Andrea sipped the last of her bubble tea, the cold drink now a lingering sweetness on her tongue. The straw slurped as it reached the bottom of the cup, a faint sound that broke the quiet hush of her room. The walls had calmed. The storm of flying pillows and near-shattered furniture had passed.
But something deeper—the aftershock—still hummed in her bones.
Across the room, Layla stood by the tall glass window, her silhouette caught in the fading gold light. She looked like she belonged in a magazine spread—effortless, poised, dressed in her signature sleek black suit with a blouse crisp enough to cut glass. Arms folded. Eyes thoughtful. Like she was watching more than just the garden below.
Andrea watched her for a moment, the edge of the cup still pressed to her lips.
Then, her voice cut the air.
"Why did you call me Lady Panther?"
Layla turned slightly, brow lifting with a soft smile. "Because you act like a cat with unresolved trauma."
Andrea squinted.
Layla's tone stayed light. "Always landing on your feet. Always stalking rooms like they owe you rent. And also, because you have sharp eyes, black hair, and exactly zero tolerance for being touched."
Andrea snorted into her cup, pulling the straw from her mouth. "And here I thought you were trying to flirt."
Layla grinned. "Oh no, babe. I flirt when I'm relaxed. You? You'd probably bite someone who tried."
Andrea tilted her head, her expression shifting—something playful curling beneath her sarcasm, but guarded as always. She stood, the cup dangling lazily from her fingers as she crossed the room slowly, watching Layla in a quiet, unreadable way.
"Are you sure that's the only reason?" she asked, voice smooth, low.
Layla's smile faded for a beat. "Why? Think I know something you don't?"
Andrea stared for a second longer, eyes narrowing slightly—then tossed the empty cup into the trash near the desk. "No," she said, turning away. "But you carry yourself like someone who's always three steps ahead."
Layla chuckled, opening the closet.
"Well, if I knew more about your Panther alter ego," she said, rifling through folded fabrics, "I wouldn't tell you until after dessert."
Andrea didn't answer. She was already distracted.
In the reflection of the vanity mirror, she caught sight of herself—hair tangled, a smear of ash across her cheek, and the jagged rip across her jacket from earlier.
It wasn't just mess. It was evidence.
The kind that followed you home after survival.
Layla returned, holding out a bundle of clothes: loose black joggers, a soft cotton tank, and a zip hoodie. "Here. Fresh up. You smell like rage and burnt rubber. I'll wait downstairs."
Andrea took them silently. Her fingers brushed the sleeve of the hoodie—clean, warm, simple.
As Layla turned to leave, Andrea hesitated.
Then, in a voice softer than she meant, she muttered, "Thanks."
Layla paused at the doorway, glanced over her shoulder. "You can thank me after you eat two slices of baklava."
Andrea gave a half-smile.
Then she turned and walked toward the bathroom, her steps quiet now. Slower. As she reached for the door, her reflection caught her eye again—this time, longer. She looked… worn. Not broken, but close.
Under her breath, barely a whisper, she murmured to herself:
"Thank God I made it."
No one heard her.
No one, but the silence that lingered behind her.
.______.(●'◡'●).______.(●'◡'●).______.(●'◡'●).______.(●'◡'●).______.
Downstairs.
The living room was dim. A few lights had been lowered, and a gentle instrumental track hummed in the background. In the far hall, footsteps padded away as the staff prepared the final touches for dinner.
Eunwoo's phone buzzed.
He picked it up, glanced at the ID, and his brow tightened.
Volkov.
He pressed the answer button and didn't say a word.
A familiar voice came through—low, firm, deliberate.
"Eunwoo. Go to your private room."
Eunwoo hesitated, jaw tensing. "There's no one around."
"Now."
Without a word, Eunwoo turned from the living room and walked through the corridor to the back of the mansion. He passed the art gallery hall, turned left into a space known only to a few—the weapons training wing.
He moved with instinct, his steps silent, practiced. He entered the side door that led to the secure training vault. Rows of mounted blades and locked drawers lined the walls. A table in the center gleamed under the dimmed light.
