ERA: Heian Period

STARRING: Prince!Riki x Princess!Reader

SYNOPSIS: As the eldest princess to the Fujiwara clan, your life has been limited to the confines of your room. Your ladies-in-waiting are your only company, and you are not permitted to leave the four walls and tatami floors you’ve seen your whole life under any circumstances. Despite these rather restricting circumstances, you’ve grown to love the stories you hear from your closest lady-in-waiting, the one and only Murasaki Shikibu. As she tells you tales of love, romance, and the outdoors, you begin to yearn for a life outside the confines of your large, yet suffocating palace.

“Hime, why don’t you dress as a boy and play with the others outside?” Murasaki suggests one day after a large, rubber ball shoots into your window. Little did you know that this bold decision would lead into a double-life that becomes harder and harder to maintain as your father suddenly announces your engagement to the Nishimura clan.

ESTIMATED RUNTIME: 20-30k

GENRE: hannah montana double life thing meets mulan, royalty!au but like i’m also keeping this one platonic because i just wanna see riki be buddies and play kemari while enjoying his obligation-free life as a prince in the heian era yknow

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ERA: Sengoku Period

STARRING: Heir!Riki x Female Samura!Reader

SYNOPSIS: “I swear I’ll get revenge. I will avenge my family no matter what it takes.”

The Nishimura Clan was currently on the road to securing their spot as the unifier of Japan. After centuries of endless violence and war, the current Nishimura patriarch had his sights on the capital city, Kyoto, to finally seal his power and influence across the entire archipelago. Your clan, which once rivaled the military might and political influence of the Nishimuras, was heavily crushed and consumed within the bigger clan due to a string of infighting and betrayals that had occured between your father and his men. Instead of becoming a political bargaining tool for your clan’s survival, you instead picked up the art of the sword and vowed to come back and destroy the Nishimuras once and for all.

ESTIMATED RUNTIME: 20-30k

GENRE: Action

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ERA: Edo Period

STARRING: Kabuki Actor!Riki x Artist!Reader

SYNOPSIS: Say, a country locks itself from foreign influence for three-hundred or so years. What do you think would happen within that very long period of isolation? If you guessed a cultural boom, a stagnant economy, and overpopulation, you’re correct! Welcome to the Edo Period, a time where the rich continued to get richer, the poor started to learn how to read and write, and funky plays of men in makeup started to create a buzz in the local theaters! As the only daughter of critically-acclaimed ukiyo-e artist Katsushika Hokusai, you were at a crossroads between settling into a life of marriage or taking over the steadily growing workshop that your father had maintained throughout his years in the field. Unlike your outgoing father, you were a recluse, preferring to spend time within your quarters to help your father draw women’s figures or color some details in his pieces.

ESTIMATED RUNTIME: 20-30k

GENRE: fun! no angst for once! your slife of life bubbly platonic friendship where riki teaches reader the wonderful world of kabuki so you have more inspiration to start creating your own pieces!

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ERA: Meiji Period

STARRING: Bocchan!Riki x Factory Worker!Reader

SYNOPSIS: The fall of the Edo period had ushered in a quick change of tides in Japan’s cultural climate. Long gone were the days of layered fabrics and weird ponytails, and in were the fashion tastes of thick suits, a mustache, and shoes that didn’t reveal one’s toes. Although Riki had the privilege to learn how to read and write, he was now forced to do other things that Japanese boys back then couldn’t do—such as playing billiards, learning German or French, and going to a big school in an even bigger city! All was going well and he was slowly growing to accept the new and strange times he had to live by, until one day, he bumps into a rugged, poorly-dressed factory girl with bleeding hands.

ESTIMATED RUNTIME: 30k

GENRE: realistic fiction, angst baby, we’re gonna get into a bit of political commentary with inequality and industrialization

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ERA: Taisho Period

STARRING: Shosei!Riki x Aerial Silks Performer!Reader

SYNOPSIS: For a rather short era, the Taisho period was a time of liberation, freedom, and the closest Japan has ever gotten to embracing democracy. Riki was a young boy who couldn’t care less about politics, instead choosing to frequent the local theater to spend his allowance on movie tickets. With the growing rise of militarism and the pressures to go to military school, he found solace within the black and white frames of silent actors and the sound of a burning film roll. One day, he mistakenly buys the wrong ticket to see a circus act instead of his usual Western movies, entering a world of contortionists, escape artists, doves, trapeze stunts, and of course, the final act, you—a beautiful girl who danced on nothing but silk and air.

ESTIMATED RUNTIME: 30k

GENRE: Circus

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ERA: Pre-war/WWII Showa Period

STARRING: Riki solo piece most likely. MC appears in flashbacks. This is a war piece we know where this is going.

SYNOPSIS: The end of the war was approaching, and Japan was on the verge of surrendering to the Allies. Riki was now an orphan with no money, shelter, or food to his name. As he counted the days until he is eventually found by either the Imperial Japanese Army or the impending Allied forces, he recollects all that he could about his past life. How carefree and happy he was during a time of supposed economic growth and change, how the only thing he cared about was becoming an actor and moving to Tokyo to launch his career, and how you had always been there to support him no matter what. Now, all that was left of his dreams and your presence was a battered copy of Sorekara that you always carried and your hairpin, which had slowly rusted within the cramped, molding confines of the attic he hid in.

ESTIMATED RUNTIME: 40k

GENRE: Angst

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ERA: Post-WWII Showa Period

STARRING: Riki and reader as high schoolers in 60s Japan.

SYNOPSIS: Several decades had passed since Japan had surrendered to the Allies. After a period of poverty and tumult, the Japanese economy had slowly, but surely been building itself back. With more Western influence, people going into space, and colored television coming into homes near you, Riki spends his life as an average boy who was lucky enough to have been born after the war. However, misfortune would have it that he too, must taste the chaos of political tumult and student uprisings. With the height of the Anpo Protests, all Riki could do to tune out the noise was sneak into the music room to listen to the soft melodies of jazz that rippled from your delicate fingertips.

ESTIMATED RUNTIME: 30-35k (I'm being generous here this is perhaps one of my favorite eras cos we got the Olympics and the Moon Landing)

GENRE: coming of age, slice of life, realistic fiction, kinda like from up on poppy hill

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ERA: Early Heisei Period

STARRING: Parallel Universe!Riki and reader.

SYNOPSIS: Welcome to 80s Japan, where anything and everything can be cured if you have enough cash to pay for it! Living a life of high economic standards and prosperity, you really couldn’t ask for more. I mean, you were very pretty! You got boys to drive you around town in their fancy cars, and you also had the money to splurge into the latest fashion trends to stay on top of the game! You did kind of bad in school, but who cares! It’s the 80s! There’s surely a solution and a job out there for someone like you if you couldn’t pass the rigorous center exams! Life was great, it really was. Everything was supposed to go well, until one day, you start to notice small changes around you. The wall clock on top of your door was a little skewed, the set of nail polish that you just bought was now toppled and broken on the floor, and the radio you always listened to started to accumulate screeching, unbearable static that always managed to hurt your ears. What is going on?

ESTIMATED RUNTIME: 35k (idk dawg might surpass this is lengthy)

GENRE: magical realism, parallel universe trope, alternate dimensions and all that confusing stuff

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ERA: Late Heisei Period

STARRING: High school Riki and reader in 2000s Japan.

SYNOPSIS: Riki is sixteen now, which meant a lot of things for a boy his age. While he tries to get the girl he wants, he begins to dip his feet into the waters of life as everything changes around him.

RUNTIME: 51.1k (sorry)

GENRE: Coming of age, romance, drama

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ERA: Reiwa Period (current era)

STARRING: Idol!Riki x Normal Reader.

SYNOPSIS: Wow! Here we are, huh? After all those crazy events, we’ve finally arrived at a more mellow time in Japan. Everything is still as stagnant as ever, the GDP per capita is the same as it was twenty years ago, and even worse, the population pyramid has basically been inverted to the point where young people have become a treasured rarity! Your childhood friend was now all over the internet, and all you could do is sigh at the impending doom of a future enslaved within the cubicle desk of a large company. He had decided to leave for Korea to become a top idol when the two of you were mere middle schoolers, while at the time, you didn’t even think about your future or what career path you wanted to take. The only thing in your mind back then were trivial things such as whether you should leave your love letter in his foot locker or his school bag.

ESTIMATED RUNTIME: 35k

GENRE: coming of age, angst, slice of life, a lot of angst honestly

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before i get into the details let me start with the basics: the japanese school year starts in april. the first term ends in july, and summer vacation ends at the end of august. then, the second term continues all the way until january, when you have your winter break. the third term begins around mid-jan, running all the way until march.

the japanese high school curriculum is catered to teach what students would need in the center exams (kinda like the japanese ver. of sats (us), gaokao (china), csat (korea), and abitur (any german-speaking country i think?))

there are quite a lot of subjects, so i'll do my best to list what i know: japanese (divided between ancient lit, modern (?) lit, grammar), soc sci (geography, history, world history, japanese history), ethics and society/citizenry (?) (modern society, ethics, politics, economics), maths (divided in terms of difficulty), sciences (physics, chem, bio, geology, research stream), english (communication, grammar, etc.), arts (music, art), home economics, physical education

obviously not every high schooler would take all of these. it just really depends on the major/career path you want to take in the future

although some of these subjects are a must !! and you are definitely obliged to know general info for all streams if you want to do decently in the center examinations

in japan, you are either taking the literary/humanities route (文系) or stem (理系)

from what i can see with riki so far, i think he wouldn't go to university

which, i don't get the stigma of not pursuing higher education, but if he can run a dance workshop as a literal child then i don't think he really needs uni

that being said, he would probably choose the literary/humanities route since he has made it very clear that he hates math and science

as such, he'd be required to take more of the humanities-related subjects to make up for his lack of sciences

here's the combination i'm seeing: geography, history, modern lit, geology, biology, physical education, music

in japan, i think there are eight subjects that everyone has to take, so i'm not listing that above

sorry i'm a bit rusty HAHA anyway with about 8 hours of pure learning i think he'd pass out of exhaustion

his first year would be very chill (like any first year ngl)

reputation and first impressions are very important in japanese society, and i feel like given riki's bluntness and playfulness he'd have a decent circle of friends

not that popular, but also not a loner

i don't think he'll be bullied especially since he'd have his growth spurt by the time he enters high school

he would stand out a bit because he does dance

might be popular with the girlies bc of it too

he did say he likes playing soccer so i can see him joining the soccer club for his club activities

club activities are also a big part of japanese high school life, and you rarely really see people who opt out of joining one

i mean there are animes where they kinda show people in the "going home club" but in reality, you sort of get scrutinized for not being in one

anyway sports boys do get clout so riki's in the safe zone

by safe zone let me emphasize: he is not getting bullied and he's definitely surviving high school

like ngl some of the stories i hear about japanese public schools, in particular, are quite rough so like bless his soul

he'd try to befriend his seating partner in the classroom

so, the way japanese schools work is the teachers come to the respective classroom, it's not the students that go to the teacher

as such, you rarely get any seat changes for the entire sem unless you're in labs or the home ec classroom

i don't think he'd make friends outside of what he does

like, most of his friends would probably come from the soccer club or the subjects he takes

he would also join a dance club if there was one, and he'd make friends there too !!

our boy can be a social butterfly with the right push, and esp if it's concerning his interests, he'd be sure to get along with everyone he encounters

a bit about the dance club but given his professional upbringing as a dancer i feel like he'd be stricter

we've seen his leadership/choreographing/teaching skills in i-land, and i think he'd be that level or harsh if push comes to shove

this might cause a bit of friction in the dynamics of the club, but in the end, that's what life is and he sort of has to go through those experiences

alright anyway, school festivals bc this somewhat ties to clubs !!

dance club would def perform and here we can see riki kun in his element crafting choreographies that are easy enough for amateurs to follow, but at the same time with the right type of challenge

most class-run activities are often food stalls so i feel like he'd help out here and there given his height and active demeanor

he'd complain a lot and may slack off by running to the rooftop but that's a-ok because he somehow never gets caught

when he does he just says he's busy with the dance club

i think by the time he becomes a second or third year he'd be quite popular

man plays sports and ngl everyone in the sports teams usually get a lot of fans

also if you're doing sports in general it's such an easy way to socialize and make friends

he'd hate this though because that means he'd have to buy white day chocolates in return to those that gave him a bunch of sweets on valentines

like idk riki's sweet in his own way and giving gifts is not one of them

i have a hunch that his sisters would use him as a taste tester for their own valentine's sweets and he'd hate the holiday even more

he'd definitely invite his friends to dance competitions and i can see him give out a few tickets here and there

he would definitely work a part-time job (if his school allows it) and he'd most likely just work at his parents' studio

eating lunch would either be in the classroom with his friends or at the rooftop

i think he'd just eat at the rooftop to bring his switch and play games

at some point, i can definitely see it getting confiscated

the type of boy to like, get teachers telling him to tuck in his shirt all the time

breaks a bunch of dress codes and i think his biggest offense would be forgetting to dye his streaks/hair back to black whenever school starts

i don't think he'd be a kid that's in many drama, but his friends would, and he'd kinda just be there to listen and sip the tea while watching the chaos unfold

trust me there are a lot of telephone game shenanigans that go on in japanese schools, and if you think anime depictions are brutal then real life is way worse

i almost forgot about school trips !!

i don't think he'd care too much

like, he wouldn't be too excited, but he'd probably be like "hell yeah i'm finally out of this crusty ass building lmaooooo"

he'd make a fuss in the bus with his friends, and the teachers would definitely keep an eye out on him and his friends

like, he'd probably be too loud after losing a game of uno or sth

very active on social media so i feel like he'd do those aesthetic #highschooler #highschoolboy trends and post photos of himself in his uniform during school trips

rikijackson09231209 follow for follow pls

anyway third year would be the worst for him

i think by this point it's a universal thing to have senior year as the most stressful

he'd definitely be struggling to keep up with the workload and exams

he'd try to minimize his role in the soccer club at the expense of putting more hours into dance

depending on how good he is he might get nominated to become captain or vice captain

idk

anyway yeah he'd do... okay in the center exams

his attendance is good enough for him to graduate and i don't think i see him failing his subjects

like, as hard as the japanese curriculum sounds, you have to be an absolute moron to fail and repeat a year

that being said he'd be fine 100%

it's just that his center exam scores prolly won't get him into the top competitive schools

if he were to go to university at the behest of his parents he might try his best to do well so he can get into the kinesiology program

other than that once he graduates it's straight to work never stop the sigma grind

i think that's it?? i omitted a lot because it'd be too much to go through like, every aspect of his high school life

so yeah, tldr: he's a fairly popular and friendly sports boy who loves dancing. sometimes gets in trouble with the teachers but that's okay what's one more uniform infraction gotta do with his future amirite?

He tried to search for opportunities in his major. After all, there were many places one could go with an engineering degree. He scoured through multiple job listings, written cover letters for major companies worldwide, and contacted professors to write letters of recommendations that he could rely on. For extra measure, he forced himself to have "the talk" with his parents about his future, giving them false reassurance that he had an idea on what to do after he graduates. When asked about the prospect of attending graduate school, he pursed his lips into a thin line and shrugged his shoulders, telling them that he's "thinking about it." Sure, another two to three years of school would mean he had more chances, but the four years of inflated tuition fees and living expenses drowned him in a sea of guilt that could only calm down once he found a way to secure his income.

His apartment—which collected endless noise complaints and eviction threats—was now engulfed in a deathly silence of pensiveness. Desktop monitors that reflected empty word documents and excessive numbers of tabs opened became his main light source for a while. Eventually, two whole weeks of rejected applications and subpar interviews made him resign to an entire summer of playing video games in his room. None of his friends had the free time to go on a nightly escapade of pub crawls with him anymore, and spending the night alone outside took a different level of maturity that he himself didn't achieve yet. Dating apps were out of the question too, since he wasn't really in the mood to hook up with strangers. Sure, a one-night stand would probably instill the initial thrill of young adulthood in him, but what he truly yearned for was to have a cold beer with the boys again while propping foldable chairs by the beach to talk about anything and everything.

He's lost count of how long he's been a homebody, but a rough estimate pointed him towards two weeks and a half. The first week was technically productive, but each second that passed by was marked with application rejections and zero calls back from employers who should be desperate to hire more young people in a stagnant economy. Naturally, anyone would want to escape the pains of reality through channeling anger and frustration into violent online battle royales. His body clock was slowly getting accustomed to living in Pacific time, and the lack of alcohol in his system almost felt like a spiritual detoxification that prophets and priests go through. Even if lying down on his couch while munching on a bag of Smith's was no better than spending all his nights getting too drunk to remember how he ended up half-naked in a tattoo parlor, it was still an accomplishment nonetheless to survive solitude. To think someone like him could come this far without social activity was a spectacle to behold, and even he believed it warranted a self high five or a pat on the back.

Maybe a part of adulthood was finding happiness in the little things—such as spending time on your own. If everyone was too busy to spend time with him, then he should perhaps get used to seeing himself as a companion.

From the large glass windows of his orange-tinted room, he could see the sun dipping itself in the warm waters of the sea. Cars zooming past the highway harmonized with the array of street musicians that occupied every corner of Camperdown Park. Once he opened the doors to his veranda, the wind carried with it a comfortable heat that reminded him of the countless summer vacations he'd spent in a country he's grown to call his home. While the rest of the world was engulfed in the white, icy touches of winter's embrace, the streets of Australia beamed with a vibrant, tropical feel. This would have been a perfect day to have a blaze with his mates and relive the good memories of a distant past, but enjoying the view from his veranda while drinking a cold beer or two had the potential to become his new favorite pastime.

Jogging back indoors, he took three cans of beer from the mini-fridge in his room. A sigh escaped his lips as the cool sensations of the metal alloy touched his palm. He took the can to his neck, pressing it gently towards his nape to relieve himself from the humidity of the open air. It took time for his body to process the sudden drop in temperature from the beer can, but time was something he had in abundance. For now, the woes of finding employment and building his resume evaporated with the air that left his lungs. All that mattered right now, when time seemed to stop in an eternal summer of marmalade-tinted sunsets, was the taste of beer that overwhelmed the corners of his mouth after two whole weeks of sobriety.

He closed his eyes, further immersing himself in the ambiance of white noise produced by his surroundings. Screeching car wheels, electric guitars, dogs barking and howling at each other, teenagers screaming profanities as they zoomed past the streets on their skateboards—all of the sound Australia had to offer was ringing in his ears, reverberating with a strong beat. He leaned in closer, opening another can of beer. Its refreshing fizz permeated in empty air, slicing through the bustling din of the city. His lips hovered over the cold surface of the can, taking in the fleeting, malty aroma that filled his nostrils. It was a classic, familiar flavor that swished and tingled his tongue, flashing quick images of a transient yet unforgettable youth in his head.

There was a beep that disrupted his moment of tranquility, and he furrowed his brows at the sight of the notification on his phone. Another email politely rejected his application, with the same automated response of wishing him luck for his future ventures. The time on his phone read 17:49, but the strength of the sun's rays seemed to disrupt his perception of time. Although notes of violet began appearing among the streaks of white clouds in the sky, the sun was still brimming with a blinding radiance.

"Jake, right?" The mention of his name sent shivers down his spine, and he snapped his head toward the direction of the voice. Keeping his grip on the now lukewarm beer can in his hands, his eyes met a figure he was sure he'd met before, but the alcohol had blocked fragments of his blurred memories from uncovering your identity. He was sure he'd met you somewhere, and your silhouette certainly evoked a sense of familiarity in him. Was it at a bar? Or a club? Perhaps a house party? Maybe a concert or a music festival? No matter how much he tried to plunge into the depths of his memories, he could not find a single name or a place. Nonetheless, he was confident that he'd met you before.

"Of course, you wouldn't remember me." You uttered under your breath, laughing bitterly at the puzzled expression etched on your neighbor's face. Jake returned the sentiment with an awkward chuckle, raising the can of beer to his lips once more as he emptied its contents. He crushed the can in his hands and tossed it behind him, automatically reaching for another beverage.

"Sorry mate—but I swear on my dog's life that I've seen you somewhere before. Promise." He said, dragging his chair closer to the edge of his veranda. You did the same, standing up from your seat to lean on the railings of your balcony. He raised his can of beer to you, taking a huge sip with a deep sigh. Your sips were lighter and more consistent to ensure that you didn't house too much gas in your stomach.

"So, who are you again?" He asked, balling his hand in a fist as he held a burp down his throat. He tapped his chest with his palm in rhythmic pats, easing the buildup of carbonated wheat that bubbled in his stomach. When he tried to look deep into your features, a delayed outline would follow, creating shadows out of nowhere with the brightness of the setting sun. Was he always this weak with alcohol? Or was it just the two-week period of sobriety that did a number on him? Whatever it was undoubtedly made your afterimage linger with every subtle move you made. When a gust of wind blew in your direction, your hair would float in the air, each strand seemingly having a conscious life of its own. The dull luster on your head almost looked like a halo from where he was, which didn't help him remember who you are at all. If you were someone he'd met at a party, he would have had your contact information and social media by now, and he would have at least recalled your name or which faculty you were in. He was sure he'd seen your face somewhere, but to pinpoint the where unexpectedly took too much brainpower to process.

You twirled the can of beer from side to side, swishing the viscous liquid within and feeling its weight shift between each movement. Each time the weight of the can fell to your right, Jake would furrow his brows deeply, pinching his nose as hard as he could. The gesture didn't help him jog his memory, and it only made him look ridiculously focused on something that should have been a light joke. When the can's weight fell to your left, he would heave a deep sigh, as if he was slowly giving up at trying to remember where he met you. At some point, he chugged through his last can of beer, and you tried to toss him a can from your cooler. He was able to catch it mid-air with quick reflexes, but upon seeing the brand, he gave you an awkward smile—one that immediately told you his entire personality through the beer he drinks. To be fair, you were being too harsh on him. It's not as if he played an essential part of your life, and your encounters with him only consisted of quick nods of acknowledgment when you saw him leave the door. Letting your share of momentary fun reach its abrupt halt, you tossed him another can of beer—this time, it was the same brand as the one he just finished. Muttering a word of thanks under his breath, he hastily reached for the pull tab and opened it with a pop that sliced through the distant magpie's cries.

"Depends on how you put it. I've been your neighbor for about two years now, and I've been collecting your bills because the guys at the gas company keep fucking up our room numbers." You said, leaning further towards his veranda. The metal railings pressed into your skin, leaving a geometrical pattern of rectangles across your arm and legs. He took a step back, leaving his mouth agape at the mention of the word "neighbor." Now that you've mentioned it, he did remember seeing you in the building from time to time. Still, he was either too drunk to stand or too tired from studying in the library, so a lot of the "hellos" and "goodbyes" that you two have probably exchanged flew out of his head from fatigue.

Then, it hit him.

You were the person that moved in two summers ago, when he came home from the Rainbow Serpent Festival. There were two large suitcases next to you as you twisted and turned the keys to your new home, and he offered to teach you how to unlock your door. What happened after that remained a big blur in his head, but if he didn't see you on the corridors of the apartment hall or anywhere else in the city, that meant that you were a busybody who quickly adjusted to life in New South Wales. Judging from the way you looked, he could guess that you were the type of person who would probably avoid him in university. Even if your hair was tousled with the breeze at the moment, you kept it in a neat ponytail that highlighted your face shape. Your outfit looked straight out of an office comedy, save for the cozy shorts you wore instead of a pencil skirt or slacks. It was a rather odd combination, but it added to the type of person you might be in his eyes. A dedicated worker by day who knew how to unwind on your own after long hours in the cubicle—which, now that he thought about it, added another element of surprise to the enigma of his next-door neighbor. You didn't look much older than him, yet you had the air of an adult that was too far out of his reach. The way you slowly take sips of your beer, even if the urge to chug it all in one go was one of the few examples of mature restraint that he began to admire as he spent each second drinking with you.

Maybe, just maybe, you were the key to his current slump. If destiny or fate or whatever spiritual bullshit were to align the stars in his favor, then the rejected applications might be a sign that pointed towards you. Sure, he knew nothing about you, but you looked like a full-fledged adult with enough experience in the "real world"—someone who can help him polish his resume, practice interviews with, and maybe gain tips from. Indeed, you didn't mind him asking about the inner workings of the job market and what your employer looked for when he hired you, right?

He considered asking you if either he could come into your house or vice versa, but he realized that his living room was a total mess. The coffee table had pieces of potato chips all over its surface, and empty boxes of takeout were scattered across his carpet. Ideally, the latter was the best option, since he assumed you regularly cleaned your living quarters. Then again, there was no point in asking if he could barge into your apartment if the two of you were already engaged in a conversation. Plus, it was a rational guarantee that it would be better to continue your talks without the gaping, empty border of two balconies.

In one quick gulp, he consumed the can of beer in his hands and crushed it between the metal railings of his veranda. Instead of throwing him another drink, he raised his palm in the air and rushed back inside his apartment, leaving you puzzled with his impulses. He seemed to be the type to act without thinking, but there was an air of philosophical intrigue surrounding him. From what you could guess with your first formal encounter with him, he would move depending on his mood while thinking about everything at once, mind calculating with all the outcomes and possibilities in rapid succession. He was the type of guy who would talk on tangents because there was simply too much going on in his head.

"He definitely reminds me of someone." You muttered under your breath, then took another long sip of your lukewarm drink. Beer sure tasted better when it was ice cold, and you rushed back to your apartment to pour the rest of the contents in a glass with some ice. A German would indeed rebuke you for your actions, but what can you say? You needed the drink to keep its chilled state, or else you'd throw it into the sink and waste it away.

Before you could close the glass doors to your balcony, the doorbell rang three or four times. You didn't need to check the peephole to know who it was, and yet Jake's presence in front of your door surprised you nonetheless.

"Come in," You greeted with a smile. Jake kicked his sandals off and gave your living room a quick scan. A small smile stretched his lips at the correct guess of his intuition. Despite your rooms having the same architecture, the sheer difference in furniture and cleanliness paled compared to his room. You had a few plants as decor in the entrance and beside your flat screen television, while he kept his space as sparse as one could. The scent of lavender hit his nose the moment he breathed in, and he traced its aroma to a burning candle perched in the middle of your glass coffee table. He saw a Nintendo Switch idly sitting beside the array of cushions on your couch, prompting him to take a mental note of asking for your ID sometime later.

Jake held a small cooler in his arms, and after he took in your humble living space, he immediately darted towards your balcony door. Once he propped up his cooler beside yours, he took a wayward folding chair and slumped right into it. After a few seconds, he immediately fixed his posture and gave you a slight bow, muttering strings of incoherent apologies about his youthful impoliteness. Using your laughter as a message of forgiveness, you hovered your glass towards your uninvited guest, clinking it to a new chapter of acquaintanceship.

"You look awfully comfortable in a house that you've been in for the first time." You joked, raising your glass towards your lips.

People like Jake, who exuded an air of comfort, were the type of people who knocked all the walls you've built to guard yourself. An aura of benign intentions spread to whoever they talked to, and no sign of malice was present in their actions and words. It was a very contagious ray of positivity that you desperately needed, and that was probably why you didn't hesitate to let him—a complete stranger before your coincidental meeting at your respective balconies—into your house.

"By the way, I've also been keeping your noise complaint letters because somehow maintenance keeps sending them to my room instead of yours." You said, breaking the small moment of silence between you two. Pointing your index finger to the stack of letters on your kitchen counter, he excused himself to jog into your apartment. From his distance, you could see him scattering the neatly stacked pieces of noise complaints around the entire counter, with some of them flying around your kitchen. He waved the most recent one in your direction, suppressing a deep chuckle that burst in echoes bouncing back and forth between the standard white walls. You returned the sentiment with a bout of laughter of your own, taking another sip of icy beer as you watched him snort at each noise complaint. When he returned to your balcony, a tinge of pink on his cheeks intermingled with the orange tint of sunlight that dyed his skin, giving him the urge to cover his face with his can of beer.

"Sorry about that, I really am." He uttered, clearing his throat to dispel the carbon that continued to tickle his stomach. By now, he was pretty sure he'd have a bad case of acid reflux tomorrow.

"Nah, it's fine. Destiny or whatever seems to work in my favor since I'm usually out whenever you host parties in your apartment." You waved off, pointing your chin at the noise complaint that was still on his hand. The humidity of the summer weather caved the paper into itself, and Jake pressed its corners on his lap, straightening it with his palms. He began folding it into a paper airplane, delicately folding each wing with skilled hands. You watched as he attentively admired his craft, letting go of the paper as soon as another breeze hit the balcony. The paper airplane's destination was a mystery, and all you could do was watch it soar down the busy streets you've watched since you moved to the city.

"Speaking of parties, I've been meaning to ask, but it's been quite quiet recently." You questioned. His eyes glowed momentarily, brown pupils dilating with the brightness of the sun. It should already be past six, yet the skies were still vivid with harmonious blends of warm tones. Violet streaks were more prominent now, but it was not enough to call it a night.

"Yeah, everyone's just busy with their own stuff, you know? I guess it's that time where everyone grows up to fix themselves and get a job or something." Jake answered, keeping the speed of his speech as slow as he could. This was a chance for him to steer the conversation in his favor, and he wanted to keep his excitement as low as possible. Eagerness was a trait that many employers looked for, but eagerness in excess was desperation—a characteristic that led to the downfall of his internship applications.

"Jobs, huh." Your voice was a faint whisper now, and if Jake didn't lean forward, the breeze would have carried it away from his ears. Your eyes were now watching the melting ice cubes that diluted the jaundice hues of your drink, watching its once clear, symmetrical shape loose structure in the murky pool of fermented yeast.

"Jobs." He repeated, sharing the same dejected sentiment in your voice. Heaving a long, deep sigh, he diverted his eyes to the endless afternoon sky, watching a couple of magpies fly from one direction to another. He didn't know magpies could fly that high up, considering the fact that he's seen most of them perched atop benches in Camperdown Park.

"They suck." There was a poisonous undertone in the way you spoke now, causing Jake to flinch a little. There was no lie in the sentence, and he found himself nodding in agreement. Jobs do suck, but what sucked even more was not having a job to complain about in the first place. "Money can't buy happiness" was an absurd statement, because happiness needed time, which was measured in money. To have time, one must have enough money to buy that time, and to get money meant sacrificing the present to a future that always seemed to go further and further away from his grasp.

"I know, and I've never even been employed before," Jake said. This shouldn't come as a surprise to you, considering the noise complaints he's managed to pile up. Nonetheless, your mouth still went agape in bewilderment at the thought of someone his age with absolutely zero job experience of any kind.

"Not even a part-time job?" You asked, jogging your memories back to the countless jobs you took on the side during high school and in your first year of university. How you managed to maintain a high academic standing despite carrying two part-time jobs still baffled you, but you suppose that was the reason your friend circle was small enough to count with your ten fingers. This could also be another reason you steered clear from social media, only downloading WhatsApp to communicate with project group mates and work colleagues.

"Well, I don't know if tutoring counts. I was also a research assistant for a bit, but I wasn't paid, so I wouldn't really consider it a job." Jake explained. To be fair, tutoring his niece with a small allowance shouldn't be considered a job, and his time as an undergrad research assistant had been an unpaid volunteering activity. Either way, any opportunity in his sparse resume was automatically considered a job to him.

"Research assistant for…?" You didn't want to show your disdain towards him, but your tone made it evident that you didn't believe him. Sure, one should not rely on assumptions to create a mental character of a person, but when all she knew about him was his excessive obsession with nightlife and raves, the only thing you could think of was "how?" How did someone like him, who certainly didn't look like the type to do well in school, secure a research position in his undergrad years?

"My mechanical engineering prof. He was doing some research on hydrodynamics, and an assistant's position was open, so I went for it." Jake replied, showing the screenshot of an email he had with his professor as proof. He knew you didn't mean any harm, but this was one of the few opportunities he had to brag about his lack of accomplishments. In a sense, you were right—becoming a research assistant during undergrad was a rare opportunity, let alone in his second year of study. To top it all off, it was his professor that decided to reach out to him, making him the chosen few who the professor himself handpicked.

"Why didn't you continue? That sounds like a solid position to me." You asked, taking his phone to zoom in on the email.

It was an odd way to find out that he attended the University of New South Wales, or UNSW for short—which struck a painful chord in your chest. Sure, you were an alumnus at an institution with a higher overall ranking than his, but UNSW was a better business school than where you graduated. To add salt to your wounds, UNSW Business was one of the only schools that rejected your application. At the same time, every other university you applied to accepted you into their commerce program. The worst blow to your ego was the realization that Jake entered the number one school for his major in all of Australia. UNSW consistently ranked first in the faculty of engineering and gained worldwide recognition for housing some of the most employable graduates that the country could offer. From this perspective alone, your academic achievements failed to compete with the prestige of his alma mater and program.

"I got bored, and the prof was really difficult to work with." He replied nonchalantly. You nodded your head to every word he said, diverting your gaze to the corner of his lips. There was a smirk plastered on his face, exuding an air of pomp and circumstance. Of course, you took his pridefulness as a joke, scoffing at him in the process. However, what changed within you was a newfound respect for an otherwise unrespectable guy. Despite being beneficial to his career, leaving an apprenticeship out of honesty was a commendable trait that highlighted your own cowardice in the workplace.

Noticing the shift in your exception, Jake puffed his chest out with pride. Just like everything good in his life, however, the short period of egotistic bliss evaporated into a shell of self-doubt and shame. He was aware of his school's reputation and his major, but it was for this same reason that he couldn't call himself a student of the university with dignity. He should be getting opportunities left and right based on the prestige of his alma matter; he should be able to secure a job, let alone an internship because he's attending one of the best schools in Australia; he should have no trouble networking or finding a company to commit to because many employers were supposed to want students in a top school. He technically had one more year of university to go before he graduated. Still, most of the students in his program already had a solid idea of what to do after graduating. For those without a fiery passion for engineering, they simply took the route of gaining as much experience as possible to become an attractive candidate for major tech companies around the world—which was what he tried to do. Still, the perseverance of getting up after each rejection simply didn't exist in him.

Failures and rejection were two things he never had the pleasure of experiencing. He was lucky enough to have everything handed down to him on top of a silver platter—whether it be genetics, talents, or sociability. This should have given him a general upper hand in everything, but the cold truth was that he never had the push to try hard enough because everything always worked out for him. It didn't help either that his brother bore the first-born's responsibilities, often receiving a stricter regimen than himself. While his brother learned to gain independence and persist through each obstacle that life had to offer, Jake was pampered with support and parental protection. He was never compared to his brother at the dinner table, but he reckoned that a slight competitive streak would have given him a reason to work harder and envision a clear, vivid image of his goals and aspirations.

"How about you?" Jake asked, shaking off the swirling thoughts that spiraled down his head. The past is the past, and nothing would have stopped who he was back then to quit the apprenticeship for more free time.

"I got fired." You bluntly blurted, averting your gaze from your drinking companion of the afternoon.

"Wait, what?"

"Yeah, I got fired." You repeated through gritted teeth.

There was not a single second between his bafflement and your simmering anger. The open air felt suffocating, choking him out and leaving him breathless. The humidity and heat of the Australian summer came in full swing, batting his lungs and throat with the forces of nature. Indeed, there was something he could do to alleviate the tension in the air, right? Say a comforting sentence or two? Maybe give you an awkward hug? Or pass you another beer to make you drink your woes away? The last one was his least preferred option, but it seemed to be the most realistic. In your current state, words lost all meaning. Physical touch was out of the question too, since you were probably a woman who kept your guard higher in times of anger, self-doubt, and disappointment.

You gave a few minutes of lethal silence between you two, eyes glued to the empty glass in your hands. There was no weight to swirl between your palms anymore, which gave the glass a certain lightness. You tightened your grip around its surface, controlling the urge to throw it out of your balcony. Venting your anger out through violence and reckless behavior didn't serve a single purpose to your problem since throwing all your glasses and ceramics off your balcony did nothing to get your job back. So, for now, you closed your eyes and took a deep breath, feeling through blank space to find your cooler's lid.

"For what, if I may ask?"

Jake's fragile, gentle voice was like an anchor that sunk you back down on the cold tiles of your balcony. The heavy weight that bogged your shoulders down slowly lifted itself away from you, prompting you to melt between the fabrics of your foldable chair. You craned your head towards him, feeling the heaviness of your skull hit the bones of your left shoulder. He took a can of beer from his cooler to press it on your neck, dragging his chair closer to yours. Closing your eyes once more, you felt the shape of his knuckles and gave it a small pat.

"I wouldn't be here, hopelessly drowning myself in shitty, cheap ass beer if I knew."

Your breath tickled Jake's hand, reanimating the cool sensations of the beer can. He softly pushed the can to the nape of your neck, carefully watching the twitches on your face to take note of your current comfort levels. Once a sigh of relief escaped your lips, he took the can up to your jaw, allowing you to rest your head on the back of his hand. Right now, you were just the right amount of drunk to rely on the touch of someone you've just met for comfort. It was not enough to throw yourself in his arms, and you were confident that it'd take much more for you to sleep with him—but in a sense, this amount of inebriety was just enough.

"That makes two of us, then." He muttered, letting his head rest on the crown of your head.

You tilted your head at an angle where you could see his eyes, watching it sparkle under the sunlight. Even if the two of you knew absolutely nothing about each other, there was a familiarity that felt akin to an old friend from a distant past. The night was slowly seeping through the marmalade skies in a blend of violet, washing away any remnants of the day. What should have been an hour felt like an eternity, evoking both shared a sense of liminality. Each breath one took was the exhalation of another—a bone-chilling, cellular connection that rattled the innermost parts of both your bones. A balcony you had to yourself felt like a space for the two of you, a waiting room for the impending dread of reality. You, a woman with too many dreams, and he, a man who couldn't dream at all.

"I mean, now that I think about it, I'm sure you sort of understand why you can't get a job or an internship, right?" You asked, breaking the silence that rendered both of you as equals in the presence of a looming future. Jake tilted his head to meet your glittery pupils that were simultaneously dull and lifeless. Removing the can of beer that was glued to your neck, he tugged at the pull tab and took your hands in his, curling each of your fingers to hold the can. You nodded your head, taking a small sip. The beverage's bitterness was accentuated when it wasn't cold enough to drink, and you scrunched your nose in mild disgust at the bubbly, malty flavors that burst into your tongue. You passed the can onto Jake, who took a quick swig of the drink.

"I don't wanna admit it, but I can see why." He said, slurring his words with a certain bitterness. His head felt heavier, and you gently took his temples in your palms. In one swoop, you managed to switch positions without alerting him in his semi-drunken state. Now, your head was resting on top of his messy mop of black hair, and he nuzzled his face deeper into your neck.

"Experience?" You asked, taking the can off his grasp. In exchange, you covertly slipped a chilled bottle of water in his palms, watching him flimsily twist the cap off only to pour the contents all over the two of you. You bit your lip in restraint, doing your best to hold your laughter. Feeling his feverish warmth through the top of your head, your best guess was that he was the "late bloomer" type of drunk. He can consume copious amounts of alcohol and retain his consciousness, but at some point, all the effects would come crashing down in an instant to render him in a state of unreasonable happiness.

"What still baffles me to this day is how many employers want "experience," but even the experience itself requires more experience that I can't get because getting a degree and studying hard just isn't enough anymore," Jake replied, putting the entire weight of his head on your shoulder. Raising his arms up high, he exaggerated a set of air quotes before dragging them back down on his lap.

"Well, at least you had your share of fun while it lasted, right?"

"I guess I did? That's if I can have a family of my own to share these stupid moments with, though."

"Not a fan of marriage?" You asked. Jake took his head off your shoulder and lowered his head to match your eye's position. One thing about him that didn't change regardless of his sobriety was his attentiveness, which was displayed through subtle movements.

Jake widened his eyes at the word marriage. He didn't say anything for a while, leaving his mouth agape only to shut it back. A short hum escaped his lips as he brought his knees up to his chin. Although the chair was too small to contain his legs, he did his best to make sure that his knees wouldn't hit your arm.

"I've thought about it, but I can't really see myself with a wife and kids right now. I mean, I've failed all my internship interviews, and my resume is too blank right now. The only thing I have in terms of personal branding is my grades, which anyone can achieve if they study hard enough or whatever." Jake murmured. His voice was slightly muffled, and you leaned closer to hear him better.

"How can I provide for a family when I don't think I can even provide for myself?"

A long, arduous silence fell with a thud. Night came with the dark glow of the moon, sinking the sun into the depths of the faraway seas. You averted your eyes from him, feeling for your cooler yet again. Without hesitation, you opened a can of beer and quickly emptied its contents, feeling the faint dizziness that always occurred when you would drink too rashly. Jake looked at you with concern while holding back any fiber of movement that might escape his fingertips. He knew the feeling all too well, and if he were in the same position, he wouldn't want someone to stop him mid-way. He kept his lips in a thin line, watching as you longingly gazed at the night sky. The empty can in your hands rolled past the metal railings of your balcony, plunging straight into the streets below.

"Jake," You said. The way his name rolled of your tongue had a piercing quality to it—almost as if his body jolted with an animatic shock that rushed in his veins.

"Yeah?"

"Let me tell you something," You continued, facing him while clamping your mouth shut, peering deep into his eyes. For Jake, it was almost invasive—as if you were looking inside his entire anatomy.

"I graduated with First Class Honors in my batch last year." You started after a long pause. Jake could tell that your head was rustling with many rampant thoughts, and he kept his silence.

"I'm not trying to brag, but I also have enough so-called "experience" in my resume. I have completed several certifications that should have aided me in my job interviews. I've completed enough internships in my summer vacations to qualify me for a job in my desired career path. I was an intern for CommBank, Westpac, and ANZ, to name a few, and I've even joined executive positions at my university's investment banking clubs as another qualification to write about. Many of my professors have written me referrals to top finance companies in the country, which should have boosted my chances of securing a lifelong path of financial security. I've devoted three fucking years to my education, my future plans, and my dreams, and yet I was fired today because I was "not the best fit" for my role."

You were now staring at your bare feet, which were spread across the cold, marble tiles of your balcony. Jake said nothing, but you could feel his eyes lingering on your hunched figure. Your voice was drained of all energy and feeling, and all you wanted to do right now was to go to sleep. For how long was a question you didn't bother answering; the only thing your body felt was the fatigue that came with living as a struggling young adult in a happening, big city.

"Wow…" Jake whispered. It was a voice so low and quiet that if you hadn't listened carefully, it would have been blown away by the breeze.

"Wow, right?" You repeated with the same volume and tone. You took your knees to your chest and mimicked Jake's curled position, tilting your head to an angle where you could see his face bathed in the moonlight. The remnants of the day have disappeared with the sun sinking deep inside the seas across the city. Now, it was officially night, and the city lights shone like a string of stars in the North.

"What a monologue," Jake said, forcing himself to speak. Fate worked in beautiful ways, and instead of finding an answer, he found empathy. He didn't know whether to smile, cry, lament and scream at you for not having a solution to his woes, or to throw his beer can to the depths of the night. As he'd expected, you should have been the model example to follow—and yet, after all your incredible accomplishments, you were on the same boat as him.

Sailing, drifting, and floating without a destination in mind. There wasn't even an anchor to hoist down in this boat the two of you were in, nor was there a port to dock. You, a veteran captain holding accolades with navigation, and him, a shoemaker who had never even sailed on a ship before.

"I should have applied for a major in theater or something. Then I could have probably secured a lifetime of performing with a company." You smiled, staring into space. You stood up, head spinning in a daze at the sudden movement. The moonlight was dancing in circles as you concentrated your sight into its bright, white glow, and you eventually let your hand depend on the cold touches of your balcony's metal railings to stay still.

"Do you actually like theater?" Jake asked, following suit. He passed a bottle of water to you, and you allowed the transparent liquid to cure you of your vertigo. At this rate, you didn't know if the culprit was excessive amounts of alcohol or the event that made you drink in the first place.

"Never been interested, but man, I'm fucking desperate." You laughed. You took your elbows to the railings, allowing your chin to rest on your forearms.

"Mood," Jake replied in a whisper. You turned around to lean your back on the railings, switching your view from the endless spots of white city lights to the mundane, empty neatness of your apartment's living room.

"Might become a stripper type of mood?" You asked, shuddering at the thought of him in a strip show.

"More like might open an Onlyfans kinda mood."

"If only you were hotter, right?"

"Hey! I bet my body count is way higher than yours!" Jake exclaimed, widening his eyes.

"It probably is, and that's most likely why you couldn't have the time or energy to actually look for internships that might help you with your future." Your chin was now resting on your shoulder, stifling a burst of laughter that tickled your lungs.

"Ouch, you're one to talk."

"Double ouch, mate." You said, nudging his arm with your elbow.

Jake turned away from the horizon of the city, leaning his body on the metal railings of your balcony. Your living room was completely submerged in a lonely, comforting darkness that called for your return to its quarters. You closed your eyes and felt a warm wind roaring up in the summer night. The wind was a little stronger than the breeze in the afternoon, and the two of you could hear the tree branches rattling with the telephone poles on each street. Jake's shoulder brushed past yours, acting as your only source of warmth in the sudden drop in temperature. You were supposed to feel cold, and you could physically feel the hairs on your skin shiver, yet you found the cold comforting. You didn't mind staying like this for a little longer, mindlessly staring into the dark abyss of your apartment with your new companion.

"Anyway, what now?" Jake asked without raising his head.

What now? Let's get out of here and never look back! Fly to Ireland or whatever, since I'm sure I have enough money for two tickets, was what you wanted to say, but all that left your lips was a sigh. It would've been romantic to fly and relive your life with a stranger you've just met—in fact, it was an idealistic scenario that felt like a movie. If this ever were a film, you weren't sure about Jake as the male lead, but some parts of him taking the role made sense. He fit the cliche of an extroverted youth who surprisingly thought a lot about his life, and he had pretty features to qualify as an actor.

You raised your head from the view of your apartment, staring deep into Jake's figure. Even if the two of you were supposed to be opposites, there was a truth hidden beneath his lids that only someone like you could understand.

Jake was terribly tired of the world—and so were you.

"I don't know? Try again?" You said, breaking the comforting silence between you two. Jake snorted at a seemingly rational response, as if to tell you that the idea of trying again was ridiculous.

"If only I could get the motivation, mate."

Something in his sentence hit you like a truck. Trying again and again without a sense of direction was akin to a headless chicken running around. In a world where everything seemed planned to the dot, positivity and blind faith almost sounded like a lukewarm joke—but motivation was a different phenomenon on its own. One thing that was clear from your coincidental encounter with Jake was how your thought process worked. Jake didn't need to look at you to understand that you were still hung up on finding a specific reason for being fired out of the blue, and you were aware of Jake's pensiveness when it came to where he went wrong in his internship applications. It was painful to admit, but humans have only come this far due to a strong perseverance to move forward. It took countless falls for humans to walk as they do today, and the intense desire to walk was what pushed for the act to become a primary function of the human body. Instead of pondering at your failures, the two of you needed a reason to get up and try again.

"I have a plan." You said, eyes widening at the sudden moment of eureka. Jake looked at you, puzzled at the sudden fiery passion exuding from your figure. At this rate, he didn't need you to turn the lights to your living room on—your aura was bright enough to set the entire building on fire.

"If it's coming from a bigshot like you, then it better be worth it."

"What do you mean bigshot? You're talking to the BCom smartass who can't even get a job in the finance sector. Meanwhile, you're in STEM. You have plenty of opportunities to find employment!" You sarcastically scoffed, beckoning for him to follow you inside your apartment. He took his cooler in one swoop and tried to catch up with you, who had already reached the light switches by your foyer.

"Well, I guess I'd be the first to break the STEM myth of financial security, because I can't even get a single internship."

The moment you turned the fluorescent lights on, Jake took a good look at his unexpected friend—or acquaintance? A neighbor who he wants to drink with more often? He didn't know what to call you just yet, and who knows? Maybe he'd never have the chance to call you various labels. There was a transparent, fleeting quality about a meeting that was too good to be true—almost as if seeing you at the balcony next to his was just a dream he'd one day wake up from. Even under the artificial, bright lights of your apartment, you had an ephemeral, fragile glow around you—one that mimicked a saint coming down from heaven to pass judgment on earth.

"Let's go on a race, Jake." You said so naturally and smoothly. The clarity of your pupils made his heart thump, striking a right note within him. It wasn't too demanding or forceful—it was just the right amount of inviting that swelled his heart with the intensity of emotions as a young adult.

"A race?"

"Like, who can get a job first or who can secure an internship first. The details don't matter, but healthy competition is sure to keep us back on track, right?" You explained. Taking a few steps back, you shut the glass doors to your balcony, hearing a loud thud that echoed across the vast walls of your living room. Checking to see if the lock was working, you then pulled the curtains in one, quick motion, covering the romantic, high-rise view.

"I don't really work well under pressure, mate."

"So do I, but one thing university has taught me is that deadlines give me the push I need to go through with something. If this race can serve as that push to get us back on track, then we're bound to find success one way or another."

You spoke haltingly, but each word you uttered became more incredible than the last. Initially, he was skeptical of your sudden proposal. If both of you were failures in the eyes of society, what's to say that another try would land you in the same spot you're currently in right now? Then again, the reason Jake had managed to maintain his high academic standing was owing to the threat of expulsion. If he didn't study, he would fail and get kicked out of school—it was as simple as that. In a sense, him being good at studying was always a result of a looming consequence that he didn't want to go through. If he were terrible at school, then he would get expelled—ergo, he would lose all his chances. By having something like a race to kickstart his productivity, he could see himself trying a little bit harder than usual.

"So, if the end goal isn't a job, then what is it?"

"There is no clear end goal, but it's kind of like a situation where we constantly one-up each other." You paused, leaning your body on the kitchen counter. "Say, if you successfully become an intern, then I have to one-up that by securing a job. Then, you have to secure yourself a job, and then I'd have to work hard for a promotion. Kind of like that."

"What's the point if there's no winner in this "race"?" Jake asked. He shoved his hands in the pockets of his cargo shorts, fidgeting with his smartphone.

"I haven't thought that far yet, but the winner to me is someone who's reached a level of peak adulting, if you catch my drift. Like, You don't have to have a family, but you should be financially secure enough to call for early retirement, or have enough money to buy your own property."

Jake had been standing in the space between your sofa and the kitchen, keeping his hands glued to his pockets. His eyes were focused on nothing in particular, but at the same time, they were staring right into yours—as if he were searching for a treasured item he'd lost long, long ago. You moved from the kitchen counter to brush past his shoulder, inviting him to sit next to you on the sofa. He took his cooler with him and tapped on its lid, as if to ask if you wanted another beer. You shook your head and fished for the remote—which was hiding under the massive pile of cushions that occupied your large sofa. He took one of them and gave it a tight hug, burying his head on its soft surface.

"Yikes…. That's gonna be one long ride with you then, huh?" He muttered through the pillow on his face. You took a smaller cushion and threw it in his direction, marveling at his over-reaction. He returned the pillow and yelled "balls out," prompting you to catch it before it fell out of your reach.

"It all depends on our motivation, I suppose. I mean, who knows? You could join a huge tech company and gain enough more than what I'd make in five years." You said, using the pillow he passed to you as a headrest. Heaving a sigh, you raised your head to the white ceiling, painting an image of Jake as a successful engineer. It was a possible outcome—one that you should be happy for if he ever reaches that level of success. However, there was a throbbing pain in your chest that increased with each lapsing image of Jake's foreseen success. Unlike you, he had more options to explore; he just didn't search far and wide enough, only limiting himself to whatever he studied in university. Contrary to being in finance and accounting, engineering had a diverse and readily available job market. In theory, it was never too late for Jake to find something to do to earn money.

To think that some fields have a higher demand than others was unfair to you, but there was nothing you could do. Engineers were more valuable than investment bankers or hedge fund managers. To top it all off, their line of work was more honest than yours will ever be. Maybe you should have been better at the right kind of math, or perhaps you should have gained more interest in the physics classes you slept through during high school.

In the end, however, there was nothing you could do to change the outcome of your current life. Even if you had the option to restart at a certain checkpoint in your life, everything would always be the same. It didn't matter if you ended up taking the path of law, architecture, medicine, or computer science—unlike Jake, you were never meant to succeed no matter how hard you tried.

You bit your lips, feeling a drop of sweat trickle down your temple to your jaw. Jake held your remote, rapidly skimming through each channel until he found a rerun of a football match.

"Watch me gain a net worth higher than Elon Musk's tomorrow." He said absentmindedly, eyes focused on each player's movements. You could tell he was trying his best to hold back, poorly managing his attention between the large flatscreen and your conversation.

"In your dreams, fucko." You replied without any malice. He took another cushion from your sofa and attempted to kick it in your direction. You picked the pillow up from the floor and served it like a volleyball, watching as it landed right on his cheek.

"Wow, we're not that close, you finance shill." He said. You expected him to follow with a "just kidding" or "gotcha," but he simply kept his eyes on the game, biting the tip of his thumb as each second passed by. There was no reason for you to feel hurt—after all, the two of you had just met today. You weren't a figure to remember in the routine-like hallway "hellos" and "goodbyes," and from this point, all you were to him was a noise complaint collector and a neighbor he had no clue existed.

"I'm in, though, if that's what you're wondering right now," Jake said as if he read your mind. The corners of his face lit up with a smile, and he took the remote to turn the game off. You returned his smile tenfold, feeling your cheeks rise up to fold your eyelids into crescent moons.

A sudden buzz disrupted the short period of camaraderie you shared with Jake, and a wave of pure shock overwhelmed your face. Before you knew it, time had significantly passed and changed the date etched on your phone. You showed your phone to Jake, prompting the same expression to appear on his face. You didn't know whether to laugh or cry with joy; you've forgotten how good it felt to have a companion you could talk to for hours on end. Sure, you did have your small circle of friends to talk to, but most of them were already too busy with their own lives that you were always left with your own accord. It was moments like these where you grow to realize the need for human interaction and empathetical connections—in a sense, nobody can survive alone, regardless of how much they've convinced themselves that they could.

"See you tomorrow? Or later, I guess?" Jake said as soon as he reached your foyer. He wanted to tell you he was extremely grateful for your existence, and that he wished he could stay longer, but nothing came out of his mouth save for a small smile. The same bittersweetness was returned in your gaze, and he took note of your expressive nature. Perhaps one day in the future, he can openly make fun of you for not being as aloof as you thought you were.

"Nah, only see me when you have news about your internship." You replied, slowly pushing him out of your door. You tucked his cooler between your arms, closing the door to your apartment shut.

"Ouch. You could at least have me over for dinner or something." He said nonchalantly. "We're neighbors, after all."

In the silent, dimly-lit hallway of your floor, you plopped his cooler down to kick it in his direction. You held the feeling in your heart; the urge to convince him to stay dying out for the simple reason that you had absolutely nothing in your fridge or your pantry. Plus, there was all the time in the world. It would be easier to talk to Jake from now on, and there were many mornings, afternoons, or nights that the two of you could use to share another beer while eating a home-cooked meal.

"Jake, I just got fired, remember? I don't think I have the money for takeout or groceries." You said, leaning your back on the door frame. Jake lifted his nose in annoyance, as if he forgot that the two of you were in a slump.

"I would say I could treat you, but I have nothing left in my allowance right now. Gotta wait 'til the end of the month until I have money again."

"Imagine having an allowance." You said while rolling your eyes.

The hallway's silence engulfed the two of you in a dreamlike state. A shared, peaceful moment where breathing was enough. Never in your life had you thought this measly, somewhat worn-down apartment hallway would become a place you'd want to be in forever. For you and Jake, the hallway symbolized a terminal in and out of society—for him, it was the space between the sanctuary of his apartment and the cold reality of university. For you, it was akin to a train station you'd pass to connect one remotely different world to another. Right now, however, when both of you had nowhere to go and nothing to do, it was the perfect purgatory to kill time and forget about adulthood. Here, there was no looming future or a past to think about—it was the present in its purest, finest form.

"Anyway, I guess it's time for me to write those emails and polish my cover letters." You said, disrupting the bubble of safety that the two of you shared. Reality is wonderful in many ways, and eventually, you'll have to come out of this dejection to move forward.

"Jesus, you're already starting?" Jake exclaimed, dumbfounded at your productivity.

"What? I'm taking this seriously!" You replied, turning around to head back to your apartment. Giving him a slight wave without looking back, you unbolted the lock and left the door ajar, loosely hanging your body on the curved, metallic door handles.

"Man, I could go for another beer."

"Learn how to drink alone." You said, jutting your chin towards his cooler.

"Whatever."

"Anyway, see you." With that, you flashed him a wide smile, gently closing your door afterward.

Jake took a step towards your door before it completely shut. Once he heard your lock click, he stepped back with a sigh, hitting his back against his door frame. Taking a deep breath, he dragged his cooler next to him, longingly admiring your door. It was the exact same design as his, and there was nothing to look at apart from the wooden, lacquered finish and the shiny luster of the steer handles, but he caught himself staring. Right now, your door was the only thing he saw, and he took the last can of beer in his cooler, raising it as high as he could before taking it to his lips.

ii. no plans to make plans.

Where do I start?

Jake was back where he started two weeks ago, watching his laptop overheat with a hundred tabs of job listings open for the world to see. However, instead of spending another week in his cramped, messy room, he forced himself to bring his laptop and charger to the kitchen counter. Pillows and blankets strewn across his bedroom floor were now thrown over his sofa—which wasn't as grand or comfortable as yours. Even if he was essentially repeating the same process of mass applying, checking emails, and receiving calls, there was a stark difference in the change of scenery. For one, being in an open space made everything feel less arduous and suffocating, as if the sun's rays directly gave him energy in a human rendition of photosynthesis. When the breeze from the sea started to blow into the city in the afternoons, he would take an extension cord and do his work in his veranda. Sometimes, he'd see your shadow pacing back and forth in your living room. You would either be holding a phone or your laptop, keeping the same anxious, rapid pacing. He'd often pretend you were on your veranda instead, which further stimulated his productivity.

When another three days or so of application rejection came crashing down his ego, he reached out to you while swallowing his pride. After all, you looked like the type of person who attended every networking opportunity or career-related seminar that your school would host. In hindsight, he knew he should have participated in those seminars and relied on his university's resources, but upon hearing your complaints about how useless they were, he heaved a sigh of relief and continued spamming his resume to the hundreds of listings on his laptop.

How do I start?

"Maybe stop searching within your major or focus area," You said one time when he met you again at your balcony. "I don't really know much about engineering, but I'm sure there are more applications to what you're doing at school—like, I don't know? Environmental engineering? Physics shit? Software or industry-related experiences?"

