Eventually, Ghost Claw arrived. She pushed through the doorless doorframe—the door itself still lying where Think Tink The Tinkerer had kicked it earlier, and surveyed the scene with her gas mask hiding her expression.
"Think Tink The Tinkerer, leave."
Her voice carried absolute authority despite being muffled by the mask.
Think Tink The Tinkerer looked up from his notes, his expression shifting to a childlike pout.
"Bu-bu- but I haven't finished documenting the final stages of epidermal reformation! The hair follicle analysis alone requires at least another forty-five minutes of—"
"OUT."
He sighed dramatically, gathered his notebook and pencils, and shuffled toward the doorway while muttering about "scientific oppression" and "the suppression of groundbreaking research."
Ghost Claw waited until his footsteps faded down the hallway before turning to Tòumíng. She tossed a bundle of clothes at him—they hit his newly-regenerated chest with a soft thump.
"Clothes. Donated by Polo, so you should thank him on your way out."
Tòumíng nodded, looking down at the bundle. Then he looked up at Ghost Claw, who was still standing there, gas mask staring at him.
"Can I have some privacy? I'm still naked and I'd like to change without an audience."
Ghost Claw sighed, the sound carrying through her mask filter and turned to face the wall. "The door's already off its hinges. Even though nobody's in the room right now, you still have zero privacy. Anyone passing by in the hallway could see you. But fine. I'm not looking."
Tòumíng appreciated the gesture even though it was mostly symbolic. He shimmied under the blanket that covered the hospital bed and started pulling on the clothes beneath the cover.
The shirt was a loose-fit t-shirt with a skull print on the front, very much Polo's aesthetic based on what Tòumíng had seen of the twin's style. The sweatpants were black, soft, and several sizes too large, requiring him to tie the drawstring tight to keep them from falling off his newly-regenerated hips.
Once dressed, he got off the bed and looked around properly for the first time since waking up. The room was clearly a converted office space, you could still see the outline on the wall where a desk had once been mounted, the industrial carpet was the kind you'd find in corporate buildings, and there was a window that had been covered with blackout curtains.
He didn't know where he was in the building. He'd only been to the first floor, the basement, and briefly to part of the second floor during his earlier visit. This could be second floor, third floor, or higher—he had no reference point.
He started walking toward the doorway to get his bearings—
"Stop sightseeing and follow me."
Tòumíng jumped, genuinely startled. He whipped around and saw Ghost Claw leaning casually against the wall beside the doorless doorframe, her arms crossed, her gas mask tilted slightly like she was amused by his reaction.
"How long have you been standing there?!"
"The whole time. You just didn't notice."
"That's... creepy."
"That's surveillance training. Come on."
She pushed off the wall and started walking down the hallway. Tòumíng followed, his bare feet padding against the industrial carpet, still adjusting to having all his limbs and skin back.
They walked down a corridor lined with more converted office rooms, turned a corner, and stopped in front of a door that looked more reinforced than the others—metal instead of wood, with what looked like additional locks installed.
Ghost Claw opened it and gestured for Tòumíng to enter.
The room beyond was dimly lit—just a single overhead light casting harsh shadows. The space was small, maybe ten feet by twelve feet, and dominated by a single hospital bed in the center.
In the bed, covered head to toe in gauze tape and bandages, was Hǔtān.
He was awake. His one good eye, the only part of his face visible through the wrappings—was staring blankly at the ceiling, unblinking, the pupil dilated and glassy.
But what shocked Tòumíng more than Hǔtān's condition was who else was in the room.
Marco and Polo stood on opposite sides of the bed, their earlier competitive antagonism completely absent, replaced with professional alertness.
They both had their arms crossed, their postures tense, clearly acting as guards.
Svetlana was leaning against the far wall, her tall frame taking up significant space even in a casual stance. Her eyes tracked Tòumíng as he entered, her expression unreadable.
"Why are you all here?" Tòumíng asked, his newly-regenerated vocal cords producing clear sound for the first time in hours.
Marco answered first. "A man who survived whatever the fuck happened to both of you—" he gestured vaguely at Tòumíng and Hǔtān— "and managed to wake up thirty minutes into medical treatment is a different beast entirely. We're not taking chances."
Svetlana added, her accent thick: "I vanted him to try break out. See if big gang boy could fight vhile wrapped like mummy. Vould be good test of capabilities."
Polo cut in before Svetlana could elaborate on her desire to fight a critically injured patient. "We're guarding everyone FROM him. And also guarding him from... himself. Ghost Claw's orders."
Tòumíng noticed movement in the corner of the room. Ben was sitting in a chair, hunched over a tablet, his fingers swiping across the screen with focused attention. His blonde hair fell across his face, and he was completely absorbed in whatever he was looking at.
"What are you doing?" Tòumíng asked.
Ben didn't look up. "Looking through all the cameras we have access to in the city. Checking for any gang activity related to your little explosion. Making sure nobody's coming for revenge or trying to find you."
Tòumíng's eyes went wide. "You have access to city cameras? Like... surveillance cameras? Isn't that illegal?"
Ghost Claw's voice came from behind him, she'd followed him into the room.
"We have access to approximately three hundred cameras across the area. Traffic cameras, business security systems, a few private residences whose networks aren't properly secured. One of them is the pawn shop you frequented, Xuān Láng's place. That's actually how I found you initially. Saw you selling compressed gems and got curious about your abilities."
Tòumíng processed this information slowly. They'd been watching him. For weeks, probably. Knew about his smuggling, his gem sales, his desperate financial situation. Had targeted him specifically for recruitment.
He nodded, filing that away for later processing, and turned his attention back to Hǔtān.
His expression became serious, the playful confusion from earlier evaporating entirely. He walked to Hǔtān's bedside, his bare feet silent on the floor, and looked down at the wrapped figure.
The single visible eye tracked his movement, following him with eerie precision despite the rest of Hǔtān's body remaining completely still.
Tòumíng's voice came out low, controlled, carrying the weight of three years of questions and anger and confusion.
"Talk. Who the fuck is Min-woo?"
Hǔtān's eye crinkled slightly—the only indication he might be smiling beneath the gauze wrappings. When he spoke, his voice was muffled by the bandages but still audible, carrying that same calm tone from before.
He chuckled, a dry, rattling sound that came from deep in his chest.
"Who else would it be... other than your father?"