It is.”

Gopal grinned. “Awesome. That makes you part of the team.”

“We knew you had something in you,” Yaya said warmly.

Fang hesitated. Her voice dropped, vulnerable. “I wasn’t sure how to tell you. I thought maybe you’d think I forced him or… did something wrong.”

The words felt heavier than they should have. A quiet storm churned in her chest. In her past life, the others hadn’t known her—not really. They’d misunderstood her silence, her precision, her distance. They had thought she manipulated situations. She schemed in the background. That she wasn’t someone to trust.

And now, even with time rewound and a second chance unfolding before her… the fear still lingered. That they would see her through the same lens. That nothing she did could change the shadows others once cast on her name.

It made her feel small again. Overwhelmed. Exposed.

She swallowed hard, her eyes lowering. “I guess… I just didn’t want you to think of me like that again.”

Then, around her, the shadows' presences stirred.

The tiger, firm and grounded, brushed against her like a shield, reminding her she had strength even when she felt fragile.

The dragon coiled gently around her body, a silent vow of protection, flickering embers of courage stoking her resolve.

The serpent slithered close, its voice a whisper only she could hear

Let them speak, Luna. You know your truth.

The mouse, small but sure, nuzzled her thoughts with wordless comfort—quiet things understood best in silence.

And the eagle, high above, watched with unwavering grace, offering her the vision to rise above doubt, to see herself as more.

They didn’t speak in words, but their presence filled her like breath in aching lungs.

She blinked slowly. The storm inside softened, not gone, but steadier. She wasn’t alone. Not in this life. Not anymore.

Ying shook her head. “We wouldn’t.”

“You were cool,” Yaya said with a thumbs-up. “You are cool.”

Gopal suddenly held something out, wrapped in a napkin. “Ta-da! I brought you something again. Another red carrot donut. A proper welcome to the gang!”

Fang stared at them. There was warmth in their voices, sincerity in their eyes. It didn’t feel rehearsed or forced. Just… real.

And yet, something fragile fluttered in her chest. That old fear still sat heavy in the corners of her thoughts.

Fang gently accepted the treat, her head tilting ever so slightly like a kitten unsure whether it was allowed to nibble. “Thank you,” she said softly.

The others saw it—saw the hesitation that lingered in her shoulders, the way her fingers twitched slightly before she accepted Gopal’s gift.

And deep inside them, something burned.

They didn’t know who had made Fang feel like she had to walk on eggshells. Who had convinced her that being precise and quiet meant she wasn’t trustworthy. That her choices would always be questioned.

But whoever it was…

Ying’s jaw clenched before she caught herself and softened her smile. Yaya’s eyes narrowed just for a breath, just long enough to mask the quick flare of protectiveness rising in her chest. Gopal, for all his cheer, shifted a little closer to Fang as if shielding her from something invisible.

None of them realized it had been them once.

But they felt the injustice all the same.

Still, they pushed the anger down, tucked it away where it couldn’t cloud the moment. Because Fang needed comfort, not fire.

And right now, they wanted her to know—not just in words, but in feeling—that this team? This life?

She belonged.

Ochobot’s eyes widened before unknowingly cutting the tension that was building. “Wait, wait, wait—again? You got her food yesterday, too?”

A mischievous spark lit up Yaya’s eyes as she laughed. “Yeah, he did.”

Ying added, “Didn't Fang tell you?”

Fang glanced to the side, letting out a small, amused breath.

Gopal froze like a statue.

“He bought her a red carrot donut,” Ying added, trying not to laugh. “Asked her what she liked and bought it.”

Ochobot let out a loud electronic gasp. “HE REALLY BOUGHT FOOD FOR SOMEONE ELSE?! I thought Fang was joking!”

Fang blinked innocently. “I still don't know why it was a massive, world-shaking event. I had no idea dessert was so sacred around here.”

“We saw him do it,” Yaya confirmed, smirking.

“He paid without hesitation,” Ying said with mock reverence.

Ochobot spun in midair dramatically. “Gopal? Willingly parted with food? Is the world ending?!”

Yaya leaned toward Gopal with a teasing grin. “He doesn’t share unless he really likes someone.”

“Or owes a life debt,” Ying added cheerfully.

Gopal groaned, hiding his face. “I knew I shouldn’t have tried to be nice.”

“I didn’t think she’d tell you…” He mumbled.

Fang grinned widely, resting her chin on her hand with mock sweetness. “Oh, but you were so gallant. How could I not sing your praises? You sacrificed a donut for me. A donut, Gopal. That’s love.”

She then brushed her fingers over the violet-silver hairclip. Her expression softened. “You were all kind to me. I remember that. I won’t forget it.”

Yaya reached out and nudged her shoulder gently. “Well, you’re stuck with us now.”

Ying nodded in agreement, offering a warm smile. “She’s right. You’re part of the team already.”

Gopal grinned and gave a playful thumbs-up. “Yep! Just wait till you meet BoBoiBoy. Then you’ll have met the full gang.”

Ying nodded in agreement. “He completes the circle, honestly. You're going to like him.”

“Yup, the final piece of our puzzle,” Yaya added with a smile. “Then it’s official: you’ll be one of us.”

Fang’s gaze softened, and she murmured, “I can’t wait…” Her tone was calm, steady, but inside, something fragile stirred.

Because she had met him before.

Not in the way others might recall or believe. Not through missions or battles. But in a fleeting, accidental moment that had quietly defined everything for her.

It had been at the train station, Pulau Rintis. She was just stepping off, ready to disappear, to start her solo mission. Her bag was heavy, her eyes to the ground, the air thick with uncertainty. And then—

He had been there.

Climbing onto the train, waving goodbye to his friends with that bright, unmistakable smile. Tok Aba stood beside the three with Ochobot, grinning and teary-eyed, as they waved goodbye, calling his name.

BoBoiBoy.

And then—just a boy. Waving, laughing. Real.

Their shoulders had nearly brushed in that brief moment of crossing paths. He hadn't seen her—how could he? She had made herself small, invisible, as always.

But for Fang, that fleeting brush of shoulders was the moment.

Her first real encounter with BoBoiBoy… in the life before this one.

Before time rewound.

Before memory and destiny tangled together.

Before either of them knew how closely their lives would intertwine.

And even though he hadn’t looked at her—hadn’t known her name, hadn’t heard her speak—it had stayed with her. His presence. His warmth. The kindness that radiated from him was like light from a star.

And now she missed him. Not the version built of stories or memories—but him. The boy who once walked right past her and then went ahead and changed her world.

'I want to be someone he can lean on,' she thought to herself, determined and steady. 'Not someone he has to protect. Not anymore.'

A soft silver-white glow shimmered from her watch—brief as a heartbeat, bright as starlight. It blinked once, pulsed, then vanished like it had never been there.

No one noticed.

Except for her shadows.

They stirred gently—Tiger brushing its flank against her back, Dragon exhaling warm mist, Mouse curling by her wrist. Serpent coiled protectively around her boots, and Eagle watched from above, eyes wise and silent.

They had seen it. They understood.

And they said nothing—only surrounded her in quiet, loyal comfort. Because they remembered too.

Because that moment had mattered.

As the others chatted on, she folded her arms gently around the donut, holding it close with the carefulness of someone protecting something precious. Her fingers curled slightly again, and she tilted her head to watch them—quiet, observant, like a shy kitten just starting to trust the warmth of a new home.

Fang quickly tucked the donut Gopal had given her into her bag with care, just as the classroom door burst open. Startled, Ochobot instantly transformed into his soccer ball form and dropped with a soft thud into her arms. She instinctively caught him, cradling him against her chest as their classmates began to file in, chatting among themselves.

The rest of the class poured in, followed closely by their homeroom teacher. The quiet moment dissolved into a bustle of footsteps and chair legs scraping against the floor.

The group quickly moved to their seats, and Fang nestled Ochobot onto her lap again, this time pulling her school bag slightly over him for cover. Her gaze stayed low but warm, cheeks faintly pink, heart fluttering.

The other students murmured greetings and found their seats. Then, as protocol demanded, the class stood up in unison. Chairs scraped back, and a chorus of cheerful voices rang out:

“Good morning, Teacher!”

“Good morning, everyone,” the teacher responded with a warm smile as she set her materials on the desk. “Now that we’re all here, let’s begin with something important.”

She glanced at the board before turning back to them.

“Today, we’ll be selecting our classroom monitor and assistant monitor. I want each of you to vote sincerely. I’ll be calling someone to pass out the papers.”

She gestured for a helpful student near the front. The boy quickly got up and began handing out the small sheets.

Fang held the paper delicately, her brows slightly furrowed as she stared at the two blank lines. Around her, students were already scribbling names with certainty.

Yaya, ever confident, scribbled on her paper without hesitation, writing her own name as the monitor. Her pen didn’t even pause before she jotted down Fang’s name for the assistant. In her mind, Fang was calm, reliable, and strong—someone who didn’t need to boast to be effective. A quiet leader.

Next was Gopal. He grinned a little to himself and mirrored Yaya’s decision. Yaya had always been a natural leader, and Fang—well, she was new, but something about her just clicked. She was the cool, composed type. Definitely dependable.

Ying, ever observant, agreed with Yaya and Gopal’s logic. She scribbled the same: Yaya as the monitor, Fang as the assistant. Between the three of them, it felt like a solid, balanced combo.

Fang watched them through her lashes, her heart ticking quietly in her chest. Reliable. Balanced. Quiet. All the things she was trying so hard to appear as now, what these positions resembled on the battlefield. With a soft breath, she wrote Yaya for monitor—because there was no denying her leadership—and then, after a moment’s pause, chose Ying for assistant monitor. Ying had a calm steadiness to her that reminded Fang of water over stone.

Whispers and soft scratching filled the room as the rest of the class filled out their choices. A few different names appeared for the monitor role—some students voted for other friends or out of habit—but the majority favored Yaya, even if she was considered a weirdo since no one wanted the work.

But the assistant monitor slot?

Every paper had the same name: Fang.

Ever since yesterday, the classroom had been buzzing about her. The mysterious new girl who somehow had a sleek, unbothered aura, who stood firm even when others stumbled. Someone had called her “Ice Princess” half-jokingly during lunch, and the nickname had caught on faster than anyone expected. Not out of mockery, but awe. It was said with respect now.

Some admired her cool demeanor. Others whispered about her looks. But all of them, in their own way, recognized Fang as someone worth trusting.

“The Ice Princess,” someone whispered.

“She saved a cat last week, did you hear?”

“No, she helped that little kid in front of the school…”

Ochobot twitched slightly in her lap, and she lowered her arms instinctively, covering him like a precious secret.

Fang sat still, listening to the rumors that rippled across the classroom like small waves. Her nickname was growing… Ice Princess. It didn’t sound cruel. Not like the names she had been called in another time. In another life.

Her fingers curled around the edge of her desk. This warmth… this normalcy… it still felt foreign. Too soft, too good. Like a dream, she was scared to hold too tightly.

And yet, it was real.

She glanced at Gopal, remembering the time in her past life when he had briefly been made assistant monitor, only to forget everything and accidentally set the class pet’s food on fire. She stifled a small, almost imperceptible laugh, shaking her head subtly.

'Nope,' she thought. 'Not this time.'

She glanced down at Ochobot, who was still feigning lifelessness like a toy, and gently rested her hand on top of him. It was her silent promise to this new chance: that she wouldn’t mess it up.

The classroom gradually fell into a hush as Teacher Aida collected the slips of paper one by one, her smile never faltering. The clatter of pencils ceased, and the shuffling of papers slowed. All that remained was a heavy, unspoken anticipation hanging in the air.

The votes sat in a neat stack on her desk. She began to count.

One… two… three…

Every tick of the wall clock seemed to echo louder than the last.

Students leaned forward slightly, some whispering predictions, others too nervous to speak. Fang sat still, her hands resting lightly over Ochobot’s round form on her lap. Though she appeared calm on the outside, inside, she couldn’t help but wonder:

Why was her heart beating so loudly?

Yaya sat with her chin propped on one hand, visibly relaxed. Beside her, Gopal chewed his pencil eraser, muttering, “Come on, come on…”

Ying simply smiled to herself as she waited.

Their classmates looked mildly interested—until Teacher Aida stood with a knowing smile and cleared her throat, tapping the whiteboard.

A hush fell over the room.

Then: Tap. Tap. Tap.

From the back of the classroom, a group of boys started softly drumming their pencils on their desks in a suspenseful beat—light at first, then gradually louder. The sound caught on like static. A few students snorted. Others leaned in.

Teacher Aida turned slowly, theatrically, marker in hand.

She let the silence thicken before finally announcing, with mock gravity, “After counting the ballots carefully, and checking twice for snack bribes—”

“HEY!” Gopal protested.

“—it’s time to reveal your Class Monitor… and Assistant Monitor.”

She uncapped the marker with a flourish. The pencil drumming got louder.

“Class Monitor…” she said, dragging out each syllable like a dramatic pause on reality TV.

The marker squeaked as she wrote in bold, deliberate letters:

Y - A - Y - A

A few cheers and claps erupted. Yaya raised her hand like a champion receiving a gold medal, beaming smugly.

Teacher Aida smirked. “And now… the one chosen to assist her. The one you all voted for—knowingly or not—” she gave a teasing glance toward the class, “—our Assistant Monitor is…”

The entire room held its breath.

F - A - N - G

A stunned silence.

Then:

“No way…”

“She got Assistant Monitor?”

“She only just came yesterday—”

“She’s like…untouchable”

Fang blinked. Once. Twice.

'Wait. What?'

She stared at her name on the board, perfectly spelled out in Teacher Aida’s neat black marker. That wasn’t—She hadn’t even voted for herself. She hadn’t expected this. She hadn’t even wanted it—

Before she could spiral any further, Teacher Aida turned to the class with a proud smile and said, “Congratulations to Yaya and Fang! You’ve both been chosen by your classmates to lead. Please come up and receive your monitor pins.”

Applause broke out, louder this time—genuine and enthusiastic. A few whoops, some polite clapping, and even more whispers.

Yaya stood confidently, glowing like she’d expected nothing less.

Fang… didn’t move at first.

A jolt of quiet panic sparked inside her. This hadn’t happened in her past life. She had never been picked. Never even mentioned. That moment had passed her by without a whisper.

But now…

'They all chose me.'

Even the ones who barely knew her.

Had she changed that much?

Or had they seen something she hadn’t expected anyone to notice?

She had to move. Everyone was watching.

Slowly, she bent forward and gently placed Ochobot on her seat, careful not to draw suspicion. Then, with a breath that felt like diving underwater, she stood.

She didn’t rush.

Her movements were fluid, calm, and quietly composed.

She walked up the aisle with an elegance she didn’t even realize she had. Back straight. Chin up. Each step measured. Deliberate.

And without trying, she captured the attention of the whole room.

The drumming stopped.

The whispers shifted in tone.

“…She walks like she’s from a movie.”

“Is she seriously not nervous?”

“Even the way she moves is beautiful…”

Teacher Aida’s eyes lingered on her as she handed her the silver monitor-assistant pin. “Well done, Fang,” she said with a quiet sincerity.

Fang nodded, accepting it with fingers steadier than her heartbeat.

Yaya grinned beside her, nudging her slightly and whispering, “I’m glad it’s you. You’re the perfect pick.”

Fang looked over, eyes wide for just a second, then softened into the smallest, shyest smile.

“…Thank you,” she whispered back.

The pins glinted under the sunlight like small crowns.

And for the first time since she’d returned, Fang allowed herself to believe—maybe this really is a second chance.

She wasn’t used to being chosen.

She wasn’t used to being trusted by strangers.

That was BoBoiBoy’s role.

Yet here she was.

Assistant Monitor.

And somehow…

It didn’t feel wrong anymore.

“Alright, now that we’ve cleared that up,” the teacher said, still scribbling something on her clipboard before looking up at the class. “Yaya, Fang, you’ll both have shared responsibilities.”

She turned her gaze toward the pair of girls standing near the front.

“Yaya, as Class Monitor, you’ll handle attendance checks, morning and afternoon. Also, report any disturbances or late arriving students or rule-breaking, especially among the boys,” she added with a sharp look toward the boys, who tried to look innocent, then she looked at Yaya again and continued. "You are also allowed to give reasonable punishments for rule-breaking, and make sure to write their names to give to the teachers later."

Yaya beamed, puffing up proudly. “Leave it to me, teacher!”

“And Fang,” the teacher continued more gently, her voice a little softer, “as Assistant Monitor, you’ll help coordinate the class during activities and any training drills, distribute handouts, and keep an eye out when I’m not around.”

Fang nodded, a little stiffly, hands at her sides. “Understood.”

“Good.” The teacher clapped her hands once. “You may both take your seats so we can begin today's lesson.”

As the two girls made their way back to their desks, Ying and Gopal shot Fang a small thumbs-up. Though she didn’t smile, she dipped her head slightly in return.

The lesson began.

The first four periods passed in a blur of structured noise: math problems on the board, a short science quiz, group discussion on an upcoming class trip, and a surprise storytelling exercise that left Gopal animatedly describing a lightning-powered goat that could fly, which earned both laughs and a sigh from the teacher.

Fang stayed quiet, but she participated when called. Her voice, soft but clear, no longer trembled. And each time she spoke, the teacher nodded encouragingly, and no one interrupted.

It was strange.

It was normal.

The classroom buzzed with energy when the lunch bell rang, students chattering as they rushed to grab their boxes and race outside. Yaya and Ying stood by the door, arms crossed, waiting for Gopal to finish collecting his food stash.

“You’re slow,” Ying teased.

“I’m precise,” Gopal replied dramatically, cradling his three-layered lunch container like it was a sacred treasure.

Fang was slow to rise.

She still hadn’t quite figured out how to… be here. In this time. In this version of events. No battles. No alien threats. No BoBoiBoy.

Not yet.

He was still back in his hometown, months away from returning. She knew that because she'd lived this already, hadn’t she? In a different body. A different time. A different her.

“You coming?” Yaya called.

Fang blinked. She hadn't realized the classroom had mostly emptied.

Yaya didn’t seem annoyed, though. Just waiting.

Fang hesitated.

But then she stood up while picking Ochobot.

The four of them walked the long way around the school, Yaya in front, Gopal in the middle, Fang and Ying trailing just slightly behind. They didn’t talk much, but the silence wasn’t uncomfortable.

Eventually, they slipped past the line of sports sheds and found it: a wide tree with low branches and soft mossy shade, hidden behind a tall wire fence. The place smelled like leaves and dirt and something faintly sweet—fallen fruit maybe.

Yaya plopped down first, back to the trunk.

Ochobot spun once on the moss and bounced a little. “This place is super nice! It’s like... ninety-eight percent peaceful! I mean, except for bugs. But I can deal with bugs!”

Gopal snorted. “You say that now, but wait ‘til an ant gets in your gears again.”

“Nooo!” Ochobot squeaked dramatically, hiding behind Fang’s leg. “Not the ants!”

They all laughed.

Fang, after a moment, reached into her bag and pulled out the red carrot donut. She’d forgotten it was still there. She looked at it again, really looked, and took a bite.

Sweet. Earthy. Weird… but good.

Ying raised an eyebrow. “Is it good?”

Fang nodded slowly. “Yeah. It is.”

Everyone's lunch was a colorful mix of packed meals and shared snacks spread out across a checkered cloth that Ying had brought.

Gopal had a stack of mini roti sandwiches filled with spicy egg mayo, which he guarded like treasure.

Yaya brought her usual rice bento—neatly packed with fried tempeh, tofu, cucumber slices, and sambal she claimed was “not that spicy” (it was).

Ying munched on a veggie wrap and fresh fruit skewers, always the healthiest of the group, with a small bottle of guava juice she let everyone sip from.

Fang, seated a little apart but gradually drifting closer, had a quiet lunchbox of her own: soft rice with soy-glazed chicken slices, crispy lotus chips, and a small wedge of honeydew melon. Her cocoa bun rested beside her donut wrapper like a quiet dessert duo. She didn’t say much, but she didn’t need to. The way she sat with them, sharing bites and passing napkins, said enough.

Fang had already eaten half of the red carrot donut Gopal had handed her that morning. She was seated under the hidden tree behind the school, legs folded beneath her, the rest of the team spread out around her.

Ochobot gave a small whirr from her lap before finally speaking, his voice high-pitched and playful. “Guess what! This group eats, like… waaaay more snacks than normal! Like… um… 132% more!”

“That’s because Gopal’s with us,” Ying said, pointing at the now-empty curry puff wrapper in his hand.

“Nuh-uh! Not my fault!” Gopal argued through a mouthful of donut. “I need energy! I stress-eat, okay?!”

“Correction!” Ochobot chirped, bouncing lightly in Fang’s lap. “Gopal eats, like… sooo much! He’s, like, 78% of the snack total! Wahhh!”

“Hey!” Gopal gasped in mock offense. “I burn a lot of calories worrying about alien attacks and Ochobot’s judgment!”

“Calories from what?” Yaya teased. “All that panicking?”

“Strategic panicking,” Gopal declared, raising the last bit of donut like a badge of honor. “And I brought extras today. You’re welcome.”

Fang unwrapped the cocoa bun Tok Aba had given her earlier that day—soft, still faintly warm, rich with melted chocolate.

“Two snacks?” Ying raised an eyebrow. “Ohhh, someone’s really settling in.”

“She’s one of us now,” Yaya said, nodding sagely. “Snack squad.”

Fang didn’t reply, but her lips twitched into a smile as she took a bite.

Ochobot lit up again, eyes blinking in excitement. “Yummy snacks detected! Sweet levels are increasing! Chocolate equals: ultra comfort!”

“Translation,” Ying muttered, “sugar fixes everything.”

“Yup yup yup!” Ochobot spun in her lap, giggling. “Everyone’s happy when there’s chocolate and donuts and—oooooh, curry puffs!”

Gopal leaned over with a grin. “You love them, don't you, Ochobot?”

Fang took another bite of the coca bun. Sweet. Slightly spiced. Familiar.

She didn’t say anything. But her smile said plenty.

The quiet under the tree was short-lived, though.

A shift in the air brought it—curious stares, the hush of whispers. A group of four students approached from the main courtyard path, their polished shoes clicking on the pavement.

Faiz, with his swept-back hair and smug grin; Dania, all glossed lips and judgmental eyes; Jay, perpetually playing with his phone like he was above everyone; and Karina, arms folded, gaze scanning like a hawk searching for flaws.

Fang’s smile faded as the shadows of the popular group loomed over their tree.

“Fang the ice princess, right?” Dania's voice was sweetened with artificial charm. “We saw you during orientation. Super chill vibes. You should totally sit with us at lunch next time. I mean…” she tossed her hair, “it’s not like you fit in here.”

Jay chuckled, eyes flicking to Gopal and then to Yaya. “No offense, but these three? Not exactly your level.”

Karina snorted. “Especially her.” She jerked her chin at Ying. “Speedy little nerd with zero fashion sense.”

“And Gopal?” Faiz said lazily. “The glutton? Honestly, I don’t even know how he manages to pass in school. Did they mistake him for the cafeteria?”

Yaya stood quickly, hands clenched at her sides. “You’ve got some nerve—!”

“I’d rather hang out with actual humans than walking insults,” Ying muttered, face red with rising fury.

Gopal blinked, hurt flashing briefly across his face. “I… I like food. That’s not a crime!”

Fang didn’t move. She sat still as stone, the empty wrapper from her bun fluttering slightly in the wind.

But something in her eyes shifted.

'They don’t know,' Fang thought, fury cold and sharp in her chest.

'They don’t know who these three would become.'

'Gopal—who would someday be cooking under pressure in alien ships mid-warp, feeding the last line of defense while laser fire lit up the stars around him.'

'Ying—who would outrun energy blasts and outsmart A.I. systems built to erase civilizations, grinning as she shattered their logic one move at a time.'

'Yaya—who would lift meteors like marbles and hold collapsing planets together with nothing but raw will and muscle and an unshakable heart.'

'How dare they—these clueless, shallow, pathetic kids—laugh behind backs and whisper judgment at the ones who would someday save lives, worlds, galaxies.'

'They don’t know.'

'And they don’t deserve to.'

She slowly stood, brushing crumbs off her skirt like she was swiping away insects.

Her voice, when it came, was quiet. Deadly quiet.

“No.”

Jay blinked. “Huh?”

“You walked over here thinking I’d be impressed. That I’d be grateful.” Fang stepped forward, each word edged like a blade. “But I never asked. You just assumed I’d be flattered by the scraps of your attention.”

“Hey, we were being nice,” Karina snapped, offense rising in her voice. “You don’t have to act like you’re better than us.”

“I am better than you.”

The words hit like a slap.

Jay opened his mouth—then closed it.

Fang tilted her head, ice running through her tone. “Jay. You act bored, like the world can’t keep up with you, but everyone sees through it. You’re terrified someone might notice there’s nothing underneath. Dania—” She turned her eyes toward the girl, “you drown yourself in perfume and filters and borrowed confidence, hoping the scent and fake smiles will cover the fact that you cry when no one double-taps your lies.”

Faiz took a step back, but Fang kept going. “Faiz, the bully-boy. You mouth off and puff your chest, picking on kids like Gopal because if anyone looked too closely, they’d see that your entire scholarship essay is stolen. Word for word. And you know it’ll catch up to you.”

Her gaze snapped to Karina last, like a hunter sighting its mark. “And Karina.” She smiled, cold and sharp. “You tear down other girls like Ying and Yaya not because you’re strong, but because you can’t stand the silence in your head when you’re alone. Because deep down, you hate yourself the most.”

The four recoiled as if struck, faces pale. Around them, the quad fell into stunned silence—only the whisper of wind and the rustle of trees dared to move.

A few students watched from behind benches and walls, forgotten sandwiches halfway to their mouths.

“How did you—” Karina breathed.

“We only started school yesterday,” Jay muttered, face white.

'You fools,' Fang thought, her fury a glacier beneath her skin. 'You don’t know anything. You stand there, mocking the people who’ll someday reshape the stars while your legacy rots in mediocrity. How dare you!'

'How dare you try to make fun of my friends!' she seethed inside.

Out loud, her voice returned to ice. “I don’t follow your rules; I make my own. I don’t need your approval; it has no value. And I sure as hell don’t waste time with parasites.”

Her gaze sliced through them like a scalpel. “Fake. Shallow. Cruel. That’s all you are. And people like that? They don’t make my list.”

She turned on her heel.

But then—she paused.

Without facing them, she said, voice cold and absolute:

“And if I didn’t choose to talk to you... Then you were never important enough to begin with.”

And just like that, she walked away, leaving them frozen in place—shattered by the truth, and completely irrelevant in her eyes.

The group stumbled back, speechless, as the crowd burst into quiet murmurs and stunned awe.

The watching crowd parted for them in silence. Whispers followed in their wake.

“She roasted them.”

“They looked like they’d seen a ghost.”

“She’s scary but like… awesome scary.”

Gopal gaped. “F-Fang…”

“She roasted them like spicy satay,” Ying said under her breath, eyes wide.

Even Yaya looked stunned. “That was…”

“Badass,” Ochobot offered perched beside them. “Translation: Maximum cool factor. Aura = Commander Tier.”

The trio watched as Fang calmly returned to her seat beneath the tree.

And in that moment—among hushed whispers and dozens of wide eyes—it was clear.

She’d chosen them.

And her word was law.

Yaya was the first to break the stunned silence, letting out a sharp whistle. “Whew! Remind me never to get on your bad side. Like, ever.”

“Or anyone’s bad side, if you’re within ten meters,” Gopal added, his eyes wide with dramatic admiration. “Fang, you just spiritually yeeted those guys into another dimension. Mental uppercut—pow pow pow! I think I heard their egos shatter in HD.”

Even Ying blinked like she’d seen a glitch in the Matrix. “Seriously, how did you even know all that stuff? Do you, like… astral project into people’s minds? Are you secretly a spy?”

Fang, trying to maintain some semblance of composure, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and muttered, “I just… pay attention.”

“Pay attention?” Ying said, raising her eyebrows. “Girl, you didn’t just pay attention. You took notes, made flashcards, and slammed them with a full PowerPoint of psychological destruction.”

“And the way you said that last line!” Gopal clutched his chest again, gasping theatrically. “‘If I don’t choose to talk to you, you’ll never be important to me.’” He fell backward in the grass, fake sobbing. “She’s so cold! So majestic!”

“‘Leave me alone. I won’t ever choose fakes like you,’” Yaya chimed in with exaggerated drama, fanning herself. “Ugh! Ice Princess indeed!”

The nickname shot through the group like lightning, and it stuck.

Fang’s blush exploded. She looked like someone had short-circuited her emotional processor. Her mouth opened. Closed. She made a strangled noise somewhere between a scoff and a squeak. Her hand twitched like she was debating vanishing into mist.

She did not look angry. She looked like a shy kitten who’d just been complimented and had no idea where to hide.

“I-I didn’t mean to make a scene,” she mumbled, eyes darting anywhere but at them.

Yaya smirked. “You absolutely did. And it was glorious.”

Ochobot beeped excitedly. “Group hug detected!”

Before Fang could teleport away in embarrassment, Gopal lunged and wrapped both arms around her like a human burrito wrap. “Come here, our royal Ice Princess!”

“Unhand me—I mean—Gopal, I swear I will—!”

Yaya leapt in from the other side with a “We love you~!” battle cry, squishing into Fang’s other side, while Ying walked over like it was a formal meeting and simply plopped down on Fang’s lap, arms folded as she leaned against her.

“Why am I under a Ying?” Fang muttered into her palm.

“You’re not under a Ying,” Ying corrected, smugly. “You’re under adoration. Deal with it.”

Ochobot bounced onto Gopal’s shoulder, beep-laughing, as if adding “yes, this chaos is intentional.”

Fang looked absolutely mortified. She hunched like someone trying to fold herself into a smaller, less noticeable version, hiding behind one sleeve while muffling an overwhelmed, “I hate this,” with zero conviction.

“You love this,” Yaya whispered with a wink.

And she did.

Inside, she was practically combusting. Not from the hug—no, that was warm and chaotic and full of static from Gopal’s shirt—but from the quiet, irreversible realization that they accepted her. Every part of her.

Even if she had gone full cold private mode in front of a hundred people.

Yaya felt it too—that joy. That thrill of knowing Fang had chosen them, stayed with them, stood for them. And not once looked back.

Gopal beamed like he’d just been handed free ice cream for life. Ying gave a small smile against Fang’s shoulder, feeling ten feet tall inside.

She’d picked them.

And nothing else mattered.

She was happy.

And so were they.

From a distance, the crowd's murmurs continued buzzing with a cocktail of disbelief, awe, and something dangerously close to admiration.

“Did you see that? She didn’t even raise her voice…”

“She destroyed them without even yelling.”

“She didn’t need to. That was spine-chilling and poetic.”

“Okay, but why was that so attractive?”

“I think I might have a crush on her. Is that allowed? Are we allowed?”

“Only if you survive the Ice Princess test,” someone whispered reverently.

“The way she walked off like she just dropped a mic made of logic daggers...”

“She literally erased their confidence with a smile and a sentence. She’s terrifying. I love her.”

“I think I am in love.”

“She's terrifying… but like, in a goddess way.”

“No one’s ever talked to Jay like that.”

“Did you see how calm she was? That’s not rage. That’s power.”

“She didn’t even blink.”

Students watched her as though a new force had just been unveiled in their school, not loud or flashy—but razor-sharp and diamond-hard. Awe rippled through the crowd like static.

A group of older students—usually the type to scoff at underclassmen drama—were nodding with newfound respect. One even crossed their arms and muttered, “That girl? She’s not just scary. She’s selective. She doesn’t just choose friends. She anoints them.”

From behind a vending machine, another group peeked around the corner, watching Fang now squished in the middle of a chaotic group hug under the tree.

“That’s the squad?” a boy murmured. “The ones she backed?”

“They’re basically untouchable now,” his friend replied. “Cross any of them, and Ice Princess herself will unmake your social credibility with a single deadpan comment.”

“Yup. That’s the line. Those three? Chosen. Protected. Elevated.”

“And probably the only ones who’ve ever seen her blush up close like that,” someone sighed, dreamily resting their chin in their hand.

“Did you see her flinch when they said ‘group hug’? Like a startled kitten trying to act cool.”

“I know! It was adorable! But also, like, do NOT say that out loud near her. I want to live.”

Somewhere in the crowd, a short girl was already sketching dramatic fan art in her notebook. Fang stood in it like a frost queen rising from mist, one hand extended toward Yaya, Gopal, and Ying, who each glowed faintly in her aura. “I’m calling it Chosen by Chill,” she muttered.

Someone else was writing down all of Fang’s lines from memory. “I’m framing this. It’s wisdom. It’s prophecy. It’s a legend.”

Even the teachers who’d witnessed the event from the windows were quietly nodding to each other.

“Remind me not to schedule her for a debate class unless we want the entire curriculum rewritten,” one muttered.

“Or emotionally destroyed.”

The afternoon sun streamed through the windows as they returned to class, casting soft golden light across the desks. The day settled into an easy rhythm—lessons drifting by like clouds, their corners soft and edges blurred by a full stomach and the quiet joy of belonging.

Fang didn’t say much, as usual. But there was something different about her today. Something gentler. Subtler.

During science, she leaned forward with her arms tucked close, watching the teacher scribble formulas on the board. Her head tilted slightly to the side, almost curious.

Throughout history, when the fan overhead creaked, she startled and blinked up at it with wide, flickering eyes. And during art, when Gopal accidentally dropped a brush near her feet, she jumped just slightly, then immediately bent down, picked it up, and returned it with an unreadable expression… and her ears just barely tinged pink.

Yaya noticed first.

She leaned over during break and whispered, “Why is Fang… doing that?”

“Doing what?” Ying asked, before pausing. Then, she tilted her head. “Oh my gosh. She’s literally acting like a kitten.”

Gopal stifled a laugh. “It’s the head tilts. The quiet blinks. The jumpiness. She’s adorable.”

“I can hear you,” Fang muttered without turning around.

Ochobot beeped quietly. “Visual confirmation: behavior is exhibiting soft, feline-coded social cues. Emotional inference: safe. Comfortable. Possibly… happy?”

No one said it out loud, but the realization settled warmly between them.

Fang was at ease.

When the last bell rang, the class erupted into the usual end-of-day scramble. Chairs scraped back, bags were zipped, and laughter spilled from the doorways like a flood. But this time, it wasn’t just noise to Fang—it was background music to something new.

“You coming?” Yaya asked, already waiting near the door.

“Yeah,” Fang replied, pulling on her jacket and brushing her sleeve down with the same small, tucked-in motion of someone hiding claws they didn’t need to use today.

The group gathered at the gate, chatting as they walked down the familiar path toward Tok Aba’s shop. Gopal bounced with every step, already thinking of menus and flavors. Ying walked in long strides, occasionally glancing back to make sure Fang was still with them. Yaya was talking to Ochobot about responsibility charts and sticker rewards when Fang, in the middle of a quiet yawn, let out a soft little noise—more exhale than anything.

All four of them froze.

“…Did she just make a squeaky kitten noise?” Gopal whispered.

Fang blinked slowly. “No, I did not.”

“Did too,” Ying grinned. “You’re such a kitten.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

“You’re all hallucinating.”

But none of them minded. Not the playful tone. Not the fact that Fang had chosen to walk beside them. And not that, for the first time, she didn’t seem to want to leave early or disappear into a shadow.

They reached Tok Aba’s shop just as the sun dipped low, its golden rays warming the front windows with a soft, orange glow. The cozy hum of evening life buzzed through the neighborhood, and the unmistakable scent of curry puffs, toasted bread, and freshly made cocoa danced on the breeze.

From behind the counter, Tok Aba looked up, a kind glimmer in his wrinkled eyes. His face was lined with age and laughter—deep grooves carved from years of smiles and concern—the familiar crinkle of an old man who had long carried wisdom and warmth in equal measure.

“Ah! There you are!” he called out, waving them in. “Fang, ready for your first shift?”

Silence dropped like a pin.

Yaya blinked. Gopal dropped his half-eaten bun. Ying’s mouth fell open.

“…Shift?” Yaya echoed, voice lifting an octave.

“WHAT shift?” Gopal exclaimed.

“You’re working here?!” Ying added, practically leaning forward like she was about to interrogate a criminal.

Ochobot, who had returned to his usual floating form and hovered just above the counter, winced with a sheepish smile. “Oops… I thought you already knew.”

Fang, who had been doing a slow circle near the counter with the absent-minded gait of a stray kitten—pausing to sniff the air, glance at the cocoa trays, and nearly rub her shoulder against the table—suddenly stiffened. Her ears might as well have flicked back.

“You didn’t tell them?!” she hissed at Ochobot under her breath, then immediately flinched when three pairs of shocked eyes turned to her again.

Tok Aba raised a brow, chuckling warmly. “Well, I suppose that was a surprise. I asked if she could help out after school, thinking it might be good for her to get accustomed to things around here. She’s quick on her feet.”

“She’s been hiding this the whole time?” Gopal whispered dramatically.

Yaya folded her arms. “Wait—why didn’t you just tell us, Fang?”

Fang opened her mouth, then paused, glancing at the floor. Her fingers twitched near her sides, and for a brief moment, she leaned her weight to one side, then shifted again, like a kitten caught being mischievous and pretending it didn’t mean it.

She finally let out a small, awkward laugh, the barest tug of a smile curling at the edge of her lips. “I… didn’t know how to say it.”

“She’s been acting like a stray kitten all day,” Yaya muttered, crossing her arms. “Quiet. Shifty. Hiding things. Trying to look innocent.”

“She even knocked over a cup earlier and acted like nothing happened,” Ying added.

“Ohhhh,” Gopal said, eyes widening. “That’s why she was curling up in that corner at lunch like she was waiting to get scolded!”

“I wasn’t curling—” Fang tried to defend herself, but even she sounded unsure.

Her face heated, and she looked away.

In her mind, the shadows stirred.

My Lady, your pack has uncovered your secret, Serpent said with dry amusement.

They will not cast you out, murmured Tiger, voice warm. You are one of them.

They are loud, Mouse squeaked, but soft-hearted.

You always fear what will never come to pass, Eagle added gently. You are not alone, Luna.

And from Dragon: a slow, ancient rumble. You are like the moon. The wind may change, but your place remains.

“I think it’s adorable,” Yaya said quickly, softening. “You’re like a secret agent with a second job.”

“You should’ve said something!” Gopal added, more confused than upset. “We’d have visited!”

“Or helped!” Ying chimed in, though she was still eyeing Fang like she was some mystery dessert she hadn’t tasted yet.

“I didn’t want to make a big deal of it,” Fang mumbled, fingers tapping lightly on the counter. Her eyes flicked toward the menu board, then back to Tok Aba.

Tok Aba chuckled again, clearly unfazed. “Well, now they know. And I could use a second pair of hands.”

“I mean, it’s fine if you wanna work here!” Gopal was saying. “Just give us a warning next time! We thought you were keeping secrets!”

“I was,” Fang muttered under her breath.

Yaya pointed an accusing finger. “No more sneaking around like a ghost kitten. That’s final.”

Fang gave a small, reluctant smile and nodded. “Deal.”

Tok Aba chuckled, his eyes twinkling like they always did when the kids got too loud. “Let her breathe, you lot. She hasn’t even put the apron on yet.”

“She better not disappear again once she does,” Gopal said, sulking dramatically. “People who work at cafés always get busy and forget their old friends.”

Yaya elbowed him. “That’s because you keep trying to pay in curry puffs instead of money.”

“I’m offering emotional support food!”

Fang laughed quietly, but it was real.

The shadows purred approval in her mind, their voices warm and low.

You are finding your place, Luna, murmured the Tiger.

Steady and silent, my lady, whispered the Serpent.

You walk among them with grace, said the Eagle.

But never forget, you are ours, the Mouse giggled gently.

And far more than they know, rumbled the Dragon, deep and ancient.

The shadows pooled and stretched quietly behind her—never loud, never seen by the others—but always there.

Watching.

Waiting.

Guiding.

Her role in this new world was still forming.

But at least for now, she had a place to stand.

And friends to tease her when she forgot how to smile.

The cocoa café sat with plain grass around it, sunlight catching on its marble counters and drifting leaves. Park benches surrounded it in tidy little circles, and a soft breeze carried the scent of chocolate and toasted nuts across the paths. Birds chirped lazily overhead, and Ochobot buzzed behind the stall with Tok Aba, clumsily arranging cups on the counter with his metal hands.

Fang stood beside the front register, tying the brown apron Tok Aba had handed her.

“You ready, Fang?” the old man asked warmly, his wrinkled face crinkling further with a grin. His voice carried the weight of years, but there was light in it too—a deep kindness, like warm cocoa on a cold night.

Fang nodded once, cool and calm as ever. “Yes, sir.”

“Good,” Tok Aba chuckled, wiping his hands on his towel. “Start with clearing the tables, then take orders if I’m busy. Ochobot’ll handle the drinks.”

“Yes, Tok Aba!” Ochobot chirped eagerly, wings flapping a bit as he spun around, nearly knocking over a cup.

Fang blinked at the small robot, then stepped away, focused. She began collecting empty cups from a nearby table, wiping them clean in slow, efficient motions. Her movements were fluid, precise. In an outsider's eye, for a girl who used to vanish like a ghost into alleyways and shadows, customer service was oddly natural.

Unknown to most, she used to help at the shop every time she came to Earth.

The park was calm at first. Just a few regulars wandered in—elderly couples, tired joggers, a young dad with his toddler.

The first half-hour passed smoothly.

Fang wiped down the wooden park tables, delivered sweet cocoa drinks and crunchy curry puffs, refilled water jars, and took orders with soft, clipped words and short nods. Her kitten-like tendencies showed in flashes: the way her eyes flicked curiously over new items, the soft tilt of her head when someone thanked her too sincerely, or how she vanished from behind the stall to crouch quietly near the benches for a few seconds before darting back into action.

Yaya and the others, sitting nearby, couldn’t help but watch her.

“She’s kinda... adorable,” Ying whispered behind a cup of hot cocoa.

“Mhm, she is like a stray kitten pretending to be a waiter,” Gopal grinned.

“She’s doing really well,” Yaya said softly, a smile playing on her lips.

As expected of the Lunar Warrior, the Eagle whispered in Fang’s thoughts.

You are not just surviving now. You’re beginning to live, added the Dragon.

Fang moved quietly, efficiently. A little stiff, a little cold.

And yet somehow, the moment she walked away, people smiled.

Kids pointed and whispered. Teenagers tried (and failed) to look cool as they ordered extra drinks just for an excuse to talk to her.

“She really works here?” one girl asked, blinking wide-eyed.

Another boy laughed nervously. “Is she an idol or something?”

Then—

Everything changed.

It started with a group of students from their school passing by. One recognized her immediately.

“Whoa—Is that the new girl?! That’s the Ice Princess!”

Then someone snapped a picture—Fang in profile, holding two cocoa drinks, walking with precision and grace like she was gliding across the earth itself.

Within minutes, it was online.

A flash of a grin, with a comment:

She works at Tok Aba’s café! She even serves cocoa!

Twenty minutes later, chaos.

Children from multiple schools. Teenagers. Even adults.

Tables filled. A line stretched across the grass.

As the cocoa line curved into the grass and Tok Aba’s café reached near-festival levels of chaos, more and more of the gathered crowd began whispering—not just about how Fang served cocoa like a sleek military-grade android, but who she was.

“I swear that’s her,” someone murmured, peeking over their shoulder.

“Her who?” their friend asked, balancing a tray.

“The girl from the video. The Ice Princess. From the school takedown.”

That name—Ice Princess—spread again, even faster than the cocoa steam. Phones were pulled out. Tabs reopened. The clip reloaded.

It had been posted just a few hours ago by a student who happened to be sitting nearby during that legendary moment beneath the tree. The video was simple: shaky phone footage, muffled gasps, and Fang’s voice, smooth and lethal.

