Day 178. 12:20 hours.
The compound.
Inside.
The woman in white entered through the torn gate.
Ji-yoo was beside her. Soulcleaver in her hands. The scythe humming. Both women had just come from the field of dead. Thirty raiders in the snow. And were now inside the compound.
The war that was not over.
Inside, the compound was a battlefield. The perimeter breached. Raiders inside. The ridge group fighting. Dying. The sound of M4s and Glocks and screaming. The sound of Enhanced fighting Enhanced.
The woman in white saw him.
Jae-min. In the courtyard. The center of the compound. Snow-covered ground between the gate and the mansion. And he was fighting.
Not the way the strike team fought. Not the way the ridge group fought. He was moving through the courtyard like violence was a language and he was the only one who spoke it fluently.
The Del Rosario kata. Trained since he was six. The body remembering what the mind had forgotten. Every angle, every pivot, every switch. A dance that had no music and did not need any.
Three raiders in front of him. A strength-type. A speed-type. A fire-type. Three Enhanced coming at the captain who had killed a god.
And they did not know it.
— • • • —
The void tear opened. His right hand went in. Came out. Dual Glock 19s. Matte black. One in each hand. The Wormhole Guided Bullets loaded.
He fired. Both Glocks. Not at the raiders. At the space behind them.
The bullets wormholed. Tiny tears in space, emerging behind the speed-type's skull. Inside the cranial cavity.
The speed-type's forehead bulged. A skull that had something inside it that was not supposed to be there. The bone cracking from the inside. The forehead blew out.
Bone and brain matter and cerebrospinal fluid erupting forward. Into the snow. Gray. Pink. White. Brain tissue that had been inside a skull and was now not. The frontal lobe on the snow. In pieces.
The speed-type dropped. Dead before he hit the ground. A man whose brain was on the snow and whose body was not receiving anything anymore.
Essence. Gold. Faint. The void. A slit. Pulled. In.
One.
The Glocks vanished into the void.
— • • • —
The strength-type was already there. Already swinging. A fist the size of a brick coming at Jae-min's head.
Jae-min moved. Not dodged. Moved. A quarter-step to the left. The fist passed his ear. Close enough to feel the wind.
The arnis sticks appeared. Both. In his hands. From the void. Thirty inches of solid stainless steel, grip-wrapped in woven black cord. The sinawali. Left over right, right over left. The figure-eight weave.
The steel cracked against the strength-type's forearm. The radius. The ulna. Both.
The forearm bent in a direction that forearms were not supposed to bend. The radius snapped. In two. The ulna. The same. Two bones in two pieces each.
The skin stretched over broken bone. The fragments sharp inside the forearm. Pushing against the skin from the inside.
The strength-type screamed.
Jae-min shifted. Espada y daga. The left arnis split open with a sharp metallic click. The eighteen-inch blade exposed.
The blade found the throat. Not the front. The side. Because the strength-type was turning from the pain in his forearm and his throat was exposed.
The blade entered. Through the skin. Through the platysma. Through the sternocleidomastoid. Muscles severing. Fibers cutting.
The carotid artery. Cut. Open. Pumping blood at pressure. Spraying. Arterial. Bright red. Pulsing with each heartbeat.
The jugular vein. Also cut. Dark blood pouring. Venous. Not pumping. Draining.
The trachea. Cut. In two pieces. The upper half attached to the mouth. The lower half attached to the lungs. A tube no longer carrying air.
The strength-type dropped. Dead. A man whose carotid was severed and whose jugular was severed and whose trachea was cut and whose blood was everywhere. On the snow. On Jae-min's arnis. On the ground.
Bright red. Then dark. Then frozen.
Essence. Gold. The void. Pulled. In.
Two.
— • • • —
The fire-type. Hands flaming. Throwing fire.
The arnis vanished. The Surgeon Scalpel appeared. The rifle snapping up to his shoulder. The scope to his eye.
