Two weeks had passed, and most of the boys had already returned to their usual routines, slipping back into the rhythm of missions, training, and meetings.
But the leader was still confined to rest—his body hadn’t fully recovered from the nerve-gas attack. Even now, traces of its effects lingered beneath his skin: weakness, tremors, unpredictable waves of dizziness. The medics warned that some nerve agents could temporarily disrupt neuromuscular junctions, leaving fatigue that resurfaced without warning. So he remained home, frustrated but obediently following orders.
The forensic analysis confirmed what everyone feared: the substance released in the corridor had been a fast-acting nerve agent—an organophosphate compound similar to VX but chemically modified to evaporate faster and disable faster rather than kill. It explained every symptom the leader had suffered: the tremors, the disorientation, the nausea, the intermittent muscle weakness.
Nothing lethal in the dosage he inhaled—but potent enough to attack the communication signals between his nerves and muscles, explaining the paralysis-like weakness, the difficulty breathing, the tremors.
His assistant and the medical unit had practically dragged him back to bed when he attempted to resume work, ordering strict rest until the toxin fully cleared his system.
They scolded him relentlessly, insisting that even minimal overexertion could trigger a regression. Even small remnants of such chemicals could cause delayed neurological effects, so ignoring their instructions was out of the question.
Reluctantly, he obeyed, though the frustration in his eyes never fully vanished.
Jaehyun visited him every day, checking his breathing, his grip strength, and whether the tremors still appeared when he walked. They had talked about the incident—about the anger, the fear, and the mistakes—but some things lingered quietly between them. Yet for now, neither pushed the other. Their friendship had always survived storms without needing perfect closure
His best friend watched over him regularly—checking his vitals, making sure he ate, forcing him to rest when he pushed too far.
They had talked through most of the misunderstandings created by the incident. Some things remained unspoken, heavy in the air between them, but neither of them pushed. For now, silence felt safer than reopening wounds that were still healing.
The girl always asked her twin about the leader’s condition whenever he returned from visiting him.
She never asked too directly, but her concern showed in the way she lingered, waiting for updates.
She never pushed for details—just wanted to know if he was eating, if he was sleeping, if he still looked pale. She never said why she cared, and Sungchan never questioned it.
Taeyong eventually allowed her to go home again. Shotaro had quietly reminded him that her disappearance had already shaken her family—especially after the kidnapping witnesses. If she stayed away any longer, her parents would panic, and social services or even the police might get involved. Even in his weakened state, Taeyong understood the consequences instantly
Eventually, the leader agreed to let her return home—he understood the consequences if she suddenly disappeared on her family again. Shotaro had quietly reminded him:
Her absence would trigger panic, and questions would follow that none of them needed right now, as well as investigations, or worse.
The leader already knew that, but hearing it from someone else convinced him to let her leave before trouble could escalate.
Taeyong couldn’t allow another crisis—not for her, not for the group.
The Dreamies had also informed him that one of her friends had witnessed the kidnapping. That alone was enough for the leader to understand that sending her back home quietly was necessary—he couldn’t risk another ripple of trouble forming around her.