He stopped. Pressed the comm speaker on the wall.
"Mr. Volkov."
A pause. Then Dimitry's voice filled the room.
The call buzzed through the private line, sharp in Eunwoo's ear, breaking the low hum of silence in the training wing. Metal walls surrounded him—lined with blades, tactical gear, archived weapons—but it wasn't any of that which made his shoulders tense.
It was Dimitry Volkov's voice.
Calm.
Cold.
And far too familiar with things that were never written in files.
"I heard what happened," he said without greeting.
Eunwoo folded his arms.
"Then you know she got knocked out the moment she opened that container. I didn't like it."
"She was the only one affected?" Dimitry asked.
"What exactly happened after she opened the container?" Dimitry asked, the low static of encrypted transmission curling his syllables.
Eunwoo walked in slow circles, pacing the perimeter of the room. His boots echoed against the polished floors, his brow furrowed deep.
"Yes," Eunwoo replied. "I opened the second crate. Same type. Blue-smoke dispersal tabs. No effect on me or Minjoo. But the moment she cracked the first one open… she collapsed."
"You said she smelled it?" Dimitry asked.
Eunwoo nodded. "Took a breath. Looked confused. Then dizzy. Then just… gone. Out cold."
Silence crackled over the comms.
"She opened a crate," Eunwoo said. "It had Night Bloom. She took one breath. That's all. She didn't even fully inhale—just a whiff."
"And then?"
"She staggered. Looked confused. Eyes went glassy. Then dropped. No sound. No warning. Just… unconscious."
There was a pause on the other end. Then Dimitry spoke, quieter now.
"You have her medicine?"
Eunwoo stopped walking.
His eyes flicked to the far corner of the room—beneath the locked weapons cabinet, near the padded wall where he sometimes ran solo drills.
A small metal case.
Unlabeled.
Untouched.
His jaw clenched as he stepped toward it.
He dropped to one knee, fingers brushing the dust from the surface.
When he opened it, the interior light flickered on, cold white. Inside, nestled in shock-proof foam, was a single blister pack—six small silver tablets.
Dimitry's voice came again, sharper now.
"Well?"
Eunwoo exhaled through his nose.
"Yes," he said. "I have them."
"You remember the protocol?"
"Two tablets in a 24-hour window. Only one if it's the first exposure."
"Good," Dimitry replied, then paused.
"Where is she now?"
Eunwoo stood, the case still in his hand. "Upstairs. In her room. She said she needed to cool down. She's been… volatile."
"Volatile how?"
"She snapped at me. Won't look me in the eye. She destroyed half her room. She's burning through adrenaline like she doesn't feel it anymore."
Silence.
Then Dimitry said, "That's not emotional volatility. That's neurological spillover. If she touched the pure Night Blue compound and it hit her memory matrix, her brain's synaptic threshold may be overloaded."
"You're saying this is chemical?"
"I'm saying it's dangerous," Dimitry snapped. "Before she loses control—go. Administer the medication immediately."
Eunwoo's blood went cold.
"This isn't a request, Eunwoo. It's a command. From your superior."
His jaw clenched—but he didn't argue.
He ended the call.
Grabbed the case.
And sprinted out of the weapons room.
The marble floor beneath him echoed with every step as Eunwoo ran down the mansion corridor. His heart thundered—not from exhaustion, but from urgency. Something about Dimitry's voice, usually cold as frost, had changed.
It had fear in it.
And that was worse than any order.
He bolted past the library, the dining hall, then rounded the staircase railing, gripping it with one hand to swing himself upward faster.
The second floor spread before him like a battlefield.
Polished, perfect, and too quiet.
He saw Layla first—standing in the hallway outside Andrea's room. Her arms were crossed, but her expression wasn't casual anymore.
She turned the second she heard his footsteps.
"Boss—?"
"Where is she?" Eunwoo snapped, not breaking stride.
Layla stepped back immediately, catching the shift in his tone.