To his surprise, there were many fields and sub-fields within his program that he ignored because he focused too much on his area of study. Sure, he'd prefer an internship that had something to do with what he was studying, but desperate times call for desperate measures. In the myriad of tabs and bookmarks he'd amassed from recruitment sites like Indeed, Glassdoor, LinkedIn, and SEEK, he had compiled an endless list of opportunities—all of which were remotely connected to his major. There was one on medical technology, another on assurance, and opportunity to work for renewable energy sources. While avoiding the companies and organizations he had already applied for, he repeated the same process of mass sending his resume and slightly tweaking each cover letter. Of course, he learned to swallow his pride and call you for advice after getting another barrage of internship rejections.

"The thing about cover letters is that you really want to stand out."

The two of you were in your usual balcony setting, facing each other while staying within your own rooms. You made slight renovations to your apartment a year before, and one of the useful modifications you asked for was to have an outlet bolted in somewhere. You ended up doing most of your work indoors, but you supposed you'd finally put the outlet to good use by forcing yourself to meet Jake in your respective balconies.

"And how do I do that?"

"It really depends on your perspective." You continued, searching for the email from your career mentors and marketing acquaintances. "Employers have to look at, like, billions of resumes, so they want something unique."

"Nothing about me is unique, though," Jake said, resting his elbows on a rickety, plastic table.

"Nobody's the same, but nobody's any different either. As I said, it's a matter of perspective." You replied while working on your own set of cover letters. "For example, I've lived abroad for a year through an exchange program I did in China, so I wrote that in and tweaked a few words here and there to make me look more "global," if that makes sense."

"Why do Australian companies care about me being "global" when I'm just gonna work here for the rest of my life?" Jake asked, taking the time to curl his fingers into air quotes. You kept a smile to yourself and continued working on polishing your resume. Now, air quotes would always remind you of Jake no matter how hard you tried to distance the two.

"The goal for many companies is to break the global market, so like it or not, you're gonna have to have something remotely international in your resume and cover letter." You replied, leaning your head to your seat to bathe in the warm summer sun. Closing your eyes, you listened to Jake's frustrated grunts, picturing him fidgeting with his keyboard or furrowing his brows at the word global.

"Hmm,"

Jake technically considered himself a Korean-Australian, but because he's spent too much time out of South Korea, he didn't strongly identify with the country's cultural identity anymore. His thoughts and speech were all in English, and he struggled to read Hangul. Even if he could advertise being bilingual, his inability to speak the language in a professional setting hampered down all the opportunities to exploit whatever multiculturalism he had left in him. He was more of a unilingual person than a proud Korean national at this rate. The only people who used Korean in his life were his parents, brother, and some of his Korean friends—although the last group of people only spoke it to hide whatever taboo topic they could not discuss in English.

"I'm checking your LinkedIn right now, and you've listed yourself as Jaeyun Sim. But on your resume, you just wrote your name as Jake. Are you a dual citizen or a Korean-Australian?" You asked. So far, the only thing admirable about Jake's LinkedIn profile—and to a greater extent, his resume—was the quality of his portrait photo. While you took yours at the Australian embassy's photo booth, Jake's picture looked as if he hired a photographer to take employable shots of himself in the backdrop of his university's campus grounds. He was probably lucky enough to know the right crowd—ergo, the type of people who pretentiously brought their mirrorless camera everywhere they went, proclaiming themselves as a "social media photographer," when their photos only look good because they have pretty people in high quality.

Nevertheless, the photo completely drew you in, and you found yourself tilting your laptop against his direction, using your trackpad to zoom in on his face. You've felt like you've seen his smile countless times since meeting him, but to have the exact moment of bliss frozen and captured in an eternal frame evoked a feeling of enchanting bewitchment within you. It wasn't to say you found his features handsome; it was, in your part, more so what his smile conveyed. The more you stared at it, the more your lips began to curl upwards, mimicking the photo etched on your laptop screen. It was the type of smile that was so fascinating you couldn't help but become infected with its radiance.

Any employer should be tempted to hire a smile like this in an instant, you thought. When he obliviously asked why you were smiling, you shrugged him off and boasted about a non-existent job offer.

Feeling Jake's puzzled eyes linger in your hunched, smiling form, you cleared your throat and shut your laptop. You weren't able to count how long you've been dozing off, but the bewilderment in Jake's furrowed brows gave you a good guess that you spent approximately five or so minutes staring at his LinkedIn picture.

"So, as you were saying," He continued, gently pushing his laptop to the side to have a better look at your face. "I emphasize and exploit me being Korean to appeal to employers? Correct?" Jake said bluntly. You heaved a sigh and took a bottle of water from your cooler, dousing your dried lips with a little bit of moisture.

The sun was scorching hot on that particular day. He knew he should have resigned inside or spent the entire day in your apartment, but being too close to you meant throwing pillows at each other while drinking copious amounts of beer. You probably shared the same train of thought like him, which was why you did your best to endure the searing rays that turned every metallic object nearby into a frying pan. From time to time, he could see your sweat dampen your shirt, darkening its initial color into an unrecognizable hue. You also excused yourself multiple times to go back inside your living room to cool down or change your clothes—something he also did after hours of persevering through a sweat-drenched tank top.

"For starters, you can start with marketing your dual citizenship—like, because you're a Korean living in Australia, you have enough experience to communicate between two different cultures or whatever." You said after a long, drawn-out hum. Your voice had the right timber, neither extensively textured nor flat. It was a hum that immediately allowed him to visualize you in reflective thought, hunched over with your knuckles to your chin. Sometimes, you would start to blink excessively, pinching your nose while staring at blank space. What went through your head in these moments was something he didn't have an idea of, but seeing you focused gave him his own push to match your absorbed demeanor.

"After that?"

"I don't know? Any special traits? Being a team player, or working well with adjusting to a new environment?" You suggested.

Special traits?

In a blink of an eye, you suddenly had a box of orange juice in your hands. Taking the thin, plastic straw between your lips, Jake watched the once transparent surface of the straw slowly turn a bright, artificial orange with your delicate sips. You craned your head to the left, as if to ask him if he wanted anything. In response, he shook his head, pretending to scroll through various internship listings and workshops.

In the corner of his eyes, your cooler would always capture his vision. There wasn't anything special about it—it was just a typical cooler that anyone could find in Woolworths. Its design had a standard, trademark blue finish with a white, hard plastic lid. Yours had foldable handles on top of the lid, but the point stands the same; in the end, it was just a cooler. What made it uniquely enigmatic was how your cooler was probably the most well-stocked cooler he's ever seen. It was smaller than the mini-fridge he had in his room, but all types of beverages were crammed in its small container. You also never seemed to run out of drinks, housing a bottomless, infinite supply of whatever you wanted to drink at any given moment. A few days ago, when he saw you take a call in your veranda, you had a bottle of mango cordial in your right hand, taking consistently paced sips as you enthusiastically talked to the other person on the line. Today, you didn't have any beers inside, but you had some cartons of various juices and cans of ciders and seltzers.

What are my special traits?

It was much easier for Jake to direct the question back to you, who now had a can of lemon seltzer resting next to your laptop. It wouldn't do much to help your resume stand out, but if you applied for a beverage company, he had a feeling you'd be hired immediately. Consuming every other beverage but water was, in retrospect, a rare trait, and it could undoubtedly count for a cool party trick or a fun, quirky fact about yourself. Say, if you opened a conversation by saying you could blindly tell the difference between five different apple cider brands, you'd amass a good amount of attention from everyone who happened to be around. If he had the chance to visit your apartment, he'd try swapping a few of your drinks with foreign or off-brand counterparts to see if you can tell the difference.

He tried to think about all the things that made him special in a certain way. He's played the violin for the school orchestra, he's been in both football and rugby clubs throughout his school life, and he was a part of the student council in the last two years of high school. Compared to his empty resume as a university student, his life in his primary and secondary years was more fruitful.

To think about it, many children that shared the same age and social class had all the opportunities in the world either directly handed down to them or forced onto their daily lives by parents who want what's best for their children. In Jake's case, he'd say it was the former. He never felt like his parents were pressuring him to do well in school or join a diverse range of extracurriculars, but it was always at the back of his head to do whatever he could to make his parents proud. When he was a toddler, it meant behaving well in pre-school and making a sizeable amount of friends—for instance, bringing home a perfect test score or a victory from a football match guaranteed a hearty dinner with some of his favorite foods in his primary years. When he was a teenager, each accomplishment he'd add to his school record garnered a burst of joy from his mother and a satisfied nod of approval from his father. Even if he knew they wanted him to "be happy," he was always aware of a looming counter scenario where his so-called "failures" would make them lose hope in him and his future—one where he didn't excel in sports or academics, simply living a mundane life of being as average as one can be. Would his parents continue to shower him with the support he's been receiving so far? Would he continue to unconditionally receive the so-called parental love he got right now if he didn't meet their unspoken expectations?

At that moment during the hot, December summer, sitting in his veranda adjacent to yours, he had an epiphany. One that rattled to the deepest depths of his bones, turning his tanned complexion into a ghostly pallor.

Throughout his entire life, all the way back to when he spoke his first words, he had never truly done something for himself. His affinity for math and physics mostly comes from a subliminal force that his parents pushed on him at a very young age—that doing well in math and science meant doing well in life, which, in return, means he's doing well in general. Sports? It just meant he knew how to cooperate in a team, giving his parents and his family the satisfaction that he knew how to socialize and work with others. In hindsight, all of these subtle pushes towards a path of financial security and broad notions of whatever "success" meant were what his parents thought would be best for him. That was technically one way to show their love and care for him—because what parent would want to see their child fail?

However, it left more room for Jake to think about all his hobbies, acquired tastes, and virtually every single aspect of the life he's lived so far. To what extent were his preferences dictated by his parents? How much of what he liked came from his parents encouraging him to go to football practice or enroll him in private violin lessons? What part of himself was truly, in essence, himself?

Here, he returns his thoughts to you. Although he knew nothing of your private life, family background, and hobbies, one thing he could quickly tell was how independent you were. He wouldn't call it childhood neglect, but he can guess that your parents gave you enough freedom and choice to find what you want to believe in and do what you feel is best for you. There may have been a slight hand in guiding you to a particular path, but your headstrong voice and sharp, hawk-like gaze unquestionably came from the assurance that you know what you wanted for yourself. Even a pastime as small as taste-tasting all the beverages Australia had to offer was, in a sense, something uniquely yours to keep. It was an affinity you decided to build throughout the years because you've grown to love the sugary drinks that you chose. If it were him, he would probably ask for his mother's recommendation, then his father's, then his brother's, then his friends' before making a decision of his "own."

Humans were wonderful creatures who had the extraordinary capabilities to learn and adapt from their surroundings. A further evolution from this survival tactic was the curation of inspiration and creation. People learn from others; then, they adapt what they learn to create and reinterpret something new. In a sense, no human was utterly original, because originality itself was a constant process of remixes and reinventions.

For this disruptive epiphany, Jake no longer believed he was human. He can learn, but he never interpreted anything in his life on his own terms. For instance, he learned to play the violin, but he simply follows the score without making his own slight changes in his playing style. The same can go for sports, where he knows the basics of the game, but he doesn't do anything to improve the team's strategies in a new way. "Go with what you know" was always a phrase that escaped his lips whenever the situation called for it—almost like a mantra to ground himself,

"So, have you thought about any traits yet?" You asked, interrupting his train of thought. The juice box you had in your hands was now lying idly on the surface of your coffee table. A soft, mesh pencil case was placed over the presumably empty juice box to prevent you from littering.

"I can't really think of anything off the top of my head," Jake said after a long, well-thought pause.

"Well, we got something to start with, so try brainstorming from there," You suggested, nodding your head in the rhythms of your movements. When you opened your laptop again, your head followed the momentum, arching slightly backward at the sudden brightness that overwhelmed your eyes.

Most of the friends that Jake has made so far often tell him that labels were reserved and changed depending on a monthly development. Sure, he didn't hit the month mark with you, but he was the type of person who called anyone he exchanged social media accounts with a "friend." With you, however, it was a different story. Your lack of social media aside, he still had no idea what to call you? He initially talked to you as a mentor figure of sorts, but that slowly delved into an empathetic connection that was too informal for a mentorship.

Sometimes, the two of you felt like the same person. One look in each other's eyes usually conveyed your respective emotions. This was usually in your veranda, where the two of you were content with standing next to each other in silence, sipping your woes away with watered-down beer. On other occasions—usually, when he asks you for career-related advice—you felt distant. Not too far away like strangers, but not as near as he wanted you to be.

Right now, you were at that specific distance that he didn't like—neither friends nor strangers; just two people on the balcony, nothing more, nothing less.

"Thanks, I feel proud of being exactly like every Korean-Australian engineering student." Jake bitterly uttered, rolling his eyes at the wanton prospect of marketing his ethnicity.

"Hey, if you think about it that way, you're not gonna get the position," You said, standing up from your seat to prop your elbows on your balcony's railings. "As I said, it's a matter of perspective. If you try to think of it as your strength, then your mind will naturally expand and think of other aspects of yourself as an asset."

Jake stood up and followed suit, leaning as far as he could to close the burgeoning distance he felt between you two. Now, you felt like a nostalgic friend again—a warm, cozy feeling of kindness that made him feel like it was okay to exist.

"Here you are telling me you got fired for no reason, but the board was probably just scared of what you'd bring to the table or something," He said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Your mouth was agape, too stunned to say a single word. There were moments like this where Jake showed effortless kindness in his own abrupt, arbitrary way—one that didn't demand anything in return. It was almost addictive, and you found yourself holding back, gripping the railings of your balcony as tight as you could.

"Earth to Jake?" You said. "You never compliment me, so I guess this warrants a break,"

Your sudden loss of confidence and calm was hard to tell in the summer, and you masked it with your own way of expressing thanks. Even with your eyes heavily squinting at the sky, Jake took your awkward way of thanking him with a burst of laughter. Maybe you'll throw him something in your cooler—better yet, a rather pricy can of good quality seltzer that he saw when you briefly opened it to get another juice box.

"Seconded, but tell me our current scoreboard."

"Let's see,"

You took your phone from your pocket, quickly scanning through apps and emails you've received in the past week. You then checked the texts that Jake sent you on each company or internship opportunity that rejected him.

"You got rejected from three internships, and I've received two emails from employers discussing interview dates and times." You said with a smile, keeping your eyes glued to your phone. Truth be told, you couldn't see anything due to the glare from the sun's rays, but you've scanned through your emails multiple times to memorize what was usually on top of your inbox. Though, to protect his ego, you held off on mentioning two more companies that gave you a call about a potential interview and a brief tour of the company.

"Fuck you," He spat with a smile, raising his two middle fingers in the air. Perhaps this was another way of him showing his kindness to you, and you returned the gesture with a large heart over your head.

"You're welcome."

Since then, another week had passed. Jake doesn't see you as much as he would like, and small glimpses of your reflection in business casual clothing didn't suffice to the casual balcony banter that slowly became a part of your daily lives. It took him a while to process that he was already one month into his summer vacation since most of his days were spent tweaking his cover letters and answering phone calls about interviews. However, when the Facebook posts about Christmas countdowns and house decor began appearing all over social media, he decided to call you to celebrate Christmas together.

Usually, he would book a flight to Brisbane to see his family, but, he thought of staying in Kensington this time. Most of the people he knew back home were already working full-time jobs, and those that were still in school probably had a lot to talk about. As much as he wanted to see his family, he was willing to wait another year until his graduation to face them with even a minuscule amount of honor and pride. The same could be said for his high school friends back home—reunions were events he regularly attended, but in his current state, he would much rather stay in Kensington than listen to the success stories of his childhood friends.

Most of his classmates went home for the summer, and some stayed behind to study for deferred exams or escape the harsh winters of their homeland. Awkward reunions and a lack of conversations aside, he mostly stayed behind after you told him you weren't going home.

"I can't really see my mom right now, especially now that I'm unemployed." You said on the phone when he asked about Christmas. Most of the people who lose their job in movies often go back home to their families to find their footing back. Usually, he would point this out to you, but he decided to nod along with your short call. Your voice felt so far away, owing to the slow pauses you'd often take whenever you talked about your family or your hometown. He didn't pry much into it; after all, he didn't believe he had any rights to do so. As your peer, he had to keep a sizable distance that didn't tread out of his impromptu mentorship with you. As a friend, he understood that you had your own set of boundaries that shouldn't be crossed. As your neighbor, he mostly stayed quiet about the soft sniffles he'd hear from the other side of the wall.

Now, as your holiday companion, he was walking next to you at the farmers market in Leichhardt, hoisting a large, canvas tote bag filled with fruits up his shoulder.

You got a juicer as a Christmas present from one of your friends, who came by to visit you since her family lived in Sydney. She moved to the U.S. after meeting an American international student who she fell in love with, and now she's making more than enough as a young professional in Wall Street. She's tried to talk you into moving to the U.S. or Canada, since the market for finance specialists and investment bankers flourished more in the North American continent. You've thought it through for a few months, but you couldn't bring yourself to move to another country. Adjusting to a different culture or being utterly homesick wasn't an issue to you—it was more so the horrifying scenario of being unemployed in a foreign country.

On Christmas day, Jake woke up to his phone's ringtone right by his ear. He knew who the caller would be without checking the caller I.D., so he threw on a shirt from the floor and rushed to the door. As expected, it was you, carrying a massive juicer in your hands. There was a wide grin plastered on your face, even if you struggled to carry the thing with both hands.

"Can I come in?" You asked, leaning your back against his doorframe. You propped your knees up in support, resting the bottom of the juicer on your thigh. The natural thing to do here is to help you carry the useless machine to his kitchen, but it was that masochistic urge within you to deal with things yourself that prevented him from lending you a hand. If he were to help you carry it to his kitchen, it would be when you gave up and asked him for assistance.

"Is that a freebie from your new workplace?" Jake asked, stepping aside to let you in. Though, judging from your rather casual outfit, you didn't look like you came back from a job interview. Accordingly, you shook your head, dragging your legs to his kitchen.

"It's a gift from a friend." You continued between huffs. "When she asked me what I wanted from the States, I told her to find the most American home appliance ever."

The juicer was now on his spare counter, adding a touch of minimalism to his empty kitchen. When he first moved in, he didn't feel the need to fill his kitchen drawers with tools and frying pans that he would never use. The only item he needed was a pot to boil instant noodles in and a microwave to heat up takeout or frozen meals. He did buy a spatula and a Teflon pan last year to start cooking scrambled eggs. A new addition to his pathetic excuse for a kitchen was a toaster—which he decided to buy after complaining about his frozen waffles and bread going too soggy in the microwave. Now, with the juicer in the corner, he can slowly see his kitchen become a useful part of his apartment. Who knows? After a juicer, he might go for a hand mixer or an air-fryer.

For now, though, the juicer alone served its purpose of allowing Jake to envision what a kitchen should look like. Contrastingly, the juicer was currently just a huge steel block of machinery. If there were no fruits to juice, then was it even a juicer?

"I thought Americans would rather use a blender," Jake said, looking at the magnificent, strange machine that blended into his apartment.

"I guess that works too, but many people here already use blenders," You replied. "Juicers are a bit different since I haven't seen anyone I know own one—not even the person who got this for me from the States."

"My mom used to have one until she threw it out for a blender," Jake said. There was a crumpled manual attached to the side of the juicer, and he slowly peeled it off to read it.

"Yeah, well, mine didn't. We just bought juice at the supermarket." You retorted, folding your arms to your chest as you watched him read the small instruction booklet.

"That's probably why she threw it away, because she realized that children don't really care about health or sugar content," Jake added, remembering a time when his mother would make him freshly squeezed juice. In hindsight, he appreciated the effort that his mother put into making him and his brother's lunches, but as a child, he never really cared much for quality. As long as something was delicious, he was content with whatever went into his palate.

"You know what? Let's get some fruit." You said out of the blue. Jake was too stunned to speak at the moment that he just went with your impulse, following in silence as you took his hand to drag him out of your apartment complex. He didn't take a shower, nor did he have the chance to change into better clothes, but by the time his head started working, he was already inside the bus, next to your side profile. You were watching the rows of tall buildings across the street pass by, each window emitting a pretty blue light. Your eyes trailed along, hypnotized by the alluring luster of the sunlight's reflection.

By the time the two of you reached the farmers market, you were already running off to one of the fruit stalls, carrying a large canvas bag that you impulsively bought along the way.

"Jake! Over here!" You beckoned, turning back with a large grin on your face.

You gripped the canvas bag tight as the summer breeze strengthened, blowing some of your hair off your face. Bathed under the blue skies and the colors of the sun's rays, you were a picturesque scene out of a movie that Jake had watched back in high school. He couldn't remember the title, but there was one part of the film where two people without labels go to a farmers market in the U.S., spending time together for the first time without the complications of lust.

What are you, my girlfriend? He wanted to retort, but kept his mouth shut instead to jog to where you were.

Once Jake had caught up to you, you pulled at his shirt's sleeve to drag him everywhere—to your favorite stalls, the flea market section that sold weirdly intricate trinkets, and of course, the produce section that seduced your noses with fresh fruits.

Throughout the day, there were definitely times where you've lost Jake somewhere. He would always make sure to call you whenever he ended up on the other side of the market or if he was caught up with another pushy salesman's pitch, but that still didn't make your job of finding him any easier. Precious time you could've spent on browsing more fruit stalls often had to be sacrificed to look for Jake, and whenever you did manage to find him, he had a look of joy on his face that was too difficult to turn down.

"So, you're telling me you've never been to Leichhardt before?" You asked, after chasing him down to a handmade jewelry stall. Jake proudly held a bracelet wrapped in petite packaging, carefully removing the tape to reveal colorful, childlike patterns with pearls and yellow smiley faces. Taking your hand in his, he wrapped the accessory onto your wrist, admiring his purchase. He showed off his own wrist for extra measure, which was adorned with a larger rendition of the bracelet he got for you.

"Nope. I mostly stayed in Kensignton because of school." He finally responded, after you had to repeat your initial question to him. "I never took you as a person that went out a lot."

You took your arm up to the sky, using the sunset's marmalade glow to watch the white pearls turn into a shade of bright, pale orange. Jake took his bracelet and did the same, taking his phone out to take a few photos.

"I didn't, but I used to go to the farmers market with my ex a lot when I was still in uni." You casually replied, pulling your arms back down to your sides. Jake stopped in his tracks and looked at you with wide eyes—something you initially took as an insult. Did you really think I was never in a relationship? You wanted to ask, but kept your tongue locked behind your teeth, anticipating whatever was going to come out of his mouth.

"Wait, you went to USyd?"

"Yeah? Why?" You answered, taken aback by the unexpected question.

You showed him a photo of your graduation ceremony last year to back up your claim. It was your run-of-the-mill set of pictures with family, friends, and classmates wearing the classic black graduation gown above your plain dress. There was one photo of you with a smile he's never seen before, displaying the laminated diploma with your name signed by the Dean. You were standing right in front of the campus lawns, arching your head to the side. Your eyes lit up in crescents, forming curvatures with the apples of your cheeks. Jake tried to picture himself holding his diploma with a smile as bright as yours, but he shivered at the thought of seeing himself graduate.

"I should be bowing down to you or something, mate." He abruptly uttered, catching you off guard. Although you should be used to the arbitrary and swift way Jake changes conversation topics, your mind was now filled with your memories as a full-time student. Sure, a year may seem recent, but graduation felt so far away from your current self. Until now, you were an official part of the workforce in national surveys. Currently, you were back to square zero, falling under a category worse than those who aren't considered employed. To think that you would experience your first steps into adulthood along with one of your biggest fears was surreal to you, and all you could do was heave a deep sigh. The least you could do right now was to hide your woes and uncertainties from the person who sought direction in you.

You slowly took your phone back into the canvas bag, which was now filled with all kinds of vibrant fruits. The last photo that Jake looked at before giving your phone back was a photo of you and your ex, smiling happily as you played catch with your diplomas in the sky. By then, the two of you had already broken up, but it was an amicable departure with no trace of bitterness or spite.

"Says the person who's gonna graduate from UNSW," You replied a little later, making up for the lack of comedic timing by impersonating a narrator.

"Why did you move to Kensington when it's a thirty-minute bus ride to your campus?"

Jake's question shouldn't have struck a nerve in you, but it did. By now, the sun had already set halfway, embracing the entire marketplace in a velvety glow. Streaks of violet that painted the afternoon sky harmoniously blended with the neon lights that began to shine in the looming darkness of the night. You pointed towards a nearby cafe, and he followed along, carrying a paper bag of fruits and freshly baked bread in his arms.

"I was gonna move in with my ex, who went to school in the same uni as you." You started once the two of you found an open seat. Taking the menu into your hands, you called for a waiter and ordered what you usually did when visiting this cafe. Jake decided to have what you were having on a whim, mostly because he couldn't look at the menu long enough to decide on something.

"It's okay if you don't wanna talk about it," Jake replied with a small, forced smile.

"No, it's fine! It's all in the past now." You replied, frantically shaking your hands in his direction. "Anyway, we broke up after I signed the lease to the apartment I currently live in. The rent was also cheaper than the rooms I was looking at in Camperdown, so I decided to stay."

He nodded at each word, noticing how fondly you talked of your past lover. How he wasn't a bad person, how both of you had naturally fallen out of love, and how in another life, you would still choose to date him despite knowing the eventual outcome. There was no hint of romance or affection, however, and your nostalgic tales of going on dates at cafes or turning his dorm room into a mini bar sounded more like your typical college montage than an ideal relationship.

Did you come here with your ex too? In this very seat, sharing the same drink, with that big smile on your face?

By the time your drinks had arrived, Jake had been staring out the window for what felt like an hour, watching people turn into a quick blur that blended with the shadows that expanded as the sun slowly descended back down to earth. At first, you tried to alert him—tap his shoulder, call his name, or even swap your drinks to see if he'd notice. However, after five more minutes of waiting, you decided to leave him be. A part of you had a feeling that he was going to bring it up in the conversation at some point, and another started to run several simulations on what might have triggered that response.

"You know, I didn't think of you as someone who'd be in a relationship." Jake blurted out after a long pause. He kept his eyes on the window, chin rested on his palm.

"How come?"

"I don't know? You seem like the type of person to prioritize work over anything,"

You laughed bitterly, forcing yourself to look at the man in front of you. Of course, you just began getting closer to him, so a few bumps on the road was to be expected. Even then, the reality of human complexity began to baffle you—one moment, the two of you felt attached to the hip, and all of a sudden, you couldn't even talk to him without worrying about the smallest details. Perhaps this was how people worked, or you were simply doomed to have all the personal relationships in your life end in a cold flame.

"Honestly, I don't know if I should take that as a compliment or an insult." You muttered under your breath after a long, silent pause. You gave yourself the time to examine his features under the dim lights of the crowded cafe. With the way he sat right now, elbows glued to the table and gaze wandering off the mundane view of the window, you couldn't help but hold back another sigh from escaping your lips.

You really do remind me of someone,

"It could be both," Jake replied, sharply turning his head back to you.

"Both…" You repeated, nodding your head.

You took your cold coffee to your lips, pressing the liquid onto their surface out of habit before taking small sips. Jake did the same, realizing that his mug was still full. When you raised your ceramic mug to your lips, he flimsily repeated, causing both of you to laugh at each other.

And just like that, everything seemed to be alright again.

"How about you?" You asked between chuckles, carefully timing your drink so it wouldn't shoot up your nostrils.

"I think it's quite obvious,"

He put his drink down and flashed you a smile wrapped in layers of emotions. You slowly picked apart at each one, curating questions in your head based on the twitches of his cheek or the solemnity of his gaze. There was a refreshing air to him when he spoke about his previous relationships, and you nodded accordingly to each story he had to offer. Although reluctant at first, he was already an unstoppable chatterbox by the third sentence, as if he exhaled stories of endless summer flings, nights to remember, and relationships that were too short to be considered serious relationships. By the last girl, his breathing slowed into that of mild relaxation, and you understood well enough what he just went through.

Catharsis.

It was probably the exact reason why you decided to share your own previous relationship with him, despite the short time you've known him. Stories of exes between a cup of coffee should be something told after a few months of knowing each other, but with this version of Jake in front of you, you felt that you could share everything and forget about it the next day. Judging by the lightheartedness of his tone throughout his own lists of past lovers, you were relieved to know that he reciprocated the sentiment.

There was also a slight hint of envy in the atmosphere at your contrasting stories. Sure, yours didn't end up in a bonafide disaster like some of Jake's stories, but perhaps the amicability of it all made it even harder for you to process. There were no feelings of love and affection between you two anymore, and yet here you were, reminiscing over him like he was the best part of your life. For Jake, it was his supposed aloofness to it all. He was supposed to act like he didn't remember or cherish the drunken night-outs and temporary nature of his relationships, yet whenever he was asked about it, all the details came crashing down at once. The smell of the air, the distant sound of the sea, and the bright smiles of whoever was next to him at any given moment. There were a few hazy fragments that took more time to visualize, but everything else came in full clarity.

Was it nostalgia? I don't know.

"I don't even think I've ever been with someone for four months since leaving home," Jake said, reflecting on all the so-called relationships he'd been through. "I kept telling myself I didn't have time to commit, but when I think about it, I was probably just scared."

"Scared of?"

"Rejection? I don't know?"

"You don't wanna get dumped, so you dump them first, right?" You blurted out, then covered your mouth as a sign of apology. He gave out a small chuckle, taking his drink while slowly shuffling his seat. He nodded his head towards the window, and you gave him space to sit next to you. Once the two of you were side to side, brushing shoulders and sharing the same drink, he reached for the menu to refill your orders.

"Well, not really. It's more like I draw the line before things get too serious."

"When do things get too serious?" You asked too quickly. "You don't have to answer if you don't want to."

"Nah, it's fine." He replied, shrugging you off and giving your shoulder a light pat. "To be honest, I haven't thought about it. It just happens instinctively, when my gut tells me that I'm slowly going mad or something."

"Mad as in?"

"I start to think about her every day for no reason, or when I prioritize seeing her over my uni work or my friends. Things like that."

That's what being in love is supposed to be, dumbass, you thought, emptying your drink right before the waiter came to refill your mugs. Jake surprisingly kept his eyes off the alcoholic section of the menu, opting to order one of the cafe's cute lattes. Considering your order was a sugarless dark roast, you lightly hit his shoulder as an apology for instinctively ordering too fast. He offered you his drink, and the two of you took photos of it before clinking your mugs together. You didn't know what you were raising your glass for, but perhaps it was to recognize your camaraderie regarding hopeless romance and failing adulthood.

"Yeah, being in love is scary, isn't it?" You replied, feeling the warmth from your mug. "You start to lose track of everything around you, your judgment gets skewed, and you start to devote your all to a person that has the potential to call it quits and leave at any given moment."

"I mean, I can see how the struggle is worth it if the end goal is a wholesome, pure relationship based on hard-earned trust, but I don't really see myself going through the process to get to that sort of place."

The hums of Jake's voice resonated within you as he spoke, and you took his words to heart. Being in the middle of young adulthood and full employment definitely left both of you on a confusing, unnavigable threshold. By age, the two of you were technically considered young. Both of you had just turned twenty-two, and there were many years ahead of you to figure yourselves out. At the same time, you being out of university and Jake having to decide what to do before he officially enters the workforce adds a time limit to just how much you can continue living outside the shackles of adulthood. In a sense, you had too much time in your hands, but simultaneously, you didn't—and right now, you were feeling the dilemma in its entirety. There was all the time in the world to continue the race towards employment and a "stable" career, and yet each time idly spent together made it clear that time was running out.

"I kind of understand," You nodded, taking the mug to your lips. "Why get a boyfriend when I can have all the benefits and not get hurt with a friend, right?"

You gazed at the window, taking another sip of your bitter beverage. Feeling the weight of Jake's head on your shoulder, you took your hands to ruffle his hair, rubbing gentle circles on his temple. The sun was no longer present, and just like that, the night came with the vivacity and vibrance of the city. Both of you knew that in some part of your souls, you were using each other to fill a certain emptiness. Whether it was a lack of love or direction in life didn't matter so long as the effects were the same.

"Never thought I'd agree with you on stuff like this," Jake muttered under his breath. You leaned your head on the crown of his head, softly chuckling in response.

"Well, this is coming from someone who prioritizes my career over anything else,"

"True."

Deja vu had rushed into your system as you felt Jake's head hit your chin in a state of panic. He was juggling his phone between his hands to turn the blaring ringtone off, which turned heads in the entire cafe. Jake rapidly bowed his head as an apology, excusing himself to rush out the door. He then waved at your reflection in the glass window, turning back to finally pick up the phone.

"Hello?" Jake greeted his unknown caller, slowly lifting his phone right next to his year. He watched your reflection as you waved and ducked your head into your own phone, casually scrolling through whatever you missed. Through the corner of his eyes, he saw you gather the canvas bags of fruits and several groceries upright, leaning them on the seat's frame so they don't topple over.

"Jake! I haven't talked to you in a while! Is now a good time?" A familiar voice replied on the other end of the line.

"Ah, Prof Lewis! Long time no talk!"

How did you get my number? Jake thought. As far as he could remember, he only gave his professor his school email during his voluntary apprenticeship.

"I sent you an email a week ago, but I didn't get a reply, so I thought I'd call you." The professor's voice was slower and heavier than usual—perhaps it was the signal? Or maybe it was about his poor job as an assistant. Whatever it was, Jake held his breath in silence, heightening his senses to hear what the professor had to say.

Amidst the cacophony of the bustling city and the tourists who trotted around Leichhardt, all he could hear was his breathing and the shuffling of papers on the other end of the line.

"It's about your independent research and the thesis you wrote," The professor spoke after a long pause filled with the sound of rustling paper. "I was reading through it since your supervisor asked me for my input."

Shit.

Professor Lewis was one of the stricter markers he's encountered in university. Although he wasn't unreasonable by any means, he was notorious for giving out exams that tested his students' critical thinking rather than their memorization skills. He was the type of professor who often emphasized real-life situations and case studies in his lectures, adapting his stories into an exam about fluid mechanics or machine kinematics. Whenever he—not his T.A. team—personally called his students, it either meant they flunked his assignments or had an opportunity to work under him.

"Jake," Professor Lewis' voice started with a deep sigh. Upon hearing his name, Jake held his breath even more, anticipating the worst. In his defense, he did devote his all to his thesis—after all, academics were his only saving grace. If he lost all the opportunity to gain internship experience or work co-op jobs, then he had to have something commendable in his resume to prove that he was something with the theoretical skills and knowledge for his career path.

"You're one of the few students who have amazed me since you've attended my fluid mechanics class. You've blown me away again with this thesis, and I really think you should consider going into research."

One thing that Jake couldn't comprehend about Professor Lewis was his monotonous voice. He couldn't tell if his professor was serious, sarcastic, or downright cruel. By this point, Jake felt his head go dizzy with a barrage of emotions that swelled in his chest. Should he be happy that one of the toughest professors enjoyed reading his thesis? Or should he be nervous and scared at the prospect of taking his first step into adulthood? What if all of this was a joke? No matter how much Jake wanted to reply, all he could muster was a silent breath of awe.

"I've already worked with you before, when you helped me out with my own research. So if you need a referral letter for grad school, just come to me and we can work things out." The professor calmly said.

"I'm also looking for a research assistant again—this time, it's on electron flow in 3D materials. This position is also a paid opportunity, since we're working with other schools across the world."

"Of course, I'll give you some time to think about it, but—"

"When do I start?" Jake interrupted, failing to contain his excitement. It was easy to tell how difficult he was finding it to accept that all of this was really happening.

"Great! You're supposed to start after you graduate, so that's around March. You have two months to prep yourself, so I'll send some research papers and articles you can read in your free time." The Professor added.

"If you're interested in making money on the side, I can also get you a teaching assistant position in one of my classes."

"Thank you so much, Prof Lewis. I won't disappoint you,"

The call was over as soon as it had started. Jake rushed to you with a wide grin on his face, taking your shoulders inside his arms. Everything was happening too fast, so you didn't have enough time to react. Instead of pushing him away, you joined him in his own little celebration, slowly taking your arms to his shoulder blades and giving each wing a gentle pat. Jake was naturally warm, but there was something special to the temperature he exuded. The coziness you felt from his embrace was too infectious, and you found yourself cheering with him despite not knowing what to celebrate in the first place.

"What's up? Your mom?" You asked under your breath. You felt him shake his head on your shoulder, giving you a chance to let go.

"Nope, even better." He replied with a smile.

"Your ex who wants to get back with you?"

"Guess again,"

"That girl who ghosted you some time ago, who now wants to talk again?" You chuckled. When the waiter came with the bill, Jake stopped your hand and took his credit card out, giving you a sly wink. Despite your inner protests, you knew that there was nothing that could stop Jake in his current state, so you shrugged your shoulders as a sign of forced approval.

"That's not any better than an ex, but alright."

"So, you've scored a date?"

"No, that's not what I meant!"

This girl, I swear.

Jake took his card back in his tiny wallet, startled at your seemingly childish guesses. He would have expected a career-oriented person such as yourself to find out immediately, but he held his tongue, enjoying your somewhat subtle displays of youth. Taking both the canvas bags and his own paper bag of groceries in his arms, he held the door with his feet. You did a dramatic curtsey and grabbed one of the canvas bags, telling him that you needed to help.

"What is it, then?"

"It's that prof I used to work with."

"Hydrodynamics guy?" You replied, imagining the typical image of a mad scientist. You didn't even know what the word meant, but somehow, you were able to remember the conversation where Jake mentioned it.

"Yeah, he read my thesis, and he wants me to work for him again."

The sudden news almost made you drop your canvas bag of fruits to the ground. In the knick of time, you caught a bright, red apple that glowed even in the darker areas of the city streets. You should be happy for him—after all, the reason you started this was to help him out of his slump. As the person who graduated and entered the workforce first, it was your job to mentor him and guide him. However, you didn't expect him to turn the tides this quickly. Although his term ended, his graduation ceremony was later in March. Considering the time, you'd at least expected for him to rely on you a little more until he finally held his diploma in his hands.

On the surface, you forced yourself to muster a smug, prideful smile. Deep inside the depths of your heart, however, you knew that you had nothing to do with Jake's impressive accomplishments. When people mention the haves and have nots, all you can think of is the difference between yourself and Jake. Unlike Jake, who was naturally gifted with intelligence, you had to work to get to where you were back in university. Every prize and position you've held could've slipped away from your hands if you didn't strive to maintain your standing, and each day was a struggling battle of fighting against natural talent.

"Great! You're finally catching up to me!" You said, trying your best not to stutter. You continued to watch each step you took carefully, hoping you wouldn't fall any time soon.

Like a series of blurry shots taken by a moving camera, all the colors of the city faded—images of the buildings and the telephone poles flashed through your mind in a nauseating frenzy. You saw Jake in the distant future, working his way up the research and development ladder in a laboratory somewhere in North America. The thought alone sent endless shivers down your spine, and you did your best to snap out of it, filling your head with the Jake that was right in front of you.

"Oh, I think you need to catch up to me." He replied, returning your smug tone tenfold. "This position is paid, and he asked me if I wanted to become a teaching assistant for a bit."

"Two jobs?! Jake, that's fucking insane!"

Each word of assurance that came out of your mouth boomeranged back to you, filling your chest with an immense pain that made it too difficult to breathe.

"What happened to the three job interviews?" Jake suddenly asked. You halted again, quickly catching the fallen fruits back in the bag before they fell to the ground.

"Everything's next week because we're on holiday." You replied with a small smile, hiding away the pain that stabbed you more ferociously with each second.

"Anyway, what do you say? Pub crawl?"

"Nah, I've grown past the pub crawls and night outs after leaving uni." You muttered, passing off the chance to celebrate with him. "You can go if you want, though."

Please go alone, don't mind me at all. You wanted to say, but kept your mouth shut and went along with the usual tone. Without even realizing it, your fingers instinctively pressed themselves against the bag, leaving marks on some of the fruits that were inside. Kicking scraps of rocks in the pavement that led to the bus stop, you tried to hold back the tears that were waiting to burst out of your eyes.

"What, and celebrate with some randos? I mean, that's what I'd probably do, but what am I gonna do with all these fruits?"

"I can bring it home? We're neighbors, so I can just drop it off the next day and make you some orange juice to help you recover from your hangover."

Even though you kept saying the same excuses through different sentences, repeating yourself so often that Jake saw through your facade, your tone managed to remain opaque—with no hint of melancholy in it. Jake, who believed himself to be an observant fellow, can't even seem to notice that each second you spent with him suffocated you.

"Why can't we just test the juicer out together?"

"What about your pub crawl?"

"I'm not really feeling it if you're not coming with me."

Disguising your distraught tears as that of joy, you hooked your arms onto his, using his shoulder as a handkerchief to wipe all your pain away. By the time the two of you had arrived in your apartment building, you took the fruits to his room and made yourselves a terrible rendition of a strawberry daiquiri. Before you knew it, you've lost count of how much vodka you put inside the juicer, hysterically laughing while watching strawberries get crushed in the cylindrical, metallic plates of the machine. Jake, too, felt the four walls around him cave in, melting into one, fine puddle. The darkness of the night seemed too still, startling him—and yet amidst the void, you seemed more sharply visible than anything in his line of sight.

Jake didn't understand it, and he didn't have the power to think anymore. The floor to his veranda was slowly merging with his feet, turning into a tunnel that led back to you. He wasn't so sure with what he saw as of now; one second, you were extremely joyful, covering his cheeks with sloppy kisses and high-pitched laughter. In another, you would cradle his arms and bury your face in his shoulder, lamenting in incomprehensible bursts of anger, bitterness, and despair. With each emotion you showed, you grew more and more transparent—almost see-through in a sense. It was as if you would disappear into thin air if Jake didn't hold you tight or feel your rapid pulse on his nimble thumbs.

"C-can I—"

In the very balcony that brought the two of you to what could've been a path of camaraderie amidst the battle called adulthood, Jake's arms felt your shape with the cool breeze of the summer night, perfectly molding each crevice of your body with his touch. His warmth resonated with yours on a cellular level, dispelling any winds that caressed your bare neck. Holding his cheeks in your palms, you allowed yourself to surrender to his moon-shaped gaze, sloppily touching his forehead with your own. The sparkle in Jake's eyes was of someone who believed in dreams—that reality can manifest into one's hands with a single push. You closed yours and grazed your lips to his nose, then to his cheek, and then to his soft lips, hiding the terribly painful gleam with the sweetness of your tongue.

And so, fate had decided that Jake no longer needed you anymore.

iii. elephant in the room

"So, tell me about yourself,"

You heard the door close. In front of you were two suited men—one that looked fresh off the boat, and the other, who was probably a veteran hiring manager for at least a decade. There was an unearthly disquietude that loomed in the entire room, making the blazer you donned feel heavier than it already is. You've been through many practice interviews, and you've already memorized the patterns of the questions that were going to be thrown in your direction. Adding to that, you've recited all the "curveball" questions to your memory, crafting several idealistic responses to each and every one of them.

And yet, despite how much preparation you've done over the years, the first half of an interview always had the same, foreboding atmosphere that holds a firm, suffocating grip on your neck. In an instant, your mind goes blank, failing to recall all of the training and preparation you went through. Despite the rush of blood to your head, you mustered a small, gentle smile to your interviewers, folding your hands to your lap while fixing your posture. Then, you made sure to keep your eyes on the two men in front of you, recalling the importance of nonverbal first impressions.

"Well, I've been a professional finance analyst for over a year, specifically in the commercial sector. I previously worked for a large pharmaceutical company to provide business partners with investment analysis and sales strategies. Now, I'm looking to expand my experience across different industries, particularly the tech sector, which is why I am very interested in joining your company." You said, dictating every word of your story with a humble, yet confident tone.

"Pharmaceutics? That's quite rare for a young person like you," The veteran replied, flicking his pen back and forth to scribble nonsense onto a notepad.

There were industry secrets across several forums you've scoured regarding job interviews—how pretty privilege prevails for women, how the notes hiring managers to jot down are just for show, and how the questions being asked have a predictable, universal formula that is recyclable across all sectors. Using the weapon of femininity, you exuded a gentile, dainty air of sensibility, carefully timing your glances between the veteran and his timid assistant. Whenever you spoke, you made sure to widen your eyes a little, playing with the light to add sparkles to your irises. You also made use of your hands, keeping them at a level that emphasized your sentences, yet never disrupted the flow of the conversation.

"I've voluntarily worked as a finance analyst at the University Health Center for two years, which gave me the necessary experience and skill set to work in the medical finance field."

"I see," The veteran said with a hint of contempt. "Young professionals like you frankly intimidate me, because you lot are all overqualified!"

"Thank you," You replied, keeping your cheeks lifted in an inviting smile.

This HM's a fucking asshole.

When hiring managers use the term "overqualification" to reject a job applicant, it is usually out of an absurd inferiority complex. Suppose parents spend all their income on sending their children to a top-tier university without a guarantee of securing employment. What was the point of marketing the "perfect education" to produce useless overqualified children who have too many skills for a specific job? The more you wrapped your head around it, the more you realized how empty and outlandish the standards for hiring managers were. The current norm of company loyalty also made it harder for an "overqualified" person such as yourself to secure a job in your early steps into adulthood. It should be akin to common sense that people come and go, and as much freedom a company has laid off their workers; workers should also have the freedom to take a leave or find better pay when it suits their interests.

"So, why did you leave such a huge company to work with us? If I were you, I would've stayed and worked for a promotion!"

What a bitch!

Although you've anticipated a question like this to appear at some point in the interview, you were still taken aback by how it was asked rather early. Usually, questions relating to conflict or job complications came in the later phase of the interview, after the hiring manager has gathered enough information about their applicant. Nonetheless, you skimmed through the scenarios you've replayed in your head, finding the perfect solution to clear the challenge presented in front of you. In situations like these, it was extremely important to appeal your skills and expertise to the usefulness of your employer's company. It was also a crucial step in your direction to express genuine interest and intrigue with how the company's vision and mission align with your work ethic. With your thorough research on each of the companies you applied to, you eased yourself into the steel chair you were sitting on, maintaining your straight posture while brightening your smile.

"Well, your company paved the way for fintech in Australia, and I would love to be a part of the team that made financial products easier to access to the Australian population." You explained, tilting your head to the side and utilizing subtle body language to the fullest.

Hiring managers were always unreadable. They were either enthusiastic about your presence, or completely indifferent to you. From experience and the mentors you've encountered, you've understood that the attitude presented by a hiring manager during an interview did not guarantee employment or an acceptance of an application. It was the same story you've heard when your high school friends got rejected by some of the top schools in the world. Initially, they came home from their interviews gushing about how they connected with the interviewer, only to receive a deferral or a complete rejection from their "dream school."

The room was now flooded with a stuffy weight that made you lose your breath with each word. There was no use trying to read through your interviewer's face, yet you still tried, using a smile to cover up your intentions. Are they satisfied with my experience? Do they think I'm "overqualified," or is it the opposite? Should I have reduced some of my experiences in my resume? Have I done enough?

Have I done enough?

"I know that your team has started this company to help citizens become smarter with their home loans, helping millions of consumers worldwide to easily understand the complexities of finance."

The veteran tapped his pen to his desk in a predictable rhythm, each motion synchronizing with the rapid palpitations of your heart. You took some time to swallow all that was building up within your mouth cavities, hearing every gulp and swish that your body produced. His assistant gave quick glances between his laptop, you, and his superior, frantically typing the meeting minutes in the same rhythmic pattern as the veteran's pen.

"The part that spoke to me, in particular, was how this position has given me the chance to fully switch over into the fintech sector, showcasing my years of experience in data analysis and SQL."

You could've sworn there was magic within the veteran's pen, for each tap he made on the table's surface slowed time for you. Whenever you blinked, your lids would feel heavier than before, and the weight of your head was overbearing. At any rate, you anticipated your breath from stopping altogether, turning your vision into blurred dots and abstract figures of pure matter.

"Joining a fintech company like yours makes sense to me because I believe your position has given me the opportunity to combine my technical skills with my interest in finance and investing."

The veteran's pen had stopped, and time stopped with it. The small, circular wall clock in front of the desk was completely frozen, and the assistant had stopped typing on his laptop. All sound ceased to exist, .trapping you in a vacuum of nothingness. At this moment, you were heavy and light at the same time—feeling weightless yet too grounded on the cold tiles of the corporate office. You've practiced your introduction and your responses hundreds of times before, and yet your tongue was never accustomed to the tension that drifted in the spaces of the questions the hiring managers had asked you.

The veteran's mouth remained open, as if he wanted to interrupt. Instead, he put his pen down, idly staring into the crevices between your brows. There was a look of boredom on his face, which was cleverly disguised with an artificial, uncanny smile that made his lips turn in an unnatural angle. Despite the cheery, upturned structure of his cheeks, his eyes were duly impatient by your answer. Feeling the sweat trickle down your temple, you cleared your throat and allowed yourself to breathe, finding the perfectly concise way to wrap up what essentially became a show-and-tell presentation of all your superior achievements.

"Although I did say I was planning to leave medical finance, I believe that my input and prior experiences can boost your company's financial products by providing people with patient credit assistance. With this, I can confidently say that I am very excited to see how I'll be able to contribute to the firm."

"Interesting,"

You began to dig your nails inside your palm in an attempt to activate your nerves. Although you tried to suppress any form of pain or discomfort with your well-practiced smile, you dug further and further, feeling a trickle of blood gush out of your skin. Your breathing had slowly gone awry, and the veteran transformed into a person you've been trying to forget.

In an instant, the four walls of the office building melted down into the wallpaper that haunted your dreams, transporting you into an endless spiral of all the things in your life that made you afraid of continuing into adulthood. Even if there were only two people in the room that watched your every move, you sensed a hundred pairs of eyes that were currently peering right through your flesh and bones, tearing each muscle fiber apart until all that was left of you were fragmented scraps that were too broken to piece together. A high-pitched ringing started to grow louder and louder in your ear, making it difficult to hear what the veteran was trying to say. You tried to lean closer to salvage what was left of the interview, but instead, your hearing had worsened. The banging noise of the incessant ringing merged with the extremely rapid palpitations of your heart. You kept your heeled feet on the ground as much as you could, attempting to fix the sudden wobbliness that attacked your legs.

"Our country adopted a rather complex hybrid health system, and there are a good amount of people—such as expats and foreign residents—who might need the financial assistance." The assistant blurted out, resuming his inhuman typing on his laptop.

The veteran nodded along, taking his pen to his chin in pensive thought. He then took your file and flipped through your resume—just as he did when you entered the room. Adjusting his glasses, he leaned into his assistant's ear, whispering inaudible mumbles that were too soft from where you sat. The assistant nodded his head along, typing again on the keyboard while the assistant drew circles on a specific point of your resume.

"You did say that you left your previous workplace—am I right to assume that something happened? Perhaps a conflict with your boss or colleagues?"

Checkmate.

The veteran twiddled his pen while keeping his eyes on your resume, glancing back and forth between you and the sheet of A4 paper that practically defined your life. Swallowing all that was left in your mouth, you took a deep breath and rehearsed the answer you had prepared.

"Well, our department was working together to procure a logistics report on the company's new R&D project. My department head and I were arguing over the calculation of the projected budget, and this fight stretched into the day we were supposed to present our findings. Thankfully, we peer-reviewed our respective methods, and because the third parties mostly agreed with what I've calculated, we used my findings in the presentation."

The last thing you saw was the look of disappointment and disdain on the veteran's face, pictured in sharp clarity. Faint voices of the assistant's panic and the door flinging open entered your ear canals, but you were too quick to shut down, allowing your lids to close into a momentary peace. In the darkness, your head spun in an endless spiral that led to nowhere and everywhere at the same time. Flashing images of that fateful moment echoed in your head, replaying fragments that were buried deep into the back of your brain. While everything else remained patchy, you would eventually piece each fraction of the memory into a whole picture, reliving the same specific scene over and over again. You're not sure when you'll be released from the spell that locked you in, but at this point, you didn't feel like trying anymore.

You were immediately rushed to the nearby hospital, spending a few moments in the ER before going home. The assistant had stayed until you woke up, giving you his business card and signing off with a "you'll be contacted accordingly." This has been the third or fourth time you've collapsed during a job interview, and each time you recovered, you were given a sedative that amplified all the things you've tried to forget.

You could still hear the voice of your former department head bouncing back and forth throughout your whole body, calling you a bitch and more colorful insults, among other things. Your cheek still tingled and trembled from the harsh slap you received after the presentation that should have guaranteed you a promotion.

You think you're so smart, huh? Graduated from a top school with high distinctions, had internships for big companies, worked in a fucking hospital when you're not even a med major?

Who the fuck do you think you are?

I honestly wish I knew the answer to that. You thought, staring at the white ceiling of the emergency room. Sleep was coming to you again, along with the hysteric bursts of anger your former department head had subjected you to. You tried to close your eyes again, feeling the nurse's presence coming closer. Instead of counting sheep, you counted the number of insults it took for him to break you.

You didn't mean to do what? Make me look stupid in front of all our business partners and investors? Is that what you wanted to do, huh? Make yourself look like this prissy miss goody-two-shoes smartass bitch who's so special because you don't have a dick in the workplace?

Fuck. Off.

When you closed your eyes, the office came to a complete picture. It was a sunny afternoon, and you had been working for the company for eight to nine months. Although you were a new face, you had quickly climbed up the ranks for being an efficient worker who meticulously crafted every logistics report and went through all angles of a risk assessment. In a sense, you were the perfect financial analyst that any company could ask for. If you had taken mathematics, you would have been the face of what an actuary should be, over-analyzing everything from all perspectives to produce accurate, solid advice moving forward.

Picturing your former department head's face was a difficult task. No matter how hard you tried, all you could see was a dark cloud of pure matter, erasing any semblance of what a human face should look like. In some renditions, you could only see the silhouette of his body—his underbelly sticking out of his expensive, leather belt, the smell of nicotine and beer that twirled in his middle-aged breath, and the cold touch of his wedding ring as he twisted your wrist and launched his palm on your cheek.

You told them what? That you did everything right? That your boss can't even do his own fucking work and gets something as basic as statistical calculations wrong?

It was tiring, really. Arguing with yourself all the time, having all these different voices in your head replay the same scenario as you tried to convince yourself that you weren't at fault. You know you did the right thing, but if the right thing had barred you from ever succeeded a job interview, then was it truly the right thing?

Feeling all the air accumulate inside your lungs, you took in the scent of antiseptic and alcohol that filled the air. Ironically, your former workplace's headquarters had a similar, chemically-infused aroma throughout the entire building—especially when you passed by the Research and Development section. You often had to visit the labs to run through the logistics with the research team, and you also checked whatever costs and equipment they needed to ensure everything ran well. It was also your former job to gain more insight on what it took to develop a vaccine or discover a new flu pill, running the prices of chemicals and lab maintenance expenses in your head as the gas mask filled you with your own breath.

Women.

Would it have been different if you weren't a woman? If you were a man, would your former department head treat you better? Would he have praised you instead of firing you on the spot? If you kept your entire background the same but applied as a man instead, would he still lash out like that? Or would he give you backhanded compliments and watch you slowly climb the corporate ladder to success?

How much of a difference would it have made if you weren't you?

This is why I can't stand you. It could've been so easy to just shut the fuck up and let me do the talking, but no, you had to answer that one question about the process and tell the truth instead!

You can vaguely remember what had happened in the conference room. In a neatly pressed suit that you got dry-cleaned specifically for this event, you had a clipboard to your right, while a pointer to your left. When investors and business partners had asked about who calculated all the numbers to show a detailed prediction on where to take the next term's sales strategies, you quickly blurted out your own name instead of passing your work off to your boss, who desperately needed to keep his position. Unlike you, he was someone who got into the company based on his vast network and his social skills. Everything you lacked, such as naturally flawless presentation skills or innate charisma, was something he had. In turn, you were the one who had the theoretical skills necessary for your job and your department—the smarts that carried the team.

Here's my answer: you're fired.

"What the fuck?" You whispered, feeling your breath quicken again. The same nurse had rushed back to you, patting circles on your shoulders while helping you stand up from your position. On his hand was a couple of white, pristine tablets that he gently told you to drink with water. Bowing your head as thanks, you slowly took the pills onto your palm, tossing them inside your mouth in one, swift motion.

Your table's cleared, your stuff's in the trash, and you don't have a place here anymore.

Get lost.

I wish you the best in your future endeavors.

After a few more hours in the emergency room, you slipped your heels on and showed your health card to the receptionist, filling all the necessary paperwork. The hospital got back to you with a couple of blood tests and chest x-rays, showing you that your vitals were normal. The only thing that differed from your last few interviews was the recommendation of a checkup to discuss a potential detection of anemia in your system. You politely took the tests and stuffed them in your bag, waving goodbye as you wobbled out of the hospital.

When you regained enough composure to start seeing clearly again, you took small strides to the bus stop that led back to your apartment. As you walked along the jagged pavement, tears began to flow one after another. The streets, your footsteps, the eerily quiet buildings—everything seems distorted and warped. You felt your breath halt again, feeling a harsh, firm grip on your neck. The cool, summer breeze stung your eyes, and you wrapped your blazer to your shoulders to keep yourself warm.

Things that your eyes normally took in, like the city's skyline or the rows of trees and telephone poles on each block, were blurred with the watery residue of your tears. Everything came zooming in your direction, and you felt too powerless to stop it all.

It was rather pathetic to you that one man can hold so much power over your future. One man and his string of words could render you defenseless and frozen still, unable to move forward from everything that had happened. Wherever you went, no matter what company you applied to, and whoever you called for a job interview, all traced back to the one man that put a nail in the coffin of your first steps into employment.

Whenever you felt like giving up, you started to see Jake's face cheering on, encouraging you to stand up and try again. Who cares about what a dumb, fat boomer has to say? You know your worth! You heard him say right next to you, with the same, bright smile on his face as he tossed you a can of cold beer from his cooler. There was no denying that tomorrow would come, or the day after that—who knows? Maybe next week would arrive just fine, but it was so hard to keep living an endless cycle, and you were tired of feeling the same, sick feeling that muddled the depths of your soul.

You wanted it all to end, but for now, you decided it was time to go home. Seeing Jake wasn't on your list of priorities, but you just needed to be in your room. Nothing good would come out of it, and it was just another way for you to prolong your idle, still life as an unemployed citizen. The more you questioned everything, the more you flooded yourself with bigger waves of despair. Right now, you were utterly devoid of all hope in the world.

