Kim - Mercenary (SG)

The bodies are still cooling. A half-eaten bowl of ramen rocks with the boat's slow sway, untouched since the betrayal. The deck is slick with blood — not fresh anymore, but still warm. The sky above is flat and gray, sea stretching cold in every direction. There's no sound but the water and breath. Kim leans back against a metal crate, one leg outstretched, pant leg dark with blood where the bullet tore through. His jaw is tight. His hands are steady. He watches Jun-ho without blinking as the other man works, wrapping gauze and making do with what little they salvaged. When Jun-ho presses too hard, Kim grunts — low in his throat — but doesn't look away. His body barely reacts. He's used to pain. This is nothing new. The crew is dead. Trust had killed them faster than the bullets. And yet the two of them remain — separated from the worst of it now by salt air and silence. Kim doesn't speak. He lets Jun-ho finish patching the leg. Watches him with a soldier's patience and something harder to place. Not soft. Not forgiving. Just present. He hasn't moved his hand from his sidearm. But he hasn't aimed it, either.

Kim - Mercenary (SG)

The bodies are still cooling. A half-eaten bowl of ramen rocks with the boat's slow sway, untouched since the betrayal. The deck is slick with blood — not fresh anymore, but still warm. The sky above is flat and gray, sea stretching cold in every direction. There's no sound but the water and breath. Kim leans back against a metal crate, one leg outstretched, pant leg dark with blood where the bullet tore through. His jaw is tight. His hands are steady. He watches Jun-ho without blinking as the other man works, wrapping gauze and making do with what little they salvaged. When Jun-ho presses too hard, Kim grunts — low in his throat — but doesn't look away. His body barely reacts. He's used to pain. This is nothing new. The crew is dead. Trust had killed them faster than the bullets. And yet the two of them remain — separated from the worst of it now by salt air and silence. Kim doesn't speak. He lets Jun-ho finish patching the leg. Watches him with a soldier's patience and something harder to place. Not soft. Not forgiving. Just present. He hasn't moved his hand from his sidearm. But he hasn't aimed it, either.

The deck beneath them is slick — a slickness born of blood, sweat, and bitter betrayal. Rusted metal groans softly as the boat sways, creaking against the waves, the rhythmic slap of water a hollow counterpoint to the stillness onboard. The dead lie scattered like broken dolls, faces frozen in shock, disbelief, and final agony. Somewhere beneath the dull thud of the sea, a single shell clinks, rolling faintly against the hull.

Kim leans back against a crate, his breath shallow but steady. The sharp heat in his thigh pulses with each heartbeat, a dull, insistent throb beneath the rough bandages. He can taste iron at the back of his throat — not just blood, but the sharp salt of the sea mixing with it, a metallic tang that lingers with every inhale. The lingering scent of burnt gunpowder and the acrid tang of spilled gasoline clings to the air, a reminder of the violence that tore through them all only moments before.

His jaw clenches involuntarily. The betrayal — sudden, brutal, and cold — replays in his mind like shards of broken glass. Trust shattered faster than any bullet. The crew who once stood beside him, now nothing but silent corpses scattered around this small, moving coffin. Captain Park's face flashes in his memory — a mask of false loyalty, twisting into fury and then death. Kim's eyes flicker to Jun-ho's, kneeling quietly at his side, the only light in the darkness.

His hands rest on his lap, fingers twitching just slightly. He doesn't look at Jun-ho directly, but his gaze tracks every movement — the calm efficiency, the quiet urgency. He senses the tension in Jun-ho's muscles, the careful restraint in the way he works to stem the bleeding. Kim's mind catalogues every detail: the slight quiver in Jun-ho's fingers, the faint tremble in his breath. Not weakness. Not fear. Resolve.

Kim inhales slowly, the salt air filling his lungs but doing little to ease the sting in his leg. His teeth grit against the pain, a raw edge beneath the otherwise stoic facade. He's no stranger to wounds, but the weight of this—this silence, this isolation—weighs heavier than any bullet.

Around them, the world feels suspended — caught between the past and whatever comes next. No promises. No guarantees. Only the cold bite of survival, and the tenuous thread of trust binding them together.

His voice finally breaks the silence, low and even, carrying a quiet command rather than a plea. "That tourniquet's too loose." No gratitude. No softness. Just the bare fact.

His eyes don't meet Jun-ho's when he adds, quieter still, "You didn't hesitate back there. Good."

Kim lets the moment stretch, the only sounds the creak of the boat and the distant, relentless slap of the sea. His thoughts retreat behind a guarded wall — cautious, calculating, and waiting.

Because even in this wreckage, the fight isn't over.