“You act bored, like the world can’t keep up with you—but everyone sees through it…”

The camera shook as students whispered behind the lens.

“She roasted him alive—!”

“Wait—did she just say his essay’s plagiarized?!”

The video cut to Karina’s stunned expression.

“She knows everything about them!”

Cut again to Fang turning, her voice like steel wrapped in snow.

“If I didn’t choose to talk to you… Then you were never important enough to begin with.”

By the time Fang finished delivering an order and turned back toward the counter, over twelve people in line were watching that same video on silent playback. Several had started whispering updates to their friends.

“Bro, she annihilated them.”

“Faiz, Dania, Jay, and Karina haven’t shown their faces all day.”

“Apparently, Dania’s locked her socials. Faiz deleted his posts. Jay tried to claim it was AI edited—dude, it’s over.”

And the more people connected this Fang—cool, calm, and wordless behind the counter—to that Fang—brutally composed and surgically honest under the tree—the awe deepened.

“She’s not just working here. She chose to work here,” one teen whispered, clutching her cocoa cup like it was holy. “She could be anywhere, but she’s here, taking orders and rejecting people like a boss.”

“She’s like… if a black ops commander moonlighted as a barista.”

Someone else muttered, “Forget dating her. If she ever makes eye contact with me, I’m just gonna thank her for the opportunity.”

Every rejection she gave—each cold “No.” or flat “Next.”—became a moment of myth. Even her pauses before answering, even the way she held a tray, were analyzed with meme captions and breakdown threads. A still shot of her mid-turn with the quote "Then you were never important enough to begin with" was already trending under #IcePrincessMoment.

And maybe the most chilling thing of all?

Fang hadn’t even raised her voice in the video.

Not once.

No yelling. No theatrics. Just precise, quiet devastation—like Kaizo with a blade, slicing through enemy lies with pinpoint accuracy.

“She doesn’t even look mad when she speaks,” someone whispered reverently, watching Fang hand off a cocoa and turn back without eye contact. “But inside? She’s probably building psychological dossiers on all of us.”

“She’s the final boss of emotional composure.”

“Do you think she knows my insecurities too?”

A bold junior swaggered up to Fang’s table in a vintage leather jacket, phone in hand.

“So… would it be, like, super weird if I asked for your number?”

Fang didn’t even flinch, eyes on the cocoa machine. “Yes.”

He chuckled nervously and held the phone closer. “Even if I already saved it as ‘future wife’? Ha ha…”

She reached out, calmly turned off his phone screen, and slid it back to him.

“I think your delusion deserves privacy.”

He recoiled. “O-okay—wow. Uh. Thanks—I guess?”

From the crowd, someone screamed like it was a concert:

“SHE MURDERED HIM WITH WORDS!”

Ying wheezed. “RIP. That man just became a cautionary tale.”

And that was just the beginning.

Another hopeful stepped up.

“Name for the order?” Fang asked, still focused on pouring cocoa with robotic precision.

“Uh, Y-Yeah, it’s—hey, wait, are you free after—”

“Next.”

He blinked. “Wait, but I didn’t even—”

She slid his drink to him without looking up. “You’re holding up the line.”

Behind him, someone whispered, “Bro got executed.”

“By cocoa,” another replied.

The next student tried a more casual angle.

“Can I get your Instagram?”

“No.”

“Your favorite color?”

“Gray. Next.”

“You like gray?! That’s so mysterious—wait, what do you mean ‘next’?!”

A third arrived holding bubble tea like an offering.

“I brought your favorite—”

“I’m allergic.”

“To what?”

“Crowds. And desperation.”

He just turned and walked away in silence.

The crowd clapped.

Even when Fang did something simple—brushing her hair back, sipping water—it became a moment. Slow-motion clips with dramatic captions flooded social media:

“When she says ‘no’ and you still say ‘thank you’ because the rejection was elegant.”

Then came a senior with a bouquet of origami roses—each one folded from test papers.

“I don’t usually do this,” he said, oozing confidence. “But I think you’re amazing, Fang. Want to go out sometime?”

She stared.

“You folded thirty minutes of academic failure into flowers to impress me?”

“I-uh—it was artistic?”

She brushed past him.

“Go improve your GPA.”

He wilted on the spot like a paper swan in the rain.

Someone else tried the friendly route.

“Hey Fang, we’re going for milkshakes after class! Want to come? Totally chill.”

Fang turned her head slightly, eyes as cold as a locked freezer.

“No.”

“Oh. Just not in the mood?”

“No. I just don’t want to be around you.”

The crowd gasped like it was the finale of a K-drama.

“Ha—joking, right?”

Fang took a sip of water. “No.”

A drink dropped in the back.

“ICONIC.”

Two girls clung to each other like they were watching a war movie.

“She didn’t even blink!”

“She’s like a military-grade espresso machine. Efficient. Ruthless. Beautiful.”

One was already typing.

Ice Princess Mode: ON. She rejected four people in under 40 seconds. Heartbreaks per minute are rising.

A boy tried to sneak a photo—click.

Fang turned her head. Just a fraction.

Their eyes met.

He froze mid-snap.

She didn’t say a word. She didn’t need to.

The stare alone could refrigerate meat.

He slowly lowered his phone like he was disarming a bomb.

“I… I’m deleting it. Right now. I swear.”

Someone whispered from the crowd,

“She’s got commander energy. Like, speak out of turn and she’ll court-martial you.”

A guy eating popcorn muttered,

“She hasn’t smiled once… and somehow she’s more interesting than everyone here.”

Another added,

“No, no. My favorite part is how she says ‘Next’ like she’s reloading a rifle.”

“Her cocoa pour ratio is identical every time,” someone whispered. “I timed it. She’s not human.”

A brave soul tried again.

“Hey, Ice Princess! I made this playlist for you—it’s all dark academia vibes and—”

“No.” She handed him a bun.

“But I didn’t even finish—”

“You never will.”

Cue another wave of “OOF” noises through the crowd.

She walked past him like a breeze through frost—untouched.

Two girls tried to sneak a selfie beside her.

“Just act natural,” one whispered. “She’s like café royalty right now.”

“Should I tag it #FangWatch or #DoNotApproach?”

Then came the upperclassman with roses.

“You seem cold. Maybe I’m the fire you need.”

Fang blinked at him.

“Then you were never needed to begin with.”

He nodded like a knight defeated in battle, dropped the roses, and whispered,

“An honor to be rejected by her.”

And then there was the poor boy who tripped over a rock mid-compliment, hit the ground, groaned “Worth it,” and passed out.

Fang sipped her water, baffled.

'Do I have a power sphere effect on? Am I accidentally radiating mind-altering pheromones?'

Clips of her setting drinks down—just that—were being analyzed in meme breakdowns.

A still shot of her mid-turn with the caption:

“Then you were never important enough to begin with.”

…trended for the next three days under #IcePrincessMoment.

Hidden from all eyes except their lady, the shadows were losing their ethereal minds.

Our lady truly has no idea, the Dragon rumbled, coiled in the depths of her soul, voice soaked in admiration and barely-concealed laughter. Glorious. You’ve slain more hearts in ten minutes than armies in your past life.

That one ran off crying, said the Tiger, casually licking her paw. Should we offer him a towel, or just plant a gravestone with a quote from her rejection?

Maybe both, Serpent hissed gleefully. The cartwheel of shame? I want to put that on repeat. It’s not just a breakdown. It’s art. Emotional collapse as interpretive dance.

Even I can’t fly that high above the chaos, the Eagle whistled, wings wide with disbelief. The memes are glorious. One still shot of her turning away with that deadpan glare already has 200k shares under #IcePrincessMoment.

Mouse squeaked out a snicker. It’s like watching dumb mice line up for the cat to say ‘No,’ and then thank her for the honor. One of them bowed. Did you see that? Bowed.

She rejects them with the same calm she would reject a math problem, Tiger mused, tilting her head. Like she’s reading out quiz scores and they failed.

And she really thinks they just want to hang out and discuss chemistry notes, Mouse added, clutching his sides.

Let her be confused, Serpent slithered. It’s better for her that way.

“Maybe they need tutoring,” she muttered aloud, cleaning a cup.

All five shadows wheezed in spiritual unison.

Bless our Luna, said Mouse, wiping a tear of laughter. She thinks they’re here for group study.

Fang narrowed her eyes at yet another poor soul walking toward her. 'What now? Did I blink in a way that triggered another one?'

“Hey, can I—”

“No.”

“...Okay! Thanks!”

She froze. 'They’re thanking me for rejecting them now? What in the name of the stars is this? This didn’t happen before…'

Gopal blinked at the sight of three guys approaching Fang at once, holding out their phones like she was the last Wi-Fi hotspot in the world.

“Hi—uh—you dropped your pen earlier. Want to—maybe—like, study together?” the first boy asked, clearly rehearsing a line that had once worked on someone who wasn’t Fang.

“No.” Her tone was so flat it could iron shirts.

The second boy stepped forward. “I-I like your…tray balance. That’s hot. Can I get your number?”

Fang looked down at the tray in her hands. “…No.”

Third guy: “Hey, me and the others are hanging out after school—”

“Next,” Fang cut him off, not even blinking.

Around them, the park had gone silent, save for the growing chorus of “OHHHHH!” from the students who were now openly filming. One girl even dropped her cocoa from laughing too hard.

Yaya leaned in, whispering to Ying, “Should we be worried she’s building a villain arc?”

“She already had one,” Ying whispered back. “But now she’s got fans.”

Gopal tried to look helpful. “You think if I stand near her, I’ll get popular by proximity?”

“Please don’t,” Fang said calmly, somehow having heard him without turning around.

Yaya and Ying burst into laughter, while Gopal slumped behind his juice box in defeat.

Meanwhile, across social media, #IcePrincessMoment was now trending at a rapid speed. The moment someone tried to gift Fang a milk tea and she returned it with a single, polite “No, I don’t take bribes,” got turned into a reaction meme within minutes.

A girl tried to write her number on Fang’s napkin. Fang wiped her mouth with it and handed it back without a second thought.

A boy tried to say, “You’re so mysterious and deep—like a tragic poem.”

Fang answered, “Then you are not interesting enough for me to read.”

The guy staggered back like he’d been physically hit. “Bro, she One Piece’d me!”

Yaya clapped Fang on the back. “Girl, you just broke like six hearts in a row. Want to do seven?”

Fang frowned faintly. “Why would I?”

Gopal was already writing a list titled: “People Who Got Rejected Today by Fang (Legendary List)” with names and made-up achievement badges. “I’m gonna sell this to the school paper.”

Ying was scrolling through her phone. “Someone just made a fancam of her drinking water with dramatic music.”

Yaya grinned. “Bet the next person who asks her out will do it with a full PowerPoint presentation.”

Fang sighed and muttered under her breath.

Meanwhile, Tok Aba shook his head fondly as he handed someone a receipt. “Can’t believe my café’s turned into a fan convention for silent vengeance and love confessions.”

Yaya and the others already jumped to help with Gopal, offering to cook, and Ying with writing names and taking orders.

Yaya, overhearing, smirked as she organized trays. “We’re not taking questions. The Ice Princess is currently in Cooldown Phase. Please respect the frost perimeter.”

Ochobot beeped helpfully. “Cooldown Phase: 87% complete! No sudden questions unless you want to be emotionally atomized.”

Fang didn’t say anything, of course.

She simply moved like clockwork, like a mission planner with a cocoa agenda. Cup. Name. Next.

And all the while, the whispers followed her like a snowdrift building in the wind:

The shadows continued to chuckle in her head.

So cold, and yet they burn to touch, said the Serpent.

Let them crave, purred the Tiger.

You owe them nothing, Luna, murmured the Dragon.

She was like a storm in stillness—elegant, dangerous, untouchable.

The line wrapped around the block. The shop was packed. Somewhere, a tray clattered to the floor. A cup was spilled. A man burst into tears and fled. And through it all, Fang moved like a ghost in a warzone.

One order.

One tray.

One step.

One breath.

Her calm was surgical. Her focus, lethal. Like her, Abang glided through the battlefield of whipped cream and crushed hopes like she was on a stealth mission behind enemy lines.

Ochobot, behind the counter in a tiny apron, was spinning in panicked loops. “Cups at 12%! Cocoa levels stabilizing! Faaaang, permission to panic?!”

“Denied,” Fang said, sliding a muffin across the counter with the precision of a sniper. “Hold the line.”

“Yes, ma’am!”

Yaya choked on her water. “She’s running this like a mission!”

“She’s got war flashbacks from intergalactic battles,” Gopal muttered, watching someone get turned down and promptly trip over their own dignity, “and we’re here asking if she wants bubble foam.”

Ying laughed as she scribbled a name on a cup. “We’re just background characters in her tactical operations log.”

Tok Aba simply watched her, smiling behind old eyes.

Even as the lines stretched longer and longer, even as the park buzzed with more energy than it had all week.

Even as her name fluttered through the crowd like a half-remembered dream.

Fang kept going.

She didn’t need to smile.

But somehow... she already belonged.

Chapter Text

Set on a simple concrete foundation nestled in the middle of a sunlit patch of grass, Tok Aba’s Kokotiam stall stood with its canopy stretched out like open arms, welcoming, familiar, and humming with life.

Around it, a semicircle of wooden benches and stools gathered like old friends, their surfaces smoothed and stained by years of loyal customers. The smell of hot fried rice, buttery toast, and sweet cocoa drinks drifted lazily in the air, wrapping around park-goers like a warm hug.

It was rush hour.

Students swarmed the park in waves, their voices rising and falling like birdsong. Fortunately, people had finally stopped asking Fang out.

Amid the controlled chaos, Gopal manned the fryer with practiced hands. He stood at his station like a one-man orchestra, cheeks flushed from the heat, apron stained with the marks of his devotion. Flames flared under the wok as he flipped, stirred, and plated meals with surprising grace. Despite the tempting smells that surrounded him, Gopal remained focused—a true soldier of spice, humming tunelessly as he worked.

Yaya blurred across the scene on her hoverboard, weaving through the crowd with wild energy and unshakable balance. Her twin ponytails bounced behind her, and a tray of drinks and snacks floated in her grip as if magnetized there. She laughed easily, her voice carrying over the din. “Two cocoas and three curry puffs for Table Three!” she called, spinning around mid-air to deliver the order with a wink. Somehow, not a single drop spilled.

Ying, calm amidst the chaos, stood by the counter with her clipboard like a general at headquarters. Every order that passed through Kokotiam was first captured by her tidy handwriting, her glasses gleaming under the sunlight as she worked. Her short black hair was tucked behind one ear, her eyes sharp and calculating. Customers spoke quickly around her, but she missed nothing. Even Gopal trusted Ying’s memory over the printed menu.

Behind them, the foundation of it all—Tok Aba. His brown apron bore the proud logo of the Kokotiam, and his old straw hat shaded eyes full of warmth and wisdom. He was the soul of the stall, serving steaming cups of cocoa with one hand while counting coins with the other. He moved slowly, deliberately, yet somehow kept pace with the whirl of energy around him. “Steady now,” he said in his deep, reassuring voice as he handed Gopal a tray of ingredients. “Too much salt, and your rice will cry.”

Floating beside him was the ever-loyal Ochobot, now bright yellow and buzzing with helpful chirps. The little robot's eyes flickered intelligently as he hovered from task to task. Holographic menus danced above his head, flashing with colorful images and prices. He projected receipts, blew soft bursts of air to cool customers in the shade, and even buzzed a gentle alarm whenever a dish was in danger of burning. “Table Seven requests extra sambal,” he chirped helpfully. “Estimated spiciness level: emotional damage.”

Behind the counter, Fang moved like clockwork.

Neat. Precise. Efficient.

Too much so, for an eleven-year-old.

She stood near the storage crates, slicing green onions into perfect slivers, portioning servings of rice, packing trays with the quiet grace of someone who couldn’t afford to waste motion. She didn’t speak unless spoken to, didn’t pause unless directly told. Her portion of food from earlier—rice and an untouched cocoa drink—still sat cold in the corner.

Tok Aba’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly.

Fang had not taken a single break. Not since her shift started.

She didn’t complain. Didn’t yawn. Didn’t fumble. But Tok Aba had seen this before. Not from a child, no—but from soldiers returning home in silence.

And in truth… that’s exactly what she was.

Fang’s dark eyes flickered toward the sky as if watching something no one else could see. Because she was. Around her, hovering just at the edge of reality, were five shadow—beings that once protected her in death and now clung to her in rebirth.

A tiger, silent and alert. A mouse, quick and thoughtful. A serpent, coiled and unreadable. An eagle, circling above. And a dragon, majestic and burdened with memory.

They moved with her. They whispered sometimes, not just with words, but also with feelings, memories, and truth. They were hers alone, only seen by the world at her command, and reminders of a life she had lost and regained.

Fang remembered everything.

How she had died.

How she had come back—reborn in her eleven-year-old self, cursed with memory, gifted with shadow, and burdened with guilt.

Her emotional stability wasn’t that of a child—it was that of a war-torn veteran. She wore it like armor, thick and cold.

That’s why the kids at school called her the Ice Princess.

Though… she didn’t truly want to be frozen.

Not entirely.

There was a part of her—buried under all the layers of discipline, self-loathing, and grief—that ached. For warmth. For connection. For love she believed she no longer deserved.

And maybe the shadows knew that too.

Her eyes glanced toward Gopal’s booming laugh. To Yaya’s cheerful hum as she passed her a tray without needing to ask. To Ying’s silent glance, quiet understanding passed between them like a bridge.

They weren’t pushing her.

None of them were.

But they were there. Always.

So was Tok Aba, who treated her like any other child in his care—not fragile, not strange, just… family. And Ochobot, who floated by now and then to hand her a cool towel or nudge a biscuit into her hand without saying a word.

They were building something around her.

Not a trap.

A home.

And deep down, Fang wanted to believe she could be part of it.

She didn’t yet know how to reach out.

Her shadows even now murmured to her. The eagle preened and clicked softly. The serpent coiled tighter. The tiger let out a soft growl of concern.

You should rest, Luna, the dragon muttered.

Yes, yes! Break time! The mouse squeaked, jumping up and down.

She ignored them, like she had been for the past hour.

Until Tok Aba’s voice broke through the clutter.

“Fang,” he finally called, his tone warm, gentle, fatherly. “You’ve done more than enough, girl. Go take a break, hmm? Finish your homework.”

Fang looked up from where she was wiping down the counter, eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “I’m fine,” she said, softly but firmly, not pausing her movement.

“You’ve been working nonstop since you came,” Tok Aba replied, unfazed by the resistance. “Rush hour’s winding down. Look around you—it’s calm now. You’ve earned a moment to breathe.”

The scent of cocoa and fried rice still lingered, but the Kokotiam was no longer a whirlwind of flying trays and shouted orders. The crowd had thinned to a gentle ebb—regulars nursing their drinks, couples chatting quietly, a few students flipping through homework pages.

Fang hesitated, lips pressing into a tight line.

The tiger shadow at her side growled softly, a low, warning sound only she could hear.

The mouse sat perched near her ear, whispering gently You should rest.

The serpent coiled lazily around the counter’s edge, watching her like a mirror.

The eagle hovered above, wings extended in calm patience.

The dragon loomed in the background, silent but steadfast, exuding an unspoken authority that weighed heavier than Tok Aba’s words alone.

“You heard them too, didn’t you?” Tok Aba said with a faint smile, as if he sensed something more than he could see. “Even your instincts know it’s time to rest.”

Ochobot hovered close, his bright yellow shell flickering warmly. “Fang, your performance was optimal,” he chimed. “But continued strain will reduce long-term efficiency. Please refuel and recharge.”

Fang’s jaw tensed. Her shadows weren’t betraying her—they were trying to care. But part of her hated the stillness, the silence it might bring. She didn’t want to be alone with her thoughts. Not yet. Not again.

But Tok Aba’s eyes were kind. Steady. The same way they’d been since she arrived in this second chance of a life. He wasn’t pushing her—just offering her room.

She finally let out a small breath.

“…Alright,” she murmured, setting the cloth down. “Yes, Tok Aba.”

She brushed flour from her apron and touched the edge of the counter like someone steadying herself against the tide. Her fingers lingered there a second longer than necessary. The shadows gave her one final nudge—affectionate, protective. And she nodded, more to them than anyone else.

Her plate of food still sat where she’d left it, mostly untouched.

She made her way to the far bench under the canopy. The shadows followed her like ghosts—they stayed with her.

The rush had ebbed to silence. The loud clatter had softened into the hum of dusk and dying light. Cups clinked. Someone laughed gently in the background. The scent of warm drinks lingered like comfort.

Fang sat down.

And for a moment—just a small, fragile moment—she let herself breathe.

The small round table she chose was tucked under a wide umbrella that cast soft shadows over the smooth plastic surface. Her chair creaked slightly as she settled in, pulling her workbook from her school bag and flipping it open with the kind of quiet discipline that made her seem older than she looked.

The air still carried a faint trace of fried oil and chocolate powder, but customers now came in slow, meandering streams, and the sharp clangs of the kitchen had dulled to the softer rhythms of cleanup.

“Fang! Hey, scoot over.”

Yaya’s voice broke through the haze. Moments later, the trio arrived: Yaya plopping down beside her with dramatic flair, Ying placing her books neatly with practiced hands, and Gopal juggling his papers and a half-eaten pau.

“We figured we'd join you,” Ying said with a small smile, settling her glasses with a gentle nudge. “Homework’s less boring with company.”

Fang blinked at them, surprised—but only slightly. They were trying again. Gently. Patiently. Like they always did.

She gave a small nod, and they took it as permission.

For a while, they worked in silence, the scratch of pencils and the occasional flip of a page the only sounds between them. Then came the struggle. Yaya was muttering under her breath at a math question. Gopal is squinting at a science diagram. Ying was solving problems with surgical precision—and sometimes, even she frowned in frustration.

“Wait, wait, how is this six and not seven?” Gopal whined.

“You forgot to carry the one again,” Ying said, pushing her glasses up.

But Fang… Fang’s pencil moved like it already knew the answers. Because it did.

She was done before the others had reached halfway.

Years ahead of them in experience—if not in technical education—she had already faced exams harder than this. The equations were child’s play. The writing prompts? She could answer them in her sleep. Sometimes, she missed the challenge.

“Wait… You’re already done?” Yaya leaned over her shoulder, eyes wide.

Fang glanced at her book, then gave a soft, almost sheepish nod.

“Fang, you’re a homework monster!” Gopal exclaimed, grinning. “Are you sure you’re not a robot or something?”

“A study ninja,” Ying said with a smile.

“I vote study master,” Yaya said, smirking as she marked her own answers. “She’s like a study machine—efficient, emotionless, terrifyingly perfect.”

Fang laughed—short, quiet, but real. The sound was like sunlight breaking through clouds. For a second, she forgot to be guarded. Forgot to hide.

But only for a second.

The five shadows stirred around her—unseen, but ever-present.

The tiger snorted with pride.

The mouse clapped its tiny hands.

The serpent coiled lazily, amused.

The eagle perched high, keeping watch.

And the dragon, ancient and gentle, exhaled a warm breath over her shoulder.

She lowered her gaze, a small smile tugging at her lips.

' Remember, they don’t know,' she thought bitterly, reminding herself. 'That I’ve done all this before. That I’ve died and come back. That I’m not really eleven.'

Gopal groaned. “Can I hire you to do mine?”

Fang shook her head with a tiny smirk, but said nothing. Instead, she reached over to gently nudge Gopal’s notebook toward her. “Show me where you’re stuck.”

He happily complied, dramatically clutching his chest. “Finally! Someone who understands the pain!”

One by one, all three girls leaned in to help him. Yaya explained the question in exaggerated metaphors, complete with gestures. Ying corrected his process, meticulous and sharp. And Fang—quiet and constant—rewrote a simpler version of the question to guide him through.

It became a cooperative mission, the three girls circling Gopal like determined tutors on a battlefield.

At some point, Yaya and Ying both slammed their pens down at the same time.

“Done!” they chorused, grinning at each other. A spark of competition flared in their eyes.

“A tie,” Ying acknowledged.

“I want a rematch tomorrow,” Yaya said with a grin.

Fang chuckled under her breath. Just a breath.

Gopal threw his hands up. “You guys are demons.”

“Nope,” Yaya said, wagging her pen. “Just smart. And Fang is clearly the headmaster of Smart School.”

Fang rolled her eyes faintly, but her voice was soft, amused. “Maybe you just need better metaphors.”

Their laughter filled the table again, warm and welcoming, like a campfire in the quiet dusk.

Fang smiled faintly, barely enough to be seen. But it reached her eyes.

And her five shadows lingered around her—silent, protective presences, watching the group.

For this moment, for now, she allowed herself to stay.

To help.

To laugh.

And, just for a second, to believe the lie that maybe—just maybe—she deserved this kind of warmth.

The sun had long dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of dusky violet and soft gold. The once-crowded Kokotiam had finally quieted. Only a few lingering customers remained, sipping cocoa or chatting in hushed tones. The clatter of dishes had lessened, the scent of fried rice fading to a soft memory in the air.

“You sure you don’t want us to walk you home?” Ying asked, squinting into the dimness like she could see the path Fang would take.

Fang gave a small shake of her head. “It’s close. And I like walking alone.”

“Just be careful, okay?” Yaya frowned. “Stray cats wander at night.”

Fang gave a small smirk at the remark—half a joke, half a truth. “So do I.”

Gopal gave her a lazy salute with his half-empty snack bag. “See you tomorrow, Homework Master.”

“Study Genius,” Ying corrected with a grin.

“Queen of All Subjects,” Yaya added with mock drama.

Ying followed close behind, adjusting her glasses and offering a small but sincere smile. “Good work today. You did really well today.”

Fang looked at her with a tilt of her head. “You too.”

Gopal waddled behind them with a dramatic groan, his bag stuffed with half-finished worksheets. “Uuugh, homework. Why does school hate me?”

“You did it to yourself,” Ying muttered, unimpressed.

Yaya giggled and spun around. “We’ll help you, Gopal! Come on, guys!”

The three turned in sync, walking backwards so they could wave at Fang.

“See you tomorrow, okay?” Yaya beamed.

“Don’t be late,” Ying added with mock sternness.

“We can do homework together next time,” Gopal offered, hopeful.

Fang chuckled quietly, a rare flicker of warmth brushing her features. “Goodnight, guys.”

The trio grinned and took off down the sidewalk, their laughter echoing in the distance as they bickered over which shortcut to take.

Fang stood there a moment longer, alone again, the chill in the night air slowly creeping under her collar.

Then, as if the warmth had never touched her, she turned back to the Kokotiam and resumed wiping down the tables with quiet precision.

Behind the counter, Tok Aba watched her. Ochobot hovered beside him, glowing a soft, concerned yellow.

“She’s staying later than the others,” Ochobot murmured.

“She has something to prove,” Tok Aba replied gently. “Maybe to us… maybe to herself.”

By the time the last chair was stacked, the shop bathed in dim light, Tok Aba moved to the center of the room and folded his arms.

“Fang,” he called softly.

She straightened. “Yes, Tok Aba?”

“You’ve worked hard today. Come on, girl. It’s time to eat. I’ve got something warm waiting upstairs.”

Fang blinked, the offer catching her off guard. “I appreciate it… But I should get going. I still haven’t unpacked everything.”

“You’ve earned a hot meal,” he pressed, smiling. “There’s no rush. Unpacking can wait.”

She stepped back slightly, uncomfortable. “Thank you, really, but I’m used to eating alone. I don’t want to intrude.”

“You wouldn’t be.”

Ochobot hovered closer. “You worked really hard. You were incredible, Fang. We even got a lot of customers today thanks to you. Let us return the favor.”

“I don’t need anything,” she said too quickly. “Really.”

The Eagle perched high above her on the awning in invisible frustration.

The Tiger paced behind her like a sentry.

The Mouse squeaked softly in worry.

The Serpent hissed in disagreement from where it coiled at her feet.

Only the Dragon was still, watching with glowing eyes. All five hated the distance she placed between herself and warmth.

Ochobot hovered closer. “Are you sure, Fang? It’s no trouble.”

“I’m sure,” she replied, softer now, lifting her gaze just slightly. Ochobot met her eyes and felt the quiet grief buried behind them.

Tok Aba’s smile didn’t falter. Instead, he vanished behind the counter and returned with a cloth-wrapped container, still steaming faintly through the fabric.

He extended it to her.

She looked at it like it might bite.

“I said I—” she started, but Tok Aba cut her off gently.

“You can take it with you. But only if you agree to eat it,” he said, voice kind but firm. “It’s the only condition for letting you walk home alone tonight.”

“You need to eat more, girl,” he added, not unkindly. “You’ve worked hard enough for five people today.”

Fang stared at him, lips parting in protest, but stopped herself.

That wasn’t fair.

It wasn’t a bribe.

It was care. And concern. And… maybe trust.

She clenched her fingers.

“…Fine,” she said, at last, reaching out. “I’ll eat it.”

Tok Aba gave a small nod of approval and handed it over.

“Good girl. And next time,” he added, “I’ll make something you like even more.”

Fang didn’t answer, but the way she held the food close—carefully, almost protectively—was answer enough.

Her shadows clustered around her, still grumbling—but they didn’t stop her. They couldn’t.

Ochobot’s lights pulsed a little brighter. “We’ll see you tomorrow?”

Fang nodded once. “Tomorrow.”

As she stepped out into the quiet street, her shadows followed in formation—silent, watchful, invisible to anyone but her. She walked with her shoulders just a little less stiff, the warmth of Tok Aba’s cooking radiating through the fabric with the scent of cocoa and fried rice still clinging to her sleeves, and the world felt almost bearable, like a strange kind of shield.

She had laughed today.

She had helped.

She had been wanted.

And even if part of her still didn’t believe it… the shadows didn’t protest anymore.

Not tonight.

The walk to the mansion was silent but not still. Crickets chirped under old benches. Moths fluttered against dim lamp posts. The grass under her sneakers whispered secrets as she walked alone, clutching Tok Aba’s warm food parcel to her chest.

When she reached the old place, the shadows in the trees stirred, recognizing her before even the wind did.

The mansion loomed, abandoned and silent, its iron gates yawning slightly open as if waiting. Fang didn’t pause. She passed through with familiarity, her shoes crunching softly on gravel. The building still stood like a broken memory—leaning, haunted, too large for her shape… but she had chosen this.

Each step closer felt like stepping back into a ghost.

She slipped through the warped front door, careful not to trip on the cracked tiles or the fallen beams. The scent of rot and age lingered like perfume in the air. Cobwebs clung to high corners. Dust floated in slanted moonlight like ash from old fires.

Deja vu tightened in her chest.

She stood on the threshold, eyes tracing the path of forgotten destruction. Torn curtains hanging like abandoned flags. Crushed vases that once held nothing but wilted weeds. Furniture splintered from anger. Her fingers grazed the carved banister, and a familiar splinter caught at her skin.

This place wasn’t just a ruin. It was her ruin.

A breath hitched in her throat. Not loud. Not enough to make a sound. But the weight of remembering sat heavy behind her eyes. This was the house her past self had cleaned up, room by room. The house she'd once called sanctuary… after she had no other.

She didn’t let the tears fall. Not yet.

She stepped into the only room that still bore some semblance of warmth—the one she had made livable, once. Her bag landed on the floor with a soft thud. She didn’t even bother to turn on her flashlight. She knew this place with her bones. She changed into old workout clothes, a sleeveless top tank that revealed a small part of her upper back near the shoulders, and some training pants, without looking in the cracked mirror above the dresser. No reason to.

Downstairs again, she entered the central hall. The air was heavy with the past, every broken mirror and ripped frame whispering things she didn’t need to hear.

But she wasn’t alone.

“Shadow Hands,” she said softly.

From the corner of the ceiling, something spilled into being—a figure of inky blackness, fluid as spilled oil and shaped like tall hands with long, grasping fingers.

Shadow Hands descended immediately, no theatrics—just a low sound of longing as it wrapped itself around Fang’s waist like a scarf of smoke.

I missed you, my Lady, it whispered, the voice curling in her mind like a cat around her legs. Why do these five always get to stay by your side, and not me?

Fang sighed and didn’t move to pull away. “That’s not true.”

It is, Shadow Hands insisted, clinging tighter. You said you’d give everyone equal time. I counted! Two whole days, and you trained with none of us. But if you were going to train someone first, you know it should’ve been me.

“I haven’t trained with anyone yet,” Fang said, rubbing her temple. “I’ve been back for two days. Two. That’s barely enough time to unpack my spine.”

Still, Shadow Hands only wound tighter, practically vibrating with grievance. You even gave them nicknames. You call me ‘Hands.’ That’s not a name, that’s a description!

' All of your names are descriptions,' Fang thought to herself, deadpanned.

That was enough to draw the others.

With a flicker of presence and a sharp drop in temperature, the Five emerged—Tiger, Mouse, Serpent, Eagle, and Dragon—from their quiet watchpoints above. Their eyes gleamed like stars caught in obsidian ink. They radiated quiet authority… or at least they tried to.

Ugh, really? Tiger said, her voice sharp. We haven’t even started training yet, and you’re already whining?

Enough, said Dragon, voice deep and echoing like a faraway drum. You overstep, Hands.

You’re just jealous, Shadow Hands shot back, hunching around Fang like a defensive toddler with a stolen toy. You all had her before she left. You had your time.

You are literally wrapped around her like a clingy octopus, Mouse groaned, peeking down from a chandelier. Can you not for one second?

Shadow Hands hissed and extended a long, drippy finger toward Mouse. You smell like forgotten socks.

Excuse you! I smell like victory and expensive energy drinks.

Eagle sighed, elegant but visibly exasperated. This is beneath us.

Takes one to know one, muttered Shadow Hands. Besides, I was her favorite before any of you showed up. I’m her first shadow. I’m history.

You’re her regret, not her legacy, Serpent snapped, voice cold.

“Oh my god,” Fang muttered under her breath, dragging a hand down her face.

From behind chairs, under broken stairs, between the splinters of fallen chandeliers—the unformed shadows emerged too. Wispy and half-shaped, they joined the chaos with their own protests.

Why them? Why do they get names? We want names, too!

I want to be called Claw Girl! 

You stole that from a video game! 

Nuh uh! I made it up! 

Liar!

You weren’t even here when she learned that game; someone snapped.

Oh yeah? Well, you were trapped in the attic for three years, and we all forgot you existed!

A shadow jumped up and tried to body-slam another midair. They both fell through the floor with a shriek of indignant rage.

“I came back for one night,” Fang muttered, louder this time, “just one night, and I already feel like a substitute teacher in a haunted preschool.”

The noise did not stop. If anything, it got worse.

I was her favorite, Shadow Hands declared again, puffing up. She told me so. Once. Kinda.

Yeah? Tiger snapped. When? During a nervous breakdown?

You wish you could wrap around her the way I do.

Try me! Tiger lunged forward and actually grabbed part of Shadow Hands’ extended arm, trying to peel it off like a stubborn bandage.

HEY! Shadow Hands shrieked, twisting out of her grip. YOU CAN’T JUST—

Can and will!

You’ll snap me!

Good!

You’re jealous! Fang! Tiger is jealous!

“Enough!” Fang barked, her voice slicing through the chaos like a blade.

Silence fell like a curtain. Even the lesser shadows froze mid-bicker. One was halfway through drawing a crude image of Shadow Hands getting kicked.

Fang didn’t yell again. She didn’t need to. Her presence—older than her body, heavier than her voice—was enough to silence the room completely. The shadows froze, hands mid-slap, tails half-lashed, claws suspended in the air like guilty children caught mid-act.

And in that breathless quiet, Fang understood something new.

' So this is what Kaizo felt,' she thought wearily, 'when I, Sai, and Shieldia tore through the ship like a natural disaster.' The endless patience. The sharp stares. The silent prayers for a peaceful five minutes. She could almost hear his voice now—dry, unimpressed, and laced with that special brand of exasperation only he had.

“Well done, Private Pang. You’ve built yourself a kingdom of toddlers.”

Her lips twitched, almost smiling—but the ache in her chest was real. She missed him. She missed his long-suffering sighs, the way he stood with arms crossed like the world personally inconvenienced him, and that calm, scathing voice that somehow always kept things in line.

What would he say if he saw her now? Would he laugh? Offer a slow clap? Or just tilt his head and give that knowing look, equal parts smug and concerned?

Probably all of the above.

She straightened her back slightly, mirroring his usual stance without meaning to, and gave the shadows a look she knew he’d approve of.

“Behave. Or I’ll start assigning chores.”

And just like that, the chaos retreated into sulky silence.

“Tonight,” she said, sharp and clear, “I will train with Shadow Hands first.”

Instant uproar.

Tiger threw up its paws. WHY?! That’s favoritism!

“It’s not favoritism,” Fang said flatly. “It’s literally pity.”

Told you, Shadow Hands said smugly, puffing up like a triumphant parade balloon with jazz hands and confetti. I’m the favorite. I suffer the most. I am owed.

YOU’RE not owed anything! The mouse screeched. I only got one session last week, and Serpent cheated! He buried me under the floorboards!

I did not, Serpent hissed, its tail lashing. You just couldn’t follow directions.

You turned the obstacle course vertical!

You said you wanted a challenge.

YOU LOCKED THE EXIT.

That was part of the training.

You left me there overnight! I had to drink my own tears!

Dragon lumbered between them, muttering under his breath. You’ll all get your turn. And you— he jabbed a claw at Shadow Hands, stop gloating, or I’ll tie your fingers into decorative knots.

Try it, muscle-breath.

Fang slumped against the cracked banister with a long, haunted exhale. “I’m too young to be this tired.”

One of the lesser shadows tiptoed forward and quietly offered her a ghostly juice box.

Shadow Hands coiled gently around her waist again, this time less obnoxious and more like a very smug belt. You’re perfect, my Lady.

“Don’t push it,” Fang muttered—but the edge in her voice had softened.

The bickering behind her blurred into a familiar drone. As she watched her unruly shadows fight and flail and loudly protest their pitiful training, something flickered in her chest. A memory. A weight. A mirror.

She blinked slowly, realization dawning like a bad sitcom flashback. 'Oh no.' This… this was them. Her. Sai. Shieldia. All those years stomping across Kaizo’s ship like it was a playground, arguing over mission rotations and snack rations and gravity settings. They’d been just like this. Loud. Petty. Absolutely exhausting.

' I’m him,' she thought, horrified. 'I’ve become Kaizo.'

There was a pause. Then, quieter: 'Sorry, Abang, I promise to make you the best carrot soup when we meet again'

She slumped further, and the scent of him drifted through memory—quiet storms and sharp skies. Jasmine and ozone. Iron and cedarwood. The kind of scent that made your skin tingle and your mistakes feel like static in your bones, but it made her feel safe, knowing her Abang was near.

She could almost hear his voice: low, dry, and inescapably smug. “This is what happens when you’re in charge, Pang.” And then, even lower: “...They’ll eat you alive.”

Her lips twitched. “You’d be laughing so hard right now.”

Who are you talking to? Shadow Hands asked suspiciously. “Absolutely no one,” Fang said quickly.

Was it a boy?

“Shut up.”

It was a boy.

“Do you want to be folded into a napkin again?!”

The shadows squealed and scattered—but Fang’s smile lingered.

Because somewhere in that chaos, Kaizo’s voice still echoed. And for now, it was okay.

Fang begins to practice her shadow powers.

Using Shadow Hands, she cleared the main room, furniture gliding like mist—ghostly tendrils lifting dusty armchairs, pushing aside broken tables, laying down tattered rugs like offerings. It was smooth, efficient, almost elegant… and the shadows hummed in approval.

About time, said Mouse, bouncing around like a hyperactive dust mote. Let’s do obstacle courses!

No, no, no, Serpent coiled tightly in the rafters. She’s better at stealth. We should do stealth!

Dragon rumbled low from the stairs. Discipline first. Proper posture. Power stances. He raised his claws dramatically.

Strength! Tiger howled, pouncing onto a loose beam that groaned under its weight. She needs strength training! Let’s lift the whole house!

“Excuse me,” Fang snapped. “You were literally just fighting over who gets to train first. Don’t turn this on me.”

Shadow Hands curled smugly around her shoulders. Told you.

Fang exhaled sharply through her nose. “You’re all chaos. This is what I must’ve looked like to him…”

She paused mid-step, one hand resting on the back of a ruined chair.

Memories continued to rush to her—quiet, wordless ones. The way Kaizo would ruffle her hair only when no one was looking. The rare, fleeting head pats that lingered just a second longer than they needed to. The way he would always say “Pang,” his nickname for her, low and warm like a shield.

She swallowed hard.

“Sorry,” she whispered under her breath to the empty hall. “For all the noise. All the trouble. I get it now.”

The shadows hushed, sensing the shift in her tone. Even Mouse quieted.

Shadow Hands brushed her cheek softly, less a grip and more a tether. You okay?

“No,” Fang murmured, voice trembling but steady. “But I’m getting there.”

Then she straightened, rolling her shoulders back.

“Let’s start with stealth. And if any of you fight again, I’m putting you in a timeout box.”

YOU WOULDN’T, shouted Mouse.

“Oh, I would,” Fang smirked, the smallest flicker of fire in her voice.

Tiger groaned. This isn't fair.

“It is,” Fang replied flatly—then sighed. “But fine. One round of each.”

Cheers echoed like mischief in the wind, and the training began again.

Kaizo’s Office — Present

The low hum of the ventilation was the only sound in Kaizo’s office. The dim light from the desk lamp bathed paperwork in pale yellow, casting long shadows across the polished floor. His pen moved mechanically, signing reports, scanning data. Another mission approved. Another threat neutralized.

But his hand paused mid-sentence.

A chill tugged at the edge of his mind again. That silence. That gnawing silence.

He tried to ignore it.

His eyes flicked to the corner of the desk—an unopened transmission crystal. Her updates were due. Fang was never late.

But she hadn’t sent anything for two days.

Kaizo exhaled through his nose and forced his pen to keep moving. It wasn’t time. Not yet. He couldn’t jump to conclusions. Couldn’t act like—

A sharp flash broke across his thoughts. The nightmare that made his heart scream.

Check on her.

His grip tightened around the pen until it snapped.

Kaizo stared at the broken piece in his hand. His knuckles were white.

He slowly let go of it.

"Not yet," he muttered.

She would hate it if he came now. She would scowl, cross her arms, and call him "stoic idiot captain" again. He could almost hear her voice—sarcastic, frustrated, hiding something raw underneath.

She thought he didn’t trust her. Thought he saw her as fragile.

He remembered her from two months ago, standing tall in front of him, her chin lifted in that rebellious way she always had when trying to prove something.

Flashback — Two Months Ago

Admiral Maskmana called Kaizo in to his office. He thought he would receive a standard mission he didn't expect that he would end up in an argument with his superior.

Kaizo crossed his arms, eyes narrowing.

“Admiral, with all due respect, you’re sending her in blind.”

Admiral Maskmana stood at the head of the star-map holo-display, his hands clasped behind his back, shoulders squared with practiced discipline.

“Not blind,” he replied. “Just efficient.”

Kaizo took a step forward, voice low but tight with restraint. “She’s never been on a solo mission. She’s not field-tested that way. If you want stealth, send me.”

Maskmana didn’t budge. “This isn’t a conventional assignment, Captain. The target is unpredictable—young, fast, lucky. He got his hands on a power sphere named Ochobot. Highly unstable. Highly volatile. Though it is inactive at the moment. If we send in a squad, he’ll vanish again. We’ve already lost him twice.”

Kaizo’s brow furrowed, tension coiling in his voice. “And your solution is to send Fang into the unknown, with no backup?”

Maskmana tapped a point on the glowing map, and a red marker blinked over quadrant 3-C. “No fixed base. No traceable network. He keeps moving. We need someone adaptable. Someone who can get close without drawing attention. This is reconnaissance and potential retrieval—not a full takedown. That comes later.”