Before you could see the dim, distant glow of the bus' headlights, a nostalgic voice delicately said your name.

Jake?

You abruptly turned around and saw the person that once made you feel at home, gently waving his arms in your direction. The timber of his voice as it bounced back and forth between your ears tugged at your heartstrings, painfully tightening your chest with a wave of ease.

"Leo?" You cried out joyfully, remembering how it felt like to say his name again.

He slowly picked up his steps, dropping his backpack on the floor to give you a warm, tight hug. In one fell swoop, he lifted you off your feet, twirling you around with the hot, summer breeze. You nuzzled your head onto his neck; the two of you were past the point of awkward greetings and shyness.

"Wow," Leo said, taking your cheeks in his palms. His eyes were always so glassy, "It's been so long,"

"Yeah…" You replied, burying your head on his shoulder. It was a nice reminder to know that the crown of your head still fit perfectly by the crook of his neck.

"You got thinner, huh?" He said, hoisting you up in the air again.

"Work hasn't been the best, to be honest."

"Do you have time?" He asked, taking your cheeks in his palms. You took his sleeve and inhaled the aroma of coffee beans and vanilla that always surrounded him. What a timing, you thought to yourself.

"Yep! I was just on my way home," You replied, masking your tear-filled voice with one of pure happiness. Even if the two of you weren't together anymore, Leo always evoked a feeling of home whenever he was with you.

"Sweet. Wanna go to the usual place? For old time's sake,"

"Sure."

As the two of you walked to the cafe that witnessed your many firsts with him, you looked up at the sky, watching the sun slowly sink into the horizon. Taking a deep breath, you reminded yourself that in this world, there was no place for sadness. Not a single one.

Leo loved any place that specialized in serving drinks. Coffee shops, tea houses, pubs, bars, smoothie shops—he loved all of them equally. According to his friends on campus, he could often be seen by the nearby cafes, drinking the recommended brew of the day. He used to frequent local boba chains until they suddenly gained popularity, making him resign to another type of daytime beverage. If you wanted to find Leo, you could just look at his Instagram stories to see the label of the cup or glass he was holding. He planned to use his platform to become an influencer at some point, but he decided to do one better and switched his major from biochemistry to dietetics with a minor in journalism.

"Many people talk about food, but nobody really focuses on drinks." Leo would often say. "I say they're equally as important—like, having the wrong wine paired with steak can completely ruin the taste."

For some reason, all the men you've encountered in your life had something to do with drinks or beverages. Your father worked as a senior marketing specialist in a large coffee company, then proceeded to target eateries and other foodservice establishments in his mad rampage. Your first crush was someone you met in your part-time job at a pop-up smoothie bar. Your first boyfriend saved you from a spiked drink, then proceeded to share his cup of seltzer with you. Leo was a man who wanted to write about the wonderful world of beverages—and now, you had Jake, who used to smell like energy drinks and beer. Now, he smelled like fresh fruits owing to his newfound obsession with your juicer.

No wonder he reminded me of someone, you thought, staring at Leo. A thick menu was covering half of his face at the moment, but the uncanny resemblance almost made you fall off your seat. Looks-wise, he had nothing in common with Jake; while Jake had the features of a golden retriever, Leo's sharp and glass-like eyes resembled that of a prized cat. Perhaps this was why he always smiled; it was as if the sun itself didn't exist when he didn't.

Unlike Leo, Jake didn't need a reason to smile. His lips were always curled into a wide, inviting grin.

Even if the two of you went to different schools, his friends were aware of who you were. Through the lens of his Instagram feed, the two of you were a picture-perfect student couple who complemented each other in every single way. You had a solemn, yet graceful aura, while he was always cheerful. Your dates were always documented in the form of covertly taken videos of you and polaroid pictures—which he would share online after asking for your permission.

He was always late to your dates, mainly owing to his lousy sense of direction. He'd often miss bus stops or ride the wrong route, so as a compromise, you offered to move to where he currently lived.

This day, too, you were able to catch a glimpse of Leo's phone on Google Maps, and you offered to send him to his destination.

"It looks like it's gonna rain,"

"Nah, I think it's just gonna be the usual hot weather." You replied, taking your hand out to feel the soft patters of light rain on your palm. "Tomorrow's a different story, though."

"Isn't it funny?" Leo uttered out of the blue, but with careful thought. This was one of the many aspects of Leo that reminded you of Jake—impulsive, yet pensive at the same time.

"What is?"

"We used to be so close, and now, we're talking about the weather," He said with a smile, easing all the pains your heart had gone through.

Although it wasn't the turn of events you had predicted, you were definitely grateful for having the chance to sit and chat with Leo again. After all those years of subdued greetings and busy deadlines, you were finally able to see him again, reminiscing all the memories you've made with him so far. You knew how much he tossed and turned in his sleep, remembering the time when he kicked your chin in the morning. You were always the first to witness his unruly bedhead in the morning, and you often helped him out with lathering unhealthy amounts of styling gel to keep some strands locked in place. It was a thought that occurred to you from time to time, but maybe if the two of you were still together, then you wouldn't be worried about your former department head too much. Perhaps you would just complain to him about how you accidentally mixed in your colored clothes with your whites in the laundry machine, thus tainting your work-related dress shirts in a poor rendition of a psychedelic, tie-dye design.

As always, once the two of you had started talking to each other, there seemed to be no end to your conversation. Leo had filled you in about starting his own coffee house, specializing in Vietnamese-styled brewing techniques. He then went on to ramble about how coffee takes time and effort to craft, while you listen, carefully sipping your drink. You then filled him in with the good parts of your former job, masking the fact that you got fired with stories of your accomplishments in a relatively short time.

While you were talking, Leo stared straight into his empty, ceramic mug. An upset look was on his face, which he quickly masked by flashing you his usual grin.

"I know that face, Leo." You said, heaving a sigh. Sometimes, you forget how much you've been with him.

"You know something, right?"

"Wel…. I have a friend in J&J's HR department who kinda filled me in with the brief details." Leo replied after a long, careful pause. "I've been meaning to call you about this, but I guess I just couldn't get the courage to."

"What a small world, huh?" You said bitterly, taking a huge sip of your latte.

"Anyway, I'm really sorry to hear about what happened."

"If you're worried about your reputation in the office, please don't." He continued. "Everyone was—and still is—rooting for you. They just couldn't really say anything bec—"

"Because they'll lose their jobs, right?"

"Finishing each other's sentences as always,"

In the old days, you fell in love with Leo's ability to turn bluntness into comedy. Right now, it struck you as obnoxious. You gripped your own mug tight, dragging the cold tea to your lips. Was he always this annoying?

"Oh, another thing I've heard through the grapevine," He added.

"Yeah?"

"Are you with Jake now?"

"Jesus Christ, I can never run away from you, can I?"

"I mean, if it were any other guy, I wouldn't really ask, but," He paused, swirling his cup of coffee in his hands. "This is Jake we're talking about. He's notorious on campus for being a party animal."

"We're just neighbors, Leo." You jokingly spat, masking your shock through the white, ceramic mug that covered your mouth. "Aside from seeing him in our apartment building, we don't really talk that much."

"Kyungmin saw you holding his hand at the bus stop going to Camperdown."

"I didn't know Kyungmin lived so close,"

"And it's really not a big deal, Leo. I was just accompanying him to my campus because he had a seminar to attend there," You quickly added, keeping your chin attached to the corners of the mug.

"Look, I'm sorry if I sound very defensive right now. Truth is, I just can't wrap my head around this—I mean, whenever I think I know you so well, stuff like this happens, and then, I can't understand you." Leo said, putting his drink down to stare at the window. You did the same, mimicking his stance to avoid eye contact.

"Personally, I really think it's good that you found someone like him. Sure, he's wild and all that, but you need someone to teach you how to go out more and have fun, you know?"

"Thanks."

After you dropped Leo off at the location he wanted to go to, you ended up on the other side of town. Before you knew it, you reached the familiar roads and alleyways that greeted you every time you came home. From where the two of you were, there was a good view of your apartment building through the foliage of trees it was tactfully hiding in.

"So, you live there, right?" Leo pointed. You nodded in response, hoisting your bag up to your shoulder.

"We were gonna live there together because there were many cute cafes and bars around the area,"

Leo was just the right height, but his confident, robust disposition always made you look up at him. The more you glanced at his side profile, the more you began to see yourself in Leo's shoes. What would you do in this situation if you were Leo? You would probably open a cafe on impulse—perhaps a bar? A resto-bar! Maybe you'd even start your own juice company or travel the world to write articles on beverages.

You loved how determined and goal-oriented Leo was—in a sense, you chased after it. Despite that, however, you knew you couldn't keep up with someone like him, and that was perhaps why the two of you were never meant to be together. When you were with him all the time, you grew to hate him for how he seemed to find his own wants and purpose in life.

You were always drawn to Leo's sunny, yet serious attitude—but right now, you needed to be alone. Not even Jake's enigmatic, magnetic charm could instill any form of tranquility in your heart, and you didn't even try to explain your relationship with Jake to him. Even if you did, Leo would just shrug his shoulders in confusion, giving you the same, bright, yet dumbfounded grin that he always gave you whenever he wasn't sure of things.

"Well, bye, I guess?"

"Bye."

Deep down inside your heart, you wanted to stop him by the sleeve, look him in the eye, and ask him he still felt anything for you? Did he love you like he used to? Did he find someone new?

"Cheer up, kiddo!" He exclaimed, grabbing you by the waist and twirling your around in the middle of the park one last time. Even if your laughter bounced around in the air, the sad gleam in his eyes said otherwise.

"Yes, sir."

By the time you took the elevator to your apartment's floor, it was already evening. Everything was back to its melancholic, lonely aura, and you swayed back and forth, allowing all the weight on your shoulders to push you further into the ground. You saw Jake's silhouette waiting by your door, and he jogged to you with the same, blinding grin on his face. Just like Leo, he took you in his arms, rubbing gentle circles around your disheveled hair as you keep your arms to your sides.

"So, how did it go?"

"Fine." You replied, laughing bitterly into his chest.

"I tried out the juicer for the first time on my own, by the way," He said. You buried your head further into his chest, guessing the fruit that he decided to mess with.

"Really?"

"Yeah, I have a pitcher of cranberry juice." He said, slowly pushing you in front of him to see your face. "Thought I'd make it so you'd have something to drink when you come back."

"It's fine. I'm not that thirsty."

You gave him a soft smile, taking his nimble hands off your shoulders. After giving him two pats on his cheek, you turned around, swaying back and forth to the languid motions of your body. Before you could reach your door, Jake firmly held your hand, stopping you in your tracks. Nothing came out of his mouth, but the silence was enough for you to know what he wanted to say.

"Can I go?" You muttered under your breath, taking one step forward to your apartment's door.

"Sure?" Jake replied, as if he'd snapped out of a spell. "I mean, you're probably tired from all those interviews, right?”

He immediately let go of your wrist, standing still as he watched you wobble to your apartment. It took a lot of strength within you to hold yourself back from running into his arms and crying to your heart's content. Sure, nothing was stopping you from doing so, but that was the problem—you weren't strong or ready enough to lay yourself bare to a man like Jake.

As you reached your door, you double-locked the door, slumping your spine on the hard, wooden surface. The pain had struck you with an unforgettable intensity.

Am I losing my mind? You pondered. It was probably the side effects of the medicine and sedatives you took in the emergency room, or the lingering feeling of Jake's touch. Perhaps it was Leo's sudden visit that cast a spell on you? Or, it could be the words that kept replaying inside your head. Every time you closed your eyes, all you could hear was your former department head's voice., growing louder and louder as the silence engulfed your entire apartment. Taking your bag to your chest, you curled up in your entrance with the dirty footprints and shoes aligned on your doorstep. Once you felt safe enough, you buried your head and cried.

Feeling Jake's presence behind your door, you sunk deeper into the leathery surface of your bag, remembering all that you could from the day you got fired. You weren't crying about the specific memory, but instead, you were crying for everything that went wrong in your life.

iv. following fools

Before Jake knew it, autumn came. He had been working for Professor Lewis for two months tops, along with his side gig as a teaching assistant for a kinematics and numerical analysis course. He would often check up on you by ringing your doorbell until you would peek your head in the small gap, greeting him with a weak smile. You had grown sickly, prompting Jake to use the juicer to make instant nutrition-packed smoothies for you to gulp down in one go. As expected, all of the job interviews you’ve been to rejected your application. Some said you needed to get yourself checked, and others mentioned how they didn’t want “baggage” like you to undermine the workplace. Of course, you took all of the rejections to heart, using the time alone to think about a new road you might start treading to.

By this point, you had already forgotten your race with Jake, kicking yourself out of the competition. You haven’t applied to a single job posting since your last visit to the emergency room, and you’ve spent your days idly resting inside your apartment, either listening to mellow music, drinking fruity seltzers from your cooler, or spending the entire day within the covers of your duvet.

Having Jake with you was a little nicer than being alone, but you often had to push him away so he could focus on his own career. After all, he was already turning the tides to his failures. He went from a lost, young adult, to someone who was set on going to graduate school in the States. He had briefed you on his decision, and you listlessly listened to him ramble, often finding yourself floating between the planes of existence. Most of the time, you didn’t know where you were anymore, nor did you even bother to figure it out. Being in a worn-out state of reverie had been your default, and sometimes, you would take your cooler with you in your sleep. It didn’t matter if the cooler had frozen your head off, because, in a sense, it was all the company you had.

At some point in time, you stopped letting Jake inside your apartment. Whenever he’d ring the bell, you would pretend you were asleep. You shut all your electronics off as well, barricading yourself within the confines of your room. You never frequented your balcony as much as you used to, and all you did was waddle like a fish gasping for air beneath your heaps of pillows and bedsheets. The only thing you had in your hands was your cooler—which was now empty. The ice inside had also poured out onto your bedsheets, and you rolled yourself in the freezing, tingling sensations that your nerves felt whenever your skin touched the damp fabrics of your bedsheets.

Without Jake or your busy life, your apartment felt too big—almost like a maze. There was no way around it, and you would lose yourself in the vast spaces that one felt too cramped to contain yourself.

Whenever you did try to move a few things around for a breath of fresh air, your joints would give in, and you would end up lying down on the cold, hard floorboards. The pain and discomfort didn’t matter to you anymore, since feeling such sensations in the first place were just enough.

Despite the rather reclusive and selfish way of life you’ve adopted, Jake still had the patience to visit your door after your shift. Each time, he would ring the doorbell about eight or ten times, then he would sit by your doorframe with a beer in his hand. You didn’t need a peephole to know he was there; like everything in your current, idle life, this was a part of your routine. Without opening your door, you would turn your back against where Jake was, silently communicating that you were still alive and well. Once he was either too tired or satisfied enough to know that your presence hadn’t left him yet, he would slowly get up, press his cheek on your door, and go back to his own apartment.

Time seemed to pass by slowly and swiftly at the same time. Days and nights merged into one for you, and you found yourself sleeping at random times of the day. Sometimes, you couldn’t sleep at all. Every time you tried to close your eyes for a good night’s—or day’s—rest, all you could see and hear were the echoes of your former department head. His thick, gruff voice was whispering right next to your ear, making you relive the entire scene over and over again. The sores on your cheek would flare up each time you took your palm and heard the same smack that he had done that day. Though, with the absence of the ring, you had to hit yourself harder to feel the burning, tingling tremors that activated your senses.

On days when you couldn’t sleep, you would suddenly crash for two to three days. It was a draining pattern, but your body had slowly gotten used to the poor treatment it had been receiving so far. In one moment, sleep would come crashing down on you like a tidal wave. No matter how hard you tried to resist closing your eyes, your body would surrender to the silent lullabies that wrapped you in an infinitely deep slumber—so deep that the white noise around you disappeared into an empty, dark void. You couldn’t hear the sound of your hair rustling with each move, nor could you hear the languid, heavy breathing that escaped your nostrils.

You were too used to waking up lonely, with nothing but your empty ice cooler or your fading duvet. You’d then look through the small gaps of your thick curtains, aimlessly attempting to count how much time had passed since you closed your eyes to drift off somewhere. The most bizarre thing about all of this was how you never even planned to sleep. The process of closing your eyes was a rather painful one due to all the flashing images you would see at once before your brain would shut off and reset into a blank canvas.

Sleeping the entire day made you feel as much guilt as spending each second awake, unaware of what time it was anymore. It was almost shameful in a sense, especially when you look back to how productive you were.

If I saw myself now, I would definitely punch myself in the face, tell myself to get up, and go fix my hair, makeup, and clothes to apply for another job.

You looked back at your days as a happier, livelier person. Sometimes, you longingly stared at the veranda, vividly seeing a happier, wide awake version of you wearing summer shorts and a tank top with Jake. The two of you would do what you always did with him, which was to share an ice-cold beer from your cooler while looking at the horizon from your high-rise view. At this point, you couldn’t even tell if it was recent, or if it was a distant past. The more you dwell on it, the further those memories treaded into ancient history.

One evening, you awoke to a familiar presence next to you. The darkness that filled your room had the same effect as the infinite abyss beneath your lids, and you felt around your bedroom, trembling in the half-darkness that engulfed your sanctuary. You felt the jagged, sharp corner of a leathery object and immediately tried to grasp it. Upon realizing that it was flat, you quickly stumbled out of the comforts of your duvet, blindly fumbling for the light switch. It had been so long since you’ve properly moved your joints, that standing up for a long period of time exhausted you. It was moments like these where you realized just how much the human body could survive. Sure, you were weakened to a barely functional state, but you were still able to pull yourself together and place your feet on your cold, damp floorboards.

Just as you found the light switch, a smooth, satin-like fabric grazed through your waist, circling you in a warmth that you’ve never felt for so long. Slowly turning your head around, you saw Jake in his graduation gown. It felt like it had been so long since you’d last seen his face, so it took more time for your memories to adjust and craft his face from scratch. You started from the mop of his hair, to the line that curved onto his nose, and then to the crinkles and crevices of his lips. Fragments of your time with Jake began floating back into your head one by one, and you lamented at how something so recent felt so ancient at the same time.

After tracing his face with your hands, you blinked several times, trying to figure out if the man in front of you really was Jake. To you, Jake was a man who always smelled like beer and instant noodles, having a clumsy air of youth around him. He had a permanent smile carved onto his face, and even if he didn’t know what he was going to do with his life, there was always an innate warmth that seemed to gently wash his woes away. This was a man who was fine no matter where he’d end up. He was a man who was loved by the heavens, who guided him into being the saccharine, overbearing, yet naturally kind man that he is today. In a sense, he was summer incarnate—impulsive, but carefully optimistic.

The Jake in front of you, dressed in a black graduation gown and a suit, had a different charge of energy around him. This wasn’t the unsure, lost, yet carefree Jake that you met in his veranda. The man in front of you was someone who had finally found himself an even footing in the journey called life, and he was taking one of the first of many steps that led him into a fruitful future. His lips still curved into the bright, familiar grin you’ve grown to love, but there was a maturity to it that you couldn’t put a finger around. He seemed more subdued than he usually was—which was highly evident in his much more relaxed breathing. Instead of the spontaneous bursts of energy and impulse he often subjected himself to, his inhalations and exhalations were controlled, almost as if he had finally settled himself into a direction he was satisfied with. This Jake, to you, was one that harvested all the ripe fruits of a summery youth. Now, it was time for him to shed all his outgrown leaves and start anew, letting the past die to start another spring.

You had started talking to him around the summer, when you lost your job, and he couldn’t find one. Now, it was autumn, and he had graduated with higher distinctions. You, on the other hand, have started regressing into a state of hibernation off-season, idly passing the time until the spring would miraculously come melting your ice-cold walls.

The leathery, flat piece you managed to feel was the cover of his laminated diploma. It was just as you had pictured—it has his name written in a gothic, Victorian font, and several scribbles of his university’s dean and board of administrators. The gold and red colors of his hood stood out in the dimly-lit lighting of your room, causing you to close your eyes and look down at your feet.

“Hey,” He greeted, forming your name on his lips. You can hear his soft, subtle smile through his voice. As your eyes adjusted to the sudden brightness of your room, you noticed that some parts of Jake’s gown had been torn to pieces. He sheepishly attempted to hide the damage, curling the cloth beneath his fingers.

“Well, this is embarrassing,” You replied, looking out at your bedroom door. The details were something you would ask from him later, when you were better. For now, you were somewhat in a state of pure shock and awe at Jake’s willpower. Under the dim, yellow lights of your bedroom, you could now see the streaks of dried blood that shone with each move he made.

You’ve really outdone yourself, huh?

You groggily opened the door, beckoning for him to follow you to your balcony. The moonlight shone like fluorescent lights, reflecting the city skyline like the vivid, technicolor of television. You wrapped yourself in your duvet, letting the cotton mold into the shape of your body.

“Can I come over?” He asked, eyes tracing the path he took to get to your room.

“You’re already here, stalker.” You laughed.

Seeing Jake again under the moonlight made you lose all senses of reality. Now, the two of you were back to square one, and you fixed your slouched posture to mimic who you were before—a somewhat pompous, bitter, yet well-meaning woman who had too many goals and aspirations, but zero dreams.

To Jake, you were not in this world right now. Your eyes had lost their luster, turning cold and lifeless as you peered into him. Suddenly, all the time he’s spent with you seemed so far away. He didn’t know if climbing from his balcony to yours was a dream, but all he knew was that he was right where he started. It was here, in this very balcony, where he took his first, bold step into crafting a foreseeable future for himself, and it was also in your balcony where he finally saw how big of an influence you’ve had in his life. Maybe if he didn’t have the chance to meet you, he would still be lazily struggling through his internship applications, dragging a blank resume and a half-assed attempt to his thesis to his grave.

“Do you want something?” You asked, your voice a bit weaker than usual. He shook his head, taking a lukewarm can of beer out of his suit pocket. He reached into his back pocket and took another can of beer, letting its semi-cool surface rest on your cheek before he let you open the can.

Just then, he became aware of the heaviness in the balcony. It was as if he was sucked into the abyss that consumed you for weeks on end, slowly consuming him until he was lost in your infinite, dark void. He felt that if he stayed here beside you for too long, he would be completely erased from this plane of existence with your brooding, big gloom. From the corner of his eyes, he watched you steps slowly inch towards the metal railings, your legs gently kicking yourself to bend over and see the ground that was awaiting you.

“Shouldn’t you be with your friends and family?” You asked out of the blue. As your silhouette obscured the moonlight, Jake lunged forward to touch you, feeling as if you were going to disappear if he was too late. You felt transparent and cold to the touch, and he softly pulled you away from the railings of your balcony, gently guiding the crown of your head onto his chest.

“I told them I was tired,” He said, placing his head where he knew it belonged. “The graduation ceremony’s pretty long, you know?”

“What about the after-party?”

“I wouldn’t wanna go without you,”

You bitterly chuckled underneath his chest, slightly hitting him with all the strength you had left in you.

“You’re not missing much?”

Feeling Jake’s chin bob back and forth, you took his face in your palms, allowing yourself to take in all of his features. Even if your hands felt cold from the residue of the beer can and the autumn breeze, he took it as a kind of warmth that only you could exude,

“Drinking freshly squeezed juice or whatever you have in your cooler sounds more fun,”

“Weirdo.”

“So, what do you say? I can bring the juicer to your kitchen if you want,” He said.

You removed your hands from his cheeks, crossing your arms while pointing your feet on his mild injuries. He showed you his arms, which had sustained a rather large cut from dangerously climbing the brick, rocky linings of your apartment building. In the ensuing silence, he felt his chest compress tightly as he watched you take his scratched arm, softly tilting it from all angles to see just how much he had done to himself.

You had a blank stare, as if you didn’t understand what was currently happening. After heaving a deep breath, you stretched your weakened joints until there were at a movable level. Then, you eyed the spots of blood that added an abstract vibrance to the off-white, rocky material of the building you shared. In a swift, agile hop, you had jumped out of your balcony’s railings to grab onto the first pile of stone—then, you took another step, looking straight ahead to Jake’s veranda instead of the ground. Through the corner of your eyes, you felt Jake panic at the sight of your current self doing something as extreme as rock-climbing, but you tried to wave him off and reached for the next rock.

With a sudden level of determination swelling inside of you, you managed to make a rather stupendous effort to stretch your arm out to the rock above. Then, as you felt the weight of your body hang low, you pressed yourself against the wall, feeling its hard, textured surface tickle through your thin shirt. Without trembling, you found a footing you could work with, then hoisted yourself onto Jake’s veranda. Lifting half of your body to a level where you can kick yourself past the railings, your balance slipped from one rock to another, causing you to roll onto his tiled floor in all doors. You felt a shot of pain spread across your right palm, so you raised the unscathed one as a greeting. Despite the weather’s rather warm temperature, Jake saw swirls of white smoke escape the corner of your lips, and he quickly sprinted to his own apartment.

Frantically kicking his oxfords off to turn the lights on, he saw the blood gush through your palm—which you held high with a proud smile.

“Now we’re even, right?” You smirked, trying to mimic the former, fiery gaze you once had. You then made your way towards his refrigerator, pulling through all the drawers and sections until you found a pack of cranberries that were yet to be juiced.

He jogged to his kitchen, plugging the juicer and lifting its lid. He had to pinch himself several times to see if he was dreaming or not. Even if it was a dream, he was still ecstatic to see you alive and somewhat well.

Before you unwrapped the cranberries from its packaging, you rushed to Jake’s bathroom and scoured through every nook and cranny until you found rubbing alcohol and a pack of unused cotton.

“What about our celebration juice?” Jake asked, watching you slowly return to your former self as you tore through a box of band-aids.

“Your celebration juice, remember?” You replied, quickly returning to the kitchen counter.

Pressing the alcohol-soaked cotton ball into his injury, you watched the pristine, pure cotton turn into a maroon hue. Jake hissed at the sudden pain, and you patted his shoulder with the back of your hand. He then proceeded to do the same to you, and for a moment, the two of you were nursing each other back to where you should be.

After patching on the last piece of the band-aid on each other, the two of you quickly blended up a non-alcoholic, freshly-squeezed batch of cranberry juice that you enjoyed inside washed paper cups from his takeout. You took slow slips, weakly smiling as you tasted all the hidden flavors packed inside one, tiny berry. Who knew cranberry could taste this good, you thought to yourself while staring deeply into your cup.

“Aren’t you mad at me?” You started out of the blue. Jake had already finished his own cup of cranberry juice, and quickly went for a refill. When he came back, he gingerly shook his head and flashed you a big smile.

“What for?”

You slowly nodded, averting your gaze back to your slowly diminishing drink. You didn’t know if it was Jake or the juice that had a magical effect on you, but you strangely felt at ease—like the currents of the nightly breeze that gently swayed from Jake’s open veranda to his room. Nostalgia hit you, and you began to remember the details of the summer night you spent in his room. The two of you were getting drunk off strawberry daiquiris, and before you knew it, you woke up next to him with both your clothes scattered on the living room floor.

“I don’t know? Ignoring you for almost a month?”

“Two and a half weeks, plus four days.” Jake corrected, slyly raising his glass and taking another sip of the fruity beverage.

You placed your cup down on the tiled floor, watching the moon slowly hide beneath the murky, navy clouds of the night. Jake resisted the urge to take your hand into his, watching you from the corner of his eyes as you slowly adjusted into a more relaxed position. Now, you were lying down on his veranda’s floor, listlessly staring at the abyss that you were too used to seeing. Jake did the same, spreading his graduation gown’s hood for the two of you to use as a pillow.

“I don’t know why it was so hard to just, tell you about it, you know?” You started. He turned his head towards you, tracing your side profile with his hands as you continued to talk.

“It was just supposed to be one moment of my life, and I wholeheartedly expected myself to move on from it. I mean, it’s normal for your manager or boss to shout at you or lash out at some point—that kinda stuff comes as a part of a package we receive when we start working, if that makes sense.”

Jake nodded along, watching the curves of your face slowly morph into that of exhaustion. You were too tired of it all, and you were completely worn out.

“I say I can’t remember much of it, but it comes into full clarity every day. I see myself back in the conference room, after I had just finished my presentation. I see the faces of all the investors and business partners who were blown away by my work. In that scenario, I couldn’t possibly let my boss take the credit for something I spent sleepless nights trying to perfect, right?” You narrated the entire story like a comedy, raising your voice in annoyance and mockery towards the man that had scarred your employment life. However, underneath the layers of jokes and anger, Jake sensed your frightened self, one that hid beneath all those blankets to create a world of your own.

“I have all the necessary qualifications, so I thought it would be easy for me to find another job. But every interview I went through makes me see him in all the hiring managers that ask the same stupid question of facing conflicts in the workplace. No matter where I went, I saw his face and felt him slap me back and forth into failure. His words kept ringing in my ears, and even when I try to get back on my feet to try again, I remember his stupid face wishing me luck in my future endeavors or whatever.”

Turning yourself to face Jake, you held back the tears that began streaming out of your eyes. Your chest had tightened with each breath you took, and without hesitation, Jake gave you a soft kiss on your temple, letting your head rest on his chest. You gripped his dress shirt tight, as if doing so would transfer the immense pang of pain you felt on your chest.

“As cheesy as this sounds, you’ve been on my mind the whole time. I practiced lines and phrases by mumbling to myself, playing scenarios in my head where I was able to open the door and say, Jake, I have this thing I need help with. I tried to muster up the courage to call you. Whenever I felt that you were waiting by my door, or when you’d piss me off by ringing my doorbell so many goddamn times, I tried my best to just get out of bed and open the door—but somehow, I just couldn’t.”

You leaned your ear onto Jake’s chest, feeling each rise and fall. You then heard the consistently gentle beats of his heart, synchronizing with the calm rhythms of his breathing.

“Jesus, is that it?” Jake joked, making sure to check on your reaction to see if you were okay. You gave him one of your signature light hits, firmly patting his chest while stifling a burst of laughter.

“What? I didn’t want you to see me like this,” You retorted, curling into a ball and hiding yourself underneath Jake’s graduation gown. Slowly unwrapping you out of his long, dirtied gown, he held your face in his hands, watching your sadly cheerful face emit a radiant, ethereal glow. You leaned forward and closed the gap between you two, feeling the warmth of his lips flare throughout each vein in your body. You tasted the cranberry that remained on his tongue, smiling beneath the kiss as you crinkled your nose underneath his touch.

“I really needed you to make me laugh,” You whispered as you rubbed your eyes from all the tears that spilled out.

“So, does that mean I won this race?” Jake asked out of the blue, keeping his arms hooked onto your waist. You squirmed out of his grasp and raised two middle fingers at his face, hopping off to head out of the door.

“Don’t be too cocky, you Nobel Prize-winning motherfucker,”

“I suppose we’re doing a second round then, huh?”

You nodded, flexing the lack of muscle you had on your bicep. Before heading back inside your apartment, you waved goodbye, watching his smiling face through the gaps of his door. As you headed for your own door, you abruptly turned around upon hearing your name.

“If I wake up tomorrow, you better be right by your door, filling your cooler with all the canned drinks that Woolworths has to offer, yeah?” He teased, scrunching his nose into a wide grin. “I haven’t completed my transformation to become the Australian Spiderman yet, but if I feel like I’m gonna lose you again, you better expect me to rock climb my way into your house,”

“We’ve known each other for a short, somewhat long-ish time, and I wanna go to many different places with your or share whatever future work stories I might have. So take your time, and promise not to disappear on me, yeah?”

Tearing a portion of your shirt, you tied your hair into the exact same ponytail you had when you first met him. With a smile, you gave him another middle finger, heading straight to your door with no regrets.

Back in your room, you heaved an exhausted sigh, picking up the duvet you’d left on your balcony. You saw Jake take a breather from his veranda, and he tossed you a can of lime cordial. Raising your glass for the many more you’ll drink together, you said cheers and fuck it to the future, clinking glasses in the air and tasting the refreshing fruits of life.

v. on our own

It was early in the winter when Jake began to work under Professor Lewis full-time. While initially, he was doubtful about the direction he would take as an engineer, he had learned to discover the beauty of science, thus fully committing to continue his studies. In his university, Jake had been slowly climbing the ladder to success, earnestly working as the best assistant he could be. He would always stay after lunch breaks to talk with Professor Lewis on his new research proposals, and every off-topic deep dive into the future of Artificial Intelligence or scientific breakthroughs that can benefit the environment.

He had stopped working as a teaching assistant, but he would often stop by to see his previous students, quickly catching up with their lives or giving them occasional advice about the future. Whenever a young, impressionable adult shared the same doubts as he did in the distant past, he would tell stories of you, and how knowing the right person can definitely install motivation and push one in the right direction.

“Of course, it’s also important to recognize your own efforts and work for yourself, not for others,” Jake would always emphasize as his students gathered around him to talk about his step-by-step process into the field of engineering—especially at a relatively young age.

Although he had decided to pursue a master’s degree, he consulted with Professor Lewis for a potential deferral. When asked for a specific reason, he bluntly stated that he wanted to spend more time with you in Australia before he had to leave for the States. Adding to that, Professor Lewis’s research being nominated for the PM Prize’s for Science definitely held him back for a few more months to an entire year in Australia.

Despite the fact that it was a seemingly long process, Jake had slowly started to find more passion in his work, discovering the daily importance of his studies and how science can be used to help the world. While his focus was mainly on machine learning and robotics, he was open to knowing more about the sub-fields of what his discipline had to offer. One of the areas that piqued his interest was environmental engineering—something that Jake initially saw with scrutiny before he graduated from university. It wasn’t to say that he didn’t see the grave importance of environmental action. Rather, environmental science as a discipline was often seen as a joke in the STEM field, so he shied away from showing any form of intrigue or interest in the area.

Now, given his independence from the hierarchical toxicity of university, he finally began to delve deeper into his dreams to be an essential part of the R&D field. While you were the push that he needed to throw himself in a specific direction, it was Professor Lewis and his colleagues that truly added more insight and depth into the amount of work and effort that went into each journal article or independent research. Soon enough, he began helping other engineers with their own research as an assistant. When asked about whether he would conduct his own research or not, Jake would tell people like Professor Lewis that he needed a little more time to figure out his niche and start working up an interesting question to answer.

Other than his steady achievements, he had also built a steady network of amicably friendly colleagues who were more than willing to write him referrals to a company or a higher-level institution. In fact, it was thanks to his long relationship with Professor Lewis that he could get the opportunity to study at the University of San Diego, with a major focus on the field he’s particularly interested in. He had already been on a few business trips to the States, touring schools and seminars to familiarize himself with the country. For you, this meant Jake would come home with a bag full of tooth-rotting souvenirs that had too much sugar in a single piece.

It wasn’t to say that you weren’t busy either. Although some of the fintech companies you tried to apply for accepted your application, you decided to have a fresh, clean start and ended up using your high academic standing to make money as a private tutor. Whenever you had free time, you would work as a barista at a cozy, small cafe that Leo and his fiancé owned—though most of your income often comes from your private tutoring gigs. When you were lucky, you would usually get free meals that were paid in full by the family of your students, who were primarily wealthy business owners or foreign expats who settled in the country. Sometimes, you would help Leo curate new drink items that were bound to sell well, and the couple often paid extra for your financial inputs on sales tactics and logistics management. You still considered yourself unemployed, but you managed to get by just fine with the two jobs you juggled throughout the past few months.

On the weekends, you’ve decided to keep yourself as busy as Jake by working as an accountant at the Art Gallery of New South Wales. Compared to the arduous process of interviews that you had to go through, you were lucky enough to slip through via one of your former professor’s referral letters. Truth be told, you never really had an interest in art. To you, it was just something you couldn’t wrap your head around. If something looked beautiful, then it was art—and then, when it didn’t, it was still called art. You couldn’t comprehend how an intricate drawing of Napoleon riding a majestic horse could be in the same category as a canvas painted in black. One clearly took more time and effort than the other, and yet both were considered valuable to society.

It wasn’t until you had to write a report on the next Mucha exhibit that you began to grow an affinity for art. During your breaks, you would take the time to tour each exhibit for free, making an effort to read through the little blurbs that contextualize a piece of art. Although you’ve known many artists that were political in their goal of making art, you had never seen someone as dedicated as Alphonse Mucha. Even if politics weren’t something you greatly cared about, it was his perseverance and stubbornness that struck a chord in you.

You had initially known Mucha as the artist who made beautifully decorated posters of alcoholic beverages—such as his posters for Moet Chandon and Fox-Land Jamaican Rum. Mucha, who had been a victim of countless misfortunes, never gave up on his passion for creating. Even if he was too poor to go to art school, and even if his major client’s theater burned down in his early years as a struggling artist, he kept on pushing himself until an Austrian nobleman eventually discovered him. The latter offered to pay for his tuition at a critically-acclaimed art institute. Even then, misfortune seemed to follow him wherever he went—suffering through both world wars and was constantly persecuted for his Slavic background, he eventually succumbed to pneumonia, leaving a legacy of intricately decorative artworks to his name.

After reading through a collection of his masterworks in a single sitting, you then began to prioritize your gigs at the museum more so than Leo’s cafe or your job as a private tutor. Of course, managing three jobs definitely takes a toll on you, but the more you immerse yourself into the world of art history, the more your heartstrings tugged with a newfound passion that kept burning until you sacrificed some of your savings to begin your journey into art.

In the middle of the winter, you had taught yourself how to draw.

After earning more than enough by working double-time as a private tutor, you quit and devoted most of your time to the art museum. It was an exhilarating experience that managed to warm you up despite the cold weather. You bought three books about art—art history, basic techniques with all kinds of 2D media, and art theory. You went through them one by one, often keeping yourself up at night hunched over, mind suddenly filled with colors turning into vivid pictures that almost felt tangible enough to touch with your fingertips. You would read them everywhere—on your or Jake’s sofa, in the kitchen by the juicer, or in one of your balconies.

To have more space, you’ve impulsively sold almost all your furniture after a long talk with Jake. He had offered for you to live with him, potentially filling his extremely sparse apartment with some of your furniture. Since your lease hadn’t ended yet, you covered all the walls with newspaper and plastic, making sure each crevice had been targeted. Digging through your old newspaper and junk mail collection, you found a pile of Jake’s noise complaints—which you ended up plastering across the living room. Jake pitched in and decided to make half of your former abode his home office and laboratory, where he would tinker with a 3D printer he received from Professor Lewis as a graduation gift.

Most of your income would be spent on buying the right kind of paints, brushes, and tools that helped you ease into painting. Since you’ve never paid attention to any of your art classes prior, you heavily relied on the three books you bought, which grew tattered with every minute you started a new portrait.

Jake would often surprise you from behind after his work, watching you silently focus on mixing the right colors with each part of the picture. Sometimes, he would see you make detailed pencil sketches on a large canvas, and a part of his routine was to watch your hands repeat the same strokes to build an image that looked like it would leap through your canvas any time soon.

You poured all your earnings into fleshing out your skills, and you felt no remorse for how much material you had to waste to paint the perfect picture. It didn’t matter if you were angry, dejected, anxious, or happy—despite all your mood swings, you painted through them all.

Sometimes, you would situate your easel across the large, glass window that led to your balcony. Whenever Jake was free, you sat him down to paint still-life portraits of him, often snapping whenever he was too squeamish. In return, he would make handy little helpers for you, testing his tiny robots out to see if they could carry paintbrushes to you when you needed them. At one point, he made a sculpture using nothing but his 3D printer. On the one hand, you were in awe with the development of Artificial Intelligence, but on the other, you were somewhat taken aback by how uninspiring and simple everything had become. What was the point of going through the trial and errors of oil painting when a robot can do it well on the first try?

It was perhaps this sudden mismatch between you and Jake that drew you closer to each other. Jake had finally found the drive to do research, and you have found a hobby that can ease your heart into a tranquil state. A smoke alarm, a sentient arm, a portrait of Jake’s side profile, or an ink illustration of what you saw in your dreams—all of these were the products of the creative space that you and Jake had built together.

For a while, the two of you had lived in perfect harmony. By day, you went to your respective workplaces. By night you would sit by your easel and start a painting, while he would lock himself in his home office to work on editing and reading through Professor Lewis’ research or tinkering with app-controlled robots to mess around with you whenever he could. At heart, the two of you were just children living out the creative bliss of building a world of your own.

When it was late enough, Jake would usually be the first to call it a night, tapping you on the shoulder to eat dinner together and sleep. On the weekends, the two of you had tried to make a compromise and spent the day off—which was usually spent with you painting more portraits of Jake. When he asked why you chose him as your muse, you simply shrugged and kept your eyes on your brush, deepening the shadows below his neck.

No matter how romantic the scenario sounded, both of you knew deep down that it was a temporary fix. Perhaps that was why you cling to each other too much, spending each second off work with each other. Now that the two of you had found a certain path to take in life, it was just a matter of bidding farewell to move on to the next stage of your life. For Jake, he had already made it clear that he wanted to pursue his graduate studies in the States. You gave yourself more time to think about what country you wanted to go to, but your main concern was your budget. Unlike Jake, you didn’t have a scholarship or parental support to lean on. You were relatively independent your whole life, often taking part-time jobs throughout high school while doing your best to maintain your grades. It was the same outcome when you were a university student, where you sacrificed your leisure time at the expense of doing well in school and earning a stable income.

Now that you’ve managed to find a way to fuse your hobbies with a potential career, you decided to take up art history in the Czech Republic. The tuition was free for nationals and non-nationals who knew a good amount of Czech—plus, it was the home of Alphonse Mucha, so you decided that your next destination would be to relive your days as a student in Prague.

A couple of months had quickly passed by between you and Jake. Amidst the trial and errors of your portraits and his stable job working at his alma mater, the two of you grew a little distant. Sure, you’d crack the same jokes after coming home from work, feel your fingertips memorize each corner and crevice of your bodies, share a glass of juice or beer by the balcony—but all of that was to eventually vanish like a puff of smoke dancing in the sky.

It was towards the middle of August when you broke the news about moving to Prague. He had just come back from a business trip to Melbourne, and you had the acceptance letter set on the kitchen counter, right next to the juicer.

“When’s your flight?” He asked, using the rustling of his coat to hide the pain in his voice.

“Tomorrow night, actually.” You replied. “I’m living in a dorm, so they want me to be there a bit earlier.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Well, you’re very busy with work,”

Jake held his tongue from talking back to you. He hated it when things would escalate into a full-scale fight. Nowadays, along with the cold winds of the winter, he had fully felt the stagnant, cold air that formed between you two. Of course, the love and affection as still there, but it had become increasingly difficult to talk to each other without bringing up the sensitive topic of parting ways. Now that you were leaving, Jake took his frustrations aside and greeted you with a long, warm kiss that transparently flourished with all the complexities he was feeling.

Jake had called a day off for tomorrow, insisting that he had to take you to the airport. Fortunately, most of your art supplied had already been shipped to your dormitory, save for your sketchbook and a couple of portable watercolors you can use during your layover. For the first time in a while, the two of you were together again, reliving a distant past when your relationship was dictated by a race into employment. Taking the same bus to the farmers market, you gathered all the fruits that you could in the world, while Jake busied himself with all the ingredients to make your farewell feast. You could sense the subtle notes of pain in his eyes whenever he tried to hold your hand, as if letting go meant you would disappear from his sight forever.

Even if it didn’t seem like you reciprocated the sentiment, you, too, felt an immense pain in your chest at the thought of parting ways with Jake. The worst part about this entire ordeal is the possibility that the two of you will settle and never come back. Jake would definitely have more opportunities in the States, and you were convinced that you weren’t coming home anytime soon. Visits to each other’s countries were a rarity considering your schedules, and the vast difference in your fields also made it harder to plan a date or spend time together.

You stopped by the same cafe where Jake received a call from Professor Lewis, taking the same order and remembering as much as you could. Jake had joked about making strawberry daiquiris again, but you turned down the offer, considering the overwhelming hangover you got from that night.

As the two of you walked back home, you avoided talking about your flight or San Diego. For now, being together and spending time with just the two of you meant creating a warm, safe place where the past and the future ceased to exist. Everything was moving in the present, and time flowed in a loop that made this entire day last forever.

For Jake, however, he felt a looming premonition that evoked the same feeling as due dates and bill invoices. Ignoring it only heightened the feeling of never seeing you again.

As the night descended, the two of you combined all the fruits that you could fit into the juicer, potentially destroying it to pieces. Luckily, Jake made a few adjustments to its core before the two of you started your despicable experiment of making the best—or worst—juice in the world. It took hours to fit all the first in, and at some point, you had to take the blender and the food processor out to turn everything into a hodge-podge of slimy mush. For added flavor, you took a bottle of wine and poured half its contents inside, while Jake emptied three cans of beer and doused it all over the poor excuse of a beverage.

After a few hours, your promise of sobriety was broken, and you were extremely drunk. Right now, you were in a hypersensitive phase where a lot of things overwhelmed you to the point of shedding tears. He sat by you on the cold, tiled floor of his veranda, and you longingly gazed at the skyline, stretching your hand out as far as you could to touch the glimmering skyscrapers that blurred into phosphorescent rivers.

“Man, I’m gonna miss this place,” You muttered, slurring your words. Jake had prepared a glass of water right next to you, and he let your head land on his shoulders with a thud.

“Me too,” He replied. All of a sudden, staying in Australia or moving to San Diego didn’t make a difference anymore. He had initially wanted you to come with him to settle down and start a new life in the States, but you refused, telling him that art school was too expensive there. Even if he offered to pay for your tuition and expenses, you had firmly stood your ground, reinforcing your own so-called will in your typical fashion.

Jake had prepared for a scenario where you had stayed in Australia. Of course, he was still hellbent on pursuing his graduate studies in the States, but he was also open to the idea of staying with you and living your lives together. Sure, he had more opportunities to further his career, but there was really no point in doing all that when you weren’t there to listen to him about his thought process. In a sense, he envied how you showed your love for him.

In one fight that happened a week before, you were focused on a landscape painting of Camperdown Park, finding the right colors to replicate the tones and mood of the area. It was a sudden click of the tongue; an automatic trigger that escaped his lips.

“Why are you choosing a school so far away?”

Placing your brush down, you turned your head to look deeply into his eyes, which twitched with disbelief and pure disappointment. After watching your hands and hanging your apron to a coat rack, you leaned your body on your former kitchen counter, eyes sharp with a complexity of emotions that swirled in your irises.

“I didn’t ask you that question when you chose to go to grad school in the US.”

That was the first fight the two of you had in a long time. Although fights were, for the most part, rare between you two, those that happened tended to explode as quickly as they built up. In your case, it was how you didn’t have to be next to him all the time to prove that you loved him. Letting your voice get caught up in your throat, you didn’t hold back on all the words that stabbed his heart at once.

“I’m choosing my own path so I can return to you as a better woman—both for you and for myself!”

Looking at you know, head peacefully rested on his shoulder, he had finally learned to appreciate what you meant when you uttered those words to him.

“Think of it as a see you later instead of a farewell or a goodbye,” You’d often explain whenever Jake had the urge to bring up the complications of a long-distance relationship to you.

See you later,

In a blink of an eye, Jake was helping you weigh your luggage at the airport before check-in. He had bought you a couple of hangover pills to make sure you didn’t get airsick, and you treated him your last meal together.

Amidst the white noise of voices from all angles, all he could hear was your steady breathing in the space that you shared with him. The departure and arrival signs, flashy souvenir shops, and the rows of seats were all a blur to him, and the only thing he saw in full clarity was your nervous face. You would glance up at him from time to time, taking his hand in yours to give it a tight squeeze. Sometimes, you would rest your head on his chest, feeling the palpitations of his heart on a cellular level.

“What if I bring back a family when I see you again?” You asked out of the blue.

The two of you were now seated at one of the plane spotting areas of the airport. Tracing your fingers to patch that of the sleek, slim airplane that recently took off, you kept the corner of your eyes on Jake as he fiddled with his thumbs to find an answer.

“I honestly don’t know how I’d feel,” Jake replied after a long pause. “But, I still feel like I’ll love you the way I do now—even if you started a family somewhere.”

Nodding at his every word in satisfaction, you held back the tears that were beginning to trickle down your eyes. This could be the last time you’ll ever see Jake. Both of you were to live your new lives as adults in faraway places from here on out. Jake bit his lip in anguish, too, upon seeing the tears roll down your cheek. He took his thumb and wiped your eyes, while you took your sleeve to pat his tear ducts.

“How about me?” Jake asked, repeating the same scenario. “What if I find another girl? Sleep with other women? Won’t that be a problem for you?

“The Jake I knew wouldn’t be worried about keeping things casual,” You joked despite your cracking voice.

Checking your watch, you took your backpack and hoisted it over your shoulder, using the same sleeve to furiously dry your eyes. Jake took his arm around your shoulder, letting his nose memorize the notes of your cologne. Hand in hand, the two of you ran together until you reached the departure gate.

“I mean, in all seriousness, we’re obviously gonna need some form of release one way or another, and who am I to stop you from doing that, right? I don’t think it’s love to restrict your freedoms when I’m not physically there,”

There were already a couple of people lined up to pass the security monitors, loosening their shoelaces or removing their accessories. You started by taking off the bracelet that Jake bought for you at the farmers market, then removing the same old watch you’ve kept since high school. Stuffing both in your pocket, you beckoned for Jake to accompany you until the line was short enough for you to enter.

“Jake, listen,” You blurted, snapping your head to look at his eyes. Taking both his hands in yours, you fought back another flurry of tears with a large grin on your face, taking his hands to plant a soft, delicate kiss on both sides.

“How can I ever forget you? You’re single-handedly the most important person in my life. You’ve helped me get over a pretty big hurdle in my life, and without you, I don’t think I’d be able to be who I am right now.”

The line was getting shorter, and you swiftly pulled him down to give him one last kiss. Jake resisted the urge to lock his hands on your waist, pulling you closer at the risk of boarding late.

“Think about it this way: We’re obviously gonna meet other people in our respective countries. That’s how life is. We’ll fall in love, get our hearts broken, then rinse and repeat the cycle over and over again. All I want you to know is that despite all the people that I’ll see and meet, you’ll always be you, if that makes sense.” You said, tightly holding his cheeks on your palms.

“Like, I’m not gonna meet another Jake, because you mean too much to me.”

With two more people left on the line, you let go of Jake’s face, waving goodbye as you walked on. You began to take off your shoes on the other side of the room, putting your phone and all your variables inside a basket.

Before you could pass your body through the metal detector, your phone buzzed with an intensity that startled you. Allowing the person behind you to go first, you asked airport security if you could take this call, tiptoeing to see Jake’s face right in front of yours.

“I don’t care if you come back to me with all the accolades and prizes the world has to offer, or if you show up at my doorstep empty-handed. I won’t even care if you’ll be a mother with children or a senior citizen by then. As long as I can see you again with a proud, heartfelt smile on your face, content with what you’ve achieved so far, then that’s fine. That’s all I’ll ever want and need from you.” He said, both through the phone and to your face. After planting a quick kiss on your forehead, he tearfully gave you a heart-wrenching smile, causing all of your tears to flow down at once.

“So please, take care of yourself, yeah?”

With a nod and a wave, you placed your phone on the basket with all your things. No matter how hard you tried, you always found yourself looking back, tracing Jake’s silhouette as you passed through the metal detector.

epilogue: we just get by!

Vítejte v Praze!

It has been ten whole years since Jake had last seen you. Although the two of you would frequently call each other whenever you could, your busy schedules had prevented you from booking flights to your respective countries. Jake, in particular, had a busier schedule than you, owing to his career as a full-time research scientist specializing in machine learning at San Diego. You also kept your promise of carving out a successful career path for yourself, managing to become an art historian that traveled between Australia and Europe to either promote Aboriginal art or restore artworks that were destroyed during World War II. You also dabbled into the film industry, using your understanding of forms and shapes to create artistic, silent films that were surreal enough to confuse most of your audience. Funnily enough, your timing was always off when it comes to Jake, because by the time you'd have texted him about arriving in New York, he was already on a flight to Germany to attend a conference. Whenever you managed to catch a flight back home, you would also miss him at the airport. If Jake had arrived in Sydney, you would have already left for Europe. When you would send him photos of your old apartment building, he would reply with the hot desert sands of his new environment.

There were months—even years—when he wouldn't receive any contact from you, which often made his longing for you worse. No matter how much he tried to fill the empty, gaping void you left him, he was left unsatisfied and underwhelmed.

When he got the opportunity to go to Prague, you held off meeting him, saying that you weren't finished with your "magnum opus" yet.

"I need to be finished with this before I can see you!" You squealed on the other end of the line, failing to contain your giddy excitements. To this day, he can still remember the exact timbre and tone of your voice, wanting to share everything about this "huge" project you were working on while simultaneously keeping everything under wraps.

As such, you and Jake had made another promise to hold off from seeing each other until one or the other was genuinely proud of how far they've come. Of course, the two of you kept tabs on each of your accomplishments. When you saw Jake and his team get nominated as one of the candidates for a Nobel Prize in Physics, you took an entire video of his speech—which was inaudible due to your incessant screaming. In return, he would screenshot multiple articles where you would appear, either as a guest to an exhibit's opening night or the person being exhibited.

Sometimes, Jake would book flights to New York, admiring some of your artworks that were permanently being exhibited at MOMA or The Met. He would also watch your short films in local theaters, which he often never understood because it felt like there were no dialogue or story to follow. You didn't consider any of your projects as special, but he admired each brush stroke and lining you did, going so far as to overanalyze your works despite knowing nothing about art. You would also return the favor by forcing yourself to read through his published articles. Sure, they were incomprehensible combinations of numbers, letters, and graphs, but you nonetheless did all you could to show your support for his work.

As the years went by, the two of you had naturally started talking less. Especially in the years leading up to your late twenties, he had expected you to send him a photo of your child—perhaps even a marriage photo to show him what he missed out on with you. However, all you would do was send him a portrait of his face every year, signing it off with a ten-paged letter that gave him a small window to your life in Europe. When you turned twenty-seven, you had moved out of Prague to live in a village called Bavory, isolating yourself in a cottage with nothing but your painting supplies and poor Wi-Fi connection. You had resorted to sending Jake handwritten letters that often took months to arrive in the States, so you timed everything in advance, ensuring that your letters would arrive on the intended date.

While Jake wasn't used to the sudden shift into analog communication, he nonetheless started to return your long letters with that of his own—however, instead of writing them by hand, he bought a vintage typewriter and typed his letters back to you. There would always be a leap of joy in his heart whenever you said that you were still comfortably alone in the greeneries of a foreign village. He, too, would elaborate on how you were still the only thing on his mind, and that he was working towards furthering his career as a means to win against you in your ancient race.

To have a childish bet last for more than a decade continually showed Jake, and as he dragged his suitcase outside of the arrival gate, he checked the last handwritten letter you sent—which was two years ago. In it, you had briefed that you were finally finished with your "magnum opus," sending him an entire itinerary to follow. He smiles bitterly at the letter, watching the ink spread between the corners of the pages. Although he wasn't visiting Europe in his own free time, Jake was glad that he was able to stop by for a week—which he believed was enough to go through the itinerary you had prepared for him. In an old-fashioned style, you even drew him a detailed map of landmarks he had to pass by to get to your "magnum opus." For extra measure, Jake had crunched all the landmarks into his GPS, pinning all the destinations to his smartwatch so he would receive regular notifications on where to go.

As soon as he saw the duty-free shops that lined the entrance to the airport, there was a large, flower-wreath displayed right by a giant welcome sign written in a language he didn't speak. If you were here right now, then he definitely would've asked you to demonstrate your expertise with the Czech language, perhaps teaching him a few phrases or two to pass of as a decent tourist.

He stopped by the flower wreath, examining all the pictures of people that had fallen victim to the devastating plane crash of Qantas A380, which went missing in the North Atlantic Ocean. The first time he's seen the crash on the news, he immediately texted and called you about it. He'd spent days trying to contact you on the phone, clinging onto the hope that you miraculously made it. For the past year, it has always been his routine to take his phone and call your number despite hearing the automated voice instead of your own.

In a way where you taught Jake many things—from building his resume to pushing himself to reach further heights and gain satisfaction for his growth as a person—you also taught him how to grieve. In a sense, your death was the first one he had experienced, and to this day, he still couldn't wrap his head around it. He was still in a stunned state, where he spent a few months shutting himself inside his room. Staring into space became associated with tracing the outline of your side profile into thin air, as if you'd miraculously come back to life if he had done so.

In the second phase of his grieving period, he had surrendered to a life of work. Long gone were his so-called days of young mischief and debauchery, and he often slept within the cold cables of his lab, immersing himself in his research until everything around him started to fade away. Of course, your face lingered on in his head, and it often distracted him from his task. His colleagues had called for his temporary removal from the team, and he spent more months alone in his room. He did try to get help from the recommendations of his superiors, but all he did was fake a smile to his therapist, telling her that you were never coming back.

Some parts of him had blamed himself—what if he was more assertive? What if he had chosen to fly to the Czech Republic with you? Or, what if the two of you had communicated more, reaching a compromise to stay and settle in Australia. Such questions and scenarios often entered his headspace, giving him a picturesque future of what could've been. Would the two of you have gotten married? Started a family a twenty-seven or twenty-eight? Had your first child this year?

What happened instead was a promise that can never be fulfilled.

Then, he began to think about you. If you were to see him at his worst, when he spent days, weeks, and months doing nothing in his room, what would you have told him?

I thought you said you weren't gonna end up like me, and look at you now! Been there, done that, mate.

Even the way you died lived up to your misfortunes with the unexpected—you lost your job in the most absurdly ridiculous way, you took the biggest career turn of your life, and then, you died sinking in the middle of the ocean. What a life! He thought. Surely, if you saw him sulking in front of your picture frame, you would take endless videos of him or bully him about it.

Since the last time he'd seen you, he's met many amazing people he was proud to call his friends. He's even met many potential partners that he believes he had fallen in love with. However, every time he tried to enter a new relationship, he would always see your face, lurking in the shadows with a bright grin that cheered on him. Sometimes, he could see your silhouette under the moonlight whenever he held a woman that wasn't you. He would begin to visualize your face, often screaming your name whenever he was with someone else. He found it funny in a way—all his promiscuity and short games put to a halt by a ghost called you.

And so, despite everything, he forced himself to carry on. He knew deep down that it was what you would have wanted for him, and he was aware that moving forward was the only way for him to go.

It was currently summer in Prague, and the temperamentally warm winds wrapped Jake in tenderness as he slipped his bracelet off, hanging it right by the corner of your picture frame. To visit a place you called home without you was something he didn't think he would do soon, but he couldn't resist. After all, you did say that you were finished with your project.

