The sirens begin to wail. Adrenaline burns like a grease fire through San's veins and he runs— he runs faster than he thinks he's ever run in his life. He runs because he knows that if he stops, the people behind him won't hesitate to put a bullet through the back of his head.

His shoes skitter across loose stones on the endless unforgiving concrete that makes up Strictland, feet pounding in tandem with the heart against his ribs, and then he does something impossible.

He throws his head back as he flies, and laughter peals out of him. Unbridled, unrestrained, untethered. It's joyous, and he knows it probably sounds hysterical to any potential onlookers. He's sure his pursuers must think he's lost his mind.

He laughs— because here, right now, in this impossible landscape and this impossible situation, he's free.

Free from the loneliness he would feel every time his father dragged him to a new place, letting him settle before knocking the nest from the tree and telling him they were leaving again— free from the constricting aimlessness he had grown so used to. Never in one place. Never in one spot. Never truly at peace. There was always another moving van waiting for him in the driveway.

Now he had found his home— and even though he's still constantly on the move, he finds he doesn't mind it so much anymore. His home reaches out to him with gentle hands, shoulders to lean on, quiet camraderie that explodes into joyful carelessness. His home travels with him wherever he goes. This strange sense of clarity in such a horrific moment only makes him laugh harder.

A shot rings out past his ear and tilts further into his run, tearing around a corner and throwing his arms out at his sides. One final stretch before he meets up with the others. A bullet pings off the beam above him. It seems the Strictland guard is getting impatient with him.

He turns his head to check behind him, still laughing, breathless. They're closer now, and he knows his stamina is waning, but he doesn't need to outlast them.

He's almost home.

That's the last thought that goes through his mind when a shot finally hits its mark. He feels it tear through his side, just below the kevlar, and his laughter keens off into a high whine. He throws himself forward, gasping, letting out one more incredulous laugh, gripping his waist.

He just needs to—

Another shot, this time in the shoulder. He falls, his knees hitting pavement, and manages to flatten himself just as the next one cracks and hisses through the air overhead. The pounding of their boots gets louder and he shuts his eyes, waiting for that final shot.

It doesn't come. Instead, he feels iron around his wrists and pain like needles scrape over his arms, and when he opens his eyes, it's dark. There's a deep, piercing ringing in his ears, and smoke filling his lungs.

Before he has a chance to even cry out, his mouth is covered, the grip firm and unyielding. His chest tightens in panic, until a familiar face swims into view from the shadows.

"Hush," Hongjoong mouths soundlessly, his hand clamped over San's lips, arm tight around his waist. "Wait."

Now the ringing and smoky scent make sense— no doubt the guards were experiencing the worst of Hongjoong's grenade.

The two of them are lying beneath a huge barrel, the ones that seem to litter Strictland like some strange imposing cattle in a field of steel and stone. San's never been sure what they're even filled with, but he's come to distrust this place enough to know it's nothing he wants to get involved in. The way things worked around here, it was probably just one careless bullet away from spewing whatever mind-controlling substance Z has produced by the gallons in those suffocating factories.

San tries not to whimper aloud, with the rush of adrenaline beginning to fade the pain from his wounds is making him nauseated. He leans heavily into Hongjoong's embrace, closing his eyes until he's told to move again.

He counts the seconds to distract himself, taking deep, steadying breaths. They shudder in his chest, though if Hongjoong notices, he doesn't acknowledge it.

There's a sudden light in their cocoon of darkness, and Hongjoong looks down at his wrist to the little illuminated screen.

"Okay," he whispers, "we're clear to move. Let's go."

San finally lets out a whimper and nods his head, letting Hongjoong slide them out from beneath the industrial barrel. The majority of his weight leans onto Hongjoong, who takes it without a word, looking down at the map on his wrist and starting forward.

"How did you know where I was?" San asks, every word another ache in his side. Hongjoong's arm around him stiffens, and he spares a quick sidelong glance at him.

"If it hurts, don't speak," Hongjoong hisses, allowing San a quick glance before he glares ahead again. "I know you, so I followed you. It's that simple." He closes his mouth, but San knows he's not done talking. He waits, patiently, his breathing steadily becoming more laboured.

"And you don't wear a helmet even though I ask you to. Or more clothes," Hongjoong says harshly, though his mouth is soft. His nails dig only slightly into San's arm; it's not enough to sting, which is so unlike Hongjoong. San thinks it's sweet. He watches Hongjoong's profile, sees the way his lips purse. "I'm not losing any of you again. Don't make me."

San's heart sinks and soars in the same moment, touched at this moment of vulnerability that Hongjoong is allowing him. He's not normally the one their leader comes to with such insecurities, and the honour isn't one he takes lightly. Instead of speaking, as per Hongjoong's request, he just smiles and nods.

The corner of Hongjoong's mouth twitches up.

"Why do you think I keep Yeosang behind the scenes, with all the tech?" he goes on, turning them down a secluded alley. San thinks he can see their safehouse, not too far ahead.

He hums thoughtfully, then decides to speak despite knowing better. "Because he's so good with it?"

Hongjoong snorts, leaning San up against the brick to get the door open. His fingers fly across the biometric lock, inputting the combination as fast as he can before jabbing his thumb in the middle with more force than needed. When he has the lock open, he fixes San with a withering look.

"I think you mean the least useless out of all of us with that shit," he sniffs. Cracking the door open he lets out a low whistle, waiting for its answer.

"Don't undersell him like that," San says through the pout of his lips. Hongjoong rolls his eyes at him, slipping his arm beneath San's to help him inside, and then shutting them in with a separate, internal lock.

"No more talking until we've gotten you patched up."

Yeosang sets the bow against the violin's strings, his breath held tightly in his chest. Then, he draws it across in a long, smooth motion. He mind whirls around nothingness, no sheet music to follow, just the improvisation in his heart and a lifetime of practice. He has his parents to thank, as bittersweet a thought as it is, for this part of their fight. A painful beat in his heart, and his hand wobbles around the next melancholic string of notes. His eyes clench to fight the burn he feels behind them, continuing to play through his sorrow.

His violin weeps for him, singing out a song that will cease to exist once the bow lowers, and despite the longing he feels for the life they left behind; and despite the anger, frustration, and desire he held tight to escape from his parents for the life they had been leading him through; despite it all, he loved them, how could he not. He had lost sight of that for so long in their ramshackle hideout. It was so easy to forget around them, the new family he had formed, and to set the part of his life that he was avoiding aside. So easy to run away and pretend he was free. Even if it was just fleeting moments of freedom. It's hard, loving and resenting someone hand in hand like that. His notes turn staccato, sharp and biting.

He feels angry with himself, for being ungrateful, but he can't reconcile that with the part of him that always wanted out from under from their grasp. A bird fluttering uselessly against its cage, beak snapping just past the bars. His friends could only let him out for so long, until he had to willingly step back in and close the cage door behind himself once more.

Here. Somehow here in Strictland, so far away from his parents that they couldn't reach him even if they tried, he is unrestricted. And he's willing to fight so that everyone who lives here can feel it too. The music beneath his hands begins to sweep upwards, triumphantly, his fingers aching from how hard he's pressing down on the neck of his aching violin. He wills everyone listening to wake up, to feel the swell of emotions he's pouring into this— to want, so achingly, for the freedom they could grasp if only they knew they had the will for it. To break free of the conditioning that kept them so unwitting. His jaw aches from how tightly his teeth clench down, despair and prayer singing into the microphone. He fills this small, restricted space like a cathedral.

He hopes this is enough.