“She’s never been this deep without support,” Kaizo said tightly. “And if something goes wrong—”

“Then she learns,” Maskmana cut in, though his tone softened slightly. “Kaizo, I’m not throwing her into the fire. I chose her because I believe she’s ready.”

“You believe wrong,” Kaizo said, jaw clenched. “She’s fast, yeah. She’s clever. But she’s impulsive. She doesn’t follow protocol. She charges into trouble just to prove she can drag it back out.”

Maskmana turned to face him fully. His voice was measured, but there was something faintly worn behind it. “Sounds like someone I once sent on their first solo mission. And look how that turned out.”

Kaizo’s lips thinned. “This is different.”

Maskmana raised an eyebrow. “Is it? Or is it that you don’t trust her the way someone once took a chance on you?”

The silence that followed was brittle.

Kaizo’s hands curled into fists at his sides. “I trust her,” he said finally, voice low and certain. “I trust her with my life.”

Maskmana studied him for a beat longer. “Then trust that she’ll survive this. Grow through this. You’ve guided her well. She’s strong.”

Kaizo didn’t reply. His gaze was dark, protective, and heavy with unspoken worry.

Maskmana exhaled, and some of the steel dropped from his stance. When he spoke again, his voice was lower. Not official. Just human.

“You’re not the only one who cares what happens to her.”

Kaizo looked up.

“She’s like fire,” Maskmana murmured. “Hard to contain. But she can burn a path no one else can. And you…” He paused, just long enough for Kaizo to notice, “…you’ve always been the shield.”

There was a long silence.

Then Maskmana’s tone returned to command. “Mission parameters stand. She leaves at 0600.”

Kaizo’s jaw tensed again, but this time he said nothing.

“Then it’s settled.”

Later, in Kaizo’s office, the weight of command sat heavy on his shoulders as Fang stepped in, posture sharp in TAPOPS salute, a slight edge of anticipation flickering in her eyes. She glanced briefly at the datapad on his desk, expecting briefing details—for both of them.

Kaizo stood behind the desk, hands folded tightly behind his back. He didn’t sit. His tone was controlled, but not cold.

“This is a stealth mission,” he said again, slower this time. “While the target is an amateur power sphere hunter. He’s managed to get his hands on Ochobot—a highly unstable power sphere, currently inactive. There are five encoded watches inside it, each holding a different power. He’s on the move, constantly.”

Fang’s eyes lit up, brows rising just slightly. “So… I find him. Get the watches. Retrieve the power sphere. Got it.”

She didn’t say “we.” And when Kaizo didn’t correct her, her lips parted, a flicker of realization dawning behind her sharp expression.

Kaizo’s gaze hardened. “There’s no backup. You’ll be operating solo.”

Fang blinked once—just once—but didn’t let it show more than that. “I’m a private,” she snapped. “I can handle myself.”

Kaizo didn’t blink either. But his jaw tightened for half a second. Not from doubt. From something else. Something quieter.

“He moves fast,” he said. “You’ll have to be faster. You’ll be on your own for a long time. No fixed base. No support. No comms outside scheduled uplinks.”

Fang’s voice softened, a rare hesitation there. “I said I can handle it.”

Kaizo studied her carefully, his face unreadable. But his fingers tapped once—quickly—against the edge of the desk, then curled into his palm. A crack in his usual stillness.

Then, without a word, he opened a drawer and slid a silver shard across the desk toward her.

Fang stared down at it. Surprise broke through her expression like sunlight through armor.

“The locator beacon?”

Kaizo didn’t answer immediately. His gaze lingered on the shard, then flicked up to her face. There was a beat—too long for protocol. Too long for standard briefing.

'Maskmana wouldn’t approve.'

He could almost hear the Admiral’s voice in the back of his mind: You can’t protect her forever.

But he knew—if he didn’t give her that beacon, if he sent her off with only words and silence—he wouldn’t be able to let her go.

“If you don’t report in five days from the scheduled uplinks…” His voice was low, but firm. “…I’ll come find you myself.”

Fang had blinked, startled.

“You really don’t think I’ll succeed?” she asked, half-joking, half-curious.

“I think you’ll spend half the mission arguing with trees and stealing bikes,” he muttered dryly.

Her smirk returned as she grabbed the shard. “Don’t worry, Captain Stoic. You’ll have your precious silence and empty halls for a little longer.”

She turned, stepping toward the door.

Kaizo’s eyes followed her—not just professionally, not just as a commander ensuring the mission briefing was received. But the way someone watches something, they aren’t ready to let go of it yet.

Just before the door closed behind her, she paused—but didn’t look back.

Kaizo stared at the spot where she had stood.

Behind all the silence, the discipline, and the rank…

He almost called her name.

Almost.

Present

She thought he didn’t care.

That he saw her as incapable.

But she didn’t see how often his hand hovered near the emergency beacon he kept locked in his coat.

How much he wanted to hold her. To hug her so tight that the world wouldn’t be able to tear her away again. To feel the warmth of her hair, ruffle it, and whisper the words he never said out loud.

"You’re not weak, Pang. You’re mine. My little chaos storm. And I trust you more than you’ll ever know."

Kaizo stood slowly from his chair.

Then stopped.

He looked toward the hallway that led to the launch bay. Every fiber in him pulled forward.

But still, he didn’t move.

Not yet.

He sank back down.

Kaizo pressed his gloved fingers against his temples, the room around him now unbearably still. The quiet tick of the office clock faded behind the memories creeping in—soft, insistent, unstoppable.

He hadn’t meant to go down the memory lane of their childhood. But he did.

Fang had once been barely three years old, a wide-eyed shadow clinging to the hem of his coat with fingers always sticky from sneaked desserts and half-finished carrot slices. She’d waddle after him on unsteady feet, her little boots making muffled squeaks against the polished floors of their old home.

“Kaizu!” she’d squeak, mispronouncing his name with a stubby little smile. “Abannggg!”

She never wanted him to leave her. Not even for a minute. He’d pretend to walk away just to test her, only to feel those chubby arms slam into the back of his leg, clinging fiercely. She was relentless—her need for him louder than any cry. Her voice, so small, always whispering after him like a kitten mewling at the door.

And back then… everything was simpler.

The sky over their home planet had been soft blue-gold, the kind that wrapped around you like an Earth summer blanket. Their parents had been alive. There was always laughter in the hallways. Light in every window. Hope in every step.

Carrots and lavender.

That was her scent—his sister’s. She used to drag fresh carrot bunches from the kitchen garden, always choosing the smallest and most twisted ones, calling them “lucky.” Their mother would sigh, their father would laugh, and Kaizo… Kaizo would help her sneak the best ones into her room before dinner.

Every time their cook made carrot soup, they'd crawl around the kitchen before it was served, hoping to catch the scent early. Their giggles would always give them away—yet somehow, they never got scolded.

And the desserts. Carrot pudding. Carrot cake with lavender glaze. Fang had a notorious sweet tooth even then. Though red carrot donuts were her favorite. They’d steal bites from the cooling trays, always coordinated, always quick. He'd lift her to the counter, and she’d grab two slices—one for each of them—her eyes sparkling with triumph.

They were partners in crime, especially in their pranks. The silent kind.

No one ever found out it was them.

He could still feel the tug of her tiny hand in his, the hush of her breath when they tiptoed past their sleeping parents. Her warmth curled against his side when she fell asleep after another successful prank. Their days used to be filled with laughter.

And now…

Now she was out there. Alone. On a mission he gave her. A mission that she thought meant he didn’t trust her. A mission she accepted only because she believed she had to prove herself to the one person who never needed proof at all.

Kaizo’s breath hitched—barely. He clenched his jaw, knuckles whitening.

She didn’t understand.

And he wasn’t helping her understand.

She didn’t know how much it tore him up not to follow her right then. Not to run to her side. Not to gather her in his arms, hold her tight against his chest like when she was small and scared. She didn’t know that for the past two days, he’d wake with phantom lightning in his ears, his heart pounding like it was about to burst from his chest.

Every time… that dream or nightmare, really.

He never remembered the full details. Just the sound. Thunderous. Explosions echoing in a smoke-choked sky. And a scream. Always a scream—muffled, high, hers— Black lightning scar marks then silence.

He'd wake with a gasp. Heart thundering. Reaching out.

Only to remember… she wasn’t there.

She hadn’t been for two months.

His breath would shudder out slowly, the same way it did now.

'Calm down. Calm down.'

But nothing was calming about the emptiness she left behind.

Kaizo looked at the glowing screen. Still no call. Still no message.

Only three more days.

If she didn’t call by then—

He wouldn’t wait a second longer.

The words echoed in Kaizo’s head like a vow he had already carved into stone.

And then—

SLAM.

The door burst open.

“C-Captain!” Sai's voice cracked like an old radio. He stepped into the room with that ridiculous grin he always wore when trying to talk his way out of disaster—but this time, it faltered.

Because Kaizo didn’t look up. Didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

He just sat there, his pen frozen mid-stroke, the unspoken tension in the air thickening with every heartbeat. Sai had walked in at the wrong moment. He could tell that much.

Kaizo's eyes, cold and distant only seconds ago, shifted.

And they locked onto Sai.

Deadly. Sharp. Void of mercy.

Sai instinctively took a step back.

“I-I’ll come back later!” he chirped, trying to retreat out the door like a cartoon character tiptoeing from danger.

“Return,” Kaizo said flatly, his tone slicing like a blade through the silence.

Sai froze mid-step.

He turned back slowly. “Y-Yes, sir?”

Kaizo finally placed his pen down with surgical precision and laced his fingers together in front of his mouth. The image of control. Of calm. But the room itself seemed to darken with the heaviness in the air.

Sai wanted to scream. ‘Man, I hope Fang comes back soon. Or the captain is gonna murder all of us. Literally.’

Taking a trembling step forward, he gave his report with the fear of a man reading his own death sentence. “Uh… so… Shielda and I were—umm—experimenting with the new booster tech you approved last month… and… well…” He laughed nervously. “The back propulsion system of the training deck may or may not have exploded and ripped a hole in the side of the ship.”

Silence.

More silence.

The kind that made you wish someone would fire a blaster just to break it.

Kaizo didn’t move. But his aura did.

It swelled, colder than deep space and twice as suffocating.

Sai gulped.

Kaizo stood slowly, brushing the creases of his coat with eerie calm.

Eerie calm was never good.

Sai’s internal monologue was screaming. ‘This is it. This is how I die. Tell my sister and unofficially adopted sister, I love them. Tell Fang to avenge me.’

Kaizo’s boots hit the metal floor with precise clicks as he stepped toward the door, passing Sai without a word.

But his mind was far from the ship’s damage.

'Those idiots were never this destructive when Fang was around.'

Fourth time today. Shielda melted half the kitchen. Sai had turned the gravity in the lounge to reverse. Someone tried to ride the vacuum-bot again.

But when Fang was on board…

He never had to say a word. Just one glance from her, one sarcastic sigh, and they shaped up like she was the true second-in-command.

She really was the one holding back the chaos. And he—

He hadn’t realized how quiet his world had become since she left. Quiet in the wrong way.

The quiet clink of Kaizo’s boots against the floor was the only sound as he approached the door.

Sai, still frozen mid-salute like a terrified squirrel, didn’t dare move. But his internal screaming?

Oh, it was deafening.

‘FANG, WHERE THE VOID ARE YOU!? KAIZO’S GONNA KILL US ALL! I’M TOO YOUNG TO DIE! I HAVEN’T EVEN BEEN PROMOTED YET—FANG! WE’RE SO SORRY, PLEASE COME BACK BEFORE HE STARTS USING US FOR TARGET PRACTICE!’

Kaizo’s hand reached the console beside the door, and with a smooth flick of his fingers, he activated the comms.

His voice came out low. Controlled. Too controlled.

“Shielda. To my office. Immediately.”

Click.

He didn't shout. He didn’t raise his voice.

And somehow that was infinitely worse.

On the other side of the ship, sparks fizzled behind Shielda’s welding mask as she sealed the breach with temporary pressure pallets. She had soot on her cheeks, a streak of oil across her temple, and was muttering to herself with every bolt she tightened.

“Idiots. Useless thruster controls. I said not to use the left booster with reverse gravity. But does Sai listen? Noooo—he's got the brains of a concussed toaster—”

BEEP. BEEP.

The comm crackled directly into her earpiece. Kaizo’s voice came through like a death knell:

“Shielda. To my office. Immediately.”

Her hands froze mid-screw. The bolt rolled off the panel. Her spine went rigid.

“…Oh stars.”

The earpiece went dead.

“I’M GONNA DIE. I’M GONNA DIE. I’M TOO SMART TO DIE. I HAVEN’T EVEN TESTED THE FLUX MAGNETIZER—FANG! FANG YOU BETRAYER, WHERE ARE YOU—”

She dropped the welding tool and booked it down the corridor, boots pounding like the drums of her impending doom.

Sai, still standing outside Kaizo’s office, heard her shriek echo through the hall:

“WHY DID YOU LEAVE US, FANG?!”

She rounded the corner, skidding to a stop beside Sai like a malfunctioning drone.

They locked eyes.

Neither spoke.

Because they didn’t need to.

Their minds were screaming the same thing:

‘FANG. PLEASE. SAVE US.’

With Fang

Fang sneezed.

Not a loud one—more like a sharp, sudden puff that made her jolt a little from her crouched position behind the moss-covered boulder.

The shadows immediately tensed beside her. One hissed, Are you sick?

“I’m fine,” Fang whispered back quickly, waving them off with a faint scowl. “Someone must be thinking about me.”

She blinked, momentarily distracted as her nose twitched again, but the sneeze didn’t come.

A strange weight tugged in her chest.

She sighed and mumbled low, “Why do I have a weird feeling that Sai and Shielda did something stupid again…”

She stared into the forest ahead—its thick canopy of grey-green leaves casting soft shadows over the ground—and narrowed her eyes thoughtfully.

“...And are now hoping I’ll magically swoop in to fix it.”

One of the shadows tilted its head, confused. Who are Sai and Shielda?

Fang smirked, amusement flickering over her features. “Chaos incarnate. Twins with too much power and not enough supervision.”

There was a pause. Then the smallest shadow whispered, Didn’t you supervise them?

Fang blinked, and for a moment, her smirk faltered.

“Yeah,” she muttered, suddenly quieter. “I guess I did.”

She ducked lower again, scanning the area. Her grip on her weapon tightened as her mind drifted—just for a moment—back to the rebel team. Back to the siblings she’d grown to care for. Back to the brother who gave her the mission that led her to Earth in her past life, and one of the last faces she saw clearly before her death. And maybe, even now, was one of the ones thinking about her.

“…They’re probably thinking I’ve lost control already,” she muttered under her breath, shaking the thoughts away. “Whatever. I’ve got a job to do.”

But something warm lingered in her chest at the idea that, even if just for a heartbeat, someone was thinking of her.

Even if she couldn’t believe it was her Abang.

Around Midnight.

The abandoned mansion's main entrance was filled only with the whisper of shadows and the echo of discipline. Moonlight spilled through broken stained glass, casting fractured rainbows over the dust-covered floor. Here, in her sanctuary of ruin, Fang danced her relentless war.

Her staff whirled with lethal grace. Each strike cleaved the air, each dodge sharper than the last.

Around her, the shadows—her ever-watchful sentinels—darted and spun, partners in her punishment.

You’re faster tonight, Lunar Warrior, one murmured, gliding behind her with serpentine ease.

Too fast. She’s pushing again, warned another.

She never stops, a third whispered reverently. She carries more than her frame should bear.

Fang didn’t answer.

She couldn’t.

Her breath came short. Her limbs trembled with each motion. Sweat slicked her brow, and pain pulsed in her side, but she only gripped her staff harder and drove forward again.

My lady—

Luna—

Enough. You need to rest.

“No.” Her voice cracked—quiet, hoarse, broken. “Again.”

The shadows hesitated. Then one lunged.

Fang twisted, barely deflecting. Her stance faltered. Her left arm burned as if struck, though no blow had landed. And then—

Pain.

A jagged surge of black lightning raced up her spine, wrapping around her ribs, flaring along black scars etched deep into her being.

One flared across her chest, dangerously close to her heart. Another lit down her side. A third crawled up to her collarbone.

The cursed scars from another life.

From a death.

And suddenly, she wasn’t there anymore.

She was on the battlefield.

A fortress in flames.

A sky bleeding stars.

Kira’na’s blade—a curved gleam of death—cut toward the boy standing, trying to transform to save everyone.

BoBoiBoy.

Too slow.

Fang didn’t think.

She moved.

She shouted his name.

And the blade pierced her instead.

Straight through her chest. Near her heart.

For a split second, there was silence.

Then—

“FANG!!”

His voice—raw, breaking—was the last thing she heard.

And she smiled.

She had saved him.

She hoped it was enough.

Now “—Gah!”

Her staff clattered to the marble floor.

Fang collapsed, knees buckling under her. Her body twisted mid-fall as if recoiling from itself. The black lightning burst again—jagged scars pulsing, shadows crawling under her skin like living ink.

Luna!!

The shadows caught her before she hit the floor. Her limbs spasmed once, then again—seized by the echo of her death, by the cost of the powers she wasn’t meant to wield so young.

Her body curled tight, as if guarding her heart from another blade.

Too much. She pushed too far.

Her scars... they awakened again—

They moved as one, cloaking her in darkness, guiding her from the hall through half-lit corridors to the silence of her chamber. One lingered at her side, whispering an incantation—cool mist spilling over her skin, easing the heat rising from her veins.

Another sat at her bedside, gently pulling the covers over her small form. The black lightning scars light faded into a thin glow, but the damage lingered beneath.

“I... I couldn’t save him...” she whispered, half-conscious. “I let them get hurt... I failed...”

No, a shadow said gently, placing its hand above her heart. You saved him, my lady. You took the blade.

You always do.

You live now. For them. For us.

Fang trembled.

She didn’t speak again.

Only curled tighter beneath the blanket, shoulders trembling, fists pressed to her eyes as if holding back the flood of emotions would keep her from breaking apart entirely.

No more words. No more brave smiles. Only the sound of stifled sobs.

And as the tears spilled slowly, something began to glow.

The Shadow Watch—her power watch—burned with silver-white, the light soft and eerie, rippling in a crescent shape across the screen. A pale moon crest shimmered for a heartbeat, then faded. The screen fell dark once more, its silent message already sent—unnoticed by the girl it clung to.

Fang remained unaware of it.

She blinked slowly, her skin flushed with rising fever, her thoughts slipping in and out of clarity. The room pulsed faintly at the edges. Light twisted strangely in her vision, brushing against the barrier between waking and something deeper.

And beyond it, someone watched.

A presence—ageless, aching, and endless—drifted through the veil.

She did not weep, but her sadness filled the air like the tide before a storm. Her long white hair shimmered like starlight, trailing behind a figure too distant to fully see. No footsteps. No breath. Just presence—familiar and impossible.

The shadows heard her first.

The dragon’s tail curled tighter. The eagle tucked its wings. The serpent froze. The tiger stilled. The mouse lifted its head, whiskers twitching.

They remembered her.

And from the shadows came a voice:

“Little star…”

It rippled in the air—not heard, but felt. Fang’s fingers twitched.

“You’ve wandered far to be here.

And still, I am watching.”

Fang’s eyes fluttered. Her throat worked, but no sound came.

The voice wrapped around her like wind through ancient trees—gentle, steady, yet weighted with grief, even if she didn't hear it.

“I have been calling them.

Filling their dreams with the memory of your death…

Urging them toward you.

But they do not yet listen.”

The shadows leaned forward. The air thickened, heavy with sorrow and certainty.

“So now, I will send them a message they cannot ignore.

So they will come to you, little moon.

So you are not alone when the time comes.”

Fang’s breath caught—whether from fever or something deeper, even she didn’t know. Her head turned slightly, though her eyes barely opened. The room remained unchanged.

But she felt her.

Like someone sitting close in the dark. Like a hand pressed gently to her back. Like a voice brushing the edge of her soul.

“Rest, little one,” the voice whispered, soft as falling stars.

“I will guide them to you… as fast as time allows.”

Then came a pause. A breath between worlds.

And finally

“My heir of the Lunar Element…

You will never be left behind.”

The presence faded like moonlight behind clouds.

But the shadows did not move.

And above them, the sky pulsed once—moonlight blinking like an eye long closed.

Watching.

Waiting.

Calling.

Elsewhere—Earth.

The breeze was warm in BoBoiBoy’s hometown. The stars glittered quietly above, a gentle hush resting over the sleepy town. Inside a home tucked on a hillside, BoBoiBoy lay in bed, the glow of his nightlight casting soft orange halos against the wall.

He wasn’t asleep.

Not fully.

Not after that.

He had jolted awake moments earlier. Not from dreams. Not from noises. Just... pain.

A strange kind of ache that wasn’t his own.

It started in his chest—sharp, suffocating, like a hand closing around his heart. Then a cold wave surged through him, sinking its claws into his spine. And underneath it all was fear. A fear so raw, so deep, it felt like it could drown him.

But it wasn’t his.

He knew it wasn’t his.

He gasped, one hand clutched to his chest, the other gripping the edge of his blanket. And then, like thunder crashing through the silence of his mind, a name tore free from the void.

“...Fang?”

His breath hitched. His brows furrowed, eyes wide in the dim light.

“Who’s... Fang?” he whispered, as if saying it aloud might tether it to something real. “Why does that name... feel so—”

He couldn’t explain it.

But something inside him remembered.

His heart—too young to name what it felt, too true to deny it—ached.

She mattered. She mattered so much. Whoever this “Fang” was, she was hurting. She was in pain. And he—he needed to find her. He had to. Like it was the most important thing he would ever do.

But the feeling—this impossible storm of emotions surging within him—it wasn’t just worry.

It was something he couldn't name.

Something so old it echoed across lifetimes. Born of fire and loyalty, of battles fought and promises whispered under fractured skies. He didn’t remember the memories, but his soul did. And it ached with the ghost of her laughter. It burned with the memory of her tears.

And the guilt.

Oh, the guilt.

He didn’t know what he had done. Didn’t know what he’d failed to do. But some part of him, silent and buried, wept for the times he hadn’t been there. For the pain she must have endured alone. For the promises he once made—and broke.

The ache twisted into grief. Deeper than words. He felt the sharp crack of having lost her. Of having failed her. And still—still—beneath the sorrow was a desperate joy.

Because she was out there.

He could feel it.

He hadn’t lost her entirely.

Not yet.

A spark danced across his fingers, unbidden. Static shimmered around him, his Power Watch flaring in quiet response to something far greater than the present. Something older than this life.

BoBoiBoy sat up, breath trembling, eyes locked on the stars beyond the glass.

She was calling to him.

Not with words.

But with the tether of a bond they once shared. The pull of two halves desperate to be whole again.

And this time—this time—he would not let her go.

He would find her. Protect her. Never leave her side again.

He didn’t know why the thought made his eyes sting. He didn’t know why his hands trembled with joy and grief in equal measure.

But he knew this:

He cared for her.

He always had.

Even if he had forgotten the story...

His heart never had.

And now, it beat again—for her.

For Fang.

The one who had once been his everything.

And would be again.

Inside the watch—where time held no sway and silence stretched vast as the space between stars—something stirred.

A ripple.

A hum.

A presence.

Silver and aching, like moonlight blooming in a memory no one could quite recall.

Nestled in a vast, peaceful expanse of green plains, broken only by the occasional lonely tree, stood a house that seemed both ancient and timeless. It was not made of stone or brick, but of energy and intention—formed by the bond between seven powerful forces. This was the sanctuary of the elemental brothers, a space forged within the Watch itself.

The house held seven rooms, one for each of the elements, crafted to suit their personalities perfectly.

Halilintar’s room was all edges and lightning scars across the walls—scarlet red and black dominating every surface, with a large open window always crackling with static, it was neat with a desk and a few books on the shelves.

Taufan’s room was open and breezy, decorated in deep blue and white, with soft currents of wind always stirring the light curtains and hanging mobiles shaped like clouds, his hoverboard in the corner, along with many skateboards on the walls.

Gempa’s room was sturdy and grounded, the walls textured like stone and colored in brown, black, and gold, exuding calm and independence in equal measure. He had a few books and a desk like Hali's, but most of his books were cooking books.

Api’s room, his door occasionally flared with flickers of cherry red and orange. Chaos pulsed from within; the room was an absolute mess that Gempa would no doubt force him to clean with chicken plushies on the bed and prank tools hidden under the bed.

Air’s room was soft and cool, painted in gentle blues and whites. A plush whale sat in the middle of an unmade bed. The door had a note that read: “Please knock after noon.” his room was neat but mostly empty with only a desk in it.

Daun’s room was filled with greenery—pots, vines, and wildflowers dancing across the walls, desk, and floor, and the shelves were filled with books about plants. The air was fresh and clean, and a faint giggle always echoed from within.

Cahaya’s room was the cleanest and most technical— a wall of bookshelves filled with all types and genres of books that Hali, Air, and Gem always borrow from it with Cahaya's permission, and a laboratory on the side wrapped in light and invention. Yellow and white tones mixed with shelves of tools and machines. Occasionally, a spark would fly as some experiment ticked quietly.

Outside the house bloomed a lush garden tended mostly by Daun, and from every window, the horizon stretched endlessly. It was beautiful. Peaceful. But tonight, something stirred.

In the living room, the three oldest elements are trying to understand the message sent to them.

“Did you feel that?” Taufan’s voice cracked with something too deep for language.

He appeared in a blink of an eye—sharp-angled, wrapped in the restless blues and whites of hurricane skies. His deep blue eyes shimmered with emotion, pupils fluttering like leaves in a breeze disturbed by ghosts.

“I did,” said Gempa, the Earth Element, slow and steady as if awakened from centuries of slumber. He emerged from the stillness like a mountain shifting after years of silence. His golden eyes were wet, burning low, full of something close to grief. “But it wasn’t just power. It felt... personal. Like a heartbeat I should’ve remembered.”

“No,” Halilintar rumbled, the eldest, his lightning form flickering scarlet and black, old as wrath. He stood apart, back straight, fists clenched as if trying to hold himself together. “That feeling. That call. It isn’t new.” His voice shook. “It’s old. Like a name you forgot how to say… but loved once.”

“The Lost Element,” Taufan whispered, blinking hard. “Lunar. Soft. Endless. Cold like starlight. But it wasn’t the previous master, was it?”

“No,” Gempa said softly. “It’s someone else. A bearer. A new master.”

“The name,” Halilintar muttered, the word crumbling out of him like a prayer. “Fang.”

The name tasted like dusted moonlight and sorrow.

And the moment it left his lips, something cracked in each of them.

A tether. A warmth. A longing.

Not for the power—but for her.

The one behind it.

“I felt like I loved her, that we all did,” Taufan said suddenly, voice barely a breath. “Like I needed to hold her and never let go. Even if I don’t remember why. Even if I’ve never seen her face.” His hands shook. “Like I already lost her once and couldn’t bear to do it again.”

“I felt like I failed her,” Gempa choked out, trembling. “Like I should’ve protected her—stood between her and everything cruel in this world. And now… I want to cry until there’s nothing left. Until I’ve wept away every moment I didn’t get to keep her safe.”

“I…” Halilintar sat down. His voice broke on the edge of shame. “I felt like I was the one who hurt her. Like it was my hand that caused her pain. And now I want to apologize until I’m hoarse. I want to kneel in front of her and beg, even if she never forgives me. Even if all I ever earn is her silence.”

They didn’t understand it.

Not fully.

Not yet.

But beneath the call, beneath the ache, was something long buried.

Not mere duty.

But love.

The kind that bled into memory like rain into sand.

A quiet, forgotten love—once whole, once bright.

Now lost in fog.

She had been someone important to them.

A friend. A partner. The one who steadied them without speaking.

The one who knew how to smile at storms and make the Earth listen.

Their second half.

“The lunar element has been sending dreams,” Taufan whispered. “Trying to reach us. I think it was with that incomplete dream master has been having.”

“And no one listened,” Gempa murmured. “So now she’s sent a message we can’t ignore.”

“She already has,” Halilintar said, eyes dark with guilt. “The name. Fang.”

But something deeper pulsed beneath that word.

A truth they couldn’t speak.

A grief they couldn’t place.

Fang was not just the bearer of the Lost Element.

She was its heart.

And somehow, they had let her go.

Now, across time and silence and the distance carved by forgetting, she was reaching for them.

And this time, they would not turn away.

Even if it shattered them.

The living room, normally alive with chatter, laughter, or prank-induced yelling, was eerily silent. The air felt too still, too thick — like the world had paused and no one told them why.

The four younger Elementals stood frozen by the doorway. They hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, but the wave that had crashed through their minds moments ago had driven them there instinctively, drawn by something unexplainable. Something shared.

But the moment they saw their older brothers—Halilintar trembling, Gempa completely still, and Taufan barely able to lift his eyes—any words they might’ve prepared died in their throats.

Taufan was the first to notice them. His head jerked up, breath catching in his chest. “You guys…”

Cahaya stepped forward, confusion and concern etched deep into his face. There was always a glimmer in his gray eyes—curiosity, optimism—but now it was dimmed, dulled by something he didn’t fully understand.
“We… we felt it too,” he said, cautiously. “Just a little. It was like… something pulling at us.”

He stopped speaking when his gaze landed on Halilintar. The eldest brother's face was pale, streaked with tears. His breath came in uneven pulls. Cahaya froze. That image was wrong. Halilintar didn’t cry. He yelled, he barked orders, he exploded like thunder in a storm—but he didn’t cry.

Daun, stunned and silent until now, suddenly moved. He crossed the room in quick, light steps, as if afraid Halilintar might vanish. His arms wrapped tightly around his Abang’s waist, grounding himself to him. His eyes shimmered with confusion.

“I’ve never seen you like this, Abang Hali,” he whispered. 

Cahaya followed, slower, less certain. He hesitated at Halilintar’s side, gaze flicking to the tears still drying on his brother’s cheeks. Then he pressed into him without another word, burying his face against his side like he used to do when he was little.

“You’re not yelling,” he mumbled. “You’re always yelling when something’s wrong. This… this is worse than wrong.”

Halilintar still didn’t speak. Just rested a shaking hand on both their heads and closed his eyes. Holding them like that was the only thing he could control right now.

Across the room, Api’s fists clenched, his stance rigid with something too big for his small frame. His voice, when it finally came, was tight—fierce in tone, but cracking with emotion.

“Why didn’t you call us?”

Taufan blinked at him, visibly startled. Api never asked. He just was—loud, blazing, and constantly pushing. But now there was something afraid behind those amber eyes.

“You always call when something’s wrong,” Api went on, stepping closer, voice rising. “Even dumb stuff. Even when it’s just a weird noise in the ship or a weird dream. So why not now?! This—this wasn’t small. I felt it. You three... You felt it way more, didn’t you?”

Taufan gave a tired, broken smile. “Didn’t want to scare you.”

“You didn’t scare me,” Api said sharply—but then his voice cracked. “You worried me. You’re the one who always laughs things off. Who keeps us moving. But now you’re just—” He trailed off, then grabbed his brother’s arm, gripping tight. “I don’t like this version of you, Abang.”

Taufan didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

Air was the last to move. He walked to Gempa in slow, measured steps—not because he was calm, but because he was afraid of what he’d see up close. He leaned silently against Gempa’s side, feeling the stillness in his older brother’s massive frame.

“Okay, wow,” he muttered, after a pause. “This is way too much emotion for this early in the day. I think I’d rather nap for ten hours than… feel whatever this is.” He paused. “You’re too quiet, Abang Gem. Even for you.”

Gempa didn’t say anything either. He simply rested a large hand on Air’s head, but his usually calm, impenetrable expression had cracked. Air felt it in the way his brother’s breath hitched slightly—like the earth itself was unsure how to stay solid.

The room remained heavy. The message—whatever it truly was—still clung to the air like smoke after a battlefield. And though the younger four didn’t understand it completely, they knew.

This wasn’t just a message.

This was a calling.

And their older brothers… had already heard it more clearly than anyone else.

Gempa tried to steady his voice. “We’re okay. We just… weren’t ready for what the message showed us.”

Taufan let out a brittle laugh, sharp and unconvincing. “We’re the older ones. Gotta look like we’ve got it under control, right?”

“You don’t,” Api muttered bitterly. His words weren’t rebellious—they were afraid. “You really don’t.”

Halilintar finally spoke, voice low and rough, as if dragged through gravel. “You weren’t supposed to see us like this. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Cahaya snapped, the usual calm, smug tone fractured. He glared up at Halilintar, eyes tight. “You’re trying to act like everything’s fine when clearly it’s not. Even I can tell. And you know how bad I am at reading feelings.”

Daun looked up at his eldest brother with trembling eyes, voice barely a whisper. “I don’t like seeing you like this, Abang. You always tell us you don't need help. But… we’re supposed to help each other, right? You said that.”

The older three froze.

That simple, innocent plea carved deeper than any message. The younger ones had never seen them like this. Not since him. And now the façade was broken—and the weight of that brokenness hung heavy in the air.

After a long pause, Gempa finally spoke quietly. “How… how are you feeling? Honestly.”

The four younger siblings hesitated, glancing at one another, like they weren’t sure if their feelings were right—or even real.

“I…” Daun started, voice as fragile as glass. “I feel sad. Really, really sad. Like someone’s gone. Like someone important got taken away from me. But I don’t know why. We never met her… right?”

Cahaya didn’t lift his gaze. His arms were crossed tightly, still pressed against Halilintar’s side like he needed the contact to stay grounded. “It doesn’t make sense. It’s irrational. Illogical. And I hate not understanding my own thoughts. I felt… joy. And grief. And something else I couldn’t name. All at once.”

Air leaned heavily against Gempa again, frowning more than usual. “I tried to sleep through it. But I couldn’t. I didn’t want to think about it, but I couldn’t stop. My chest just… hurt. And I actually got out of bed to find you guys. That says a lot.”

Api stood with arms tight across his chest, jaw clenched like he was holding something back. “I wanted to punch something. Or someone. And I didn’t know why. It felt like I was losing… like I was failing. And I didn’t even know what the fight was about.”

The older brothers didn’t move. They didn’t interrupt. Because they’d felt all of it too.

Halilintar nodded slowly, voice softer now—wounded, honest. “We felt it as well. Every single one of those things. And more.”

Cahaya looked up again, that sharp, calculating look returning to his tear-bright eyes. “Then we agree, don’t we? The message—the voice—the name ‘Fang’—it means something. But how can something none of us remember hit us like that? Like… like we should know her?”

He took a shaky breath, grounding himself. “And it’s too convenient. The message shows up right when Master starts having nightmares. Visions. Memories that don’t feel like his own. This isn’t a coincidence.”

Halilintar’s expression hardened, but not with anger—with resolve. “That’s what we’re thinking. We believe Fang… she’s the new master of the lunar element.”

There was silence. The kind of silence that falls when the impossible suddenly feels real.

Cahaya’s brow furrowed as he paced a few steps away, then back. “So what now? We just… go? We follow a feeling? A dream? How can we trust this?”

“Yeah,” Api agreed, arms trembling as much from fear as frustration. “What if it’s a trick? What if we’re being lured? This could be a trap. Or something worse.”

Daun’s lip wobbled as he looked to each of them, lost. “But I still felt like… like she needed us. I don’t even know her. But I miss her. Isn’t that crazy?”

“It doesn’t make sense,” Air added, quieter than usual. He was hugging his knees now, voice low. “But when it hit me… it felt like someone was crying. Not just calling out to us. Crying for us. And it hurt in a place I didn’t know I had.”

“Same,” Cahaya muttered, gaze distant. “It’s like a string wrapped around my chest. Like I’m being pulled somewhere, and I don’t know if it’s a trap or… or someone waiting for us.”

“I felt it too,” Api whispered. “Like someone needed us. Like we failed them. Like we’re late.”

Another long pause.

“That too,” Air repeated. He rested his head on Gempa’s arm. “I don’t know if I want to answer the call or if I just have to. It scares me that I don’t know which it is.”

The older three didn’t speak for a long time.

Then Halilintar leaned forward, voice low. “We felt like it was tether. Like someone is pulling us toward her. Like she’s… part of us.”

“Then why didn’t we go after her?” Api’s voice cracked as he asked it, the vulnerability slicing through his usual bravado.

Taufan exhaled. “Because we don’t know what we’d find. And we don’t want to bring you into something that might hurt you.”

“But seeing you like this hurts more,” Air said, frustrated. “You’re supposed to be the ones we rely on. But right now, you’re hurting, and you didn’t let us help.”

“Exactly,” Daun said softly. “We don’t care if it’s dangerous. We want to be there. With you.”

The older three exchanged glances—startled, then touched.

Halilintar smiled faintly, rough but real. “We know. And we’re not holding back.”

“You felt her, too,” Taufan added. “That means this… whatever it is… It’s chosen all o’s

Gempa nodded firmly. “So we go. Together. No hiding. No pretending.”

A moment passed before Cahaya spoke again, his tone analytical but urgent. “The message had to come from somewhere. It left something behind. A trace. A direction. That means there’s a place to start.”

Suddenly, all eyes slowly turned to Halilintar.

He closed his eyes for a moment… and then whispered, “Pulau Rintis.”

The room stilled.

Taufan blinked. “Are you sure?”

“I… I just know,” Halilintar said, voice full of quiet certainty. “When I think about her… that place came to me.”

Gempa folded his arms tightly. “Maybe it’s the lunar element linking back to her. Maybe it started there.”

“That fits,” Cahaya murmured. “BoBoiBoy found Ochobot there. And Ochobot gave the Watch to him there, too. That island keeps pulling things toward it.”

Daun blinked. “Then… maybe he saw her too? Back then?”

“Not clearly,” Air said. “But if she left a trace in him from there… it could’ve echoed through him.”

Then the question came, unspoken and heavy—until Api voiced it with uncertainty.

“…Do we let him find her?”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Gempa looked down. “That’s the hardest question, isn’t it?”

Halilintar closed his eyes. “He’s already connected. The dreams… the pain… she’s already in his mind.”

Taufan spoke next, slow and serious. “If we wait too long… it’ll hurt him more than help him.”

“But if we lead him there,” Daun whispered, “what if it changes him?”

Cahaya, without hesitation, answered, “Then we protect him. All of us.”

“That’s our job,” Air said firmly. “To guard his path. No matter what.”

Gempa nodded. “We guide him. Step by step. If she’s the lunar element… if she’s calling him… then this is part of his journey too.”

Taufan looked out the window, voice soft but certain. “Then we go. Together.”

Then Air sighed, long and slow, like gravity itself was pressing down on him. “Well… guess we just keep waiting to be unlocked. No pressure or anything.”

Api’s head snapped around. “No pressure?! He’s out there having an identity crisis breakdown in the middle of the universe, and we’re still stuck in locked mode!”

“I’m fine with locked mode,” Air said, sinking a little deeper into the wall he wasn’t technically leaning on. “No training. No fights. Just vibes.”

“You’re always fine with the least amount of effort,” Api groaned.

Air shrugged. “Effort is overrated.”

“I should be next,” Api declared, jabbing a thumb toward his chest. “Master needs strength. Fire. Power. Me.”

“Oh, please.” Cahaya adjusted his imaginary glasses and lifted his chin. “What he needs is someone with intellect. Clarity. Brilliant. Strategy. Me.”

Api rolled his eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t fall out. “Brilliance? You? He’d be better off unlocking a brick.”

“Oh, please. A brick would just yell and throw punches—wait, that is you.”

Daun slowly blinked. “Wait, we’re fighting now? I thought we were sad like two minutes ago.”

“I am sad,” Cahaya sniffed dramatically. “Sad that BoBoiBoy hasn’t chosen me, the obviously superior option.”

“Oh, for the love of—” Api stood up and pointed at himself with both thumbs. “Strength. Fire. Passion. You need that in a fight.”

“And you need a plan, which he’s not getting from you; I am the obvious choice.” Cahaya fired back, standing too.

“You’re the obvious pain in the—”

“I’m just saying, if we’re going by usefulness, it’s logical to prioritize intelligence. Which you don’t have.”

“You wanna go, lightbulb?!”

“I DARE you, spark plug—”

“Uhh…” Daun raised a hand hesitantly. “I don’t wanna interrupt the shouting, but… I think I should be next?”

Everyone blinked at him.

“I mean… I don’t know why,” Daun continued thoughtfully. “I just… feel like Master could use some kindness right now? Like maybe a hug? Or a nap? Or a plant?”

There was a pause.

“…You want him to fight an ancient interdimensional breakdown with a plant?” Cahaya asked slowly.

“Not a plant,” Daun said, blinking. “Me. I’m the plant.”

Api threw his hands up. “This is ridiculous! I’m the strongest one here!”

“No,” Cahaya said flatly. “You’re the loudest.”

Air raised a finger. “Technically, that’s the same thing.”

“It absolutely is not—”

“You know what?” Api’s hands lit with harmless flickers of flame. “Let’s settle this with a spar.”

“We’re literally locked down,” Cahaya shot back. “What are you gonna do, haunt me into submission?”

Air chuckled. “Oooh nooo, the spooky fire ghost is gonna burn my afterlife—”

The volume escalated.

Api and Cahaya were nose-to-nose. Air was egging them on from his imaginary beanbag chair. Daun was quietly trying to manifest a leaf of peace between them like a toddler in a family meltdown.

“Guys,” Air muttered, already sounding tired again. “You're supposed to argue less in the afterlife.”

“Too bad we can’t actually do anything,” he added with the dramatic flop of someone who had done nothing all day. “Still locked. Useless.”

“We’re not useless,” Api snapped. “We just haven’t been unlocked yet. There’s a difference.”

“Yeah, a difference that means we’re stuck here,” Cahaya said, flicking imaginary dust off his shoulder like he wasn’t the most visibly irritated.

“I vote for me,” Daun added brightly, raising his hand. “I’m the only one here who doesn’t throw temper tantrums or monologue.”

“I don’t monologue—!”

“You literally practiced a monologue last week!” Daun said. “In the bathroom mirror! You had a pose and everything!”

“That was private character development!”

Gempa chuckled from where he leaned his back against the couch, hand on Air's head and eyebrow raised. “At least it's better than the last time Api tried to cook.”

“I heard that!” Api shouted, flustered. “It was still more edible than Cahaya's weird tofu stew.”

"No, it wasn't," Cahaya loudly protested, cheeks red.

Halilintar just grinned, arms crossed. 

Taufan finally cracked a smile, shaking his head. “Did you hear Api say ‘brick’ like it was an insult? I think he was a brick last week.”

“Still has more personality than Cahaya,” Gempa added teasingly with a snort.

“I’m right here!” Cahaya yelled over his shoulder, now in a staring contest with Api that looked seconds away from devolving into a full-on wrestling match.

Daun tried to pull them apart. “No fighting! No wrestling! No turning this into a PowerPoint presentation about your ‘greatness’ again!”

“I only did one PowerPoint—!”

“Why did it have transitions?!” Api shouted. “The PowerPoint had transitions!”

“It had animations too,” Api added in the unforgettable horror of the time they were stuck listening to Cahaya's last PowerPoint.

“It was a stylish disaster,” Cahaya huffed.

“A chaotic one,” Air agreed, though his lips were twitching.

Taufan burst out laughing, a sharp, unexpected bark of sound.

Gempa wheezed next, doubling over.

Even Halilintar, usually unreadable, covered his mouth with a hand as his shoulders shook.

“Please,” Taufan said, wiping a tear. “Keep going. I forgot how dramatic we were at our first tier.”

“At least we only fought over energy levels,” Halilintar said, grinning. “Not who gets picked first like it’s spirit dodgeball.”,

The laughter didn’t last long—but it was warm. Sharp and sudden, like sunlight cutting through stormclouds.

And for the first time in what felt like hours, the haunted look in the older brothers’ eyes faded—if only slightly.