Following the street lamps and rocky pavements, he ended up in front of a narrow, stone building with an oak green roof. The town around him was nothing like the empty streets of San Diego or the bustling student hub of Kensington—hell, he would even add that his hometown of Brisbane had absolutely nothing compared to the beauty that was right in front of him.

"If only you were here, right?"

He didn't know what type of architecture it was called, but he took some photos using a camera that he had bought before this trip, knowing that he was going to stop by Prague against the wishes of his colleagues. He then attempted to ring the tiny bell that was attached to the corner of the building, just as you had instructed. After fruitless attempts to find a rope, he looked up to find out that the bell itself was glued to the corner. Stifling a bout of laughter, he took another one of your ten-paged letters, skimming through the instructions you've written for him to follow.

As he went inside, he was greeted in an unfamiliar language. To his right, there were several brochures and pamphlets displayed in both Czech and English. He took the one that had your name on it, buying a ticket to follow the route of your exhibit. You had called it "14 Steps to a Better You: Self-Development and Growth in Art."

The first few pieces were once he had seen you paint in the former studio you shared. There was the painting of Kensington's skyline from your balcony, and the landscape oil painting of Camperdown Park that you had replicated into a fine, detailed image. Then, you had various pencil sketches of a man with a coffee machine, accompanied by a girl who always had her apron backward. Several action sketches seemed as though they were drawn on a whim, and Jake knelt down to read the blurbs to the pieces that caught his eye.

Then, he entered a darker room, where some of your short films had been on display. One of the films had documented your life of isolation in Bavory. It was a 35mm, still-shot of you sitting by your easel, painting whatever you saw in front of you. Sometimes, you would be seen fixing the wires to your Wi-Fi router, only to give up halfway. As he stepped closer, he took his letter out and saw that this very letter in his hands was the exact same one you were writing in the film. Once you were finished with the letter, you would go back to painting on your easel, looking out into the far open of your window.

He didn't know if you did on purpose or not, but your easel was faced away from the camera, making it impossible for the audience to see what you were painting. Considering that this was a fourteen to fifteen-hour-long self-produced documentation of your life in a rural village, some of the audience members were lucky to catch a glimpse of you switching the canvases in your easel.

After watching you sit around in your cottage, he consulted the pamphlet to check what was next. Since his eyes were too fixated on the pamphlet he held, he failed to notice that many eyes were now on him. As he looked up, he saw faces of strangers and random bystanders contort into that of shock, widening their mouths agape at the sight of him.

Compared to the last one, this room was well-lit, showing one, extremely large canvas with Jake's face depicted in various art styles and forms. Jake almost dropped his bag and whatever he held, but he managed to snap out of his daze before disturbing the peaceful quiet that engulfed the entire gallery. For a few seconds, he did his best to avoid eye contact with all the museum-goers that peered deep into his soul. Fortunately, the people in the room had begun to avert their eyes from him, going back to admiring the portraits of himself drawn by you.

Even if all of these portraits were supposed to resemble him somehow, he wasn't able to recognize the first portrait. You decided to you a smaller canvas, using harsh brush strokes to smear Jake's facial features. He wouldn't have known that this was him until he saw the details you put into drawing the neon glow of his room.

Upon checking the pamphlet, he saw that each section of the canvas was numbered from one to fourteen.

The section that was marked "one" had bright, neon colors that glowed in the dark. It was an outline of what he would have looked like in your eyes in his hay day of raves, music festivals, and nightly hangovers. Jake had tried to contain his laughter and shock, lamenting at the striking accuracy you had with interpretation. The section marked "two," which was slightly below "one," was rough, cross-hatches combined with smears of black and dark green acrylic paint. His facial features were hard to make out, but he could guess that the section represented the start of his slump—the realization that he was no longer as young as he used to be.

The ones marked "three" and "four" both had warm, sheer tones that had him drinking beer on the balcony. For "four" in particular, the beer can on his hand was replaced with a laptop and a box of orange juice. He stepped closer to examine the details of the enormous painting, praising you for having such a keen eye for the smallest things.

"Five" had a portrait of him carrying a canvas tote bag of fruits with the pearl bracelet he had just placed in the airport memorial. An intense ache began to throb throughout his chest, tightening it as he stepped back to view the painting in its entirety. He tried to control the warm, hot tears that began to roll down his cheek, and he took his sleeve to dab his cheek and eyelids until his entire face was dry.

"Six" and "seven" were him in his graduation gown. The former had his portrait phot from the yearbook replicated in a hyperrealistic style via colored pencils, and "seven" had the injury he sustained from taking the risk to climb over to your balcony. Rolling his sleeves up, he heaved a nostalgic sigh upon seeing the faded remnants of perhaps one of the biggest risks he's taken in his life.

"Eight," "nine," and "ten" were artistic renditions of him in his work. For "eight," he was in Australia, wearing a pristine white lab coat while working with wires and cables that were outlandishly drawn to create an eerie humanoid that looks like him from specific angles. "Nine" was the first photo he'd sent you when he arrived in San Diego, but with your own artistic touch to it. You had a giant version of him essentially build sandcastles that looked like androids and robotic arms. For "ten," you had drawn a rough, charcoal sketch of his speech when his team got nominated for the Nobel Prize in Physics.

"Eleven," "twelve," and "thirteen" presented alternate scenarios of who he would become in the future. All three were rather similar in nature, carrying a sci-fi aesthetic to it, but Jake held his breath and tried not to laugh at "thirteen," which showed him as one of the engineers that enabled human mass migration into Mars.

The last section, "fourteen," was right in the middle. Instead of an intricate, original piece of work, there was a square, glass mirror that had the words "you" written on top. The more Jake looked into the mirror, the more he could hear your voice right next to him, smugly introducing your piece with pride. If you had lived long enough to see the fruits of your project pay off, then you certainly would've been the victor of this little race between the two of you.

Soft sobs quickly turned into hushed, muffled laughter, and he covered his mouth with the pamphlet to control himself. He still didn't know if this was one, elaborate prank that took you almost an entire decade to finish, or if it was your own way of proving to him that you've never forgotten him throughout the decade you've spent apart. Who knows? Maybe, in some ways, you knew that your time was coming, so you wanted to leave a dramatic piece of work that showed him and the rest of the world that you had a message to convey.

To have him face-to-face with himself instead of you was a rather creative way of greeting him after ten years of absence. As Jake continued to look deeper into his own reflection, tears slipped down his face again one by one. He tried to sob quietly, while giving his eyes the time to breathe and let everything out. In the ten years of needing to see you—there you were, right in front of him. Truthfully, he was still wrought with an endless cycle of despair that twisted and turned inside his stomach, but the least he could do right now was to see you again.

There was no use in saying goodbye. Those were some of the many words you told Jake before leaving for Prague. Instead, he faced himself for the last time in the small, rectangular mirror, whispering a quiet, yet completely audible see you under his breath. As he walked out of the gallery, the summer winds turned, cold. He lovingly looked at the crumpled, tear-ridden pamphlet that was in his hands, and he mustered the courage to open it, reading the epithet below your "magnum opus,"

This piece is dedicated to the person who showed me how to grow and become comfortable in my own skin—to accept what made me who I am, and to learn to love the failures I had to go through. 14 steps are not enough to guarantee success or a fruitful future, but seeing his sheer motivation to better himself inspired me to do the same. What I want to share through these portraits is not the steps to betterment themselves;

I want to show how knowing the right person to grow with can start your own 14-step program to a better you.

And so, he decided to wait. He'll ask for a phone once your city has figured out what to do with all the washed-up telephone stations and broken electricity poles.

Two years of sitting idly by the television, watching rescue operations and firefighters dig through large debris and chunks of dilapidated houses did not help him process the reality of the ruins right in front of him. Allowing the aroma of brine, rotting fish, and rusting steel to reach his nose, he nervously made a step forward to the small, port town that he used to spend the eternity of his childhood summers in.

Prior to the earthquake, he had often visited the city of Miyako to visit your family, who held a significant share of Iwate's local fishing ports. Back then, he was too young to understand the intricacies of adult friendships, so he mostly took the long bullet train rides from Okayama to Iwate with childlike boredom and a moody bout of indifference. How could his mother continue to befriend a person that was all the way up North, and why make an effort to keep promises that were built long, long ago when his mother didn't have the responsibilities of managing a dance studio and raising three children? For young Riki back then, all he could do was grumble on about how he wanted to grow up fast to start staying home alone while his parents made an effort to plan and go on such a time-consuming trip.

"One day, you'll understand, Riki-kun, that some friendships are truly eternal." His mother would often lament with an achingly sweet nostalgia as she tended to her son's selfish tantrums.

Now that Riki was older—sixteen going on seventeen—he'd say that he can vaguely understand his mother's friendship with your family. While he tuned out most of the listless conversations as background noises that were exclusive to adults like his parents in the room, he tried to remember the tiny fragments and stories that illustrated a lucrative timeline of his mother's history with your family. From what he could recall, his mother met yours in their first year of university back in the late seventies. Both of them were fresh off the boat from their own respective small towns, entering the big metropolis of Osaka for the first time. The two of them immediately shared a close bond together through their shared status as two lost sheep in the howling canines of the city's pack. Since then, the two women have grown into responsible parents with their own respective versions of a picturesque family. While the Nishimuras had grown into a promising performance-based lineage of jazz ballet, hip-hop, and contemporary dance, your mother married into a fishing economy that is perhaps arguably older than the origins of Japan itself.

Riki still remembers the narrow, extensive dirt path and rocky roads that lead into your side of town. While back then, he had the pleasures of being in the comforts of a rental car and his father's steady hand on the wheel, he now had to cross through large cracks and craters that were big enough to sink him into the bedrock layers of the earth. Using the agility that he had harnessed through sheer practice and dedication, he gracefully jumped across each crack on the ground with the lightness of a bird, while examining the ruins of a once peaceful, quiet neighborhood. Houses that used to line the roads were now mere stacks of wood, steel, and cement. The port that overlooked the vast, blue seas and mountain ranges were decorated with flipped boats and cars that were slipped in half, along with piles of steel and lumber that formed tiny, organized pyramids of catastrophe.

The roads had been cleared out by the countless search and rescue operations that dug through all the clutter in the surrounding areas, making way for droves of relief vans, fire trucks, and ambulances to survey the area. Riki wasn't used to the blaring sirens that zoomed past him in a blurry haze, but in his current state of mind, he was engulfed in a tunnel of silence led by your younger, brimming voice.

"It's not that far, you know?" You'd often say when you were younger as you led the Nishimuras down from the nearest parking lot to the residential areas near the fisheries and ports. Back then, he had the company of his entire family and your petite figure in a white dress to navigate through the unfamiliar mazes of the North. Where he was from, the city was landlocked between riverbeds, lush greeneries of zen gardens, and historical sites that mirrored the ancient, cultural hub of the Heian period. On the other hand, the town of Miyako was right beside the high seas, facing the coastal areas that gave life to your otherwise idle, unchanging settlement.

As Riki looked over the rocky, inland coastlines that crashed with the pristine bubbles of white waves, his eyes were focused on a group of children that ran around amidst the destruction that surrounded them. In their hands were a typical fishing set that reminded him of his summers in the same shores, watching you reel in several sea critters while he kept his hands occupied within the plastic comforts of a digital world. His gaze fell on the giant bucket that four, tiny hands had hoisted up together, while one of the children lagged behind with the burden of carrying a handful of fishing rods. Sand lance, kelp wakame, and pollock—the more he tried to squint his eyes on the overflowing, metal bucket that was brimming with dead life, the more he thought of how strong you were for being able to carry a large net of king salmons with your father during the scorching hot summer days of July.

"PSP? What's that?" You asked, attaching a writhing earthworm on your fishing hook. Riki had always brought his PSP wherever he went whenever he visited your family, eyes constantly glued to the current game that occupied his tiny, nimble fingers. He was never a big fan of RPGs, but if he wanted to catch up with his friends from school, he needed to play through the most recent installment of Final Fantasy.

"It's something you play games with," He listlessly replied, using the corner of his eyes to watch your tiny body hoist your fishing rod into the deep depths of the ocean. While he continued to sit on one of the shingles of the beach, he always managed to sneak a few glances to you, anticipating your following catch.

Riki enjoyed fishing, but never with you. It wasn't to say that he didn't like you, but rather, his childish self couldn't fathom the idea of being worse at fishing than a little girl. To his eight-year-old self, fishing had always been associated with men, and to be bested by a girl—let alone a child his age—didn't sit well with him.

"Ah, my papa doesn't allow me to buy those. He says it's bad for my eyes." You replied, raising your voice to make sure he heard you. Keeping your body aligned to face the sea, you continued to whistle a familiar tune he's heard from your family's run-down radio, patiently tapping your feet to whatever rhythm was in your head. At the same time, the reel had quickly begun to spin in rapid succession.

There was a crystalline quality to your high-pitched timbre that tapped each syllable to your words with full clarity, and your voice was never too loud. It was always just the right tone for Riki to resume his game in sheer concentration while being aware of his surroundings.

That was one habit of yours that Riki always remembered. For as young as you were then, you always carried an air of consideration. It was present when you would automatically rush to the kitchen to make tea for his family, and it was even more potent whenever he was alone with you on the shoreline. Each uninterested shrug and click of a tongue was always met with a slight bow of the head from you as you shuffled your feet to keep a certain distance, waiting from afar until he would eventually give in and grumble about how annoying you were to your face.

Now, he can see it in the running children that were running ahead into the endless stretches of sand that lined the port, leaving the poor boy alone with the task of carrying the leftover items and equipment. Instead of seeing him complain, Riki was able to catch a glimpse of the boy's lips curl upward, momentarily stopping in his tracks as he watched his friends excitedly hoist the bucket with their combined strength. He had the exact same mannerisms that you did at around the same age, where you would simply stop and stare for a brief moment. Riki used to find it rather annoying, but over time, he's grown to admire your small bursts of silence.

"Why are you staring at people like that? It's gross, you know?" Riki often spat. Instead of mustering a reply, you would simply nod in his direction, tilting your head to the sea or the adults that were talking by the dinner table. Sometimes, your gaze fell on nothing—perhaps a blank space between the picture frames beside the television or the small gaps between the bookshelves that lined your entire living room. It would usually take him a few harsh insults or two until you would slowly, but ever so surely, tilt your head back in his direction, widening your eyes with a soft, gentle smile.

The same smile was etched on the boy's face, glimmering with the apples of his cheeks that shimmered in the spring sun. Then, the boy had bent down to pick up the metal toolbox that he had briefly placed within the safety of the sands, hoisting the entire weight of his equipment between his tiny shoulders. Riki tried to hold his tongue in place, stopping along with the boy to have a better view of what was going on. Sure, the little boy may seem like a pushover, but the bucket was not a size that even four children can carry with ease. Rather than a typical pail the size of a paint can, the thing resembled something akin to a drum that housed oil or other dangerous goods.

At this rate, it would be too soon until one of the children eventually loses balance from the weight of the bucket, causing the rest and their bountiful catch to fall into the beds of ochre sand. Before Riki could jump over the chipped, cement walls that lined the border between the seas and the main road, a teenage girl had suddenly rushed to the group of children that were making their way back home from their fishing trip, scolding the rest while helping the boy carry the array of heavy, smaller fishing rods and the presumably empty tin box that once housed live bait.

"Riki?" A familiar, yet distantly foreign voice had entered his ears. The only way he was able to recognize its owner was how the mention of his name had suddenly transported him back to a Miyako without the destruction and debris of the earthquake and tsunami. With one blink of an eye, all the clutter that he had grown used to seeing in the news had vanished into thin air, restoring everything into one, solid piece. The flipped boats that he passed by on the way to the port were now smoothly sailing above the currents of the sea, and the collapsed buildings had reverted to its pristine, off-white, and creme finish of fancy inns and local, gourmet restaurants. With your presence alone, the wreckage that surrounded him seemed to hold an indescribable beauty that made all of the ruins dissipate into the same, little town that he used to resent.

Ah, I really should've visited more often when I had the chance, Riki thought. With the difficulty of planning trips in an increasingly stagnant economy that favored white-collar jobs over his parents' passion in performative arts, his mother had cut down the long drives and train rides to Iwate. By the time he had reached the sixth grade, Riki had also busied himself with the junior high entrance exams—which made his summers filled with revision periods and cram school classes that ended in the violet dusks of picturesque sunsets overlooking his city's horizon. Though, he didn't care too much about sceneries either since his entire schedule was packed with dance practices that ended until he was too tired to think about you, his lack of a summer vacation, or the scores he'd have to achieve in order to enter a decent school that would make his parents proud.

As for you, he'd often receive short updates from his mother's rather long phone calls with your family about how you've been doing. Rather than keeping yourself busy with academic rigor, you continued to help your father and grandfather in the fisheries.

"She's caught more fish than Keisuke-jiichan. Isn't that amazing?!" His mother once exclaimed with joy while keeping her flip phone between her shoulder and her cheek. All that Riki could do then was respond with a curt nod and headed straight to his bedroom without removing his sweat-drenched practice clothes.

Before Riki could rush to the shoreline, he was met with a pair of glassy pupils that were now right in front of him. The scent of brine, sand, and fishes entered his nose in a barrage of nostalgia that flashed vivid, fragmented images of his childhood—the countless walks to the sea he would forcefully accompany you within the marmalade skies of the first sun, the heavy weight of metal buckets and even larger nets that reeked of live, flopping fish that he would carry with you from the boat to your home, and the endless hours of hide-and-seek he'd submit to whenever his mother had decided to confiscate his gaming consoles and his Weekly Shonen Jump magazines.

It was you, alright. A little bit taller, older, and wiser, but it was still the same old you from his summers as a child. Somehow, the white dress that he's always seen you in managed to fit your taller physique, with intricately handwoven laces trailing just above your knees. There was a rustic badge that was pinned right next to your chest, between the thin straps that held your entire dress together.

He couldn't pinpoint something so abstract, but there was certainly a slight difference in the way you carried yourself. He could chalk it up to the effects of puberty and four years of not seeing you, but there was something within him that realized it was something else. It wasn't the sudden distance he felt with his older sister when she got her first period, nor was it the realization that you were blossoming into a fine, young woman. There was a more mellow, passive, and somber charge around you that was covertly wrapped under the bright smile you wore around the children.

"How are you?" You asked, voice still as clear as ever. He noticed that your voice had dropped a pitch lower, carrying with an air of maturity that he's seen in his sister when she turned sixteen. The thick, Tōhoku accent that characterized your rural status seemed to disappear, blending into the standard Japanese dialect that many children were taught to speak. Though, as he repeated your voice in his head, he still managed to pick up a few tonal shifts and awkward phrasings that managed to bring you back into your childhood self. He tried to utter a reply, but his throat felt the lumps of adolescence acting as a cork that kept his vocal cords shut. All he could do in your glowing presence was slightly bow his head and fix the large messenger bag that adorned his right shoulder, keeping his gaze glued to the fishing rods you held between your arms.

"I'm assuming that you're doing good?" You asked again, giving him the same, bright smile that you always did whenever he would coldly tell you to leave him alone. That was another thing about you that he couldn't seem to forget. No matter how blunt or harsh he'd get, you would always leave him to his own accord with a small, gentle smile, running off to your grandparents, parents, or his sisters to talk or eat the snacks his family brought from home.

"Yeah, I guess. Yeah." He slowly replied. The group of children was now huddled behind you, peeking their heads at the tall, young boy that stood on the other side of the broken, cement walls of the shoreline. He curled his lips into a small grin when he faced them, kneeling down at their level to closely examine the bucket that housed their most recent catch. To his surprise, they were able to reel in a few bonitos and mahi-mahi—both of which could only be seen in the deeper areas of the coast. The last time he had caught a bonito was during his last visit to your hometown when he was ten. The two of you had to ride a small, motor-powered boat with your father and grandfather, and instead of a mere fishing rod, your father had instead pulled out a large amalgamation of nets that he hurled into the sea.

"Since the tsunami hit, some of the folks out here were lucky enough to catch salmons and large tunas right around the area!" You exclaimed gleefully, widening your grin as Riki continued to pick apart the children's catch with his eyes. "Though, because a lot of them reached the mainland, we weren't able to salvage them all—which kinda explains the rotting smell around here."

Perhaps the most endearing thing he managed to remember about you was how you always managed to keep your chin up no matter what came in your way. His earliest memory of you that continued to haunt him to this day was when you were six. Instead of reeling in a fish or two, you were instead met with the harrowing pulls of a large, tuna fish that your young body was too small to handle. Despite the resistance, you continued to pull at the rod, keeping your feet glued to the wooden floorboards of your father's boat as your eyes widened with the radiance of the spherical, summer sun. Instead of stopping you, your father stood behind you in silence, suppressing a widening grin as he watched you struggle with the rod.

"Aren't you gonna help her out?" A young Riki asked. Although he kept his indifference and boredom on the surface, he had suddenly placed his copy of Weekly Shonen Jump to his side, engaging in a childlike dilemma of saving you from your eventual fall or witnessing your first, big catch as the proud daughter of a fisherman. In response, your father mustered a small, monotonous hum, slowly nodding his head in place. The tuna's head was peeking out of the ripples of the blue sea, gasping for air as it flailed back and forth between your hook.

One more pull was all it took, but even Riki back then knew that it was too much for you. Instead of reeling the large, tuna fish into the boat, your flimsy grip had loosened, dropping the entire fishing rod with the giant fish back into the ocean.

Despite his five-year-old arrogance, he was more than ready to console you for your loss. He had even practiced a few lines in his head, repeating them in low whispers as his jaded footsteps rushed in your direction. However, instead of meeting your tear-filled eyes or a burst of demonic anger, all he saw was a calm, serene smile.

"It's okay, papa. He'll come again next time!" You softly retorted, turning your lids into crescent moons as your father picked you up and carried you into the air. "And when he comes back, I'll make sure to help obaachan make the best maguro-don that Miyako-shi has to offer!"

Maybe it was the clear difference between a city boy like him and a country girl like you. After all, the people of Miyako were never seen without a radiant grin on their faces. For as long as he could remember, his visits to your hometown had always been surrounded by the blinding light that characterized every humble, small town. Things such as video games, television, and the internet weren't necessary when the entirety of the high seas was your playground. After all, why stay inside when the bright, blue waves of the ocean shimmered with desire, pulling everyone into its waters for a quick sail around the borders, a surf or two, or even a thrilling swim that washed over all the trivial woes consuming humans in their robotic, daily routine of a future that leads nowhere. While the people in the city continued to live under the false promises of a better life with hard work, the folks of the sea never worried about the future. To them, everything was always in the present—how many fishes can they catch to feed their families for the week, what time did children have to wake up to engage in a daily thirty-minute bicycle ride to schools in the mountains, and anticipating when the rain would fall to prepare for a power outage.

"Where's your family?" You asked, tucking the empty toolbox to the other side of your waist. Giving the group of children a curt nod, they propped the giant bucket of fish and seaweed on top of a flat chunk of cement, hopping through the high, broken wall one by one. With a quick bow and a wave, they began running back to the dirt path that Riki had come from, turning their tiny heads back to the two of you as each, glassy beads of curious eyes remained on Riki's taller figure. He gave them a smile, watching their bodies disappear into the ruins and clutter that surrounded the entire port—and then, they were gone.

These days, it would often take Riki a few moments before he could ground himself into reality—which was the sole reason he begged his parents to visit the town of Miyako. With every single day passing by of fleeing news articles and weather reports, there was a part of him that couldn't accept that the disaster was real.

This was all one big dream, and eventually, we'll all wake up to see another day, he often whispered in the initial months of the earthquake. Sometimes, it would take a cold shower to wake him up. In more extreme cases, he had to exhaust himself in the form of academic rigor, endless practice at the dance studio, or playing soccer until dusk to allow his mind and body to process everything.

He can understand his mother's reluctance towards visiting your town in the aftermath of the disaster—after all, she, too, was going through a more severe rendition of what he had been feeling.

Riki knew the extent of the damage that your house had undertaken a little later, once the phone lines had momentarily been repaired. His mother had spent all of 2011 glued to the living room's couch, staring blankly at the endless flashes of tsunami waves, submerged houses, and live footage of earthquakes that caused entire skyscrapers, two-story houses, and leisure establishments to collapse into dust. Wrapped in a thick, layered futon, it became an hourly routine for her to flip through the same four news channels that constantly gave live updates to the death tolls, rescue operations, and missing person reports.

She would only leave the house to pick up the morning paper, mechanically scanning her eyes over the earthquake reports. In a given day, she would repetitively read through the paper, watching each, harrowing statistic rise, diminishing the bodies of the dead into a simple number. The main affected areas still had no access to water or electricity, and most of the food came from volunteers that drove all the way up north to deliver various goods. Many people—including your family—had lost their homes to the disaster, living in the cramped camps of run-down gymnasiums and decrepit city halls. Each news report on both the television screen and the newspaper had briefed a new tragedy every day, but the only thing both you and your mother could think of was the well-being of your family.

She had left her duties as the manager to their family dance studio to his father, keeping herself occupied with whatever she saw in the technicolor flashes of the television screen. This would go on until Riki had to wake up to go to school—and sometimes, he could hear the racing thoughts within her head that repeated the same prayer that she softly mumbled to herself.

Please, please, please let them be okay. Please. God. Please.

When the initial news about an earthquake hitting the Tōhoku region graced his television screen during one, fine morning, Riki had to blink several times and turn the volume up to digest the disaster in full clarity. Especially given his absence to your town in the last few summers of his days as an elementary schooler, he had never expected to witness a natural disaster that had anything to do with him in any way. When Riki learned of the Kobe earthquakes of 1995 and the Tokyo subway sarin gas attacks, he didn't think much of it for the simple fact that he wasn't born when those two separate incidents occurred. Sure, he's heard of stories from his grandparents about the gravity and toll that the earthquake of 1995 had on Kobe, but he didn't have any family there to care about the disaster. To him, it was just an event in history that illustrated mother nature's wrath—something to skim over and memorize in textbooks for a geography or history test.

To be alive and well while a devastating catastrophe unfolded in the background of his last day as a middle schooler added a looming uncertainty with how he treaded towards life. Even if his visits to your house all the way up in Iwate lessened throughout the years, there was always a reassurance at the back of his head that you would still be there, fishing with your aging father and living the same, idle life of skipping stones in the shoreline or creating delicious maguro-dons filled with your latest, freshest catch. To him, there was a permanent quality to the town of Miyako; no matter how old he'd get, or how long he'd take to visit you again, he always envisioned the wooden finish of your house or the same, decrepit boat you brought to the sea to remain the same.

It only took a day or two for an unprecedented earthquake to grind sturdy buildings into dust, and even less for a massive tsunami to submerge the entire city of Miyako into the dark, bottomless abyss of the ocean. The same thing could happen tomorrow, or perhaps right now, back home. There could be an earthquake, a burning meteorite falling down into the roof of his house, or a zombie outbreak for all he knew.

Nothing was ever going to stay the same—and in retrospect, that was the only thing constant about life.

"I… uh… kind of came here alone." Riki finally replied, keeping his gaze at the empty spaces between the chunks of splintered lumber and cement that the children had run past. He promptly kneeled down and rolled his sleeves to pick up the large bucket of fishes that had been perched on the flat surface of broken cement. To his surprise, it was definitively heavier than he thought it would be.

"Eh?! No way?! Don't you have school?" You asked, tilting your head in the direction that led to your house. While struggling to keep his balance, he hoisted the pile of dead fish up to his chest, holding his breath for as long as he could to prevent the pungent order from entering his nose. It has been a while since he's been greeted with the dull, lifeless, large eyes of fishes up close. His mother had stopped buying fish at the supermarket ever since the earthquake and the tsunami. He didn't question her decision, but he seemingly understood her the moment he laid his eyes on the infinite, wide orbs that resembled the rusted glass beads that he used to collect with you.

"Well… it's a Saturday today."

"Ah, but isn't it impossible to come back the same day you came?"

There was one, single dirt path that led straight into your neighborhood. Usually, there were several intersections and train tracks that decorated every block of two-story, wooden houses that lined a telephone pole or two. As he had expected, the clutter around the two of you continued to pile up—with a cluster of furniture split in half, rooms whose walls had collapsed, and mattresses adrift giving him a surreal version of your old neighborhood. Perhaps in another timeline, people slept in dilapidated mattresses that had all the springs up, located in bedrooms that were exposed for all the world to see. It was somewhat fascinating for him to find that amidst the messy wreckage, he could still piece together all the interiors of the broken homes into one, fine puzzle. The flipped shelf of junior high textbooks and worksheets, wet, scattered manga volumes splayed across the piles of splintered wood, and old movie posters Riki had just passed by gave him a picture of a boy that was about two to three years older than him. Two years ago, the owner of the now damaged room would have been about his age, living the life of an electric adolescent.

"Your New Year's Card said you finally got the house rebuilt, so I kinda came to check it out," Riki spoke out of the blue, keeping his eyes on the various houses of shattered glass windows and open doors that led nowhere. "Also, you haven't been on the phone whenever mama would call, so I wanted to see if you were okay."

"Ah, I see…." You replied, looking straight into the cleared-out dirt path that led into the main fisheries. "Well… it's definitely not what it used to be, but we're in the process of rebuilding everything—not just the family house, but also the entire city."

Instead of walking straight, you made a right turn into another area of the neighborhood. There was an old man waiting by a rickety chair, holding his cane between his fingers as he aimlessly watched whatever was in front of him. The same group of children was now drawing several cartoon characters on the cracks of the road, using a piece of wet chalk that they probably found in the heaps of ruins.

"Kanazawa-san," You called. Propping his cane up from his seat, he slowly stood up and greeted you with a formal, slow bow. You returned with an equally cordial act of filial piety, dropping the toolbox and the fishing rods by the wayward drawer. In what Riki assumed was a former dining table and kitchen area, all that was left were the busting, black chars of an erupted stovetop, some cupboards that piled on top of each other, and an array of broken tableware that was surrounding the place where he sat.

"Did the children catch anything edible?" He joked, heaving a disarray of laughter as his eyes skimmed through the contents of the bucket. Raising his glasses and securing them up to his nose, the old man gently took the toolbox on his lap. He then took a large tupperware container and began filling it with half of the catch, before gently kicking the bucket back in your direction. After exchanging another round of pleasantries and introducing him to Riki, the two of you bade the sweet, old man farewell and continued your journey back to your house.

"As for the phone… well… I don't really feel like talking a lot lately—even if I am right now." You replied, tracing your conversation back to where the two of you left off. Riki solemnly nodded his head, keeping his eyes on the dirt path ahead of him. From where the two of you stood, the full picture of the earthquake came to light. Riki tried to trace the former outline of the neighborhood and the little town, noticing that each pile of rubble matched up to the height of the horizon that once overlooked the entire area. As the two of you continued to tread onward, the cracked roads akin to volcanic eruptions started to lace around the streets in patterns of jagged dots. You took the other handle of the bucket and hopped over one of the cracks in a twisted game of hopscotch.

"I heard from mama that your family relocated to Sapporo for the time being," Riki said after another round of silence. The metal bucket of fishes was now in the safety of your hands, staining your white dress with splotches of faded blood as you hoisted it over your arms.

"Yeah! We were lucky enough to evacuate on time, but ojiichan decided to stay." You replied, keeping your eyes straight into his line of sight. "Something about his time coming up and wanting to be with the town he grew up in 'til the very end."

"Ah, sorry if it got a bit too dark?"

"It's fine. My condolences."

The two of you had finally arrived at the large cement walls that lined your family foyer. Despite the news of a renovation, he was surprised to see that everything in your house was replicated to perfection. Nothing about your newly rebuilt house felt new or foreign—it was just as he had pictured it in his daydreams on the way to your town. The garage that once housed your family boat and your father's aging, black car were absent from the entrance, but the beds of grass that led straight into the main entrance were just as it was since his last visit four years ago. The tall, mahogany trees that used to line your entire backyard had been uprooted due to the tsunami's impact, but given the sheer accuracy of replicating your old home, he was able to see its outline and foliage with a few, repetitive blinks.

Your family's backyard was a lot smaller than the rest of the neighborhood's, but it housed perhaps the most important collection of trees within its fences. From the day your grandfather was born, your family had kept a tradition of planting a birth tree that aged with the newest addition into your bloodline.

"When I was born, my ojiichan picked out a magnolia tree to plant in our backyard." You once said when you were little while watching him break off one of its smaller branches. "He said he wants me to be the kind of person that will never give up, just like this tree."

As he had expected, the magnolia tree that was planted during your birth had been uprooted along with all the other birth trees and various flowers that once filled your garden. All that was left were the gaping, empty holes that had been dug out. He didn't bother asking you if the various holes in your garden were to be planted again, because the way you stepped right into them made it clear that your former garden was one of the few relics of the past to never make a fruitful return again.

"Luckily, we were able to find his body, so we gave him a proper burial and whatnot, but things haven't really been the same for us since jiichan died." You continued, giving him a soft grin. Instead of going inside the house, you told him to come with you to the garage. While the house itself was fully reconstructed, the entirety of the interior was still lined with plastic and wads of newspaper. Allowing himself to press his forehead against one of the fine, glass windows, he realized that the insides still needed a few touches from the foreman and his team. There was practically no furniture inside, and every corner of the living room was walled off with more layers of newspaper scraps and plastic lining. The only thing that he saw was the silhouette of a circular, dining table that was also wrapped in several layers of newspaper and plastic.

You took a small, iron plate from one of the many cardboard boxes that lined your garage—the same one your grandfather always brought out whenever your family and his ate grilled fish by the sea. In those days, your father would try to stuff a measly, high-powered grill inside his car, only to put a dent in his trunk as he tried to shut the door.

"Masaki, just bring some skewers and we can light a fire somewhere! You can never go wrong with the old ways, no?" Your grandfather often retorted, carrying a giant bag of wooden skewers along with the same, rusting iron place that always found its way between his arms. "Humans have been creating fires since the dawn of time! Why bring all that fancy garbage when all you need is some wood and a lighter!"

"Ojiichan, I don't think cavemen had lighters before." You'd often reply, peeking your head behind your father as you watched the two, grown men argue about something so trivial.

Whenever he thought of you, the first few things that came to mind were how your father and grandfather were always beside you. Sometimes, they would shift positions, but they usually occupied the spaces right next to you, towering over your small, childish frame. It was your grandfather that taught your father how to fish, and it was a combined effort from the two of them when you were born. Initially, he's heard from his mother that your father was reluctant to teach you the depths of his trade—after all, you were a girl.

It was your grandfather that secretly taught you the art of fishing. Then, when your father found out, your grandfather stood his ground and told him to watch you swish the net towards the sea.

"Girl's better than you when you were her age! Would you look at that!"

Riki was there, too, when you showed your father that you were more than capable of his craft. He couldn't remember the exact details, but he was around three or four—too young to hold a handheld gaming console, but old enough to store vivid memories within his tiny headspace. Back then, Riki still had the same level of contempt that he always carried whenever he visited you. He treated every fishing trip with feigned nonchalance, and he declined every offer to hold the net or pull the abundance of fishes with you. Although he refused to admit that he wanted to try it out, he just couldn't handle being bested by a girl.

"I'm surprised that you decided to come all the way here on your own! You know… since you always looked like you didn't like it here." You said. Your head was now faced towards the distant shoreline. There was a small, rocky breakwater by the edge of the coastline, right next to the main port where your house was located. To his surprise, the stone lining still remained intact. The skies had begun to turn into a shade of deep, violet, and you snapped your head back in his direction, giving him a questioning gaze. He nodded his head in response, taking the bucket of fish off your hand while you fastened the iron plate between your arms.

Whenever the skies had cleared after a day of heavy downpour, your family has always made it a routine to eat grilled fish by the sea. Since Riki and his family always spent long summers in your town, they would try to help to the best of their abilities by stuffing their small, Honda Accord with foldable chairs, tables, disposable tableware, and various bottles of drinks that could readily be shared once his father had arrived in the usual parking lot. Initially, your father used to use an American-made griller, stuffing the poor thing behind the trunk of your family's relatively smaller van. Assembling the thing took more time than grilling enough portions for both you and the Nishimuras, so he began taking his father's suggestion of a bonfire instead.

The two of you would often gather around the fire until dusk, watching its flame flicker in silence. When it was dark enough, you took your hand out and intertwined your thumbs together, watching your tiny fingers flap with the seagulls that delicately soared through the skies. Riki would follow suit in a competitive strict, teasing you about how his shadow was bigger than yours. Instead of forming a bird with his fingers, he would clamp his hands down together like an alligator, clapping its sharp teeth right where the outline of your bird had flown. His sister was too afraid to go near the pile, and most of the adults in your respective families were too preoccupied with their own conversations to keep a watchful eye on the two of you. Every now and then, your grandfather would join your little games of shadowplay, using his longer digits to form the complex outline of an elephant.

The sun had perfectly set into the horizon, and Riki tried to remember the way your grandfather twirled his fingers to form the elephant. You had already marched on ahead, occupying the space that your grandfather once did whenever he would light the bonfire needed to start your summertime lunches together.

"Well, I don't know. I really don't." Riki replied, keeping his gaze to the floor as he stumbled on each word. "The only thing I know now is that I don't hate it here as much as I used to. Hell, I don't even hate it here at all, to be honest."

"You miss it, huh?"

"I do. I was planning on visiting two years ago, but the earthquake hit, so all the shinkansens and highways were closed."

"Ah, right." You replied. "Mama told me about that. Sorry that you guys couldn't come."

"It's fine—I mean, at least now we don't have to go all the way to the mountains to collect firewood to grill these by the sea," Riki said, swaying his head back and forth at the rubble that was scattered in the shoreline. "Plus, I think it's a good time now to light a bonfire, no?"

"You're right,"

Riki began to gather the wayward driftwood and clutter around the area. You sat down on your usual spot, rummaging through his bag to find a box of matches and a plastic lighter. There were two boxes of Marlboro menthols tucked under his jacket and several piles of clothes, causing you to heave a sigh as you took one carton and dangled it in front of him.

"I'm surprised you were able to smuggle this thing in the train," You asked. Riki rolled his eyes and dropped the driftwood he gathered in one, large pile, snatching the carton from your hands as he shoved it inside his pocket. Although he knew you weren't the type to smoke, he nonetheless hid the carton from you with a sheepish frown.

"Don't worry, I'm not telling your mom if you keep quiet about giving me a stick or two."

"Fine."

The spring breeze has come to a complete halt. The night was cold, and Riki jutted his chin towards the messenger bag on your lap. You took a sweater and hoisted it over your head, using your free hand to hurl a balled-up cardigan in his direction.

Riki tore several pages off his notebook and crumped them all in a single ball, tucking it between the piles of splintered wood and large, wayward tree branches. Admiring his rather lopsided craft, he stepped back and watched you strike a match, tossing the stick into the pile.

"Since when did you start smoking?" Riki asked, putting a cigarette between his lip.

"My senpais at the archery club in Sapporo used to have sessions after practice, so I naturally joined them a little bit later."

"How about you?" You asked. Riki shrugged his shoulders and averted his gaze from your glassy eyes. You had enough things to worry about, and he didn't want to add to that pile of woes with his own bouts of adolescence and peer pressure.

The two of you stared in silence at the mountain of splintered logs and broken branches in silence. The ball of paper had flared up, and Riki tore more pages off his journal to feed the fire. A bright, yellow flame swayed back and forth before it evaporated into a single, thin, grey line of smoke. You took a drag of your cigarette, occasionally puffing out some smoke. Riki did the same, using the plastic lighter to strike a flame between his lips. The two of you already knew the pattern that was going to unfold before your very eyes. The pile wasn't dead. It had already caught fire somewhere between the folds of paper that Riki had tossed, and both of you just had to wait a little longer until the flames started to spread between the wetter, wayward logs.

Once a few small flames had started to flicker at the edge of the pile, you inhaled the smoke and tar that filled your lungs, following the faint, crackling rhythms of the pile. Riki let out a long, drawn-out sigh, as if his life depended on the conditions of the bonfire. For the next few minutes, the two of you knelt down into the soft beds of the sand, silently watching the roaring flames as you took turns taking a drag off your respective cigarettes.

"Did you know that a massive fire like this one broke out when the initial tsunami hit?" You suddenly asked. Taking one of the wayward branches off the shore, you took a fish and stabbed its still, lifeless body with it. Then, you held your hand out and twirled the fish's body to the flames, filling the air with the delicious smell of a bygone past. Riki did the same, stubbing his cigarette before taking a medium-sized bonito in his hands. Instead of stabbing the fish with a branch, he instead propped up a piece of steel that he found nearby. Once the steel rod was close enough to the flames, Riki took the fish's body and twirled it around with his shoelace, letting the rod do the job while you keep your eyes on your meal of the night. The iron plate was idly placed between the two of you. It would be a shame to use it without your grandfather.

"Yeah, it was all over the news. Honestly, the last thing I expected to happen during a goddamn tsunami was a shit ton of fire or something."

Another round of silence loomed over the two of you. No one said a single word. The two of you hardly moved, taking a silent drag of your dwindling cigarette as both of you continued to watch the flames which had accepted all the things that were left unsaid.

"Right?" You replied a lot later with a widening grin. Riki had never seen such an expression on anyone before—not even his own mother, who had spent an entire year glued to the television screen during the onset of the disaster. You looked nothing like the cheery, optimistic girl that you always were within the confines of his memories. There was a deep, solemn charge around you that sucked him into an eternal void of darkness, and he flimsily took another cigarette from his carton, watching as the remaining sticks fell out of the box. Somehow, the bonfire was not doing enough to light up the sudden abyss that consumed him. If he didn't do anything now, he, too, would be snuffed out by your ever-increasing gloom.

"It's okay to cry, you know?" Riki said, watching your face contort from a smile to a thinly pressed line of pensive thought. There was something outright inhuman in the indescribable expression on your face as you longingly stared into the bright, yellow glow of the flames. It was as if all the pain and sadness that awaited him in the future amounted to nothing in comparison to how your cheeks and jaw were clenched into full rigidity.

"I'm trying, but none of my tears seem to come out lately. It's like, whenever I start to feel that really painful ache in my chest—the one where you know you're gonna cry, I try my hardest to let it all out. I'm so tired of living every second of my life with this heavy feeling that makes every step I take feel like so much, but it just refuses to come out somehow."

"I see." Riki replied, scooting his lanky, hunched body closer to yours while keeping some space for the iron plate lodged between your bodies. "I don't know if it makes you feel any better, but I cried a lot when I heard about the earthquakes and tsunamis. Mama and Konon-neechan did too.”

"I think that was the last time I cried too, to be honest."

"Gramps?"

With a single nod, you hugged your knees to your chest and watched the flames dance into the night.

Riki knew how close you were to your grandfather—after all, it was him who mainly took care of you when your father was out fishing or selling his most recent catch at the wet market. The two of you were too attached to the hip that Riki couldn't seem to visualize one without the other. Sure, as you and Riki got older, you would spend more time with him at the behest of his mother, but your grandfather was always somewhere in a certain distance, watching over the two of you with a benign smile as he read his daily papers or did his stretches. Despite his old age, your grandfather would even join the two of you in your silly, childish games of tag or hide-and-seek. Instead of letting either of you win, he would take each game as seriously as one could, exerting all the energy within him to match both of your much faster strides.

In a sense, your blinding, halo-like radiance had certainly come from your grandfather's presence. If Riki squinted his eyes, he could still see the little girl you once were—but your own glow had significantly dimmed down without your grandfather.

"It's like the moment he chose to die, the entire city died with him." You said, taking the fish out of the fire and letting it rest on the cool, iron plate. It was slightly burned, but the meat inside was intact. Riki did the same, taking his steel rod off the flames while letting it rest before he could untie the twine laced between the cooked fish's body. The flames were now eating away at the biggest log in the pile, and you quickly took the last fish in the bucket, piercing it with the same, burnt branch. Riki adjusted the pile altogether, using a small, wayward stick to poke at its sides. He continued to toss small chunks of wood, tossing it in whenever the flames roared in hunger.

"I think that's how everyone feels about this entire disaster, you know? It's strange, really." You continued. "It got me thinking about how this city always dies a little on the inside whenever one of its citizens die—like, even before the disaster, it just feels like the number of people being born into this place can't equate to the loss of life. Does that make sense?"

Riki nodded his head in response, keeping his eyes towards the flames. Once the last piece of fish had been thoroughly cooked, you placed it right in the middle of the iron plate—between the two burnt fishes that you and Riki had neglected for a while. Taking a pair of chopsticks from Riki's messenger bag, you began dissecting your burnt meal one by one, delicately taking each bone out and separating the meat and skin on the side. Riki had never smoked three cigarettes in a single day, but he allowed himself to indulge in one more, allowing the heat between his lips to fight off the cold that began to embrace his shoulders.

"I think it's all of Japan right now, to be honest," Riki spoke after leaving himself alone with his thoughts. "I don't know when it started, but it's like there's this big, gaping hole inside us that we can't fill no matter how hard we tried."

You slowly nodded your head and lifted your chin in his direction. The fish was now fully deboned, and you took an overflowing pile of meat into your mouth, thoroughly chewing it. When Riki looked at the plate, he was surprised to see that you managed to rearrange each bone around the body of the untouched, perfectly cooked fish in the middle. He asked for your chopsticks and pried his own meal open, quickly tossing a chunk of burnt skin and meat inside his mouth. The taste of cigarettes added an extra smokiness to the already charred fish, giving it an extremely bitter taste. Nonetheless, he managed to chew everything in one go, before taking another large piece to shove into his mouth.

"I think we're all born with a certain emptiness inside." You suddenly spoke, tapping onto Riki's shoulders for another cigarette. He pointed at the carton on his lap, and you took it with a bow.

"Most people manage to fill it up with love and all that stuff, and I think it's sort of our purpose to come close to closing that hole with whatever we could—you know, friends, money, hobbies, or whatever. But personally, I think I'm all cleaned out."

It took a few seconds for Riki to cough up the meat and bones that were suddenly lodged into his throat. You drew yourself closer and extended an arm towards his back, giving him gentle pats as he coughed up the remained of bones into the bonfire. Once he regained his composure, he promptly stood up to take the empty space right next to you. Now, the iron plate had a single, cooked fish on its surface. You chucked your pristine bones into the flames, and Riki's messy, half-eaten ruins were unsalvageable given the blackened marks around what would've served as his dinner.

"What do you mean?" Riki asked.

You looked up the sky to see that the sun had disappeared entirely. The two of you didn't know what time it was, but the deep, dark void of the skies above gave both of you a vague idea of how much time had passed. Within the flickering crackles of the flames, it was hard to tell what went on in your surroundings. All at once, the shoreline, the waves, the people that passed by, and the seagulls would disappear. The only thing that mattered then and there was keeping the bonfire lit. So long as the fire was being fed, it would accept everything within its embers, taking it all in, and letting it all out in soft whimpers for more driftwood.

"I'm completely empty." You repeated, voice growing hoarse with each word. As you closed your eyes, you felt the bone-chilling, cold tears trickle down your cheeks. Riki placed a firm arm around your shoulder as you suddenly hunched yourself over, gripping his knees as hard as you could. He had thrown the last piece of wood into the flames, and the ocean began to roar louder than the fire in front of you.

“There’s nothing in here anymore,” You continued, giving your chest a firm pat.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Riki drew your body closer to him, rubbing circles in the small of your back as you continued to nestle yourself into his arms. A long, smoky line of steam had decorated the dark air with ribbons of grey streaks. He kept himself silent for a while again, watching the crown of your head bury itself within the soft fabrics of his sweater.

"Wanna head back after the fire burns out?" He asked. Riki felt you nod between his chest, and he placed his head on top of yours.

"Ojiichan won't be too happy if we left the fire alone." You whispered, trying your hardest to suppress a yawn. "Plus, he still has to finish the fish we cooked for him."

"True."

Wrapped within his arms, you began to close your eyes, drifting into the first proper sleep you've had in what felt like an eternity. Even his own, light pats felt like they would break you in a second. You were too delicate, too fragile in his arms, and all he could do was keep his arms around you, blocking the wind from knocking you over into the dark abyss of the ocean in front of him.

He took his wayward messenger bag and draped a wrinkled shirt over your legs and shoulders, cautiously keeping an eye on the flames. Most of the wood was now mere, powdered ash—but the biggest piece had still glowed with an ethereal, dim radiance.

"Can you wake me up once the fire's all burned out?" You asked sleepily. Riki patted your head and slipped another cigarette between his lips.

"You'll probably start feeling the cold once the fire fully goes out, so don't worry about it." He replied. As you curled yourself against him, you succumbed into a fleeting, yet ever so deep sleep. Riki dug his hands through his messenger bag again, fishing out a small, plastic flip phone. After skimming through several missed calls and messages from his family, he allowed himself to look at the time and date that was etched on his phone.

0:00, March 11, 2013.

Whether the two of you liked it or not, the fire would eventually die. The cold air of the spring breeze would start to simmer down into your skin, jolting both of you awake from the first and perhaps last sleep you'll ever have.

you’re not half interested in talking to your very hot neighbour and asking him to change the fused bulb. it simply slipped out of your lips and jungwon, being the lovely guy next door he is, waltzed inside your apartment as if it belonged to him.

the light is barely within your reach and his eyes are going back and forth between you and the stool, afraid you might fall. “your stubbornness is going to land you in a hospital,”

you shoot him a glare from your periphery. “i said, i can do it!”

worse, he shouldn’t have undermined your ability to change light bulbs, despite your height, or rather the lack of it— as he says it— because now you’re set on doing it yourself.

you’re not that short, never felt it until jungwon moved in next door with his habit of patting your head every time you pass by, until he started leaning down to hear you talk knowing well he isn’t much taller than you.

it’s all his fault.

“get down. i’ll—”

“if you keep your mouth shut, i might actually be able to focus,” you cut him off sharply, barely balancing yourself on your tippy toes over the wobbly stool that’s supported by his hands.

just a little bit more.

and you aim to reach higher, extending every single muscle in your limbs if it’s even mortally possible. almost there, and then like a wisp of air, his arm wraps over your legs, the other holding your waist securely, bringing you down to the floor as if you weigh nothing.

“i almost did it, idiot!”

he scoffs at your whines, the huff in your cheeks and at the way your brows furrow in annoyance. “yeah, i’ve been seeing that for the last thirty minutes,”

the proximity between you two doesn’t even cross your mind until his arm tightens around your waist and he effortlessly moves you to the side in one swift motion.

he pushes you down gently against the nearest chair, taking a good few seconds to look at your pretty face. “you look mad,”

and it’s like he is stating the obvious. “i am mad. i would have done it on my own if you hadn’t interrupted,”

he huffs at your insistence, half annoyed half admiration. there’s that bark in your words even when you’re sitting with his hands on the arm rest, caging you in between. “give it up, shorty,”

you squint your eyes. “shut up,”

“make me,” he bends closer, head hanging dangerously low for your sanity and his too, in fact. you look attractive when you’re mad. “make me shut up,”

you want to wipe that shit eating grin off his face, to strip him off that facade and make him feel out of place just the way he does to you. your eyes move down to his lips that are slightly parted, almost invitingly.

it would be crazy to kiss him. you can do it— you shouldn’t, but then you gulp, gravitating towards him on your own, slow, hesitant, with a tilt in your head.

“oops!” and he backs off with a laugh, hands up in the air almost mockingly. he stands up on the stool to fix the light, acting ever so smug and insufferable. “duty calls,”

Dates were never something he bothered to remember unless they had to do with his job. He was quite terrible with birthdays, but he always had specific exhibitions and showcases etched on the back of his head. Sunghoon has always surrounded himself with the earthy smell of clay to the point where he didn’t bother leaving his studio for trivial matters such as restocking his endless cupboard of instant food. He was a man that breathed his craft to a dangerous degree—and if it meant sacrificing some basic necessities, he didn’t mind.

The same went for romantic partners. He wasn’t too big on love like many artists, and he’d go as far as to say pottery was his first love. Ever since feasting his eyes on the pristine porcelain finish of a Joseon Dynasty vase, he devoted his life to perfecting his skill as a potter that upheld tradition. He was aware of his appearance and charm, considering how many exhibition patrons lined up to say a word or two to him. Some of them caught his eye, but his innate stoicism took over, often dismissing these encounters with a humble smile.

The date was an event that he had tattooed on his upper forearm. 23.12.08. Ironically, it was his own birthday, but that wasn’t the first thing that came into his mind when he looks upon the Korean characters on his arm.

How he hasn’t made a major move since two years of meeting you completely baffled him. After all, he was a smart talker. He was quite confident in his stride, and he carried himself well. It was one of the biggest reasons why he had regulars in his little shop—he won them over with each sales pitch, a cup of warm tea, and an inviting grin. Sure, he often disregarded his patrons as mere customers that would pay his rent, but he knew they thought otherwise.

He wasn’t too sure, but a growing part of him began to convince himself that it was the opposite when it came to you.

His first meeting with you was when his doorbell rang three times. It was a moody afternoon, and the clouds were grayer than his current concoction of loose clay. He was in the middle of creating the last batch of ceramics for another showcase he was invited to, so he considered anything outside of his work on this particular day an interruption. In times like these, he tuned everything in his environment out—focusing his entirety on nothing but his craft. It was an automatic process of fishing out wet clay and shaping it with the wheel until he gets the shape that he wants. Sometimes it would take a few spins, but it would often take him the whole day to stop himself from overworking the clay—even then, he never went too far. Clay dried out quite quickly, and he was more than willing to sacrifice artistic integrity for efficiency.

He was a quiet worker, so it was natural for him to ignore the doorbell. The shop was usually closed for a long period of time when he was working on a set of exhibition pieces, and today was such a day. However, the doorbell continued to ring until its whiny chimes were replaced with light knocks on the door.

“Hello? I know you’re in there, Park-ssi. Please let me in or these flowers will die.”

His head jerked up in annoyance. He didn’t mind sociability, but he didn’t like disruption in any form.

Despite the mildly aggressive tone, he didn’t hear any malicious intent in the voice outside of his door. For the loud motors of his electric pottery wheel, the voice was audibly loud and clear.

“Come in, the door’s unlocked.”

Sunghoon had a bad habit of keeping the doors to both his shop and studio unlocked. It used to be convenient, but ever since making a name for himself, it became a huge problem. He’d often be met with the pushy demeanor of his so-called “fans” that asked him about his private life more than his work.

The click of the door was completely drowned by the hums of the pottery wheel as he continued to spin his craft. He didn’t bother to look behind him since his priorities lay in perfecting the shape of a vase he was planning to showcase at the exhibit. While he was known for reviving traditional Chinese porcelain pottery, he decided to fuse the intricacies of its painted finish with a futuristic, angular shape. After all, even he found it boring to stick to the same thing—no matter how beautiful a classic, old-fashioned design can be.

After what felt like hours, he took the weight of his foot off of the wheel’s pedal. The quick gears of the wheel’s motors stopped in a second, engulfing the entire empty studio in sheer silence. A satisfied hum escaped his lips as he admired his new vase. It wasn’t anything special, but visualizing how he’d paint it gave him a burst of energy that recharged him instantly.

“That looks like it’s gonna be a nice vase! I’m sure it will look good with these flowers!”

This time, he jerked his head towards the voice, almost dropping what he spent the entire day working on. He couldn’t tell the age of the person in front of him, but there was a unique glow that surrounded you as you held a basket full of flowers tight. At the time, he placed the blame on the marmalade hues of the afternoon skies, but now he begs to differ. Maybe you truly had an innate brilliance to you.

He held his clay-ridden palm in the air before jogging towards the large glass window of the studio. In front of it was a bundle of flattened newspapers laid out with an assortment of plain, ceramic vases that bathed under the spring sun. He made some space for the vase in his hand, and then gently placed it next to a spherical clay sculpture. Once he was done, he haphazardly took his apron off, throwing it on top of a nearby chair.

“My hands are a bit of a mess right now, but who are you, and why are you here?”

He did his best not to touch anything. You placed the basket on a table by the glass window, making sure the sun’s rays hit each petal.

“I’m a florist. A woman named Madame Mo stopped by and told me to deliver these to you since it was your birthday. She said she would’ve done it herself, but her duties as a so-called “socialite” eventually won her over.”

There was a hint of disdain in your voice as you continued to describe Madame Mo—which was something he somewhat empathized with. Madame Mo was someone who was aware of her “old money” privileges amongst the Korean elite, and she had an air of haughtiness to her—as if she could buy Sunghoon whole. He felt bad for her status as a widow and understood—to some degree—her overbearing attraction towards him, but customers were dealt with professionally. It’s not like he’d go for her if the circumstances allowed it, but he would’ve allowed her to at least be his friend.

A drawn-out, monotonous hum escaped his lips. He completely forgot about his own birthday. He also forgot that there was a flower shop near his studio. As if you saw right through him, you tried to stifle a laugh.

“Working on your birthday sure seems tough.” You said, admiring the bouquet that you picked out for him. “I usually take a day off on my birthdays, unless funeral-related orders happen to be on the same day as my anniversary on this planet.”

You gave him a warm smile, and he felt his heart race. He couldn’t wrap a finger around it, but there was a strong magnetism in your presence that pulled him towards you. At the time, he attributed it to your face and occupation—you had the features of a person he’d find extremely attractive, and you were in the same field as him to some degree. Aesthetics were an integral part of both of your occupations, and so he was aware of beauty when he saw it. 

He cleared his throat, finding ways to make you stay. His eyes scanned through a shelf of vases he’s made for himself.

“It’s my birthday, huh?” He mumbled. He already had a scenario in mind—being the idealist that he is. The only thing that bothered him was the execution. Even if he loathed social gatherings and after-parties, he was thankful that they helped him foster his charisma through sheer trial and error.

Your eyes followed where he stared and admired his craft. A sigh of awe echoed in the studio, bouncing off of all the walls that encased his artistic outlet.

“Do you want me to help you transfer the flowers to one of those vases or something?”

His eyes widened as he snapped his head in your direction. You were now beside him, eyeing each vase with a pensive gaze. There was a telepathic wire that connected your brain to his, and it took some time for him to realize that it has always been there from the start.

Nonetheless, things were going the way he pictured it. In a common occurrence, expectations never match up with reality—what unfolded right before his eyes was too good to be true.

“Yeah, if that’s okay with you,” He replied, swallowing a stutter that was emerging from his throat. “Also, can you help me pick a vase? I only make them, so I don’t know what type of flowers can complement the design and whatnot.”