He fired through the fire. The bullet passing through the flames. Not affected by heat. Into the forehead.
The entry wound small. The size of a pencil. Between the eyebrows. The frontal bone.
The bullet inside the cranial cavity. Tumbling. Expanding. A hollow point opening inside the brain. Tearing through tissue.
The frontal lobe. Pierced. The temporal lobe. Pierced. The parietal lobe. Pierced. The occipital lobe. Pierced. The bullet through all four lobes.
The brain not a brain anymore. Soup. Tissue not structured. Liquid.
The exit wound not small. The size of a fist. At the back of the skull. Bone gone. Brain matter on the snow behind the fire-type. Gray. Pink. White. Steaming.
The fire-type dropped. Dead. A man whose brain was on the snow and whose skull was open at the back. And whose fire went out.
Essence. Gold. The void. Pulled. In.
Three.
— • • • —
The Surgeon Scalpel vanished. His hand went into the void again. Came out with the M249 SAW. Belt-fed. Heavy.
Four more raiders coming from the east wing. Running toward the mansion. Toward the women.
He raised the M249. And fired.
The belt feeding. Two hundred rounds. Through void tears. The bullets wormholed. Emerging inside their bodies. Not traveling through space. Already there.
The first raider. The bullets inside his chest. Tearing through lungs. Through heart. Through aorta. The chest open from the inside. Ribs exploding outward. Pushed out by bullets that were inside.
The chest cavity filled with bullets and blood and torn tissue. The raider dead before he hit the ground.
The second raider. The bullets inside his abdomen. Tearing through intestines. Through stomach. Through liver. Through spleen.
The abdomen open from the inside. Intestines ruptured. Spilling contents into the abdominal cavity. Stomach acid burning. Liver bleeding. The raider dead. A man whose abdomen was a cavity of blood and stomach acid and torn intestines.
The third raider. The bullets inside his skull. Tearing through brain. The skull exploding outward. Bone pushed out by bullets inside. Brain matter on the snow. The raider dead. A man whose head was not a head anymore. A stump with brain on the ground.
The fourth raider. The bullets inside his pelvis. Tearing through hip bones. Through bladder. The pelvis shattered. In pieces. The raider dead. A man whose pelvis was a bag of bone fragments and blood.
Four raiders. Dead. In seconds.
Four essences. Gold. The void. Four wisps. Pulled. In.
Four.
Five.
Six.
Seven.
— • • • —
The M249 clicked empty. Two hundred rounds. Gone. The machine gun vanished into the void.
Five more raiders. Coming from the west wing. Running toward the courtyard. Toward Jae-min.
The void tear opened. His hand went in. Came out. The dual Glock 19s. Again.
He fired. Both Glocks. At the space behind the five raiders. The bullets wormholed. Emerging inside their bodies.
The first raider. The bullet inside his heart. A hollow point expanding inside the left ventricle. The chamber torn open. The heart stopping. Blood pouring from the torn chamber into the chest cavity. Dead.
The second raider. The bullet inside his spine. At T7. Through the vertebral body. The spinal cord severed. The body below T7 dead. Paralyzed. The diaphragm not receiving signals. Not breathing. Suffocating.
Then the bullet inside his brain. The skull exploding. Dead.
The third raider. The bullet inside his throat. Detonating. The throat not a throat anymore. A hole. From the inside out.
The trachea gone. The carotid arteries gone. The jugular veins gone. The throat a stump. Blood pouring from the stump. The head not attached. Separating from the body at the neck. Dead.
The fourth raider. The bullet inside his chest. At the sternum. The sternum exploded from the inside. In pieces. The ribs in pieces.
The heart pierced by bone fragments. The lungs pierced by bone fragments. The chest an open cavity with bone fragments in his heart and lungs. Dead.
The fifth raider. The bullet inside his abdomen. Detonating. The abdomen not an abdomen anymore. A cavity.