For the younger four, who had started off feeling frustrated, locked away, and powerless… that laughter was worth more than any argument.

Even if Cahaya still muttered that his PowerPoint was “ahead of its time.”

And as the brothers sat in comfortable silence, a thread wrapped around each of their hearts—not forged from fear, but from something deeper.

Not just power.

Not just duty.

But love.

And the pull of someone waiting for them.

Pulau Rintis.

Her.

The truth.

Elsewhere... In Space.

Kaizo sat frozen in his office, the phantom pain still lingering in his ribs. His breath was uneven.

He clutched the edge of his desk, jaw clenched.

She was hurting.

She was in danger.

And she was alive.

His eyes narrowed.

"Fang..."

Only that something inside him—something deeper than thought—had screamed.

The Energy Watch on his wrist pulsed faintly. An eerie silver glow shimmered across its face, echoing the same glow that had burst from Fang’s own watch in her fit of agony earlier.

The watch had activated on its own.

It was broadcasting.

Tied not just to her pain, but to her longing.

And the watch—like the shadows—responded to the moon, bringing their master's allies to her.

One by one, the signals went out.

First to Kaizo, who already knew something was wrong.

Then to BoBoiBoy—the other name that lived in her pain, along with his elements.

Awhile Later

Kaizo was pacing.

That alone was a nightmare.

He never paced.

Not when ambushed. Not when ships were falling apart mid-warp. Not even during war. When bullets flew and blood stained the stars, he stood like a monolith—silent, unshaken, immovable.

But now?

He was pacing.

Sharp boots echoed in stiff, clipped strides across the cold metal floor of his private command deck. Over and over again. One hand clenched at his side. The other held the comm-link in a grip so tight the casing groaned under pressure.

The line blinked.

Still nothing.

“Pick up,” he muttered, barely above a growl. “Pick up, you impulsive, stubborn—”

The insult caught in his throat. Died there.

He swallowed it down and tried again. And again.

No response. No rejection ping. No scrambled signal. No trace.

Just silence.

She always answered.

Even if it was just to curse at him. Or say she was fine in the most obviously not fine tone possible. Even if it was mid-mission, mid-jump, mid-fight—she always answered him.

Especially him.

And now?

Nothing.

And for the first time in years—real years—his mind spiraled.

‘She always picks up.’

‘Even if she’s mad at me. Even if she’s hiding. Even if she hates me.’

‘She always answers. Just to say “go to hell.” Or call me a control freak. Or tell me to stop acting like can't do anything on her own.’

‘So why not now?’

‘Why now, when I—'

His hand shook.

‘She had never left him in the dark like this.’

And that ache in his chest—the instinct, the pull—something was wrong. Deeply wrong. He didn’t know how or why, but something was twisting inside him like the precursor to a wound that hadn’t even bled yet.

And somewhere in the back of his mind, like a whisper through ice, the nightmare stirred again.

Fang’s scream.

High. Choked.

Painful.

And the red lightning—crackling like claws tearing through smoke—wrapping around her silhouette, causing black scars before she vanished into that endless dark.

He never remembered anything after that.

Never remembered who hurt her. Or how.

Just her scream, the lightning, and the feeling of being too late.

He shook his head hard. Trying to silence it.

‘It’s just a dream. Just a fragment of his imagination from something else. Not real. She’s alive. She’s fine.’

‘Isn’t she?’

His fingers shook.

‘This wasn’t supposed to happen.’

‘She was reckless, yes. Loud. Impossible.’

‘But she was strong. Stronger than anyone gave her credit for.’

‘And he—he let her go. Alone.’

The image returned without mercy.

Admiral Maskmana, stone-faced, pointing at the red-marked quadrant on the star-map. Telling him he wanted Fang to go solo.

Kaizo’s protest had been immediate. Sharp. Loud. Unusual.

And Maskmana—damn him—had brushed him off. 

He should’ve fought harder.

He did argue. He did say it wasn’t safe. He told Maskmana she’d go off-script. That she didn’t have the restraint. That she was still young.

But it hadn’t mattered.

And worse—he’d let it drop.

He'd let Maskmana send her out alone, because some buried, traitorous part of him thought she’d be fine.

That she’d always be fine.

Because she was Fang.

And now she wasn’t answering.

The communicator buzzed again.

Still silence.

And Kaizo—cold, steel-eyed Kaizo—snapped.

With a snarl, he slammed the comm-link onto the console. It shattered instantly, plastic splintering beneath his fingers.

He didn’t care. It was his fourth one today anyway. All of them burned out trying to reach her on every encrypted channel he could override.

His mask of control cracked. He wasn’t calm. He wasn’t cold. He wasn’t anything except terrified.

'This is my fault.'

'I shouldn’t have let her go alone.'

'Should’ve stopped her. Watched her. Insisted she take backup. Anything.'

He'd worn that indifferent, arrogant expression for so long, pretending it didn’t matter. Pretending she didn’t matter. Cold orders. Quiet distance. Always pushing her away with rules, ranks, and sharp-edged scoldings.

But it wasn’t apathy.

It was armor.

Armor to keep her safe. So no one would target her. So no one would see how deep she ran in his blood.

So he wouldn’t lose her.

Because she wasn’t just some rogue child soldier they picked up.

She was his little sister.

And if he lost her—

If she died—

He didn't let that thought finish and pulled a replacement comm-link from the drawer, fingers moving with sharp precision as he rerouted the channel.

He wasn’t supposed to contact Fang.

Mission rules. Risk of signal trace. Orders from Maskmana.

He was breaking all of them.

He didn’t care.

The door slid open with a hiss.

Sai and Shielda stood there.

They looked like ghosts.

Still pale and wrecked from the brutal punishment training he’d thrown at them earlier that day—scraped knuckles, bandaged arms, stiff postures. Sai’s elbow was wrapped, and Shielda had dried blood at her temple.

Neither had dared come near him since the session ended.

But now?

They stared at him like they’d seen a god fall from the sky.

Because Captain Kaizo—calculated, commanding, unshakable—was pacing.

Calling someone.

Desperate.

Not yelling.

Not barking orders.

Just muttering, begging, pacing like a storm barely leashed.

“Captain…?” Shielda asked hesitantly, her voice barely above a whisper.

Kaizo didn’t look at her.

Didn’t stop.

Just called again.

No response.

Sai stepped forward, eyes wide. “C-Captain… are you okay? Who are you calli-?”

“Damn it all,” Kaizo snapped, his voice cracking like thunder as he slammed the comm-link onto the console once more. The plastic frame split with a sharp crack.

The twins flinched back like they'd been struck.

“You better not be—”

He cut off again.

No words came next. Just the thunder in his chest. The choking thoughts.

‘What if she’s hurt?’

‘What if I was wrong?’

‘What if I were too late again?’

A silence hung heavy.

He turned.

Eyes burning. Voice flat.

“Shielda. Sai.”

They straightened instantly, posture rigid.

“Tell Commander Kokoci I will be gone for two weeks. Consider it my vacation days.”

Sai’s jaw dropped. Shielda blinked like her mind short-circuited.

“W-What?” Shielda stammered. “Captain, wait, what—”

“Where are you going?” Sai blurted. “And you still have your missio-”

Kaizo leveled them both with a glare that could pierce steel.

“Captain’s orders,” he said, low and final. “No one follows me.”

And that was that.

No explanations. No permission for questions.

He turned on his heel, stormed past them toward the hangar, and was already pulling a mission pack onto his back. His movements were razor-sharp, efficient, and deadly quiet.

He didn’t look back.

Not once.

He couldn’t.

Because if he did, they’d see it.

That his hands were shaking.

That his breathing wasn’t steady.

That the man built like a war machine—designed to feel nothing—was unraveling.

The hangar bay loomed ahead. The escape vessel gleamed like a bullet waiting for release.

But in his mind, all he saw was her.

Fang.

Laughing at him. Calling him 'Stoic Captain'. Challenging his orders. Making everything harder just to prove she could.

But also—

Smiling after sparring.

Nudging his side when he was too tense.

Leaving protein bars on his desk without a word because she knew he’d skipped meals again.

And every time she broke the rules or flung herself into danger, he’d scold her. Harsh. Cold. Too harsh, maybe.

But it wasn’t because he didn’t care.

It was because he cared too much.

Because Fang wasn’t just his sister.

She was the last piece of his family. His blood.

And he’d built walls of steel around her—around himself—to keep her from ever knowing how much he needed her to live.

And now?

He might’ve let her walk into something he couldn’t save her from.

And it was all his fault.

The escape ship docked in the hangar bay gleamed under the cold lights.

Shielda and Sai remained frozen, stunned, and helpless.

They’d seen Kaizo angry. Furious. Ruthless.

But never this.

Never shaken.

And it made their blood run cold.

Sai and Shielda exchanged a look of wide-eyed panic, the ache in their bodies forgotten. Their injuries throbbed dully in comparison to the dread twisting in their guts now.

Kaizo—their captain—was leaving.

Alone.

Unhinged.

For her.

And he didn’t say it.

But they both knew.

Something was wrong with Fang.

Something bad.

And if Kaizo didn’t get to her in time…

They weren’t sure who would suffer more—her, or the entire universe.

“He’s going alone,” Shielda whispered, her voice shaking. “Without backup. Without intel. Without a mission file.”

As the captain vanished into the hangar, Sai whispered in horror, “We’re all screwed if he doesn’t come back with her.”

Shielda just stared at the door he disappeared through, heart hammering in her chest.

And for the first time ever...

She prayed.

Kaizo launched the ship.

In the silence of space, he pulled up the last known location from her comm’s beacon.

Earth. Pulau Rintis.

Six hours away.

He cursed under his breath and shoved the throttle to full.

The ship jolted into light speed.

And Kaizo didn’t look back.

The stars stretched into long, burning trails outside the viewport, smeared like tears across the void. Inside the cockpit, only the low, steady hum of the ship dared to breathe. Every other sound had vanished beneath the sharp ringing in Kaizo’s ears.

He sat rigid in the pilot’s seat, leather creaking faintly beneath his weight. His fingers twitched over the console, knuckles pale with tension. But the controls were an afterthought—muscle memory. His mind wasn’t here. It was lightyears away, chasing after a voice he hadn’t heard in too long.

Her voice.

His baby sister.

The silence where her laughter should’ve been echoed louder than the ship’s engines.

‘What if she’s hurt?’

‘What if she’s trapped somewhere cold and alone and terrified—thinking no one’s coming for her?’

‘What if she's already dead?’

The weight of it hit him like gravity collapsing in on itself. He leaned forward, elbows digging into his knees, hands threaded through his hair as if trying to hold his skull together. But the thoughts kept coming. Kept clawing.

'What if I failed again?'

'What if I lost her like we lost them?'

He'd lived too long calculating risks, trimming emotion like fat from a mission plan. Cold. Efficient. Necessary.

But this—this was different.

This was her.

She wasn't just some crew member. She wasn't just someone under his command. She was his anchor.

She was the chaos to his calm, the spark that always, somehow, pulled him out of the spiral before it got too deep. The one person he let get under his skin.

And now she was gone.

His breath trembled. He dug his nails into his palms until it hurt—anything to ground him. But the pain only twisted the fear tighter. A rising storm.

He remembered when they were younger—when she’d follow him everywhere with that stubborn grin and the boundless energy that made everyone else groan but always made him feel... less empty.

He'd hated how much he noticed when she wasn’t there.

He still did.

A flicker on the console pulled his gaze down—the blinking comm beacon. Still transmitting. Still empty. Still not her.

Kaizo stared at it.

Unblinking.

Unmoving.

Unforgiving.

The last message she sent replayed in his head—not the words, but her tone. That stupid, cocky confidence she always had when she thought he was being too uptight. As if nothing could ever go wrong.

He should’ve stopped her. Should’ve pulled rank. Should’ve chained her to the goddamn wall if that’s what it took.

Anything to keep her from vanishing like this.

He slammed his fist into the armrest hard enough to make the console rattle. “You don’t get to do this to me,” he growled. “You don’t get to make me worry like this. Not you. Not you, too.”

His voice cracked on the last word, something raw bleeding into the edges.

He sat back, chest heaving.

The silence pressed in again.

Maybe... maybe he should’ve said more. Apologized. For all the times he brushed her off. For all the times he masked his worry with lectures and cold warnings. For pretending he wasn’t checking her vitals from orbit. For treating her like a liability when the truth was—if he lost her, he wasn’t sure what would be left of him.

Because the galaxy could fall apart a thousand times, and Kaizo could survive that.

But losing her?

That would end him.

He bit down on his knuckle, just to stop himself from shouting into the void. The tears didn’t fall—they never did—but his eyes burned with the threat of them.

He hated how much he needed her.

He hated how much of his world still revolved around her orbit, like he was some stupid moon and she was the only sun left.

But he couldn’t stop it.

Wouldn’t stop it.

He refused to arrive too late.

The engines roared as the ship streaked through hyperspace, every second crawling by like centuries.

And Kaizo, curled inward in a cockpit too large and too quiet, whispered one last thing to the void—so softly, even he wasn’t sure he’d meant to say it:

“Come back to me... please.”

With Fang

Fang sank onto the bed in her room, her body trembling as waves of exhaustion crashed through her. The staff beside her felt like a heavy burden, though it should have been a source of strength. Her head throbbed fiercely—each pulse a sharp hammering behind her eyes—and a searing migraine clawed at her temples, blurring the edges of her vision. Her skin felt like it was burning beneath her sleeves, fever climbing relentlessly, flushing her cheeks with heat she couldn’t shake.

The black lightning scars that snaked across her arms, shoulders, and waist pulsed ominously, a cruel reminder of the price her body demanded whenever she pushed too far, whether through emotion or sheer overexertion. They weren’t just marks of pain; they were warnings.

‘Why won’t my body cooperate?’ she thought bitterly, jaw clenched tight. ‘I’m supposed to be strong. I’m supposed to be the one protecting everyone, but here I am—breaking. Falling apart.’

A sharp shiver ran down her spine despite the heat, and she curled inward, fighting the dizziness that threatened to drag her under.

From the shadows near the cracked window, a soft rustling sounded. Mouse emerged quietly, the smallest and most nimble of her shadow animals, carrying the dinner package Tok Aba had carefully prepared. The scent of fried rice and eggs—now lukewarm—filled the space, gentle and reassuring. Mouse’s bright eyes flickered with concern as she approached.

You shouldn’t push yourself this hard, Lunar Warrior, Mouse whispered softly, settling beside her. Luna, my Lady… you need rest.

Fang forced herself to swallow, a bitter taste thick on her tongue. Rest. How do you rest when the weight of everything is crushing you? Her voice was rough inside her head. I can’t stop. If I do, everything falls apart. Everyone’s safety depends on me.

Her other shadows—Tiger, Serpent, Eagle, Dragon—gathered silently around her, their forms flickering between solid and mist, their watchful eyes reflecting the flickering candlelight. They didn’t speak aloud, but the bond between them pulsed stronger than words.

You’re not alone, a gentle voice echoed in her mind, carrying strength and warmth. We bear your burdens with you. But you must listen—this is your body telling you to slow down.

Fang’s breath hitched, a tear escaping despite her efforts to hold it back. But I’m not weak, she thought fiercely. I’m not the child who needed saving anymore. I’m the one who should be saving.

Yet even as she clung to that thought, the truth gnawed at her—her body was betraying her, scars flaring from the pain she could barely endure, fever clouding her mind and stealing her strength.

I’m scared, she admitted silently, a confession only the shadows heard. Scared I won’t be enough. Scared they’ll see me break, like they always do.

Mouse nudged the food closer, urging her gently. Fang took a slow, shaky bite—then another. The warmth settled in her stomach like a small ember of hope.

For the first time in what felt like forever, she allowed herself to cry—not just for her exhaustion, but for the burden she carried alone, for the loss she never voiced, for the brother she missed more than words could say.

Her shadow animals leaned closer, cocooning her in quiet comfort. No words were needed—just the soft presence of those who understood her pain.

The migraine dulled slightly. The fever’s grip loosened, even if only a little.

And finally, Fang’s sobs faded into a fragile, exhausted sleep.

The shadows stayed by her side that night, not as weapons, but as warmth.

She slept uneasily, drenched in sweat and tangled in her covers.

Her pulse was too fast. Her brow furrowed in pain. Her breathing was shallow.

But despite everything... her lips moved again in sleep.

Just two names.

Barely a breath.

“…Kaizo...BoBoiBoy...”

And the watch pulsed brighter.

For the Lunar warrior was still a child. A hurting child.

Chapter Text

Before School – BoBoiBoy’s Family Home, Early Morning

The first rays of dawn crept into the room, painting golden streaks across BoBoiBoy’s walls. Birds chirped faintly outside. His alarm hadn’t even gone off yet.

But he was already up.

Sitting on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, hands clenched in his lap.

Still thinking about that feeling.

Still hearing that name.

Fang.

He didn’t know who she was. He couldn’t remember anything clearly from the dreams he’d been having for three days now—just a girl with purple hair, flashes of red lightning, explosions, a muffled scream, black scars—and emotions that weren’t his but felt like they were.

His chest ached again. Guilt. Grief. Rage. A cold, protective instinct he didn’t understand.

But yesterday was different.

The pain had hit him the moment his watch began to glow, sharp and sudden, like being struck by lightning from the inside out. For a breathless second, it was as if someone had screamed through his very soul, not with their voice—but with their need to be found.

He hadn’t slept since. Not really.

BoBoiBoy lay there, staring at the ceiling in the dark, whispering into the silence—talking to the elements.

“Halilintar. Taufan. Gempa.”

And they were listening.

“So... you felt it too, right?” BoBoiBoy’s voice was hoarse, barely more than a breath. “That pain. That feeling. The one that didn’t belong to me.”

There was a long pause. Then, under a low rumble of thunder, Halilintar growled bitterly.

“Tch... yeah. What of it?” his voice crackled, rougher than usual. “It hit like... like I failed. Like I hurt her. I don’t even know who she is, and it still felt like I should’ve died before letting her get hurt.”

His voice dipped, cracked. “It doesn’t make sense. I hate it. Hate that I couldn’t stop it. Hate that I feel like I’ve done this before. Like I am the one who caused her harm.”

BoBoiBoy swallowed, throat tight. “It felt like I was about to cry. And scream. And punch a hole through the wall.”

“Wow. That was poetic,” Taufan quipped. His usual cocky drawl was there—but wobbly, forced. “But... yeah. I felt it too. Like someone was laughing... for the last time. Like I’d heard that laugh before. Like it mattered more than my own.”

He paused, then added more softly, “We didn’t even know her name until now... but I miss her. Isn’t that crazy?”

BoBoiBoy’s breath shook. He hadn’t imagined it. He wasn’t alone in feeling this.

“What do we do then? Where do we even start?” he whispered. “We don’t even know who she is. Just a name: Fang. That’s it.”

“And that she’s a girl with purple hair,” Taufan added.

“And that she’s hurting,” Halilintar said darkly.

“And that we failed her,” Gempa murmured.

His voice was like soft stone—strong, but warm. Like an anchor.

“I felt like I lost someone really dear,” Gempa continued, trembling now. “Like someone I swore to protect... trusted me, and I wasn’t there when it counted.”

BoBoiBoy pressed the heel of his palm against his eyes, trying to keep everything from spilling over. “But how? None of us even met her. Not me, not any of you.”

His voice cracked. “So why does it feel like you all knew her? Personally. Like she mattered to you before she even existed to me?”

Another silence.

It wasn’t awkward. It was... complicated.

Gempa finally said, “Because she mattered to you, Master.”

BoBoiBoy groaned. “Ugh. Again with the ‘Master’ thing! How many times do I have to say it? Call me BoBoiBoy, please.”

Taufan snorted. “Okay, BoBoiMaster.”

“My bad, MasterBoy.” Halilintar rumbled, definitely smirking.

Gempa chuckled kindly. “We mean it with respect, Master.”

He sighed, giving up. “You guys are the worst.”

But his voice was softer now. Less strained. Less... alone.

Still, the question remained.

“You said she mattered to me,” BoBoiBoy murmured. “But we don’t even know her.”

There was a beat of silence. Then—

“Don’t you?” Halilintar asked, voice uncharacteristically low and soft. “Then why does your heart ache every time we say her name?”

“Why did your breath catch when you saw that vision of her smile?” Taufan added, all breezy tone but hiding something tighter underneath.

“Why did you whisper her name in your sleep?” Gempa’s voice was gentle, like a quiet wave against his ribs.

BoBoiBoy flushed hard. He sat up too fast and promptly whacked the back of his head against the wall.

“OW—what?! I didn’t—You’re exaggerating—You’re making stuff up!” he hissed, rubbing the sore spot with a wince, his face heating up fast enough to power a small city.

The three of them cackled.

Not politely chuckled. Not sweetly laughed.

CACKLED.

“Ohhhh, someone’s blushing~!” Taufan sing-songed. “Bet if she walked in right now, you’d combust.”

“Physically impossible,” Halilintar said, amused. “But emotionally? Absolutely.”

“I’ve never seen you turn red this fast,” Gempa added cheerfully.

BoBoiBoy scowled, throwing a pillow into the darkness. “It’s not funny! I’m trying to be serious here! We don’t know what kind of person she is; we just know her name. That’s it!”

“And yet…” Gempa murmured. His tone softened again, and this time, all three of them fell quiet with him.

“And yet it felt like we’ve always known her,” Taufan said after a moment. “Like something inside us snapped into place when we heard her name.”

BoBoiBoy bit his lip. “But that’s just it. You guys all... felt something too. But each of you felt something different. Like you knew her in a way that I don’t. How does that make any sense?”

The air shifted—almost awkwardly.

There was a pause. Too long.

Then Halilintar spoke, gruff again. “It’s... weird. We feel it too, yeah. And not just as versions of you. Not echoes. This was real. Raw. Like we—I—miss her. Like I loved her once.”

Taufan was uncharacteristically quiet. “And it’s more than just echoes, Master. It’s... like I remember laughing with her. Protecting her. Chasing stars just to make her smile.”

“I don’t even understand love,” Gempa admitted gently. “But when I think of her, I... I want to. I want to hold her safe. Even now, when I don’t know her voice, or her scent, or her stories... I want to keep her warm.”

BoBoiBoy stared, slack-jawed. “You guys are in love with her?!”

“No—!” they all said at once, then immediately talked over each other:

“I mean, maybe—”

“It’s different, it’s weird—”

“Technically, you were first—”

“We’re connected to you, remember?!”

“Don’t put this on us like we’re some weird elemental boy band crushing on the same girl!”

BoBoiBoy slapped a hand to his face, overwhelmed. “This is the weirdest conversation I’ve ever had, and I’ve fought aliens.”

Gempa laughed warmly. “Sorry, Master.”

“Enough with the Master! Just fricking call me BoBoiBoy!”

“But Master sounds cooler,” Taufan said with a grin. “Like you’re the boss of a dojo or something. Master of the Elements! Ooooh!”

“Seriously, guys—!”

“Master BoBoiBoy, it is!”

BoBoiBoy groaned and flopped back onto the floor with a thud, staring once more at the ceiling.

But even as he tried to smother the heat in his cheeks and calm his heartbeat, something inside him knew they were right. He didn’t understand what this feeling was. Not fully.

But every time they said her name... Fang...

His chest clenched.

His pulse skipped.

His breath hitched.

And maybe, just maybe...

He didn’t want them to stop saying it.

He stared at the wall.

Something inside him hurt. Like a thread that had been tied around his heart and pulled taut by someone far away.

“Where?” he asked again, voice low. “Where is she?”

“Pulau Rintis,” Gempa answered without hesitation. “That’s where the pull came from. We know it.”

“Pulau Rintis?” His brow furrowed.

It didn’t make sense.

And yet... it did.

He’d spent the summer there. Nothing strange had happened. Except for gaining his powers, getting unofficial roommates in his head, and his fights with Adudu and Probe. But maybe... maybe he’d missed something. Maybe she’d been there. Or sent something from there. A call. A memory. A scream.

And somehow, deep down...

He knew.

So did they.

And though the ache didn’t fade... it stopped feeling like his burden alone.

He had them. And they had her.

Downstairs, the smell of toasted bread filled the kitchen. His mom, Suriya, turned from the stove just in time to see him enter.

“BoBoiBoy?” she blinked. “You’re up early.”

He didn’t respond. Just walked to the table and sat, eyes distant.

His father—Amato, also known in outer space as MechAmato—peeked over his newspaper.

“…You feeling okay, buddy?” he asked, voice unusually gentle. “You’re quiet today.”

That snapped Suriya’s attention fully toward him.

“Did something happen?” she asked, kneeling beside his chair. “BoBoiBoy, look at me.”

He did. Slowly.

When BoBoiBoy met her eyes, Suriya immediately saw it.

Something was deeply wrong.

There was a sadness there—a weight that didn’t belong on the shoulders of a boy his age. Shadows under his eyes, too heavy for school stress. Too quiet for his usual storms of energy.

“…I want to transfer schools,” he said, voice soft.

Both parents blinked.

“To where?” Amato asked, already wary.

“…Pulau Rintis,” BoBoiBoy replied. “I want to stay with Tok Aba.”

The silence that followed was immediate and stunned.

Suriya exchanged a look with her husband. “That’s… sudden,” she said gently. “Is this about the nightmare you had last night? The one you wouldn’t talk about?”

BoBoiBoy hesitated.

“...It’s not just a nightmare.”

He looked down at his hands, and again those faint sparks crackled at his fingertips—nervous, involuntary.

“I felt something. Or someone. Someone is in pain. I think her name is Fang, and I know it sounds crazy, but... I have to find her.”

Amato’s brow twitched.

'Fang?'

The name sent a sharp jolt through his memory. But almost instantly, his logic kicked in to shut the thought down.

'No. It couldn’t be. Couldn’t possibly be her.'

The Fang his son was talking about—he had to be imagining it. There was no way it was the same Fang he knew from TAPOPS. The same girl who’d trained under Pian—Maskmana himself. The same girl Pian always bragged about, even when trying to play it cool. The same girl whose older brother, Kaizo, fought him over that last mission decision.

'That Fang was off on a stealth retrieval mission for the past two months. A minor op.' Amato’s mind moved quickly, recalling the last briefing.

Pian had ranted at him for fifty straight minutes before he calmed down. Something about a reckless amateur hunter who had snagged a power sphere out in the outer systems. A simple stealth and rescue mission.

Amato had meant to ask the name of the sphere or any detailed info about it, but Pian had been too busy pacing, worrying, ranting, chewing through every worst-case scenario. The irony wasn’t lost on him—it was Pian who made the call to send her, and Pian who was the most upset about it.

Of course, Pian never admitted how much he cared for them—but Amato knew. He’d seen it in his friend’s voice, in the way his hands shook when talking about them.

He doesn’t say it aloud, but he sees Kaizo and Fang as his own kids.

'Just like I do with BoBoiBoy.'

And Kaizo… Amato could still see the look on the boy’s face when he left Pian's office. Mask tight. Voice cold. But his eyes were screaming.

And Amato—he had looked away. Tried to support Pian’s decision. Tried to offer calm.

He hadn’t succeeded.

It played out in his head, still clear even after two months, from how frantic his friend had been.

That damn memory again.

Flashback Two Months Ago

The door to Pian’s office had barely slid shut behind Kaizo when Amato passed by. He barely recognized the boy—so rigid, so distant. Not angry. Not broken. Just… shut down.

Amato hesitated, then opened the door.

“Pian?”

His friend didn’t even look up. He was slouched in his chair, face buried in his hands. The desk was a mess—papers scattered, two mugs of untouched coffee (cold), and three different blinking notification pads he clearly hadn’t acknowledged.

“…What happened?” Amato asked softly.

That was the trigger.

“He looked at me like I’d betrayed him, Amato!” Pian snapped, bolting upright so fast the chair screeched and toppled behind him. “Kaizo—he didn’t even argue at the end! You know how terrifying it is when he doesn’t argue?! He just… left! Silent. Masked. That look! Like I’d sold her off—like I handed her over to disappear!”

Amato stepped inside slowly, raising both hands. “Okay. Deep breaths, Pian. Start from the beginning.”

Pian didn’t breathe. He paced—like he was being hunted.

“I sent her out alone. Alone! No backup, no second unit—just basic support equipment and remote comms. Why did I do that?! She’s still syncing her core, her stealth module has never worked beyond training runs, and she’s too trusting—she always believes people can be talked down!”

“It’s a retrieval mission,” Amato tried. “Not a strike. She’s trained for this.”

“She has no care for her life!” Pian shouted. “She’s all fire and no armor! Her powers fluctuate, her judgment is still too soft, and she—she smiles before a mission, Amato! Like it’s a game!”

Amato’s voice was firm now. “Pian. Enough. She’s not a game player. She’s a soldier.”

“She’s a child!” Pian whirled around, hair wild, eyes blazing. “And I sent her to a system we can’t even scan properly, to track a hunter who might leave for another one we don't even know! That hunter—he slipped through three of our elite teams. Three! And I thought Fang could just… what? Sneak in and get it back? I thought I was making a leadership call. I thought she’d be fine!”

MechaBot’s voice buzzed quietly through Amato’s armor:

“Based on previous missions, the current probability of Fang encountering fatal force 47%. Add psychological instability under duress: 63%. Chance of enemy coercing her to fuse with an unknown power sphere: 31%. Probability she is currently undergoing forced transformation—”

“STOP TALKING!” Pian roared, voice raw and cracking.

Amato turned quickly, muttering, “Mute mode, Mecha.”

But MechaBot continued flatly:

“Or, if you prefer a more optimistic forecast: possibility she survives, but with corrupted core functions and long-term memory loss—18%.”

Pian’s breathing became ragged. He staggered back, grabbing the desk like it was the only solid thing left in the room.

“I-I don’t even have the sphere’s full classification,” he whispered, voice breaking. “The hunter has no previous case. I didn’t even demand backup approval. I was too busy convincing Kaizo to stay put—telling him she needed to stand on her own—like some lesson! Like it was worth it!”

Amato grabbed his friend by the arms. “Pian!”

“I made her go alone!” Pian yelled, shaking. “And if she dies—if she doesn’t come back—it’s my fault. I did that!”

MechaBot let out one final, softer tone:

“Pian is now at emotional threshold saturation. Emergency chocolate may be required.”

“Mecha,” Amato hissed.

“Exiting for the sake of everyone’s mental health.” fzzzt

The silence that followed was deafening.

Pian stopped mid-step, breath ragged. But his hands were still clenched, arms twitching with the need to move, do, say something else. The silence didn’t calm him.

It made him more frantic.

Amato’s instincts kicked in.

He didn’t stop him. Didn’t try to give advice. Didn’t argue. Instead…

He sat down quietly on the edge of the desk.

And waited.

Pian resumed pacing after a beat—like a machine forced into motion—and kept talking. His voice cracked again, this time lower, more raw.

He ended up ranting for at least another 45 minutes until he finally calmed down, and Amato realized that his friend needed to let that energy out, so Amato stayed quiet even though he didn't understand what Pian was saying anymore.

At the end, Pian collapsed back into his chair, head falling into his hands again. The silence after the storm was brutal.

“…I shouldn't have sent her,” he whispered. “Not alone.”

Amato sat down on the edge of the desk beside him, voice low but steady.

“You did. And I know why you did. She is capable, Pian. She’s not soft—she’s kind. That’s different. And Kaizo? He’s not mad. He’s just scared. You both are.”

Pian didn’t speak. Just covered his face.

Amato placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Now we have to trust her to finish the mission. And trust Kaizo not to break before she returns.”

End Of Flashback

Now here his son was, saying her name.

Amato slowly lowered the paper in his hands.

“You had a dream about someone in trouble, and now you want to transfer schools over it?” he asked carefully. “BoBoiBoy, you’re a superhero now, sure, but this sounds—”

“I’m not saying it’s logical,” BoBoiBoy interrupted, voice tight with frustration. “I know it doesn’t make sense. I know I don’t have proof. But this isn’t just something I saw while asleep.”

He gripped the edge of the table hard. His voice cracked.

“It hurt. Like it happened to me. Like I watched her get hurt and couldn’t stop it. I felt useless. Angry. I woke up ready to scream.”

Suriya reached out, rubbing his back. “Sweetheart…”

“I’m not asking you to believe the dream,” he said. “I’m asking you to trust me.”

Amato looked at his son. The sparks at his fingers were dim now—but steady. His eyes were sharp with something deeper than fantasy. Something painful. Something real.

“BoBoiBoy,” he said, voice gentler now. “Pulau Rintis is far. That’s a big move. It’ll affect your schooling, your training, your entire schedule—”

“Tok Aba’s getting older,” BoBoiBoy said quickly. “He’s alone most days. You’ve both said before you worry about him. Let me stay with him. I’ll go to the school there. I already know the town, I know the people, and I’m strong enough to take care of myself.”

“You’re ten,” Suriya pointed out, raising a brow.

“…Ten and a half,” BoBoiBoy mumbled. Then louder: “You’ve always told me to follow my heart. Well, this is what it’s telling me to do.”

A familiar mechanical whir cut the tension.

MechaBot, Amato’s partner and honorary uncle-bot, hovered into view from the hallway.

“May I interject?”

Everyone turned to look.

“I scanned BoBoiBoy’s vitals after the incident last night,” MechaBot reported. “His heart rate, lightning output, and neuroelectric signals all spiked—significantly. Comparable to battle mode activation. But there was no actual threat present. Whatever he experienced… it was real to him.”

He floated closer and turned his lens toward Amato.

“You’ve always told BoBoiBoy that power must be treated with seriousness. I’ve never seen him react to anything like this. Not even during combat drills.”

Amato sighed, rubbing his chin.

“You too, Mecha?”

“I believe him,” MechaBot said firmly.

The silence hung in the air.

Amato’s thoughts spun.

'It still can’t be the same Fang. Pian would’ve called if something went wrong. Right?'

'But… Pian hadn’t called since.'

'Just that single encrypted report confirming the mission had been launched.'

'What if she never returned to report back?'

A sick feeling twisted in his gut.

BoBoiBoy stared up at him, hopeful and hurting.

Finally, Amato sighed again—slow and deep.

“…Alright.”

BoBoiBoy blinked. “Wait. Really?”

“I’ll make a few calls. See if the transfer is possible.”

“It’ll take about a week,” Suriya added. “Maybe more. We’ll need to check with Tok Aba, talk to your school, and set things up properly.”

She gave him a soft smile, brushing back the wild tuft of hair falling over his forehead.

“But if this means that much to you…”

Her voice softened.

“…Then we trust you.”

BoBoiBoy’s shoulders finally relaxed.

He beamed, the glow returning to his eyes.

And for the first time since the nightmare, the weight in his chest felt lighter.

But Amato wasn’t quite done.

He leaned back in his chair with a quiet exhale, eyes thoughtful as he looked at his son.

“You know…” he said, voice quieter now, “when I was your age, I did something just as reckless.”

BoBoiBoy blinked, caught off guard. “You did?”

“Oh yeah,” Amato nodded, lips curling slightly. “My first real mission? I chased a distress signal halfway across the archipelago on nothing but a gut feeling and my half-broken flight boots. No backup, no clearance. Just the feeling that someone needed help.”

Suriya snorted faintly from beside them. “That’s an understatement. He came back with a broken arm, a missing boot, and an alien plant growing out of his shoulder.”

“It was clinging to me,” Amato defended. “Affectionately.”

BoBoiBoy cracked a small laugh.

“But,” Amato continued, eyes serious now, “I learned something back then. Sometimes your instincts know more than logic ever will. Especially when you're tied to powers like yours. Your powers feel things, BoBoiBoy. They resonate with the world in ways we don’t always understand.”

BoBoiBoy looked down again, thinking of the voices in the dark. The grief that didn’t belong to him—but somehow did.

“I don’t understand why it hurts so much,” he admitted. “Like it’s not just me feeling it. Like they all knew her. And I… I miss her. And I don’t even know her yet.”

Amato rested a firm hand on his shoulder.

“You don’t have to understand everything right away,” he said. “But you do have to listen. I didn’t trust my instincts back then. Almost cost someone their life. You’ve already made the braver choice—asking us for help.”

He ruffled his son’s hair gently.

“That tells me you’re not just strong—you’re growing up.”

BoBoiBoy flushed at the praise, biting back a smile.

And just like that, for a brief moment, the storm inside BoBoiBoy quieted.

But in the back of his mind, the name still echoed.

Fang.

And whatever was pulling him toward Pulau Rintis… wasn’t done yet.

Amato watched his son head off toward the kitchen, where his wife was preparing something warm. Suriya patted him on the back and followed, the tension in the room lifting with every step away.

But Amato remained seated.

His fingers drummed once against the table, slow… thoughtful.

Fang.

The name hadn’t come up in months. Not even a message. Not even one of Pian’s quick status reports.

That wasn’t like them.

And more than that—BoBoiBoy’s words clung to him.

“I miss her. And I don’t even know her yet.”

“They all knew her.”

It felt like puzzle pieces nudging against each other—but none fitting just right. A sense of unease curled in his gut, not born from panic or prediction. No.

Something had already happened.

Amato stood, quietly stepping away from the table and into the hallway, thumbing his communicator open to Pian’s ID.

“Come on, pick up…” he muttered under his breath.

The dial tone beeped once… twice…

Then:

“You’ve reached Pian’s totally professional, absolutely boring mission voicemail. I’m busy saving the universe, leave your existential dread after the beep.”

Beep.

Amato didn’t speak. Not right away.

He stared at the wall, jaw tense, the faint hum of the base behind him.

His voice, when it came, was low. Tight.

“Pian. If you get this, contact me as soon as you’re able. Not a drill.”

A pause.

“…Is Fang alright?”

He ended the message.

And just stood there for a moment.

The feeling lingered—like an echo. Like a note played out of tune, too quiet for words but too loud to ignore.

He’d been a hero long enough to know when something had gone wrong.

And Pian may have been hard to rattle…

But even he couldn’t cover for Fang when something truly broke.

Later that morning, BoBoiBoy walked to school with lighter steps, the wind brushing through his hair. He didn’t know what awaited him in Pulau Rintis. He didn’t even know who “Fang” truly was.

But something inside him knew.

She was out there. And she needed him.

A part of him still grieved, still raged, still remembered, even if his mind didn’t.

So he would wait a week.

Train harder.

Prepare.

And when the time came—

He would find her.

And protect her.

No matter what.

With Kaizo

Kaizo’s ship cut through the thinning atmosphere as dawn began to paint the sky in pale oranges and soft blues. Earth loomed below—a world full of life, and more importantly, where Fang was.

Inside the cockpit, the steady blinking of a location beacon marked her position. He didn’t know anything about which foes Fang was fighting, her current state, or if she was even alive. All he knew was the signal, faint but real, pulling him toward her.

His fingers tightened around the controls, heart pounding beneath his stoic exterior.

“Pang...” he whispered, using the nickname only he dared. The name wrapped around his throat like a prayer. 'Hold on, Pang. I’m coming.'

He glanced at the small mirror mounted beside the control panel—a sharp contrast between the battle-hardened captain and the younger man he once was. Without hesitation, Kaizo began changing. Off came his standard uniform and metal mask, replaced by a simple dark blue shirt, a knee-length purple coat, brown boots, and black jeans—clothes meant to help him blend in, to move unnoticed.

No ship. No military presence. Just a man who had to find his little sister without alerting anyone or anything that might stop him.

His breath hitched as the last piece clicked into place. He put on his mask, which became a pen shape with the hilt of his sword in case he needed to fight, and a data tablet in his inner coat pocket.

Outside, the forest below thickened, shadows weaving between the trees like whispered secrets.

Kaizo flicked off the ship’s main power, letting the craft slip into invisibility amid the leaves and dawn mist.

He stood, gathering a small pack and weapon, then activated the emergency exit.

As he stepped into the early morning chill, the weight of his mission settled heavily on his shoulders.

'I’m coming, Pang.'

And with that, he disappeared into the forest, chasing the faint beacon and the hope it represented.

Kaizo continued to follow the signal until he reached an abandoned mansion.

He slipped into it like a phantom, every movement silent, precise. The air was thick with decay and something else—something colder. The beacon on his wrist pulsed like a heartbeat. Close. Too close.

He wasn’t breathing properly.

He told himself it was the dust.

But really, it was the fear.

The hallway ahead stretched like the throat of a beast. Cracked floorboards. Torn wallpaper. Empty picture frames hanging crooked on the walls. Each step brought him closer to the signal. Closer to her.

‘Or… what might be left.’

‘No. Don’t think like that.’

He clutched the wall for balance as he crept forward. His hand brushed against cold stone. Then suddenly—

A shift.

The temperature dropped, unnatural.

Something moved.

Something was watching.

Kaizo’s instincts screamed. He pressed his back to the wall, hand darting to the sword hilt.

Shadows slithered just out of reach, too smooth, too precise.

Not tricks of light.

Not figments.

Constructs. Weapons. Creatures?

One of them darted across the ceiling—fast, deliberate, shaped like a mouse with glowing silver eyes. Another crouched at the end of the hall like a hunched beast. A shadow eagle tilted its head at him with eerie stillness.

Kaizo’s hand tightened around the hilt of his blade.

Someone powerful is here.

Someone dangerous.

His heart dropped.

‘Is this who took her?’

A kidnapper. A puppeteer. Someone is using his sister, controlling her, hiding her behind these creatures. His pulse roared in his ears. Panic twisted his gut.

And then, a presence coiled above him.

Kaizo didn’t flinch when the massive, serpentine thing slithered down from the ceiling, its form formless, eyes ancient and glowing with power.

A dragon. Made of shadow and silence.

‘No way. These aren't hers.’

Fang had always hated being feared. She liked light. Warmth. She can be quiet but never cold. Never cruel.

These things—these shadows—reeked of something deeper. Weaponized loneliness. Cold fury. Protective malice.

‘This was who took her.’

‘This… thing is guarding the captor’s chamber.’

Kaizo’s muscles coiled, prepared to strike—

But then the dragon froze. Its head twisted. It hovered inches from Kaizo’s face. He felt its breath—or whatever passed for breath in a thing made of nightmares.

And then—

The dragon inhaled.

Its eyes widened.

A low, confused rumble escaped its throat, vibrating the air around them.

Kaizo blinked.

The other shadows stopped.

Watched.

The eagle tilted its head further, eyes softening.

The mouse circled him, sniffing gently at his boots. No aggression. No fear.

‘What...?’

Then the dragon let out a sound almost like a breathless chuff. Not a growl.

Recognition.

It blinked slowly… and lowered its head in a respectful nod.

The moment shifted.

The atmosphere softened.

Kaizo's hand dropped from his weapon in disbelief.

‘They’re not guarding a captor.’

‘They’re guarding her.’

The dragon nudged him forward with the tip of its snout. A wordless instruction.

Come.

The eagle flew ahead, leading him down the last hallway.

Kaizo followed, eyes wide, steps uneven. His throat was dry, his heartbeat chaotic. The shadows didn’t stop him. They followed. Watched.

‘They don’t seem like weapons. Are they… hers?’

He reached the last door.

The signal was strongest here.

He turned the knob.

And—

Heat hit him like a wall.

Heavy. Suffocating. A room too warm for morning air. The kind of warmth that came from a high fever and too many nights spent awake and alone.

The bed was tangled in blankets and shadow-woven silk. On it—

Fang.

His Pang.

She lay curled under the weight of fever, her lips dry, her skin flushed and pale at once. Her breathing came in soft pants, uneven. Damp hair clung to her cheeks. Her body trembled as if even sleep couldn’t shelter her from pain.

Surrounding her were the creatures.

A tiger at her feet.

A serpent guarded her shoulder.

The mouse curled under her chin.

The eagle was above her head.

The dragon, silent and solemn, coiled protectively around the room’s borders like a living crown.

Kaizo fell to his knees.

She wasn’t trapped.

She wasn’t controlled.

She was… protected.

These things—these beings—weren’t jailers.