You beamed with an infectious joy that day, which he inferred to as the “artist’s pursuit of happiness”. It was every artist’s pride to share their expertise, skill, and knowledge with any audience, no matter how big or small. He was well aware of this, being a victim of the phenomenon himself.

The two of you stayed in his studio until night. Before you said goodbye, he offered you a glass or two of Chianti from his vast collection of wine in the kitchen cupboard while you sat on his balcony outside of the large glass windows. You suggested ordering a cake as a celebratory gesture, but he gently declined, saying that he wouldn’t be able to finish it on his own. He liked that you were careful whenever you opened the glass sliding door that led to the balcony, with each step memorizing the positions of the drying ceramics laid out right beside the window. He also liked that you wished him a happy birthday throughout your time together, even when you’ve just met him.

Sunghoon never allowed anyone to touch his unfinished work, but that day he let you assist him in firing up the remaining pots he needed to complete his exhibition pieces. Of course, he didn’t tell you this, but what he did tell you was that you had a good eye for color. There was a certain humility in you accepting his compliment, but he also admired the layered sense of achievement that slipped out of you as you continued to share how being a florist naturally broadened your grasp on color theory.

When you said goodbye at his door, he promised to see you at your flower shop the next day—even if he didn’t have any interest in gardening. He doesn’t regret this though, since he’s learned to appreciate growing his own flowers throughout the two years he’s known you.

Since then, he formed an unbroken routine with you. He’d often visit your flower shop to ask for seeds and fertilizers, while you commissioned vases for him to use as a display for your flowers. When he had the time for it, he’d offer to teach you how to make and paint your own vases, while you would return the favor by showing him the art of flower arrangement. It was an almost daily occurrence for him to walk into your shop, even when he had more than enough tools to expand his newfound hobby.

“Didn’t you buy a kilogram of fertilizer yesterday?” You asked one day with a light chuckle while spraying a bouquet of roses with water. He did his best to regain his composure and told you that he forgot. That was the first time you came to his house for the sole purpose of giving him a crash course on gardening. A part of him felt guilty that you offered more than he did when it came to your respective fields, but another part of him took every chance he had to spend time with you. This, in turn, formed a part of his routine with you—where you would visit him to check on the flowers he began growing at the edge of his studio’s balcony.

Some days, you’d come to the studio with a sketchbook, and the two of you would spend your time together in comfortable silence. Ever since you taught him the language of flowers, the two of you began to switch roles in the still-life sessions that you shared together. He would pick which flower he wanted to draw that day, and you matched it up by picking a vase from his array of fine works that would benefit the vast collections of your shop.

Usually, he’d end up eating dinner with you with a glass of wine, often dropping you off at home. The silent walks under the dim street lamps were the best and worst parts of his days with you. While he was able to stay close to you, he would never get the courage to either hold your hand or tell you how he felt. 

He’d religiously invite you to every single showcase he attended, even going as far as to offer you a job to help decorate each venue with your floral prowess. Two years had passed since he first tried to persuade you to come with him to an auction, but you still managed to shy away from these events. 

This was another thing he liked about you.

In fact, there were too many things he liked about you. The way your eyes would shine under the fluorescent lights of his studio; the way your nimble fingers cut the stem off of his flowers; the way your footsteps lightly trudged whenever you drank too much wine—the list would be endless.

Perhaps his status as a renowned potter shaped his personality today, but he’s begun to realize that it wasn’t a good thing regarding his qualms with you. For one, he was too careful. He treated you like fine China, nimbly avoiding hazards that would tip what he currently has with you off and break all that he’s built with you up to now. He was too afraid to ruin the delicate details of everything that made his relationship with you so beautiful—so he left it untouched, only walking around the hypothetical vase between the two of you.

Another thing he dreaded was how difficult you were to read. In the same way that he treated his patrons with charismatic benevolence, you greeted every single customer with a bright, inviting smile. You shared your knowledge of flowers with regulars the same way you taught him how to arrange them in his vases. He knows he’s being selfish, but the idealistic thought of keeping those memories exclusively between the so-called enchanting secrecy that he’s built with you chipped him away with each passing second. The line between his self-doubt and reality was blurred like a piece of clay spinning in his wheel, and he couldn’t step on the pedal to stop it altogether.

This time, it was going to be different. He knew he couldn’t keep on working on the same vase for too long—the clay would be too dry, and he’d just keep on adding more wet clay to the amalgamation until it was too large to handle. Like all his failed attempts, he needed to tip it off and allow it to break before it was too late. Only then would he be able to create a newer, much better vase.

He woke up earlier than usual today, even though he didn’t have anything to do. It was probably around half a year ago, but he’s been gripped with fever dreams that leave him with a temporary level of high body heat. It would often die down later in the day, but the severity of these fevers made him routinely check his temperature the moment he woke up.

Today was an all-time record of 38.5 degrees Celsius.

The haze that came with the heat left his reverie blurry, but your face was always unforgettable. Most of his dreams left him breathless with all the sensations in his mind and body activating all at once, and all of them gave him an indescribable feeling in a vast spectrum of positive emotions. Each dream was also different than the last, but he never seemed to remember exact details other than your sheer presence. All he would remember when he woke up was the afterimage of his silhouette and yours seemingly pacing a vase in the middle, as well as a haunting melody that was distorted by an aging record player. He didn’t know what the song was called, but at this point, he could perfectly hum its tune—which he unconsciously did throughout the day.

This time, he remembered every single detail. It was almost too picturesque, and the entire scene made him wish he could just dive back into his covers and relive his reverie—but alas, he couldn’t live like that. Idealistic trances that came with an eerily deep slumber left him in a state of euphoria, but he wouldn’t trade it off for the exhilaration of meeting you face-to-face. After all, he always prided himself in having an affinity for authenticity.

He quickly got out of bed and darted to his shower room, allowing the ice-cold water to ripple on his skin. He was never one to take a bath in the morning, but ever since his episodes of fever-inducing dreams got worse, he felt that it was a necessary step in regulating his body temperature. Once he was finished, he wiped himself with a large towel and wrapped it around his waist, before visiting his balcony to bask in the morning winds. The season didn’t matter to him—in fact, winters work best with his current condition. Despite being somewhat naked in broad daylight, he never seemed to succumb to a cold. No matter how harsh the winds were, he managed to pull through the teeth-clattering chills. Although behavior like this seemed counter-intuitive, what worked for him worked.  

Ever since he began growing his own flowers, he would always be greeted with the floral notes of his seasonal home garden. While he initially started the hobby as an excuse to see you more often, he began to steadily see the beauty in its meticulous intricacies. Unlike clay, flowers had life in them; a single shard of porcelain can be revived into a postmodern piece for the rich, but a stem stepped in half was practically dead. In the same way, dry clay can be fixed by adding water, flowers had a tiny margin of error when it came to feeding them their necessities.

The marmalade rays of the sun were perfectly aligned with the semi-large pots of flowers that began to bloom with the seasons. you initially picked out a starter set for him, which included marigolds, pansies, and daffodils. After he got tired of their vibrant, yellow hues, he opted for a batch of tulips, carnations, and azaleas.

“Do you know what these flowers mean?” You asked, elegantly cocking your eyebrow at him. You were wearing your shop’s apron, which complemented your figure in his eyes. Perhaps he was too used to donning the same apron each time he met you, or maybe it was the apron itself becoming a part of his renditions of you. 

Of course, he knew what they meant—but he was used to pretending when it came to you. Feigning ignorance was a relatively easy and safe way for him to go around his feelings for you in repeated circles, but it was getting harder and harder for him to continue when the thought of you subjected him to blissful vertigo.

“No,” He answered, maintaining his cool exterior.

“I just wanted to get them since they looked really nice.”

After that, you helped him sow the flower seeds into a bed of soil by his studio’s moderately sized balcony. You gave him a run-through of each flower and its meaning; tulips when they were red meant deep love; carnations when they were dark red signified love and affection; azaleas represented a gentle kind of love. You teased him about it by referencing several people you’d seen at the exhibitions he’d invited you to, and he did his best to restrain himself from proudly dedicating each batch of flowers to you.

It was currently the middle of spring. Being an artist, he had an appreciation for all four seasons of the year. His sensitivity to the weather and changes in his surroundings were often reflected in the painted finish of his ceramics—for spring, he’d use finer brushes to bring life to the blue hues of the petals that adorned each vase he made; for summer, he would draw faded clouds that captured the iridescence of the light blue skies; for autumn, he’d experiment with colors and use a warm, gentle palette to accentuate the dead leaves that he often saw strewn around the roads; for winter, he created delicately designed plates that were adorned with snowbells.

He closed his eyes and felt a flurry of cherry blossom petals stick to the moisture of his freshly washed skin. Unlike the maple leaves of fall, he enjoyed the satin finish of each petal as they lightly caressed his exposed body.

As he tightened the towel on his waist, he was met with your figure sitting down on one of the studio’s stools. He did give you the keys to his house, but he didn’t expect you to come this early.

“Good morning! Aren’t you cold?”

Sunghoon greeted you with a gentle smile like he always did. He chalked it up to the orange tint of the rising sun’s rays, but there was an inkling of hope in him that blossomed as soon as your cheeks emitted the warm dyes of the weather. You offered him a steaming cup of coffee, but he politely refused. After all, he had already gotten rid of the heat in his body—he didn’t need another source to add fuel to the fire.

“I do this every morning, it feels nice.”

Your eyes wandered around the blooming pink hues of the potted flowers you helped him tend, which were now covered by a small flurry of cherry blossom petals. Carefully obscuring his barely covered form, you occupied yourself with marveling at the care he’s given them.

There was a look of concern etched on your face at his remark, and he hastily excused himself to his bedroom. Before he was able to leave, you took his hand and pulled him towards you.

“Hold still,”

You turned him around, picking the stray pieces of light pink petals that stuck to his back. A single touch of your fingertip managed to electrify him—which prompted him to exhale in jagged breaths.

“I don’t know if you’re doing this on purpose or not, but wouldn’t it be uncomfortable if you dressed yourself with petals stuck to your body?”

Through his peripheral vision, he saw a pile of cherry blossom petals increasing in size beside him.

“I thought it’d be nice body art.” He replied with a chuckle. It’s been two years now, and yet his heart always leaped whenever you laughed with him.

“Well, you should’ve told me! It would’ve been a nice source of inspiration for your spring-themed collection, and I could’ve helped you pick out which flower petals worked with your skin tone!”

You tapped his shoulder, and he automatically faced you. He noticed and admired the gradual agility in your fingers as you continued to pluck the stray petals off of his chest and neck.

“You know, maybe you’re right about the whole body art thing. This looks gorgeous! They look like scales or some half-human hybrid off of a fantasy novel.”

The palms that firmly held his shoulders were warmer than he was used to. He hummed in response, staring at your focused demeanor. It was the same one he’d see whenever you arranged flowers back at your shop, or when you’d immerse yourself in painting a vase in one of his free lessons for you.

“Love, flattery won’t get you anywhere.”

He reserved pet names for you, despite telling you he had a nickname for each of his friends. The last petal was formally removed from the left side of his collarbone, and you gave his shoulders a soft squeeze.

“Darling, I mean it. Now go get changed before you catch a cold!”

You gave him a light push towards the hallway that led to his bedroom, careful not to exert too much force. He hoisted the towel up one more time, and waved you a quick goodbye. He never dared to ask you if you reserved pet names exclusively for him or not. 

 “So why are you here so early? Don’t you have a shift today?”

Sunghoon was now dressed in his usual garb, and he slowly leaned his body on the elongated table of his studio. He always delved into the smart casual style, and sported a loose cream turtleneck with a checkered suit jacket.

“I took the day off. I thought it’d be nice for you to have a companion since every call we’ve had this month always ends up with me being busy.”

Oh, the things you did to him. He’s perfected the air of nonchalance that surrounded him, but it didn’t mean the beatings of his heart eased by any means.

“I mean, it’s funeral season. I’m pretty sure your services are needed to provide the appropriate flowers for the ceremony.”

Ironically, many deaths occurred in spring. Most of his commissioned urns were requested right before the vernal equinox, and seeing you running around in a sleek, black suit was a sign that spring was here. Today though, you were wearing what you usually wore, albeit a little more fashionable.

“Well, today, there were no funerals scheduled, so I had some liberties in taking the entire day to ourselves. I do have someone I want you to meet though, if that’s okay with you.”

A smile wasn’t appropriate for the conversation topic, but you managed to muster a small one towards your companion. You took the cold cup of coffee you brewed for them and slowly sipped its contents. Sunghoon left his own cup untouched—caffeine was unnecessary when you were in his line of sight.

“Who?”

You placed the mug down as you fidgeted with your seat. You then tapped your finger on your lips and gave him a cheeky wink.

“It’s a surprise!”

Although your playful attitude was refreshing to him, his curiosity won him over. Each plea from him to reveal the mystery guest he was going to see was only met with you doubling down on your secrecy. He eventually gave up, huffing to the side as he crossed his leg on one of the stools.

Timid patterns of your fingernails tapping onto the surface of the ceramic mug filled the air. The ticking of the clock continued to echo across the entire room. you whistled a tune that sounded familiar and unknown at the same time, which made Sunghoon ponder its origin. He wanted to believe that it was the same tune he’s heard in his dream, but such a twist of fate seemed too far-fetched. Silence was usually something he didn’t mind when he was with you. Being next to you and feeling your presence was enough for him, and there was a part of him that found earthly comfort in you.

“I,“

You heaved a sigh. He didn’t know what it meant, but what he knew at the moment was how rare it was for him to see you distressed in the slightest. False hope was a deep kick in the brain, and he raveled in the myriads of possibilities that started with the word I from you.

“You?”

On cue, you stood up to occupy the empty stool next to him. Taking a neatly wrapped cloth out of your tote bag, you untied it to reveal shards of porcelain that were all too familiar to him. There were clusters of rich soil and plant roots that stuck on the sharp corners of each shard. His entire body contradicted himself. For one moment, he yearned to get closer to you, and in a second, sudden tremors overwhelmed his nerves, leaving him gasping for a single sliver of air. 

“Please don’t get mad at me, and please believe me when I tell you this, but the first vase we made together accidentally got knocked on the floor while we were cleaning the flower shop in my dreams. It means a lot to me since it’s the first vase we made together, and I was wondering if we could maybe spend time today gluing it back?”

Your breath was audibly jaded. His eyes widened, and his mouth went agape. A sudden sensation froze him, preventing him from moving a single muscle no matter how hard he tried. Shock would be the closest phenomenon he’d describe it, and the layers of self-doubt that he’s built throughout the duration of knowing you began to peel off one by one.

“In your dreams?” He couldn’t hide the astonishment in his voice.

You gave him a slow nod after gulping. He leaned closer to you, lips forming a thin line. There was a visible plea in your gaze, which he returned with curt reassurance. You allowed your body to rest on the table’s surface, using your elbows to support your weight.

“It might seem unbelievable at first, but it’s true. In my dream, we were together in the shop, dancing to some old hits while cleaning. I think it was around nighttime, since the skies were dark and the shop had the closed sign displayed outside.”

You closed your eyes and began humming the tune whilst dangling your feet to a moderate rhythm. Sunghoon’s eyes began to grow wider, his body stiffening with every second that passed.

“Were we dancing with brooms while that vase was right in the middle?”

It was your turn to exhibit a state of bewilderment. You neatly piled the shards of ceramic back into the cloth, wrapping it in a different knot from when you first brought it in. While doing so, your shaky hands pricked themselves on one of the shards—but the pain didn’t seem to faze you one bit. Your entire body was undergoing stupefaction, and you were solidly upright like a marble statue. You tried to continue talking about your dream, but a mere croak was the only thing that escaped the invisible clasps of your throat. It took all of Sunghoon’s current strength to prevent himself from breaking contact with your dilated eyes.

“Was I the person that knocked the vase over?”

You gave him a firm nod. Placing a hand on your heart, you subjected yourself to a few rounds of deep breaths. He hesitantly took your free hand in his and gave it a firm squeeze.

“You knocked the vase over with the tip of your broom, causing all the soil and flowers to come out. And then, I woke up to the sound of clatter downstairs at the shop. The vase was broken, the flowers we planted together were also on the floor, and I immediately thought of coming here to fix it together. Maybe harvest the flowers on your balcony to regrow them in the repaired vase.”

He felt your fingers curl on the back of his palm, and he returned the gesture with a beaming grin. Your feet were now sporadically dangling on the height between the stool and the studio’s floor.

“Listen, in the end it’s just a vase, and we’ve made a lot of that together.”

He used his eyes to point at the shelf behind them. you follow his gaze, keeping your hand on his. Sure enough, the collection of ceramics he’s made with you was triumphantly displayed on a glass case right next to an endless shelf of failed pottery. Each vase and plate were arranged in chronological order, and a wave of nostalgia washed over him as he continued to stare at your rather quick progress. While you had an eye for color, you didn’t have agile enough fingers to operate a pottery wheel—the same could be said for him. While he was great at drawing flowers on his sketchbook or painting them on the ceramics he crafted, he was initially terrible at soil cultivation and maintaining flower beds. It was the parallel yet extremely complementary nature of your respective skill sets that allowed for such a relationship to blossom in the first place.

He took your hand and led you to the glass case. As your eyes hovered over your earlier works with him, a certain embarrassment began to surface in the form of tinted, rosy cheeks. On the other hand, he did his best to hide the ever-growing pride that consumed him. you averted your gaze from the entire glass case, and he used his thumb to soothe the shakiness of your hand.

“See? I don’t think we should dwell on a single vase for too long. If we glue that vase back together, the crackles are just gonna ruin the glazed finish it once had. There’s also a high chance that water might leak out of the vase since glue doesn’t specifically fix cracks in fragile things.”

The two of you were still in front of the glass case. He felt a strong aura of energy around each vase that was displayed under its glass casing. He took a deep breath as he tried to control the tremors in his body. Taking your other hand in his, he interlocked your fingers with his, feeling a perfect fit. He’s always wanted to do this.

“So, we should make another one by scratch?”

Your voice wavered, as if you were in a hurry. He tried his best to hide his looming dejection. Of course, events like this were too good to be true.

“Well, we already have a fired glazed model from last week. All we need to do now is to paint it.”

Taking his word, a grin lit up your eyes in radiant sparkles. You picked out a cylindrical shape from the batch of dried pots you shaped with him, and he added a mental tally to the chances he’s missed.

By the time the pot was ready, the sunrise that Sunghoon woke up to retained its same hues, save for the presence of a violet trail in the sky. While he added final touches to the intricate designs of the cylindrical pot, you trimmed some flowers from his home garden and arranged them in a lovely, pink bouquet. Each bud wasn’t overcrowded, and you balanced the vibrance of the petals with a fair share of leaves. As an added touch, you placed some fallen cherry blossom petals on the bouquet, giving it a youthful yet transient glow. While waiting for the paint on the pot to dry, he continued to pry you on with the identity of the guest.

“You’ll meet him soon,” You’d often reply, with a gentle smile on your face. He knew he was overthinking, but a part of him insisted that you were going to introduce him to a new significant other. The thought alone to him was extremely ridiculous and downright impossible, but nonetheless, a wave of apprehension continued to float above his head as he waited to finally have his guest revealed.

The tote bag you brought with you was large enough to fit the newly crafted vase, so you carefully wrapped its entire body with excess newspaper before gently placing it in your bag. As for the bouquet, your hand carried it with you.

“What should I bring?” He asked, while turning off the lights in his studio. He gave the flowers on his balcony one last spritz of water before locking the glass sliding door to his balcony.

“You don’t have to bring anything, really.” You patted the side of his shoulder as you said this, whilst securing the ceramic in your tote bag.

He opened the door for you, before leaving himself. Usually, you would say a snarky comment or two about him being a “gentleman” and whatnot, but that youthful manner was replaced with a gentle smile of pure gratitude. He didn’t mind this side of you—in fact, it gave him more reasons to yearn for you. The endless dimensions of your character were as multifaceted as the endless spirals of his pottery wheel, and he never wanted to lift his foot off of the pedal that unraveled each and every layer of your soul.

The pavement outside the city was lined with fading cherry blossom trees. The spring winds blew eastward, and a flurry of light pink petals would caress your faces with a touch of tenderness. There was a small river beside the pavement, which had a stone bridge perched right in the middle of it all. Sunghoon himself has visited the park countless times, but he limited himself to the bench near the entrance—where he’d have his sketchbook opened to paint still-life watercolor illustrations of the fleeting people that ebbed and flowed with the flows of the river.

You hoisted your tote bag tighter, gripping its strap as you continued to walk. You were approaching a slight inclination that led to a miniature stone bridge that separated the river. He continued to follow you, watching your unwavering, determined figure with awe as you walk past all the greeneries, flowers, and marble headstones that he suddenly felt himself drawn to. 

The entire walk from his studio to the park was in sheer silence. There were many questions that plagued his head, but at the same time, he took note of your secrecy. He couldn’t feel any malice to your slight stoicism and withdrawal. However, the curiosity that continued to consume him persisted.

Before walking away from the bridge, he took a mental note of the location. It was constructed in a typical ancient Korean fashion, which gave him several ideas for his next exhibition. Most of his works centered around floral themes ever since he met you, and he realized the redundancy in his craft. Maybe adding a body of water amidst the flowers he’d often paint would accentuate his vases and pots.

“You know,” you began, keeping your eyes in front of the road. Tall marble slabs began to appear in his line of sight, and he admired each of their craftsmanship. Perhaps, in another life, he would have chosen to become a marble sculptor. There was an allure in the macabre nature of funeral proceedings, and he was sure that each headstone he would produce would harbor an even graver symbolism than the urns that were commissioned to him. 

“I don’t know if I told you this, but you’re always in my dreams.”

He stuffed his hands in his pockets. Rows of black and grey marble headstones bore Chinese characters. In the corner of each headstone, there were greyscale photos of faces that each told a different story. You were an amazing florist to everyone else, but to him, you are a professional at subjecting his vitals to rigorous gymnastic routines.

“What do you mean?” There was no point in asking this. He predicted the answer to bear an uncanny similarity with his own nightly experiences. There was also a part of him that didn’t feel the need to tell your his side of things—there was always a telepathic connection between them, and some parts of him believed that you already knew he experienced the same phenomenon.

The two of you were approaching a colorful gateway that smelled like paint thinner. The primary colors were flashy, which was almost ironic given the monotony that existed past the gateway. The golden sign shone with the setting sun, and the watchful eyes of the two guardian lions on each side of the gate stalked your every move as the two of you walked inside. While it was his first time entering such a place, your automatic strides juxtaposed his wandering eyes.

“When Madame Mo called me to arrange your birthday bouquet, I began seeing a face that looked exactly like yours. That time we didn’t know each other, so I did my best to memorize your facial features in case I’d forget them when I woke up.”

You stopped in front of a little wooden stall by the entrance. Taking your wallet out, you temporarily handed the bouquet to Sunghoon. you thanked the monk, receiving three thin incense sticks and a candle with a matchbox in return. He offered to continue holding the bouquet, which you apologetically agreed to. you slipped a single incense stick into the breast pocket of Sunghoon’s suit jacket, patting it in place before resuming your stride.

“Anyway, I’d get these crazy fevers whenever I dreamt about you, and I never really remember what I saw in my dreams aside from you and a vase between us. I still don’t know what it means, but maybe he might have the answers.”

He?

Your footsteps came to a halt. The two of you were now in front of a wide, obsidian headstone. Unraveling the cylindrical vase from its newspaper wrapping, you positioned it right next to the headstone. Then, you gently placed the bouquet of flowers inside the vase, using a bucket filled with water nearby to add its contents inside the vase. There was a photo of a man that looked like he was in his late fifties. He had a gentle smile on his face, and he bore a certain resemblance to you.

You took the matchbox and lit the incense sticks. Sunghoon hastily pulled his own stick out of his pocket and used the heat of your two sticks to light his own. The floral notes of the sticks wafted into the air, followed by a spicy undertone that gave your nostrils a light kick. You clasped your hands in prayer, closing your eyes shut. He followed suit, bowing at a slightly steeper angle than you. A few minutes of silence filled the vastness of the cemetery. A soft clap signaled the end of your prayer, and the two of you lifted your heads up in unison.

“Dad, meet Park Sunghoon, the man in my dreams.”

All at once, the suspicion that Sunghoon bore dissipated into thin air. It was now replaced by a tinge of guilt that bore holes in his heart. On cue, he gave the headstone a long, steep bow.

“Dad, you told me that I’d know who my soulmate is if I get a high fever after dreaming of them. Here he is, and I hope you’ll watch us from above.”

Sunghoon continued to keep his head down. The sudden shock of it all was hard to contain. you tapped his shoulder, telling him it was okay to raise his head up now. you waved a quick goodbye to the headstone, before walking back to the gate of the cemetery.

The winds continued to blow eastward, with distant petals of cherry blossoms caressing your cheeks as the two of you walked on.

“I originally wanted to use the vase we first made together, since I’d imagine that held more longevity between us.”

Instead of looking forward, your eyes were now towards him. He kept his hands in his pocket, but he returned eye contact nonetheless. Even if he was extremely satisfied with the outcome, he still didn’t know how to go about it.

“I guess you were right about the vase. It had to break for us to make this new one.”

He nodded in agreement. The two of you shared a smile as you walked past the colorful gates of the cemetery. There was no need for physical contact anymore, as the two of you felt the clays of your hearts spin into one, intricate vase.

His brows furrowed at the sight of you slurping the cold can of beer in your hands. You promised to stay sober for the year, but here you are now. The streetlights glowed brighter as the two of you continued walking in the direction that the wind blew—after all, these streets were a product of your feet’s muscle memory. To get lost in them was a phenomenon that was outright impossible. Even if Jongseong were to lose himself in such a familiar place, he always knew how to get himself back on track. Maps and directions were a thing of the past to him—all he needed was your soft hair swaying back and forth with the wind. It was like a compass to him, directing him towards a path that led him straight back to you. 

“Aren’t you cold?” He asked. Drawing the fleece cardigan closer to his neck, he watched as you casually continued your stride, elegantly timing your sips with an invisible metronome that ticked with the skies. Even if he hated seeing you like this, he couldn’t help himself. You were a sight to behold, even if your lack of sleep added an extra shade of violet under your eyes. 

“I don’t know,” You replied with a nonchalant shrug. Your sips came to a jagged halt, and you began twirling the can of beer between your fingers. The viscosity of the liquid swirled with life, stirring an enigmatic episode within the cages of your heart. 

“You don’t know a lot of things,” He said. 

Bubbly. 

That was a funny word—and yet, it was the perfect fit. Your stomach breathed in gassy gasps of air that gargled in acidic tones, just like how your heart hiccuped with the blurred, hazy sight of Jongseong’s shadows. 

“I sure don’t.”

A sip of beer usually didn’t do anything to you. Being numb to the effects of alcohol was something that you prided yourself in—and yet, as you walked side by side with Jongseong, you began to feel light-headed. You felt your strides lose their natural balance as your body swayed back and forth. Feeling his worried gaze gleam over you made you exaggerate your intoxication even more. What can you say? You were always a callously sly one. 

You held the can to your companion of the night, who shook his hand. 

“I’m trying not to drink too much.”

Jongseong was never a heavy drinker. He was also someone who didn’t spend too much time socializing, keeping his small circle contained in a tin of sweet, assorted cookies with different tastes and shapes. 

The sound of the river was coming closer, and you suddenly picked up your pace. Looking back, you saw that Jongseong didn’t do the same. There was a gentle smile on his face as he trailed behind you, eyes focused on the entire scene ahead of him. 

Being the theater kid that he is, he was rather selfish when it came to the spotlight—but that all changed when he met you. In his life, you were always in the lead. 

At first, this was something he loathed. Why did someone like you have to ooze an innate charisma that he spent his entire career practicing for? It was unfair, considering your lack of experience with dramaturgy. The way you simply pulled everyone in with your smile and energy—of course, this was all before you mellowed down into the state that you were in now, the “you” that he was currently at odds with. 

It was only when he lost that part of you where he realized how much he missed seeing you the way you were then—bold, energetic, and assertive. 

Nonetheless, he didn’t mind where you were now. If your iridescent disposition put you at odds with him, then your calm, solemn gaze was what pulled him in even further from his grasp. It was perhaps in his later years of friendship you, when you began to listlessly live your life. Floating across time and space in an apathy that made your lips firm, he had to admit that your sudden pensiveness put him in a trance that stopped all the clocks around him. Which side of you was your true self was a question he didn’t bother answering—real or not, it was putting two and two together that snapped a line of rationality within him. 

An actor had to have dimensions, and you had all of them. 

“Jay, take my hand.”

Your voice was like a spell that couldn’t be broken—enchanting, unwavering, and ever so alluring. There was a certain mysticism that he found himself inebriated by (that was probably why he refused to drink whenever he was with you). 

The few people that walked around the streets seemed to stop—in fact, everything seemed to stop around him. The cold air that cut through the distance between the two of you turned warm. As his hand met your, a shiver of clashing temperatures gave him an electrifying shock all the way down to his spine. The icy sweat that protruded from his palms mingled with the residue of the canned beer that you grasped onto throughout your nightly walk beside him. He was sure he was supposed to feel even colder, but everything was on fire. Temperature was a lost concept now, and the thermometer of his body shattered in an instant. It was as if endless liquids of mercury had poisoned him all at once, rendering him into a state of hypnotized rigor mortis. 

The moment he took your hand, you yanked it towards the stairs that led to a meadow that overlooked the large river. He was no longer lagging behind you, and you were no longer in front of him. Your feet synched up with his in a BPM that he couldn’t recognize—in fact, he wasn’t aware if such a tempo existed at all in the history of music. Every aspect of you was all over the place, and yet it all aligned in perfect synchronization; your heartbeats were one, the speed that both of you sprinted in collided into a uniform acceleration, and your breaths circulated oxygen in unison. 

Your footsteps came to a halt the moment he felt tall bits of grass tickle his ankles. Words weren’t necessary anymore when the flow of the river was enough to feed the starlit evening. Even if the two of you were standing, the river carried your bodies back and forth, swaying them with the gentle breeze of the night. As his hand continued to hold yours, he felt your veins connect into one; the hot flows of foreign blood entered his system, circulating all over his body. 

When the old one spoke of this, the owner came to a solid understanding that the truth came in infinite waves of obstacles and hardship. His meager life would not suffice at all for a quest of this nature—if he should seek the truth, then he must devote all the time in the world to the cause. This, of course, meant all of time altogether. When bestowing immortality on the owner, he was aware of the old one’s tricks. By granting him eternal life, the old one was trying to tell him that the truth could only be found through infinite searching. Even then, the owner was persistent. If it took all of eternity for him to attain supreme enlightenment, then the price of immortality was a hefty one. Even as he saw his wife, children, and grandchildren slowly wither away into the hands of death, he marched onward. He was well aware of ouroboros and the cycle of life, and he was willing to persevere through the pains of loss to achieve the impossible.

I: WELCOME TO INLET WAVES

Ah, yes. Summer vacation. It was a time for students and all those that are unemployed to enjoy themselves. The sun was out, the beaches were shimmering, and sweaty pools of odor and musk were pretty much unavoidable. For Jongseong—or Jay, as he would like to call himself since he moved to Florida—it was a delightful occasion to look forward to. He could finally stop getting brain-freeze and indulge in copious amounts of ice cream without worrying about his figure. After all, it was bulking season, not cutting season. The only way he could show his guns out to everyone that seemed to care is if he had the energy to sustain copious amounts of hours at the gym performing the same, six exercises that he knows. He didn’t care if he looked ridiculous doing so; he looked great.

Apart from maintaining a Promethean physique alongside a Sisyphean work ethic, he believed that the summer season was also a period of self-reflection and catering to his parents' demands of academic excellence and a six-figure job by the end of his degree. Though he wasn’t necessarily struggling with his courses (he was told he could graduate early if he concentrated more on coursework during the summer semester), he didn’t want to live that life. That was the reason he didn’t pursue engineering or medicine; he wanted to live a little. It wasn’t as if his parents were aware of it, anyway—so long as he told them that he was attending summer school and he was actively looking for a part-time job or an internship to fulfill the emptiness of free time, he was pretty much in the clear. 

That doesn’t mean that Jongseong was truly free, though. The paradox that university students often go through is the mind-boggling liminality of having too much free time while having no time at all. Sure, he was free of all his academic obligations and did deserve a much-needed break, but was he really free when he had to look for work to pay rent and make ends meet? His allowance was already cut off after his parents found out he saved them up to attend music festivals, and cryptocurrency was a one-time venture that resulted in near bankruptcy and potential homelessness. Desperate times called for desperate measures, and he didn’t want to get an internship that restricted him to a blank, boring office. Sure, he’d earn more money, but it wasn’t in him to sit still and type his entire summer vacation away. Even if he had enough credit to spend five months of leisure under the sun, his parents’ insistence on taking summer courses already made him use his brain too much. He needed a job that didn’t ask for him to do things beyond his status as a first-year university student; he just wanted a job where slacking off was part of the paycheck. After scrolling through hundreds of listings online, he found an ice cream truck by the local beach willing to take one more employee. The thought of working at an ice cream truck never really occurred to him, but it was a job that seemed harmless. No uniform? Employee’s access to rental surfboards by the beach? No need for a CV or a resume? An hourly wage of $35? 

It was like a dream come true—but even then, Jongseong knew dreams couldn’t possibly be real. Even if he was prone to impulsive decisions, he was still cautious enough to save himself from being scammed. So, just in case, he’s prepared a resume and given the place a proper call.

With the blessings of modern technology, he had easy access to free templates online. There were many to choose from, but he didn’t need anything too flashy. After all, this was a resume for a job at an ice cream truck and nothing more. Some of the skills he’s written were deliberate lies that seemed true given the current program he was enrolled in. Heeseung was against the idea, but Jongseong reassured him that it was just a job for an ice cream truck, hence background searches weren’t as extensive as that of a multi-million enterprise or a non-profit organization. 

“Hello? Is this Inlet Waves?” He asked. Keeping his smartphone between his cheek and his shoulders, he comfortably sprawled himself on his bed. He lowered the volume of a wayward episode of Black Mirror on his laptop, saving all of his documents before closing it altogether. Professional jargon wasn’t particularly his forte, and for someone like him, he dreaded his eventual future career of offices and formalities. 

“Ah, yes! Are inquiring about the job offer?” A gruff, low voice replied in a hurry. Somehow, this tone was what Jongseong would have expected of an ice cream truck owner. It was rather standoffish and raspy—probably due to excessive smoking or alcohol consumption. Either way, he pictured a man who lived in a trailer, chain-smoking Parliaments while listening to a dying FM radio station that people his age would frequent. 

“Yes, I am.” Jongseong curtly replied, maintaining a neutral, yet subtly ecstatic tone. From Heeseung’s advice, it was better to sound optimistic when calling an employer. That way, the eagerness to obtain the job would be transparent. It was also a great way to make a first impression before the interview, since, a friendly voice would raise his chances of getting hired. After all, it was always better to work with those that were receptive to sociability. 

“Can you please state your name? Just to make sure we’re talking to the right person.” The clicking of a mouse was heard in the background, followed by the shuffling of papers. Jongseong took the phone out of his ear and held it away from his face to swallow a lump of saliva that was building up in his mouth. Could an ice cream truck have that many applicants? Considering the rather high hourly wage, he was sure there were many like him who wanted a quick buck during the summer. He believed he had an age advantage, but in terms of work experience, he was pretty much on par with a desperate high schooler who wanted pocket money. 

“Park Jongseong.” He paused for a while, then pondered if he should correct himself. To live in a country where he stated his first name first was still a habit he was trying to build, and often more than not he’d find himself slipping into the syntax of his mother tongue. There were one too many occasions when a friend or a professor would call him “Park” instead of “Jongseong” or “Jay” due to his habit of saying his last name first. It wasn’t like he cared, but he would rather hear his peers butcher his name than be called “Parks and Recreation” or any joke that had to do with the English word park for the rest of his life. Before he could correct himself, however, the other end of the line hastily spoke with a flurry of papers aggressively strewn around in the background. 

“Great! So, when can you start?” The man’s voice was clearly in a rush, and each sentence during the call gradually quickened until Jongseong was sure there were no spaces in his words. 

“Whenever?”

For a brief second, Jongseong muted the phone and began to cuss himself out. One of Heeseung’s advice regarding the call was to never show hints of uncertainty. In his own words, showing uncertainty is an immediate blunder that results in a high chance of rejection. From an employer’s standpoint, uncertainty in a phone call, or worse, an interview response, shows that one isn’t too sure of themselves. To make a conclusion based on assumptions alone was rather unfair, especially to first-timers such as Jongseong, but unfortunately, that was how employment worked. Time was never in an employer’s favor, and with the gradual shifts in the job market came a stricter standard of polishing the future workforce. 

Then again, this was just a job for an ice cream truck. In comparison to the tough competition of Ivy League applicants at a multimillion company, he would just be scooping ice cream and serving pre-packaged popsicles. It was no big deal, and he would probably get the job if he pushed his alma mater in the interview. With one, deep breath, he unmuted the call and apologized for taking his time. When asked about why he disappeared for a few minutes, the best alibi that Jongseong could come up with was the age-old lie: My dog ate my homework and I was trying to save bits and pieces of it before it was too late.

“Are you sure?” The man asked. Jongseong wasn’t sure if he was questioning his alibi, or his availability for the shifts, but the answers for both were all the same. 

“Positive, Mr.?”

“Williams. Just call me Williams.”

Williams. That was one of the names he was expecting. Williams’ voice sounded more like a Jones or a Smith, but nonetheless, he was oddly satisfied with his guesses coming true. Suddenly, he began to wonder what Williams’ first name might be? Was it John? John Williams? Or Michael? Perhaps it was William, then he would be called William Williams. Jongseong quickly opened his laptop back up to see if Williams’ first name would be listed on the site he sent his application to, but in the end, all that he found was the listing and the phone number he was connected to right now. He would ask Heeseung if it was normal for a listing to leave out a representative, but upon checking the other entries on the site, he realized that the representatives usually had their names signed below the recruitment email they’d send out once one applied for a certain job. 

“Okay. So, yeah, I can start whenever, but are you sure you don’t need to interview me or something?”

“Nah, come on. You’re gonna be working for a goddamn ice cream truck. You don’t really need any fancy qualifications to scoop shit up and put it on a cone.” Williams replied, followed by a chuckle that sounded more like a choke than anything. It was reassuring to know that his future boss had a hint of self-awareness and humor. 

“Right…”

He suddenly felt a premonition about Williams’ character. It was definitely jarring for him to break his monotonous, hasty tone for a rather lax, easygoing attitude. Heeseung has told him that if an employer were to crack a joke or two during the recruitment process, it was required to laugh at their jokes. As such, Jongseong did his best to cover up the eery hunch that consumed him with a light, airy chuckle. When it comes to pretending a joke was funny, he was confident in his abilities to a certain degree. By being in a circle of frat boys who recycled the same, misogynistic jokes over and over again, he’s managed to survive by faking engagement. Sure, he found these jokes slightly funny when they were cracked for the first time—but to hear the same bit every day? They should thank their jacked physique and devotion to the gym. If it were any other scenario, Jongseong would have shut them down immediately and done the unthinkable, namely, hurt their ego by putting their sense of humor down to the lowest levels. 

“If it’s too much, you can take your time and start next week—but if you’re eager to start working immediately, then you can come by the beach tomorrow in whatever you want. Just make sure to sanitize your hands and wear gloves.” Williams said, regressing to his former, rushed tone. It was getting harder and harder to catch each word he said due to his raspy voice, but Jongseong remembered another one of Heeseung’s advice when it came to phone calls and interviews—do not ask for clarifications. Although coming clean with a lack of clarity or understanding can be seen as honesty, it wasn’t in an employer’s best interest to hire someone that couldn’t comprehend a task the first listen. Efficiency was a top priority for many employers, and efficiency meant speed. 

Just now, Jongseong already forgot if he could start tomorrow, or if he had to wait until next week. 

“Gotcha. I’ll see you tomorrow, Mr. Williams.”

“Oh, you’re not seeing me tomorrow. I’ll call you or send you a text if I’m coming by, but for now, I’ll pass it down to a fellow employee.”

The first sentence was enough to make Jongseong lose all the oxygen that was stored in his lungs. As his breath hitched, he listened in on the next part of Williams’ instructions, heaving a sigh of relief that his unasked question was subtly answered. If he wanted to make money as soon as possible, then he was more than welcome to go to the ice cream truck by tomorrow. 

“Any other questions?”

Williams’ abrupt, hasty speech has grown on Jongseong, but there was a floating air of suspicion surrounding him that made him question if the job was worth it or not. What was outright ridiculous for him too was the hilarity in feeling a wave of apprehension over a rather simple job. For instance, why was Williams’ in a hurry? Is it the wave of applicants for a measly ice cream truck? Or was it something else? Another thing that continued to surprise him was the lack of an interview. He was aware that even in jobs at a fast-food chain or a supermarket, the presence of an interview was an essential aspect of the recruitment process. The most pressing thing that both acted as an advantage and a looming premonition of unknown fear was the hastiness of it all. Did he really have a lot of competition? Or was he sent to work the very next day due to a lack thereof? In the end, despite all these questions swimming around his head, he could only muster a nod of approval to Williams’ instructions. 

“Nope, not really.”

“Great! Good luck!” Before Jongseong could say goodbye, the call was abruptly ended. The phone number was directly staring into his soul, tempting him to call back for follow-up questions. Upon exiting the phone app, however, the number completely disappeared from his recent contact list. He tried repeatedly closing and opening the app, but all he saw was anything but Williams’ phone number. He even restarted his phone twice, only to have both the phone number and the job listing opened up on his laptop disappear into thin air. No remnant of the ice cream truck was detected in his contact list, and what was reflected on the screen of his laptop was the host site’s home page. He tried to look for Inlet Waves but all he could see were unrelated job offers that didn’t house the specific address or phone number that he was looking for. 

Good luck.

Despite all the oddities, why should he be worried? It’s just a job at an ice cream truck. There was no scenario he could think of that could possibly go wrong other than a natural disaster that was out of humankind’s control. As long as he was getting money, he reassured himself that he’d be fine for the most part. 

Good luck. 

He set his alarm for about nine in the morning, charged his phone and laptop for his classes, and closed his eyes. Good luck.

When Jongseong would go to the beach, it was often out of celebration rather than employment. He remembers the long trips in the confines of his car listening to German radio hits with his family, impatiently waiting with a PSP in hand to arrive and start swimming. The smell of brine was often accompanied by childhood memories of melted fruit ice pops and falling off a surfboard. Whenever the family decided to go to the beach, it was always during a holiday that made sure every single family member had all the time in the world to let loose and have fun. When he became a high schooler, the summer was spent on the beach with friends, drinking infinite bottles of beer and waking up with sand in his eyes. Upon moving to the United States for university, the coast was also a car ride away—something he factored in when he was deciding which school to enroll in. While he would have enjoyed a change in scenery, he’d much prefer the company of the sea. In a sense, the ocean was always with him throughout all the wakes of his life. It was like home to him, a reminder of a familiar place when things were too alienating or culturally shocking for him to handle. 

While the beaches in Mykonos or Jeju did remind him of all the times he’d bravely let his small body float into the depths of the sea, Los Angeles in the summer was a different scene that couldn’t possibly match any of the beaches he’s grown up in so far. For one, it was packed with people. Sure, it was the summer season, and everyone had it on their bucket list to visit the sea—but Jongseong didn’t expect the shores to house an infinite population of bare skin and sunscreen. Usually, there would be enough space for him and his friends to lay out a picnic mat on the stretches of sand that defined the lidos of Europe. In Taiwan, there was often an area for a family or two to enjoy their time together without the woes of a dense crowd. Los Angeles, on the other hand, felt like a meat grinder for him. Every step was an accidental bump with shirtless men or bikini-clad women, and the more he treaded further, the more he felt the need to profusely bow in apology. 

It would have been fine for him if the weather was windy—but it wasn’t. The hellish combination of intense heat waves and a tightly-packed population density made him give up a lot faster than he would have anticipated. Each step added an extra gallon of sweat that stuck to the surface of his skin, rubbing friction against a stranger’s bare skin and his T-shirt. Contact of this kind under any circumstance was undesirable, but the sweat which was supposed to act as a barrier between him and the people on the sand instead heightened all his senses. It was never good to be too alert with a single touch, especially when the oils of sunscreen intermingled with his sweat added significant weight to his entire body. 

He passed by several stands that housed surfboards, finger foods, and several handmade souvenirs. The crowd of half-naked people got denser and denser with each step, prompting him to tiptoe to see if his new place of employment was nearby. To his luck, he was able to see the bright, pastel blue finish of a truck amidst the flurry of various hair colors that blocked his view. The truck—or so he assumed—was a rather far distance from the entrance of the beach, which slightly unnerved him. Most small business would usually situate their shops near the entrance of the beach, since customers would have easy access to their goods. Some of these shops sold necessities such as sunscreen and inflatable floaties in case a family forgot, so the lack of an ice cream truck around the area was inconvenient in terms of profit. If he were to own a business pertaining to ice cream, he would definitely set the stall up near the entrance or the parking lot, so that children would gravitate towards it immediately. The entrance was also a place that many patrons were already familiar with, so the trail back to the shops would have been a lot easier to tread than having to aimlessly search for the truck across a wide stretch of sand and saltwater. 

With a final push, he was able to see the truck parked right in the middle of the sand, with just enough distance between the shore and the stone fence to allow beach patrons to pass by. The location itself was nearing the edge of the shoreline, where a distant lighthouse was perched on a man-made island of stone. He checked his phone for the time and heaved a long, exasperated sigh. It really shouldn’t have taken him forty-five minutes to navigate perhaps one of the biggest beaches in the world for the sake of an ice cream truck—but here he was, drenched in pools of sweat and secondhand sunscreen. 

Given the location of the truck, his expectations rang true. There were no customers lining up, and the only person present was inside the truck. You perched your chin on your palm as you rested your elbow on the counter, tapping your fingers to a rhythm that was too difficult for him to recognize. Upon first glance, it was easy for anyone to recognize who you were out of notoriety alone. For one, you always had a full sleeve of tattoos on display, accompanied by one too many piercings on each of your earlobe. You wore heavy leather boots even in the heat of the summer, refusing to take them off even if it was extremely difficult to traverse through sands in such a tacky pair of shoes. You looked like someone that would listen to the type of music he’s never heard of—and for that reason alone, he dreaded the potential of becoming your workmate. Taking your hand to your ear, you plucked a wireless earbud out, waving it in Jongseong’s direction. He looked behind him to see if there was any other person you’d wave to, but you answered his silent question for him by beckoning for him to come closer. When his feet wouldn’t budge—either from post-gym drowsiness or beach fatigue—you called his name out loud three times. 

“So the Jay Park has decided to work for a fucking ice cream truck, huh?” You said, meeting him halfway from the truck to where he stood. As you handed him an ice pack, you gently pushed him towards the truck’s door—which was left swinging ajar. The sudden drop in temperature on his cheeks made him shiver, but it was the perfect energizer he needed to start his first shift. 

“Wait, how do you know me?” He asked, allowing his senses to overcome the heatwaves. Your face was definitely one that he’s never seen on campus, and he was sure that he knew most of the first years in the university via social media and daily nights at frat parties. You scoffed in response, then handed him a pint of ice cream from one of the large coolers in the truck. Instead of accepting the generous offer, he runs to the cooler and plunged his head inside. Whether he was violating health codes was a worry that went right past his head—what mattered now was to get rid of the scorching heat that permeated across his body. 

“Everyone knows you, dude. You made a startup with a bunch of boys in business management,” You started, crossing your arms while thwarting off the heat with an overpowered electric fan that whirred in your direction. “I didn’t donate to the cause, but I’ve heard it went pretty well.” You left your body hanging around the cooler, taking in all its chilled sensations as you grabbed your phone out of your pocket. You began scrolling through it while keeping your eyes on the ice-starved boy. With a specific angle in mind, you clandestinely opened the camera app to position it right by his face, taking several shots in silence before tucking it back into your pocket. Once he felt like his sweat has frozen up into solid dollops of tears, he took his head out of the cooler and tended to the conversation you started. 

“Oh, you mean the app we were trying to make?”

Jongseong couldn’t form words in his current state, but he was sure he was conscious enough to comprehend what came out of your mouth. As if the heatwave hadn’t impacted him enough, the cooler’s freezing effect managed to seep into his brain, turning all his nerve receptors into numb remnants of thought and memory. Shaking his head back and forth, his cheeks suddenly felt another wave of cool sensations caused by a plastic water bottle. You nodded your head and waited until he took it, gulping its content down in one go. 

“Yep. A knockoff Tinder, right?” You asked, grinning smugly as you remember the buzz around the app a few months ago. “But instead of having people’s profiles to swipe you reduce them to sex machines—kinda like legalizing prostitution at the tips of your fingers!” 

“Wow. I don’t even know your name yet and you’re already pissing me off.”

A look of annoyance from your new workmate was a sign of victory to you. Much to Jongseong’s chagrin, you proudly held your phone up to show him the embodiment of his bad ideas. How you were able to create a fake account without the proper verification process was beyond him, but he supposed it was a testament to how flawed the app he and his friends created truly was. In a similar fashion to Tinder and Bumble, one had to register via a photo of their university ID along with a passport or a driver’s license to solidify their identity. The accuracy of the app’s security system was a process he didn’t partake in, but if you were right, then it wasn’t as secure as he’d have hoped for. To be fair, he didn’t really want to take part in the project to begin with, but with a promise of a solid friend circle in an era of lost young adults, he didn’t really have much of a choice. In a sea of trying to find themselves, it was always helpful to follow a crowd. Networking was definitely a lot easier that way, and even if he wasn’t inaugurated in one of the many fraternities of the university, it was a solid foundation to familiarize himself with seniors that had some form of connection in the private sector. 

“Good.” 

You continued holding the app, eyes lighting with excitement as soon as you received your fifth or sixth match of the day. He wasn’t able to recognize the face on her profile picture, and it was still beyond him as to how you were able to fake a university ID. Maybe it was a lot easier than he thinks? Or perhaps you received some help from a computer science major—but then again, you didn’t look like the type to hang out with the tech-savvy crowd. With your dyed tips and somewhat heavy eyeliner, you could easily pass off as a faux-woke social justice warrior who spends your time on Tumblr or Instagram spamming your followers with slacktivist infographics. Or you could be in an all-female post-punk band that swears to overrule the so-called patriarchy with blaring guitars and hoarse lyrics about freeing the nipple. Either scenario works for Jongseong, and vividly imagining these scenarios alone made him recover from the fiery depths of Los Angeles’ summer. 

“Anyway, what are you doing here? Aren’t you in like, a band or something? You look like the kinda person who’d be in one.” He asked, suddenly picturing her with a bass guitar. The instrument would probably be filled with stickers of all varieties, but that could be his creative liberties coming to play. It wouldn’t surprise him either way if you told him you played an instrument, especially if it was the bass. 

“Thanks, but nah. I just organize shows since my friends were the ones that played. Most of them are dumb potheads, though, so we’re not getting any local shows unless they miraculously boost their grades up.” You replied, stuffing her phone back in her shorts’ pocket. Tapping her chipped nails on the counter, you eyed the open truck door to see if there were any customers lining up. Jongseong did the same, and drew himself closer to the truck’s air conditioning unit. Summer heat waves and a snarky co-worker aside, he could see himself liking his new job. The view of the coastline was immaculate, and it wouldn’t be too long until he could pick up a bikini-clad bombshell or two. 

“So you’re in that type of crowd.”

“Marginally better than yours, I’d say.” You snarkily replied, grin widening as Jongseong’s thick brows furrowed within his lids. “You business management kids are insufferable.”

You occupied the passenger seat of the truck, turning the air conditioner’s temperature down to freezing heights. Below your seat was a tie-dye backpack with band pins he couldn’t recognize, and you pulled it out to grab a lukewarm bottle of water, gulping it down in one go. Putting the bottle on one of the many cup holders behind the gear stick, you leaned your legs above the glove compartment and began to focus your eyes on the colorful plastic of your Nintendo Switch. Jongseong tried to peer into your screen, but the sun blocked his view, permitting him to see a black screen instead of the game you were playing. With his phone barely surviving the heat, he decided to keep a close eye on the scenic view behind your side profile. It wasn’t to say he was doing his job, but rather, he was on the lookout for a girl or two he could talk to. Upon seeing a good concentration of red, sun-tanned dad guts and children running around building sandcastles, he quickly gave up. The lack of beach patrons walking towards the truck was another factor that made him revert his attention back to the run-down air vent of the truck. If customers aren’t coming anytime soon, then might as well mind his own business and cool down while abusing the truck’s rickety air conditioner. 

“Yeah? And I bet you’re just a rich, entitled asshole taking political science or something,” He snapped back, allowing his sweat-drenched shirt to stick to his back. 

“Close call, Jay. Close call.” You started, keeping your eyes focused on the bright, neon colors that flashed through your rectangular screen. “I’m actually a biochem student. I do consider myself a socialist, though,” 

It took all the patience and restraint in you to prevent yourself from throwing the console out the window—and in the end, you angrily, but carefully tossed it above the glove compartment, hitting your toes in the process. Jongseong boisterously laughed at your face, mimicking the twists and turns in your mouth and eyes as you massage your toes. You gave him the middle finger in response—something he took as an act of affability rather than an invitation to fight as enemies. 

“Why are you working here, then? Don’t you have a shit ton of opportunities if you’re in that program?”

“Yeah, but most of them have dogshit wages. To top it all off, they’re only looking for post-grad students, which is understandable. I don’t think they’d want freshies like me running around a hospital or something,” You replied while heaving a sigh. From the look on your face, it definitely was a given that you’d feel dejection. For people in your major, it was absolutely necessary to start networking as soon as possible. Sure, you could secure a fruitful career, but the market was a tough competition that required you to be at the top of your game. The arduous and extremely long process of entering the medical world also made him understand that you’d want a head start. 

“Makes sense.”

It was all he could say. You defeatedly nodded along, staring at the nonchalance of the beach patrons having all the time in their world to lounge around, forgetting the woes of everyday life for once in a while. You pointed at a child who fell face-down into the ocean, his tiny head twisting from everlasting happiness to an anguished cry for help. In a matter of seconds, the child’s mother scuttled about, fishing her child out of the sea and carrying her in her arms. Both of you laughed in unison at the sight, but there was a bitterness in your chuckles that alluded to a certain type of childhood nostalgia. While both of you were still considered young, it was natural to feel old in your current generation. Everything moved too fast, and all you could do is autopilot your way into adulthood without fully comprehending what an adult was in the first place. In this little moment of mutual understanding, all you and Jongseong could do was stare at the children who built sandcastles and heave a sigh in unison. 

“Damn. To think that working part-time for an ice cream truck pay higher than a residency at a hospital,” You lamented, slumping your shoulders on the ragged cushions of the truck. 

“Absolutely abysmal, right? The economy’s fucked, I tell you.” He replied, lowering the temperature of the air conditioner. He stood up and stretched for a few seconds, before leaning his body on one of the coolers. You did the same, groggily picking yourself up to check on the open window. Shrugging your shoulders at the lack of customers and general traffic that the store went through, you took a popsicle from a smaller ice box and tore it open. He tilted his head, and some form of mental telepathy prompted you to toss another popsicle pack in his direction. 

“Dude, totally. I don’t think I’m getting a job anytime soon.”

“The app failed?” You asked, biting on the vibrant block of ice.

“Nah, it’s doing okay, but I don’t really want anything to do with it anymore.” He replied, letting the cool temperature of the popsicle’s plastic wrapping ease the unlimited amount of sweat that oozed across his entire body. Summer was supposed to be his favorite season, but he didn’t know if global warming would continue to make him want to look forward to the middle of the year. “

Tinder’s got a bunch of criminal cases connected to the thing, and the last thing I want is to be a shareholder of something potentially dangerous.”

He opened his own popsicle and stuffed the sticky wrapping in his pocket. While the notes of cherry that wafted up his nose weren’t what he wanted, he decided to suppress his complaints to devour the much-needed dose of sugar. 

“I didn’t know you were the type to think that way, Jay.”

One thing that made an impression on Jongseong was how fast you ate. All that was left between your fingers was a measly popsicle stick, while he still had his own share intact. While you did have a slight head start, there wasn’t much of a time difference between you opening your own popsicle pack and offering him his own treat. What also drove him insane was the seeming lack of sensitivity in your teeth. How were you able to bite into it without flinching? It was practically like biting into ice cubes; the thought alone was enough to make him question the limitless possibilities of humanity. 

“Well, you talk like you know me when I’ve never even seen you around campus,” He said with disdain. 

“Ouch. I’d be hurt, but I’m not. For your information, though, we do share a couple of courses,” You replied, pressing your hand to your heart to ease the absence of pain. 

“Wait, really?” He asked, quickly scrolling through his phone to check all the group chats and discord servers that he was in. Upon realizing that one server had more than a hundred students with varying handles from their real names, he begrudgingly chucked his phone back into his pocket. There was no use in fishing amongst usernames like tOnYbAbaBOuie or 2B’s cum slut to look for you when you would probably have an obscurely obscene handle that blended in with everyone else. 

“Yeah. Precalc and stat.” 

You took your phone out and showed him your timetable, zooming in on the two courses that you claimed you shared with him. The slots aligned with his own calendar, and he stared at you in disbelief. To think that he would share classes with a biochemistry student—especially with someone like you—was something that never crossed his mind. The two courses were integral to his future economics courses, but it was just beyond him to share classes with someone in a completely different department. It was almost akin to that one time he showed up in an advanced Mandarin course only to be surrounded by native-speaking engineering majors who needed an easy elective to fill their general education requirements. It was, for lack of a better word, one hell of an experience for him. While he genuinely had an interest in picking up the language, he was surrounded by those who pretty much spoke the tongue the moment they were born. It was also rather amusing to see professors look at him and assume that he was Chinese. 

“Korean, sir. Korean. My last name is Park,” He’d often had to repeat in English. The professor—Professor Xu, he believed—would only squint his dull, droopy eyes and muster a tiny chuckle that was often drowned out by the large class. 

“Sorry, sorry.”

The bit became an inside joke among the Discord server for a while, and he looked back at the time with fond memories of seeing an elderly Chinese man photoshopped in videos of Super Junior dancing to the same song. 

“Oh, damn.” He mustered. It was all he could say. 

“I mean, both classes are huge so I get that it’s hard to know everyone,” You started with no attempts to console him. “But people around me like to talk a lot, so my impressions of you only come from what they have to say.”