The intestines in pieces. The liver in pieces. The spleen in pieces. The stomach in pieces. The abdomen full of blood and organ fragments. Dead.
Five raiders. Dead. In seconds.
Five essences. Gold. The void. Five wisps. Pulled. In.
Eight.
Nine.
Ten.
Eleven.
Twelve.
— • • • —
The Glocks vanished. The arnis sticks appeared. Both. The sinawali.
Three more raiders. Coming from the north. Running at Jae-min.
The first raider. The arnis. The steel cracking against the temple. The thinnest part of the skull.
The temple caving inward. Bone driven into the brain. The temporal lobe pierced by bone. The raider dropping. A man whose temple was caved and whose brain was pierced by his own skull. Dead.
The second raider. The arnis. The steel against the throat. The trachea crushed. Flattened by steel. Not a tube anymore. Flat.
The raider choking. A man whose windpipe was crushed and whose lungs were not receiving air. Suffocating.
Then the blade. The espada y daga. The eighteen-inch blade into the eye. Through the eye. Through the optic nerve. Through the brain. Through the back of the skull.
The raider dead. A man whose eye was a hole that went all the way through his head.
The third raider. The arnis. The steel against the knee. The patella shattered. The knee not a knee. The raider dropping.
Then the blade. Into the base of the skull. The foramen magnum. Where the spinal cord entered the skull.
The blade into the brainstem. Severed. The heart stopped. The breathing stopped. Dead. A man whose brainstem was cut and whose heart and lungs stopped at the same time.
Three raiders. Dead.
Three essences. Gold. The void. Three wisps. Pulled. In.
Thirteen.
Fourteen.
Fifteen.
— • • • —
The arnis vanished. The Surgeon Scalpel appeared.
Two more raiders. Coming from the south. Running toward the mansion.
He fired. Two rounds. Two heads.
The first round. Through the left eye. Through the brain. Through the back of the skull. Out. The back of the skull gone. Brain matter on the snow. Dead.
The second round. Through the mouth. Through the palate. Through the brain. Through the top of the skull. Out. The top of the skull gone. Brain matter on the snow. Dead.
Two raiders. Dead.
Two essences. Gold. The void. Two wisps. Pulled. In.
Sixteen.
Seventeen.
— • • • —
The courtyard was quiet. A place full of dead.
Seventeen raiders inside the compound. Dead. Men who had come for the mansion. For the food. For the supplies. For the warmth. For the women. And were dead.
The snow in the courtyard was not white. Was red. Blood everywhere. On the snow. On the bodies. On the pieces.
Torsos. And legs. And heads. And arms. And intestines. And brain matter.
Seventeen essences. Absorbed. The void fuller. Jae-min stronger. A man holding more than before.
The Surgeon Scalpel vanished into the void.
Jae-min stood. In the courtyard. In the snow. In the blood. In the dead.
A captain who had killed seventeen Enhanced in minutes. With Glocks. And arnis. And Surgeon Scalpel. And M249.
And did not stop. Because the war was not over.
— • • • —
The woman in white stood at the edge of the courtyard. Behind a wall. Watching.
She watched him move. The way his body shifted between weapons. The way his feet never stopped. The way the void tears opened and closed around his hands like the air itself was an extension of his body.
The dance of death.
And the pictures came.
— FLASHBACK —
A restaurant. Small. A corner table. Candles.
The smell of garlic and butter and white wine. The sound of a guitar playing softly from a speaker. The warmth of a place that was not frozen. That would never be frozen.
A Tuesday evening in a world that did not know what was coming.
He sat across from her. Not the captain. A man. In a black shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. His dark eyes catching the candlelight. His jaw relaxed. Not tight. Not flat. Relaxed.
The way his jaw looked when he was not measuring. When he was not calculating. When he was happy.
"You're staring." He offered, his voice low. Not the captain's voice. A different voice. Softer. The voice he used when it was just them. When the world was small enough to fit at a corner table.
