D-Animal
The smell of freshly brewed coffee drifted through the Green Fortress like a quiet comfort, blending with the sweet aroma of still-warm pancakes. Elara yawned softly, rubbing her eyes before getting out of bed and walking barefoot down the hallway toward the kitchen. The cold floor beneath her feet helped chase away the last remnants of sleep, while her mind — as always — was already several steps ahead.
She gathered her blonde hair into a loose, careless bun, a few strands escaping to frame her tired face. The motion was automatic, intimate, almost ritualistic. Cooking had become her anchor. Something simple, tangible, in a world that insisted on collapsing with every new dawn.
The pancake batter hissed softly against the hot pan. Elara flipped one with care, arranging three on each plate, all nearly identical, measured with an almost unconscious precision. The pitcher of freshly squeezed orange juice reflected the artificial kitchen light, its vivid orange tone far too alive for such a fractured world.
Meanwhile, in the training wing, Rafael moved as if locked in a war against something unseen. His large, naturally powerful body was slick with sweat, muscles tight with every motion. Precise punches struck the training bag with dull, repetitive thuds — almost too aggressive. Each blow released something heavy — not pure rage, but something denser: guilt, memories, unspoken promises.
When he finally stopped, his chest rose and fell heavily. He dragged his forearm across his forehead, took a deep breath, and left the training room in silence. He went straight to the suite and entered the bathroom without a word. Hot water poured over his body like a necessary shock, washing away the sweat — but not the thoughts.
Lucas, already dressed, waited in silence. The two left the room shortly after, following the familiar scent of food down the corridor. It was strange how something as simple as breakfast could still exist after everything.
— "Good morning." — Elara said when she saw them appear in the kitchen doorway, a small, almost fragile smile touching her lips.
Lucas went straight to the table and sat beside his sister, pulling the chair out with a soft scrape. Rafael sat across from him, silent. For a few moments, no one spoke. Only the sound of cutlery against plates, the quiet tear of a pancake being cut, the swallow of juice sliding down a throat.
It was a comfortable silence — until it wasn't.
When they finished, each of them stood and washed their own plate, glass, and utensils. Simple gestures, almost domestic, yet burdened with an invisible weight. Elara returned the juice pitcher to the refrigerator and, when she turned back toward them, her expression had changed. The smile was completely gone.
— "I saw Iron." — she said, her voice far too steady for someone who had just woken up.
Lucas froze. The glass nearly slipped from his hand. Rafael lifted his gaze slowly, his jaw tightening hard enough to tense the muscles in his face.
— "During the night." — Elara continued. — "Through Visio's vision."
The air seemed to thicken.
Lucas swallowed hard, his shoulders drawing in instinctively. He looked away, as if meeting his sister's eyes in that moment would be too much. Rafael, on the other hand, didn't look away. He slowly clenched his fists, nails pressing into his palms. He said nothing, but the silent promise was there, clear as steel: whoever did that would pay.
Lucas clicked his tongue, visibly unsettled, and stepped away without a word. He moved quickly down the corridor toward the infirmary wing. There, he sat on the floor in the farthest corner, tugging at the sleeve of his shirt and gripping the fabric tightly between his fingers. He closed his eyes, as if that might erase the image forming in his mind.
As if he could erase Seung.
As if he could erase Iron.
As if he could erase everything.
In the kitchen, Elara remained standing, unmoving. Her chest tightened in a familiar, cruel way. She took a deep breath, controlling her expression. She couldn't afford to fall apart. Not now. Not ever.
Rafael watched Lucas disappear down the corridor, then turned his gaze back to Elara. He said nothing. He didn't need to. Some things only became worse when put into words.
The day had barely begun.
And yet, everyone there knew:
the silence of that morning was only the omen of the next chaos.
Rafael remained silent for a few seconds after Lucas left, his eyes fixed on the empty hallway. Then, slowly, he turned toward Elara. His large frame seemed even more tense standing still, like a beast held back by force.
He took a deep breath, his chest rising slowly, and spoke in a lower tone than usual — too controlled for someone like him.
— "You… okay?"
The question came out simple, almost blunt, but heavy with rough concern. Rafael wasn't good with gentleness, and he knew it. He rubbed the back of his neck, glancing away for a brief moment before continuing:
— "Seung was your colleague. You'd known each other longer… that has to hurt more for you than it does for me."
Elara blinked once. Just once. Then she nodded.
— "I'm fine."
That was all she said.
Rafael closed his eyes for a second, clearly irritated. A heavy sigh escaped his lips, followed by a low growl. He ran a hand through his hair, messing it up even more, pacing in short, restless circles around the kitchen like a caged animal.
— "Lie." — he muttered. — "You always say that."
He stopped abruptly, turning toward her with a look thick with frustration.
— "You don't talk. You don't explode. You don't punch anything. You don't break anything. You just… swallow it."
His voice came out harsher than he intended. — "Even I can't do that, and I'm damn good at pretending I don't feel a fucking thing."
Elara opened her mouth to reply, but didn't get the chance.
Rafael took two quick steps forward and grabbed her wrist.
— "Hey—"
She flinched, startled, her body reacting on instinct. But he didn't pull her violently. There was no brutality — only resolve. A firm, undeniable grip.
— "Don't argue." — he said, already moving. — "You're coming with me."
— "Rafael—"
— "Training room."
He dragged her along the corridor, his long strides echoing against the metal floor of the Green Fortress. Elara struggled to match his pace, her heart racing more from surprise than exertion.
— "I'm serious." — he continued, without looking back. — "You're going to punch that bag until you're tired. Until it hurts. Until you stop thinking."
They reached the training wing door. Rafael pushed it open with his shoulder and pulled Elara inside. The wide, silent, brightly lit space stood in stark contrast to the tension between them. The punching bag hung still, swaying faintly, waiting.
He finally released her wrist, but stayed close — too close to ignore.
— "You don't have to be strong all the time." — he said, his voice lower now, rawer. — "Not with me."
Rafael stepped back and crossed his arms.
— "Now go." — he pointed at the bag. — "Punch. Kick. Scream if you want. But don't pretend you're fine."
Elara stood still for a moment, her mismatched eyes fixed on the punching bag. Her hands trembled slightly — from anger, from exhaustion, from everything she had been carrying since the day she left to run at five-thirty in the morning.
The silence between them stretched, heavy.
And for the first time since Seung-Woo's death, Elara didn't say she was fine.