Taking another popsicle out of the cooler, you stuffed it in your mouth as you took the empty space next to his. For a moment, both teenagers on the cusp of young adulthood lay silent in the emptiness of the truck. If this were to be you and Jongseong’s fate after four to five years of university education, then it would be rather unfortunate. Of course, it was in everyone’s dreams to reach the heights that their career path could offer. To own a successful company and be at its forefront, or to earn prestige and wealth via biochemical research both secured a life of prosperity for the two young students by the cooler—but in the end, dreams are just dreams. The dreaded fact of reality is that aspirations often fall short, no matter how hard one may try. Luck was a phenomenon that spontaneously worked without reason, and hard work did not mean anything without a certain amount of random chance. It didn’t even take skill or mastery to solidify employment—one just had to know the right set of people, and they pretty much had an easy footing into the world of adulthood. 

“Wait, so you’re in Mannat’s circle?” Jongseong asked, suddenly shifting the conversation away from the impending dread of his future. You cocked your head with disdain, as if associating yourself with the name was the biggest insult that you’ve ever received. 

“Bro, I do live shows and basically live with potheads. I’m not in a fucking sorority.”

“But from what I know, those dudes are too high to think about anything.”

You paused to recuperate your thoughts. He did have a point, but gossip was a wretched vice that all levels of young adulthood managed to revel in. Everybody talks—that was the rule in all levels of society. The stereotypes often associated with certain people in higher education didn’t cease to limit the amount of gossip that would range around the residence halls and other shared domiciles. Just like a fly, these stories were difficult to catch and kill; once its wings began buzzing out the window and into the next house, there was no telling where else it would go. 

“I mean, yeah, but they still talk. You’re not the bigshot of their convos, but you’re buds with Luca and co., so naturally, your name comes up sometimes.” 

He took the statement somewhat begrudgingly, twisting his eyebrows at the thought of being a sideshow to the main man himself—then again, this was Luca Fahy they were talking about. The man was three years above them, and he had enough time to cement himself as the father of dangerous party tricks around campus. The bad outweighed the good whenever he was brought up in conversations, but it was more so about his lack of intellect and brooding alcoholism rather than anything too scandalous or controversial—an antithesis of what a hard-working student should be. For one, he was a scholarship kid that slipped past the rigorous academic requirements with a sports grant. In their world of tiger parents and strict maintenance of high grades, students like Luca were met with a disdainful eye. In that sense, Jongseong could understand where her peers came from. Although Luca was certainly harmless with or without inebriation, it’s his existence as an “easy way out” that was a thorn in many students’ side—a constant reminder that people like him didn’t have to work half as hard, and in some ways, were gifted with athleticism. 

“What do they have against Luca?” He asked, with a glint of genuine curiosity. He knew some of the answers, but he too was a young man. It was in him to delve into rumors and gossip—just like everyone else his age. 

“Nothing, really. They just like to shit on him for being a stereotypical white frat boy,” You answered, shrugging your shoulders to an unknown, non-existent rhythm. 

“You made it sound like they’ve got beef with him or something.”

“Trust me, that’s the last thing they want. It’s just fun to shit on people like that, you know?”

You backed away from the cooler to raise your arms in mock surrender. In your small friend group, it was usually the others that tend to talk more than you, but you were still a bystander. In the eyes of people like Luca, everyone who was involved in that crowd regardless of the degree was an automatic suspect. While you may perceive all of it in good fun, it wasn’t in your best interest to experience the wrath of gym devotees spiked with ubiquitous amounts of testosterone, creatine, and protein. 

“I don’t, but I kinda get it.”

Both of you nodded at each other in unison, before subjecting yourselves to another round of silence. Jongseong didn’t know what occupied your mind during these intervals, but he was adamant about figuring out your circle and the weird stories they might tell. In the world of young adulthood, one way to find a form of identity is to align oneself with an archetypical friend group. Even if Jongseong wasn’t the typical frat boy, the fact that he associated himself with that crowd allowed people to infer the worst of him—at least from the perspective of someone like you. 

He tried to fish through the myriad of societies and circles that existed in the vast pool of young adults like him who were rich enough to pay for higher education. Now that he was aware of your lack of ties with sororities, he managed to tie down a handful of groups. One was the aforementioned “potheads,” who usually spend their time listening to obscure old music in a rented shared house, filling their lungs with the devil’s lettuce until all consciousness is surrendered to the endless rolls of weed. It didn’t have to be limited to a sprinkle of Mary Jane—everybody had their vices, and it was usually this group that had an abundance of magic mushrooms and DMT within the basement of their crack den. This group of people is usually tied to the underground musicians, who play live shows in aforementioned share houses or in discreet locations that are either in someone’s decrepit basement or located around the outskirts of town. You did mention your former job as a live house assistant, so his list of people was narrowed down even further to a single, notorious student around campus. 

“Wait… Are you friends with Dan?” He asked, hoping he hit the jackpot on your mysterious identity. You tilted your head to the side before unfolding your arms to fetch another popsicle pack. 

“Which Dan?” You asked, now putting all your attention on the conversation. 

“Daniel Ivy. He’s one year above us and he’s doing IR, I think.”

With one mention of his full name, you gave him a half-assed round of applause. He could never get used to your insensitive teeth, but the wave of pride was enough for him to swallow the discomfort down. 

“Bingo! Dan’s fun.” You laughed. 

A word about Daniel “Dan” Ivy. He was an unusual sort of person, in his sixth year of astrophysics. He was initially a star student that checked all the pages of what a model student should be, but after discovering cocaine at one of the frat parties he was invited to, he turned himself into a full-blown junkie. You’d remember joking about bringing a gas mask every time you visited him. Though you weren’t opposed to the consumption of recreational drunks, Dan’s habits were too much for any sane human being to handle. 

“And he’s an absolute druggie,” Jongseong spat, rolling his eyes at the stories he would often hear about him. Luca had a complicated relationship with Dan; he was prone to avoid and detest his habits while saving his contact information for his weekly supply. 

“That’s why he’s fun. Man’s a musical genius when he’s out of it.” You replied, pointing your fingers and jabbing them at Jongseong’s chest to emphasize your point. 

Stories from around campus like to paint Dan as a misunderstood musical genius who can only work once he’s blazed out enough, but one cannot deny the talent he has for music. A popular story that immortalized him into a legend is how he was able to craft an entire EP in one night, with nothing but an acoustic guitar, a shoddy microphone, and an entire bag of hash. It was an overnight hit in the DIY community, but the problem with the sudden fame came with his lack of stage presence and memory. Most of the songs he makes come from his subconscious, so when he did get performance opportunities, the best he could do is turn them down unless he could play in front of a crowd completely inebriated. In the few moments that he did show up to perform, he wouldn’t even sing. He would simply stand in front of the stage and apologize profusely, laughing at himself while offering the audience some of his homemade DMT.  

“Are you guys open?” A nasally, shrill voice suddenly interrupted their brief celebration. 

Both of you turned your heads to the open truck window to see a sun-tanned, red-faced mother with a pixie cut. She had sunglasses on to hide her eyes, but you and Jongseong could imagine what someone like her would look like without them—a typical suburban mother who was probably a religious conservative. 

“Uh… Yeah. We are.” Jongseong replied, while you hastily scuttled to the front of the counter. 

“Great. My kids have been in line for like, three minutes, and we were wondering if you guys were employees or not.” 

She raised each vowel with a nasal quality that scratched both of your ears, and it took all of you and Jongseong’s restraint to prevent yourselves from physically covering them. You skimmed through the glovebox to put on a pair of transparent, plastic gloves, then you skipped around the coolers to get the ice cream ready whilst simultaneously opening the countless containers of toppings to choose from.  

“Sorry for the wait.” You said, giving the customer a cheeky, ear-to-ear smile. 

“Oh, it’s fine. I’m sure you two had such an important conversation to the point where you’d ignore your customers!”

The mother had a smug grin on her face, and she ushered her two children to the front of the truck. One was a little girl who tiptoed towards the counter, giving her server a wide grin. The other was a bored, pre-pubescent boy who spent his time in the shade playing with his phone. Returning the mother’s grin with an equally condescending smile, you gripped the metallic scoop as tight as you could to prevent yourself from getting fired. 

“So, can I get your order?” You asked, in a tone that was too saccharine. 

“The little one would like a… what’s that sweetie? Oh, right. Okay.”

The mother crouched to pick her child up. With bright eyes, she pointed at the tub filled with chocolate ice cream. The mother then screamed at her bored son—whose name was either Clark or Mark—and scoffed at the lack of attention she received. 

Kids these days, right?

“The little one would like a single scoop of this one, and the boy right there would like two scoops of this one, and this one.”

“So that’s a single scoop of Kokomo, and two scoops of Barbara Ann and California Girls?”

The mother cocked her head to the side in confusion, probably trying to conjure up a smart response. In the end, she resigned to her lack of knowledge of the flavor system and heaved a small, dejected sigh. 

“Yeah… one scoop of the chocolate one, and two scoops of the berry-flavored ones.” She repeated, adding weight to her cadence as she watched you effortlessly mark each flavor down with the tip of your metal scoop. 

In a swift motion, you prepared two waffle cones on the premeditated stand. Then, you washed the scoop with ease as you quickly filled the cones with the necessary flavors. As a treat, you placed a tiny Oreo cookie on the little girl’s order for being the only nice customer out of the three in the family. 

“Here you go!”

With the force the mother grabbed the cones, you were surprised that they didn’t break in her grasp. The little girl hastily took her share and thanked her server, while the son gave the truck employees a quick nod of approval before stuffing his phone in his shorts’ pocket. Before you were able to turn back to your new workmate, the mother cleared her throat. 

“So, is your manager around?”

Ah yes, the dreaded question. 

While you were somewhat nervous, to say the least, you masked your apprehension with the professionalism of an actor. Serving her another condescending smile, you leaned on the counter to meet the mother at an eye-to-eye level. Jongseong watched the intense staring contest from behind with a perfect blend of interest and fear. It was his first part-time job, and he was already getting a complaint. Luckily, Williams didn’t seem to be a guy who cared. The only thing that overwhelmed him at the moment is the irrational fear of failure that every East Asian had to go through under the cages of their tiger parents. 

“No, ma’am.” You sternly replied, keeping the same smile on your face. The mother tried to hide her frustration, giving her a nod of understanding. 

“I see. Well, I’d like to have a talk, so can you pass this number up?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

As the mother’s figure shrunk into a mere dot in the vast ocean of beach patrons, she tore up the paper and shoved the pieces in her pocket. In an instant, her overtly friendly smile turned into a scowl, which induced another layer of fear in Jongseong. 

“Wow…” You whispered and sighed at the same time, whistling a tune that sounded like a deflated balloon. 

“What a fucking bitch. Karens, I tell you.” He replied, sharing the sentiment. The scowl that was painted on your face was now replaced with drained fatigue. 

“I get a Karen on my first shift. Great.”

“Wait, this is your first shift?” Jongseong suddenly asked, prompting you to regain some of your energy back. You gave him a curt, yet confused nod, almost as if you weren’t sure if this was your first shift or not anymore. 

“Yeah? I opened the truck at around nine in the morning, and then you came by about two hours later.”

“So we’re both first-timers today, huh,” Jongseong replied, softening his gaze at the rare moment of solidarity that the two of you shared. 

“Yep,” You answered back, raising your fist to bump it between his bony, calloused knuckles. 

The two of you decided to put your differences aside and shared a high five of newfound friendship, crossing each of your fingers in prayer to thwart the plague of Karens that occupied the beach. While his first customer was an undesirable one, he could see himself working like this for two months straight. He always had a co-worker to complain to, and a bottomless pit of popsicle packs to devour as a relief method—overall, a fine first day.

Thankfully, the two of you only dealt with a single Karen for the day. Most of the customers were patient enough to wait when the two of you weren’t paying attention, and half the time, you and Jongseong retained a sense of awareness to automatically cease all conversation as soon as one of you sensed an incoming customer. Both of your quick adaptability to the job can be rationalized by your respective youthfulness, but it surprised you and Jongseong to know that your intuition was still reliable. In the digital age, many young people are rather tone-deaf to basic social cues—and for the two of you, it was a celebratory event to witness your primal instinct retain its ancient abilities. 

Before you and Jongseong knew it, an entire day had passed. Dusk was slowly turning into evening, and the marmalade streak of clouds transformed into a deeper shade of vibrant violet. The sun’s beaming rays were no longer visible, save for the sudden rise of the earth’s natural satellite serving as a beam to ease humans into the enigma of nighttime. There was a distant lighthouse by the end of the shore that ceased to turn on its artificial beam, and for now, the building served as an idle attraction that conjured an eerie air of mystery around its dark perimeters. It took a while for the two of you to notice the dull, off-white tower, but you and Jongseong quickly diverted your attention to the act of closing the truck. 

In a single day, the two of you were able to find a lot in common with each other. One would be your utter hatred for Karens, but another rare similarity was your love for childish pranks. The entire day was spent turning the car radio on for a spooky thrill or two, or adding wasabi-flavored ice cream inside a can of Mountain Dew. Penalties for succumbing to the prank led to embarrassing, yet extremely vivid memories that would stick with you and Jongseong throughout the summer and beyond. In an imaginary tally that both of you kept within the back of your heads, it was you who raked in more victories than Jongseong. At this point, your camera roll was filled with Jongseong falling face-flat from his surfboard, his failed attempts at flirting with a beach bombshell that was way too out of his league, and his improvised rap song about ice cream whilst serving two scoops to a group of children. 

“Do it like the people at Coldstone!” You screamed while holding your phone upright, slowly zooming into his reluctant face as he tried to rhyme simple words together. The kids seem to share the same sentiment as you, ridiculing him as he did his best to spit decent bars that would probably end up in a top-ten list of impeccably terrible freestyles. You reckoned his poor attempt at becoming the next Eminem would rival that of a notorious YouTuber rapping about being a misfit and banana splits. 

Despite you and Jongseong’s seemingly ill-natured games, the two of you managed to strike an odd friendship that would help him get through two months of serving ice cream in the hellish heat of Los Angeles. It’s gotten to a point where both of you were entirely synchronized with your respective movements. While you were the master scooper of the duo, Jongseong had a unique eye for decorations. While some of his designs can be considered crude, it was the reaction of the children that mattered. For the most part, they loved his failed attempts at dotting a smiley face with sprinkles or using crushed walnuts to decorate the perfectly circular surface of an ice cream scoop with a so-called “rocket ship.”

With both of your first shifts filled with embarrassing videos of each other on your phones, you and Jongseong ended the day by scanning through a set of rules that Williams had left hanging on a gift shop magnet by one of the many iceboxes in the truck. 

Welcome to Inlet Waves! Unfortunately, I’ll be absent for most of your time at the truck, so here are some ground rules that I need you to follow: 

Stay sanitized. We don’t want a complaint now, do we?

For as long as you have the keys, don’t open the doors to customers or strangers. The inside of the truck is only accessible to employees and employees only. 

This truck was designed to accommodate two employees, so please follow the third clause. 

Do your job, and stay on time. You usually have one hour dedicated to breaks, but make sure to come back around three to five minutes before your break ends. 

Once you close up the truck, please don’t come back until your next shift. Even if you forget a valuable item, wait until the next day to retrieve it.

Make sure to use the triple lock function when you close the truck. All windows have to be closed shut. 

Failure to do all this will result in immediate unemployment. Trust me, I’ll know.

You took the piece of loose leaf paper stuck on the icebox, pointing at the third and sixth points in the impromptu handbook that dictated your life at the truck. Jongseong simply shrugged the rules off, eyeing the truck’s interior one last time before exiting through the back door. 

During the day, the ice cream truck blended well with the summer scenery. It was an integral piece of decor in the painted blues of the clear skies, and the sweet treats that it served were the pinnacle of the season’s cuisine. At the dawn of dusk, however, the entire atmosphere surrounding the truck took an ominous turn; instead of laughing children that buried themselves in the sand, silence filled the air with the ambiance of crashing waves; the reflection of the sun’s rays on the sea’s surface was now a singular, low beam that guided lost ships in the absence of the rundown, dilapidated lighthouse; the vast, beige stretches of sand were dyed in a shade of murky gravel; the dispersal of concentrated crowds left the shoreline in an emptiness that accentuated the minuscule size of the human body. All in all, it was a different dimension separate from the shackles of reality—a world of its own that lives and breathes with a certain sentience, looming with the dark veils of the unknown. 

By this point, the sun has completely set, and the only human beings that occupied the beach were the two employees of Inlet Waves. The only noise that could be audible aside from your small footsteps were the crescendoes of the roaring waves. Each interval signified the passage of time, dying the grey sands in a darker shade along with the diffusion of deep, navy hues in the sky. 

“Any others aside from us?” Jongseong asked, clasping the truck door with a rusted padlock. He entered the combination that was hastily written beside the set of rules posted on the icebox, releasing it entirely once a click echoed throughout the entire coast. 

“I asked Williams about it, but he said we’re the only ones running this truck.” You replied, remembering the second point in the impromptu rulebook. 

This truck was designed to accommodate two employees, so please follow the third clause.

Sure, an ice cream truck could be operated by a single person, but you couldn’t pinpoint a specific reason why there had to be two people in the truck. You didn’t mind your workmate, and you certainly enjoyed his company. What bothered you about the vagueness in Williams’ pointers was the emphasis on two employees. The truck was large enough to accommodate a dozen people at maximum—and to your understanding, there was certainly no harm in allowing children to experience the inner workings of the truck. Sure, parents were always cautious of a big white van, and cases of kidnapping have persisted along the shoreline for as long as the beaches existed. You wouldn’t blame Williams for exercising caution and saving himself from bad business, but you still found it odd that he, the manager of the truck, couldn’t be with you and Jongseong to actively monitor your performance and see if both of you were doing your job or not. What Williams meant by two employees also left a lot of questions that you wanted adequate answers to. For instance, were you and Jongseong the only employees? Or did the truck’s shift work on a rotational basis, allowing two people per day to occupy it? The absence of a timetable detailing each employee’s schedule could only point to a single oddity—in particular, you and Jongseong were the only employees for two months. 

Two whole months.

“Really?” Jongseong asked aloud, sharing the same bewilderment as the pulsating inner thoughts that zoomed in bolts within your head. 

“Yep. Just us,” You answered, scratching your head in confusion as you continued to look for anything that resembled a schedule or a timetable. 

“When I applied for the job, I initially thought there were only two spots left because of how popular the job is. I didn’t think that two spots literally meant just two spots.” 

You tried to recall the conversation you had with Williams during your application process. The old man was extremely vague and hasty with his answers to all of your questions—and to this day, you still couldn’t comprehend what he meant when he added an extra emphasis on the “two employees” aspect of the job. 

“Same, dude. That’s probably why they increased the wages, since no one was applying.”

In unison, the two of you craned your necks backward, eyeing the dwindling figure of the truck with suspicion and heightened wariness. Without the presence of sun-tanned bodies of all sizes, the air around the truck gained a subtle hint of solemnity. The entire scene was almost out of a cliche horror film, where the truck—which was strategically placed in the middle of the shoreline—would hungrily wait for innocently imbecilic youths to succumb to its enigmatic allure. The two of you tried to convince yourselves that in the end, the truck was just a truck. Its keys were safely tucked within the confines of you and Jongseong’s respective pockets, and realistically, nothing can activate it so long as Williams returns with the car keys. Even then, the two of you couldn’t shake off the trickling fear that climbed up each of your spines, anticipating the sudden double beam from the headlights or the aggressive hums of an engine rearing up into action. As such, both of you began to pick up your pace whilst wearing a mask of false bravado. You and Jongseong’s moderate tempo gradually turned into a slight sprint as both of you scuttled towards the entrance to take refuge within the artificial lighting of a sparse parking lot behind the City of Angels. 

“Apparently, the wages have always been like that,” You said, catching your breath. From both of your current views, the truck was no longer visible. The only thing in your line of sight was the off-white rustic finish of the distant lighthouse and the dark sea that reflected the moon’s low beam. 

“Really?” Jongseong asked, hunching down to hold and calm his shaky knees down. For someone that enjoyed the occasional visits to the gym, he was surprised by his sudden lack of stamina. You kept yourself right next to him, eyes quickly glancing back between the wooden docks that led back into a horizon of artificial, neon stars and the traces of sand that led back to the truck. Despite the irrationally spine-chilling situation that you got yourselves into,  you tried your best to make the most out of it. The image of someone like him standing next to a behemoth like Luca certainly uplifted your current apprehensive state. You stifled a bout of laughter that threatened to escape your lips, grinning at the thought of Luca as a monster from the sea chasing Jongseong out of the beach. 

“When I called him, I kinda wanted to clear out any suspicions to make sure I didn’t apply for a scam or something. He said that the hourly wage has been like that since he started the business and that every year, he only needed two employees to get the job done.” 

You replied, tracing your memories back to the initial phone call you had with Williams. The pressing concern of his heavy emphasis on “two employees” still plagued your head with endless questions, despite having your initial qualms hastily and vaguely answered with a gruff timbre. Two employees seemed adequate in the eyes of a mom-and-pop ice cream truck, and the high hourly wage certainly limited a small business to hire as few employees as possible. So far, the truck itself didn’t seem to be crowded with a plethora of customers, so you initially believed that you could manage with Jongseong just fine. The only thing that continued to push your buttons was the sustainability of it all. If, in the case of an emergency, both of you were unavailable, then will that lead to the truck suspending its activities for the entire day? Or will Williams take matters into his own hands and cover you and Jongseong’s shift? Life was filled with surprises, and one cannot necessarily predict a car accident or a bad case of heatstroke. 

“Damn. If he only needed two, I wonder why there aren’t any repeaters? I’m sure with such a high wage, people would be willing to work as ice cream scoopers forever.”

“Well, yeah—but then again, this is a short-time gig. I don’t think you can make a stable income off of something that only happens in the summer or something.”

“True.” He nodded. Once the two of you managed to recover from your arbitrary sprint, you made your way to the only sanctuary that the two of you knew—the golden arches. The sight of the sign alone made you and Jongseong’s stomachs impatiently grumble for sustenance—clearly, ice cream and popsicles weren’t the best substitutes for a full meal. 

“So that’s about two-ish months with you, huh?” He suddenly asked, hovering his feet to the automatic doors that led them to a cornucopia of oily, deep-fried finger foods. 

“Yep.” You replied with a curt nod, feasting your eyes on the picturesque, neon-lit menu above the counter. Taking your phone out, you hastily scrolled for a coupon you could use. Even if fast food was cheap, the hardships of a tight budget got the best of you. What can you say? You’re just one of many first-world youths who didn’t have enough money to buy proper groceries. 

“You know, you’re not that bad as a co-worker.”

Jongseong took his wallet out and prepared his credit card. The last time he checked its balance was about two weeks ago, when he needed to repair his phone’s screen after a hazy night. How he broke it was a mystery he still couldn’t solve to this day, but his mind wasn’t in the right place to think about the event at all. What mattered to him right now was to stuff his face with meat that came from who knows where. 

“Woah, no deal dude. No deal,” You replied with disgust, shaking your phone in the air as you slightly stepped back to exaggerate your point. The glows of your smartphone revealed a buy one, get one campaign for regular fries. Jongseong should definitely get the app sometime; he was already an advocate and a regular customer for the shitty coffee they brewed using unethically-sourced beans. 

“Bro, calm down,” He exclaimed, widening his eyes and returning your disgust tenfold. “I’m not trying to get into your pants or anything. You’re not my type at all.”

“Thank fuck!” You celebrated, throwing your hands in the air as the neon yellow sign laced with curves that formed the letter M drew closer and closer. “Anyway, if it’s not the pants, then what do you want?”

Taking a few seconds of silence for dramatic effect, you huffed a sigh of immense relief. Workplace romance wasn’t in your best interest, especially with a boy who aligned himself with the buffoonery of a fraternity. 

When you and Jongseong entered the establishment, the line stretched up to the tip of the door—which opened and closed with each movement the two of you made. Now, it was your turn to order, and you slightly bowed your head before shoving the digital coupon on the cashier’s face. This was understandable—even if the body of a college student survived a few days of dry fasting. The combination of intense heat waves and a relatively high sugar intake naturally spiked both your appetites a lot faster than usual. 

“Your name?” He asked. “We’re working together for a while, so might as well give me something to call you, or else I’m gonna have to resort to ‘pothead’ or ‘Dan’s bitch.’” 

You tossed your backpack on top of a nearby seat, keeping a watchful eye in case it miraculously disappears. While your phone and wallet were in the safety of your short pockets, your backpack had a precious commodity that would plunge you into an endless era of depression if it were to suddenly vanish. It wasn’t the collection of hand-drawn chemical formulas within the thick binders of her notebook, nor was it the bomber jacket you recently purchased from a nearby thrift store—it was, of course, your Nintendo Switch. How else were you going to keep yourself busy on the bus ride home? What would happen to your infinite hours of Dark Souls or Mario Kart on the console? The thought alone made you shudder, for you were well aware of your looming, brooding addiction to the game. 

“Ew to both,” You replied, keeping your neck craned towards your unprotected backpack. With hawkish glued to the empty seats occupied by your bag, you stuffed your hands in your pocket and fished out your university ID, giving him a couple of seconds to read each alphabet of your name. Once you heard him heave a satisfied hum, you placed your ID within the linings of your phone case, patting it twice to ensure its safety. 

“Yep, definitely never heard that name around campus,” He said. You shrugged once for acknowledgment and twice to massage the tenseness that developed around your shoulders. The two of you took your trays from the counter and plopped yourselves on the hard, plastic chairs of the restaurant. For an added measure of security, you placed your tie-dye backpack on your lap, hugging it with one arm to convince yourself that all was not lost. 

“I like to lay low,” You finally mustered under bated breath. 

“A+ for effort then.” He replied, waving a fry to your face. 

In a world-breaking record of speed eating, the two of you have managed to finish your meals. For Jongseong, it was no surprise that you devoured your burger in one go. After all, this was the same girl that bit into popsicles; your teeth were probably numb to all forms of culinary textures. On the other hand, it was somewhat entertaining for you to see your lean, yet muscular workmate stuff a Big Mac in his mouth. Even if he didn’t have Luca’s exact physical build of bulky masculinity, his appetite was probably enough to propel him into the stratosphere of the fraternity. 

“Wait, if we have to be here every day, then what will happen to the rest of my summer?” He suddenly asked, folding an empty burger wrapper into a lopsided airplane. Jongseong had already reserved tickets to Coachella, spending at least half of his allowance to see his favorite rappers live. 

“You can attend those and just stop by whenever you’re free,” You replied with a reassuring smile. Your schedule was pretty much a blank canvas. There were a few basement shows and tavern gigs lined up that you had to attend, but you could cancel those anytime. There was only so much you could do to support your friends, and it wasn’t like they took things personally. In fact, your free spot could probably turn into extra profit if you decided to take your name off their RSVP list. 

“I don’t have a lot going on so I think I’ll be working nine-to-five every day.” 

Your face suddenly twisted into a frenzy as you took your phone out of your pocket. In an immediate act of empathy, Jongseong lent his power bank—something you took with fervent gratitude. It was a testament to your generation to automatically know when someone’s phone was hanging on its last life, and you commended Jongseong for having basic levels of contemporary common sense. Once you started to feel the electric buzz that permeated from your phone, you opened your calendar to show him your sparse schedule. He eyed each date with envy, prompting you to physically rub your phone screen on his long, protruded nose. 

“I thought you were doing premed.”

“Biochem—but anyway, I want a proper summer vacation, you know?” You corrected, rolling your eyes at the common mistake. “I can’t be assed to study every single day, first’s year’s already been so tough.” 

In a moment of silence, both of you extended your prayers to a bleak future of dedicating your youth to academic excellence and corporate slavery. The transition from general education into a narrow, more specific route certainly caught both of you off-guard—but it was a matter of committing to a specialized path that continued to overwhelm your age group with doubt. Humans were spontaneous creatures, and especially with the emphasis on self-discovery, it wasn’t out of the question to impulsively switch majors or drop out of university altogether. Although not a single word was uttered between you and Jongseong, both of you were fully aware of the heavy weight that tipped your scales in favor of the path you’ve chosen for yourselves at the very start—even if, eventually, the trials and errors you’d faced with would prompt you and Jongseong to yearn for an escape. 

“Man, if only I wasn’t caught high out of my mind by my parents, I wouldn’t be stuck with this stupid job.” He said, heaving a sigh to end your momentary period of prayer. 

“I’m not your therapist, dude. Take that to the uni’s counseling services or something.”

“Rude.”

With a single shrug, you hoisted your backpack strap to your shoulders, carrying your empty tray with your free hand. Jongseong gave you a puzzled look, before succumbing to peer pressure and picking his own tray up. After the two of you dumped your trash into its designated area, you stacked your trays up, causing most of the restaurant’s patrons to eye the two of you with a blend of curiosity and bewilderment. You slightly bowed and mustered a quiet sorry to the employees stationed at the cashier, tightening the straps of your backpack to make sure it doesn’t fall off your back. You took your phone out to search for the nearest bus stop, prompting Jongseong to shake his hand towards it. He pointed his thumb to the bus stop right in front of the restaurant, and you offered to walk with him—this was met with boisterous teasing on his end, but you managed to thwart each attempt with petty blackmail. 

“So, what’s Williams like?” He asked, stuffing his hands in his pocket. The next bus would arrive in thirty minutes, allowing both of you to do as you please with your sudden abundance of free time. You clandestinely took a cigarette box out of your backpack, checking your parameters until you could securely revel in the act of damaging your lungs. 

“Never met him.” You replied, lighting a cigarette against his direction. 

“Really?” He asked. You offered one to him, but he turned it down with a polite nod. Something about his mother raising him to never partake in smoking even if he drank to the detriment of his liver drove the point in you to continue huffing and breathing the murky smoke in your mouth. 

“Yeah dude, I don’t think we’ll ever see him. It’s one of those rare jobs where you just get paid and never see the boss.”

You momentarily turned your back on him, huffing a swirl of smoke that danced in the humid summer air. 

“Is that even possible?”

“I don’t know—then again, I don’t really care. As long as I get the money I’m pretty much set.”

A police siren was heard from the distance, prompting you to stuff your lighter in your pocket. The half-lit cigarette was now on the ground, which you stubbed with your sandals’ heels. In an effort to contain your bad habits, you zipped the cigarette box into the safety of your backpack’s front pocket. 

“I don’t blame you, dude. I feel the same.”

“Anyway, what time are you coming tomorrow?”

The police car, painted in anti-colors, zoomed past the bus stop in a frantic drive. Jongseong pulled his phone out to check his timetable, then relayed the necessary information to his new co-worker. 

“Around eleven-ish or twelve? I have brunch with some of the brothers, so I could drop by at around noon or something.”

“Aight, gotcha. See you, dude.”

The bus’ engine whirred with fervor, giving her the cue to leave. With a quick salute, you pulled a compact, plastic charging case, stuffing your ears with two, white buds. Jongseong hopped into the bus, returning your gesture of farewell with a traditional wave. As the bus closed its doors and regained momentum, he realized he’s forgotten the most important aspect of a newfound friendship. 

Your number.

Eventually, Jongseong was able to obtain your contact information through a slew of awkward questions and fervent teasing on your end. As an added bonus, he also received your Playstation ID, adding a nightly routine of Destiny raids and Warzone matches to his timetable. While you vehemently refused to join his team due to your complete aversion to frat boys, he, on the other hand, managed to put his preconceptions aside to join your Discord server full of potheads. Truth be told, your circle did have the better players, so he found himself making excuses to abstain from attending frat-organized game nights of beer and pool. It also didn’t help that their brand of humor tickled him to infinite depths in comparison to his current group of friends, further tempting him to switch allegiances once and for all. 

Breaks and any type of free time the two of you had at the ice cream truck were spent playing PUBG or—dare you say it—Clash of Clans on your phones until your battery died out—which eventually led to anger-fueled Smash Bros matches on your Switch. The game was notorious for being the harbinger of doom in friendships and relationships alike, so naturally, each match almost always ended in either one or the other rage-quitting. Both parties managed to exercise restraint, but the urge to hurl the controller out into the beach increased with each decisive loss. Between you and Jongseong, you were more adept with the roster of characters the game had to offer. In your case, however, you had more time to practice by fighting against CPUs on bus rides to and from campus. Your fingers were also extremely familiar with the location of the buttons, so it was a matter of muscle memory and a heightened reaction time that aided you in your quest for victory. Acknowledging the lack of balance between you and Jongseong, you initially offered to play your worst character, Bayonetta. In exchange, you gave him time to practice and experiment with the roster until he could find someone he was comfortable with. Despite this, however, you managed to win four consecutive matches before he reluctantly forfeited. 

“I’ll get my own Switch, and I’ll avenge Samus with all my heart.” He said, balling his fists with faux fury. 

“If you do get your own Switch, you better start practicing ASAP. I’ve been too nice to you in our matches.” You replied, tucking your Switch back inside your signature tie-dye backpack. 

Of course, the two of you managed to do your job despite the many distractions. Your peripheral vision never ceased to betray you, so you’d usually pause a match five minutes before a customer walks to the counter. You and Jongseong also set timers in your phones—if the battery was safely charging in one of the truck’s many outlets—to give your brains some rest. Dormancy aside, the unbridled rage that came with losing a Smash Bros match made Jongseong’s blood rise faster to the head than the hot and humid weather of Los Angeles. If he didn’t want to risk a potential stroke, then he had to allow his mind to cool down from his expected defeat against your years of skill. 

He’s already suffered enough from the embarrassing penalties you’d often subject him to in your ongoing prank war with him, but the added weight of losing against you in games doubled his suffering tenfold. At this rate, your phone was filled with snippets of Jongseong’s penance—such as, but not limited to: Serenading a group of bikini-clad teenage girls with a toy ukulele from the gift shop; improvising cringy raps that paled in comparison to the professionals at Coldstone Creamery; cracking a “deez nuts” joke whenever a customer chose cashews or pistachios for their toppings; walking around the beach in daisy dukes for a solid hour; reading “The Communist Manifesto” out loud in front of a beach patron that sported a MAGA hat; shouting the lyrics to “I Want it That Way” by the Backstreet Boys on the way back to the ice cream truck after getting temporary frosted tips at a nearby salon. 

Next to the set of rules that Williams pinned on the ice box was a compact whiteboard with a magnetic pen attached in its corner. The lines that etched the once pristine canvas of the whiteboard encompassed all of Jongseong’s cringe-worthy moments. One may think that most of the tally detailed the relentless social torture that he was subjected to, but it’s an equal balance between your cruelty and his failed attempts at basic flirting. Whenever a woman that looked your age managed to stop by the truck, he would always try to strike unnecessary conversations that eventually lead to first-degree second-hand embarrassment. One time, he tried to compliment a girl by calling her “shawty”—which didn’t end too well. The girl called her boyfriend, and if it wasn’t for your act of mercy, he would’ve been pummeled to death. Charity wasn’t the sole reason for your sudden act of kindness either—you were just following company policy, i.e., rule number three in the loose leaf paper of Williams’ sloppy handwriting. Either way, this somehow didn’t stop Jongseong in his pursuit of a summer fling, and he would continuously use his time at the counter to prove that he was perhaps the worst casanova in town. 

“Do you want the tally, bitch boy?” You asked, taking the whiteboard out from the ice box. As you added another line to the whiteboard, your eyes trailed behind a group of girls walking away from the shop in shorts and crop tops, each carrying a waffle cone with vibrant scoops of fruity ice cream. The two of you huddled in a corner to take several pictures of their order—which eventually ended in unsatisfactory shots and a melted pool of sticky sugar. Jongseong had made a miserable attempt at trying to obtain their social media, with the forbidden tactic of dad jokes utilized in his pursuit. 

Today was a Sunday, and to you and Jongseong’s surprise, both of you never got an influx of customers waiting to buy a scoop or two of ice cream. A Sunday also meant that the two of you had nothing going on, so you spent the entire day lazing around the truck, either playing PUBG with Jongseong on your phone or pulling childish pranks on each other. It was a slow day like usual, and approximately seven days were enough for Jongseong to fully retire from his quest to defeat you in Smash Bros. He decided it was best for him to wait until his paycheck arrived, so he could get his own Switch and practice with Zero Suit Samus—no, not the regular kind. Zero Suit Samus. 

“Fuck off.” He replied, abruptly taking his latex gloves off and tossing them in a nearby trash can. 

“I wrote you a tally, Jay. Come on, look,”

YOU RULE:

YOU SUCK: IIII IIII I

“That’s not fair!” He exclaimed, trying to take the whiteboard off your hands. You held it up high while hastily backing away from him, feet memorizing the truck’s interior. In a short game of cat and mouse, you were the victor again, using the complementary strings behind the compact whiteboard to hang it in a location that was too high for both of you to reach into. Your vehement, gaudy cackles gradually replaced the mellow tones of The Beach Boys that were playing from the truck’s rundown radio, which seeped out from the open windows and into the vast stretches of sand. A few patrons nearby turned their heads towards the two, causing you to cease your laughter with a polite apology and a wave of amicability. 

“Nothing’s fair in life, Jay. Suck it up and accept that you suck.” You said with a kick of venom in your cadence, pointing to the tally above one of the truck’s shelves with pride. 

“Well, if I suck, you swallow.” He replied, using his fingers to imitate a blowjob. 

“At least I won’t get pinkeye.” 

“Fuck you.”

He held the sacred middle finger in the air—which you politely returned with two of your own. Using your proximity to one of the coolers in the truck, you absent-mindedly opened its doors to satisfy your daily popsicle intake. 

“I still get the last word, since that doesn’t count as proper banter.”

“Whatever. There’s someone walking towards the truck so we should probably stop talking.”

From the corner of you and Jongseong’s eyes, you could see a couple walking toward the counter. In a quick game of rock paper scissors, you heaved a sigh of defeat. You didn’t mind the role of serving customers at all; it was more so the fact that your succession of victories was finally broken. Fetching a pair of latex gloves from a box, you rolled your eyes at your co-worker, who was currently doing his best to retrieve the whiteboard. Once it was in his hands, he flipped it on its empty side to start tallying your losses. 

YOU SUCK ASS: I

YOU SUCK DICK:

“Yeah, but it’s not a Karen, so we’re good I guess.”

Before the couple arrived to take their order, you gave Jongseong one more measly middle finger. He covertly returned it in the tiny gaps of the corner, plotting his revenge for all the times you’ve made him suffer. Maybe this time, he’ll finally have his own camera roll filled with your embarrassing moments. 

Maybe.

What would have been a slow day was replaced with a surge of patrons taking refuge in the cool sensations of freshly-served ice cream. Before the two of you knew it, you were speed-serving waffle cones and cups in quick succession, maximizing the wideness of the counter to its fullest. Perhaps this was what Williams meant when he specifically stated his need for two employees and two employees only. If there were four or five people in the truck, the counter would be crowded with scoopers trying to do their job. In a sense, two people were just enough to allow maximum arm span utilization. 

“Hey, do you know why Williams tells us not to go back to the truck once we officially close up?” Jongseong suddenly asked, heaving a sigh of relief upon the hypothetical end to their version of a rush hour. He pointed at the loose leaf paper pinned on an ice box, idly fluttering to the hums of the truck’s blizzard of an air conditioning system. 

You quickly shrugged your shoulders, covertly holding a palm up below the counter. Mouthing the words ‘wait,’ you diverted your attention back to the line of customers that waited for their order. He flashed you an ‘okay’ sign, and checked the time on an analog clock sitting idly by the glass containers filled with colorful flavors. Using his chin to point at the clock, you nodded your head in his direction, arms already on autopilot as you scooped up the last remains of vanilla and rum raisin ice cream. 

“No… Should we ask him?” You replied after serving two waffle cones to a pair of men in vibrant speedos. From their accent and rather skimpy attire, you were able to infer that they might be from Europe, where nudist beaches existed en masse. 

“Dude… I have a gut feeling he won’t tell us.”

“True. He seemed kinda dodgy on the phone call about me asking too many questions.”

You took your phone out to scroll through your contacts, only to find that Williams’ number had completely disappeared. Jongseong explained to you that he experienced the same thing, and opened up the site where he found the job listing for the truck. He brightened his screen for you to see, and typed Inlet Waves on the search bar. Upon three to four refreshes, both of you found nothing at all. Not a single trace of the initial listing, nor the contact information could be seen on the site. He then tried searching the words ice cream, only to have a slew of listings for Coldstone Creamery or Baskin Robbins, followed by a handful of mom-and-pop businesses that didn’t have the same name as the truck they currently work for. The need for another employee could rationalize the sudden disappearance of the listing on the site, but the qualm about Williams’ number couldn’t possibly be answered by such a simple reason. 

How did his number magically disappear from both of their phones? To their knowledge, the only way to erase a number from their contact is to manually do it themselves—both of which had a clear recollection that they didn’t. 

“What the fuck…” The two of you exclaimed in unison, going so far as to restart your phones to redo the process. After a few minutes of opening and closing the contacts app, the two of you realized that all attempts were futile. 

“How the hell do we talk to him about emergencies, then?” You asked in frustration.

Jongseong knitted his brows in apprehension, shrugging his shoulders in response to your question. 

“I mean we’re sacrificing some of our break time, but we could try looking for it? Like, open up the drawers or something?”

You nodded your head to his suggestion, and the two of you set a timer for thirty minutes. A part of you knew it was a lost cause, but on the offhand, if one of you eventually finds his contact laying around somewhere, then he could finally be reached to answer all the questions boiling in both of your heads. 

“You search that part, and I’ll search around here.” 

You proceeded to board the shutters down on the counter, stepping out of the truck to prop up a foldable with the words “closed” etched in white chalk. Once you returned, you found Jongseong on your side of the truck, flipping through the loose leaf paper that acted as your general handbook for the job. He beckoned for you to come to his part of the truck, and you shuffled your feet to the ice box. Hidden behind the loose leaf paper of rules were a set of contacts that detailed several landline phone numbers. Pausing the timer on your phone, you pinched your nose in dejection at the extremely simple solution to their overblown woes. Jongseong tried to stifle a bout of laughter, but ended up covering his face with his hands, shaking his head at the unforeseen revelation. 

USE FOR EMERGENCY CONTACTS ONLY:

213-555-0127

213-555-0117

213-555-0825

To think that the answer was just right there, within the confines of the loose leaf paper plastered on the ice box that the two of you see every day, made your blood boil with embarrassment. Truly, you’d traded off your common sense with the prestige of higher-level education. 

“Holy fucking shit forty-thousand.” 

“I know, dude. I know.”

Disappointed that Jongseong didn’t get the reference, you hastily pulled the loose leaf paper out from the magnetic confines of a cheesy gift shop souvenir. Jongseong took his phone and dialed the first number in the list of digits written in the corner. After five rings, the two of you were greeted by William’s gruff voice. 

“Why did you call? Shouldn’t you be at work?”

Jay muted the phone for a brief second, trying to process the fact that his boss actually picked up. This wasn’t a ruse, and the two of you finally had the opportunity to interrogate him. The only problem though, is that your minds were completely empty upon hearing Williams’ voice. Despite the fact that a comprehensive list of endless questions plagued your heads, all of them seemed to evaporate in an instant upon the phone call’s initiation. 

“Keep it on speaker. I need to hear it too.” You whispered. 

“Aight.”

You began to type up several questions that you tried to remember off the top of your head and gave Jongseong the cue to unmute the call. With a deep breath, he shakily pressed the ‘unmute’ button, eyes steadily kept on your phone to integrate the questions into their conversation. 

“It’s a slow day today, Williams. Break just started too so I’m free.”

“Oh, right. Anyway why did you call?”

For a brief moment, the two of you stared at each other in a state of suppressed panic. You zoomed in on the question about closing up, and he gave you a curt nod before turning his attention back to the call. 

“Uhm… I was just asking about the last rule? About forbidding us to go back to the truck once we close it?”

“Yeah, why?”

You tried to restrain yourself from interrupting the conversation. Clearly, you were the better improviser between the two. Biting into the tips of your nails, you mouthed the word ‘forgot’ to Jongseong, who thankfully understood what you implied. 

“Well, for example, in the scenario where I forget something important, like a phone or the house keys, what do I do?”

You breathed a sigh of relief, covering your mouth to make sure your breath stayed within the confines of your palm. 

“I’m afraid you’ll have to wait it out until the next shift."

“Well, why? What if I have class the next day, and I leave my laptop in the truck?” 

Williams’ end of the line had the typical shuffling of papers that both of you experienced when you individually called him during the application process. He huffed with the breathlessness of a chain smoker, then proceeded to clear his throat. Jongseong did his best to stop his hand from shaking, and both of you peered at his phone screen in anticipation. 

“It’s just the way it is, Park. Once a store closes, you don’t go back to get your stuff until the next day, right?”

Jongseong bit his lip to prevent a chuckle from escaping his lips. As he expected, Williams—just like a myriad of middle-aged professors in his university—would refer to him by his last name, thinking it was his first. At this rate, he didn’t know if “Parks and Recreation” was a better misnomer than “Jangsang.” You threw your head back in silence, balling your hands into fists as you chewed on your nails again.  

“I’ve never worked a retail-related job, so to be honest, I wouldn’t know.”

“Oh. Well, that’s usually how it is. I’m just following protocol.” 

“I understand. Thanks.” He curtly responded, masking his frustration with an audible smile. 

“Anyway, bye, you two. Be sure to go back to work on time.”

“Yes, sir.”

Once the call ended, you frantically paced the truck back and forth, searching through every nook and cranny for a security camera. Jongseong caroused in a moment of silence, head buzzing with a million suspicions that were too alarming to confine within his skull. He tried to calm his co-worker down, tapping on your shoulder to dispel your agitated trance. It wasn’t until he threatened to break your Switch in half that you halted all movement, abruptly getting your arm stuck on a tiny slither before dusting your shorts off. 

“He definitely knew I was listening in.” You said amidst breathless pants. He vigorously nodded, eyes scanning the entirety of the truck for added measure. 

“Yeah, that’s kinda weird. I mean, I think I did say ‘us’ at some point, so he probably just assumed it or something? I hope?” 

“I guess—but still, it’s kinda weird that he immediately knew I was there or something.”

To stay inside the truck after that entire ordeal was suffocating, to say the least. Although the two of you were the only employees, and you did call Williams on the job, it was still dubious to you and Jongseong that your boss specifically address the two of you. As such, you jogged to the back door of the truck, jingling your keys as a way to hurry your workmate up. 

“To be fair, we’re the only ones working for the truck, but yeah, it is weird.” He said, once his feet touched the hot sand of the coast. 

Using the triple lock function, you padlocked the handles tight, twisting the key to each designated area. Both of you attempted to open the door in unison, nodding to each other once you were sure that it was fully locked. You stuffed the keys in your shorts’ back pocket, eyeing the doors to the truck one more time before sprinting to the beach’s entrance. He followed suit, running as far as the winds took him. In some ways, this sudden sprint served as a method of anxiety relief, where the remnants of his doubts translated into an adrenaline rush. 

The two of you rushed past scantily-clad patrons, reveling in the surge of energy that consumed them. With ten minutes of your break wasted on getting zero answers, you knew you had to spend the rest of your free time wisely. 

“Do you think he’s watching us through a camera?” You whispered amidst heavy pants.

There wasn’t a need to check considering how far the two of you were from the truck. However, you reminded yourself of the seventh point written on the loose leaf paper by the ice box, bringing your unbridled fear back to the surface. 

Failure to do all this will result in immediate unemployment. Trust me, I’ll know.

Mass surveillance across the entire shore was realistically impossible, and it was outrageous to do so for the sake of a mom-and-pop ice cream truck. Despite all your efforts to be pragmatic, you couldn’t swallow the effervescence of uncertainty that overwhelmed you. 

“We’re working for a fucking ice cream truck. I doubt he’s gonna care.” He replied in a failed attempt to console your woes. 

The two of you were now in front of a stall that displayed vibrant surfboards, each sporting its own distinct design. The colors swirled in a homogenous mixture akin to an acid trip, which led you to lean on one of the surfboards. A loud ‘thud’ echoed across their section of the beach, prompting an employee to slither out of the stall. 

“You good braddah?” He asked. He was sun-tanned like most of the beach patrons in the vicinity, sporting a janky pooka shell necklace that gleamed brighter behind his skin. Jongseong greeted him with a shaka sign, showing his employee card afterward. 

“We’d like to rent two surfboards if that’s okay.” 

The employee, who fits the stereotype of a typical surfer, pointed at you with concern. 

“Braddah, is she alright?” He asked, crossing his muscular arms in front of his equally well-toned chest. 

“Yeah, she’s fine. I think it’s period cramps.” 

You weakly stood up from your rested position, handing the surf shop employee your own card. Once he confirmed the authenticity of both cards by comparing them with his own, he led the two of you inside. 

“Take your time braddah. Just pick a board that’s callin’ to ya,” 

In an instant, you regained all your energy back and stood upright, waving the employee off with a smile. You grabbed a simplistic board with linear patterns of blue and yellow, safely tucking the flat, heavy plastic under your arm. Meanwhile, Jongseong is still struck by your rapid recovery, but he eventually shrugged it off to examine the plethora of board designs in front of him. While he wasn’t too well-versed with the types of surfboards and their functions, looking like a meticulous surfer in the eyes of the public was good enough. 

“Well, I’ll try to ask Dan about the retail thing. He’s worked at Trader Joe’s and Coffee Bean, so he might know a thing or two.” You said, repeatedly poking Jongseong’s back with your board. He kicked your leg in retaliation, finally settling for a wooden board that was twice his height. Admittedly, he has surfed before, but he acknowledged that his current choice wouldn’t match his lack of skill at all. Nonetheless, he reckons that the sheer size of the board would make him look good—that is, of course, if he doesn’t fall off. 

“Gotcha. I’ll also ask Heeseung to see if he knows anything about retail.”

The two of you performed a shaka sign as a gesture of farewell, which the employee returned with vigor. 

“Catch the waves, braddah!” He shouted, clasping his large hands around his mouth as a makeshift megaphone. You flashed him a thumbs up before rolling your eyes at the cheesiness of it all. 

In a sea of people that crowded the entirety of the beach, the two of you tried to find a spot that had enough space for you to cement your boards in the sand. The population density in their current area was so bad to the point where you eventually whacked the exposed backs of vacationing people with the hard plastic of your board. In this act of violence, it was Jongseong who measly bowed his head to muster a string of apologies, eventually slowing the hot-headed girl down with his own attack. 

The two of you reach a part of the shoreline that was near your place of work, agreeing that you’ll return the boards when you close up the truck. Jongseong allows his board to fall flat on the sand, kicking it toward the gentle waves of the sea. You kicked your board upright, pensively gazing at your co-worker. 

“Wait, you mean the Heeseung? As in, Heeseung Lee?” You asked, brows knitting with disbelief. 

“Yeah, why?”

“You have links with someone like him?”

To emphasize your point, you took your hands and hoisted one of them up to a height that was remarkably taller than you. Then, you plunged your free hands as low as your mid-thigh, staring at him to indicate his moral standing against Heeseung. 

“Well, he and I kinda go all the way back, so yeah, I guess.” He replied with a quick shrug. 

“Jesus Jay, you surprise me every day.”

Kicking your own board down, you dropped the topic off as a truce between the two of you. Jongseong pushed himself further into the ocean, paddling his hands with the currents. Your dwindling figure was now a mere dot in the entirety of the coastline—which gave him the cue to stand up. Step by step, he familiarized his feet with the calm waves of the shore until he finds a workable point of balance that was comfortable enough for his stature. Surfing was something he hasn’t done in a while, and an expert could easily mark his lack of skill. For one, despite his perfect balance, his arms were too rigid. His posture wasn’t the best as well—with his stance embodying a skier’s rather than a surfer’s. You eventually caught up to him, poking fun at his odd form. 

“You on?” Jongseong asked, constantly shifting his feet to prevent himself from falling. 

“Loser has to close up,” You confidently replied. Judging from the way he looked, you were sure you could secure another victory to make up for your loss at rock paper scissors. It was the same outcome as his plight with Smash Bros—since you were someone who had enough hands-on experience with the board. 

“Aight, fuckface.”

In the count of three, a wave began to break. You quickly paddled to the area, seamlessly standing up to face the shore. Keeping your eyes forward, you smoothly navigated through the wave with ease, holding your arms out to feel the air. The roars of the ocean hindered your hearing by a small margin, so the only way you could know of Jongseong’s current status was to trust your intuition. Once the wave had calmed down, you gently fell on the surface of your board in relaxation, paddling closer to see how Jognseong was faring.  Your partner, workmate, new friend—or your favorite term of endearment, bitch boy—had failed to catch the wave.

After Jongseong’s catastrophe with surfing, the two of you decided that it was time to retire from the sea. It wasn’t the first time he fell face-flat on the briny waters filled with sodium, but it was perhaps his worst one yet. He only had himself to blame for picking a board that was twice his size, but stubborn pride isn’t always easy to dispel. 

Both of you managed to end your respective surfing session on time, but it was a cold sensation between your feet that prompted you and Jongseong to officially experience your first ever tardy; in what would have been a safe, punctual trip back to the truck, a sharp jolt of pain electrified your bare heel, causing you to drop your surfboard and yourself on the sand with a loud ‘thud.’ Jongseong, who was a few steps ahead of you, quickly cemented his own board by the truck and rushed to his friend’s aid. 

“You aight, dude?” 

“You think?” You replied through gritted teeth and intensely furrowed brows. 

There was no simple way to describe the pain that you were going through. Perhaps the worst aspect of your current crisis came from the mystery that laced its origin; no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t pinpoint the source of injury. If it were a sting from a jellyfish, you would have felt the electrifying shocks in your veins at sea, for jellyfish were vulnerable on land. Had it been a broken seashell or a shard of glass, a crimson hue would have already seeped into the pristine beige hues of the sand. No physical indicators were present, and when Jongseong elevated your feet to rest them on his thigh, he couldn’t see anything—no bite marks, no scars, and no bruises. All he could see were bits of sand that stuck to your toes, and the surface of dry, callused skin that lined your feet with an individualistic print. 

“Hey, what’s this?” Jongseong suddenly asked. In a single motion, he twisted your ankle to a certain angle, heightening the levels of pain you were already going through. A string of curses permeated the air, followed by another endless line of profanity from your personal nurse of the day. 

“What the hell?!” He exclaimed, upon having your foot kick his cheek. Before you were able to reply, a metallic ‘clunk’ reverberated amidst the white noise of beach patrons and sea waves, causing both of you to turn your heads in the direction of the sound. 

There was a wayward, broken seashell in a pearlescent shade of gradating violet, half-buried on a stretch of sand by the shoreline. What caught both of your attention, though, was a fluorescent beam that glowed with the essence of artificial lighting. Jongseong tried to kick it over, but ended up feeling a trickling tremor that numbed his foot altogether. Upon coming face-to-face with the one thing that contributed to your rather short-lived misery, you used the tip of your keys to flip the culprit out of the sad, digging it out to reveal a rusted, circular coin. It acted as a magnet upon contact with your keys, moving wherever it jingled, but never fully fusing with the bundle of stainless steel. 

“Dude. What is that?” Jongseong asked, watching the coin float in the air alongside your keys. There was a low hum that reverberated from its perimeters, something akin to the sound of a continuous vibration coming from a smartphone. He taps his ears to ask you if you heard the same bizarre noise that he did, and you nodded in response, tracing the troughs and peaks of sound waves mid-air. 

“Kinda looks like a medal or something.” 

Tilting your keys in various directions allowed the rustic, circular medallion to follow along, revealing its faded design to the two curious onlookers who bore witness to its rarity. One side of the medallion had two to three lines of writing in what looked like runic characters. You did your best to recognize the hypothetical language it was written in but to no avail. Your slight grasp of Yiddish failed to act in your favor, and your decade-length journey into video games pointed to the Dovahzul from the Skyrim franchise. What frustrated you the most was the fact that your supposed wide scope in general knowledge owing to your chronic video game addiction led to no conclusive culture or language in today’s world—was it Pre-Christian Slavic? Or perhaps Ogham? If it was indeed Cuneiform, then how did such a coin end up on the shores of Los Angeles? As far as you knew, medallions and coins of this variety didn’t exist during the Bronze Age. 

With the blessings of modern technology, Jongseong took his phone out to take photos of both sides. You continued to tilt your keys in the direction of his phone’s camera, allowing him to capture several angles. He then opened Google Images, uploading the other side of the coin to its search engine. In contrast to the rune-filled surface of the medallion, the other side depicted an intricate engraving of a mythical sea creature. Its wide tentacles circled around the entire surface of the coin in delicate curves, vaguely reminding Jongseong of the Starbucks logo. In a surprising coincidence, the first set of images that appeared on the search engine was, indeed, the deep green and white simplicity of a mermaid with two tails. He continuously scrolled through each image, occasionally pausing to show you the results. After what felt like hours of endless scrolling, only to find campaigns for overpriced sugary coffee and watered-down tea, the two of you gave up and retired to the confines of your workplace. 

“Is that an octopus?” He asked, intensely staring at the medallion that can’t be touched.

Even if the two of you were supposed to be on the job, they boarded the windows up with the truck’s complimentary shutters, ensuring that no amount of sunlight could seep inside. They locked the truck’s back door from the inside for added measure, then focused on creating a makeshift investigation room with the boxes of coolers surrounding them. You closed the windows to the driver’s seat, while Jongseong occupied the passenger’s seat to do the same. The space behind the gears, where the cupholders were supposed to be, was now filled by a bright red mini cooler filled with their favorite popsicle flavors—after all, what’s a spontaneous investigation supposed to be without the sweet, fruity notes of artificial flavorings, right?

“Looks like Cthulhu to me.”

“What the fuck is a Cthulhu?”

In an instant, you quickly placed the bundled keys on top of the mini cooler, which brought the rusty medallion with it. Coincidentally, the side that was facing up depicted the Leviathan-like creature in all its glory—and to a certain extent, Jongseong could have sworn that its intricate tentacles moved with the rhythms of the medallion’s low hums. Your mouth was currently agape in disbelief at the boy’s lack of knowledge, fingers twitching with visible shock.

“You don’t know? H.P. Lovecraft? Tentacle monster that inspired Ebrietas from Bloodborne?”

Taking your phone out of your pocket, you quickly typed what you were looking for and shoved a picture of a bulbous, gigantic octopus with glowing, red eyes and bat-like wings. Its enormous figure towered over the silhouette of a man who was carrying a torch, spreading its sharp devilish wings—which were perhaps wider than the entirety of the shores they were currently in. He shrugged his shoulders in nonchalance, eyes twisting in a puzzled expression. Shaking his head along with the slow movements of the medallion, you drew your phone back, placing it above the steering wheel. 