She had been staring. She knew she had been staring. She could not stop.
"I'm memorizing." She offered, her voice warm.
"Memorizing what?" He pressed.
"This. You. The candle. The wine. The way you look when you're not being you." She offered, her green eyes steady.
He laughed. A short, quiet sound that barely escaped his throat. The kind of laugh that was not for anyone else. The kind that was only for her. The kind that came from a place behind his ribs that he kept locked for everyone except her.
"I'm always me." He offered, the corner of his mouth lifting.
"No. You're not." She pressed, leaning forward. "Right now, you're the version of you that eats pasta with his hands when he thinks no one's looking."
"I do not eat pasta with my hands." He returned, his jaw tightening.
"You literally just did. I saw it. You grabbed a noodle with your fingers." She offered, her grin splitting.
"That was a technique. An Italian technique." He pressed, his voice steady but his eyes bright.
"It was not an Italian technique." She returned, laughing.
He laughed again. Louder this time. The candle flame shuddered. The guitar played. The wine was warm.
And his hand was on the table. Reaching across. Over the candles. His fingers touching hers. Just the fingertips. The barest pressure.
The way he touched when he was not sure if he was allowed. Before he learned that he was always allowed. Before he learned that she would never pull away.
— • • • —
Disneyland. The castle.
It was ridiculous. He looked ridiculous. A man who could kill with his hands standing in front of a castle designed for children, holding a churro, wearing a Mickey Mouse hat that she had put on his head as a joke.
And he had not taken it off. Because she had put it there. And he did not take off things she put there.
"You look insane." She offered, her green eyes bright.
"I look fine." He returned, his voice flat.
"You look like a man who kills people wearing a Mickey Mouse hat." She pressed, grinning.
"I have never killed anyone wearing a Mickey Mouse hat." He offered, taking a bite of the churro.
"That you know of." She returned.
Cinnamon sugar on his lips. She reached up and wiped it off with her thumb. His dark eyes caught hers. For one second.
The crowd moving around them. The music. The noise. The castle. And his eyes. Dark. Warm.
The eyes of a man who was, for one moment, not a weapon. Was, for one moment, hers.
The roller coaster. She screamed. He did not. He sat beside her with his hands on the bar and his face completely calm and his dark eyes tracking everything.
"You didn't scream." She offered, her hair wind-blown.
"Why would I scream. It's a machine. It goes in a circle." He returned, his voice dry.
"It goes in a circle at eighty kilometers per hour." She pressed.
"I've been faster." He offered, his dark eyes steady.
"In what?" She pressed.
He didn't answer. Just smiled. The small smile. The one that meant he knew things she didn't. The one that meant there were rooms inside him she had not entered yet.
His hand was on the bar. Over hers. The warmth of his palm against her knuckles. The way his hand was always there. Over hers. On hers. Around hers.
Like his hand was looking for hers even when he wasn't looking.
— • • • —
Coron. Palawan.
White sand. Turquoise water so clear she could see her feet on the bottom. The sun on her shoulders. The salt on her lips.
The warmth of a place that was the opposite of everything the world would become.
He was in the water. Swimming. Not the efficient, military stroke. A lazy, unhurried backstroke. Floating. Looking up at a sky that was blue.
Not charcoal-gray. Blue. The kind of blue that only existed in tropical places. The kind of blue that the freeze would erase.
She waded in. The warm water up to her waist. Up to her chest. She let herself float. Beside him. Two bodies in warm water under a blue sky.
"We should live here." She offered, her voice soft.
"We can't live here." He returned, floating.
"Why not?" She pressed.
"There are no walls." He offered.
"That's the point." She returned.
He looked at her. Floating. His dark eyes not flat. Not the captain. Open. The way his eyes were open when he was with her. When the walls came down. When the rooms inside him were unlocked and she could walk through them.
"Okay." He said. "We'll live here."
She knew he didn't mean it. He was a man who needed walls. Who built walls. Who lived inside walls. But he said it. Because she asked.