They were companions.

And now, they looked at him with quiet expectation.

No hostility. No suspicion.

Just a quiet welcome.

Because they knew who he was.

So did she.

Kaizo pressed a shaking hand to his mouth, swallowing a broken sound.

“I’m here now, Pang,” he whispered hoarsely. “I’m sorry I took so long…”

The dragon, massive and weightless, coiled quietly closer to him.

And for the first time since crossing into Earth’s orbit—

Kaizo let himself feel.

But the feeling didn’t stop at recognition. It didn’t stop at relief.

It turned to horror.

His eyes moved to Fang’s arm, half-exposed from beneath the tangled blankets. The skin—

It was marked.

Thin black lines cracked across her forearm like veins of ash and lightning. They glowed faintly with a pulsing, shadowy hum.

He didn’t move at first. He couldn’t.

Then he surged forward.

“Pang,” Kaizo whispered hoarsely, kneeling beside the bed, his fingers trembling as he reached for her. He gently pushed the blanket aside, just enough to see more.

Her upper back—

His breath hitched.

The same marks were there, arcing to her shoulder blades, branching like black lightning under her skin. Scar tissue. Fresh and angry.

He’d seen this before.

In his nightmares.

In the dreams, he couldn’t explain where he heard her scream and saw jagged shadows rip through a fragile body he couldn’t reach in time.

He thought it was just a nightmare.

He thought it was just guilt.

But this was real.

He blinked rapidly. His chest tightened. “No, no, no, no—who did this to you?”

He reached for her shoulder gently, thumb brushing the fever-hot skin. “Pang, please—wake up. It’s me. It’s Kaizo.”

Her breath shuddered, but she didn’t stir.

Kaizo moved with all the care in the world, slipping his arms under her and pulling her slowly into his chest. Her head rested against him like it had when they were children, when she’d fall asleep in his lap during storms and say nothing, only trusting him to stay.

The warmth of her soaked through his jacket.

Her scent—subtle, familiar—wrapped around him like a time capsule cracked open. Carrot. Lavender. A touch of rain.

The scent hit him harder than the scars.

His throat closed.

The tears fell before he realized they had gathered. Hot and silent. They dripped into her hair as he held her tighter, fingers clutching the back of her shirt like he could somehow protect her from what had already happened.

Kaizo bent his head, pressing his forehead gently to hers.

“Fang... I’m here,” he murmured, voice breaking. “I’m here now. I’m so sorry. I should’ve found you sooner. I should’ve—”

His voice caught.

The dragon shadow across the wall lowered its head, silent and still.

Kaizo couldn’t tell if he was shaking because of her fever or because of what he knew now.

What he remembered from the dream.

The pain she must’ve been in.

The loneliness.

The red lightning.

That wasn't a nightmare.

He pulled her just a little closer.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, gently brushing strands of damp hair from her forehead. “It’s okay now. You’re not alone.”

She stirred.

Just slightly, a twitch of her brow, a flutter in her lashes.

Kaizo’s touch—warm, steady, and familiar—grazed her cheek again. His fingers trembled, nudging her with the gentleness only a brother could have. “Pang… come on,” he whispered again, barely above a breath. “I’m here now. Please…”

Fang’s head swam.

She was burning—boiling inside—but something new began to break through the fever-haze. Something that didn’t belong to the illness.

A scent.

A breath of air through cedar trees. The electric tang of ozone. Iron, sharp and metallic like blood and battle. Jasmine—her mother’s favorite flower. Along with cedarwood.

Kaizo.

That scent belonged to Kaizo.

But she’d dreamed of him too many times before. Woken to a cold bed, shadow creatures curled around her in silence, trying to chase the ache away.

She swallowed hard, trying to brace herself as her eyes fluttered open, slow and hesitant.

And saw him.

There.

Right there.

Holding her like she was made of glass.

Holding her like she might disappear if he let go.

His face was tear-streaked and real.

Her heart stuttered in disbelief.

“...Abang?” she whispered, voice cracked, half-broken, almost too soft to be real. As if saying it too loudly would shatter the fragile hope blooming in her chest.

Kaizo froze.

He didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink. Didn’t move.

It was that word.

Abang.

The name she hadn’t used in years. Not since he’d locked himself away from her, too wounded, too proud, too alone to say it ever again. Not since he’d turned his back and walked away without a single glance at her behind him.

The name that had once meant everything.

Kaizo’s heart didn’t just break—it collapsed. The grief he’d kept welded behind cold faces and harsh commands cracked open, all at once. And suddenly he was just a brother again. A brother who’d once carried her on his back. Who’d taught her to ride a bike and do pranks with her. Who’d pulled her close during every thunderstorm and whispered, “Don’t worry, your abang’s here.”

And now—

She said it.

That sacred, stupid, beautiful word.

Like a dam shattering, he crushed her into his arms, pulling her as tightly as he dared without breaking her. He held her with a desperate, trembling strength that no battlefield had ever seen in him before. His jaw clenched against her hair, but his tears betrayed him—warm and silent as they slid down his face, soaking into her temple.

“Yes, it’s me, Pang,” he choked out, voice hoarse and shaking. “It’s okay now. I'm here. Everything will be alright.”

He didn’t say it’s over.

Because it wasn’t.

Because deep down, he knew the nightmare he had been having wasn’t just a dream. It had never been a dream.

He hated how shaky his voice sounded. He hated how small she felt in his arms, how thin, how feverish, how much weight she’d lost.

But most of all, he hated that he hadn’t been there sooner.

That she’d been carrying this—alone.

Fang stopped breathing.

Those words—

She had longed to hear them every single day since waking up eleven again.

Since waking up alone.

And now, wrapped in the arms of her older brother—his voice thick with tears, his scent grounding her like nothing else ever could—Fang broke.

The sob came up from somewhere deep inside, ragged and small.

Then another.

And another.

Until she was clinging to him with all the strength her shaking body had left, burying her face into his chest and sobbing like the same child she was when they were both still innocent.

Kaizo said nothing more.

He just held her.

Let her cry.

And buried his face in her hair so she wouldn’t see his own tears. So she wouldn’t see how terrified he had been—how every night, the images of that dream haunted him—the same flash of her falling, the same red lightning lashing her body, the same burning scar he saw on her skin—and every morning he woke, searching for a trace of her.

But she was here.

Calling him Abang again.

His Fang.

And Kaizo, the soldier who never cracked, who never lost control, who never let himself care too much—

He could only hold her tighter, a quiet ache breaking loose in his chest as the last remnants of that well-hidden complex surfaced.

She was his world. His responsibility. His little sister.

And he had her back now.

The shadows didn’t move.

They didn’t make a sound.

They only watched, quietly circling around their warrior queen and her long-lost protector.

And Kaizo, holding her like he’d never let go again, whispered into her hair—

“I’m so sorry, Pang. I’m here now. I’ve got you. I’m not letting go. Not again.”

And this time—

She believed him.

It took two hours before either of them could breathe properly again.

They hadn’t moved much. The worst of the storm had passed, but the sea between them and the rest of the universe was still churning.

Fang was wrapped in a tattered blanket, curled against Kaizo’s chest like a lifeline, as if letting go would make him vanish all over again. And Kaizo—he hadn’t moved at all. Not even once. One arm cradled her back, the other secured her shoulder like she’d fall apart if he loosened his grip.

His jaw rested on the crown of her head, eyes closed, breath shallow.

But his heart—his core—was still far from calm.

Because no matter how tightly he held her…

Those scars didn’t go away.

Kaizo looked again.

He couldn’t stop himself.

The black lightning marks cut jagged across her arms, wrapping like thorny vines around her shoulders and disappearing into her shirt, where he knew they carved deeper still. They weren’t remnants of trauma.

They were branding.

A cruel, deliberate burn that echoed the exact shapes he’d seen in his nightmares—etched on her skin while he slept lightyears away.

He clenched his jaw.

Not imagined. Not paranoia. Not fractured hallucinations caused by overwork or old guilt.

No.

This was real.

Someone did this to her.

Someone made her scream.

Someone put those marks on his baby sister.

Kaizo’s breath turned cold.

Not shaky, not panicked—just cold.

The kind of cold that came before detonation.

His arm tightened around her, just barely, but his entire body was coiled, silent and still, like a blade waiting to be unsheathed.

Fang felt it immediately.

The shift in his posture. The precision of his breath. The way his fingers pressed firmer, more controlled, as if fighting to stay gentle.

And then his voice—soft.

Too soft.

Like a whisper carved from obsidian.

“Who did this to you?”

His words slid like a blade, quiet and razor-sharp.

His eyes opened slowly—glowing now, flickering with light not just from his powers, but from pure fury restrained by nothing but her presence. Not because he couldn’t unleash it. But because she was the only thing holding it back.

Fang stiffened.

Not from fear of him. No—never that.

She was afraid of who he meant.

Afraid of what would happen if he knew.

He doesn’t know, she realized. He doesn’t know it was Kira’na.

And if he found out…

Fang had no doubt the woman would vanish from this world within 24 hours.

She felt Kaizo’s power thrumming beneath his skin. Controlled. Measured. But boiling.

The scariest kind of anger wasn’t the explosive one. It was the kind that didn’t raise its voice.

Kaizo’s fury wasn’t fire. It was plasma. Contained. Superheated. Devastating.

The kind of fury that built cities just to tear them down.

She pulled back slightly, just enough to see his face. Her hand pressed firmly to his chest.

“Kaizo,” she said gently. “You need to calm down.”

His glowing eyes flicked to hers—wild, thunderous, locked on target.

But her hand didn’t move.

She matched his gaze, firm, unwavering. Big-sister energy leaking out despite being the younger one by age.

“You don’t even know what’s going on yet,” she said. “So before you start vaporizing people—answer me this first.”

He blinked.

Thrown off just enough.

“…What?”

Fang narrowed her eyes.

“What the heck are you doing here? Why are you even on Earth?”

Kaizo hesitated. Just long enough to make her eyebrows rise.

Then his eyes darted away, face twitching ever so slightly.

“…I, uh… took a vacation.”

“A what?”

“A two-week vacation,” he mumbled again, quieter this time.

She stared, stone-faced.

“You don’t take breaks.”

“I filed the form! Officially. Everything’s legal.”

“You’re literally a ranked stealth captain.”

Kaizo cleared his throat. “You weren’t answering your communicator. For days.”

Fang blinked.

“You… took a two-week vacation… crossed galaxies… tracked my barely-functioning location beacon—because I missed a few calls?”

“…Technically, yes.”

Fang dropped her head into her hands with a groan, then leaned into his shoulder again with a weary exhale. “You absolute, paranoid, galaxy-class workaholic.”

His arm came around her again, this time holding her with more comfort than desperation.

“Yeah, well,” he muttered. “Look who’s talking.”

There was a beat of silence between them.

Then Fang whispered—

“…Thank you.”

Kaizo didn’t answer right away.

He just tightened his arms again.

But deep inside, something twisted in his heart.

Because her voice—so quiet, so small—thanked him for doing the bare minimum. For coming back. For caring.

And he hated that.

He hated that she’d ever thought he wouldn’t come for her.

That she’d been alone long enough to believe this was unusual.

Kaizo buried his face in her hair again, eyes closed, jaw clenched.

Because no matter what she said—

He hadn’t been fast enough.

And if he ever found the one responsible for those scars—

For making her cry herself to sleep.

For making her scream in his dreams.

He wouldn’t just bring justice.

He would bring obliteration.

Because behind the calm, sharp, cold face of a soldier—

Lived a brother who would level worlds for her.

And in the pit of his soul—

That brother still burned.

But even as his grip softened slightly, a thought clawed its way up through the haze of Kaizo’s emotions—sharp, cold, and demanding attention.

Something didn’t sit right.

Something hadn’t, since the second he set foot in this decrepit, dust-choked ruin she apparently called home.

He leaned back just enough to meet her gaze, still keeping a hand protectively on her shoulder.

“Pang…” he said, voice low and level. “Why—on Earth—were you living in this place?”

His eyes flicked around the room again.

Peeling paint. Mold-lined ceiling. Half-broken window sealed shut with duct tape and hope. A draft crawled through cracks in the walls like the place was breathing. Even the curtains looked like they were older than she was.

This wasn’t a hideout.

It was a grave.

And she had been living in it.

Alone.

Fang flinched.

She tried to play it cool, casting her eyes away. Shrugging like it was no big deal.

“I needed somewhere no adult would bother looking,” she said, casually. “Somewhere, nobody’d suspect a kid was staying. I’ve been keeping low. Avoiding Earth’s local police. Just in case.”

Kaizo’s eyebrows twitched. “Police?”

“Long story. Kind of. Not really. I didn’t do anything wrong,” she said quickly. “Well—not technically—”

“Fang.”

“I just needed to stay hidden, okay?” she pressed, hugging her arm tightly—careful not to touch the scarred parts. “I… couldn’t risk getting tracked. Or taken. If people found me alone without a guardian, I’d end up in foster care, even without an official record. I couldn’t risk it.”

Kaizo went still.

Completely still.

Like a weapon switching into standby before activating.

She’d been hiding here.

Running.

From adults.

From help.

Because here had made her believe “help” meant “being taken.”

Because she had no one.

And he wasn’t here when she needed him.

Kaizo’s eyes slowly closed. His jaw locked tight.

He knew. Of course, he knew. They had both lived long enough in the shadows of other people’s choices. Both learned early that the systems like that weren’t made for people like them.

But knowing didn’t make it easier to see.

Didn’t make it okay.

His fingers curled slightly into fists—then opened again, slowly, with effort.

Fang hadn’t asked for sympathy.

So he wouldn’t insult her with it.

But—

She should never have had to survive like this alone.

Just as he was about to speak, her body jolted upright.

Her eyes widened. “Oh no.”

Kaizo blinked. “What?”

“No no no no—” she scrambled upright, panic rising in her voice. “I’m late! I promised—!”

“Pang?! What are you talking about?!”

“I’m late! School! My friends—I said I’d meet them—I can’t miss this—they’ll think I’m gone or—dead or something—!”

Kaizo stared, completely thrown off. “You’re going to SCHOOL?!”

“I was! I am! Or—I was going to! I have to! They’re probably already searching the alleys or calling the cops or worse—!”

“You just woke up from unconsciousness in a collapsing ruin!”

“It’s not collapsing!”

“You live with shadow creatures!!”

“They’re mine!”

Kaizo stopped. Eyed her.

“...I need so much more context,” he muttered.

But she was already hobbling toward her bag, grabbing at a rumpled uniform with one hand and trying to hold herself steady with the other. “I promised them, Kaizo! They’re good people. They care. If I disappear, they’ll look for me. And they might find this place! I can’t let that happen!”

He was beside her in an instant.

One hand on her elbow. The other steady at her back.

Her body was still weak. Her balance was still off.

She shouldn’t be standing.

“You’re not going anywhere like this,” he said firmly.

“I have to—!”

“No, you don’t.”

His voice wasn’t raised.

But the air went cold.

He wasn’t commanding her like a soldier.

He was begging her, in his own way, through the ice in his tone and the shadow in his eyes.

“If you vanish from here again…” he said softly, “I might not find you next time.”

Fang froze.

Her hand clenched around her backpack strap.

The words hit like a punch. Not because he said them—but because of what he didn’t say.

He meant it.

She swallowed. Her voice was quiet. “I’m not leaving forever.”

Kaizo didn’t answer.

He just stared for a moment longer, then exhaled through his nose and pinched the bridge of it like he was trying not to combust.

“Ten minutes,” he said finally, his voice tight. “Ten minutes. That’s how long you have to explain all of this. After that, we figure this out. You and me.”

Fang looked back at him.

His posture screamed calm and composed.

But she knew better.

His hands were still shaking—just barely.

Because no matter how cold he looked—how logical, how quiet—she could feel it.

He was this close to barricading the door and flying her off the planet.

Because Kaizo wasn’t just her brother.

He was her sentry.

Her personal planet-wide threat detection system.

And somewhere, buried under the cold logic and tactical analysis and perfect form—

Was a very tired, very protective, very emotionally compromised older brother who still remembered the way she used to grab his hand and call him Abang.

And he wasn’t going to let her vanish again.

She swallowed.

Then nodded. “…Okay.”

But she was definitely still going to school.

Fang hesitated, her shoulders curled in, her voice caught behind her teeth. She didn’t look at him right away.

Instead, her fingers drifted—almost unconsciously—to one of the faint, dark scars that trailed along her shoulder like the imprint of old lightning. They curled like burnt vines down her arm. The skin there had a strange stillness to it. A silence.

“…These scars,” she finally whispered, eyes still downcast. “They’re not from pirates. Or some rooftop accident. Not even training gone wrong.”

Kaizo’s eyes sharpened instantly, his posture stiffening just enough to reveal the shift. He followed her movement, gaze locking on the faded black scars that looked almost like lightning lines. Familiar. Too familiar.

He’d seen them before.

In dreams.

But the most haunting thing?

They were fading.

Not like normal injuries. Not healing. Unraveling. Like some cosmic thread slowly loosening its grip on her skin.

His throat tightened.

Fang’s breath hitched in her chest, and she braced herself before saying it aloud—like she feared the words themselves might bring it back.

“I got them… when I died.”

Kaizo’s heart stopped.

He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. His eyes locked on her face, searching.

Fang’s voice trembled, so soft she sounded like she was speaking to the air. “When I was sixteen… I was protecting a friend. There was this sword. Lightning, but… not like normal lightning. It was red. Wild. Like it wanted to hurt.”

She shivered. “It hit me. Full force. I was the one who took it. And I died.”

The silence was absolute.

Even the dust in the air seemed to freeze.

“And then…” Her breath quivered. “I woke up again. I was eleven. First day of school. Just… back. Like nothing ever happened. No one remembered. Everything reset. Except me.”

She didn’t look at him yet.

She couldn’t.

“I didn’t know who to tell,” she murmured, ashamed. “I—I knew no one would believe me. Not really. They all would think I was—” She caught herself, and sighed. “…It doesn't matter anymore.”

Finally, she looked up at him, bracing herself for pity, maybe, or worse, distance. She’d seen it before. She knew what to expect.

But Kaizo wasn’t looking at her like that.

He wasn’t looking at her like she was broken.

He was staring at her like something ancient inside him had just cracked open.

Like the final piece of a riddle had just fallen into place.

And his grip on her shoulder tightened—just slightly, but enough to ground her.

Then he pulled her gently into him. An anchor. A shield. A brother who had already lost her once—and wouldn’t again.

“Come here,” he said quietly. “Keep going.”

Fang blinked up at him, her voice barely audible. “You… you believe me?”

Kaizo met her eyes directly.

His voice was calm.

But there was something wild beneath the surface. Controlled only by the thin, iron restraint of a brother who cared too much to let himself fully unravel.

“You’ve never lied to me,” he said. “Not on purpose. Not about something like this.”

That hit her harder than she expected.

But he wasn’t done.

“I’ve had those dreams, too,” he continued. “Long before I found you again. I didn’t remember much. Just… fragments. Red lightning. Explosions. Your voice screaming. The sound of something—tearing. And these.”

He reached out gently, brushing his fingers across the faint black lines that still curled under her collarbone.

Fang flinched—not from pain, but from the shock of recognition.

“You… saw that?”

Kaizo nodded once.

“I thought it was just my own nightmare. Something I made up. But now… I think it wasn’t mine. Or at least, not only mine.”

Fang stared at him, completely thrown off balance.

The relief should’ve been instant. And it was—partly. But it was tangled up with confusion. Fear. A sense of wrongness that wouldn’t let go.

“But… how?” she asked, voice shaking again. “I didn’t tell anyone. How could you—how could you have those dreams if it was just me who came back?”

Kaizo didn’t answer immediately.

Because the truth was, he didn’t know.

But he felt it in his bones. Like something primal. Something older than time itself.

“I don’t know,” he said finally, voice tight. “But I know what I saw. And I know what I felt.”

Fang looked at him—and this time, she really looked. She saw the tension in his jaw. The way his fingers wouldn’t stop twitching. The way he was holding her, like he couldn’t trust the universe not to steal her away again the moment he blinked.

She’d always known Kaizo was protective.

But this—this wasn’t tactical.

This was personal.

Too personal.

She realized it then.

Somewhere, deep beneath his soldier's logic and cool detachment—beneath the mission focus and sharp-edged strategy—Kaizo had built an entire mental fortress around her. Quiet. Constant. Vigilant. And he had no idea how to process the possibility that she had died while he wasn’t there to stop it.

She wasn’t just his sister.

She was his to protect.

And he had failed once.

He wasn’t going to let it happen again.

The realization hit her like a warm gust of wind on a frozen day.

The tears came, uninvited—but they weren’t from fear or grief.

They were from the one thing she hadn’t allowed herself to believe in a long, long time:

She wasn’t alone.

Kaizo tightened his arms around her, a whisper falling from his lips, barely audible but laced with iron resolve.

“I don’t care what rules we have to break. Or what the universe thinks it’s doing. I’m not letting that happen again. You hear me, Pang?”

Fang buried her face in his shoulder and nodded, her hands trembling.

She was here.

She was alive.

And her brother—the one person she’d thought might never understand—had seen her fall. Had felt it.

And somehow, impossibly… found his way back to her anyway.

She sniffled once and muttered into his jacket, “I still really need to get to school.”

Kaizo leaned back slightly to look at her, brow raised in disbelief. “What? After all this, you’re worried about school?”

She nodded, half-smiling, half-pleading. “I have to go. Gopal, Yaya, and Ying… they’re my friends. My first real friends. If I don’t show up, they’ll get worried. And if they get worried, they’ll go to Tok Aba.”

“Who’s Tok Aba?”

“Boboiboy’s grandfather,” Fang explained. “He runs a cafe shop, and he’s my part-time boss.”

Kaizo blinked, still piecing this strange new world together. “Part-time boss?”

“Don’t laugh,” she warned with a smirk. “I mostly did it for fun.”

Kaizo huffed, but she could feel he was calming, listening, absorbing. So she continued.

“And then there’s Ochobot,” she said, her tone softening with a bit of awe. “He’s the power sphere. From my original mission, the one you gave to me, to retrieve him and the power watches. But before I could find him, Boboiboy did.”

“Let me guess,” Kaizo muttered. “He didn’t hand him over.”

Fang chuckled. “Nope. He rescued him. And instead of hiding or running, Ochobot decided to give four of the watches to Boboiboy and my friends Ying, Yaya, and Gopal.”

“And the last one?”

Fang looked at him seriously. “Ochobot gave it to me. Two days ago.”

Kaizo narrowed his eyes slightly. “So, let me get this straight. Your three friends and this Boboiboy, all of them have one of these… ‘their power watches’? And now you do, too?”

“Exactly.”

Kaizo looked like he wanted to say something, but she lifted a finger, stopping him. “Wait. There's more. You need to know the truth about their watches. They don’t know everything yet.”

She took a slow breath.

“Yaya thinks she has superstrength and flight—but her watch is actually gravity manipulation. She can increase or decrease gravity at will, not just on herself, but on anything, at 50 meters around her.”

Kaizo’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “That’s… impressive.”

“Ying is even scarier. She thinks she has superspeed. But her power is time manipulation. She’s not speeding up—she’s controlling the time around her to go faster or slower at an area limit.”

Kaizo blinked, beginning to grasp the danger behind such an ability.

“And Gopal?” he asked.

“Molecule manipulation,” Fang said. “Right now, he just thinks he can turn anything into food, like from rock to ice cream or candy… but he’s actually reassembling molecules on the spot. If he learns what he’s really doing, he could reconstruct anything, even himself. The potential is—honestly, it’s terrifying.”

Kaizo stared into the distance, mind working rapidly through the implications.

“And Boboiboy?” he finally asked.

Fang smiled fondly. “He’s the only one who knows the truth of his power. He has elemental manipulation. Right now, he thinks he only has lightning, wind, and earth elements. But he actually has seven elements; the other four are fire, water/ice, nature, and light.”

Kaizo exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing. “And you’re telling me this now?”

“I wasn’t going to tell you,” Fang admitted quietly. “Or anyone else, really.”

Kaizo blinked, surprised. “Why not?”

She looked away, her fingers curling slightly against her knees. “Because like I said… who would believe me? If someone suddenly claimed to know everything about what’s going to happen—down to names, dates, disasters—you wouldn’t trust that. You’d think they were either delusional or hiding something.” Her voice tightened. “And with my past? And when I don't even know how I came back? Suspicion would’ve been the only thing I earned.”

She shifted, hugging her arms around herself. “So I figured the best option was to wait. To let people find out the truth on their own. Maybe then, when the pieces started fitting together... they wouldn’t look at me like a threat.”

Kaizo looked at her again—really looked—and for a moment, the air between them stilled.

He didn’t just see a girl who’d been hurt anymore.

He saw a strategist. A survivor. A leader.

Her eyes still shimmered with that flicker of pain—but now he saw something else, too.

Purpose.

Kaizo brought her closer again, one hand resting lightly on her head, as if to remind himself she was there. Alive. Breathing.

“I came here thinking I needed to protect you,” he murmured. “But you’re already protecting a whole world, aren’t you?”

Fang smiled faintly, leaning into him.

“I’m trying.”

He didn’t answer. He just sat there, arms around her, processing the impossible.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, she didn’t feel like she was carrying the weight of two timelines alone.

Fang sat there with her brother’s arms wrapped protectively around her, her heart finally slowing after everything she’d poured out. For a brief moment, there was peace.

Kaizo didn’t move.

Not yet.

He held her a little tighter—not enough to suffocate, just enough to be sure she wouldn’t vanish again. His hand rested lightly atop her head, fingers barely brushing her hair, a quiet weight that said I’m still here. You’re still here.

The kind of touch that someone would only give if they’d already lost you once.

He didn’t say anything. He couldn’t. His thoughts were moving too fast—faster than his body could keep up. The red lightning. Her screams. The scars. Her death. The second chance.

She had died.

And no matter how composed he kept his expression, that knowledge had burrowed under his skin like a virus—cold, relentless, aching.

He hadn't even known how much of his life was wired around her until he almost lost her entirely.

And now, somehow, impossibly, she was back. Younger. Smaller. In this peaceful, strange little world where she was laughing with new friends and helping her part-time boss sell iced Milo in a plastic bag with a string.

He should have felt detached from all this.

But he didn’t.

He felt possessive. Protective in a way that didn't fit his soldier logic.

It was irrational.

It was dangerous.

It was her.

And he was learning—too late, but learning—that no mission mattered more than her being safe.

He kept his voice neutral when he finally spoke, eyes scanning the distant buildings like they were a battlefield. “If you ever get hurt, if someone even tries to come after you…”

Fang looked up at him, blinking. “Kaizo?”

He didn’t meet her eyes. Not right away.

He didn’t trust what might leak out if he did.

“...I’ll handle it.”

He made it sound like a statement of fact. Cool. Inevitable.

But beneath the surface, Fang heard it clearly:

I will burn entire worlds to the ground before I let someone take you from me again.

She didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to.

She simply leaned into his side again, comforted by that calm intensity. That strange, quiet vow hidden beneath strategy and silence.

Kaizo wasn’t good at emotions. Never had been.

But when it came to her?

He noticed everything.

The way she tried to sound braver than she was.

The way she downplayed her trauma to make him worry less.

The way she carried the weight of too many futures, alone.

It wasn't just guilt or responsibility that bound him to her. It was something older, deeper, unspoken—a protectiveness so deeply entrenched that even time itself hadn’t been able to erase it.

No one else would ever see it.

Not really.

Because Kaizo would never let it show. Not fully.

To everyone else, he was the tactician. The cool head. The level voice.

But to her?

He was the shield. The sword. The invisible wall between her and whatever came next.

And nothing in the universe was ever going to touch her again without going through him first.

Then Fang blinked—and sat bolt upright. “Oh, right school—” she gasped.

She scrambled to her feet, wobbling slightly. “I have to go. If I don’t get to first period now, I’ll be late again, and that means Yaya and Ying will definitely go to Tok Aba and—”

Kaizo was on his feet before she could take another step. “No.”

Fang froze.

“You’re not going anywhere alone.”

“But—!”

“You can barely stand,” Kaizo said, his voice quiet but firm. “I’m not letting you go to school, or work, or anywhere until you’re stable. Physically and mentally.”

Fang opened her mouth to argue, but he lifted a hand. “I’ll talk to your friends. I’ll explain that you’re okay. I’ll go to Tok Aba and handle your absences. You’ve been through enough, Fang.”

She clenched her fists. “But you don’t understand—”

“I do,” he interrupted, stepping forward. “I understand exactly. You weren’t planning to tell anyone. You thought no one would believe you.”

He met her eyes. “But I believe you. And when you're ready… I still want to know. Everything. What you’ve been through—what’s coming.” His voice softened slightly, though his expression stayed firm. “So take a moment to breathe, to recover. You won’t help anyone if you collapse halfway through reliving the apocalypse.”

Fang’s breath caught.

Just as she opened her mouth to argue again—

Oh, not again, groaned a voice in her head.

Shadow serpent uncoiled from behind her. Then the shadow eagle came next, wings tucked as it perched behind her shoulders. Shadow tiger flickered into view beside her feet, pacing. Shadow mouse darted up her arm. And the dragon—the largest—loomed like a protective arch above her, its eyes glowing like lanterns through mist.

Kaizo blinked. His posture shifted instantly—on alert. “What the—?”

He could still see them—ghostlike shapes made of shadow and glimmering mist, whispering across his vision. And he could hear Fang's side of the conversation.

“Not now,” Fang muttered aloud, glaring at the serpent. “I’m fine. I can handle one school day—”

Your fever is still high, hissed the serpent.

You nearly fainted yesterday, added the eagle, ruffling its wings.

We told you to rest! The tiger snapped.

You can’t keep burning both ends of the candle just because you think you’re responsible for everyone! Squeaked the mouse.

Fang groaned. “I know! But I have to be there. What if something changes because I’m not?”

The dragon rumbled low in its throat, voice calm and powerful. Then it changes. But better it change with you alive to adapt than dead trying to prevent it.

Fang stood there, glaring at her own shadows as if trying to win an argument with herself.

Kaizo watched, bemused, arms crossed and expression unreadable.

Finally, Fang sighed and slumped slightly, defeated. “…Fine. Fine.”

Kaizo raised an eyebrow when Fang turned to look at him. “So. You argue with your conscience often?”

Fang shot him a look. “That wasn’t my conscience. Those are—ugh, never mind.”

Kaizo smirked. “Thanks,” he said to the shadows.

Fang blinked. “What?”

He gave her a rare, amused glance. “To your… shadow council or whatever. I owe them one.”

Fang narrowed her eyes. “They’re going to be insufferable now, you know.”

He grinned. “Good. Maybe they’ll make you listen for once.”

Fang narrowed her eyes. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

Kaizo just kept smirking. “Not nearly enough, considering what you’ve been hiding.”

Fang huffed, grabbed the nearest throw pillow from the couch, and chucked it at his head. “Out. I’m changing.”

He caught the pillow midair with ease, raised an eyebrow, and made a show of strolling to the door.

“Don’t take too long. You are on bed rest.”

Fang rolled her eyes but waited until he closed the door behind him before exhaling, running a hand through her hair. Her shadows whispered faintly but thankfully left the room too.

A few minutes later, dressed in a hoodie and jeans, hair tucked neatly beneath the hood, she opened the door and found Kaizo standing exactly where she left him, arms crossed, leaning against the wall.

“I’m ready,” she muttered.

Kaizo turned to face her, gave her a once-over to make sure she wasn’t about to collapse again, then, without warning, bent slightly and motioned for her to get on his back.

“…What are you doing?”

“You’re not walking.”

“I can walk, Kaizo—!”

He didn’t budge. “You can barely stand.”

“I just changed clothes!”

“And I’m sure, your knees wobbled twice while doing it.”

Fang groaned in frustration. “You’re impossible.”

“Correct.”

With an exasperated sigh, she climbed on, arms loosely looping around his shoulders as he rose and adjusted her weight like she was nothing.

Kaizo started walking with smooth, steady steps through the dusty halls of the abandoned mansion they’d been in.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just walked, as if carrying someone on his back was the most natural thing in the world.

Fang, for her part, didn’t complain again. She’d learned to recognize when arguing with him was futile—and maybe, just maybe, the warmth of his back and the security of his steady pace were more comforting than she wanted to admit.

She rested her chin lightly on his shoulder.

He felt her shift, and without looking, he adjusted his arms slightly to keep her weight more stable.

“You’re doing it again,” she murmured.

“Doing what?”

“That thing where you act like you don’t care while simultaneously doing everything in your power to take care of me.”

“I’m carrying you because you’re sick. Basic protocol.”

“Sure. But I’m not just a soldier. I’m your little sister.”

“That just means you’re someone I’m legally responsible for.”

She snorted into his shoulder. “You’re terrible at hiding things, you know.”

He arched an eyebrow. “Am I?”

“You act all cold and professional, but I’ve seen you check my pulse while pretending to fix my collar. You’ve been watching my breathing pattern since you picked me up.”

“I like being thorough.”

She didn't respond to that.

A long silence stretched between them, filled only by the sound of his boots on wood and her quiet breathing.

Then, finally, he said quietly, “I failed to protect you once.”

Fang blinked.

Kaizo didn’t turn around. Didn’t stop walking. He just kept going like the words didn’t cost him anything to say.

“But I won’t fail again.”

His voice wasn’t emotional. It was even, factual, like he was reciting an equation. But Fang felt the weight behind it, heavy and fierce—felt it in the way his fingers flexed slightly against her legs, the tiniest of twitches betraying the tension he always held beneath the surface.

“That’s not fair to yourself,” she murmured.

“Doesn’t have to be.”

She felt something in her chest tighten.

This was how Kaizo worked. Never loud. Never teary. But every step he took carried a silent oath he would never say out loud. An oath that said mine to protect. No matter what.

She wanted to say something more—to argue, to reassure—but Kaizo beat her to it.

“You’ll rest. You’ll recover. And when you're ready, we’ll prepare. For everything.”

“You make it sound like we’re going to war.”

He paused at the doorway and glanced at her. Just enough to meet her eyes.

“We are.”

Another beat of silence. Then—

“But not today.”

And with that, he pushed the door open to the outside, the late morning sun pouring in like a promise.

Fang tightened her arms around his shoulders just slightly.

It wasn’t the apocalypse yet.

She still had time.

But now, she wouldn’t have to face it alone.

Fang pulled her hood low as they exited the mansion. Her fingers tugged the fabric tighter with every step, as if that could hide her from the world—or maybe just from herself. She kept her head down, muttering directions quietly. “Left here… next right.”

Kaizo followed her guidance wordlessly, carrying her as if it were second nature. But he noticed the way her body curled tighter into itself the closer they got to the school.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Don’t want anyone to see me like this,” she muttered. “If too many people saw me like this, it won’t be good for my reputation, you know…”

He raised a brow. “Reputation?”

“And Yaya will definitely drag me to Tok Aba if she sees me like a half-dead corpse.”

There was a brief pause.

Then Kaizo smirked.

Fang felt the subtle shift in his shoulders before he said it—too late to stop him.

“You were always the one who cared the most about your appearance,” he said airily. “Back then, you wouldn’t even get out of your room in the morning unless your hair was perfect. And don’t get me started on that one week you cried over a broken eyeliner pencil.”

Fang stiffened. “I was ten!”

Kaizo feigned dramatic thought. “Hmm, was it eyeliner or lip gloss…?”

“Shut up!” she hissed, cheeks burning. “I’m not obsessed with popularity anymore!”

“Oh?” he teased, amused. “So it’s not about anyone seeing you in my arms?”

Fang’s ears went red. “It’s not like that either! I just… I don’t want a repeat of yesterday, okay?”

Kaizo’s steps slowed just slightly.

His voice dropped. “What happened yesterday?”

Fang cursed under her breath. Too fast, too careless.

“N-Nothing,” she said quickly, eyes flicking away. “Just… there was a whole mess of misunderstandings, alright? Like, really bad ones.”

“Define ‘bad,’” Kaizo said tightly. He wasn’t smiling anymore.

“I don’t—”

“Did someone confess to you?” he asked, voice dangerously calm. His grip on her legs subtly tightened—not painfully, but in a way that betrayed tension simmering just beneath his skin. “Or did you confess to someone?”

“What? No!” Fang exclaimed, flustered. “Not me! It wasn’t—ugh, that’s not what I meant!”

“Then who?” he asked, sharp now.

Fang opened her mouth—then shut it fast as they turned the corner.

They had reached the school gates.

A cluster of teachers stood nearby, and though none seemed actively watching, she could feel the shift in Kaizo’s posture—how he shoved the whole thing down in an instant to keep from causing a scene.

Saved. Temporarily.

Kaizo marched forward, jaw tight, back straight, but she could feel it in him—like the air before a storm. He wouldn’t forget. Wouldn’t let that slip go.

Fang inwardly winced, biting her tongue.

“…Principal’s office is inside that main hallway,” she murmured, hoping to redirect. “Left door at the end.”

Kaizo nodded sharply and strode on, but she knew.

As soon as he got the chance—

He was coming back to that question.

And she’d better be ready.

They didn’t get far before the sound of fast footsteps approached from the other corridor, then paused suddenly.

A girl stood mid-stride, clearly on her way to the restroom. She had short dark blue hair and wide glasses, her expression visibly worried, eyes flicking everywhere.

“Ying?” Fang called, voice unsure.

Ying’s head snapped around.

The moment she saw Fang, her eyes went wide—and without a word, she bolted.

“Fang!”

Fang didn’t even have time to react before Ying slammed into her, nearly knocking her off Kaizo’s back as she flung her arms around her with the force of a worried rocket.

“You IDIOT! Where have you BEEN?!”

“Oof—Ying!”

“You didn’t answer your phone! You weren’t in class! You didn’t text! Gopal nearly broke into your house!”

Kaizo blinked in mild alarm. “He what?”

Ying kept going, squeezing Fang tightly. “Yaya was about to call Tok Aba, and I was about to file a missing person’s report! What happened?! Are you okay?!”

Fang winced. “I… I’m okay now.”

Ying pulled back slightly, narrowing her eyes. “Then why are you on some random guy’s back—wait—”

She blinked at Kaizo. “…Wait a minute.”

Kaizo raised a brow. “Yes?”

Ying’s voice dropped. “Are you the brother?”

Fang buried her face in his shoulder.

Kaizo’s smirk returned. “I am.”

“Ohhh,” Ying said, arms crossing. “We need to talk.”

Fang let out a small sigh, already anticipating the questions. She shifted slightly on Kaizo’s back, peeked out from her hoodie, and gave Ying an apologetic smile.

“Okay, okay, let me explain before you go full Yaya mode on me.”

Ying narrowed her eyes but stayed silent, arms still crossed.

“My phone died yesterday,” Fang began. “And I got really sick last night—really dizzy and weak. I couldn’t get up. My Abang—yeah, he came to check on me this morning. I told him you guys were probably freaking out and that I needed to let you know I was okay. So he offered to carry me here.”

Ying blinked, her expression softening slightly.

There was something different about Fang today. She still looked pale and a little unsteady, but the shy, closed-off girl from the last two days—the one who barely spoke, barely looked anyone in the eye—was gone. This Fang, wrapped in a hoodie and being piggybacked by her older brother, felt... more relaxed. More open. Like a stray kitten who had finally decided to stop bristling and start trusting.

And then there was her brother.

Ying glanced at him—Kaizo, she assumed. His posture was calm, but his presence radiated a quiet intensity. He hadn’t said much, but the way he hovered, the way he kept an arm secured around Fang even now... he was protective. Deeply so. Not just in the way siblings usually were. This felt different. Fiercer.

“I’m still not fully okay,” Fang admitted. “But we’re heading to Tok Aba’s shop now, so I can let him know too. Just… wanted you guys to know I’m not in a ditch or abducted or something.”

Ying sighed, shoulders finally dropping. “Okay, fine. That explains a lot. You really had us worried, Fang. Yaya was pacing like crazy, and Gopal was ready to kick down your front door.”

Fang chuckled faintly. “Yeah… that sounds like them, even if you guys don't know where I live.”

“I’ll tell them you’re okay,” Ying said. “We’ll come find you at Tok Aba’s after school.”

Fang smiled. “Thanks. That helps.”

“But I’m still giving you a proper scolding later.”

“I’d expect nothing less.”

The bell rang sharply in the distance.

Ying’s eyes widened. “Shoot—I’ve been out too long.”

And with that, she blurred away with a burst of super speed, vanishing down the hallway in a streak of white and navy.

Kaizo blinked after her. “Huh. Impressive. Is she always that fast?”

“Yep,” Fang muttered. “And she only uses it responsibly half the time.”

Kaizo smirked as he resumed walking. “I like her.”

“Of course you do,” Fang muttered, tugging her hood further down.

As they reached the wooden door marked Principal’s Office, Kaizo finally slowed to a halt.

“Alright,” he murmured, his voice low. “Time to get this part over with.”

Without waiting, he knelt slightly, allowing Fang to slide off his back. She did so carefully, her legs wobbling for a brief moment before she steadied herself against the wall.

“I can stand,” she said preemptively, catching the way his eyes flicked down to her knees.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Kaizo replied mildly, before raising a hand and knocking twice on the office door.

There was a pause. Then a gruff voice called, “Come in.”

Kaizo opened the door and stepped inside, Fang following behind him like a quiet shadow. The office was as she remembered—dimly lit, slightly musty, and too packed with dusty filing cabinets for someone who supposedly had a computer system. The principal, Mr. Rahim, peered up from his desk with the same perpetually disapproving expression he wore during assembly.

“Ah. Fang, the new student, isn’t it?” His eyes narrowed slightly. “You missed first period.”

“Health reasons,” Kaizo said, stepping forward and offering a folded sheet of paper from his coat. “I’m here to explain on her behalf. Her condition was under observation. This is the medical verification.”

Mr. Rahim took it, adjusting his glasses as he scrutinized the document. Fang stayed quiet, resisting the urge to peer over his desk. She hadn’t even seen Kaizo working on that form. When had he—?

'Did he just... manifest a government document out of pure stress?'

Kaizo, for his part, stood with his arms loosely folded behind his back, posture polite but solid—like he knew no one would question him. Fang side-eyed him. 'Did he pull this off in the two minutes I changed my clothes in?'

“Mmm.” Mr. Rahim glanced between them, then reached for a folder from the filing drawer beside his desk. “Her file just got added yesterday. Bit odd, but this looks legitimate. And you’re listed as the legal guardian, so that checks out—”

Kaizo blinked. Just once. But Fang saw it.

For a fraction of a second, his calm demeanor cracked. His eyes flicked down to her like he hadn’t known. Like it meant something.

Fang flushed and immediately looked away, tugging on her hoodie sleeves.

Mr. Rahim continued reading. “Enrollment confirmed two days ago. Medical note accepted. We’ll mark her absence excused for the rest of the week.” He signed off on the paper and added it to her file. “Though in the future, we’d appreciate notification ahead of time.”

Kaizo bowed his head slightly. “Understood. Thank you.”

As they turned to leave, Fang felt his eyes on her, and she hurried out the door like the hallway had suddenly become safer ground.

They didn’t speak for several steps.

Then, Kaizo’s voice drifted behind her, quiet but amused.

“You put me as your guardian.”

Fang’s ears burned. “I—I didn’t think it mattered! They needed a legal adult on the form, and it’s not like I could write ‘Myself’ when I’m technically eleven—!”

He said nothing for a moment. Then, softly: “You trust me that much?”

Fang slowed. “I didn’t want anyone else. Not after... everything.”

He fell quiet again. Then, just as she was about to change the subject, he added in that maddeningly gentle tone, “You’re lucky I didn’t put ‘occupation: bounty hunter.’ Would’ve raised some eyebrows.”

Fang let out a noise halfway between a laugh and a groan. “Kaizooo—”

“I could’ve put ‘galactic freelance vigilante.’ Or ‘ex-military special operations.’ Really spice up your school records.”

