While the others slowly retreated to their rooms, exhaustion finally weighing heavier than adrenaline, the assistant remained restless.
Doyoung had closed the door of the medical house behind him after he treated the girl more carefully than necessary, as if the quiet itself might shatter if he wasn’t cautious enough. The cool night air brushed against his face, sharp and grounding, but it didn’t do much to calm the restless tension sitting heavy in his chest.
He had told her she could stay in the medical house for the night—safe, isolated, quiet. He hadn’t liked the idea of her being alone, but it had been the most logical decision at the time. Normally, the mansion never truly slept, it was loud even on calm nights. There were always distant footsteps, muffled voices, someone raiding the kitchen at an ungodly hour, doors opening and closing somewhere down the hall. Especially after an attack. After blood.
But now—nothing.
Doyoung walked back toward the main house without a clear destination in mind, his steps slow, almost hesitant. Usually, after something like tonight, he would already be running through mental checklists—who was injured, who needed observation, who needed to be locked in a room until they stopped being reckless.
But his thoughts kept circling back to the same two names.
Taeyong.
Soul.
Doyoung’s body moved on autopilot, his mind still half in the medical wing, replaying the image of the girl lying on the bed. Pale. Too still. Trying to smile even with pain written all over her face.
She should be resting, he thought.
She needs rest. And Taeyong needs stitches.
He pushed the door open and stepped inside the mansion. The lights were dimmed, the halls unusually quiet now that most of the boys had gone to their rooms. The echoes of earlier chaos still lingered—mud on the floor, discarded jackets, faint metallic smells that cleaning couldn’t erase yet.
“Hyung?” he called softly, more out of habit than expectation.
No answer.
He walked further inside, checking the living room first. Empty. The couch cushions were still slightly uneven, as if someone had been sitting there not too long ago—but that didn’t mean anything. It could’ve been anyone.
He continued toward the kitchen. The scent of disinfectant still clung faintly to his clothes, mixing with the lingering smell of tea and metal. The kitchen lights were off too. No one leaning against the counter. No half-finished cups. No Taeyong standing there with that distant look in his eyes.
Doyoung stopped.
Taeyong should have been somewhere. Even injured, the leader never truly disappeared. He hovered, checked, paced. Especially after something like tonight.
A thin line of unease crawled up Doyoung’s spine.
He turned, walking toward the stairs this time, checking the lower floor first. Storage room—empty. Training room—dark. The doors were closed, untouched. Everything looked… normal.
And that was exactly the problem.
“Hey, Jaehyun?” Doyoung called out when the front door opened again. His eyes immediately caught the state of the men entering behind him—Johnny, Lucas, and Yuta. Their clothes were stained with dirt and dark, drying blood, sleeves rolled up, faces tense but alert. It was the kind of look that told Doyoung this night was far from over.
“Hm?” Jaehyun answered distractedly.
“Woah… what the hell happened out there?” Doyoung asked, already bracing himself for the answer.