The sunset. Over the islands. Orange and pink and purple. They sat on the beach. His arm around her shoulder. Her head against his chest.
The sound of his heartbeat. Steady. Slow. The heartbeat of a man who was, for one moment, at rest.
"What are you thinking?" She asked, her head on his chest.
"I'm thinking that this sunset is going to end." He offered, his voice low.
"Everything ends." She pressed.
"Yes." He said. "Everything ends."
She didn't know what he meant then. She knew now.
— • • • —
The hotel. Coron. White sheets. The fan overhead turning slowly. The sound of geckos on the ceiling.
His skin was warm. Not the warmth of the minus-seventy. Not the warmth of the tactical vest. The warmth of a body that was bare and close and hers.
Her hands moved over him. Not the katanas. Not the Glocks. Her hands. On his chest. On his shoulders. On the planes of muscle that she had memorized in the dark.
The scar on his left side. She traced it with her fingertip. He caught her hand. Held it. Pressed her palm flat against his chest. Over his heart.
"Stay." He breathed, his voice low.
"I'm here." She offered.
"I know." He pressed. "Stay."
She stayed.
His mouth found her neck. Soft. Not the urgency of a man who was running out of time. Soft. The way his mouth was soft when he was not in a hurry.
When the world was small enough to fit in a hotel room.
His hands on her hips. Not gripping. Holding. The way his hands held things he was afraid of dropping. Like she was the most fragile thing he had ever touched.
She pulled him closer. Her fingers in his hair. The short, dark hair that was always neat. Always military. Now messy. Because of her.
Because she could do that. She could mess up his hair and he would let her. Because she was the only person who could.
His body over hers. The weight of him. The warmth of him. The way he smelled. Clean, like soap and skin and something underneath that was just him.
A scent she could find in a crowd. In a frozen city. In a war.
His eyes. On hers. Dark. Close. Not flat. Not the captain. Open.
"I love you." She breathed.
He didn't say it back. He never said it back. Not in words.
He said it in the way his hand tightened on her hip. In the way his mouth found the corner of her jaw. In the way his breathing changed.
Faster, then slower, then the sound. The low sound he made when the walls came all the way down. When the rooms inside him were open and she was in all of them.
Not words. Never words. But she knew. She always knew.
— • • • —
Disneyland. At night. The castle lit up. The fireworks.
His hand in hers. Not over hers. In hers. Fingers laced. The way he held her hand when he forgot to be careful.
When he forgot that he was a man who did not hold hands in public.
His hand in hers. Tight. Like he was afraid she would pull away.
She didn't pull away. She never pulled away. She held his hand and watched the fireworks and felt his pulse through his fingertips.
Fast. Not slow. The pulse of a man who was excited. Not about the fireworks. About her.
"Thank you." He offered, his voice low.
"For what?" She pressed.
"For this. For coming. For being here." He offered.
"Where else would I be?" She returned.
He didn't answer. Just held her hand tighter. And the fireworks went on.
— • • • —
Coron. The last morning.
She woke before him. She always woke before him. Because she wanted to watch him sleep.
Because the sleeping version of him was the version she loved most. The version without walls. Without the flat eyes. Without the captain.
Just a man. On white sheets. With the sun coming through the window and the sound of the sea outside.
His face. In sleep. The jaw not tight. The eyes not anything. Closed. The lines around his mouth softer. A face that was peaceful.
She put her hand on his cheek. The stubble under her palm. The warmth of his skin.
The way his jaw fit in her hand. The way his face turned, even in sleep, toward her touch. Toward her.
The way his body always turned toward her. Even unconscious. Even dreaming. Toward her.
She leaned down. Kissed his forehead. The forehead of a man who was, for that moment, hers.
— • • • —
The last picture. The last memory. Before he found out. Before the cheating. Before the silence.
A restaurant. Candles. Wine. His hand reaching across the table. His fingers lacing through hers. His eyes dark, warm, open.