"She's in the bathroom," she said quickly, brows drawing together. "She went in fifteen minutes ago. I figured she just needed time to cool off…"
"She didn't come out?" Eunwoo asked, voice low and tight.
"No. And she's not answering either."
Eunwoo's pace picked up again. He reached Andrea's door, pushed it open hard—then stopped.
The room was still dim.
The tea cup was still on the bedside.
The chair from earlier still lay crooked, half-tilted on the floor.
He crossed to the bathroom door and knocked once—firm, deliberate.
"Andrea."
No answer.
He tried again.
"Open the door."
Still nothing.
Layla stepped in behind him now, her arms no longer crossed—her hands clenched at her sides.
"Boss… she's not answering."
Eunwoo's jaw flexed. His breath was steady, but his body had gone still. Like every cell in him had stopped to listen.
He knocked once more. Harder.
.______.*^____^**^____^*.______.*^____^**^____^*.______.📖
The silence was stretching too long.
Too thick.
Too dangerous.
Eunwoo stood at the bathroom door with his hand pressed flat against it, his voice sharper now.
"Andrea. Open the door."
Still nothing.
Layla hovered nearby, her arms crossed tight, but not from defiance—for warmth. For protection. Her fingers had gone cold.
"Boss," she said softly, "I don't hear the shower anymore. Not the sink. Nothing."
Eunwoo said nothing. His eyes didn't leave the door. Every breath he took felt heavier than the last.
Then, with a slow movement, he pressed the speakerphone button on his still-active call with Dimitry Volkov. The older man's voice was sharp, staticky, clinical.
"Eunwoo?"
"She's not responding," Eunwoo answered, his voice stripped of everything but control.
There was silence on the other end. Then:
"Break the door."
It wasn't a suggestion.
It was command.
Without hesitation, Eunwoo dropped the call into his pocket, stepped back, and squared his stance.
But just before his foot hit the wood—
Click.
The door creaked open.
And Andrea—wide-eyed, pale, trembling—stood in the frame.
Before either of them could say a word, Eunwoo's momentum carried him forward and—
Crash.
They collided.
Not hard—but enough to send him stumbling slightly into her.
Her hands went up to stop him, instinctive.
His arms moved to steady her.
For one strange second—they weren't in a hallway.
Not in a mansion.
Not inside an emergency.
They were somewhere else.
His arms around her waist.
Her palms flat against his chest.
Her breath caught.
Her eyes locked on his.
And time…
stopped.
The heat of her skin. The short, shocked inhale she took. The way her fingers didn't pull away immediately. The way he felt like his heartbeat was echoing into hers.
But it wasn't their bodies that pulled them out of it.
It was the voice.
Crackling from the speaker in his pocket.
"Andrea?"
She froze.
The sound hit her like a brick through glass.
Her eyes widened. Her mouth opened just slightly.
She knew that voice.
She hadn't heard it in a long, long time.
"…Dad?"
Eunwoo blinked, looking down at her.
Her fingers slipped from his chest.
The moment broke.
Dimitry's voice came again—sharper, but laced with something almost rare in him:
Relief.
"Are you alright?" he asked.
Andrea blinked, still disoriented, like she had just come back from somewhere else. She reached down, took the phone from Eunwoo's hand without asking, and stepped back—just enough to create space.
"I'm okay," she said softly. "I just… needed a minute."
Layla leaned against the doorframe, the tension in her posture finally unwinding.
Andrea leaned her shoulder to the wall, the phone pressed to her ear. Her voice was calm, but her eyes kept flicking back to Eunwoo—again and again.
It wasn't subtle.
She looked at him like he was a question she wasn't ready to answer.
"…I didn't know you were tracking my vitals," Andrea said into the phone.
"I wasn't," Dimitry said. "Eunwoo gave the report. But I told him to stay close."
Andrea sighed, her body visibly loosening now.
"I didn't pass out this time. I almost did, but… it stopped."
There was silence.
Then Dimitry's voice, low and measured: "Did you see anything?"
Andrea hesitated.
Eunwoo didn't move.
Layla didn't breathe.