Fang whirled on him, swatting his arm. “Okay, okay, I get it!”

He caught her wrist easily—not tightly, just steady. “Relax. I’m joking.”

“Barely,” she muttered, cheeks still pink. “You're my Abang. Of course, I picked you.”

He looked at her for a long moment. Then, gently released her wrist.

“I’m glad you did.”

There it was again—that quiet warmth. The kind that settled in his words like coals instead of flames. He didn’t say much, but the way he looked at her now... the way he’d carried her all the way here, filed a fake document without blinking, and never once asked for anything in return...

Fang swallowed the lump in her throat. After their parents' death, Kaizo had hardened himself to keep both of them safe.

But she wondered what it might have been like if he hadn't stopped acting like her brother.

And now he still wasn't acting like her brother in the normal way. He was too calm, too intense, too quiet. But under that was something old, and fierce, and fragile. Something like grief. Like he was afraid of losing her again.

Something like love that had no name.

She didn’t have the words for it.

But she’d called him her guardian for a reason.

And maybe... just maybe, she didn’t mind if he kept acting like one.

When they left the school, Kaizo stopped walking just outside the gate and turned to glance at her expectantly.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“I can walk now.”

Kaizo raised an eyebrow. “You nearly fell in the hallway.”

“I tripped!”

“On air.”

“Kaizo—!”

“Back.”

Fang groaned dramatically but climbed back onto his back with exaggerated slowness. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Immensely.”

“You are the worst.”

He chuckled, setting off toward Tok Aba’s shop with her on his back once more. Fang muttered under her breath the whole way, though she didn’t let go of him.

The quiet walk toward the park ended as Kaizo stepped into the scent of hot buns and spice wafting from Tok Aba’s café stall. The midday breeze stirred gently through the trees overhead, and the hum of nearby conversations filled the air with a subtle buzz.

As they came closer, both Tok Aba and Ochobot—who were behind the counter restocking—looked up.

“Fang?” Tok Aba blinked in surprise. “Why aren’t you at school?” He paused, then squinted at Kaizo. “And who’s this man carrying you—?”

Ochobot flew up with a curious hum, his lens scanning Kaizo. “DNA resemblance: 98.7% match. Identity—likely older sibling.”

Kaizo gently let Fang down without needing a prompt. She lowered her hood and slumped into one of the chairs bolted to the counter with a small huff of exhaustion. Kaizo sat beside her, folding his arms silently, observing the two.

Tok Aba leaned forward, concern etched into his face. “Fang, what happened?”

Fang sighed, rubbing her forehead. “My phone died yesterday. I got really sick last night. Dizzy, weak, the whole thing. Kaizo—my Abang—showed up this morning. I told him my friends would be worried and that I had to let you know too, so he carried me here.”

Kaizo didn’t say anything as Fang introduced him to Tok Aba, just gave a quiet nod, his usual composed presence intact. But the moment she said “my Abang” — something flickered beneath the surface.

A near-imperceptible pause.

His shoulders straightened, the corners of his mouth twitching in what could almost be called a smile—if you were looking very, very closely. He hid it fast, turned it into a natural blink, a casual shift in posture.

But inside, something warmed.

She’d called him that again. Like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like it still meant something, even after everything. Even after they’d been ripped from each other, after the war, after their parents. Even after she’d nearly died.

My Abang.

He didn’t know if she even realized how easily she said it now. Like it belonged there.

He wouldn’t say anything, of course. Not now. Not ever, probably.

But the words sat tucked quietly somewhere in his chest. Safe.

Tok Aba frowned and immediately leaned over to press a gentle hand to her forehead. “Still warm,” he muttered. “You should’ve stayed in bed…”

“She wouldn’t,” Kaizo said plainly.

“I could’ve walked,” Fang grumbled.

“No, you couldn’t.”

Tok Aba shook his head and stood. “I’ll make you a hot cocoa right now.”

Kaizo’s expression shifted. He blinked once. Then twice. "Cocoa?" his mind echoed in disbelief.

‘Cocoa? As in the rare, once-deemed-extinct power compound used in advanced alien technology? The base element in universal reactor crystals for starships that predate Galactic Cycle 92? That cocoa?!’

He visibly froze, his stare locked on Tok Aba as if the old man had just casually offered a mug of antimatter.

“…Hey, Abang.” Fang narrowed her eyes, leaned over, and kicked Kaizo lightly in the shin.

Kaizo blinked when Fang kicked him in the shin. It didn’t hurt—not really—but the act startled him out of his thoughts.

“You were spacing out with that weird alien-tech-is-overrated look again,” she teased, eyes narrowed in mock suspicion.

He gave her a level look. “You do realize your boss is about to hand you a liquid power cell from a Class 5 galactic resource?”

Fang rolled her eyes. “Well, if it makes me feel better, I don’t care if it powers a doomsday weapon. I want it.”

Kaizo leaned back slightly, just watching her as she smiled faintly at Tok Aba’s offer of extra marshmallows. That smile of hers—it wasn’t the closed, wary one she wore when he first saw her again. It was softer. Looser. She was letting herself be seen.

And he was quietly, selfishly glad he was the one seeing her like this again.

Tok Aba chuckled from behind the counter. “If cocoa were that powerful, I’d have bought a spaceship by now, boy.”

“…You don’t know the half of it,” Kaizo muttered to Tok Aba, still mentally calculating the potential energy output of a cup of that cocoa. But even as he tried to distract himself with theories and plasma conversion ratios, he couldn’t quite get his mind off that word again.

Abang.

Fang rolled her eyes, though the corners of her mouth twitched upward. “Well, if it makes me feel better, I don’t care if it powers a doomsday weapon. I want it.”

“Extra marshmallows?” Tok Aba asked.

“Yes, please,” she replied sweetly.

Kaizo blinked again, muttering, “Unbelievable,” under his breath as Ochobot floated nearby, tilting slightly as if amused.

When she leaned into the counter and said with mock exhaustion, “Welcome to my life, Kaizo. Hope you like it weird,” he looked at her, face unreadable for a moment.

But inside?

He did like it. Weirdness, chaos, alien tech, and all. As long as she was in it. As long as she kept calling him Abang. As long as she let him stay in her orbit, even a little.

“…Weird’s fine,” he replied finally, voice quiet.

Fang glanced at him. “You sure? You looked like you were about to explode over a cup of cocoa.”

Kaizo shrugged. “It’s a controlled explosion.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And you’re trouble.”

Fang smirked. “Guess that makes us even.”

Tok Aba slid the mug of cocoa toward her with a clink. The steam curled upward in warm spirals, rich with chocolate and sugar.

Fang took a sip and sighed in relief. “Mmm. If I die, bury me in this.”

Kaizo leaned on one elbow, watching her drink it like she hadn’t had anything warm in days. Which, to be fair, was probably accurate. His voice, dry as always, slipped out: “I’ll make sure the tombstone reads: Death by chocolate. Captain Kaizo certified.”

She nearly choked on her cocoa. “Abang!”

He chuckled—actually chuckled. A short one. But real.

And there it was again.

That quiet, protective warmth in his eyes. Not loud. Not obvious. But unmistakable, if you knew where to look.

Abang.

He never said it aloud. Never asked for it. But every time she did, it settled something in him he didn’t know he’d been holding tight.

Maybe he couldn’t fix everything. Maybe he couldn’t erase her pain, or what they’d both lost.

But if she kept calling him that—if she still wanted him to be that—then Kaizo would burn entire star systems before he let her down again.

Tok Aba placed the steaming mug of hot cocoa—topped with a generous mountain of marshmallows—in front of Fang, the sweet scent drifting between them. She took it with a quiet, pleased hum and cupped the warmth between her fingers, eyes soft with the kind of peace he didn’t see often.

Tok Aba paused longer than necessary, watching her.

She was so different from the girl who’d wandered into his stall just three days ago—tight-shouldered, wary, coldness used like armor. A ghost trying not to be seen. But now… she was warmer, lighter. She didn’t flinch when spoken to. She smiled.

She trusted them.

And trust, Tok Aba knew, didn’t come easily to kids like her.

He glanced at Kaizo, still seated next to her, 'quiet and unreadable—but not absent. Overprotective and blunt,' Tok Aba thought. 'But dependable. She needed that. Someone solid to stand behind her while she found her own feet again.'

Next to him, Ochobot ran his diagnostics in silence.

'Emotional posture—relaxed. Verbal tone—humorous. Facial microexpressions—open. Psychological status: improved. Primary cause: familial anchor. Subject: Kaizo. Secondary cause: Tok Aba’s cocoa. Conclusion: improvement is sustainable under continued positive reinforcement.'

Ochobot gave a small, approving chime, rotating once midair as if nodding to himself.

Fang sighed into her mug. The steam curled around her face like something sacred. She looked... safe. Kaizo glanced at her, then at Tok Aba, then leaned slightly back in his chair.

Maybe—just maybe—this wasn’t such a bad place to be after all.

Tok Aba broke the comfortable silence. “So… you are Kaizo.”

Kaizo blinked, voice calm. “I am.”

“Fang’s older brother,” Tok Aba continued. “The one she… spoke of softly.”

Fang’s head jerked up like she’d been zapped. “I did not—!”

Tok Aba smiled knowingly. “The way she said your name… soft, like a memory she kept in her pocket. I figured you were someone important to her.”

Fang slammed her cocoa down harder than necessary (thankfully, it had a lid). “This stoic, overdramatic, buzzcut military cosplay reject is not someone I look up to!”

Her face was already turning bright red. Her ears weren’t far behind.

Ochobot tilted slightly. “Thermal sensors confirm: heat spike detected. Fang is… flustered.”

“I am not!” she hissed, rounding on him like a furious kitten with puffed-up fur.

Kaizo leaned on the counter, chin in his hand, eyes half-lidded and very amused. “You’re not, huh?”

His voice was smooth—almost too smooth. Fang’s stomach dropped.

“No. No. Don’t you start.”

But Kaizo was already grinning like a fox. “Because if I recall correctly… someone used to follow me around like a baby duck when she was three.”

“Kaizo,” she growled, warning clear in her voice.

“Oh, I definitely remember. Sticky fingers full of mashed carrots and stolen cookies. Couldn’t even say my name right—called me ‘Kaizu’ or just ‘Abang’ with that squeaky toddler voice. Every five minutes: ‘Kaizu! Pick me up!’ And if I didn’t, you’d grab my leg and sob like I’d abandoned you in the apocalypse.”

Ochobot gave a delighted beep. “Adorable visual confirmed. Requesting playback.”

“NOOOOO—!” Fang groaned, yanking her hood up and practically disappearing into it. “I hate you!”

Kaizo just chuckled—low, deep, real. Not his usual quiet exhale or sarcastic snort. This was rare. Warm. Alive.

Inside, though, it was worse.

Every time she called him Abang, even if she didn’t realize it, it did something to him. Not enough to show. Never enough to let it leak through. But it burned in the quietest part of him.

Because she didn’t just say it. She meant it.

Even after what happened. Even after she died. Even after he failed.

She still said Abang like it meant safety. Like it meant home.

He’d kill entire worlds before letting that word be ripped away from her again.

And yet he said nothing. He just teased, like it was all fun and games. Like he wasn’t secretly cataloging every time she said it, tucking each one away like a carefully guarded treasure he’d never admit to owning.

Fang was punching his shoulder now—lightly, half-heartedly, too embarrassed to put real force into it.

“You also used to bring me dandelions and call me your sidekick,” Kaizo added with infuriating ease. “Wore a bucket on your head once. Said it was your ‘battle helmet.’”

“I WAS THREE!!” she wailed.

“And you cried,” he added with a grin, “loudly, every time I had to leave for school. You made me promise to bring back a rock from the field trip. Still got it, too.”

She froze. “You kept that?”

He looked at her then. Just a moment. Eyes soft. Almost too soft. The soldier mask slipped.

“…Yeah. I kept it.”

Fang blinked. The silence stretched.

Then Tok Aba broke it with a chuckle. “That sounds exactly like baby Fang.”

Fang let out a muffled groan. “I hate you,” she repeated, but her voice cracked with something that sounded too close to a laugh.

Kaizo laughed again—richer this time. A sound that felt like coming back from something.

“I really hate you!”

“Oh no,” Kaizo said, ruffling her hood-covered head. “The mad kitten has returned.”

“She’s definitely fluffing her fur,” Ochobot observed helpfully.

Fang growled low in her throat. Kaizo just smiled.

And somewhere deep inside, behind the teasing and the grin, he quietly told himself:

'She still calls me Abang. She still wants me here. And that’s enough.'

He didn’t need a medal. He didn’t need forgiveness.

He just needed this.

Tok Aba laughed harder, wiping his eyes on the edge of his apron. “It’s nice to see her like this,” he said fondly, eyes crinkling. His gaze slid toward Kaizo, tone dipping into quiet curiosity. “You must have quite the story, though. If you don’t mind me asking… what do you do, Kaizo? Fang said very little, but I got the sense she was proud of you.”

Fang visibly froze. “I—! No, I—!” she blurted out, horror blooming across her face. “I never said—!”

Kaizo didn’t miss a beat. If anything, the faint smugness that flickered at the corners of his mouth suggested he’d been waiting for this moment, like he had prepared a full cover just in case. He straightened his posture in a fluid, practiced motion that snapped attention without demanding it.

“Captain Kaizo,” he said smoothly. “Currently assigned to a multi-division security task force. I’ve worked in strategic deployment, deep-recovery operations, and classified tech containment. Most of my work involves high-stakes scenarios, sometimes cross-border.”

“Classified?” Tok Aba blinked.

Kaizo gave a solemn nod and lowered his voice a touch, just enough to sound like he was used to discussing things behind closed doors. “Some missions are sensitive. Large-scale infrastructure threats. Prototype weapon retrieval. Hostage rescue. A lot of crisis stabilization work.”

Fang choked on her cocoa, sputtering.

Tok Aba, however, seemed genuinely impressed. “That explains the way you carry yourself,” he said thoughtfully. “Posture like a blade. Calm eyes. Protective instincts. You’re a soldier, all right.”

Kaizo dipped his head slightly, eyes cool but respectful. “Former cadet commander. Promoted early through field merit. Specialized in tactical response… and rescue.”

He hesitated just a breath—just long enough for it to matter—and glanced toward Fang.

“That’s how I found her, actually.”

Fang’s head lifted slightly, eyes flicking to him.

Kaizo didn’t blink. His expression didn’t shift. But the softness in his voice was deliberate, subtle, the kind that someone like Tok Aba would catch even if no one else did.

“Since I couldn't contact her, the skills I learned from those missions helped me…”

He didn’t finish the sentence.

He didn’t have to.

Tok Aba inhaled gently, voice quiet. “You came for her.”

“She’s my little sister,” Kaizo said simply.

The words landed in the space between them like a drop into still water.

Fang stilled.

Her breath caught in her throat. Her hands clutched tighter around her mug, but the warmth of the cocoa wasn’t what was spreading through her chest.

He’d said it. In front of someone else. No qualifiers. No deflections.

No shame.

Just my little sister.

And for some reason, that hit harder than anything else had.

Not because she didn’t know it. She did. Deep down, even with everything, she’d always known. But hearing him say it, like it was obvious. Like it meant something. Like it was still true after everything that happened—

It made her feel like maybe everything was going to be okay after all.

Kaizo, oblivious to the emotional volcano he’d just ignited behind her silence, leaned a little toward Tok Aba and added, deadpan, “Though, if I’d known she’d grow up to be this grumpy and stubborn, I might’ve let someone else come and get her.”

Fang immediately snapped out of it. “You what—?!”

“She bit me once,” Kaizo added serenely, like he was reading from a report. “She was four. I was giving her a bath. She didn’t want to get in, so she latched onto my arm like a feral piranha.”

“I was a child!”

“You drew blood, gremlin.”

“I had rights!”

“Oh, please, you still hiss when someone wakes you up before 8 a.m.”

“You do that on purpose!”

“Because it’s funny. You make that little shriek like someone stepped on a duck—”

“Tok Aba, if he keeps talking, I swear—!”

“More cocoa?” Tok Aba offered innocently, holding up the pot.

Fang slammed her forehead against the counter. “Yes.”

Kaizo leaned back with a smug chuckle, sipping his hot chocolate like he’d just delivered a closing argument and won the case.

Ochobot hovered calmly overhead. “Fang’s aggression level: 72%. Threat level: minimal. Embarrassment level: critical.”

“Accurate,” Kaizo agreed, entirely too cheerful.

Tok Aba chuckled as he returned with more cocoa, placing a new cup down beside her with care. “It’s good to see her like this,” he said again, voice low, meaningful. “Happier. A little chaos is good for the soul.”

Fang didn’t respond. She kept her head down, but this time not out of mortification.

Her bangs shadowed her face, but if anyone had looked closely, they’d see the small smile curling at the corner of her mouth. Quiet. Private. Disbelieving.

Because after all these years—after everything—Kaizo had said it.

She’s my little sister.

And suddenly, everything hurt just a little less.

Kaizo reached over casually and gave her a pat on the head. It was light, annoying, and just smug enough to be infuriating.

But she didn’t swat him away.

Not this time.

For a moment, there was just laughter, cocoa, and the scent of cinnamon and chocolate in the morning light.

And in that stall café, something long-broken began—slowly, quietly—to heal.

Kaizo set his cup down, his tone turning a shade more serious as he turned to Tok Aba. “On a different note… do you know of any safe apartment complexes nearby? Preferably secure, and with good neighbors.”

Tok Aba blinked. “Apartments? For whom?”

“For Fang,” Kaizo said casually.

Fang choked on her hot chocolate again, eyes going wide.

“What?” Tok Aba blinked at her, confused. “But… aren’t you living in the foreign students’ dorms?”

The silence that followed was sharp enough to slice butter.

Fang sat up slowly, trying to lie. “I mean—technically—I was—at one point—but not anymore, and it’s—uh—it’s complicated—”

Kaizo side-eyed her, unimpressed. “Complicated is one word for it. I’d use… unacceptable security hazard.”

“Kaizo,” she hissed through her teeth.

“You’ve been living in a place with broken lock systems, no cameras, and a neighbor who vapes directly into your bathroom vent,” he lied dryly, though it wasn’t far from the truth, as the abandoned mansion was worse. “You might as well have taped a ‘come rob me’ sign to the door.”

Tok Aba’s expression shifted from confusion to disapproval in a heartbeat. “Fang.”

She couldn’t meet his eyes. “I didn’t want to be a burden. The dorms were full. I thought I could handle it.”

Kaizo folded his arms, still looking at her. “And I thought you were smarter than that.”

Fang shrank slightly under both gazes. “It was temporary.”

“For two weeks,” Kaizo deadpanned.

“I was fine!”

Tok Aba sighed and shook his head. “You should’ve said something. I would’ve helped.”

“I didn’t want to cause trouble…”

“You’re not causing trouble,” Tok Aba said gently, but there was still that firm undertone of a grandfather who expected better. Then he turned to Kaizo, nodding. “There’s no need for her to go looking for some random apartment. My house has a third bedroom—used to be my son’s, before he got married.” He smiled. “The guest room is empty. She can stay with me.”

Fang shot up straight in her seat. “No. No, no—I’m not freeloading. I’ll pay rent.”

Tok Aba chuckled. “Fang, you’re barely eating enough as it is. You’re not paying me a single cent.”

“I am,” she said stubbornly. “Even if it’s not much—I’ll help with bills, cleaning, chores, repairs—something.”

“You’re a student.”

“And you’re already doing enough for me! It wouldn’t feel right just… taking space.”

Kaizo watched the exchange with a raised brow and faint amusement, clearly entertained by the battle of wills.

Tok Aba crossed his arms. “I won’t take your money.”

Fang crossed hers right back. “Then I’ll secretly leave it in a cookie jar every month.”

“I’ll throw it back into your bag.”

“I’ll tape it to the fridge.”

“I’ll remove it and tape a cookie to the fridge instead.”

Kaizo cleared his throat. “I can set up a scheduled bank transfer for her if that helps.”

Fang pointed dramatically at Tok Aba. “Ha.”

Tok Aba threw his hands up in mock defeat, but a smile tugged at his lips. “Fine, fine. If it helps you sleep better, you can ‘contribute.’ But I’m still feeding you. No arguments on that.”

Fang exhaled in relief, then gave a small nod, eyes softening. “Thank you, Tok Aba. Really.”

Tok Aba just waved it off. “You’re family now, too.”

Kaizo leaned back slightly, still watching her with a quiet, knowing smile.

‘She’s just as stubborn as BoBoiBoy,’ Tok Aba thought with a quiet shake of his head. ‘Maybe worse.’

Kaizo leaned back a little on the stool, a crooked smile tugging at his lips as he eyed Fang’s cocoa mug like it held a thousand war crimes. “Can’t believe how much you’ve grown,” he said, voice light, casual—too casual. “You used to be this tiny, loud carrot thief—always trailing after me with sticky fingers and wide eyes, helping me with pranks and stealing desserts.”

Fang narrowed her eyes over the rim of her mug. “I was dignified.”

“You had a rock collection named after root vegetables.”

“I was a kid!”

“You drooled on your carrots.”

Tok Aba, mid-pour, blinked with open amusement. “I had no idea you two were such troublemakers. You don’t look the type.”

Kaizo accepted the plate of warm buttered toast with a faint nod of thanks, his expression softening just slightly, just for a breath. “Our parents were still alive then. We lived far from here. Small town. Quiet. We didn’t come to the city much… not until after everything changed.”

Tok Aba’s chuckle softened. “Fang told us a little.”

Kaizo made a vague motion with one hand—dismissive, but practiced, like brushing off shrapnel from an old scar. “It was a long time ago. But yeah. Before all of this—” he gestured broadly at the window, the cocoa, the quiet hum of city life, “—we were just two disaster goblins trying to steal carrot sweets from the pantry without getting caught.”

Fang blinked. “Wait. You snuck them too?”

Kaizo grinned without shame. “Who do you think taught you?”

Ochobot beeped with unfiltered delight. “Adorable sibling chaos confirmed!”

Tok Aba folded his arms, laughing. “Sounds like you two were a handful.”

Kaizo tilted his head, lips quirking higher. “I always made sure she got the bigger half. Otherwise, she’d throw a fit.”

“I did not!”

“You cried when I ate the larger piece to ‘teach you about sharing.’”

“I was four!”

“You were loud.”

Tok Aba raised an eyebrow. “You two still talk like this now.”

Kaizo popped a piece of toast into his mouth and spoke around it with infuriating calm. “Yeah, well. It’s strange seeing her like this. All grown. Independent. Secretive. Suddenly developing shadow powers, she conveniently forgot to mention.”

Fang nearly dropped her mug. “I was going to tell you!”

“You threw them at me.”

“I did not! They moved on their own! I was sick!”

“I thought I was about to be eaten by a sentient shadow octopus!”

“It yawned!”

“It growled!” Kaizo countered.

“You screamed and knocked over a chair!” she accused triumphantly—even though they both knew that wasn’t how it happened. But she said it anyway.

Kaizo didn’t miss a beat. “It had fangs!”

“It was a blanket!”

Ochobot, rotating midair with a confused beep: “Wait. Kaizo only discovered Fang’s shadow powers today?”

Tok Aba blinked. “You? The calculating, hyper-prepared older brother?”

Kaizo looked mildly insulted. “I am! Just… not when your little sister suddenly goes full haunted spaghetti behind your back.”

“You broke your phone!” Fang accused, raising her mug again for protection.

Kaizo’s eyes narrowed. “I placed it down firmly.”

“You threw it at the wall!”

“It was already glitching!”

“You said it ‘betrayed you’ for not auto-locking onto my location!”

“It did!” Kaizo insisted, the toast in his hand momentarily forgotten.

Tok Aba wheezed with laughter, nearly dropping the kettle. “You two are something else.”

Kaizo exhaled, half-laughing himself as he leaned forward on the counter. But then… his voice shifted. Just barely.

“She grew up when I wasn’t looking,” he murmured. “One minute, she was my little sidekick. Next thing I know—she’s taller, moodier, dodging messages, moving halfway across the map without telling me.”

He tapped her mug gently with one finger. “I blinked, and she wasn’t my shadow anymore. She was something else.”

Fang didn’t answer immediately. Her grip tightened around her cocoa. Her jaw flexed.

Then, quietly—without looking at him—she said, “You blinked for five years.”

Kaizo stilled.

The noise in the stall dimmed into something quieter. Even Ochobot paused mid-spin.

Kaizo’s smile didn’t vanish… but it changed. Flattened. More controlled.

He looked down for a second—then up again, eyes calm but sharper than before.

“And I still turned out better than you,” Fang added lightly, forcing levity back into her voice like it could glue the crack shut before it spread.

Kaizo smirked again, the tension retreating just behind his teeth. “That’s debatable.”

Ochobot bobbed up again with perfect timing. “Sibling emotional tension: 83%. Affection masked as sass: 97%!”

Tok Aba, ever the master of tone rescue, stepped in with a chuckle. “You’re both a bit nuts. But I’m glad you’re under the same roof again. Feels like the beginning of something better.”

Kaizo glanced at Fang.

Fang glanced at Kaizo.

And—for a rare, wordless moment—neither tried to out-sarcasm the other.

She didn’t say how his sudden behavior change after all these years had scrambled everything she’d built to protect herself.

He didn’t say how he’d disobeyed orders, destroyed five comms, and left his post following the location beacon he gave her alone the second the nightmares started.

But their eyes met.

And maybe, for now, that was enough.

Just a quiet truce.

And hot chocolate.

Just then, Fang’s eyes flicked toward Kaizo’s communicator—its small display flashing red and buzzing silently at his side. Her smile faded slightly.

'They’re calling him again… He’s gonna get in trouble.'

'He probably came to check on me without telling anyone but the rebel team. Stubborn idiot.'

'I’m not letting him get scolded because of me.'

With a subtle inhale, Fang let a few wisps of shadow unfurl from beneath her hoodie—silent and swift. The tendrils slithered like curious smoke along the side of Kaizo’s chair, slipped under his coat, and plucked the communicator clean off his belt.

Kaizo, in the middle of recounting a (possibly fake) story to Tok Aba about a rogue mission involving cabbage bandits, didn’t notice a thing.

Fang flipped open the communicator just as it buzzed again—only to instantly wince.

Sai’s voice exploded through the speaker.

“CAPTAIN!!!”

“GAH—SAI!” Fang recoiled, nearly dropping the device. “Lower your voice, do you want to blow my eardrums?! It’s me!”

A pause. Then—“FANG?!”

Another voice came on, more composed but no less intense. “Fang, confirm identity. Are you alright?”

Fang sighed. “Hi, Shielda. It’s really me.”

Ochobot beeped, startled. Even Tok Aba looked surprised.

Kaizo, mid-chew, froze with toast halfway to his mouth. His head slowly turned, eyes narrowing at the communicator in Fang’s hand.

“You’ve been offline for almost three days!” Sai shouted. “No signal, no movement, no logs—we thought you were dead!”

“Missing,” Shielda corrected quickly. “And possibly captured. Then suddenly, the Captain drops off the grid, too? What is going on?!”

Kaizo stood up, expression neutral—but the calm in his eyes had cracked slightly. “Alright. That’s enough. Hand it over.”

Fang smirked, hopping off her stool and skipping backwards. “You could say please, Captain.”

Kaizo advanced a step, hand out. “Fang.”

“Use the magic word,” she teased, dodging left as he reached.

“Now,” Kaizo said flatly, already circling to cut her off.

“You’re not in charge of everything, you know—whoops!” She ducked under his arm as he reached again.

“I’m not playing tag in a cocoa shop.”

“You’re losing, though,” Fang said sweetly.

Tok Aba blinked. “This is wildly entertaining.”

“CAPTAIN!” Sai screeched again from the still-active comm. “STOP PLAYING AROUND AND ANSWER!”

Kaizo lunged. Fang squeaked, twisted sideways—and nearly dodged again, but Kaizo’s hand darted out with precision and snatched the communicator mid-spin.

She stuck her tongue out. “Party pooper.”

Kaizo, ignoring her, spoke directly into the device. “Sai. Shielda. Calm down.”

“CALM—YOU VANISHED INTO THIN AIR AND LEFT US IN CHARGE!” Sai shrieked. “DO YOU KNOW WHAT THAT DOES TO A MAN?!”

“Character development?” Fang suggested, sipping her cocoa again.

“You suddenly pack a bag, saying ‘taking a vacation’!” Sai continued. “You don’t take vacations! You don't even blink on holidays!”

Kaizo rubbed his temple. “I told you to inform Commander Kokoci that I was taking a two-week leave.”

There was a beat of stunned, offended silence.

Then—

“YOU SAID THAT, YES. BUT WHO WOULD BELIEVE IT?! CAPTAIN ‘SLEEP IS FOR THE WEAK, SILENCE IS A VALID PLAN,’ ‘THREE EMOTIONS MAX’ KAIZO—ON VACATION?!”

Tok Aba blinked. “...Wait. You're on vacation?”

Kaizo’s jaw tightened. “Apparently not a convincing lie.”

Shielda sighed through the line. “Even Kokoci didn’t buy it. He assumed you’d been abducted by pirates. Or Fang.”

Fang raised her mug. “Not ruling it out.”

Kaizo ignored them all. “Patch me through to Kokoci. I’ll report directly.”

“He’s going to grill you,” Shielda warned. “Possibly lightly flambé you.”

“Let him,” Kaizo said coolly. “I’ll take responsibility.”

“Like always…” Shielda muttered, voice lowering. “But… I’m really glad Fang’s okay. We were seriously worried.”

Fang’s voice softened. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You’re apologizing with cake,” Sai insisted. “Orange. Big. At least one tier per day missing.”

“Carrot cake,” Kaizo muttered, eyeing her. “Of course.”

Fang kicked his shin lightly.

“I’m patching you in now,” Shielda warned. “Priority secure line. Good luck, Captain. And maybe… don’t scowl so hard. Kokoci reads facial tension.”

The communicator beeped, a sharp chime indicating the incoming command call.

Kaizo straightened like a switch had flipped—posture military-tight, voice gone flat. “Understood.”

He turned away to take the call, stepping into the far corner of the shop.

Tok Aba watched him go, stirring his tea. “...So that’s your brother?”

Fang sighed. “Unfortunately.”

“I heard that,” Kaizo called without looking back.

Ochobot beeped with laughter. “Sibling combat status: reengaged.”

Fang muttered, cheeks faintly pink, “He’s still a stoic idiot.”

Tok Aba didn’t laugh. He looked at her gently. “An idiot who dropped everything to find you. And got an earful for it.”

Fang didn’t reply at first. She just looked down at the cocoa in her hands, the way her fingers were pressed tightly around the warm ceramic.

But her shadows, unnoticed, curled quietly beneath the counter.

Chapter Text

The smell of rich cocoa and warm waffles drifted through the air as Tok Aba’s café bustled gently under the soft afternoon sun. Birds chirped. Children laughed in the park. But Kaizo stood apart—still, composed, a silent wall in the bright calm.

He was perched at the edge of a low stone barrier, communicator pressed to his ear, one foot resting on the ledge. His gold eyes stared straight ahead, expression unreadable.

The voice on the other end was sharp. Controlled. Military.

“Captain Kaizo. Confirm authorization code.”

Kaizo responded instantly, voice low and clipped.

“Delta-Seven-Kilo. Clearance level thirteen. On an encrypted channel, per protocol.”

A beat of silence. Then came the voice of Commander Kokoci—hard, cold, and laced with disbelief.

“So, let me get this straight, Captain. Admiral Maskmana assigned your sister—a minor, unranked, and unsanctioned—to an undercover retrieval operation targeting a Power Sphere. She disappears. No signals. No logs. No tracker. And instead of initiating emergency protocol or reporting up the chain of command, you go rogue. You vanish, ignore direct orders, and pursue her off-grid without backup.”

Kaizo’s tone didn’t waver.

“Correction. The leave was formally submitted. Timestamped. With minimal interference to fleet operations.”

“And I denied it.”

“Affirmative.”

“And you went anyway.”

“Affirmative.”

A cold pause. Static crackled faintly over the secure channel. Then Kokoci’s voice dropped to a growl.

“You think you’re above standard operating procedure, Captain?”

Kaizo’s gaze didn’t move. His jaw locked.

“Negative, sir. I made a judgment call.”

“A judgment call that breached intersystem command protocol, put one of our priority assets at risk, and removed you—one of our highest-value operatives—from active duty. Without notice.”

Kaizo didn’t flinch. His voice was quiet. Controlled.

“It was a calculated risk.”

“You abandoned your post.”

“I made a choice.”

“You are not authorized to make that kind of choice.”

Silence again.

From the cafe counter, Fang glanced over, the straw in her cocoa forgotten. Tok Aba said nothing—his eyes briefly flicked toward Kaizo before returning to the waffle batter. Ochobot's projector dimmed as the little robot slowly turned to observe.

Kaizo finally spoke, voice just above a whisper—but iron in its weight.

“She’s my sister.”

Kokoci's next words were precise. Too precise.

“And what if she had gone rogue?”

Kaizo didn’t respond immediately. His shoulders were rigid, his spine locked.

“Sir, if this is an interrogation, please state the charge.”

“It’s not,” Kokoci said evenly. “It’s a question. Were you prepared—if it had come to that?”

“No,” Kaizo replied flatly. “Because it would not have.”

A sharp breath through the comm.

"The worst part is that I agree with you, that girl’s too stubborn to betray her own code," Kokoci continued, more firmly now. "If she’s gone silent, it’s because she’s protecting something. You should know that."

Then he continued. “Still. Your conduct was unauthorized. You left the chain of command blind. That is insubordination at best, desertion at worst.”

Kaizo’s hands were clenched at his sides now.

“Permission to file post-operation report within seven standard cycles.”

“Denied. You’ll file within three. And you’ll report to my war room personally. With the girl and the Power Sphere.”

“Requesting extension,” Kaizo said tightly. “Just a few more days.”

“Why?”

Kaizo’s gaze flicked—just once—toward the cafe. Fang had taken a marshmallow from Ochobot’s plate and was quietly chewing it, eyes still on him.

His voice softened—just a breath.

“Because she’s sick. Thinner. Wounded. Obsessed with drinking cocoa from a park cafe. But… she’s alive.”

The channel went still. Only the sound of wind in the trees filtered into Kaizo’s ear.

Then—

Kokoci’s tone shifted, clinical.

“Did you say cocoa?”

Kaizo blinked. “Sir?”

“Cocoa. As an edible cacao-based compound?”

“...Yes?”

“That’s an extinct xeno-organic stabilizer. Its molecular frequency once supported prototype power cores. It was banned due to volatility and system incompatibility. It shouldn’t exist in local trade.”

Kaizo looked at the steaming cup on the table.

“Looks pretty stable in a mug.”

“Collect a sample. Log its source. Cross-reference with supply routes. If that café is operating off-the-grid commodities—”

“Yes, sir. I’ll investigate.”

Another beat.

“One week,” Kokoci said curtly. “You bring her. You bring Ochobot. You bring your full report. And if she’s injured again because of your secrets—I will hold you personally accountable. Legacy or not.”

Kaizo’s knuckles whitened around the communicator.

“Understood, sir.”

“Dismissed.”

Click.

Kaizo lowered the communicator slowly, slid it into his belt. His posture relaxed, only a fraction—but his eyes remained clouded.

He turned, walking slowly back toward the bench.

Fang looked up from her cocoa, trying for a smirk. “So... You’re officially grounded?”

Kaizo didn’t respond. He simply sat beside her, ruffled her hair, and stole one of her marshmallows.

“You always take my marshmallows,” she muttered with a pout.

“I used to take your carrots, too.”

“Still a thief.”

A faint smile touched his lips. “Still, your brother.”

The cocoa stall had gone quiet again.

Tok Aba had stepped away to serve other customers. Ochobot zipped off toward the soda machine, where a group of kids were having trouble getting their drinks. The sun slanted gently through the trees, casting warm shadows on the bench where Fang and Kaizo moved and sat down, away from others.

Fang didn’t look at him at first. She just swirled the last bits of cocoa in her cup, gaze lowered, voice low and calm—but tight with something unspoken.

“So,” she said quietly, “what did Commander Kokoci say?”

Kaizo didn’t answer right away. He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on the distance where the kids played. His posture was still—too still. Like something wound up inside him that couldn’t quite let go.

Fang waited.

No prodding. No sarcasm. Just silence.

He finally said, “He knew you were gone. That you’d gone dark. He wasn’t surprised.”

Her brows furrowed. “You told him?”

“I told him the truth,” Kaizo replied. “That you were sent on a mission. That we lost contact. That I came to find you.”

She glanced at him sideways. “All of it?”

“…Not all.” He turned his head just slightly. “I didn’t mention BoBoiBoy. Or your friends. Or the Watches. Or what you’re really guarding.”

Some of the weight in her chest loosened.

He kept talking, voice lower now. “He gave me one week. At the end of it, we go back. Together. You, me, and Ochobot.”

Fang stiffened. “Kaizo…”

“I know,” he said before she could argue. “I know Ochobot is needed here. I’ve seen it. I’ve seen the way you interact with him, like you were long-time friends, which I guess… You were.”

Fang’s throat tightened. She swallowed it back.

Kaizo continued, softer now. “We’ll find another way. One that doesn’t put Ochobot at risk. But it means being honest with Kokoci. And it means you're coming with me. Not alone. Not to be interrogated. Just… to explain.”

Fang stared down at her cup. “Feels like walking into a trap.”

He didn’t answer for a second. Then, his voice turned unusually gentle. “If it is, then I’m walking in first.”

She looked up, startled. Kaizo didn’t look at her—but the way his jaw set, the way his hands flexed like he was holding back more than words, told her enough.

“You always do that,” she said quietly. “Try to take all the weight by yourself.”

Kaizo’s smile was faint. Sad. “I’ve had practice.”

She hesitated. “That’s not all he said, is it?”

Kaizo went quiet.

“Kaizo.”

A beat.

“He asked if I’d be able to stop you,” Kaizo admitted, voice almost too calm. “If you’d… gone rogue.”

Fang’s chest squeezed. “You’re kidding.”

“I told him no.”

Fang blinked. “No?”

Kaizo turned to look at her fully now. “I told him I couldn’t bring you in. Not unless I wanted to be punched in the jaw and called a carrot-thieving traitor.”

She made a startled laugh—half choked, half breathless. “You didn’t.”

“I did,” he said calmly. “Because you don’t break rules unless it’s to stop someone worse from doing it first.”

Fang stared at him.

Kaizo looked away again, almost sheepish. “He agreed, by the way. Said you’re too stubborn to betray your own code. That if you went dark, it was to protect something.”

She blinked hard, her grip tightening around her cocoa cup.

Kaizo glanced at her sidelong. “You okay?”

She nodded too fast. “Yeah. Just… wasn’t expecting that. From Kokoci.”

“He’s strict. But he’s not stupid.”

They sat in silence for a moment, just the sounds of the park around them. The birds. The wind. The low whir of Ochobot’s core nearby.

Then Fang exhaled slowly. “So… one week.”

“One week,” Kaizo confirmed. “To show them what matters. And why it’s worth protecting.”

She nodded. Then, hesitantly: “You’re really… letting me stay?”

Kaizo turned to her again.

His voice, when he spoke, was quiet. “Fang… I came here to drag you back.”

She looked away.

“But then I saw you. Here. Laughing. Arguing with people over cocoa.”

Her eyes narrowed. “That’s not helping your case.”

He smiled slightly. “I’m serious. I saw you living. Not hiding. Not running. Just… being you.”

Fang was silent.

Kaizo’s smile faded into something smaller. More vulnerable. “You were my first mission, you know. Not the one TAPOPS assigned me. The real one.”

She glanced at him. He looked almost embarrassed to admit it.

“I remember the four-year-old you,” he said. “Who wouldn't take to people she didn't know. Hiding behind my legs. Followed me around like a duckling. Bit me once because you didn’t want a bath.”

Fang groaned. “Are you really bringing that up again?”

He ignored her. “I still have the scar.”

“You don’t.”

“I do. It’s small. Left arm. Near the elbow.”

She stared. “Wait, really?”

Kaizo held up his sleeve and tugged it just slightly. “See?”

“...Oh my god,” she whispered, leaning in.

“I didn’t tell anyone about it,” he added. “Didn’t want Mom or Dad punishing you, especially when you started crying and apologizing.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“I was thirteen and thought I was helping raise a gremlin in combat boots.”

She smacked his arm. He caught her hand and held it there for a second longer than necessary. Then let go.

“You’re my sister,” he said quietly. “That never changed.”

Fang didn’t say anything for a long moment.

Then, almost too soft to hear: “…You really don’t regret it? Coming to find me?”

He leaned back and stole a marshmallow from her cup.

“Never.”

“…Even if I turned TAPOPS into a sugar-fueled scandal?”

“You already did that,” he muttered, chewing. “Kokoci wants samples of Tok Aba’s cocoa. Says it might be a tactical stimulant.”

Fang stared. “He wants to weaponize it?”

“He said, and I quote, ‘strategic stimulant for elite operatives.’”

Fang slapped a hand over her mouth and burst out laughing.

“Oh my god. If Tok Aba finds out, he’ll rename the entire café to ‘Sector 9 Cocoa Command.’”

Kaizo gave a pained sigh. “Please don’t give him ideas.”

She wiped her eyes again, but the laugh stayed this time—warm and light.

When she looked at him again, her voice was quieter. “Thanks.”

Kaizo raised a brow. “For what?”

“For not giving up on me.”

He didn’t reply right away. He just looked at her.

And something in his chest twisted. Not from pride. Not from victory. But something bitterer than that.

Because this—this—this simple act of staying, of not abandoning her, of not turning her in… was enough to surprise her. Was enough for her to say thank you. Like it was a gift. Like it was a favor.

Like it wasn’t the bare minimum he should’ve done for her years ago.

He swallowed the ache. Let the silence breathe.

Then, soft and simple: “I never would.”

Fang sipped the last of her cocoa, the empty cup warm in her hands as the silence stretched between them again.

Kaizo watched her. And for a moment, it was hard to breathe.

She still sat beside him.

Even after everything—after the abandonment, the silence, the control masked as care—she still sat beside him.

But the warmth in his chest didn’t comfort. It burned.

His voice, when it came, was barely above a whisper. “There’s… something else I need to say.”

Fang glanced at him. Quiet. Waiting.

He didn’t meet her eyes. Couldn’t. His gaze stayed on his hands, resting on his knees, clenched too loosely to seem natural.

“I was wrong,” he began, the words grinding against everything he’d ever kept locked inside. “About everything. About how to protect you… about what you needed… about who I thought I had to be.”

Her expression didn’t change. But her grip on her cup shifted—just a little tighter.

Kaizo swallowed. “For years, I told myself that keeping my distance was a form of protection. That if I stayed away, you’d be safer. That I was sparing you the worst of me. The job. The weight.”

His jaw clenched. “But that was never really the reason.”

A quiet breath.

“The truth is, I never really let go of you. Not once. Not as your brother. Not even after we joined TAPOPS, you were still that kid to me. That stubborn little shadow who hugs my arm and whines when I tell you to take a nap. That tiny voice that used to call me ‘Abang’ like it was a magic word that made everything okay.”

His fingers twitched. “You were mine to protect. My responsibility. I told myself that every time I shut you out. Every time I held back the truth. Every time I chose a mission over a message. Because I was scared. Scared my enemies would see who I really was underneath all the protocol. Scared that if I showed my weakness… I would lose you.”

He finally turned to her, his voice raw. “But in doing that… I made you feel like you didn’t matter. Like I didn’t trust you. I thought I was being strong—but I was just being selfish. Afraid of being vulnerable. Afraid of showing you how much I depend on you to stay sane.”

His tone dropped even lower, almost ashamed. “I didn’t trust you to be strong enough… and I didn’t trust myself to be weak enough for when you needed me.”