They were talking about nothing. About the food. About the wine. About a movie. About his work. About her work.
The small, ordinary things that fill the space between two people who are together and do not know that the world is about to end.
He was quiet. More quiet than usual.
"Hey." She offered. "Where'd you go?"
"What?" He returned.
"You went somewhere. Just now. Your eyes." She pressed.
"I didn't go anywhere." He offered.
"You did. You always do that." She returned.
He smiled. The small smile. The one that meant he was caught.
"I was just thinking." He offered.
"About what?" She pressed.
He looked at her. Across the table. Across the candles. Across the wine. Just a man. Looking at a woman he loved.
"About you." He offered, his voice low.
"What about me?" She pressed.
"Just you. This. Us. Sitting here." He stopped. Shook his head. Smiled again. "I'm just happy. Right now. Here. With you. And I wanted to say."
His fingers tightened around hers.
"I love you." He said.
The words she had been waiting for. The words he never said. The words he said now, in a restaurant, on a Tuesday, over wine and candles.
Not because the world was ending. Because he was happy. Because she was there. Because, for one moment, he forgot to be careful.
She didn't know yet that he would never say them again. Not to her. Not after what happened. Not after the silence.
Not until the world froze and a doctor named Alessia left sinigang at his door and the words became different.
But these words. These first words. Were hers. On a Tuesday. In a restaurant. Over wine.
"I love you." She said back.
He nodded. Once. The small nod.
And the candle flickered. And the wine was warm. And his hand was in hers. And the world was not frozen. Not yet.
— FLASHBACK END —
The woman in white stood. Behind the wall. In the compound. In the minus-seventy. In the war.
The pictures were gone.
The restaurant. The candles. The wine. The churro. The Mickey Mouse hat. The castle. The roller coaster. The white sand. The turquoise water. The sunset. The hotel room. The white sheets. The fan. The geckos.
His skin. His mouth. His hands. His breathing. The low sound. The fireworks. His hand in hers. His pulse through his fingertips. The last morning. The kiss on his forehead.
The restaurant on a Tuesday. The candle. The wine. The "I love you."
All of it. Years before the freeze. Before he found out. Before the silence. Before everything. A lifetime ago. A different man. A different her. A different world.
Gone.
She was crying.
Not loud. Not visible. Behind the goggles. Behind the balaclava. The tears ran down the inside of the lenses.
The world, already blurred, went softer. The captain in the courtyard. The snow. The blood. All of it softer.
As if the tears were a filter. As if the tears were the only thing between her and the man in the courtyard who did not know who she was.
Who would kill her if he knew.
Who had said "I love you" once. In a restaurant. On a Tuesday. Years before the freeze. Because he was happy.
And had never said it again. Not to her. Not after the silence.
She could not wipe the tears. Her hands were on the katanas. The same hands that had been on his chest. On his cheek. In his hair.
On the katanas.
The war was on. The pictures were behind her. The tears were in front.
And the man she loved was in the courtyard, fighting with the Glocks, the arnis, and the Surgeon Scalpel.
And he did not know.
He did not know that the woman in white was the woman from the restaurant. From Disneyland. From Coron. From the hotel room. From the white sheets. From the last morning.
From a Tuesday years before the freeze, before he found out, before the silence, before everything.
When he said "I love you" because he was happy and didn't know the world was about to change.
She raised the katanas. Both. The tears still behind the goggles. The pictures still somewhere. Not gone. Behind.
The way everything was behind now. The warmth. The touch. The sound. Him. All behind.
All for another time. For a time when the war was over, and the balaclava could come off, and the goggles could come off, and the voice could come back.
Not now.
Now the katanas. Now the war. Now the snow and the blood and the man in the courtyard who was not hers.
Not anymore. Not for now.
She moved. Into the courtyard. Toward the raiders. Toward the war. The katanas up. The tears down.
Enough.
For now.