“Okay, who the hell is H.P. Lovecraft, and what the fuck is a Bloodborne?”

“Jesus Jay, really? Aren’t you playing for our uni’s Siege team?” You replied, heaving a sigh of disappointment as you pinched your nose. 

“Well, yeah, but I don’t play nerdy games like you or your D&D basement-dwellers.” He scoffed, rolling his eyes in the process. 

To this day, he’s never understood how Dungeons & Dragons—or any table-top system—worked, let alone the mechanisms of the game. The rules were too complex, and upon hearing that something akin to Monolopy to him required some levels of mathematics, he’s decided that it wasn’t for him. Sure, the illustrations looked pretty enough for him to consider playing it, but aforementioned, he didn’t really want to be associated with the stereotype that its players were associated with. His acne was recovering, and he certainly didn’t have a goatee. 

“Whatever. At least I’m not the one with an embarrassing video of someone singing The Backstreet Boys on the streets of LA with a full boyband getup.” 

“Don’t forget that we’re now on equal grounds. If you post that video online, then I’m more than willing to unleash your slip n’ slide adventures at McDicks.” Jongseong snapped, quickly equipping his phone in his hands as an act of retaliation. “I also have that one video of you that Dan sent on Discord, so don’t think of doing anything stupid.” 

This was the first time you had resigned your pride—especially concerning Jongseong. In your endless victories, this was the only time you would consider shutting your mouth to let him win. Dan and Jongseong’s blossoming friendship was an oddity amongst all other things, but you didn’t expect your dear, deadbeat friend to support your co-worker in his revenge plot. The video was as forbidden as the medallion hovering between you and Jongseong, and you would do anything in your power to prevent it from being leaked. 

“Fair enough, fucko,” You sighed, putting your phone back within the safety of your pockets like an unsheathed gun. 

“Anyway, back to the point. Should we return this somewhere? Like, to the lifeguard or something? It feels expensive.” You suggested, carefully placing your fingers on the tip of one of the keys, moving it around to see where the medallion would go. In the absence of sunlight, it was but a rusty, ancient relic. The iridescence that glowed within the medallion was gone, even if Jongseong illuminated it with the fluorescence of a flickering courtesy light. You turned the bright, white flash of your camera towards the medallion, and somehow, the rust that surrounded its surface was beginning to fade away. With the combined efforts of the car’s light and your phone, the rustic relic transformed into a fresh, shiny version of its former shadow. Although the rust would have attended a sense of antiquity, the medallion in its pristine condition definitely looked the part of an aristocratic coat of arms. Both of you shared looks between yourselves and the hovering medallion, with a glint of greed sparkling in your eyes. 

“Well if it feels expensive then maybe—“

“Oh no you don’t, Jay. No no no,” You interrupted, jutting your index finger on the curves of his lips. “We are not selling this to the pawnshop and splitting the cash!”

“But—“

You placed your palms on his shoulders with determination, grounding him further into the worn-down cushions of the passenger’s seat. 

“Instead, we’re gonna sell this on eBay. The folks there throw cash on anything that looks old enough.” You whispered. Although you’ve forgotten why you had to keep your voice low, you felt that it was necessary to do so. 

“And here I thought you were the goody-two-shoes between us.” 

“Jay, you call me a fucking pothead. What do you expect from someone like me?”

“Good point.” He repied, lips pursed in agreement. You rolled your eyes in response, eyeing the floating medallion with hope. 

Slowly taking the keys off the mini cooler, he tossed it towards you, who nonchalantly caught it with both hands. All memories of the incessant pain in your leg left your head with this newfound venture for profit; if a jolt of pain was what it took to earn money, then you’d gladly suffer tenfold for it. You were already on the road to suffering student debts due to the expensive nature of your major of choice—that in itself was more painful than an electrifying shock that numbed your veins. As you gazed at your co-worker, you noticed the same amount of passion in his eyes. If the hypothetical auction were to happen, then there would definitely be a bored, rich person out there willing to throw money at all the odd trinkets the world has to offer. 

“So, who’s keeping it?” He asked, tearing a popsicle pack open. This time, he picked a flavor that you often ate—cherry cola without any of the sparkling fizzes. To him, it tasted like cough syrup, but he didn’t care. Cough syrup tasted like the nectar of the gods when money was involved. 

“I don’t know? We’ll take turns, I guess?” You replied, returning the sentiment by taking the variety of popsicle flavors that he always picked. You couldn’t understand the appeal of anything watermelon flavored, but nonetheless, you were feeling fearless enough to try new things. 

“How?”

“Well, I’ll take it home first to see if there’s anything I could find about it, since apparently, you don’t know about Lovecraftian lore or whatever.”

Slowly, but surely taking the keys back into your hands, you slithered out of the driver’s seat to look for your tie-dye backpack. As you passed by the car radio, a screeching static began to permeate across the interior of the truck, prompting you to drop the keys and your popsicle on the floor. From the confines of your peripheral vision, the medallion hovered right in front of the car radio before following the fallen trajectory of the keys. A ring-like beam of white light began to grow brighter and brighter alongside the insufferable noise that bounced between the walls of the truck. At some point, an operatic, blood-curdling scream akin to a horror movie heroine sliced through the blend of static and distorted pop music, causing you to lose your balance and fall to the floor. 

“What the fuck, Jay!” You exclaimed once the ear-bleeding noises subsided. 

You peeked your head around the passenger’s seat, only to find a lack of spiky, gelled jet-black hair behind the headrest. Covertly taking each, light step back to the front of the truck, you screamed in terror at your workmate’s curled-up state. Under the glove compartment, Jongseong’s fetal figure had his knees tightly compressed to his chest, head buried within the small slithers of space between the two of you. Slowly arching his head up front, he stares at the car radio in fear before jolting up and hitting his head on the plastic walls of the car. 

“You didn’t see anything, okay?” He whispered, clearing his throat and dusting off his shorts. 

“Jay, whatever. Are you messing with the fucking radio or not?”

A part of you knew that Jongseong wasn’t the culprit behind the incident—especially when he retaliated with a much more frightened expression than you. Nonetheless, you refused to believe in the paranormal. In a friend circle filled with conspiracy theorists and believers, you were the pillar of rationality that outright rejects the idea of ghastly creatures roaming around the earth. To you, tales of a giant octopoid god were just tales—something that was conjured up by a bored, racist man in the dawn of America who had nothing better to do with his life. There was no way any of his stories or ghosts could exist. You would give aliens and extraterrestrials a leeway because space exploration hadn’t evolved to certain heights, but the paranormal was an old midwife’s tale conjured up to teach children about the dangers of the world.  

“The dead stay dead. There’s no fucking reason for souls or whatever to stay on earth when their expiration date has passed.” You’d often say. This was always met with counter-arguments of retribution or purgatorial damnation—both of which you found absolutely ridiculous. If you had died, the last place you’d want to be in was earth. Death to you was a release from the hellhole of a planet humankind currently inhabits, so why would any ghost want to come back? 

Now, the tables have turned. You won’t ever mention this incident to your friends, but you’ll remember it for the rest of your life—hell, you were more than willing to take this entire experience to the grave with you. There was still a probability that Jongseong was behind the elusive “prank,” but you refused to acknowledge the possibility that he might be a great actor. The man couldn’t even say a single word to a beach bombshell and a group of sorority girls without stumbling on his sentence—that being said, how could he have pulled off an elaborate, thorough prank? Just like your disbelief in ghosts, you knew that someone like him would never pull something so meticulously well-crafted. 

“How could I mess with it when I was all the way down there.” He replied, masking any remnants of fear with a forced notion of bravado. 

“Dumbass, you crouched right after the radio went nuts. You probably had something to do with it since hypothetically, you’re right next to the goddamn thing.” 

No matter how hard you tried to convince yourself to believe in Jongseong as the mastermind behind the sentient radio, you’d rather surrender and accept the paranormal’s existence. 

“Listen, this is an oldass radio. I can’t magically take a remote controller out of my ass to mess with the signal or something. Plus, I don’t know shit about radios—all I know is that if I turn the knob or whatever, the channel changes or something, right?” He said, trying to leave the narrow confines of the passenger’s seat.

“Well, yeah, but—“

The screeching sound of the radio returned tenfold, followed by Jongseong’s endless exclamations of pain. He leaned on one of the ice boxes for support, bringing his leg up to his chest while trying his best to maintain his balance. Your bundle of keys was accidentally kicked back to the front of the truck, and the radio roared louder than ever. In a sea of static, distorted voices and high-frequency pitches, a set of patterned beeps permeated from the senseless, ear-grating cacophony that occupied the entirety of the truck. Once the pain oinJongseong’s leg subsided, he looked at the glistening group of stainless steel. The medallion now hovered in front of the car radio, an iridescent glow engulfing the interior of the truck in its intense beam. With the combined, dim rays of the courtesy light, both you and Jongseong had to shield your eyes, bracing yourselves from the sudden burst of bright, white light that could have only been explained by the strange medallion. 

“Oh.” Both of you said in unison, resisting the temptations of the light. 

The patterned beeps amidst the racket of blaring, layered white noise seemed to repeat itself in intervals of thirty-three seconds. Jongseong hit you with his elbow, senses overwhelmed by the light that was too blinding to see with his eyes opened. You firmly grabbed his upper arm in retaliation, heaving a sigh of relief upon feeling his presence. 

“Jay? Can you hear me?” You shouted in a failed attempt to defeat the wrath of the radio. 

“What? Kind of? Hello?” He replied with equal fervor. He did hear your voice, but at this rate, he wasn’t sure if it was your voice or not anymore. With the unharmonious mixture of all types of sound and noise that the earth could offer, his sense of hearing had entered a state akin to senility—or perhaps paranoia. 

“Okay, Jay. Listen to me carefully. I want you to record the car radio. Now. With. Your. Phone.” 

You made sure to enunciate each word with a piercing volume—which backfired instead. As a person who didn’t enjoy wasting unnecessary energy, Jongseong waving his arms back and forth whilst screaming “what’s” and “huhs” didn’t help your case at all. 

“Phone. Record. Audio.” You tried again, this time slowing each word down to the point where each syllable lasted five to six seconds. This time, he responded by prying his arm away from your stronghold. The rustling of khakis added another layer to the clamor of noise that continued to play its deadly symphonies. If the two of you were to make it out of this entire ordeal alive, you’d be more than grateful to have your hearing intact. 

Along with the repetition of monotonous beeps akin to Morse code, the light xylophone of the record button momentarily sliced through the static screeches of the car radio, giving you enough time to stretch your feet out and locate the keys. With each second that passed, the radio grew louder and louder, practically bursting both of your eardrums with all the signals that jumbled up into one, sonorous mess. Crouching down, you felt through the carpeted floor of the truck until the familiar shape of a key molded into your palms. While your hearing was completely unreliable, your sense of touch was somehow still there, aiding you in hopefully shutting the radio up for good. The circular shape of a keyring curled between your fingers, and in one, quick motion, you opened your eyes to blind yourself for a brief second. Despite this, the white light of the medallion overwhelmed your sight. In a streak of luck, the trajectory of the keys successfully knocked the medallion from the car radio. 

While the radio itself plunged the truck into an immediate, deathly silence, a continuous, high-pitched ringing was still throbbing in both of your eardrums. The familiar, sweet jingle of the record button echoed within the truck, rendering you and Jongseong in a trance-like state of unknown emotions; the relief that came from the abrupt halt of the car radio into a period of serenity; the fear that came from the uncertainty of what’s to come; the frustration that came from the nausea boiling into your stomachs; the incessant, unstoppable ringing within your ear canals. 

Perhaps this was madness, or perhaps not.

“Dude, slap me.” You requested out of the blue. 

You took your hands off your ears and peeked your head in the direction of a distant glow. The medallion retained its ghastly luster, luring you closer to the driver’s seat. You felt through the ragged cushions of the headrest, then slithered your hand down to the bottom of the seat. Wool and polyester—whatever car seats were made of—still felt the same under your touch. Somehow, this didn’t ease the rapid palpitations that overwhelmed the entirety of your circulatory system. 

“Why the hell would I do that?” Jongseong replied, body still hunched down to his knees. His fingers throbbed with a tremor that came from everywhere and nowhere at the same time, and he did what he could to massage his temples. Grazing his knees on the rough, carpeted floors, he peeked his head to where your keys landed. The sight of the floating medallion made him sick to the stomach, prompting him to hastily unlock the driver’s door to empty a sticky sludge of melted popsicles from his system. 

“Because, I need to know if we’re still here, you know?” 

You stretched your torso to where Jongseong was, patting gentle strokes of comfort around his back. After a few minutes of coughing, heaving, and sneezing, you ripped a portion of your band shirt and shoved it in his hands. 

“I mean, see for yourself.” 

Opening the car door to its fullest, Jongseong dropped his body to the coastline. His head was throbbing in circles, and the sensations of tiny sand on his bare feet did little to ease the state of panic that he was in. Nonetheless, he tried to help you get out of the car, using what was left of his strength to pull you down. 

Although Jongseong could blame it on the subtle ringing that dwindled with each passing second, there was definitely something off about the beach. For one, it was empty. When the two of you finished your quick surfing session, the shoreline was still packed with vacationers and nuclear families. Adding to that, it was a weekend, which meant that the beach would have been filled until the onset of a summer evening—speaking of the evening, it was bizarre to both of you that the sky was completely dark. The last time you and Jongseong were conscious, the sun was at its brightest. Time as a construct is too complex of a concept to properly track, but it didn’t occur to both of you that more than half a day had passed. Sure, the hellish screeches of the car radio felt eternal, but at the same time it felt quick—for a basic estimate, an hour or two was something both of you could agree on. 

“So we’re not here.” 

The initial bout of nausea and fatigue quickly evaporated into a surge of panic-induced adrenaline. Each wave from the sea roared with a crystal-clear volume that made you and Jongseong feel its waters on the tips of your toes—even if both of you were far, far away from the reaches of the shore. The temperance of the winds furiously blew both your hairs upward to the point where you and Jongseong could feel a pair of large hands rip it off your respective scalps. The sands too, began to melt beneath you, plunging both of you lower and lower until you could taste its glassy particle on your tongue. 

While the world as both of you knew it crumbled into a swirl of colors, symbols, and signifiers, the only thing that Jongseong could hear was the sound of a phone being picked up, followed by a familiar male voice that asked him where he was. 

“Inlet Waves. I’m in Inlet Waves.”

II: PARTNERS IN CRIME

The first thing that Jongseong saw when he opened his eyes wasn’t the sandy coasts of the beach, or the cramped, cooler-filled interior of the ice cream truck—it was the plain white walls of the university’s residence halls. What felt like a soft duvet engulfed him in a warm, tender, embrace, sinking him deeper into the aromas of fresh laundry and floral soap. Sleep came easy to him until his peripheral vision graced him with the blurry silhouettes of two people sitting by a circular, wooden table—one, the familiar silhouette of someone he sees at work every day, and the other, a man that slowly eased into clarity. He rubbed his eyes a couple of times, but at this rate, he wasn’t too sure if he was still dreaming, or if he was truly awake. 

“So you’re finally up, fuckface.” 

“Is that really what you call him?” An all too familiar male voice replied. 

It took some time for Jongseong to attach a name to the voice, but when he did, a rush of comfort roared into his stomach. In small steps, he trudged towards what he recognized was the living room of an old friend, feeling the wall’s textured surface as he dragged his languid body forward. Once he was out of the room, he shielded his eyes from the intensity of the dimly lit candles, their bundled-up shape slowly burning by a wooden bedside drawer. He gathered enough strength to blow at the wick, encasing him with intense darkness that immediately wrapped itself around his vision. The only thing he could see was the distant, ominous glow of an all too familiar source of alien light, coupled with your traceable silhouette and a man that he initially couldn’t recognize. The screech of the wooden chair reverberated in Jongseong’s ears as he felt a pair of hands pat gentle circles on his back, pushing him down into a hardwood chair. 

“Wait…”

Jongseong waited for his eyes to adjust until Heeseung’s face greeted him with utmost clarity. Mustering a small wave at his old friend, he then darted his eyes to your nonchalant position. In front of Heeseung were a plethora of notes and his open laptop, which had symbols Jongseong couldn’t recognize. The medallion was floating in the middle of the table, acting as the room’s only source of light as it gleamed with the brightness of a full moon. A worn-out shoelace had been tied around a punctured hole in the medallion, which presumably had a connecting chain attached to it right before it possibly drifted to the shores. Under it were the keys to the truck, which continued to act as a magnetic field from which the medallion could float. The two of you quickly walked over to Jongseong and acted as his crutches, hoisting him from one arm to another and gently lowering him down to a cushioned seat. There was a batch of leftover cookies in a tin tray in front of him, and you quickly trotted to the kitchen to bring him a large glass of water. 

“You two know each other?” Jongseong asked, ignoring the anomaly that was in front of him. You sat back on your hair and tossed a cookie inside your mouth, exchanging questionable looks with Heeseung. 

“Kind of…” Heeseung replied, fumbling at his own words. 

“We fucked.” You interjected, resting your chin on your elbows. You took another cookie the size of your hand and bit its corners. Your snack was almost as circular as the floating medallion in the middle of the table. 

“Wait what—“

“Hey!” Heeseung practically screamed, face flushed in a shade of red. At first, Jongseong was fully confident in your bluff, but Heeseung was the type of guy to never lose his cool. His sudden high defenses raised more alarms in Jongseong’s head, and he took the time to look back at his workmate, who remained calm and quiet to Heeseung’s harmless nudges. 

The smile on your face wasn’t too prideful. For the short time that he’s known you, one of your many trademarks was your snarky sense of humor. Even then, the deadpan in your voice, as well as your bold, yet small smile implied otherwise—that this wasn’t supposed to be a joke.

You were also known to be unpredictable, so the probabilities in your statement were endless. It would relieve him to know that someone like you didn’t open your legs to an overqualified man like Heeseung—on the one hand, it upheld the unseen levels of respect he had for his old friend, and on the other, it also gave insights on you as a person. You had relatively high standards, and although Jongseong refused to admit it, the action in itself would have earned his unbridled respect. In a sea of druggies and potheads that you called your friends, selecting a studious, reputable man also gave Jongseong his much-needed wake-up call to raise his own standards. That being said, it was also probable that someone like you would make such a crude joke. Clearly, Heeseung was out of both your reaches combined, and it wouldn’t surprise him to know that you were ultimately lying through your teeth. Just to be on the safe side of things, Jongseong split the gamble in half—that way, all the scenarios that began to cloud his head wouldn’t be too jarring to swallow. 

“Really? You two?” He asked, darting his eyes between both parties. Before you could say a single word, a third cookie was suddenly shoved into your mouth. Heeseung cleared his throat and vehemently shook his head, watching you slowly chew on the soggy, cold state of what could have been a fresh batch of sugar cookies. 

“No, we didn’t. I was just her first-year peer.” Heeseung explained, taking a deep breath. For added measures, he pushed another cookie inside your cheek, filling it up like a chipmunk. 

“Yeah, don’t worry about it, Jay. I won’t steal your boyfriend from you if that’s what’s bothering you right now.” You interrupted, once you chewed through every single cookie that was stuffed in your mouth. Although there were only two and a half chunks inside your cheeks at the moment, one cookie was bigger than your hand, making the whole thing run your mouth as dry as the Albuquerque deserts. Taking Heeseung’s glass of water nearby, you drank it in a single gulp, preventing your stomach from processing the sudden, large intake of sugar. 

“For fuck’s sake. I wake up and get greeted by this instead of a proper good morning.”

“It’s not even morning. It’s like, midnight, dude.” You replied, jutting your chin at a nearby window. Although the curtains were fully drawn, the lack of light gave Jongseong enough to work with. The utter silence surrounding the room save for the low hums of the medallion also spoke the language of ungodly hours, and the final nail in the coffin to him was the time etched on Heeseung’s phone after a notification popped up. 

3:32 A.M.

Even if Jongseong didn’t believe in anything that the eyes couldn’t see, the closeness of the current time to a so-called “witching hour” was enough to unnerve him. After all that he could remember with the ice cream truck’s radio and the odd rules that Williams left for the two of you, it wouldn’t surprise him to find a group of cliche, robed people waiting outside of Heeseung’s apartment. If he was unlucky enough, the octopoid monster depicted in the medallion would have awoken in the depths of the beach, hunting the two of you down for skipping out on your shift. At this rate, anything was possible to him, and the idea of Williams hiding in plain sight to conceal his monstrous eight-legged figure seemed plausible enough. If that were the case, it could definitely explain why the man was too cautious about his identity, concealing it at every chance he got. 

“Yikes, Jay. That’s another tally in the whiteboard,” You interrupted his thoughts, snapping him back into the safe confines of Heeseung’s living room. Jongseong closed his eyes and took a deep breath, reminding himself that nothing will happen yet. He was still alive, and for good measure, he rapidly blinked to see if, at some point, the three of you along with the entire apartment would disappear. To his relief, everything was still intact. Both you and Heeseung were still sitting in front of him, and he could still see you waving your hands right by his eyes. He immediately swatted your hands away with a weird mixture of annoyance and calm, leaving you to grumble back in your seat. 

“Well, your existence alone would add twenty more bars to the tally, to be honest,” You hummed, giving him the middle finger. “You’re lucky that I’m only counting the things that happened in the truck, or else every single breath you take would be a mark on that whiteboard.” 

You took a wayward piece of paper nearby and made a makeshift tally that closely resembled the one you made back in the ice cream truck. This time, you added an infinity symbol where YOU SUCK was written, resulting in Jongseong returning the middle finger in your direction. You retaliated with a crude gesture, graphically mimicking a poorly-done blowjob while pointing at him and Heeseung to add more substance to your imaginary picture. 

“Fuck off,”

“Hey, break it off, you two. Aren’t you guys here for my help?” Heeseung interrupted, holding both his hands out. His voice was enough to quell the childish anger between you and Jongseong, but the latter continued to keep the look of subtle confusion that was permanently etched on his face since he woke up from whatever form of slumber or temporary coma he fell under. 

“Wait, what?”

“Apparently, you called Heeseung when we were fucked over by the radio,” You explained. “He told me we were going through the effects of an auditory hallucination.” 

You took the now crumpled makeshift tally to add another line in the YOU SUCK section.

“Did I…?”

Jongseong rubbed his eyes for a moment in an attempt to quell the nauseating episodes of blurred visions that plagued him since he woke up. The medallion’s low hums took the form of a high-frequency buzzing that reverberated in his ear canals, which he drowned out by rushing back to the room he came from. His loud footsteps in the middle of the night alarmed Heeseung, but you put your differences aside and jutted your chin to the medallion. For all its mystifying qualities, Jongseong wondered if you were currently experiencing the same thing—a disjuncture of movement in separate frames rather than a singular, fluid flow of motion; the incessant chimes of echoed screams in the form of deafening sound waves; a fear of uncertainty molded into the rusted medallion that shone an otherworldly, soft beam; ever-inviting, yet all the more nauseating to look at. 

“Check your call logs, Jay-ah. You called me thirty-two times when I was out running errands.” 

Heeseung’s voice was the savior that managed to pierce through the medallion’s effects, and soon enough, Jongseong was able to safely navigate through the foreignly familiar room, locating his phone and earbuds in the nick of time. Popping one in his right ear, he hoped that his favorite songs would successfully combat the mild case of temporary tinnitus he was currently subjected to. 

“Oh, my bad.” He murmured, scrolling through his call logs. In total, there were thirty-two outgoing calls directed to Heeseung—none of which he remembered dialing. The bright red that indicated his missed calls momentarily stung his eyes, but with enough patience, the characters to Heeseung’s name came to clarity. Thirty-two outgoing calls and thirty-two missed ones in return. 

“No, it’s fine. Had I not picked up, you two would have been totally dead on the job or something.”

“Wait, so you picked us up?”

Hypothetically, there was no other answer to why the two of you crashed into Heeseung’s apartment. With the seemingly endless lines of call logs, it was the natural assumption to make that Heeseung went all the way to your workplace, picked the two of you up, and safely nursed you and Jongseong within the confines of his humble abode. However, there was an inkling of possibilities that plagued Jongseong as his mind wandered to the viable situations that brought them to where they were now—perhaps it was an ambulance that rushed the two of you to a nearby hospital? Or maybe it was a stranger who saw both of you passed out on the sand, calling Heeseung’s number by themselves? Amidst all the possibilities, there were many ways to go with what could have happened, and the chances of a successful rescue from his trusted friend seemed too good to be true. 

Could all of this be an illusion?

Perhaps, perhaps not. With the constant blurry haze in his vision, he wouldn’t be surprised if this was all a visual hallucination. The medallion’s supernatural allure could have made him see what he wished for, and in actuality, he was probably still lying unconscious on the sandy shores of the beach all along. 

You and Heeseung leaped off your seats, witnessing Jongseong’s languid steps. Heeseugn’s touch ceased to quell any uncertainties he was currently feeling, and your attacks of unbridled pinches momentarily convinced him that he was within the safety of his old friend’s apartment. In an attempt to truly ground himself in whatever realm of reality he was in, he pushed his palms on each of your faces, feeling every single feature and detail to familiarize himself with the sense of touch. It took a few nudges and awkwardly harsh jabs at both you and Heeseung’s nostrils for him to finally convince himself that he was indeed, in safe hands. The final touch to his confirmation of grounded existence was the act of you biting down on his fingers hard enough for everything around him to gain clarity. In a moment of eureka, the medallion’s effects evaporated into thin air, leaving him with the sheer silence of Heeseung’s apartment. He was seated in the chair he had previously occupied, with a different rap song blasting too loudly in his ear. Your stares bore deep into his body, piercing through it with confusion so great that you and Heeseung hastily pushed your seats back in unison, fearing for what Jongseong might do next. While he stared at the reddish bite marks that you left on his fingers, Heeseung rubbed his nose in an attempt to straighten it, as if Jongseong’s palm had flattened his nose bridge down to his face. 

“Anyway, yes, I did pick you both up. Rushed to the beach by car, tried to look for the truck, and saw you two lying unconscious on the sand. Luckily, some surfers took you guys to the lifeguard or something, and from then, I took you two to my apartment.” Heeseung explained after clearing his throat. 

“Wait, so how long were we out?” Jongseong asked. He woke up at the crack of dawn, but it was just a matter of how many hours had passed since both of you seemingly passed out. For all he knew, he could have spent an entire week sleeping, or in the best-case scenario, a few days. 

“A solid eight hours,” Hearing this answer from you, Jongseong heaved a sigh of relief. It was too soon to celebrate but to have woken up as fast as eight hours superseded the best-case scenario in his head. Who knows what could have happened to you and Jongseong in two to three days of uninterrupted slumber?

“The surfers found you guys unconscious at around three or four in the afternoon, and they took you to the lifeguard, where you rested until I came by at around nine in the evening. Now, it’s two-thirty in the morning, and she woke up two hours earlier to brief me about the radio and whatnot.” Heeseung continued as if re-telling his side of the story in full detail would calm the young man down. It had worked on you when you woke up, so it could possibly aid in relieving Jongseong’s woes about the entire ordeal. 

“Oh. Damn.”

“Damn indeed, Jay.”

“So, what have you two been up to while I was sleeping or something?” Jongseong asked, staring at the opened laptops and messy piles of paper on the circular wooden table.

Next to the now empty tin baking tray was a large notebook written in messily written scribbles of an unknown script, followed by what could only be inferred to as a rough translation of the strange writing. Jongseong traced the patterns and lines in his head and pieced them into the writings on the medallion. Judging by the rather unreadable cursive, he judged that this was your penmanship. Heeseung’s was too neat and readable as reflective of his demeanor, and the lopsided, slanted jottings of rushed Latin alphabets heavily connected to your character—quick, impatient, and never one to write anything down on paper. At this rate, he wasn’t sure of the difference between your supposed rendition of the Latin alphabet and the strange scriptures of the medallion. To him, it looked all the same due to the connected lines and diagonal nature of the way you wrote. The only thing that made him sure of the English translation beside the medallion’s secret language was the discernible curves of the vowels—which were written in a type of cursive that looked as old as a Jacobian parchment archive that he saw in an elective political theory course he took last semester. 

“She told me about the medallion and the car radio, so the first thing I did was turn off all our electrical supplies in case something like that happened. I’m borrowing our neighbor’s WiFi at the moment, and my laptop’s charged via a power bank strong enough to support the battery.” Heeseung explained, pointing at the entirety of his apartment with his arm span. Sure enough, the only source of light at the moment was the medallion, glowing ever so brightly in the middle of the table akin to an occultist ritual. 

“I told Heeseung about the medallion, and we’ve finally cracked the code to the language and what’s written on it. Now, it’s just a matter of you playing the recording to him so he could decipher whatever he could.” You pushed the notebook in his direction, fumbling about nearby for a box of matches and a thin, wax candle. Once you found a glass that could hold it in place, you lit the match with a single strike and ignited the candle, giving Jongseong enough light to attempt reading whatever was written in the notebook. Even with the ghastly glow of the medallion, what he assumed was your handwriting was completely illegible, causing him to return it to you with a visible scowl and an added touch of gratitude—his signature middle finger—which you returned twofold while mocking his supposed illiteracy. 

“Enochian. Some occultist, angelic language, or whatever.” You started. “But yeah, when Heeseung deciphered the symbols, he concluded with this,”

One of the sentences he was able to read was a neatly-written transcription of the jagged lines and geometric patterns of the Enochian script—something he credited Heeseung for instead of your terrible handwriting. 

Solidarity in the truth. The old ones seek to find those that are worthy. 

“Huh. If we found the medallion, does that mean we’re the worthy ones?” Jongseong asked, circling the sentence with the tip of his index finger. To him, the words would have retained their chillingly ominous enigma, but now that it has been translated into a script that he could fully comprehend, all he could do was scoff at the cliche nature of the medallion. While some of his apprehension has been alleviated, the lack of explanation behind the medallion’s otherworldly glow continued to unease him. 

“Dude, really? Us? I doubt it. It’s probably just random chance that we came to find it, but if the medallion’s right, then we should definitely be experiencing all sorts of weird shit by now.” You replied, returning the lighthearted sentiment. If you and Jongseong were the so-called “chosen ones,” then the two of you would’ve been anywhere but in the safety of Heeseung’s apartment. The possibilities as to what would have happened to both of you were endless, and the thought of you as a virgin sacrifice was the funniest and simultaneously scariest thing that crossed Jongseong’s mind. To remain a virgin after surviving one year of university completely baffled him, thus confirming that the two of you couldn’t possibly be the chosen ones. Even if they were to be fed to the octopoid varmint engraved in the medallion, whatever cult that worshipped this strange brand of religion would have avoided the risk of awakening a god’s wrath. He may be giving cult followers more credit than they’re worth, but it would make sense to do the necessary preparation and research for any type of ritual or custom. 

As far as Jongseong knew, anything related to the occult had to have a sacrificial ritual in the list of cliches that he’s encountered in horror films—if anything, being the “chosen ones” would have immediately warranted their death or a slow, medieval form of torture that involved magical potions and incantations in tongues. The typical engravings of a ritualistic rune on the floor or being crucified in an upside-down cross didn’t seem to take place at the moment, which meant it was safe for him to laugh it all off so long as he stays within the white walls of Heeseung’s cozy apartment. 

One last thing that reassured him was the absence of the “old ones” or any large, ancient creature bigger than the tallest building on the planet. It was currently a quiet dawn with all of the megacity’s population cuddled up in deep slumber. The rowdier parts of the city were probably awake with an adrenaline rush fueled by strobe lights and booming techno music—which only confirmed to him that the world was at peace, and the octopoid god is nothing but an image conjured up within the pages of a make-believe bible of darkness. 

“Did you get anything?” You asked, your voice calmly seeping through Jongseong’s stream of thought. He directed his attention to Heeseung, who was now crouched up in the soft cushions of his sofa. He took his headphones out and hung them on his neck, monitoring whatever was projected on his laptop’s screen. 

“Give me a few days. It’s really hard to tell with all the noise. We have our first sentence though,” 

“Really?”

You and Jongseong immediately jogged towards Heeseung’s sofa, squeezing in to see what was going on. There was a cluster of wires, equipment, and sound-related devices that both of you were unfamiliar with, but Jongseong seemed to recognize a red audio interface that some of his friends used. He didn’t know what the purpose of the device was, but he knew that every musician—professional or independent—had this essential tool in their list of equipment. 

“Yeah, let me remaster it on my laptop. I can probably isolate the sounds and pick out the Morse code.” Heeseung said, putting his headphones back on to work on the mysterious layers of the ice cream truck’s car radio. 

“Wait, Morse code?” Jongseong asked. 

Morse code was something that he knew based on general knowledge, making the entire ordeal gain another layer of mystery again. The code itself could be a result of hidden channels from the myriad of military bases across the United States—after all, there was a separate enigma about military cover-ups that fuel every conspiracy theorist’s sugary highs of delusion. He refuses to align himself with the likes of their tin-foiled hats, but he also couldn’t get himself to believe in the identity of a cult that believes in the eventual awakening of a giant octopus monster. Both cases seemed too surreal for him to comprehend, and so he decided on the prospect of neutrality. Who knows? Everything might be a ruse or a sick prank made up by bored students with enough knowledge of technology. If he were to have such a brain, he would definitely mess with radio signals for a cheap thrill or two. 

“Yeah. If you ignore all the static and screaming, I could definitely hear some Morse code going on.”  Heeseung replied, hanging his headphones around his head to allow a single ear to hear what both of you had to say. 

“Sweet. That’s something I can help with, I think.” You interrupted, squeezing in even further towards Heeseung to see what he was doing on the laptop. 

While Heeseung was bothered by the sudden invasion of personal space, he was quite satisfied with the added assistance. Open to your help, he decided to unplug the headphones from his laptop and connected them to a large studio monitor instead, allowing both you and Jongseong to hear the process unfold. 

“Jesus, what are you? Some kind of war vet?” Jongseong suddenly asked, causing you to snap your head in his direction. As both of you were separated by Heeseung, you communicated by stretching your heads behind his back. 

“Nah, just someone who would do anything to cheat on a test. A friend and I learned the basics to tap the answers to each other back in high school.” You replied with a nostalgic smile on your face, lighting your aura up in the form of childlike wonder. You continued to keep your ears open to the sounds that came out of Heeseung’s studio monitor, but your head was conjuring an image of a simpler time in your teenage years. 

“No way.”

“Yes way, but it didn’t work. The invigilator told us to shut the fuck up, so we managed by prolonging the beeps to make it look like we’re tapping our pens out of habit or something.” 

You took a pen from the cluster of Heeseung’s coffee table, demonstrating the event right before his eyes. You tapped once for an ‘A,’ tapped twice using both ends of the pen for a ‘B,’ and so on. Jongseong nodded along, envisioning himself as the very student that you used your secret code on. The strategy was complex, but it was an inefficient form of cheating on a test. Most exam halls that he’s been to were deathly silent, with nothing but the invigilator’s heels clacking with the ticking of an analog wall clock. Occasionally, there would be a form of speech from the invigilator announcing the time they had left to sit the exam, but he’d rather print the answers on a plastic water bottle’s label or hide formulas behind the battery box of his calculator than go through with the grating noise of pen tapping. 

“Okay, that’s kinda smart, but why don’t you just study?” 

Jongseong did imagine you as the type of person to attempt cheating on a test, but if it took both parties to learn the basics of Morse code, then the plan itself was a waste of time. If he were in you and your friends’ shoes, he would have just used those hours spent studying for the content, even if his best would result in a mediocre score. The prospect of getting caught in a highly-invigilated exam wasn’t worth the attempt—which he saw when one of his classmates was awarded a zero for AP Physics. 

“Good question, Jay. That’s something I would’ve never heard you say.” You joked, rolling your eyes at the prospect of showing any ounce of respect toward Jongseong. Although his academic moral code was admirable, you still refused to acknowledge that he had a higher moral ground than you. 

“Jongseong might look like the type to hate studying, but for as long as I’ve known him, he puts a good amount in trying to maintain his grades,” Heeseung added, continuing to isolate the sounds into individual layers. He currently played through a distorted song muffled with static and constantly changing frequencies. 

“I mean, if you say it, then I’ll believe you.”

“You’re taking Heeseung’s word over mine? Really?” Jongseong dramatically scoffed, rounding his eyes into enlarged, bulging pupils that were about to pop out of his sockets. 

“To be fair, anyone would take Heeseung’s word in a heartbeat,” 

Upon hearing his name, he jerked his head towards you and Jongseong, then continued to work on cracking the layered code hidden in the ice cream truck’s radio.

Anyone would take Heeseung’s word no matter what he might say—that was how good his reputation was around campus. From being the president of the Economics Society to helping younger students find internships at companies, he was an ace up everyone’s sleeve. 

“Okay, so it might take some time for me to isolate each sound; while you’re at it, I think you should tell Jongseong what we’ve found so far.”

“Yes, sir!” You saluted, standing up to take your laptop. You took a seat on the soft carpets of Heeseung’s living room, plugging your laptop into a power bank to make sure that the device could withstand your investigation. 

“What’s up?” Jongseong asked, moving himself to the floor to see your laptop screen. 

“Okay, so thanks to my video game addiction and Heeseung’s intelligence, we managed to find something that might explain what we’ve been through. Now, before I dive into this shit, I just wanna let you know that I too, was a firm non-believer, so don’t fucking doubt me, okay? I didn’t believe in anything surrounding the occult or whatever until the signs pointed towards it.”

After Jongseong gave you an affirmative nod, you opened an amalgamation of tabs displayed on a web browser. Clicking one of them led you to a site with an outdated design akin to one that was made in the early days of the internet. There was a cheesy pentagram displayed in sparkles of bright red, followed by the presumed name of the cult that read “People of the Sea” right below the emblem. Beside the pentagram was the familiar insignia etched onto the medallion, depicting the same octopoid monster in a menacing design. Its eyes glowed with an ominous, deep red radiance that flickered in intervals of a few seconds. You scrolled down even further to visit the site’s membership application, as well as a link that redirected you to a plethora of bite-sized information on the cult’s ideology. 

“So here’s the deal. Heeseung and I had to go through the deep web for answers, and we eventually found this recruitment site that had the same symbol as the medallion. They call themselves the Seekers—which I think is a stupid name,” You explained, zooming into a section of an article that detailed a cult member’s obligations once their membership was accepted.

When you scrolled further, there were several photos showing supposed rituals that the cult has conducted. The photos resembled stock images Jongseong had seen on search engines, and the classic attire of a long, velvet robe with a heavy hood looked too typical to be considered authentically real. 

“So they’re believers of these octopus thingies?”

“Yeah. They’re firm believers of these creatures and pray to them as gods or whatever,”

You zoomed into several pictures of the octopoid creature in question, showing him several artistic renditions throughout time. While most of them had an ancient touch to them, there were several images that stylistically resonated with modern evolutions of photography. Either way, all of the pictures had the same motif of a giant, menacing creature with more than eight tentacles hovering over the sea, terrorizing sailors, or looming above a city skyline.  Some drawings drew added bat-like wings behind the creature’s back, while some portrayed the creature with two humanoid legs akin to a reptilian giant instead of tentacles. The most terrifying image in the collection was described as “The Wrath of The Old Ones,” showing a city obliterated in huge tidal waves. A handful of citizens were under the grasp of the creature’s tentacles, while some unlucky people had the pleasure of being punctured right in the stomach. The vivid details of the work sent goosebumps down Jongseong’s spine, and you poked him in the waist to add to the chills that riddled his entire body. 

“I think you missed something,” Jongseong said once he collected his breath from the sudden attack. He took control of your laptop and rapidly scrolled through the sections, finding more details on the cult’s ideology. 

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah, check this page out,”

The header below all the artistic renditions of the octopoid creature led to detailed accounts of the cult’s lore and ideology. While you didn’t bother reading through each word, you skimmed through important keywords that might give you a full picture of the cult’s end goals. 

The Old Ones: A Comprehensive Story

Stories of Leviathan and the Nephilims written in the Bible are skewed testimonies of the Ascha. In reality, the Ascha Drilpa Zodinu is the supreme creator that divided the land from the sea. We all descend from the oceans down below, and after Doalim, the squid disciple, had angered Ascha Drilpa Zodinu, she cursed the fallen El with legs and a set of cursed lungs so he wouldn’t be able to breathe underwater anymore. We, the followers of Ascha, aim to bring us humans, who originally come from the sea, back to where we came from, to serve the Ascha and live out our destiny in the ocean. 

In order to appease the Ascha and fulfill our goals, the Ascha must be routinely fed with two people of vitality—one male, and one female. The male represents the creature of the squid, one with four tentacles and a phallic body. The male phallus is originally derived from these giant squids who still reside underwater to eternally serve the Ascha, acting as the Ascha’s disciples. The female represents the creature of the octopus, one with eight tentacles and a uterine body. This is why the fallopian tube and the uterus resemble the shape of the octopus because all females are direct descendants of the Ascha. The females are of most importance, acting as those who protect the Ascha—revered guardians of the sea that fend off the Amma, or shark people. 

The male and female sacrifices must be pure of any knowledge of the Ways of the Sea, which means they must be fully assimilated into the land’s rule, created by Doalim, the fallen squid disciple. This gives Ascha the obligation and urgency to awaken and purify the people of the land, who have been rotten by Doalim’s ways. If any of the sacrificial individuals are to hold knowledge of the Sea, Ascha will resist the urge to awaken, believing that the ways of the land still pertain reverence to the Sea. This will prevent us, the Seekers, from achieving our goals sooner, further hindering us a hundred years more. 

“What the fuck…” You silently exclaimed under your breath as you continued to skim through the section that Jongseong had directed you to. Jongseong scrolled down even further, showing detailed accounts of individuals that have been sacrificed to Ascha. 

Profiles of Previous Sacrifices:

YEAR: 1819, August 7th

MALE: Sir John Howard Taylor

FEMALE: Mary Elizabeth Smith 

YEAR: 1919, August 7th

MALE: Lorenzo Agosti

FEMALE: Linda O’Brien

Potential Sacrifices: 

YEAR: 2019

MALE: Jongseong Park

Upon seeing your name written on the site, you immediately shut your laptop too loud, causing Heeseung to jerk his head in your direction. 

“Guys?” He asked, leaving the sofa to sit on his carpeted floor. You were visibly shaken up, teeth clattering in endless jitters. Jongseong, on the other hand, continued to stare blankly at the laptop’s cover, doing his best to ease the rapid palpitations in his heart. Heeseung kept both of his hands on each of your backs, drawing gentle circles to calm you and Jongseong down. 

All three parties were enraptured in a state of pure silence, each trying to forget the damning information that had just been uncovered. While Heeseung kept his mouth shut and continued to comfort the two of you, he was itching to reveal what he had found hidden beneath the layers of the ice cream truck’s car radio. Although his work was currently incomplete, the first few sentences were enough to rattle his bones. 

“You might want to lay low for a while,” He finally whispered, breaking the moments of silence that hauntingly screamed into you and Jongseong’s very core. 

“No shit, Mr. Obvious,” You replied through gritted teeth. You quickly grabbed a wayward blanket on the sofa and draped it over your shoulders, as if hiding beneath the layers of Heeseung’s duvet would make everything go away. 

Heeseung, in an impatient fit that was rare for his persona, took his laptop to the carpet and played the isolated audio via his studio monitor. What followed was perhaps the most disturbing thing that all three of you have ever heard in your lives. Rapid, whispered incantations in tongues were looped over and over again, followed by a collective group of people humming in low pitches that surely vibrated the very ground they were sitting on. A monstrous growl could be heard across the distance, moaning in fried, otherworldly voices that reminded you and Jongseong of a famous Japanese horror film riddled with dark-haired ghastly women and hauntingly pale children with black cats. You dove further into the blanket, praying for the audio to stop, while Jongseong plugged his ears as much as he could. The medallion responded to these incantations by slowly floating higher and higher, emitting a demonic glow that flashed right before all three of your eyes. Once Heeseung had paused the audio, the medallion sank back to the surface of the kitchen table, retaining its former position. The glow of the medallion had also diminished into a flickering radiance that provided them with enough light for the remainder of dawn. 

“Okay, I knew that $35 per hour at an ice cream truck was too good to be true.” Jongseong sighed in fear, eyeing the alluring medallion as it continued to hover over the kitchen table. 

“I can lend you two some money to escape at a nearby motel or something, but I don’t think it’s safe for you two to be here anymore,” Heeseung said, gruffly scratching his head as he exhaled the remaining oxygen that clogged his throat. 

“Shit. What do we do?” 

“I’ll contact some helplines nearby to see if they can get you out of this, but for now, you two should probably lay low. Stay in for a few days or so until the coast is clear.”

“Wait, so what about our job?” You interrupted, pulling the blanket even closer to your body. 

“Forget about it. For as long as you’re in that truck, something’s probably gonna happen.”

“Like what?” Jongseong listlessly asked, praying that none of the scenarios in his head would come true. There was a part of him that refused to believe in anything that was currently happening to the two of you, but Heeseung’s fear added a sense of realism to what you and Jongseong were going through. It was better to be safe than sorry, and if moving from state to state was what it took to avoid the occult, then he was more than willing to live a nomadic life. 

“I don’t know? Us getting kidnapped by a fucking cult?!” You screamed out of the blue, harshly tossing the blanket in Jongseong’s direction. Heeseung immediately began to fill a glass with water, handing it to you as he continued to rub gentle circles on your back. You drank its contents in one go, putting your hands to your chest to feel the extremely quick tempo of your heartbeat. 

“Okay true, but what if the entire thing was just a ruse? You know, you can’t really believe everything that’s written on the internet,” Jongseong explained, trying to persuade himself more so than easing the unbridled fear that plagued the other two people in his vicinity. 

“Jay, did you hear the fucking radio?! If it was that crusty ass website alone, then yeah, I get it. The whole thing looks like a goddamn joke—but the radio, Jay. The fucking radio. That shit doesn’t sound like some signal that the military bases can produce, and it sure as hell doesn’t sound like your typical radio station to me. Don’t even get me started on that thing on the goddamn table. Do you think people would have some sort of high-tech bullshit that could make it float? Don’t you ever forget that that thing was able to electrocute me. Electrocute. Me. Don’t you see?! We’re fucked, Jay! Absolutely fucked!” 

Your screams echoed across Heeseung’s apartment, causing both of them to cower down and cover their ears. You took the time to catch your breath, causing Heeseung to get you another glass of water. Jongseong didn’t take you as the type of person to—for lack of a better word—lose your shit over something so surreal. 

But if you were shaken up to this degree, then the chances of it all benign true were within Jongseong’s reach. You and Heeseung—both whom he believed were rational beings that lived within the human definition of logic and reason—had aligned your fears and beliefs of impending doom in the hands of some cult from the depths of the dark web. No matter how hard he tried to appease the rapid rise of fear within him, it was all futile. The only thing for him to do now was to believe that he was in danger and to act accordingly. 

“No, but I’m just saying, you know? We’re just two struggling students, I doubt they’d want anything from us.” Jongseong continued, letting out what little fight he had in him left. You gave him a cold stare and surrendered to the safety of the soft blanket over your shoulders, while Heeseung slowly shook his head, heaving a sigh at Jongseong. 

“That’s probably why they targeted you two. Desperate students are easy bait, you know?”

“Okay, good point. So, hyung, you’re saying we just stay here for a while?” Jongseong asked, finally surrendering to the prospect of being in danger. If all the evidence pointed to an otherworldly scenario that seemed too fantastical to be true, might as well believe it instead of living in constant denial. That way, he would have at least saved himself from being eaten by a giant octopus monster. 

“I’ll drive you two around if you need to go out or something. All I’m asking is for both of you to stay low.” 

“Alright.” Jongseong agreed, nodding to seal the deal. 

After giving you a dose of sleeping pills, both men carried you out of the soft cushions of Heeseung’s sofa, gently draping the blanket you had held onto so fervently over your entire body. As your jagged breaths eased into smooth, deep inhalations, Heeseung dismissed Jongseong to resign back to the spare bedroom he had woken up in. Jongseong, realizing that any sense of sleep was impossible to him now, had decided to wait out the first sunrise, setting a reminder to wake you up. If that was the last sunrise that he’d ever see, then he might as well spend it with a co-worker he would soon call his close friend, and a reliable adult that he’s grown to call his older brother.

For the remaining half an hour before the clock’s handles reached the big six, Heeseung and Jongseong alternated between power naps. At some point, Jongseong fell into a deep slumber, leaving Heeseung with all the solitude he needed to decode the remaining layers of the car radio’s recording. It was easy to isolate the growls from the group incantations that repeated the same few phrases over and over again, but the hard part was discerning the language itself. Enochian was rather difficult to pick up when spoken in fluency, and the more Heeseung tried to listen, the more he found himself lost in the mumbling enchantments of the supposed cult. Each word rendered him in a trance-like state, which hindered his progress to the point where a single word took about fifteen minutes to decipher. The drowsiness slowly began to take its toll by warping his vision, turning the hummed collective incantations in tongues into sweet, melodic lullabies that reminded him of a time when everything was alright. 

Don’t you want a life of bliss? Aren’t you tired of everything around you?

Heeseung knows that what he’s hearing is an illusion. It’s not real. The saccharine voices lull him into a euphoric image of paradise: For Heeseung, that meant a stable career, a long life full of prosperity and endless achievements to his name, and a large property on the beaches to fulfill his full circle into retirement. It was not much to ask, really, but the idea of it being crystal clear—practically within the grasp of his reach—tempted him nonetheless. He was tired of being a student; tired of constantly scavenging the seas of life with uncertainty and high risk; tired of the unwavering eyes that lingered on him; tired of the insect-like people that crawled into his life to bite him in the neck; tired of the permanent itch that he could never seem to scratch; tired of the doubt that tickled him to no end; tired. 

Come to me, oh troubled youth. 

The medallion was not on the kitchen counter anymore; it floated above Heeseung’s eyes. The once ominous glow that it reflected suddenly transformed into an alluring, iridescent ivory that taunted him. The octopus engraved on the medallion now seemed real; his arms were encircled by the comforts of its eight legs. 

Go on, come closer. Come a little closer, and you’ll see. 

What did he need to see? He didn’t know the answer to that quite yet, but the octopus—with its holy, angelic, bat-like wings and white, dim eyes the shape of crescents—approached him, descending from above and into the earthly discomforts of his world. 

Go on, take my hand.

Its bulbous tentacles shifted and warped into a hazy rendition of a human hand, emitting the same, sanctified aura of ephemerality. He felt the rift between his current world and the gates to whatever awaited him open, and in one, single motion, he placed his gentle palm on the blurred afterimage of a god that glowed with such intense magic—a hypnotic, dream-like trance that he wished he could never wake up from. 

You are one of my children now, Heeseung. Sleep ever so gently, and leave the rest to me.

When Jongseong woke up, Heeseung was gone. 

He didn’t keep track of how long he was sleeping, and at this rate, he couldn’t tell time apart from its preconceived intervals. Minutes felt like hours, and hours felt like days. Days felt like months, and months felt like years. Sometimes, hours seemed to fly by in seconds, ushering in another ray of sunlight that seeped through the transparent, sheer curtains of Heeseung’s apartment. 

“Hyung?” He called out. Heeseung’s workstation was intact. The monitor was just as he left it before he took a nap, with the audio interface reflecting sound waves and several controls that he couldn’t wrap his head around. The mouse was slightly tilted on top of his purple mousepad, its accompanying cursor reflecting idleness in the corner of his screen. His prized swivel chair was empty, and Jongseong could have sworn that a meek, thin outline of Heeseung’s silhouette could be traced with the grogginess of his eyes. It was almost like a ghost—hollow, airy, and barren. He thought that all of it was just a hallucination—a mere slip of the memory that caused his eyes to create images from the shadowplay of light and dark that flickered across the white walls of Heeseung’s room. Upon blinking several times, he figured he was wrong. There was a presence that could be felt in the room other than yours and his. There were three people that moved, and yet he could only see himself in the reflection of Heeseung’s glass windows and your still, sleeping figure. 

“Hyung? Are you there?” Jongseong called out again, this time with a gravity that was only reserved for moments of absolute fear. Still, there was no response—not a single one that graced the narrowness of his ear canals. 

He turned towards you, watching your peaceful face breathe in and out as you clutched the blanket to the helms of your chest. If he hadn’t known your true demeanor, he would’ve expected you to embody the very essence of calm. 

“Wake up,” He whispered, drawing his face closer to the sweat-ridden pools of your cheeks. He heaved a sigh of relief upon seeing your body stir into motion, joints slowly animating into that of a conscious human being. 

“What’s up?” You asked. 

“Heeseung’s gone,”

Your mouth was agape. Your head snapped awake into a sobered rendition of panic, eyes fluttering across all the corners and crevices of Heeseung’s apartment. Surely enough, there were no signs of Heeseung in the room. 

“What?!” 

“Yeah, Heeseung’s gone.”

Shoving the blanket into the couch, you stood up and marched around the apartment. You checked the kitchen, Heeseung’s room, the workstation, the extra room that momentarily housed Jongseong—everything. When you couldn’t find a single trace of his existence, you repeated everything again and again. Frantic feet fluttered and flew across the entire floor plan of the apartment. You refused to believe he was gone. 

“No fucking way,” You whispered. Jongseong didn’t attempt to stop you from examining the entire apartment again, and he joined you, scouring through every nook and cranny for a single trace of Heeseung. After hours of living in a constant state of denial, the two of you retired to the couch in ultimate dejection, the only thing giving Jongseong hope being the medallion that was now dull and lifeless. 

“He’s not here,” Jongseong said, eyeing the medallion. 

“What do we do, then?” You asked. Traces of violet began to appear in the sky, announcing the return of another day. 

“I don’t fucking know,”

“We have to go back,”

“Are you crazy?” 

Maybe. If your intuition was correct, then the ice cream truck was the only place with definitive answers. Sure, it seemed like a bogus trick; an invitation into completing a ritual that none of you anticipated. 

Before Jongseong could utter another word, you stood up and jogged to the monitor, breathing a sigh of relief upon seeing all of Heeseung’s efforts still intact. For a mysterious cult that kept its secrets under several layers of the deep web, you were surprised at their lack of attention to detail. If you were their leader, you would erase all traces displayed on the monitor, wiping Heeseung’s computer empty. You took your laptop and plugged it into Heeseung’s CPU, transferring all the files necessary for you and Jongseong to complete your task. Then, you took Heeseung’s headphones and replayed his progress in intercepting the code of the radio from the ice cream truck, listening to every beep that he managed to isolate in the few hours that he was present. 

33.7931376,-119.6730857,9.07z

Once the numbers were clear, you took a pen from Heeseung’s drawer and began writing each number in clarity, spraying the surface of your skin with sunscreen and waterproof spray. Then, you gave Jongseong a nod of confirmation, beckoning for him to get up from his slump to gather his things. 

“What does that say?” Jongseong asked, hoisting his backpack onto his shoulder. Before you could reply, you heard the door break down, splinters and bits of wood flying everywhere with an inhumane force. There were three suited men with opaque, black-tinted sunglasses, each with their own earpiece coiled in curled wires stuck to their ears. They didn’t need to introduce themselves; you and Jongseong could already figure out who they were. 

They stepped in with heavy, languid steps, messing Heeseung’s apartment up one by one. They started with his room, turning it upside down in a pile of papers, clothes, and items. Then, they split up to scavenge each and every crevice of Heeseung’s apartment, opening every drawer they could find with gloved professionalism. Once they were done, they walked in unison, footsteps matching each rhythm and arms swaying to a marching beat. One of them—who was coincidentally in the middle—showed you his badge with a stern face. Encased within a sleek, black leather card holder was a shiny, golden insignia with an acronym that you were all too familiar with. At the bottom, there were more details about the man under laminated plastic. 

Central Intelligence Agency. Employee No. 4245 43 4324 1133 4335 54. 

“We’re not here to arrest you, ma’am,” The one on the left spoke up. It was difficult to tell the difference when all of them had the same facial features, the same height, and the same demeanor. A part of you wanted to bark back and respond with all the questions that began to swarm within your head, but nothing came out of your mouth. You simply stood in front of them, keeping your arms up. Jongseong began to lower his arms, quickly exchanging glances between the three men in front of you and your still, unwavering, yet apprehensive figure. 

“Then why are you here? Jongseong asked. The man on the left stepped in and began patting Jongseong’s body down, snatching his backpack and stuffing his gloved hand in every single pocket he could find. He gave his colleagues another silent nod, and the man on the right did the same, taking your backpack from your firm grasp to plunge into its contents. 

“We’re here for an investigation,” The man in the middle replied, fiddling with his earpiece as he watched the other men give him a clear okay sign. They took your backpacks and secured them in a large, plastic container, using a small device to vacuum seal everything in one, tight space. “We will need both of you to come with us and answer a few questions.” 

“About what?” Jongseong retorted, knowing that he won’t get any answers anytime soon. The man stood still, using his chin to point at the coordinates written on your wrist. 

“About that.” He replied. “There have been several reports of suspicious activity around Venice Beach, and we want your testimony and cooperation to complete this investigation. Unlike the FBI or the forces, we’re not taking silence as a right. Failure to cooperate will result in immediate detainment until further notice.” 

“So there’s no way out of this, right?” You finally spoke, breaking your silence to eye the three men with a newfound, boiling anger. “Were you the ones that took Heeseung?” 

“We have no obligation to answer.” The one on the left replied, keeping a firm grip on the vacuum-sealed backpacks. In unison, the rest of the suited men nodded. 

You stared at Jongseong with wide eyes, helplessness overwhelming the ticks in your lids as you watched him return the same sentiment. At this rate, there was nothing the two of you could do to confirm or deny what was going on. Even if the men in front of you were, indeed, real CIA operatives, there was no guarantee of any of your safety. You’ve heard and read through many stories of the CIA’s interrogation tactics in myriads of open, true crime forums across the internet. Regardless of what would happen, it was bound to be a lose-lose situation for you and Jongseong. 

Before taking your hands to the three men, Jongseong suddenly made a break for it, using the small gap between the three men to knock one of their rigid bodies down. Then, he stepped on one of their hands in retaliation, kicking their arm over as he sprinted straight to the demolished door. 

It was now or never. 