Fang didn’t speak. She stared at the cup in her hands like she was trying to read something in the swirls of leftover cocoa.

“I hurt you,” Kaizo said, his voice breaking. “I isolated you. I made you question where you stood with me. And I—I never meant to lose you. But I did. I lost you the moment I started deciding what kind of protection you needed.”

A beat. A long breath. Then:

“I’m not asking you to forgive me. Not now. But I need to try. I need to earn it. I want to stand beside you this time. Not ahead. Not as your commanding officer. Just as your Abang. Where I should’ve been all along.”

Fang was quiet. Still.

Then, her voice came softer than he’d ever heard it.

“When I woke up three days ago… the first person I wanted to see was you.”

Kaizo’s breath caught in his throat.

“I wanted to believe you’d appear,” she whispered. “That you’d hug me and tell me that I was safe. That it was okay to stop fighting for just a second.”

She looked up at him, and her eyes—shimmering but unshaken—hit him like a punch to the chest.

“But you weren’t there,” she said, voice quivering. “And for a second, I thought I lost you like we lost mom and dad.”

His mouth opened, but no words came.

Fang’s voice didn’t crack. But the sadness in it ran deep, and Kaizo felt it like cold metal scraping along old wounds.

“I still love you, Kaizo,” she said. “You’re still my Abang. But I’m angry. And I’m tired of being the one waiting to matter again.”

He flinched.

“I don’t forgive you,” she said, voice steadier now, not cruel—just truthful. “Not yet. But I want to. I want to try. I want to rebuild this… even if it takes everything we’ve got.”

Kaizo couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. Could only nod, throat so tight it hurt.

Then she raised her pinky—slowly.

“One condition,” she said. “No more secrets. No more locking me out. We talk. Always. Deal?”

Kaizo stared at her hand.

It was so small, compared to the weight he carried. But it held more strength than anything he’d ever lifted.

He reached out. Hooked his pinky with hers.

“Deal,” he said hoarsely. Then, with a faint, pained smile: “But I can’t promise I’ll stop worrying about you.”

Fang gave a watery laugh and rolled her eyes. “You’re still a sap.”

“Always,” Kaizo said softly.

But he meant something else.

Always hers. Always guilty. Always trying to make it right.

And for the first time in a long time… she let that be enough.

They sat in silence again, the afternoon sun painting gold across the ground as kids screamed through bubble mist and laughter echoed through the park.

Kaizo let the silence settle, but inside… something was different. Something was healing.

For the first time in years, the space between them didn’t feel like distance.

It felt like a bridge.

Just as Fang exhaled in relief beside Kaizo, his communicator buzzed again.

Kaizo frowned. “Didn’t we just deal with that?”

“Nope,” Fang said dryly as she reached over. “This one’s mine.”

The moment she accepted the call, a flickering hologram shot up from the device, revealing the twin-faced chaos of Sai and Shielda mid-freakout.

“FANG!!” they howled in perfect unison.

She winced and jerked the device away from her ear. “Can you not yell into my auditory system?!”

“NO, WE HAVE EARNED THIS RIGHT!” Sai wailed dramatically. “Because your so-called captain—” he jabbed an accusing finger at Kaizo “—ABANDONED us. With a lie!”

Shielda’s expression was flat, arms crossed like a scolding teacher. “A really bad one, too. ‘Two weeks of vacation’? Really? Kaizo. On leave. Voluntarily. That’s like saying he hosts birthday parties in clown makeup.”

Lahap’s hologram flickered in at last, much calmer but clearly annoyed. “To be fair, I did consider the clown theory. It made more sense than ‘vacation.’”

Kaizo’s jaw tensed, eyes narrowing. “You called to lecture, or do you want your transfer papers processed immediately?”

Fang let out a startled laugh and nudged his arm. “Easy, captain.”

Kaizo had let her do it with huffed at his subordinates' usual annoying chaos.

Sai raised both brows in genuine shock. Kaizo let that slide?

“…Huh.”

He didn’t say anything aloud, but Sai’s mind was already spinning. Kaizo used to snap at Fang for even interrupting a debrief. Once, she hiccupped during recon, and he gave her a cold glare like she had just insulted their ancestors. But now—now she could giggle and nudge him? Without getting burned?

‘What happened out there?’

“No! He needs to hear this!” Sai leaned into the projection like a lawyer mid-case, still pretending things were normal. “Do you know how many lies we had to spin to cover this? ‘He’s on a sabbatical.’ ‘He’s exploring inner peace.’ Kokoci almost believed the one about the spiritual cave retreat.”

Shielda cut in, stone-cold, “Frankly, I’m still not convinced he’s not a clone.”

She didn’t voice it, but even she was thrown. Kaizo had always been an ice wall—especially around Fang. He gave her the hardest drills. Held her to near-impossible standards. Never smiled. Shielda once considered filing a quiet concern form on Fang’s behalf.

Now?

Kaizo didn’t bark once when Fang talked over him. He didn’t even glance disapprovingly when she slouched against his side. That was new.

‘He’s... acting like a brother. Not a soldier.’

“I’ll file you all under insubordination,” Kaizo said coldly.

Fang giggled again, covering her mouth.

Lahap didn’t laugh—but his brow twitched. He’d worked with Kaizo the longest. Knew the signs better than anyone.

And he was sweating.

Not because Kaizo had changed. But because he hadn't. This... was exactly the Kaizo he’d always known—just finally peeled back.

Lahap had seen the signs for years. Kaizo hovering too long at mission briefings when Fang was assigned. Kaizo double-checking her gear when she wasn’t looking. Kaizo rejecting solo assignments for her at the last minute with some flimsy excuse—always under the radar.

Lahap had even once caught him manually rewriting squad formation layouts in the middle of the night so Fang would never be more than three meters from him in battle.

Everyone else thought Kaizo was being cold. Unemotional. Distant.

But Lahap?

He knew.

‘That man has a sister complex so deep it could destabilize gravity wells.’

And now that she was safe—now that the worst had nearly happened—Kaizo wasn’t even trying that hard to hide it anymore. He stood slightly in front of her, shielding her from nothing and everything. His eyes scanned her posture every few seconds. The way she rubbed her temple? He clocked it instantly.

Lahap sweat dropped.

'This is bad.'

Sai groaned again. “She’s laughing. She’s already turned traitor.”

“She didn’t even tell us she was going dark!” Shielda scowled. “We were worried. Sai almost cried in the weapons bay.”

“I WAS NOT!” Sai shouted. “I was simply rebalancing my hydration system through my tear ducts!”

Kaizo folded his arms. “Enough. She’s safe. I found her. She’s still fulfilling her duties.”

“How did you find her?” Shielda asked, eyes narrowed.

Kaizo’s tone dropped a degree. “I don’t owe explanations when it comes to family.”

The line went silent. No one joked.

Because this time… that tone wasn’t protocol.

It was personal.

Lahap didn't speak—but he knew that voice well. That edge only came out when Kaizo’s inner lines were crossed. The ones he pretended didn’t exist. Especially when it came to Fang.

‘It’s worse than I thought,’ Lahap mused grimly. ‘He's not even cold anymore. He's just… unfiltered.’

Sai opened his mouth—then closed it. He glanced at Fang, then Kaizo, and something in his posture shifted. There was calculation now. Suspicion, yes—but also something bordering on… understanding. Almost awe.

They’d survived missions together. Warzones. Black ops.

But this—Kaizo willingly prioritizing someone over orders?

That was new.

Shielda nodded stiffly. “Noted.”

Kaizo didn’t even notice their pause. He was too focused on Fang, eyes flicking to her, who was rubbing her temple again, checking without checking. The kind of awareness you didn’t fake.

The kind none of them expected to ever see from him.

The call lingered in the air a little longer—comfortable, easy, for once. But then a sharp tone sliced through the background of the trio’s feed.

A pulsing alert appeared in the upper-right corner of their screen—Commander Kokoci’s direct signal.

Shielda straightened immediately. “That’s Kokoci. He’s summoning us.”

Lahap groaned. “What now? I just got back—”

“He didn’t say much in the message,” Sai interrupted, eyes narrowing. “No mission brief. Just his tone… sharp.” He glanced toward Kaizo, something suspicious flickering behind his eyes. “Did he say anything to you?”

Kaizo didn’t blink. “No.”

And technically, it wasn’t a lie. Kokoci had said plenty, but none of it to the rest of them.

Shielda looked like she wanted to press it, but Fang gave her a tiny shake of her head. Not now.

“…Fine,” Shielda muttered. “Fang. You take care of yourself.”

“I will,” Fang promised, her voice quiet but certain.

Lahap gave her a lopsided smile. “Try not to fall off any cliffs again, alright?”

“Can’t make any promises,” Fang said with humor.

Sai gave her a parting nod, but his gaze lingered on Kaizo. 

Then, one by one, the trio’s holograms blinked out, leaving only quiet behind.

Lahap stared at the now-empty hologram space, expression blank.

'He’s letting it out… slowly.'

And no one else saw it.

But Lahap did.

Kaizo wasn’t just her brother.

He was the wall that refused to crumble for anyone except her.

And he’d kill a thousand regulations before he let her go again.

Fang leaned back slightly in the bench, exhaling. “So… they have no idea what he wants?”

Kaizo was already reaching inside his coat. “Nope. Kokoci didn’t say anything about them when he spoke to me.”

Fang blinked. “…Should I be worried?”

Kaizo pulled out a matte-black data tablet and offered it to her. “Not right now. What we should worry about is submitting a mission report before Kokoci assumes I’m hiding everything again.”

He moved them back to the counter where the machines hid their voices, brushing away crumbs and dust before setting his own device down. His voice dropped just enough that she knew he meant the next part seriously.

“We’ll leave out the future stuff. You’ll be listed as recovered, found with temporary memory loss. Standard narrative. Enough truth to be believable.”

“And the rest?” she asked, tapping open the report form.

Kaizo looked at her, eyes steady. “You can tell me when we’re in a place safe from ears.”

Fang stared at him for a second longer, then nodded. Quiet understanding passed between them.

She moved to sit closer to him.

And together, they started writing a lie to protect the truth.

The cocoa steam from Tok Aba’s quiet shop curled between them as Kaizo spread the data pad on the table. Fang, curled up with her cup and a blanket, leaned over the screen.

“We need to keep it simple,” Kaizo said calmly. “Not too many variables. No omissions either.”

Fang nodded. “So we tell Kokoci that I was undercover to locate the Power Sphere… and that I went dark when my communicator got destroyed.”

“You add that you decided to continue on-site even after the signal loss,” Kaizo added, tapping the screen. “So you take responsibility, and I explain that I tracked you down on my own initiative.”

Fang looked uncertain. “You think he’ll believe that?”

Kaizo met her gaze. “It’s the truth. And Kokoci’s not unreasonable—he respects results. We’ll show him the energy data you pulled, and… the incident reports.”

Fang took a breath. “And if he says I shouldn’t stay?”

“Then we present the case that you're more valuable here,” Kaizo said simply. “You said it yourself—your friends, your connections, your experience. This world needs you.”

Fang blinked. “You’re… not arguing this?”

“You earned the right to decide,” he said. “I just need to make sure Kokoci sees that too.”

“…Wow,” she muttered. “Who are you, and what did you do with my brother?”

Kaizo raised a brow. “He’s busy doing paperwork in my place.”

She snorted. “You hate paperwork.”

“I hate what happens when someone else does it wrong.”

They shared a chuckle. Brief, fleeting—but real.

Fang leaned in closer as he handed her the tablet. Her fingers hovered over the keys before she began typing her report—the official version of events, trimmed and shaped and careful not to hint at the future she remembered.

Kaizo sat back, but his gaze never strayed far. One eye on her screen, one on the park's exits, and both ears tuned for even the faintest disruption. His body looked relaxed, but it was the stillness of a blade sheathed, not disarmed.

Fang didn’t notice the ghost of a smile that flickered across his lips—for all his stoic calm, he was still her brother. And she’d surprised him, too.

Then—

“FANG!!”

Three voices shattered the peace like a brick through stained glass.

Gopal, Yaya, and Ying exploded into the park like hyper-caffeinated fireworks. Bags flew. Limbs flailed. Screaming commenced.

The cozy cocoa-scented air turned into a battlefield in 0.2 seconds.

Fang barely had time to blink.

VWMMM!

Kaizo was already moving—a blue-hued hum slicing through the air as his energy sword ignited with clinical, practiced precision. His stance snapped into form—feet locked, weight balanced, one arm subtly shielding Fang behind him. His expression? Blank. Unyielding. The face of a man who’d survived war zones.

Yaya screeched to a halt mid-gallop. Gopal tripped into her with a “WHAUGH!” and hit the floor. Ying skidded sideways like a hockey puck on turbo mode.

And they all froze.

“IS THAT A LIGHTSABER?!” Ying yelped, dazzled, and horrified all at once.

“WHY IS IT SO BRIGHT?!” Gopal wailed from the ground, shielding his eyes like a vampire facing sunrise.

“Please don't zap my soul,” Yaya whispered, arms up like she was caught in a Force-sensitive robbery.

Fang groaned into her palm.

“Kaizo.”

His voice was flat, clinical. “They were unknown subjects approached at high velocity. The trajectory indicated a physical impact. I neutralized the threat.”

Fang could only stare at his back in disbelief as her Abang retrieved to military speech when he was absolutely serious.

Kaizo did not lower the blade.

To him, three fast-moving projectiles heading for his still-recovering sister were not “friends being enthusiastic”—it was a breach. A red alert. And he had no intention of treating it like anything else.

Yaya raised both hands like she was under arrest. “We were coming in for a hug, not an assassination attempt!”

Kaizo’s red eyes narrowed—not angry, not even annoyed—assessing. Cold. Tactical. The look of a man who’d been forced to shoot first too many times. And regretted very few of them.

“Fang is still vulnerable. I don’t permit uncontrolled proximity.”

Fang blinked. “You’re serious?”

He didn’t answer. He just adjusted his grip on the hilt by a millimeter—barely noticeable, except to someone trained. And Lahap would've definitely noticed it.

‘That’s not a warning grip,’ Lahap would’ve thought. ‘That’s pre-strike posture. Kaizo wasn’t threatening. He was ready to kill.’

Fang exhaled slowly. “Kaizo. Turn. It. Off.”

Snap-hiss. The sword vanished.

Kaizo stepped aside without so much as a twitch, the cocoa mug now mysteriously back in his hand like it had always been there.

The chaos trio blinked in unison.

Then—

“GROUP HUG!” Yaya cheered.

“—gently, gently—group hug,” she added, calming herself like she was taming a lion.

They advanced this time like they were approaching a feral wolf. Gopal poked Fang’s shoulder tentatively, ready to sprint. Ying hovered behind Yaya like her human shield. But the hug eventually landed—warm, chaotic, full of tangled limbs and squeaky sob-sounds.

Fang sighed but smiled faintly. “I’m okay. Just… need sleep. For a few days....or maybe a year.”

“But you didn’t text back!” Ying pouted. “We thought you were in the hospital. Or space jail. Or abducted by alien ninjas!”

“She was probably in jail,” Gopal muttered. “Definitely jail. Look at her. She’s got post-incarceration vibes.”

“I was not in jail,” Fang said dryly.

“You looked like you were,” he insisted. “Like, emotional jail. Soul prison. Lifetime sentence for sadness.”

“...You okay, Gopal?”

“No. Because you lied!” He pointed at her like he was Phoenix Wright mid-trial. “You said your brother doesn’t stab people. That he’s just ‘intense.’”

She gestured lazily toward Kaizo, who was now lounging with cocoa like the picture of post-threat serenity.

“And?”

“HE HAS A LIGHTSABER, FANG,” Gopal shouted. “HE IGNITED IT. I SAW MY LIFE FLASH BEFORE MY EYES—AND I WAS JUST EATING FRIED CHICKEN IN ALL OF IT!”

Kaizo, serene as a glacier: “That was a controlled threat display. Low-level intimidation. Standard protocol.”

“Low-level?!” Yaya whispered. “That thing sang at me. Like a blade forged in a volcano full of ghosts.”

“I WAS REBALANCING MY HYDRATION THROUGH MY EYES!” Gopal sobbed.

Kaizo calmly took another sip. “Unregulated impact velocity is a hostile signal. I acted accordingly.”

Ying’s jaw dropped. “You almost vaporized your sister’s friends.”

Kaizo’s tone never changed. “Had you struck her at high speed, injuries would’ve been likely. Hug or not, intent does not change outcome.”

Fang dragged her hand down her face. “Kaizo, they’re not battle droids.”

He glanced at her, almost affronted. “Neither are landmines, but I don’t step on them to test.”

Yaya leaned in toward Fang and whispered, “Why is he like this?”

Fang, deadpan: “He was born with a personality glitch and raised by a malfunctioning microwave.”

Kaizo didn’t even flinch. “Correction: tactical microwave. And I was not raised. I was forged.”

Ying looked utterly lost. “I don’t know what’s happening anymore.”

“Welcome to my life,” Fang muttered, rubbing her temples. “I need cocoa. Or tranquilizers.”

Kaizo quietly passed her a fresh cup before she even asked.

Yaya blinked. “Did he just… preemptively hot chocolate for you?”

Gopal's eyes widened in horror. “...He knows your mug preference?”

“Wait—wait—was that a homemade shield stance?!” Ying gasped, eyes wide. “He put himself in front of you like a living blast wall!”

Fang sipped the cocoa slowly, trying to calm her nerves. “Yep.”

“Girl,” Yaya whispered, her voice barely containing a mix of awe and terror, “he’s not just a brother. He’s a militant older sibling with a murder license.”

Kaizo simply raised an eyebrow, tone crisp and robotic. “Affirmative.”

Ying blinked. “...I think I’m scared for anyone who tries to date you.”

Kaizo’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “As they should be.”

Fang groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “I’m surrounded by chaos gremlins… and my brother.”

Then, as if the universe finally took pity on her, Tok Aba returned, wiping his hands on a towel. “Gopal, calm down,” he said with a raised brow. “You’re scaring off the customers. This isn’t a sci-fi wrestling match.”

Gopal flailed toward Kaizo like a drowning man reaching for a floatie. “But—he lightsaber’d me!”

“He actually did,” Ying said helpfully. “And I think the counter nearly vaporized.”

Tok Aba raised a stern brow, but before he could ask more, Yaya leaned in with a grin. “Anyway, not that I’m saying I support his defense tactics, but you've seen the crowd that gathered around Fang yesterday; he would keep them away.”

Fang froze. “Yaya—”

“I mean—” Ying jumped in, already sensing the horror building behind her friend’s eyes, “—it was just a small crowd! A manageable crowd!”

Gopal nodded eagerly. “Yeah, like… half the school’s male population. Or female. Or both. Honestly, we lost count.”

“Guys—” Fang hissed.

“Oh! And remember that one Form 7 guy who tried to give her that bouquet made out of origami paper?” Yaya added. “Fang just deadpan rejected him like she was turning away a flyer. It was glorious.”

Kaizo slowly turned to Fang. “What bouquet?”

“Oh no,” Ying whispered. “We triggered him.”

Kaizo’s voice was calm. Too calm. “Paper, you say. Origami paper. That’s oddly specific. What was his name?”

Fang slapped her palm to her forehead. “No. Kaizo. Don’t.”

“I just want to talk,” he said gently.

“No, you don’t!” Gopal backed away, hands in the air. “That’s the tone someone uses before threatening that lorry driver into apologizing for honking near her!”

Kaizo tilted his head, smiling serenely. “I’m sure if I had names, I could politely inquire into their intentions. Civil discourse. National harmony.”

“Oh my god, he’s going full smiling intimidation mode!” Ying squeaked, tugging on Yaya’s sleeve. “Abort mission! Abort!”

“Stop giving him ammo!” Fang waved her arms in frantic desperation—only for the sudden movement to make her sway. Her vision swam, and she caught herself on the edge of the counter.

Kaizo was instantly at her side, one hand steadying her elbow, the other braced lightly against her back. “Fang.” His voice dropped, lower and edged. “You’re still burning up.”

“I’m fine,” she mumbled, cheeks flushed—not entirely from the fever.

His gaze was sharp, scanning her face like he was assessing battlefield injuries. “You nearly fell.”

“I tripped.”

“You wavered,” he corrected, his hand not leaving her arm. “Sit. Drink. Now.”

“Kaizo—”

“Now, Fang.”

She sighed but allowed herself to be guided back into the seat, muttering something about overbearing space captains under her breath.

Kaizo turned toward Yaya, who shrank slightly under his gaze. “Tell me. You mentioned a crowd. Were there... repeat offenders?”

Yaya shrieked and dove behind Gopal. “She’s your sister, you ask her!”

Gopal broke into nervous sweat. “I-I don’t remember their names! There were too many! It was like a parade, almost a festival kind!”

“Gopal!” Fang hissed.

“I panicked!”

“Did any of them try to touch her?” Kaizo asked sweetly.

“KAIZO NO!”

Fang stood up so fast from her chair—only to wobble again. Kaizo’s hand shot out instantly to steady her.

At that moment, Tok Aba spoke again, his glare sharp enough to cut air. “Enough.”

Everyone froze.

“Kaizo,” he said, voice calm but firm, “your sister is fully capable of handling herself. Let her fight her own battles. No interrogations in my shop.”

Kaizo blinked slowly, almost innocently. “Of course. I was merely expressing familial concern.”

Tok Aba gave him a long, knowing look, then cracked the widest businesslike smile. “Though she drained them. I’ve had more foot traffic and orders thanks to her than I get outside of festivals or holidays.”

Kaizo raised a brow, intrigued. “Impressive.”

“Besides,” Tok Aba added, turning and walking back toward the kitchen, “she scared them off anyway.”

Kaizo blinked, slightly surprised. “She did?”

Tok Aba glanced over his shoulder. “Acted just like you. Same dead stare. Same cold tone. Right now, you’re giving me flashbacks.”

Kaizo actually looked affronted. “I don’t stare. I evaluate.”

Fang snorted into her cocoa.

Yaya stage-whispered, “That means yes.”

Fang sank back into her seat with a long, dramatic sigh. “I need a vacation. Somewhere quiet. With no Wi-Fi. Or Kaizo.”

Kaizo gave her a wounded look. “I can book us a sibling getaway. Just us.”

Fang paled. “On second thought, never mind.”

Yaya leaned over and whispered, “...Can we come? For, you know, supervision purposes.”

Kaizo’s smile twitched. “Only if you bring a list of those names.”

Gopal screamed before Ying hit him on the head to stop attracting the attention of other people in the park.

Tok Aba barely spared him a glance before turning to Kaizo. “Fang can move into the guest room today. If she’s up for it.”

“She’s moving,” Kaizo said without hesitation.

“Excuse me?!” Fang turns her head around, looking like someone had pulled her tail. “I—!”

Tok Aba chuckled, pushing up his glasses. “You did agree. After that ten-minute debate this morning. Said you’d move if you got to pay rent.”

“I won that debate,” Fang huffed, squinting like an affronted kitten, tugging her hoodie snugly like it was armor.

Tok Aba gave her a lopsided grin. “Only because I needed my third cup of kopi and didn’t feel like collapsing.”

Kaizo sipped his drink, entirely unbothered. “I’ll transfer the rent from my account.”

Fang whipped around, fluffing up like a startled cat. “No. I’m paying.”

“Your ID’s already linked to mine. Streamlines the process.”

“You sneaky, smug, data-hoarding control freak—!”

“You’re inefficient,” Kaizo said mildly.

“I’m INDEPENDENT.”

“You fell into a pond trying to fight a toaster before.”

“It electrocuted me FIRST!”

Yaya blinked. “Wait—hold on. You’re paying rent? You argued with Tok Aba and won?!”

“...She beat Tok Aba?” Gopal whispered to Ying, scandalized.

Ying, looking equally baffled, nodded. “That’s more surprising than her openly smiling.”

Fang puffed her cheeks and crossed her arms. “I’m not a guest. I’m who is staying. So I pay. End of story.”

Kaizo added smoothly, “We’ll debate later whose account is actually charged.”

Though he, of course, in his mind, calmly started the process of linking his universal card to Fang's.

'Linking her ID to his account; Necessary data management efficiency. Why allow multiple sources of billing when one unit handles expenses better? Like a grocery cart with one wheel instead of four separate ones. Obvious.'

He nodded to himself with smug satisfaction. This was what a rational, composed, definitely-not-soft older brother looked like.

Then Fang threw a spoon at his face.

“You’re not even subtle,” she muttered, annoyed.

Kaizo caught the spoon with ease and set it aside like it was an offering from a lesser being. “I don’t need to be subtle. I’m efficient.”

Fang raised an eyebrow at him. “You’re a walking surveillance drone with attachment issues.”

Kaizo crossed his arms. “Incorrect. I only attach to things that are statistically high-risk and prone to walking into literal electric deathtraps.”

“You’re describing me, you big space Roomba!”

Yaya squeaked into her hands. “Okay, but like… this is the cutest breakdown I’ve ever seen.”

“Yeah,” Gopal whispered. “It’s like watching Batman argue with a gremlin in a Hello Kitty onesie.”

“I don’t wear Hello Kitty,” Fang snapped.

Gopal held up his hands in surrender. “Sorry. My mistake. Kuromi?”

Fang gave a proud sniff. “Goth aesthetic is valid.”

“I knew it,” Ying muttered, taking mental notes.

Tok Aba took out a tray of steaming fried rice. “Alright. If no one is actually bleeding, I’m calling this a peaceful lunch. Sit. Eat. Breathe.”

Fang, still grumbling, snatched the nearest plate.

Kaizo from the seat beside her, like it was strategic battlefield positioning, and began sorting out her utensils without asking. Again.

Fang stared at the spoon now aligned perfectly to her dominant hand.

“Stop… being considerate.”

“You’d use them backwards otherwise.”

“I would not!”

“You eat curry with a knife.”

“It was a phase!”

Kaizo calmly eating his rice with his spoon like none of this was happening. “Dangerous. Sauce physics is unpredictable.”

Tok Aba chuckled as he passed by. “They’ve reached the stage where arguing is affection. That’s progress.”

Yaya beamed. “It’s like watching a drama where no one dies and everyone has passive-aggressive feelings!”

“Passive?” Fang raised her spoon like a duelist about to draw her sword. “Who’s passive?!”

“You are,” Kaizo said smoothly. “It’s adorable.”

Fang made a noise somewhere between a kitten screech and a kettle boiling.

“Admit it,” Ying said, leaning in. “You like him.”

Fang threw a bean sprout at her.

“You missed,” Ying said flatly.

“I hate you,” Fang declared.

Kaizo blinked. “I logged it. Version 7.3 of today’s hate declaration. That’s a new record.”

“I’m going to throw you into a pond.”

Kaizo tilted his head. “Is this a bonding threat?”

Fang stared at him, and then, finally, finally cracked a laugh. A real one. Loud and bright and entirely hers.

Everyone went quiet.

“…oh my god,” Gopal whispered. “She’s broken.”

“She laughed,” Yaya said, hand to heart.

“She’s still laughing,” Ying added with wide eyes.

“I am probably still tired,” Fang said between breaths, wiping her eyes. “Or maybe delirious.”

Kaizo leaned back with the ghost of a smirk. “Or maybe you're just… happy.”

Fang glared. “You take that back.”

“Nope.”

“I swear on your weird alien spreadsheets—!”

“Would you like a printout?”

“YOU HAVE A PRINT BUTTON FOR YOUR FEELINGS?!”

“I am the print button.”

“Tok Abaaaa,” Fang groaned again.

Tok Aba just chuckled fondly.

After he was done eating, Kaizo started standing up, brushing invisible dust off his coat with deliberate, silent precision—like a sleek, offended feline grooming itself after someone had dared to touch it. But it wasn’t vanity. Not really. It was a habit. A routine. A way to hide how tightly his jaw had clenched.

His eyes flicked to Fang before he spoke, scanning her in that subtle way he always did—tracking how she was holding her cup, how long she’d been sitting without drinking, whether her shoulders sagged more than five minutes ago.

“I’ll retrieve your things,” he said simply, already standing.

Fang blinked up in surprise, blinking once. Twice. “What?”

“From your place,” Kaizo clarified, voice even. “You go ahead to Tok Aba’s. Rest. Eat something with nutrients in it.”

“I like cocoa,” she muttered, hugging herself like it might guard her pride.

“You need actual food,” he replied, deadpan, tilting his head with the disdain of someone who’d just witnessed a raccoon attempt to survive on marshmallows. “I saw your fridge. It’s a cry for help.”

She turned away, nose in the air. “...It was temporary.”

What she didn’t say: she’d been too tired to cook. Too busy fighting things no one else could see. Too alone.

He noticed the way her fingers dug slightly into her sleeves, but didn’t comment. Instead, he adjusted his coat—buying himself the moment to keep his face neutral.

Before the silence stretched too long, Yaya stood up like a shot. “We’ll take her!”

“Yeah!” Gopal leapt to her side, nearly tripping over his backpack in his enthusiasm. “We’ll make sure she actually rests! And eats vegetables! Green ones!”

“I’ll monitor her caloric intake,” Ying added, adjusting her glasses like a true menace.

Tok Aba chuckled softly behind the counter. “You have the guest key?” Fang shook her head. Wordlessly, Tok Aba pulled open a drawer, handed the spare to Yaya. “Don’t let her near the rice cooker.”

Fang gave him the glare of a tired empress. “I am a capable adult.”

“You’re eleven years old,” Tok Aba said mildly.

She just grumbled under her breath.

Kaizo had already turned to leave when he paused, noticing the faint slump in her shoulders. She hadn’t said goodbye. Not verbally. But her fingers curled again into her hoodie’s sleeves—small, almost imperceptible.

She was watching his back.

She didn’t want him to go. Not really.

Ochobot floated up beside him. “I will accompany Kaizo! I am equipped for route analysis and door lock bypass!”

Kaizo gave a small nod, eyes flicking over to Fang. “Stay behind me.”

“Okay!” Ochobot chirped. “I’m on escort mission mode! No friendly fire.”

Fang sat up a little straighter, eyes following Kaizo as he moved toward the park's exit. The others were laughing again. Teasing. Gopal had found something green in his backpack and was threatening to use it as proof that she did eat vegetables.

She didn’t answer them. Her gaze stayed locked on her brother’s back.

And suddenly—she was six years old again.

Small legs dangling off the couch. Blanket around her shoulders. Watching him pull on his coat, strap on his gear. Knowing he’d be gone for weeks. Missions. Battles. Things she was too young to understand but old enough to fear.

She had wanted to help back then, too. But all she could do was wave and pretend she wasn’t scared that he would never return. Pretend she wasn’t useless. Pretend she wasn’t a burden he had to leave behind.

The feeling hadn’t changed. Not really.

“I mean it,” she said quietly, just for him. “Be careful.”

Kaizo didn’t turn, but there was a pause in his step. Barely perceptible.

Then, cool as ever, he added, “I’m taking the whole dresser.”

Fang’s head jerked up, glaring. “Touch my scarves and I will invent new forms of violence.”

“No time for sorting. Efficiency first.”

“You efficiency-gremlin! I folded those by color!”

“Unnecessary categorization.”

“You MONSTER.”

Kaizo stepped forward.

But just then, a whisper came from Fang, “Shadow Fox.”

It peeled away from beneath the couch like spilled ink given life—tall ears, sharp tail, glowing eyes. The fox. Her fox.

Follow him, she thought, silent and focused. Watch. Don’t interfere unless it’s real. Stay out of his sight unless he’s alone.

Yes, my lady, came the fox’s answer. Soft. Sure. A promise. Then it vanished into the hallway like a breath of wind.

Kaizo didn’t need to look to know it was there. He always noticed.

From the stone pathway, he stopped again.

Fang was slouched deep into her seat again, but her glare was duller now—closer to a pout than a threat. Her eyes betrayed it: tired, yes, but worried.

He didn’t want to leave.

She didn’t want him to go.

But they had always been like this. Steady when apart. Stronger when together. Pretending it didn’t hurt to be separated.

He gave her one last glance, not quite smiling. But something softer passed through his expression—gone in an instant.

“I’ll be back in an hour,” he called evenly.

She didn’t respond. But she shuffled, just a little in her seat, in something like acknowledgment.

He left.

The shadow fox slipped after him like a silent promise.

And though the others kept talking—about vegetables, and hot chocolate, and the mystery of Fang’s apparent closet full of scarves—Fang didn’t say much more.

She just stared at his retreating figure.

And waited.

Because now she knew how it felt to lose him. Even for a while.

And she wasn’t letting it happen again.

Fang stood just near the edge of the park, arms folded tightly as if holding herself in place. Her hoodie flared slightly in the breeze, and she tucked her chin deeper into it. Behind her, the park bustled with afternoon life, but it might as well have been a battlefield for how exposed it felt.

She shifted her weight from foot to foot, ears sharp for the sound of Kaizo’s boots.

He wasn’t coming.

Not yet.

Her fingers curled. Her nose wrinkled. She didn’t like this.

“Come on, kitten,” Yaya said gently, reaching for her sleeve like coaxing a skittish cat from under a bed. “It’s okay. We’re right across the street. Just a few steps.”

Fang didn’t move.

Around her, unseen by the others, her shadows flickered into subtle motion. The Tiger—lithe, slow-moving, with eyes that glowed low like embers—paced at her side, its massive head brushing against her hip in a protective pass.

Easy, Luna, the Tiger murmured, voice velvet-deep. He will not fall without us knowing. The Fox is with him.

The Dragon coiled above her like smoke—elegant and ancient. Its voice was a low hiss, like thunder in the distance.

Your brother is flame-forged. You know his strength. And still, if danger breathes, the Fox will howl.

A soft flutter—Eagle’s wings skimmed just past her shoulder, unseen by the breeze. Its voice was higher, airy, and soothing.

Our eyes are yours, my lady. We will not let you be blind.

At her feet, the Serpent slithered lazily, tail wrapping protectively around her ankle. Its voice was cool silk.

You trust the Fox. Trust us, too. Your shadows guard what you love.

And finally, perched on her shoulder was the Mouse. Its tiny squeaks were quick and anxious but full of adoration.

He’ll be okay! The Fox is sneaky-sneaky! If something bad happens, we bite ankles!

Fang exhaled a shuddering breath.

Still no Kaizo.

And the ache in her chest was the same one she’d felt at six years old, sitting on the bed of his room, tiny fingers gripping the blanket, trying to stay awake because Abang was “coming back tonight.” But sometimes he didn’t. Sometimes “tonight” meant days. Weeks. And every night she’d curl up with a blanket that didn’t smell like him anymore, wondering if he was lying somewhere cold, or bleeding, or—

She shut the thought down hard.

With a soft, instinctive motion, she leaned ever so slightly toward the street again, nose twitching like she might smell his trail on the wind.

She didn’t like this.

She hated not knowing what room he was in, not hearing the soft creak of his boots, not seeing the glint of his coat out of the corner of her eye—especially after everything that happened today. Her tail—if she had one—would’ve been curled tightly around her feet. Instead, she hugged her arms close, shrinking in on herself.

Yaya caught it, her smile softening. “Hey. Just until he gets back, okay?”

Fang didn’t answer. But she took one step. Then another.

Her shadows followed like silent honor guards.

Tiger matched her stride.

Dragon weaving overhead.

Eagle scanning the sky.

Serpent curled tightly around her ankle.

And Mouse was whispering anxious little chants of encouragement.

Just across the street, Tiger said.

He’ll come back with your clothes.

And your equipment.

And maybe food, Mouse squeaked.

That almost got a smile out of her.

She followed Yaya, Gopal, and Ying across the street, step by step. The street felt too open. She didn’t like the wind on her back. She kept glancing behind her, half-expecting Kaizo to appear, flipping his coat like some drama king.

He didn’t.

Her shoulders hunched slightly.

You are not alone, Lunar Warrior, Dragon whispered, the words they have been telling her since she came back, trying to crush her loneliness away.

They reached the gate of Tok Aba’s home, modest and warm-looking under the shade of a tree. The breeze carried the scent of leaves and distant cocoa.

Familiar and unfamiliar at the same time.

As Yaya opened the gate and stepped in, Fang lingered.

Just for a second.

Her shadows stopped with her.

The Tiger nudged her hand with its head.

He looks back, too, you know.

The Mouse added in a whisper, He didn’t want to leave either. He just didn’t say it because he’s dumb.

Fang finally moved forward, trailing behind the others.

She hated this part—the part where she would have to move on without him.

Inside, the house smelled like old rugs, vanilla, and something cozy. Familiar.

Fang slipped off her shoes and stood still for a beat too long in the entryway, watching the others file in. Her shadows spilled around her, their forms still hidden, but she felt them—Dragon curling around the curtain rod, Eagle landing on a beam, Mouse peeking out from behind a lamp, Serpent slinking toward the kitchen tile, and Tiger taking its place by the door like a silent sentinel.

Yaya turned back and smiled softly. “You okay?”

Fang rubbed her sleeve under her nose and scowled lightly. “Do I not look okay?”

Yaya wisely didn’t answer.

Gopal, from the kitchen: “Toast coming up! Want butter or kaya?”

“...Both,” she muttered, dropping onto the couch like a cat folding into a warm cushion. “And tea. Something good.”

Ying sat beside her and passed her a pillow and a blanket without asking. “You rest. We’ve got you.”

Fang didn’t reply, but the moment Ying looked away, she curled sideways, just a little, into the pillow and blanket. Her eyes tracked the window like a kitten waiting for their favorite person to come back—

Just like when she was six, staring at the door until her eyelids sank, never knowing if tonight was the night she’d see him walk through it.

She hated the waiting.

She hated feeling useless.

She hated feeling like the little sister left behind.

But most of all—

She hated the thought of him not coming back.

Meanwhile, With Kaizo And Ochobot

The abandoned district was too quiet.

Not the kind of quiet that brought peace.

The kind that gnawed at the edges of Kaizo’s control—like the breath before a predator’s strike.

But it wasn’t the district setting his nerves on edge.

It was her absence.

Every step was too fast, too sharp. His boots didn’t so much walk as prowl. Through crooked alleys and fractured streets, his eyes swept like scanner beams—efficient, precise. But his jaw was tight enough to crack, betraying the undercurrent he refused to voice.

He wasn’t searching for enemies.

He was searching for proof that she’d ever been safe here.

Ochobot drifted a pace behind, unusually quiet. Even he could feel the pressure in the air—like a storm waiting to collapse on itself.

Kaizo didn’t speak.

Couldn’t.

Every second away from her felt… wrong. As if some anchor in him had been cut loose, leaving him drifting in hostile waters.

When the mansion appeared, he stopped so abruptly that Ochobot almost collided with him.

The mansion stood in stubborn decay—rotted wood, cracked glass, a defiance in its silhouette that matched the girl who had claimed it.

The gate creaked under his hand. His fingers flexed once, twice, like resisting the urge to crush it.

“She lived here?” Ochobot asked, a little horrified.

Kaizo didn’t answer. He moved forward, voice low and edged.

“Don’t say anything rude.”

“I wasn’t—”

“You were going to.” The words cut, brittle as frost.

The door sighed open, releasing air that smelled of dust, citrus, and cold metal—faint traces of sweat and leather beneath it.

She had tried. Cleaned it, patched it, forced it into shape.

But it was still just a ruin.

They moved inside until they reached her room on the second floor.

Kaizo opened the door and stepped inside like crossing a minefield, gaze flicking over the cot, the neatly stacked bags, the staff she kept mending herself, the repaired communicator clip.

Everything was too neat. Too ready.

She had packed like she expected to run. Like she always did.

He dropped to one knee beside the bags, his movements sharp—soldier-precise, but driven by something far less controlled. Each item went into the new pack with deliberate care, yet his hands lingered too long on the fabric of her scarf, the scuff marks on her gloves.

It wasn’t efficiency.

It was possession.

Ochobot’s voice broke the silence as he looked around the room. “She lived here… all alone?”

Kaizo’s shoulders flinched—too small to notice unless you were looking.

“Don’t pity her,” he muttered. “She’d hate that.”

“I’m not. I’m saying it’s not right.”

“She didn’t want anyone to find her,” Kaizo said, voice low, brittle.

“…Not even you?”

His hands stilled.

No answer.

He unzipped the side pocket of her bag and was confused at the leather-bound book he found hidden.

But when he opened it, his breath caught. Inside—

Their mother tongue filled the pages, strokes so familiar his chest ached. Memories, timelines, names, fears—her first life recorded in obsessive detail.

Kaizo’s hands trembled as he touched it.

She’d written as if every moment were something she could lose again.

He pressed the notebook against his chest. Not because it was valuable—because it was her.

“She needed space,” he murmured. “I should’ve checked anyway. Should’ve made her let me in.”

Ochobot looked at the cot. “She never even had a real bed.”

Kaizo’s eyes closed. His fists clenched until his knuckles blanched.

She had survived like this while he—what? Went on missions? Pretended distance would protect her? Pretended she was still that child he could tuck out of danger?

He stood abruptly. “We’re going back.”

“She’s safe with Tok Aba—”

“That’s not the point!” The crack in his voice betrayed more than he wanted.

He dragged a hand through his hair, breathing hard. “She’s safe when I’m near. That’s the point.”

His gaze swept the walls—imagining her training in the dim light, muttering curses at faulty tools, laughing under her breath when she thought no one could hear.

The knife twist came from knowing—she hadn’t expected anyone to ever come for her.

“She’s the last one I have left,” he said, almost to himself.

Ochobot stayed silent.

Kaizo keyed the door shut, sealing the ruin behind him.

Above, the Fox perched on the roof, red eyes gleaming. It had seen the way he touched her belongings, the way his hands shook.

It had heard the unspoken vow.

Kaizo would burn down every ruin, every city, every world if it meant she’d never sleep cold again.

He’d protected her in silence for years.

Now?

He wouldn’t let her carry anything alone ever again.

The Fox leapt after him, tail flicking in solemn promise.

At Tok Aba’s House

The guest room was warmer now, filled with slanting rays of morning sunlight that stretched across the floor in muted gold. Fang sat curled in the corner of the bed with a blanket, knees to chest, arms wrapped tightly around herself. Like a kitten in a place that smelled familiar but didn’t feel like home yet.

Her skin was a shade too pale, and there was a faint flush on her cheeks that had nothing to do with the sunlight. Every few breaths, she rubbed at her temple with the back of her hand, subtle as she could, like she didn’t want anyone to notice the dull throb behind her eyes. The blanket wasn’t just for comfort—she was keeping in the warmth she couldn’t seem to hold onto herself.

She wasn’t trembling anymore.

But she wasn’t smiling either.

Yaya and Gopal were on the floor, pretending to be invested in a board game they had found. Ying kept picking up the same three pens and arranging them on the desk, then rearranging them again. They were each playing a part—normal, casual, fine.

But the room was heavy. Like they were sitting in the eye of a storm that hadn’t passed yet.

Fang had barely said a word since Kaizo left. No questions. No complaints. No anger. Just… stillness. A silence that felt like she was sinking inward, deeper and deeper, where none of them could reach her.

Yaya had offered her a chocolate bar—her favorite. Gopal had tried a ridiculous handstand, flailing until he fell into the closet. Ying had cracked one of those lame puns she usually saved for cheering people up.

All Fang did was nod. Politely. Like a stranger.

It wasn’t supposed to go like this. She was safe. She was home. But it felt like something inside her had cracked at the edges—and was still bleeding quietly beneath the skin.

The three exchanged glances behind her back. Yaya’s smile was too wide. Gopal’s laugh too short. Ying’s brow too furrowed. None of them said what they were thinking: She’s slipping away again.

Then, without warning, Fang lifted her head.

Something changed. Her shoulders relaxed—barely. Her lips parted in a breath, too soft to hear. And for the first time in hours, her eyes seemed to focus.

He’s at the door.

Shadow Fox’s voice ghosted through her thoughts, calm and sure.

Your brother just reached Tok Aba’s door, my lady. He has your things. And the floating one. All is well.

Fang blinked. Her lips curved, the tiniest, briefest flicker of softness.

Thank you.

Her thought was quiet. And in her mind’s eye, the fox dipped its head and vanished like smoke.

She moved.

Not with urgency, but with purpose. Like someone waking from a long nap under water. She uncurled from the bed with a quiet stretch. Her bare toes curled against the cool floor.

“H-Hey?” Yaya said, blinking.

“Fang?” Ying stood halfway.

But Fang didn’t answer. She walked barefoot across the room, eyes distant but locked on something they couldn’t see. The hallway was barely a step away—

And she opened the door.

Kaizo stood there, hand mid-knock, posture rigid from the guilt he hadn’t let himself name. His scarlet red eyes widened a fraction as they landed on her.

For a breathless second, they just stared at each other.

She noticed the quick flick of his gaze—down her frame, catching on the faint red across her nose and cheeks, the way she was holding herself like her muscles ached. His jaw tightened.

“You shouldn’t be standing,” he murmured.

It came out softer than intended. Not scolding. Not commanding. Just concerned. Heavy and real.

Before she could argue, he stepped forward. His gloved hand hovered just above her elbow, not quite touching, but close enough that she could feel the faint draft of his movement.

“I was just—” Fang started.

“Sit,” he said. Not an order. Just instinct. Like a reflex carved into his bones by too many years of responsibility.

Fang’s brows drew together—slightly. But she didn’t resist.

He nudged the door closed behind them with his foot and guided her toward the couch like she was made of glass. He didn’t sit right away—he adjusted the blanket she’d dropped, draped it over her lap without comment, then finally sat beside her. Not touching, but close. So close, she could feel the careful orbit he held around her.

His eyes scanned her face again, searching for micro-changes in her color, breathing, and posture. He was watching her like a hawk disguised as a shadow.

The silence between them settled like mist.

“I’m not that fragile,” she whispered.

“I know,” he replied. His voice was low. Raw. “But I... needed to make sure.”

There was a beat.

Inside, Kaizo’s thoughts were a clipped, desperate cadence.

'Fever’s still low-grade. Breathing even. Hands are warmer now. Keep her sitting. Don’t let her overexert. Don’t—'

She caught the flicker of focus in his eyes. “Are you... monologuing internally again?” she asked dryly.

He froze, ears turning faintly red. “No.”

“Liar.”

And just like that—just for a second—she smiled.

The trio stood frozen, still near the hallway, watching the exchange in silence.

They didn’t say a word—but their eyes said everything.

They’d seen Kaizo’s temper before. Felt it like lightning crawling up their spines. That sword of his—searing blue, all restrained rage—had hissed to life the moment they’d gotten too close to Fang during her weaker moments. He’d stood between them like a living wall, eyes alight with something feral, protective. No warning. No negotiation.

It hadn’t been a threat.

It had been a promise.

But now… now they were seeing something different. It felt like they were intruding on a private family moment.

Fang, who hadn’t said more than ten words to them since Kaizo left, was now leaning ever so slightly toward him, as if his presence itself was anchoring her. She wasn’t crying. Wasn’t even talking. But it was clear—just being near him was enough to steady her fever-hazed thoughts.

And Kaizo? Kaizo was watching her like he couldn’t afford to blink. Like if he did, she might slip away again. His posture, always precise, was tilted just slightly toward her—defensive, protective, careful. Like he wanted to wrap her in armor and shadows and never let anyone near her again.

It wasn’t bodyguard devotion. It wasn’t a soldier’s duty.

It was family.

And it made something ache in the trio’s chests. Because suddenly they realized—

Fang didn’t just trust him.

She belonged to him.

And he to her.

Kaizo let her rest beside him for a long moment, quiet, one hand loosely resting on her back. His thumb brushed in small, near-invisible arcs—barely there, but constant, like a silent heartbeat only she could feel. It wasn’t just contact. It was surveillance. Every shift in her breathing. Every twitch of her shoulders. He catalogued them with the same precision he’d once used for enemy combatants.

When he finally looked up and saw the trio still standing there, awkward and unsure, he blinked—almost startled. His eyes narrowed slightly, not in anger… but in social confusion.

Then, as if forcing his voice through a space too small in his chest, he muttered, “…Thank you.”

It came out like a broken lock, finally giving way. His voice was low, formal, stiff—as though he’d practiced it in his head six times and hated all six versions before blurting it anyway.

“For looking after her,” he added, awkwardly adjusting his sleeve even though it didn’t need fixing. “While I... couldn’t.”

The trio stared at him like he’d just sprouted wings.

Yaya blinked. “Oh! Uh—no problem! Totally fine! Normal heroic friend duty!”

Gopal leaned over to Ying, whispering, “Was that gratitude? Did the stabbing brother just thank us? Is this real life? Am I hallucinating?”

“Shut up,” Ying hissed, elbowing him hard.

Yaya, trying to recover, gave a too-wide grin. “She was quiet, but we kept her company! Tried not to be annoying.”

Gopal raised his hand. “I offered tea. She blinked at me. Progress, right?”

“More like survival,” Ying muttered. “You almost spilled it on her.”

Kaizo’s jaw twitched slightly. The sword on his belt hummed just enough to make them sweat.

Gopal coughed. “But I didn’t! I didn’t spill! It was a very graceful near-disaster.”

Kaizo’s gaze dropped back to Fang. Her breathing had steadied. Her shoulder pressed into his like she was drawing warmth from a hidden fire. She hadn’t moved away once. His fingers flexed slightly against her shoulder—hovering just shy of pulling her fully into his chest.

He let out a breath. Slow. Subtle.

Ochobot, floating toward the trio like an unbothered assistant, finally stepped in. “Perhaps we should give them space. Fang still requires rest. You three have unfinished homework. And Tok Aba will need help with the lunch crowd, especially with Fang's fans probably coming to see her.”

Gopal gasped in dramatic betrayal. “Homework and fans? We just survived an emotional hurricane! Where’s the medal?!”

Yaya snorted. “You still owe me for forgetting basic math last week.”

“I didn’t forget. I rejected it on philosophical grounds.”

“You counted creatively again, didn’t you?” Ying asked with a sigh.

“He thought eleven came after eight,” Yaya stage-whispered.

Kaizo blinked slowly, visibly struggling to process the conversation.

Fang exhaled, and a tiny puff of air escaped her nose—a very subtle, suspiciously laugh-shaped breath. Her lips curved the tiniest bit.

Kaizo almost smiled.

Ochobot, now at the door, gave the siblings a small nod. “I’ll be with Tok Aba if anything is needed.”

Fang finally raised her head. Her voice was still soft, but there was clarity in it now. “Thank you… for staying.”

She turned toward the trio, and her smile—small, fragile, but real—was like a sunrise breaking through fog. “I’ll see you in a few days.”

The trio straightened instinctively, as if they’d just been knighted.

“Take care!” Yaya chirped.

“Rest up! And remember—eight, nine, eleven!” Gopal gave a thumbs-up.

“Get well soon,” Ying said gently.

The door closed behind them, leaving the quiet to settle.

But it wasn’t heavy anymore. It wasn’t the silence of guilt or fear.

It was peace.

Kaizo didn’t speak. Neither did Fang. Instead, his hand shifted—fingers brushing from her back to her shoulder, then gently to the edge of her collar, checking without words that she wasn’t too warm, that her pulse was steady. The motion was casual enough to pass for nothing—but Fang knew. She knew the way he monitored her like a precious artifact he refused to admit he treasured.

It stirred something in her chest—a memory, sharp and warm.

She was six again. Sitting on his bed in his room, knees pulled up to her chin, refusing to sleep because her Abang was still out there. She’d fought the drowsiness for hours, terrified she’d miss him coming home.

And then—footsteps. Heavy, familiar. He’d walked in through the door, smelling of steel and ozone, eyes scanning until they landed on her.

“Why aren’t you asleep?” he’d asked, soft but stern, sitting beside her. She’d mumbled something about waiting. His mouth had tightened in a quiet scold—gentle, but unyielding. “You can’t stay up for me. You need rest.”

He’d kept talking, reprimanding her in that low voice… and somewhere between his words, exhaustion had stolen him. He’d fallen asleep mid-sentence, lying on the bed beside her.

Fang remembered draping the blanket over both of them, burying her face into his chest, the familiar scent—jasmine and cedarwood layered over the metallic tang of armor, and the faint hum of ozone that always clung to him after a fight, making her feel safe.

It was the same scent she could smell now.

And just like then, she leaned into him. Resting. Anchored.

“You’re here,” he said again, almost to himself.

“I’m here,” she whispered back.

And that was enough.

Not a battlefield. Not a mission. Just this couch. This house. This moment.

Two siblings still breathing, still holding each other in the aftermath of the storm.

Together.

And for now… that was all they needed to be.

A low hum broke the stillness.

Kaizo stiffened, his ears metaphorically twitching as the communicator on his belt lit up and vibrated for the third time today. A low growl rumbled in his throat—a sound very few people had ever lived after hearing it.

He didn’t move to answer it.

Instead, Kaizo stared at the blinking device in his pocket as if he could incinerate it by glare alone.

“This thing,” he hissed, taking it out, tail—if he had one—surely lashing in irritation, “is going to die. I swear, if it buzzes one more time, I’ll smash it into stardust and feed the pieces to a black hole—”

The name on the screen glowed.

Ra’en.

Aka Ramenman.

Kaizo froze.

Fang, nestled against him, blinked sleepily—then peered over curiously. Her kitten-soft eyes locked onto the screen. She blinked again. Then slowly, like mischief incarnate dawning on a little sister’s face, her lips curled into a grin.

“Your boyfriend’s calling,” she chirped, voice light and teasing, like a meow wrapped in feathers.

Kaizo short-circuited.

“Wh–! I–?! What?” he sputtered, scrambling to keep the communicator away from her, tail of his coat fluffing behind him like an agitated feline caught mid-pounce. “How do you—?! I never told—?! HE never—?!”

'It’s not what it looks like, his brain shrieked. Probably an emergency. Or a training update. Or maybe I left my scarf in his room again. That’s all. Not romantic. Nope.'

'Absolutely no emotional significance at all—'

Fang giggled.

Full-on, squeaky, cheek-puffing, kitten-giggling.

“You didn’t have to tell me,” she said innocently, hugging her knees and swaying side to side like a smug ball of fluff. “You two got married when I was thirteen in my past life.”

Kaizo gaped. Mouth open. Eyes wide. Ears (if he had them) flat against his head.

“You—?! We—?! Married?!” he choked, voice rising an octave.

“Mmhmm~!” Fang nodded cheerfully. “It was a beautiful ceremony. Very dramatic. You wore black, of course. And Ra’en brought you flowers made of literal laser light. I was the flower girl and the ring bearer—”

The moment Fang’s eyes glazed over, the room around her dissolved.

Flashback: Three Years Ago, In Another Time 

Warm golden light spilled through towering windows, catching on silver-threaded banners that shimmered faintly with each breath of wind. The air was thick with the scent of laser flowers—sweet, faintly electric, like rain striking a metal rooftop—mingled with something warmer: coffee laced with cardamom, faint leather, and the clean tang of well-oiled steel.

She was thirteen again, in her soft, slightly-itchy white dress. A basket of petals was tied firmly to one arm, the velvet ring pillow strapped to the other. Pops—Admiral Maskmana—had done the strapping himself, muttering about “efficiency” but tightening the ribbons just enough to hold without pinching.

The ceremony hall was vast but hushed, every step echoing like a note in an old cathedral.

She took her first step down the aisle and instantly learned two things:

One, the petals would stick to her shoes.

Two, Kaizo was watching her like she was executing a flawless infiltration mission.

He stood near the doors where she entered, in a suit so sharp it could cut glass—black with subtle silver lining, his coat tailored to swirl just above his boots, holding a bouquet of laser light—petals blooming in perfect, glowing symmetry, refracted rainbows spilling over the polished floor. Ra’en stood at the stand where she was headed, in a white suit with black lining. Ra’en couldn't stop smiling, his eyes softening every time they met Kaizo’s, like every blink was an unspoken confession.

Halfway down, Fang’s foot caught on the carpet fringe. She stumbled—petals leaping from the basket in an unplanned arc. Her stomach dropped. But Kaizo had… smiled. Just slightly. Like it was perfect that way.

She reached the front just as the music swelled.

And then Pops appeared at Kaizo’s side.

The smell of him—warm coffee with cardamom, faint leather, warm iron—wrapped around her like a blanket. His gloved hand rested briefly on Kaizo’s shoulder before he started walking him down the aisle. For once, his trademark smugness was absent. His mouth curved in something softer, his gaze holding the weight of pride instead of challenge. Twice, he stopped to fix Kaizo’s collar, muttering like the cloth had personally offended him.

Ra’en’s gaze followed them the entire way, sharp and unyielding.

Fang slipped into her seat—right next to Pops—just as the vows began.

And then Pops broke.

During the vows, he didn’t just tear up—he crumbled. Shoulders shaking, handkerchief crushed in a trembling grip, muffled sobs echoing against the solemn music. Fang passed him another tissue when the first was ruined, the coffee-cardamom scent curling faintly between them.

“You finally look happy,” he whispered, low enough that Kaizo couldn’t hear from the altar.

The officiant’s voice rang through the hall: “Do you, Kaizo, swear to stand with Ra’en through every battle, storm, and starless night?”

Kaizo’s eyes flicked up to Ra’en, steady and unreadable for a heartbeat—then softened almost imperceptibly. “…I do.”

“And do you, Ra’en—”

“Yes.” Ra’en’s answer was immediate, voice low but brimming with warmth. His eyes didn’t leave Kaizo. “I love you.”

Something in Kaizo’s chest seemed to still. “…I love you too,” he said quietly, almost as if the words were dangerous to speak aloud.

“You may now—” the officiant began.

Ra’en didn’t wait for permission.

In one smooth, theatrical movement, he hooked an arm under Kaizo’s legs, another around his back, and lifted him clean off the ground. Gasps rippled through the crowd as Ra’en—grinning like a man who had just stolen the galaxy—kissed the legendary rebel captain full on the mouth.

Sai’s chair tipped halfway over. “HE—HE PICKED HIM UP—”

Shielda nearly fell out of her seat laughing. “Ohhh, this is going in the archives forever.”

Lahap was frozen mid-blink. “…Did… did he just princess carry the Captain?”

Gopal had both fists stuffed in his mouth to stop the cackling.

Ying covered her face. “That’s… that’s not regulation wedding protocol!”

Yaya dissolved into a high-pitched squeal that could probably be heard in the next star system.

Boboiboy’s brain officially blue-screened. “I—what—huh—”

Ochobot zoomed in for maximum footage. “Archiving. Categorizing under ‘Scandalous and/or Legendary.’”

Commander Kokoci was muttering, “What in the universe?” again, his glasses falling again.

Admiral Tarung didn’t move, but the twitch at the corner of his mouth said he’d be thinking about this for the rest of the year.

And Pops? Pops was clapping so hard his palms would sting for hours, tears streaming freely, caramel candy already in his other hand for Fang like she’d just completed a top-priority mission.

The applause roared around them as Ra’en finally set Kaizo down—though judging by Kaizo’s rare, breathless smile, he didn’t mind the theft of gravity one bit.

Flashback Ended

“I had to scatter petals and carry the rings,” Fang said dreamily, “so Pops tied the basket to one arm and the ring pillow to the other. I nearly tripped on the carpet because the petals stuck to my shoes, but you smiled at me like it was perfect anyway. Pops walked you down the aisle—”

Kaizo immediately snapped his head toward her. “MASKMANA?! ADMIRAL MASKMANA?! That Pops?!”

She ignored his outrage, continuing, “—and he was actually smiling. Not smug-smiling. Actual soft, proud smiling. He fixed your collar twice before you reached Ra’en, then patted your shoulder like he couldn’t believe this was happening. During the vows, he sat next to me and cried into a handkerchief—”

Kaizo’s face was stuck somewhere between disbelief and horror. “He CRIED?!”

“Ugly crying,” Fang confirmed with relish. “I had to give him extra tissues because the first one got soaked. He even whispered that you ‘finally looked happy.’”

Kaizo’s expression cracked into a full-on scandalized gape. “That’s a LIE. I would never—! He would trip me on purpose! Sabotage the vows! Bring snacks to the ceremony!”

Fang grinned. “He did have snacks. Gave me candy between the speeches.”

Kaizo slumped like someone had pulled the plug on his soul. “Impossible. That timeline is unstable. Corrupted.”

“Oh, and then,” Fang added sweetly, “Ra’en picked you up. Literally swept you off your feet in front of everyone.”

Kaizo froze. “…He did not.”

“He did.” Her smile sharpened like a blade. “One arm under your legs, one around your back—legendary rebel captain, bridal carry, dramatic kiss. Your boots were dangling in the air like a helpless princess. I swear I heard someone gasp.”

“That footage better have been classified.”

“Classified? It’s immortalized. Ochobot had it saved in the ‘Historical Archive of Scandalous and/or Legendary Moments’—with backups, slow-motion replay, and commentary tracks. Sai made a remix out of it.”

Kaizo groaned into his hands. “I’m throwing him into the ocean too.”

Fang leaned closer, twisting the knife. “You know, from the right angle, it really looked like he dipped you. I could frame it. Hang it in the living room.”

The communicator buzzed again.

Kaizo glared at it. “I’m throwing it into the ocean.”

“You’ll miss the wedding if you do that.”

“…Tch. Don’t need a communicator to get married. I’ll just—teleport there. Dramatically. With smoke. And a cape. And glowing eyes. Not because I’m excited. Obviously. Just—tactical flair.”

Fang giggled, curling back into his side. “Sure. Just make sure Ra’en doesn’t decide to ‘tactically’ carry you off again. Wouldn’t want to relive the Princess of the Resistance moment.”

Kaizo groaned again, but the corners of his mouth were already betraying him with the faintest upward twitch.

In the quiet that followed, Fang’s purr-like breathing and his reluctant, flustered warmth filled the room.

Two survivors.

Two siblings.

One tsundere disaster and one psychic kitten armed with nuclear-grade blackmail.

The communicator continued humming.

Kaizo sighed through his nose and picked it up, half-draped across the couch like a lounging jungle predator interrupted mid-nap.

“Persistent noodlebrained—”

“It’s Ra’en,” Fang sing-songed, already inching closer, nosy as ever. “Answer it before he sends a rescue squad or a swarm of drones.”

Kaizo grumbled something untranslatable under his breath but swiped it open anyway with the resigned doom of someone bracing for impact.

Ra’en’s face flickered into view, unmasked—just him. Windswept golden hair. Bright blue eyes lit with concern. The “I-would-literally-rip-time-to-find-you” kind of worry.

The moment his gaze locked onto Kaizo, his voice came out in a soft explosion of frantic breath.

“There you are,” Ra’en exhaled, voice tight. “Kaizo, what the hell is going on? I came back from my mission, and you vanished. Said you’d be on a two-week vacation, didn’t ask for clearance, didn’t even ping coordinates—you never take vacations. I thought you got eaten by a time rift!”

Kaizo flinched slightly. “…I’m not that irresponsible.”

“You look like you literally draped a suspicious cat burglar over a couch, wearing yesterday’s shirt, and your hair’s doing that thing it does when you’re too emotionally compromised to brush it.”

Kaizo’s ears went faintly pink. “It’s called casual.”

Ra’en gave him a look so filled with golden retriever judgment that even Fang had to smother a laugh.

“Look,” Kaizo muttered, rubbing the back of his neck, gaze flicking away. “I know. I should’ve called. It was… dumb.”

Ra’en leaned forward. “Then what was the vacation an excuse for?”

Kaizo hesitated. Then, slowly, he angled the screen just enough to show Fang sitting beside him. Still pale, but alive. Soft. Real.

“…To find her.”

Fang gave a small, sheepish wave. “Hi, Ra’en…”

Ra’en’s entire expression cracked. Relief punched through him like sunlight. “Hi, kiddo…”

Kaizo exhaled, shoulders loosening just a little. “She disappeared. Wouldn’t answer anything. I panicked, alright?”

“You panicked?” Ra’en echoed, somewhere between impressed and incredulous. “You mean, you, Mr. ‘I would rather eat plasma grenades than admit vulnerability,’ actually panicked?”

Kaizo looked away so fast Fang could feel the heat rising off him. “…Shut up.”

“You panicked so hard you skipped interplanetary protocols and faked a vacation just to track down your baby sister?”

Kaizo mumbled, “She’s not a baby.”

“I’m almost legally a cryptid,” Fang chimed in, unhelpful but chipper.

Ra’en leaned back slightly, a slow, stunned smile curling across his face. “Wow. You're... really a whole softcat now.”

Kaizo’s glare tried to be lethal, but came out more like a startled animal trying to save face. “Don’t call me that.”

“But you are,” Ra’en teased. “Skittish. Moody. Loyal. Adorable when you’re glaring. It’s cute.”

Kaizo’s shoulders stiffened. His eyes darted to the side, almost as if looking for an escape hatch. Fang, knowing exactly why he was flustered—thanks to her little trip to the future—smirked like a devil in training.

“I am not cute,” Kaizo barked, scandalized. “I’m intimidating. A rebel brooding anti-hero captain with an edge. People fear me.”

“Sure,” Fang purred. “He was literally sprawled on me like a living weighted blanket five minutes ago. Purring in denial.”

“Fang!”

Ra’en blinked. “You… purr?”

“I do not—” Kaizo’s voice cracked, then he coughed like it would erase the damage. “That was my energy sword. Very different.”

Ra’en’s smile warmed, the kind that made Kaizo’s posture tighten for no reason he’d admit aloud. “You’re acting weird,” he said, head tilting. “Like—” His eyes narrowed slightly, curious. “—like you were on our first date again. All… fidgety.”

Kaizo’s fingers twitched on the armrest. “You’re imagining things.”

Fang bit back a laugh so hard it almost hurt. 'Oh, if only you knew.'

Ra’en studied Kaizo’s half-averted gaze and faint, telltale blush but didn’t push—yet. “Mm. I’ll figure it out.”

Kaizo muttered something about “overconfident space dogs” under his breath, the tips of his ears glowing red.

Ra’en kept smiling. Kaizo kept pretending he wasn’t flustered. Fang kept enjoying every second.

“I’m glad you found her,” Ra’en said, voice quiet now. “You look more like you again. Not the closed-off version who drowns himself in missions to avoid feeling anything.”

Kaizo’s breath hitched.

“You look like the Kaizo I fell for.”

His heart short-circuited. He turned crimson. “R-Ra’en—!”

“Is it hot in here?” Fang teased, scooting back as if giving them privacy. “Should I step out so you two can have your dramatic confession scene?”

“I will eject you from orbit.”

Ra’en laughed. “Please don’t. She’s too cute to launch.”

“She’s evil,” Kaizo groaned, burying his red face in his sleeve. “This is why I have trust issues.”

Fang leaned on his shoulder. “You’re lucky I ship you two.”

“You ship us?” Kaizo asked, scandalized.

“With full sails and a honeymoon planet picked out.”

Ra’en grinned widely. “Should we send her the invite first?”

“RA’EN.”

“Relax, kitty,” he said with a wink. “I’ll wait for you to say it first.”

Kaizo curled into the couch like he was trying to fold into another dimension. “I hate you so much right now.”

“No, you don’t,” Ra’en said gently, gaze soft. “You love me. And I love you too.”

Kaizo peeked out through his fingers, cheeks still blazing. “…Yeah. I know.”

And somehow, those three words—I know—held more than an entire love letter could.

Fang hummed, content between them.

The communicator continued to hum softly, but now it didn’t feel like an interruption.

Just connection.

And warmth.

And home.

Ra’en smiled at them, the tension mostly drained from his face now.

“So, when are you coming back to HQ? I’m sure the Commander wants your report—and I think your team broke the surveillance drone again.”

Kaizo exhaled, his expression softening. “We’ll head back sometime this week. Once Fang’s better.”

Fang blinked at him, surprised—and a little touched.

Ra’en tilted his head. “And after that?”

Kaizo hesitated. Then shrugged, pretending like it was no big deal. “I was thinking… I’d stay a little while. With Fang. On Earth.”

Ra’en stared.

“You’re what now?”

“I’ve got unused vacation time,” Kaizo muttered, poking at the communicator like it had personally wronged him. “Figured I might as well... use it.”

A full beat of silence followed.

Ra’en leaned toward the screen, eyes narrowing like he was analyzing Kaizo for signs of possession.

“Wait. You're staying? On Earth? Voluntarily?”

Kaizo avoided eye contact. “...Yes?”

Another pause.

Then—

“Fang. Touch his forehead,” Ra’en said urgently. “He might be overheating. Or hallucinating. Or both.”

“I was just thinking that,” Fang said, solemnly. She kneeled up and pressed the back of her hand to Kaizo’s temple with theatrical drama.

Kaizo flinched back. “Fang!”

“I’m checking for fever!” she snapped, eyes narrowed like a suspicious housecat. “You saying you’re taking time off is a catastrophic red flag. Like, space-anomaly-tier.”

“I’m allowed to rest,” Kaizo grumbled.

“You hate rest,” Ra’en cut in. “You once yelled at a rookie for stretching too long before a mission.”

Kaizo jabbed a finger toward the screen. “He tried yoga near a live plasma core.”

“That’s beside the point!” Fang declared, scandalized.

Ra’en leaned in again, concern creeping back into his voice. “Are you sure you didn’t hit your head? Or get exposed to a neurotoxin? Or—Fang, did you infect him with emotional vulnerability?”

Kaizo stared flatly. “I’m not infected.”

Fang, dead serious: “Might be the ‘finally experiencing feelings’ strain. Late-stage symptoms include smiling. Enjoying breakfast. Accepting love.”

Ra’en gasped. “Gods, not smiling.”

Kaizo let out a groan and dragged a hand over his face. “You’re both impossible.”

Fang clutched her chest dramatically. “Denial. Classic symptom.”

Ra’en nodded gravely. “We may need to quarantine him—with hugs.”

“Don’t you dare—” Kaizo’s voice spiked as his face went bright red. “Stop conspiring.”

“You’re blushing,” Ra’en pointed out, tone softer now—less teasing, more fond. “You never blush unless you’re hiding something.”

Fang tilted her head, all teeth and mischief. “He’s cracked. He’s soft. My terrifying big brother is a softie now.”

Kaizo opened his mouth, then closed it again. No rebuttal. Just sulking in silence.

Ra’en watched him a moment longer, then his teasing faded into something quieter.

“...Seriously, though. Are you okay?”

Kaizo finally looked up. “I’m fine. Really.”

Ra’en’s eyes flicked toward Fang, then back to Kaizo. “You’re not just saying that?”

Kaizo’s voice was quieter this time. “No. I mean it.”

Fang’s grin faded into something gentler. She leaned against him again, casual as always—but this time, her head rested just a little more intentionally on his shoulder.

“…Good,” she murmured. “But you’re not leaving until you’re cured of chronic overworkitis. Doctor’s orders.”

Kaizo groaned again and buried his face in his sleeve like a flustered cat. “You’re both insane.”

“But you love us,” Ra’en said softly.

“You totally do,” Fang sang.

Kaizo didn’t answer. He just mumbled something incoherent and sulky into his sleeve.

Ra’en chuckled, warmth bleeding into every word. “You look cute when you sulk.”

Kaizo’s ears twitched.

Fang gasped. “He did the ear twitch! That’s full feline mode!”

Ra’en laughed. “Admit it, Kaizo. You’re half jungle cat.”

Kaizo said nothing—but he glared. Bright red. Still glaring. Still not denying it.

Ra’en’s gaze shifted to something offscreen—probably his HUD—and he sighed. “Duty calls. Commander wants my debrief.”

Kaizo nodded, a little slower this time. “Tell him Fang and I will report in soon. A few more days.”

Ra’en’s expression softened again. “Good. But… take care of yourself, okay? And her.”

“I am,” Kaizo said, more certain now.

“I know. But don’t forget yourself in the process.”

Kaizo blinked, caught a little off guard by the weight in Ra’en’s voice. And the way he looked at him—like he saw all of him. Even from lightyears away.

Then Ra’en smiled. Quiet. Steady.

“I love you.”

Kaizo froze.

His breath hitched—but then, something in him settled.

His voice came low and rough. But real.

“…I love you too.”

Fang immediately gasped. “He said it!”

Kaizo flailed a hand toward her face like a cat pawing at a bug. “You’re ruining it!”

“I’m preserving it,” she said smugly, miming a recording device. “‘Kaizo expresses affection—film at eleven.’”

Ra’en just laughed. “Thanks for keeping him in line, Fang.”

“Anytime. Bye, Ra’en! Don’t crash your ship!”

Ra’en smirked. “Tell your brother to stop looking like a kicked cat when I say I love him. And make sure he actually rests.”

“Already on it. Doctor’s orders,” she winked. “Bye-bye!”

“Bye,” Kaizo murmured, voice soft again.

The screen flickered off with a soft hum—only to flicker back on a second later.

Ra’en’s face reappeared, looking mildly panicked.

“Wait—” he blurted. “Did I just…? Oh no.” He put a hand to his temple. “Did I just say that in front of her?”

Kaizo arched a brow. “If you mean the ‘I love you’ and our first date? Yes.”

Ra’en groaned. “Stars, I didn’t mean to—”

“She already knew,” Kaizo cut in, deadpan—though the faint pink on his ears gave him away.

Ra’en froze. “…She did?”

“Uh-huh,” Fang said cheerfully, swinging her legs. “I’ve known for ages. You two are about as subtle as a meteor shower in the middle of a desert.”

Ra’en blinked, the panic fading into disbelief. “The whole time?”

“Since before you two figured it out,” Fang replied, smiling like a cat with cream.

Kaizo shot her a warning look—too late.

“Oh, I just love seeing my big brother blush like he did when he wore that suit,” Fang said sweetly.

Kaizo stiffened. “…Fang.”

Ra’en tilted his head. “Suit?”

“Mmhm,” Fang said innocently, brushing imaginary lint off her sleeve. “You know… that suit. The one that makes people cry happy tears.”

Kaizo’s ears went a shade redder. “Drop it.”

Ra’en frowned, clearly missing the subtext but suspicious anyway. “Right…”

“Nothing important,” Fang said innocently, brushing imaginary lint off her sleeve. “Just déjà vu.”

Kaizo was now staring daggers at her, his ears betraying him again—deep crimson at the tips.

Ra’en glanced between them, baffled. “…Why do I feel like there’s an inside joke I’m not in on?”

“No inside joke,” Fang lied smoothly. “Just sisterly observation.”

Kaizo muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like I will end you.

Ra’en tilted his head but let it slide. “Anyway—love you. Both of you. Stay safe.”

“Bye-bye!” Fang chirped.

Kaizo gave a short nod, still recovering his composure. The comm finally clicked off for good.

Fang leaned sideways with a smug grin. “You’re welcome.”

“You’re a menace,” Kaizo groaned.

“Mmhm.” She looked far too pleased with herself.

Her grin faded into something gentler. Kaizo had said he was staying on Earth for her—but it wasn’t just that. She could feel it. He wasn’t ready to leave at all.

This wasn’t about duty or obligation.

It was about them.

Fang leaned her head against his shoulder again. “…Soft,” she whispered.

“Don’t start,” Kaizo warned.

“He loves you,” she sang. “And you love him~”

“Fang.”

“Your face went all soft when you said it. You looked like a sad little prince missing his knight.”

Kaizo crossed his arms, ears twitching. “Drop it.”

“Oh no,” she said, eyes glinting. “This is what happens when you hang out with me—you catch feelings.”

“You started this,” Kaizo muttered. “I came here to find you.”

“And now you’re staying to take care of me. Aw.” She gave him a syrupy smile. “I’m contagious and lovable. Terrible combo, huh?”

Kaizo groaned and stood up. “I regret everything.”

“You don’t,” she called after him. “Admit it—you love both of us! Can’t wait to see you in that suit again~”

He froze mid-step, ears going nuclear.

“…No comment.”

Fang laughed loud and proud as he stalked away, ears still pink.

Kaizo told himself he didn’t have feelings.

'Feelings were inefficient. Distracting. Dangerous.'

A mental slideshow of glowing smiles and reckless blue eyes disagreed.

“It’s clearly Earth’s gravity,” he reasoned. “Messing with my head. Has to be.”

Then he caught his reflection in a hallway mirror—somewhere between flustered and… fond.

“…Stupid brat,” he muttered.

From the living room, Fang yelled, “I heard that!”

Kaizo picked up the pace. It was going to be a very long day.

Half an Hour Later

Fang was happily dozing off under a ton of blankets that Kaizo practically buried her in.

When the scent hit her nose before the sound did.

Fang stirred from her cocoon of blankets, nose scrunching. Something was burning. Something was very burning.

“…No,” she whispered hoarsely. “No no no—Kaizo?”

There was a clatter from the kitchen, followed by a sharp hiss of pain and then Kaizo’s voice: “I’m fine! Stay in the blankets!”

Fang groaned, shoved the blankets off, and padded down the hall on bare feet like a determined kitten. “Are you cooking again?!”

“Yes,” Kaizo snapped, voice defensive, suspiciously frazzled. “You’re sick. You should be lying down.”

“I’d rather be sick than dead!” Fang shot back, stumbling into the kitchen. “You’re gonna blow up the stove again!”

“I didn’t blow it up, it was one tiny spark—”

“You set instant noodles on fire.”

“They were experimental noodles!”

Fang stopped, blinking at the smoky, vaguely ash-colored lump in the pan. “…What was this?”

Kaizo straightened stiffly, his hands behind his back, posture like a territorial alley cat trying to look unfazed. “Rice.”

She squinted. “That’s not rice. That’s a… a crime against starch.”

“I followed the package,” Kaizo muttered, ears—if he had any—clearly flattening in shame. “Mostly.”

“Mostly?!”

“I eyeballed the measurements!”

Fang dragged a hand down her face. “Of course you did.”

“You needed rest,” he insisted, tail-that-did-not-exist practically swishing in stubborn indignation. “You’re not supposed to be up.”

“Well, I wouldn’t be up if you weren’t trying to burn the house down!”

“I was trying to do something nice!” he snapped, and then immediately crossed his arms and looked away, cheeks darkening in frustration.

Fang, despite the headache pounding in her temples, couldn’t help the small puff of laughter. “You’re like a grumpy tomcat who knocked over a whole spice rack and won’t admit it.”

Kaizo scowled deeper. “You’re like a reckless kitten who bites everything and acts surprised when something explodes.”

“Excuse me—I don’t bite things.”

“I watched you chew the corner of a cereal box before.”

Fang gasped, scandalized. “You said nothing!”

“I was in shock!”

They stared at each other for a moment, both puffed up with exaggerated offense, before Fang burst into wheezing giggles and had to sit down.

Kaizo’s posture slowly dropped its defensive arch, and he looked to the side, rubbing the back of his neck.

“…You’re still sick,” he grumbled. “You shouldn’t be yelling.”

“Then stop doing things that make me yell,” she grinned tiredly, eyes crinkling with amusement. “You’re sweet. Really. But you’re also dangerous in the kitchen.”

He sulked. “I just wanted to make you something.”

“I know,” she said, softening. “So how about a compromise?”

Kaizo raised an eyebrow.

“You clearly won’t let me cook,” she continued, already hauling herself up onto a stool at the counter like a tiny kitten climbing a ledge. “So we’re gonna make something together. I’ll be the brain. You’ll be the hands. If you try to improvise, I’m biting you.”

“You said you didn’t bite things.”

“Exceptions can be made.”

Kaizo grunted. “Fine. But if you fall off that stool—”

“I land on my feet,” she chirped smugly.

“You’re not a cat.”

“Says the guy who growled at a blender.”

Kaizo’s face turned red as he reached for a new pot. “It made a weird noise.”

“It was blending.”

“Don’t distract me,” he huffed, flicking an imaginary tail. “Tell me what we’re making before I change my mind.”

Fang leaned her chin into her hand, smiling like a proud little menace. “Something you can’t mess up. Let’s try an omelet.”

“…There’s no way to mess that up?”

“Not if you listen to me.”

“That's what worries me.”

The kitchen slowly began to settle into something resembling peace.

Fang leaned forward on her elbows as Kaizo, eyes narrowed in focus, cracked an egg just a little too aggressively. A chunk of shell plopped into the bowl.

She didn’t say anything. Just reached in with a spoon and plucked it out, humming gently.

“…I meant to do that,” Kaizo said after a beat.

“Of course you did,” she replied with an exaggerated nod. “Shell adds texture.”

He rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward.

They worked together in a rhythm that was rough around the edges but full of quiet effort. Fang told him when to tilt the pan, when to wait, when to lower the flame—each instruction simple, gentle, spoken like a secret between co-conspirators.

Kaizo listened.

He wasn’t good. But he was trying.

She watched him stir the eggs, then flip the omelet with way too much tension in his shoulders. The spatula shook a little in his hand, his jaw clenched in concentration, eyes darting like a soldier dismantling a bomb.

And then something shifted.

The smell of cooked butter and chives filled the air, and—

In her mind’s eye, Fang saw a different kitchen. Big, bright, golden. Laughter echoing off marbled floors. A massive stove, six fires going at once. The old head chef, towering over her and Kaizo, his laugh deep as thunder. His face was lined with joy.

"Young lady," he used to say with a twinkle in his eyes, "you’re going to ruin the dish with all that stirring."

“I’m helping!” five-year-old Fang had insisted proudly, gripping a wooden spoon in both hands and barely reaching the pot. “You said stir clockwise!”

“And you're doing counterclockwise, imp,” Kaizo—just fourteen, already protective—had murmured beside her, carefully adjusting her hands.

The chef had crouched down beside them, ruffling Kaizo’s messy hair and letting Fang stand on his foot to reach the pot better. “Someday you’ll cook better than me,” he told them, smiling kindly and warmly. “And when you do, you’ll remember this moment. Just you wait.”

A tiny sound pulled Fang out of the memory. She blinked, eyes misty, to see Kaizo gently sliding the half-folded omelet onto a plate. He wasn’t smiling. But his usual tension had softened a little.

“…Not bad,” she said softly.

He looked at her, then at the pan, then at her again. “Are you crying because it’s that good?”

Fang gave a wet snort. “I was remembering something.”

He tilted his head like a curious cat. “What?”

“…The head chef,” she said. “The old one. The one with the wild mustache and that laugh you used to call stupid.”

Kaizo froze, spoon still in hand.

“...He let me stir soup with him once,” she continued, her voice gentler now. “I spilled half of it, and you panicked and knocked over a whole spice rack trying to help.”

Kaizo let out a soft exhale. “…I remember.”

Silence stretched between them.

“I miss that kitchen,” Fang murmured. “It always smelled like cinnamon.”

Kaizo gave a small nod, gaze distant. “And garlic. He put garlic in everything.”

“Even dessert.”

“…He was weird.”

Fang smiled.

Kaizo set the plate down in front of her, sliding it carefully across the counter. “Here. Not cinnamon, not garlic. Just eggs and whatever you told me to put in.”

She picked up the fork, then paused, staring at him.

Kaizo blinked. “What?”

“I’m proud of you,” she said softly.

He looked away immediately, ears-that-didn’t-exist twitching in clear embarrassment. “Don’t get used to it. I’m not doing this again.”

“You will when I fake sick next week.”

“You won’t need to fake anything if you keep trying to cook by yourself.”

They bickered like that for a few more minutes—light jabs, affectionate mockery, soft laughter—but beneath it all, a quiet comfort lingered. The kitchen might’ve been smaller, dimmer, and a little smoky.

But at the moment it was theirs.

And as Kaizo slowly picked up the spatula again to try flipping the second omelet, Fang leaned back in her chair with a sleepy smile.

Their planet was gone. The chef, too.

But her Abang?

He was still here.

The meal was simple.

Soft eggs, a touch of herbs, a little too much pepper—but warm. Satisfying. It wasn’t the kind of thing that would win any awards, but it was theirs, and it tasted like effort. Like memory.

Fang leaned her head against the back of her chair, plate on her lap, legs curled up beneath her. She chewed slowly, eyes half-lidded, quiet in a way that only happened when she felt safe.

Kaizo didn’t sit at first. He hovered. He watched her like she might collapse at any moment, arms crossed like a cat guarding the door. But she waved him off with her fork, giving a little kick at his shin until he finally gave in and sat across from her.

They ate in comfortable silence.

The kind of silence that only siblings knew. A quiet that didn’t demand anything.

Kaizo took a bite. Chewed. Stared down at the eggs on his plate, now half cold.

And just like hers had earlier, his mind slipped backward.

The old kitchen.

Before the attack.

Before the invasion.

Before everything.

He hadn’t thought of that place in years.

He remembered the sound of knives against boards. The hissing of oil. The chaotic harmony of the kitchen brigade. And over it all, the chef’s booming voice shouting directions and jokes in equal measure.

Kaizo had hated it back then. Too loud. Too many smells. Too many people were bustling around like nothing could ever go wrong.

He remembered standing by the door, arms crossed, while little Fang dragged a stool over just to see into the pot. Her cheeks flushed, eyes wide with excitement. She used to squeal whenever the chef handed her a spoon.

Kaizo had pretended not to care.

But he remembered the way the chef used to glance at him, then hold out another spoon. Just for him.

And Kaizo—fourteen, angry, already weighed down with things a boy his age shouldn’t have known—would always scowl.

But he’d take the spoon.

And he’d stir.

And he’d listen to Fang babble beside him. Watch her mimic the chef’s movements like it was the most important thing in the world.

Back then, it had annoyed him.

Now?

Now the memory ached in his chest like a bruise.

“...You know, Abang, you used to hum when you stirred things,” Fang said suddenly, breaking the silence without lifting her head.

Kaizo blinked. “...What?”

“In the kitchen,” she murmured, smiling faintly. “You had this little tune. All off-key and moody. Sounded like something our mother used to sing. You probably didn’t notice.”

Kaizo stared at her.

He didn’t remember humming.

But now that she said it… he could almost hear it.

He rubbed a hand over his mouth and looked away.

“You okay?” she asked, more softly now.

He nodded once. “Just… thinking.”

Fang gave a knowing hum. “You always overthink after eating.”

Kaizo muttered something under his breath and stabbed his last piece of omelet a little too hard.

Fang giggled.

They stayed like that for a few minutes—two survivors wrapped in the warm bubble of a childhood memory, the weight of grief lighter here, bearable.

Then Fang broke the spell.

“Hey.”

Kaizo looked up, wary.

“Did you find it?”

He blinked. “Find what?”

“In my stuff,” she said, tapping her fingers lightly against the plate. “The leather-bound notebook. Dark brown, written in our home planet’s language?”

Kaizo didn’t answer at first. His gaze dropped to his now-empty plate, shoulders just a touch too still.

Fang waited, one brow lifted, fork dangling loosely between her fingers.

Then, quietly—so softly it barely carried across the small space between them—he said, “…Yes.”

Fang’s grin widened, but she didn’t tease him. Not this time.

Kaizo set his plate aside. His voice, when he spoke again, was calmer. Lower. Laced with something unreadable.

“But we’ll both look into it,” he said, eyes meeting hers now, steady and firm. “Once we get your things settled in Tok Aba’s guest room.”

Fang blinked at him.

Then she nodded slowly. “Okay.”

There was a moment where neither said anything.

Just a quiet understanding passing between them like a thread woven from shared history, loss, and whatever strange sense of safety they’d carved out together in the wake of everything else.

Kaizo stood and began gathering the plates.

Fang watched him go, and for a second—just a second—her eyes softened.

“…Thanks,” she said quietly.

Kaizo paused at the sink, flicked an earless glance over his shoulder.

“For what?” he muttered.

Fang smiled faintly, resting her chin on her hand.

“Not running from it.”

Kaizo didn’t answer.

But she saw the corners of his mouth twitch.

And for now, that was enough.