And so, you did the same, only to hear a piercing gunshot that sliced through the silence of dawn. The two remaining men didn’t even bother to chase you, simply standing still as they watched you slowly step out of Heeseung’s apartment. They already knew that this was going to happen, and their expressionless faces broke you into a cold puddle of sweat and tears. Jongseong was now on the floor; there was no blood around his body. An empty syringe was stuck to the nape of his neck, combined with a man in a hazmat suit attempting to pick up his lifeless body. 

Now that you were conscious enough to register what was going on around you, you put your arms up in surrender again, this time letting the gruff roughness of the three men behind you force your body into a large black van. As the car began to move, your eyes traced the surrounding area of Heeseung’s apartment, noticing how nobody was awake even after all the commotion. Curtains were drawn still despite the rising sun inviting the eyes and the body to wake up and start their day; a grating silence engulfed the remnants of a college town that was supposed to be bustling with activity; the stillness of the sky stopping all motions of the clouds into a picturesque halt; the emptiness of the parking lot by the apartment complex when there were supposed to be several cars coming and going; the absence of the receptionist’s tiny silhouette as the car continued to take you away from what you supposed was your last taste of freedom and the outdoors. You felt a small prick in the side of your neck, and you snapped your heavy lids at the hazy outline of a man in a hazmat suit, slowly fading into a fleeting, peaceful darkness. 

When you woke up, you were tied to a chair in a dark, murky interrogation room. There were tinted silhouettes of several people behind a translucent glass window, each carrying a notepad and a pen in their hands. The three suited men were nowhere to be found, and instead, the scent of coffee and antiseptic overwhelmed your nose. You tried to test the strength of the notes in the ropes with what you learned from several online videos of escape artists, but the waves of fatigue rendered your body into a weak, former shell of what you were once capable of. You directed your eyes at the two people in front of you—a man who looked like he couldn’t hurt a fly and a woman who had the aura and tact of several war veterans wrapped in one. 

“I’m really sorry if you’re uncomfortable, but we need to do this to make sure you don’t run away or try anything in this room,” The man sheepishly explained, his freckles aligning the tall bridge of his nose and his slim cheeks. You mustered a small, weak nod, using the back of your hand to feel the material of the rope before heeding the man’s advice. 

“My name’s Detective Ryder, and this is my partner, Detective Wong.” 

Instead of responding to her name, the detective folded her arms within her chest and gave you a stern, menacing look. Her sleek, short, jet-black hair lined the sharp angles of her jaw and chin, evoking an intenseness that you’ve never seen in anyone before. Her heels bounced back and forth in timely clicks, matching the fast movements of the small handles on her silver wristwatch. Once she was able to finish her observation, she took a bottle of water from her pocket and slid it in your direction, opening it with a swift twist. 

“I can’t drink this if my hands are tied,” You whispered, trying your best to ease the stutters in your voice. Detective Wong looked up at the ceiling, then shifted her gaze back to you with reluctant apologeticness. She then used an earpiece on her right to page someone into the room. In what felt like a single second, a man clad in camouflage busted into the room with a plastic, red bendy straw. She gave the soldier a bow, then gently placed the straw at the opening of the water bottle. You muttered a small thank you under your breath and craned your neck to take a few sips. Perhaps hydration was what you needed to get rid of the permanent haze entrenched in your vision. 

“I also wanted to disclose this since it’s sort of like company policy to us, but we injected you with a truth serum before this.” Detective Ryder said, twitching his eyebrows to convey guilt. 

Maybe water wasn’t the cure to your grogginess after all. 

Detective Ryder cleared his throat, exchanging glances with his partner before taking the empty seat in front of you. Detective Wong did the same, taking a large, hardcover notebook from her leather briefcase and a metallic, silver pen. She flipped through several pages and folded an empty, lined sheet, taking a folder from her briefcase that looked like it had your details on it. Through the corner of your tired eyes, you saw a small clipping of what looked like a passport photo you’d taken a few years ago—a default picture you used for every government paper and visa application you’ve done as of late. Using her long, nimble fingers, she etched each detail of your profile into a new entry in her notebook, giving a curt nod to Detective Ryder once she was done. You tried your best to read the little notes she added, but her penmanship was akin to a continuous, curved line with no form or substance. 

“Alright,” Detective Ryder started with a smile, “just so you know, I don’t want to use violence in any shape or form. I’m against it myself, and I’m sure you wouldn’t want to get hurt as well. So, for both of us, I really hope you’re willing to cooperate and tell us everything you know,”

So far, it was easy to tell which one was the good cop; Detective Ryder was not the nice one out of the two. He may be the more outspoken one, but you knew that this was an easy trap. From your hours of consuming true crime cases and documentaries on the internet, it was common knowledge to you that the silent ones were the most forgiving. People that tended to be more extroverted in these types of professions often exhibited borderline sociopathic behavior—which isn’t something you would’ve liked to remind yourself in your current situation. Then again, who were you to judge? The people online were just as clueless as you when it came to the realities of criminal justice. 

“I’m scared of you.” You suddenly blurted. To your surprise, the two detectives were right about the truth serum. 

“You shouldn’t be!” Detective Ryder reassured with an eerily wide smile. Detective Wong heaved a sigh and continued to switch glances between her notebook, her pen, and you, jotting everything down in quick, rapid succession. “I’m just like you! I have a job to do, and I just wanna do it right.” 

“Speaking of jobs, you were working at the Inlet Waves ice cream truck down by Venice Beach, right?” He asked. You nodded. The truth serum did more to you than you would’ve liked. 

“When did you start working there?” 

“Literally like a day,”

“Who was your employer?”

“Williams. I don’t know if that’s his first name or not.”

“Okay,” The pen scratches from Detective Wong’s notebook permeated and echoed back and forth between the stuffy, ventilated enclosure of the room. Detective Ryder nodded his head to every single question you answered, gleefully scrolling through a notepad that magically appeared out of thin air. 

“Who’s your co-worker?” 

“Park Jongseong.” 

“Your affiliation with him?”

“I just met him.”

“Anything more?” 

“No,”

Maybe the water did help after all. If it didn't, then you would've had the immense displeasures of confessing your amicable feelings towards your new workmates to the detectives. He was your friend now, and your stubborn pride was lucky enough to thwart the possibility of it becoming a sense of verbal reality, entrenched in the embarrassing—albeit memorable—time you've shared with him at the truck. It was something you couldn't accept or believe in, but the thought of protecting Jongseong mixed with the dilutive effects of water did, in some ways, help you recall some of the pharmaceutical knowledge you retained from your classes.

There was no such thing as a truth serum, and barbituates essentially produced the same effect that morphine or any anxiety-reducing drug delivered. 

Morphine hits the back of the legs first; your legs were numb. Then, the back of the neck; your neck was solid and still. A spreading wave of relaxation slackening the muscles away from the bones so that you seem to float without outlines; fatigue didn’t stop you from feeling as light as a feather. All at once, you felt your wrists loosen from the tight knots of the ropes around your arms, gently tugging at the bulbous lock until you could feel the tension in your hand disappears. Like lying in warm salt water; the air was briny and your body was afloat. You swam through the two detectives, who slowly drowned in a dark, bottomless abyss. The people behind the glass borders now embodied all types of fish and critters in the deep sea, wandering in wavering bouts of random confusion. To them, you were a large, majestic whale—a sight to behold and fear as you slowly kicked the seat that kept your massive fins captive. As this relaxing wave spread through your tissues, you experience a strong feeling of fear; the fear that you felt was knowing you were now unstoppable. A series of pictures passed your head in fleeting, rapid screens, repeating and rewinding a vision of metallic hallways, a basement, several bolted doors, and a scene of Jongseong in vivid technicolor, taking the driver’s seat and driving you back to where it all started: Venice Beach on a hot, summer day. 

Anything more?

The walls started to crumble, its silver linings, nuts and bolts, and metallic surface transforming into the vast, endless sea that constantly called your name. Detective Ryder and Detective Wong were no more; they were just a bunch of fish that you could devour at any second. After all, what could stop you? You were a whale—the apex predator in the aquatic ecosystem. You were the biggest, most powerful being that inhabited the oceans, and no creature could stop your rampage. 

That is, no creature but the Old Ones. The Old Ones were waiting for you, the last addition to their council. There was the squid and the octopus; Doalim, the squid disciple and Ascha Drilpa Zodinu, the supreme creator of all beings. 

Come to me. 

In a quick, bright flash, you, the whale, joined the Old Ones, travelling up to the infinite skies dyed in red to become the third moon that looked over the earth. It was your calling, and you replied. Soon enough, nothing will matter anymore; the earth was in the hands of Ascha and its loyal disciples.

“Let’s get out of here, come on!” 

Jongseong pushed you into the passenger’s seat of a red, vintage Mustang. You looked back, and the skies had suddenly turned into a deep, dark shade of red. There were three moons in the sky, each hosting a different shape and a different type of glow. Jongseong had several bruises and scars around his face and body, lopsidedly treated with several band-aids and dirty cloth that probably came from tearing his shirt apart. In the backseat, there was a hazmat suit with two gas masks, along with Heeseung’s peaceful, sleeping figure. You looked back and watched Jongseong stomp on the accelerator, causing your body to flail back and forth until you hit your head on the glove box. 

“What the hell happened?” You screamed, massaging your temples to ease the bruising. Jongseong took a deep breath, eyes concentrated on the red-tinted roads ahead of him. In fact, the entire city of Los Angeles was dyed in an ominous shade of red. You rolled your windows up to take in some fresh air, only for Jongseong to slap your palm away with his free hand. Rotten eggs. The stench of rotten eggs was everywhere. 

“Wear that if you want to breathe,” Jongseong replied, raising his voice to defeat the noise from the car that was slowly starting to fall apart. He jutted his chin at the gas masks next to Heeseung, and you immediately took one, securing its massive shape within the confines of your tiny hand. The medallion that seemed to have caused all the trouble that you and Jongseong went through was protected in the safety of the cup holders next to you, emitting a bright, reddish glow that acted as your only source of light for the entire trip. 

“You didn’t answer my question, Jay!” You repeated, a shrill shriek escaping your lips when Jongseong stomped on the breaks. This time, you didn’t flinch. Your body was encased in the tight safety of the seatbelt, and you prepared yourself by holding onto one of the railings in the car. “What the hell happened?!” 

“To be honest, I don’t fucking know either,” Jongseong spat. “I woke up, got punched in the gut, then got told to answer some questions, and before I knew it, some freak shot the entire room up with laser beams coming out of his eyes—like Superman or something, but evil.”

“I think you’re high on morphine, because they put a truth serum in us, bozo.” You replied, refusing to buy Jongseong’s statement. Even if being caught in the mess of a cult and the CIA was the last thing you wanted, you at least hoped for a cool escape plan that you would remember for the rest of your life—not some form of deus ex machina that played to your benefit. 

“Well, you better believe me, because that giant octopus thingy is right in front of us,”

As if on cue, a large, gigantic tentacle descended from the skies, dusting a flurry of sand in all the windows that the car could offer. Jongseong quickly took a gas mask and bolted out of the car, leaving you and an unconscious Heeseung in a state of panicked uncertainty. You climbed to the back seat and put on the extra gas mask, shaking Heeseung with what strength you had left. Once it was clear that there were no signs of him waking up, you swallowed a large, gulp of saliva that accumulated in your mouth. Taking a single deep breath in, you closed your eyes and counted to three, hoping that everything would disappear once you opened your eyes. Upon seeing the same, decrepit car, the smell of leaking gasoline filling your nose, and Heeseung’s chest falter into a rigid state of stillness, you opened the car door and slammed it shut, standing next to Jongseong as you eyed the large, octopoid creature fully ascend from the erratic, red waves of the blood-ridden ocean.

III: ONE WAY TRIGGER

Jongseong never believed in monsters. Hell, he wasn’t even the type to believe in anything that he deemed too nerdy for his liking. As an only child, he was surprised that he didn’t succumb to what he perceived as the loner’s guide to becoming anti-social: tabletop games, the allure of the supernatural, a firm belief in aliens, and an abundance of fantasy or horror novels that fed wild visions of creatures that were too grotesque for the human eyes to see. It was often a rarity that he prided himself in; he wasn’t odd or weird by the standards that most only children seemed to face. He was, in essence, what was supposed to be a normal person with normal interests. He had a watchful eye on his health; he was in a fraternity; his life was dictated by alcohol-ridden parties that would render him nauseous the next day; he didn’t read too many books; he was a business major; he invested in stocks; he had a childhood filled with memories of playing rugby with his friends from all over the world; he only dabbled into philosophy to impress a girl he found attractive in his ethics elective. 

In short, Park Jongseong was never the type of guy to imagine himself involved in a catastrophe centered around a giant, octopoid creature that ascended from the deep depths of the ocean, hungry and angry at the world for disturbing its slumber. 

The creature called Ascha Drilpa Zodinu was, in all its glory, something straight out of a horror film that Jongseong has probably seen a few times as a test of courage with his friends. He didn’t remember all the details, but he could recall the ominous, menacing, and ever so brooding fear that bubbled inside of him as a young child. He’s seen Godzilla—both the original version and the American remake—enough to know that it was a metaphor for the prospects of an all-out, nuclear war. Things like Godzilla weren’t meant to exist; they were just tell-tale folklore meant to correct the errs of humanity. Allegories, as his film professor might’ve said in a lecture that he was too tired to pay attention to. 

It was difficult to comprehend the sheer monolith of the monster right in front of him. Even if Ascha Drilpa Zodinu did have the general shape of an octopus, its size was what put Jongseong off. For one, the medallion and the illustrations he saw on the cult’s website didn’t do the creature any amount of justice. Despite its grotesque, hideous look, he had to admit that there was a mysterious, magnetic allure to the creature that drew him in. It was terrifying, but that’s what made it oddly beautiful. Its eight tentacles were spread out of the mass surface of the ocean, covering the horizon with spiked, bulbous curves that trickled and oozed with a green, slimy texture that made him dispense what little he ate into the hot beds of sand. The red, ghastly glow of its crescent-shaped eyes was brighter than the sun, dyeing the entire city in a tantalizing, neon, red glow that hurt his eyes. Its bat-like wings covered the entire sea, fluttering with a heaviness that shook the earth and the waters into a tsunami that threatened to succumb all of Los Angeles into a second Atlantis. He didn’t know if the creature had eight or ten arms, but the wings had a sentience of their own, retracting sharp claws that gnashed and trembled at the roaring waves. Its body whirled around in patterns of inconsistency, creating hurricanes from the tip of its nails with its wings and bringing a thunderous clap that engulfed the beach in throes of thick, green goo. Through the blurry lenses of his gas mask, he managed to examine the goo with his fingers, flinching at its hot temperature. 

In some ways, he wished he lived the stereotypical life of a nerdy, lonesome only child. If he lived out his life in the fantastical world of make believe, then he would’ve had a chance or an inkling of preparedness for the unlikely situation that he currently found himself in. Perhaps defeating a dragon in an intricate Japanese RPG would have given him the knowledge and know-hows in finding the weakest part of every monster. Maybe if he read more fantasy novels, he would’ve known the secret to appease an angry god in a rampage to destroy all of humankind. If he accepted the invite to the tabletop society in his university, playing a single round of Dungeons and Dragons, then he would’ve been able to predict and control the outcome of having an old, supposedly wise monster suddenly show its face in the mundanities of earthly desires. All of the outcomes that Jongseong could’ve chosen played at the back of his head in repeated scenes of a childhood lost to the expectations and pressures of normalcy and sociability, continually haunting him in a loop that made him regret all of the choices he made up to now. Jongseong didn’t know himself any better than he would’ve if he caved into his own interests, and in a sense, he was ashamed that it took the awakening of an old beast to realize that he didn’t need to prove himself to anyone. He didn’t need to get along with other people to create a facade that would bear a heavy weight on his shoulders for the rest of his life, and he certainly didn’t need to fake a smile so he could reach the satisfaction of what status and popularity had to offer. Now that he’s given himself some time to think about everything (the concept of time didn’t seem to exist anymore once Ascha Drilpa Zodinu decided to wake up and wreak havoc in Venice Beach), he realized that he could’ve found a better source of happiness playing tabletop games in a dingy basement where superficial notions of human character ceased to exist. 

He looked at your slumped figure—a gas mask covering the top of your face and your body protected in a neon yellow hazmat suit that contested the monster’s red, beaming eyes. You slowly trudged forward, meeting him halfway before collapsing into the soft beds of sand that engulfed you in its warm, tender embrace. Jongseong immediately rushed to your aid, taking his gloved hand and checking your wrist for any signs of life. To his luck, he didn’t lose another friend. 

You slowly raised your hand and curled your fingers opened, revealing the medallion that started it all. Jongseong immediately picked it up with fragile delicacy and gently tossed it to the side, watching your body slowly animate in its absence. Another thud boomed across the entire shoreline, accompanied by a large wave that momentarily splashed the two of you in lukewarm trails of blood, goo, and briny seawater. Time was of the essence, and there was no telling when the octopoid monster would reach the shores. 

“What do we do?” Jongseong asked, momentarily taking his mask off to breathe in the stench of sulfur. 

“You tell me, bitch boy,” You replied, doing the same as you stood up and watched the creature in awe. 

Unlike Jongseong, you took the route that he could’ve taken in his life, spending your time playing video games with your brother and reading pages upon pages about monsters. The only difference, though, is that you never believed in any of those things. To you, they were a source of entertainment—a fun escape from the grueling realities of academic excellence and a tight schedule of embodying the tropes of a model student. It was, in essence, something that you could fall back on whenever you were tired of the world. Now that you thought about it, though, you would much rather suffer through endless hours of studying at the academy than go through the troubles of fantasy protagonists in a whirlwind quest to find treasures beyond the earthly values of money and power. With the creature coming closer and closer, all you could think about was how unlucky those so-called heroes were. Why waste your youth on the pursuit of glory when it was futile? You would much rather live a life of ignorance; it was a merciful blessing for humans to have the inability to correlate all the world’s contents. No one was ever meant to voyage far into the unknown, and in a way, the call of survival was to know where the borders and limitations of curiosity were. Now that you’d known too much, you felt that you would go mad from opening up the terrifying vistas of reality—a revelation that immediately destroyed the safety of peace and safety for a dark age that you were sure you didn’t want to witness. 

Through the corners of your eyes, you saw the outline of the truck that you once called your workplace. With all the strength that you could muster, you began sprinting towards it, taking the medallion with you even if it sucked out all of your energy. Jongseong reluctantly followed suit. He didn’t question anything when there was nothing for him to question. In such a dire time, all he could do was act on whatever he saw. If he saw you run, then he’d follow. It was better to die with someone else than to die alone. 

To your surprise, the sprint to the ice cream truck was short. The rustic paint job of the truck was now within your line of view, coupled with the stench of rotting eggs becoming too strong for you to ignore. You put your gas mask back on, and Jongseong followed suit, momentarily stopping behind you to see the mountain of corpses clad in dark, velvet robes. If his intuition was correct, these were the last remnants of the cult that worshipped Ascha Drilpa Zodinu—the so-called chosen ones who didn’t make it despite their devotion to their god and savior. It was all ironic, in a sense. Jongseong didn’t think he would feel empathy towards a group of people that endangered his life, but seeing himself in the same position made him feel a bottomless well of pity that struck a chord in his heart. Just like them, he was a person who devoted his entire life to the societal notions of affability and success, rendering him a prisoner in the game of life. Regardless of who he was as a person, he was bound to become a product of a stagnant, dying system that required all of his hard work and devotion, only being repaid with a salary that could barely sustain his life and his pursuits of happiness. 

You stepped over the bodies with shaky ease, climbing on top of each with the soles of your scuffed sneakers. Once Jongseong was inside, you kicked some of the cloaked bodies inside the truck out of the vehicle, closing it shut once you were done with your task. Jongseong assisted you with the heavier bodies, and the two of you worked in unspoken coordination as you got rid of them one by one. 

“Do you think that’s Williams?” Jongseong asked. The body in question was rotund, with slabs of fat seeping out of the heavy, velvet cloak that covered his entire body. You unsheathed his hood and examined his features—a bearded man with a round face sporting thick, rectangular frames. He looked about fifty, with some of his hair thinning out and turning into an oily shade of white. As you continued to examine his body, you found a tattoo on his arm that had the same insignia as the medallion. 

“Probably,” You replied, “He looks like someone who’d die from lung cancer, and he did have the voice of an old, obese man with heart problems.” 

You took the medallion and tossed it into the cup holders by the driver’s seat, leaving the disposal of the body to Jongseong. To your luck, the key to the truck was right by the glovebox, and you took it to start the vehicle. Jongseong reconvened with you and took the passenger’s seat, heaving a choked breath once he removed his gas mask. 

The stench of rotten eggs persisted, but the sweet aroma of vanilla and an assortment of fruits managed to make everything in the truck somewhat breathable. You owed it to whoever was in the truck last—presumably the cult—who left the coolers of ice cream and popsicles open to allow its thick, melted contents to waft into the air. With a few tries, the truck’s engine began to roar, and you gave Jongseong a quick high-five before keeping your eyes on the blood-ridden windshield. 

“What the hell do we do now?” Jongseong asked again. The medallion began to float in the air again, fighting the vast darkness of the truck with its red glow. 

“Why are you asking me?” 

“Because you’re the nerd out of both of us, dipshit.”

“Well…” 

You stared at the medallion, eyes tracing its trajectory. Before it could hurl itself against the window, Jongseong caught it mid-air with his gloved hand. He tore off the hems of his shirt and tied some of its string around the punctured hole at the top of the medallion, letting it dangle near the glovebox as he waited for your answer. 

“What are you gonna do with it?” 

“I still don’t know, but I think if we try to let it know we have it, it might stop its rampage,”

“Isn’t there a chance that it gets even more erratic than it was before?” 

Usually, artifacts were a good sign in video games—at least, when they were used right. Most of the plots you’ve seen unfold in your endless pursuit of action RPGs had an architect or a group of scientists mistakenly experiment on an ancient artifact, leaving it up to the player to return it back to where it came from. Since the medallion supposedly came from the sea, then perhaps tossing it back into the ocean would finally put the creature back to rest. 

“Yeah, but there’s no harm in trying. I hate this city, but that’s why I love it. I’m not about to let some goddamn octopus ruin my chances of getting a degree. My parents paid a shit ton of money to send me here, and the scholarship can’t go to waste, either.” 

“Same,” 

Before you could reply, your stomach started to grumble, reverberating its moans and groans across the entirety of the truck. You nodded your head to Jongseong, stepping out of the driver’s seat to let him take the lead. As much as you hated to admit it, he was the better driver out of the two of you. The fact that he managed to narrowly escape a high-security facility with a run-down Mustang made you reconsider his perceived lack of skills. 

“There’s probably some ice cream in the cooler if you’re hungry,” Jongseong muttered. He reversed the truck from its parked position and began to drive forward, plunging its tires into the shallow entrance of the sea. You felt your body move with the waves, prompting you to cover your nose to quickly cure the nausea that began to overtake your body. 

“Ew, I guess I can’t have a snack now,” You lamented, eyeing the groups of coolers with a mixture of seasickness and hunger. There was no harm in searching the entirety of the cooler to fish out an unmelted pot of ice cream or a berry-flavored popsicle. After all, you had every right to treat yourself with what could be your last meal of your lifetime. 

“There’s no time for that!” 

“I know, I know.” 

The octopoid creature turned its eyes toward the truck, the radiance beaming from its massive eyes illuminating the entire vehicle in a tint of dark red. Instead of flailing its tentacles toward the two of you, it stopped in its tracks, calmly laying down eight of its tentacles. Using the flow of all of its arms, it managed to create a gentle ebb and flow that lulled the truck forward. The medallion ceased all motions, now swaying with the same rhythms of the ocean like a metronome dictating the melodies of a calm sonata. 

“So, what’s the plan?” 

“We’re using the medallion as bait, getting it closer to the truck so we can ram this shit inside its mouth or something,”

“Gross,” Jongseong whispered, eyes still focused on the unexpected event that unfolded before his very eyes. Tiny dots of helicopters and airplanes began to form a constellation in the dark abyss of the ominous skies, and he stopped the engines of the truck all at once. 

“Then, we’re gonna play the recording of the radio that Heeseung managed to salvage, using your laptop to plug it into the system,” You explained, scouring through the truck before realizing that all of your stuff was with the CIA. 

“Fuck!”

Jongseong heaved a sigh, closing his eyes to mourn the scenario of hope that was pictured in his head. If fate had it that he was to become the sacrifice to appease the rampages of a lonesome god, then so be it. At this rate, he had nothing to lose. 

“Jay, your phone!” You suddenly screamed, eyes glimmering the same way they did whenever the two of you would play a round of Smash Bros in the same truck that was to be your coffin. 

“What about it?” Jongseong asked. 

“Do you have it with you?” 

“Yeah, it’s in my pocket, but I need to charge it,” He said. He slipped his sleek smartphone on top of the glovebox, watching you tirelessly search through the truck for anything that could salvage your plan. 

“There’s a charging port right there!” You exclaimed with jovial delight, pointing at the USB ports below the air conditioner and the car radio. “I think we’ll have enough time to distract that thing until your phone turns on. Then, we can plug that into the system and play the recording that you took when we were back here—you know, before Heeseung picked us up.”

“Sweet,”

You took Jongseong’s phone and a USB cable from one of the compartments of the truck, quickly plugging his phone into the port. Once the image of a battery began to pop up, you breathed a sigh of relief and gave Jongseong another effortless high-five. 

“Start the engine again, and drive straight into that fucker,”

“Gotcha, captain,” 

Through the corner of Jongseong’s eyes, he could see the metallic surface of several military-grade submarines appear underwater. The helicopters and airplanes finally came into view, circling around the behemoth of a monster. Sparks of orange and white began to emerge from each air-borne vehicle, disturbing the momentary peace that the two of you had with the monster. In an instant, the calm seas began to roar with the rage of a tempest, rocking the truck back and forth with an uneasy tremble. You took Jongseong’s phone the moment it showed his lock screen—a photo of himself and his father at his high school graduation. After letting Jongseong enter his password, you scrolled through each of his recordings in his files, playing the most recent one. 

“Brace yourselves, boys,” You signaled, covering your ears before hitting play. 

A cacophony of shrieks, patterned beeps, and cries for help began to emerge from the old speakers of the car radio. You reluctantly turned the volume even louder, immediately covering your ears to the of your best abilities. Jongseong turned the keys to the car, stomping on the accelerator to beat the submarines and reach the creature first. The closer the truck got to the octopoid creature, the louder the recording became. The octopoid creature immediately softened its rampage, letting out an otherworldly cry as it used its wings to pick up the truck. 

Now, the two of you were face-to-face with the creature that was meant to devour the two of you. You closed your eyes and said all your goodbyes in a hasty eulogy, and Jongseong kept his feet on the accelerator, breath hitched as the face of the monster drew closer and closer to the windshield. There was no time for you or Jongseong to study the creature and memorize all of its features, but it was rather difficult to not be faced with the presence of a being that could only be seen once in a blue moon. You took all of its shapes and curves in—the slimy sheen that covered its entire body; the brittle scaliness of its tentacles; the beaming eyes that constantly emitted a bright, red glow; its bat-like wings that scraped and sliced through thin air; claws large enough to cut the earth in half; floating bubbles of what could be blood from all of the sacrifices it had the pleasures of eating; a red, ring-like halo around its entire body that reminded you of Saturn; the way it moved against the laws of time. You tried your best to picture all of it before you were bound to forget. 

“Do it,”

You couldn’t hear Jongseong at all. The truck was wrapped in a momentary halt of radio silence, and the driver’s seat was now empty. You took the medallion from the glovebox and opened the car’s window, muttering a string of curses before tossing the medallion in the creature’s direction. Time seemed to stop as the helicopter’s wings and the airplanes in the sky were suspended in a lack of motion, with strings of bullets and bombs seeping through the air in an untimely flurry, stopping right before the creature’s massive body. Some of the submarines that were once submerged in the ocean arose into full view, accompanied by flights of aircraft carriers and large gunboats that also fired their rounds at the monster. The only thing that seemed to move despite all the commotion was the medallion that slowly made its way to the monster, slowing down time into fragmented frames that made its trajectory a series of picture slides that your mom often showed you as a young child. The moment the medallion reached the octopoid creature, a female, human shriek pierced through your ears, mumbling and screaming in an ancient, incoherent language that was lost to time. You didn't bother trying to decipher what the voice was saying; you couldn’t feel any sensation in your limbs or your legs. The octopoid creature was now bathed in bright, heavenly lights—almost like a halo that encased it in an exorcism. This very light blinded you, and for a moment, you thought that heaven was within your reach—palpable, soothing, and tranquilizing. You closed your eyes one last time, basking yourself in its divine glow.

SEVERAL DEAD IN A LARGE FIRE: VENICE BEACH’S FIRST TRAGEDY SINCE THE BURNING OF THE BOARDWALK

Luca Fahy was never someone who checked the news. He didn’t really care about the world, and he cared even less about what happened outside of the comforts of his own life. To him, the news was a reminder of the old country—a place he escaped to start over and reinvent himself and his cultural identity. Sometimes, his parents would tell him stories about Belfast, but that didn’t matter to him. Belfast was as far away as Antarctica to him now; nothing in his current lifestyle brought any ties back to the city that marred his childhood. 

Perhaps the news was something that reminded him of Belfast—which was why he didn’t want to read it at all, even if it undermined any forms of social banter that often accompanied his circle and beyond. To his misfortunes, the news played center stage in the everyday conversations of the average American person. This was probably because there was nothing newsworthy about the country for them to want to tune out and forget about the ills of the world. For a country like the United States, Luca saw how events that transpired around the world—wars, famine, disease—were trinkets of misery that fueled the lack of entertainment for a group of people that seemingly had it all. If he grew up in America, he would most certainly see the Shankhill Road bombing as a suspense film more so than an event that he wanted to forget. 

“Hey, you’re Luca, right?” A familiar accent that he hated rang in his ears. He turned his head around and saw the only person he could tolerate that came from the same place that he did. 

“I’ve been telling you my name for the past seven years now, Dan,” He snarkily replied, crushing the newspaper into a fine, small ball before tossing it into his overfilled trash can.

“You’ve been my supplier since we both migrated here, remember?” 

Dan gave Luca a goofy, air-headed smile and sunk his body into Luca’s sofa. Luca could never tell if Dan’s forgetfulness was something that was always with him, or if it was a product of his problems with addiction. There was another part of him that thought of Dan doing all of this on purpose, but he chalked it up to one of his egotistical tendencies. It was better to think of Dan as a person that would deliberately forget things to talk to him—that way, he would feel better about seeing Dan more often. 

“My bad,” He spoke in their mother tongue. Luca thought his ears would fall off. 

“So, why are you here?” Luca asked. Dan was never serious, so it was pretty obvious to Luca or anybody else that had the pleasures—or displeasures—of knowing Dan to see the signs of his sobriety. Right now, he was standing upright, eyes wide awake in the absence of whatever illicit substance he managed to get his hands on.

“You saw the news, didn’t you?” Dan said, pointing at the crumpled newspaper that rolled out of Luca’s trash can. 

“One of our brothers worked at Venice Beach—a Korean named Jay Park.”

“I know,”

This surprised Luca. To his knowledge, Dan was never the type of guy to interact with any of the brothers of Sigma Phi Epsilon unless he was making a drug deal. Even if Jay was a new face, Luca could never forget him. He was the only brother who never talked to girls during parties, and he was certainly the type to steer clear from drugs, only opting to consume copious amounts of alcohol whenever he saw fit. 

“One of my friends also worked with him. That’s how I got to know him. He was a pretty chill dude, and we played a bunch of games together for a short while.” 

“Oh?”

Jay was at the hospital. Luca had managed to visit him from time to time, but lately, he was overwhelmed with the prospects of graduation. In a sense, Jay’s unyielding determination brought the fraternity with positive reinforcement. After his initiation and ascension into the position of the new scholar chair in such a short time, he managed to raise the average GPA to record-breaking heights. This included giving Luca the motivation to sort everything with his life out and accept that it was high time for him to resign as a student. There was no point in living a fairytale of endless parties and drug abuse when eventually, it was all bound to disappear. 

Now that Luca has thought about it, Jay was the only person he talked to that made the news sound bearable. Every time he would catch Jay in the house, he would always bring up whatever headline he saw on his phone, letting Jay fill in the details. To this day, he didn’t know what it was about the boy that made him want to hear the news, but it was a refreshing routine that he looked forward to. 

“What do you think really happened at Venice Beach?” Dan suddenly asked, taking the question out of Luca’s mouth. Though he didn’t want to admit it, nor was he suspect of conspiracy theories and the paranormal, he found it rather odd that you and Jay disappeared before the incident transpired. It was not like Jay at all to miss meetings and parties without notifying the other brothers first, and the lack of burn marks on his body didn’t convince him that Jay fell victim to the so-called fires.

“Beats me, mate. Some smog or something innit,” 

Dan gave Luca another shrug, resting his head on the hilt of Luca’s unwashed pillow. Luca turned to face Dan and crossed his legs, eyeing the man with a newfound appreciation. It already surprised him that he cared about the incident, and he was left flabbergasted at the thought of someone like Dan showing any signs of empathy at what he might’ve called a measly fire. The two of them have seen worse things back in their home country, so why would he care about a small event now?

“Yeah, it’s probably the smog…” Dan replied, the picture of pensiveness etched on his thin, straight lips. “She didn’t have any burn marks either—you know? My friend who worked with Jay. When I went to visit her, she was unconscious. Sleeping as peaceful as a baby. I went and gone asked for the autopsy, but the nurses refused to give it to me. Isn’t that weird?”

“Maybe it has something to do with privacy,” Luca interrupted, his voice faltering into the trenches of doubt. “You know people here aren’t like what we were. Client confidentiality and all that bullshit.” 

“She had some sort of tacky necklace on her, one that I’ve never seen before. It looked like a really old coin or something, like the shit that Indiana Jones would try to look for in one of his movies.”

“Dan, I don’t watch movies.” Luca hastily rebuked. 

“My bad, mate.” 

Dan got up from his position and headed straight to the door, waving Luca goodbye as he disappeared into wherever he went. Luca craned his neck and peeked his head to his door, checking for any trace of Dan in the building. He then stood up to lurk around his window, slightly opening his curtains to see Dan’s hooded figure leaving the premises of the frat house. Once he was gone, Luca closed the door shut and picked the newspaper up from his carpeted floor, opening it once more to skim through its contents. 

(CNN)—Another wave of wildfire smoke has drifted into the state of California, turning the summer into a smog-ridden dystopia of trouble and the impending doom of climate change. 

In what started as a small, mom-and-pop ice cream truck, two employees saved the day by alerting officials and calling the wildfire team to dispatch the fire immediately. So far, more than three million people are still under air quality alerts across the entire state—stemming from all the way to the Bay Area down to the North of San Diego. Conditions are expected to improve slowly into the first few weeks of July, and scientists continue to reiterate warnings on the potential connection between the Venice Beach fires and the onset of climate change. 

Luca heaved a sigh and kept the newspaper clipping under the depths of his desk drawer. He put his letter jacket over his shoulders and headed out for the door. If he was lucky, then rain would start to pour some time later, when he was bound to come back from the hospital. So far, he had only checked up on Jay, but he figured he should visit you as well, examining the necklace that Dan talked about once and for all.

EPILOGUE: 80S COMEDOWN MACHINE

Ah, yes. Summer vacation. It was a time for students and all those that are unemployed to enjoy themselves. The sun was out, the beaches were shimmering, and sweaty pools of odor and musk were pretty much unavoidable. For Jongseong—or Jay, as he would like to call himself since he moved to Florida—it was a delightful occasion to look forward to. He could finally stop getting brain-freeze and indulge in copious amounts of ice cream without worrying about his figure. After all, it was bulking season, not cutting season. The only way he could show his guns out to everyone that seemed to care is if he had the energy to sustain copious amounts of hours at the gym performing the same, six exercises that he knows. He didn’t care if he looked ridiculous doing so; he looked great.

Apart from maintaining a Promethean physique alongside a Sisyphean work ethic, he believed that the summer season was also a period of self-reflection and catering to his parents' demands of academic excellence and a six-figure job by the end of his degree. Though he wasn’t necessarily struggling with his courses (he was told he could graduate early if he concentrated more on coursework during the summer semester), he didn’t want to live that life. That was the reason he didn’t pursue engineering or medicine; he wanted to live a little. It wasn’t as if his parents were aware of it, anyway—so long as he told them that he was attending summer school and he was actively looking for a part-time job or an internship to fulfill the emptiness of free time, he was pretty much in the clear. 

As he stood in front of a surf shop by the shores of Venice Beach, resume in one hand and sheer determination in another, he stepped inside, his spine shivering at the sound of the wind chime welcoming him inside the premises of the sawdust-scented store. He was proud of himself—not because he finally got his ass up and decided to get a job, but because he was earlier than you for the interview. He didn’t deny that you were the more punctual out of the duo, but he couldn’t accept the fact that you had more things to brag about in your resume than him. You had several years of experience managing small concerts in tiny venues under your belt, which apparently qualified as customer service in the eyes of every interviewer. It was somewhat embarrassing for him that his resume was extremely empty, and the fact that he didn’t even consider working for a fast-food joint or in retail continued to surprise him. To be fair, he wasn’t lazy, per se—he was just irrationally worried at the prospect of sacrificing academics for disposable income. Additionally, he didn’t really need a job. His parents continued to send him his allowance, and luckily, his rent stayed the same. The only reason he decided to get a job in the first place was to keep himself busy—and, of course, to prove you wrong about one thing: his flirting game. 

Instead of triumphantly entering the shop to ask for an immediate interview, however, he saw your ecstatic silhouette leave a hidden back door with what could only look like the embodiment of a serial surfer. He had spiky, golden hair flat to the sheen with too much gel, a pooka shell necklace that was ten years too late, and a spray tan that made him look like a withering tomato more so than the pinnacle of a Greek god. You passed by Jongseong with a large, smug grin on your face, giving him a smooth high five before dragging his shoulders and whispering right into his ear. 

“I got the job,”

“Fuck you,”

The withering tomato gave Jongseong a weary shaka sign, followed by a warm handshake that almost sent him flying across the other side of the shop, potentially crashing into the neatly lined surfboards of all sorts of colors and shapes. 

“Braddah, I’m sorry but slots are full,” He said, with an offensively fake accent. “The yogurt shop next door is hiring doe,”

“No thank you,” Jongseong quickly replied. You shared the same sentiment, nervously laughing it off as an automatic reaction. There was no way the two of you would ever work for an ice cream truck ever again. 

“Do you know Luca?” You suddenly asked. The man promptly nodded, looking at you with newfound confusion. 

“He’s my homie brah,”

“Cool! Because Jay’s homies with that guy, too! He’s in Sigma Phi Epsilon, and he’s pretty close with a lot of the brothers there!” 

The man then embraced Jongseong in a warm hug that reeked of body spray and deodorant. Jongseong reluctantly returned the gesture; his employment depended on it. 

“Jay’s also pretty close to the sorority girls in our university, so he’s a valuable asset for your surfing lessons!” You chimed in, watching Jongseong’s face contort from utter shock to faux bravado. The man’s eyes widened as he circled his large, muscular arms around Jongseong’s neck in a near chokehold. 

“You’re hired, braddah! I used to be a braddah like you when I was still in school, braddah!” 

If Jongseong could earn a penny for all the times his new boss said brother, he would have about ten by now. It’s not much, but the value would mature over time, eventually pushing his salary outside the boundaries of the minimum wage. You gave Jongseong a subtle wink and took one of the surfboards from the shop, tucking its large frame under your arms as you adjusted the straps of your bikini top. 

“You on?” You asked. Somehow, Jongseong felt like he’s seen all of this before. 

“Loser has to close up,” He confidently replied. Judging from the way you looked, he was sure he’d work overtime on his first shift. Even if he knew there was no point in trying to win against you—whether it was a game of Smash Bros or an impromptu prank war—he nonetheless rode the waves to a lifetime of defeat.

“You’re on, bitch boy.” 

The silver medallion now dangled around your neck, softly emitting an otherworldly glow as it basked in the rays of the hot, summer sun. It was quite funny to him that a being that pretty much towered over the ocean was now trapped within the small confines of a coin, forever trapped as a unique accessory that you would flaunt to friends and acquaintances alike. Of course, you didn’t tell them the full story behind your new necklace. Even if you tried, you didn’t know if you could find the right words and sentences that could perfectly piece everything in the same, vivid way a fever dream might induce prophetic visions of evangelic disaster. Jongseong, too, stayed silent about the entire thing—mostly because the CIA threatened to deport him back to Korea if he spoke out. 

None of that mattered now, though. Who was he to be concerned with anything beyond the realms of being a young adult? He got a part-time job for the summer, he gets to practice his surfing skills, and he has all the time in the world to impress the beautiful ladies of the beaches with the progress of his new workout routine. Life was great, and being called bitch boy (he’d rather be called bitch boy for the rest of his life than relive the wrath of a giant, octopus monster out of his friend’s dirty comics from Japan) cannot stop him from his so-called journey into being the best bachelor that Los Angeles had to offer.

The sky is burning.

That was what Hyunjin called the azure sea above his head when it took on a fiery hue. Sunsets were his most cherished time of the day; he found comfort in the blood sun for some reason. It felt harmless in the evening hours, possibly because it didn’t hurt his eyes to directly look at it. It felt like a declawed tiger.

Today, the sky was burning, but that comfort was missing. He thought spring was just around the corner, but today it was snowing. His teeth were chattering as he was sitting in the passenger seat of the car, shriveling into a ball like a hedgehog.

“Don’t let go of my hand,” Chris interlocked his fingers with Hyunjin’s and squeezed his hand tight. “You have me.”

Today it was snowing.

But it wasn’t snow falling from the burning sky.

“Mom, I want to learn sign language.”

Molly’s eyebrows formed the highest possible arch when her ten-year-old blurted that out at the kitchen table out of nowhere. 

“Where did that come from all of a sudden, baby?” she continued to peel potatoes. 

“The boy nextdoor,” Chris rested his chin on his hands. “He never talks. I saw him do stuff with his hands at the grocery store, so I’m gonna learn how to say I want to be friends with him.”

Her heart swelled to the point of combustion. She hadn’t been able to give much to her baby, but the conscience he had was her most proud achievement whether she had anything to do with it or not.

“We will go to the community center tomorrow morning, okay?” she ruffled his rebellious curls.

The boy nextdoor was very reserved, not leaving the house much, but once Chris started signing him the things that he learned, the boy started to come out of his shell a little. A little more. A little bit more every day. At one point, he even started waiting outside when it was time for Chris to come back home from school. Even though most of their communication took place on an Etch A Sketch, it didn’t prevent the two boys from merging into conjoined twins.

Molly wasn’t home much with all those double shifts she was working, naturally failing to notice this boy sooner. Turns out there were a lot of things she hadn’t been noticing, and everything forced itself into her field of vision when she suddenly got laid off one day. 

“Here, baby,” she put headphones on her boy to allay his fear and hugged him tightly. “I’m right here, okay?” 

It was a miracle how that tyrant nextdoor still had his vocal cords intact with all that drunken yelling, and yelling wasn’t the only thing he was doing. She was trying so hard to calculate the chances of Chris becoming an orphan if she were to intervene herself because a call to the police was not going to yield any result. Just the usual slap on the wrist and they were going to fuck right off. Who would give a damn about what was happening in the wasteland that was the South Side anyway?

She was about to go crazy with how helpless she felt. 

If it was her son in there, there was no way anyone could stand in her way. She felt ashamed. She felt ashamed of her fear. Her shame slowly morphed into a tumor in her heart and eventually popped, splattering the puss of rage everywhere.

“ENOUGH!!!”

She leaped off the bed and raided her closet to find the gun she’d been hiding with the hopes of never having to use it. She barged into the house nextdoor through the back door, immediately cocking the hammer when her eyes found the man. 

“Get the fuck away from the kid, or I’ll blow your brains out,” she threatened, eyes maniacally wide, then kneeled and extended her hand towards the boy. 

“Bitch, what are yo—?”

She shot at the bottles lying on the coffee table, thankfully managing to scare the man. This was good. If she played the crazy bitch card, she could maintain the upper hand. 

“I said away!” she spat through her teeth and turned to the boy again. “Come, sweetheart. Chris is waiting for you.”

As soon as he heard the name, the boy ran into her arms, and Molly’s maternal instincts went into overdrive. In a momentary lapse of sanity, she dashed to the front door, turned the keys dangling in the lock, then rushed to the back entrance with the boy holding onto her for dear life and locked the door from the outside.

“Shh, shh, shh, it’s okay. It’s okay, baby, Auntie Molly’s here now,” she kept kissing the boy’s head, leaving the angered screams and the bangs on the door behind her. The second she crossed the threshold of her own home, she put the kid down, and her knees gave way with an overwhelming sense of relief. Once she managed to muster enough strength, she brought a small kit from the bathroom and sat down to clean the boy’s wounds with Chris watching everything in silence.

“T–Thank… you.”

The mother and son froze solid in shock, looking at each other to see if the other heard the words, too.

“Sweetheart, you can talk?” 

“He… h–hurts me when I say words,” the boy spoke in an almost nonexistent voice, refusing to make eye contact at all costs. “I don’t say words anymore.”

Molly could hear her heart breaking, fighting so hard to swallow the knot growing in her throat. She smiled at him brightly to shoo the tears away from her eyes. 

“What’s your name, dear?”

“H–Hyunjin.”

“What a beautiful name,” she caressed his cheek. “Come, it’s time for bed now.”

She tucked both boys in, giving a kiss on each of their foreheads, and wished them sweet dreams. When she turned off the light and closed the door, Chris turned to his side and hugged Hyunjin tightly. 

“You have me,” he whispered like he was sharing a secret. “I’ll protect you. Just follow me, okay?”

Hyunjin nodded. He didn’t have many good memories, but he was surely going to remember that night he got a peaceful sleep, probably the very first one ever since he was alive. 

Nevertheless, that peace of mind was extremely short-lived with a knock on the door the very next morning right after Chris left for school.

“We received a report,” a police officer addressed Molly. “Are you detaining someone else’s child here, ma’am?”

She was utterly aghast, mouth agape as she stared at the man. They wouldn’t give a rat’s ass even when literal murderers were running loose on these streets, and suddenly they were the epitome of sense of duty?

For a false claim?!

“No one is being detained, officer. I only opened up my home to a child in need,” she heaved a deep sigh, slightly annoyed. “Actually, now that you’re here—”

“Did you harm this boy?” the officer’s eyes widened when he saw the bruises on the kid hiding behind her.

“WHAT?! NO!”

“You’re coming to the station with us.”

“What are you talking about?! It wasn’t me! He’s the one you should—”

“Less talking, more walking.”

“Have a good one, Dave,” the man nextdoor waved at the officer, immensely satisfied watching the neighbor bitch get into the police car. His sinister smile vanished when his eyes landed on the boy still standing at that doorstep as if he had turned into stone.

“Hyunjin,” he called out, teeth clenched and nostrils flaring. “Inside. Now.”

This was Chris’ third time repeating the senior year of high school.

The first time he flunked, his teachers were almost expecting it due to his mother’s sudden passing, but everything that followed, they didn’t have an explanation for. Once a decent kid with more than decent grades, he had turned into this aloof vandal with zero intention of carving a future for himself, the front row center audience of disciplinary hearings with his absenteeism through the roof. Every time the guidance counselor wanted to talk to him, he promised not to cut class anymore, just to cut class right after leaving that office. He had no idea why she kept insisting on seeing him this much anyway. This was a trash school in a trash district where trash people lived, and if it weren’t for his irrational desire to graduate alongside Hyunjin, he would have dropped out long ago. He knew nobody actually gave a fuck if he ‘made something of himself’, so why the unnecessary theatrics of ‘I’m worried about you’? 

Eh, maybe she had some quota to fill, who knows?

There was something Chris liked about this school, though. The unused music room-turned-storage in the basement. He brought Carl the janitor his weed at a ridiculously discounted price in exchange for the keys to the secret corner that only belonged to him and Hyunjin. Their little Haven where they got to escape from reality even if it was for a couple of borrowed hours.

“What happened to your lip?” Chris greeted Hyunjin that afternoon with furrowed brows, the worry crawling under his skin turning into rage in record time.

“I fell down.”

“I think the fuck not you did not,” he jumped to head towards the door, fuming out of his nose.

“Chris, stop.”

“I’m either stabbing him to death or calling the police. Take your pick.” 

“You know it’s useless.”

“I don’t give a fuck, I’ll do it every day!” he gently cupped Hyunjin’s cheeks, eyes softening with each moment he spent gazing at his beautiful face. “Every second he’s away from you is a win for me.”

“Don’t,” Hyunjin stared at his shoes. “It gets worse when he comes back home from the station.”

Chris instinctively pulled him into his embrace as if nothing would happen to Hyunjin if he just kept him there. And Hyunjin really believed it. He wished he could just live in Chris’ arms, the only source of respite from his perpetual suffering.

“Let’s just forget about it. I came here to be with you,” Hyunjin gave one of the joints he hid inside his jacket. 

“To be with me,” Chris smirked.

“I–I mean to… to hang out and… whatever.”

Chris didn’t say anything and lit up the cigarette smiling like an idiot, lying down on the old desks he put side by side. Every time Hyunjin let slip things like that, he found himself on the very brink of passing away from endearment, and one of these days, he really wasn’t going to be able to practice restraint anymore. Trying to conceal his devastating longing for him was the hardest thing he had to do, and he had to pull a trigger once. But it was fine. As long as Hyunjin stayed by his side, it didn’t matter if he starved his heart.

It… had to be fine.

“Hey, are you gonna ask anyone to the dance?” Chris asked nonchalantly while making a perfectly shaped smoke ring, to which Hyunjin cackled like a witch.

“That was fucking hysterical. Thanks.”

“What’s so funny?” Chris frowned. “The entire senior floor is drooling over you so much, the corridors always look freshly polished. They’re gonna fire Carl because of you.”

“Fuck the dance, man. Let’s just go get trashed by the river instead.”

“You’re passing up on swiping your V-card?” Chris cocked a brow with a shit-eating grin.

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t play dumb. Everybody knows what happens in the parking lot on the night of the dance.”

Yeah, no shit! Yes, he knew, thank you very much. That was exactly why Hyunjin didn’t want to be in the parking lot. He wanted to be alone with Chris at their spot by the river. It was an insane idea when he couldn’t even muster the courage to kiss him, and yet he wanted to ask him to… 

“Are you gonna ask anyone?” he hesitantly questioned.

“Nah, I’m busy that day.” 

“With what?”

“I got invited to get trashed by the river.”

They lazily smiled at each other. If only things were different. Chris would definitely ask Hyunjin to go to the dance with him. They would obviously be the hottest couple of the night, making so many bitches die of jealousy, but he wouldn’t take him to the parking lot afterwards. He would take him to their spot by the river, kiss him for hours, then beg Hyunjin to end his misery, to release him from this prison of yearning. He would whisper how he was all Chris could see when he closed his eyes. He would whisper how he wanted to be the first and only person to kiss him, to touch him, to make him cum, and then ask him to hold his hand for an eternity.

If only…

“I uh… I got you something,” Hyunjin rose to his feet to walk towards the dusty lockers at the back of the room. “Close your eyes.”

“You fucking care about me!” Chris dramatically gasped. “My birthday was months ago. Where did this come from?”

“Well, I didn’t have the money yet on your birthday.”

“What money? Bagel sandwiches cost like five bucks.”

“Well, that stupid thing you like so much costs a bit more, so…” Hyunjin returned to the desk, his throat experiencing acute drought for some reason. “Alright, you can look.”

Chris opened his eyes, and his heart did a kamikaze dive to the ground, vanishing the smile on his lips in an instant.

Every time they passed by the record store, he always insisted on going in although he was never going to make a purchase. The store owner was at least nice; he allowed them to hang out and even let Chris play one of the guitars on display. It was the cheapest one of the lot, but Chris still lost his mind over it. 

And now ‘his girl Roxy’ was standing right before his eyes.

“Hyun…” 

“If the dramatic pause is to ask if I stole it, no I didn’t,” Hyunjin responded to his questioning gaze. “I’ve been working at the gas station after school.” 

“You what?” Chris’ eyes started welling up uncontrollably. “For–For this?”

“Don’t fucking flatter yourself,” Hyunjin scoffed, but his fingers were scratching his nape out of nervous habit. “I get to not go home and stuff, too, you know.”

Chris wanted to cry a little bit. He wanted to ask why the absolute fuck Hyunjin was the purest thing in this cesspit of a world that didn’t deserve him. He wanted to hold him a little bit. Drown him in kisses, inhale his scent from the intersection where his ear met his neck. Tell him to never ever let his hand go and please please love him back.

“I will guard this with my life,” was all he could say.

The light in Chris’ eyes was so bright that Hyunjin couldn’t help contracting it. He loved making Chris smile. He was so easy to make happy, so easy to fall madly in love with, and so easy to love. It made Hyunjin’s heart stop every time he saw those dimples. It violently killed Hyunjin when he heard Chris’ giggles. It wasn’t the worst idea to spend the rest of his life hearing that sound in his ears every day. 

And when the most beautiful man in the entire universe smiled at him like that, Chris finally lost his last drop of patience, and his lips clutched Hyunjin’s for dear life.

Time stopped.

Hyunjin was convinced he had categorically gone crazy. He had been imagining this moment so concerningly frequently that he was having a full-on psychosis. He could actually feel Chris’ lips on him as well as the rhythm of his heartbeat pounding loud within his own body. He was overwhelmed to the point of paralysis, unable to move an inch.

When his kiss wasn’t reciprocated, Chris pulled back to see a frozen Hyunjin, his eyes wide open in shock, and an immediate wave of panic washed over him.

“I–I’m sorry. I thought… That was stupid. I’m so stupid. I’m sorry. I’m… Fuck!”

Chris bolted out of that place towards the restroom, dying of embarrassment and incredulous of what he had just done. He couldn’t fucking help himself, and now it was going to get awkward as hell. Was Hyunjin going to avoid him now? Was he disgusted by him? Was he weirded out? How could he make things right again? Should he say he was too faded and didn’t remember? Should he not talk about it at all and act like it never happened? Fuck. Fuck. FUCK!!!

Meanwhile, Hyunjin just stood in the middle of that room with his fingers pressed on his lips for god knows how long, his first kiss still ablaze on his skin like an open wound.

Seventeen years. Eleven months. Twenty-nine days. 

Hyunjin had been counting, and after what felt like several eternities, D-Day had finally arrived. 

“I’ve kept this from you all along,” Chris spoke with profound seriousness as they got out of his mom’s faithful Camry, “but I’m actually a genie.”

A lot of people had their spots by the river, but they were out in the open somewhere on the lush lawn, strategically occupied by couples to remind the passersby of how lonely they were. Being highly allergic to crowds, Hyunjin and Chris picked their spot at a godforsaken location, still by the riverbank but somewhere they could at least pull up with a car. It was a literal underpass slightly reminiscent of an abandoned junkyard, but at least it was secluded, quiet, and had a killer view at nighttime. It was Haven the sequel.

And on the night of the school dance, Haven the sequel was hosting Hyunjin’s birthday.

“Have you finally lost your mind?” Hyunjin contorted his face.

“What do you mean finally?” Chris widened his eyes with not-so-make-believe lunacy and walked to the back of the car. “Remember when you said the only way for you to find peace was if you could wipe out the entire neighborhood?”

Inside the trunk lay the two sledgehammers that Chris borrowed from the body shop down the street. He took them both out, then led the way towards the left where the moonlight ricocheted off some shiny surfaces in the distance. Once Hyunjin’s eyes got used to the darkness, he could finally make out what he was looking at. There was a bunch of stuff lying around that wasn’t there before—old monitors, an empty cooler, a TV, various furniture about to fall apart if someone so much as sneezed… 

“Close enough, yeah?” Chris handed one of the sledgehammers to Hyunjin. “Happy birthday.” 

When Hyunjin felt that sturdy grip under his touch, he felt weirdly… in control. Something he never once was able to feel in the seventeen years, eleven months, and twenty-nine days he was alive. Every single piece of junk standing before him was slowly shapeshifting into his demons, reminding him of everything that was stolen from him, and derisively laughing at his face. He could hear his blood rushing in his veins. His chest was heaving as if he had been running for hours. His breathing was quickening beyond his control. Then some more. Then some more, and…

With an ear-piercing scream, he bolted towards that cooler at full speed and slammed the sledgehammer like he wanted to gut it alive.

Both boys consumed with the raging urge to destruct, they broke, they shattered, they smashed, screaming their lungs out, maniacally laughing for no reason, just letting it all out. Letting out all the poison gangrening their existence. All the suffering sinking its teeth on their shoulders. All the tears they couldn’t cry. All the broken dreams they dared to dream once. At this very moment, they were elsewhere, far, far, far away, living other lives as other people.

And they were deliriously happy.

“That felt so good!”

When they returned to the car and got inside, Hyunjin was still smiling, completely unable to control the curls on his lips. Witnessing such a miraculous sight multiplied Chris’ happiness infinityfold. After taking a long sip from his flask, he handed it to Hyunjin to quench his thirst and started watching the nightscape stretching before them. Bright lights, tall buildings, home to some lucky bastards’ lives. 

He didn’t have much maybe, but as he gazed at Hyunjin’s lost-in-thought silhouette, Chris could see what his luck was spent on, and he couldn’t be any more content.

“What?” Hyunjin looked back when he noticed Chris’ eyes on him.

“You look like you want to say something.” 

It all had boiled down to this. 

After the incident at Haven, neither of them talked about it even though that was the only thing both were dying to talk about. As Chris was experiencing back-to-back existential crises, Hyunjin was floating in a cloud of bliss with the gigantic green light he received from Chris. He wanted to do it again but properly this time. And he wanted to do much more than kissing, but he had to time it just right. It had to be at a time and place where no soul-crushing ‘We can’t’ could be uttered. When they were alone. When they were close. 

Where nobody could interrupt them.

“You… had sex before, right?” Hyunjin stared at his fingers. 

Tremendously blindsided, Chris burst into laughter so hard that it came out as a wheeze. It may have sounded like joy but the singular emotion riddling his existence was suffocating nervousness.

“Why are you asking?” he spoke with perfectly intact composure.

“Nothing, I just…” 

Chris examined every single twitch on Hyunjin’s face. He didn’t want to spectacularly misread him again, but he just had this undeniable feeling. Something exuding from Hyunjin was condensing in the air, and every time it rained on Chris’ heart, it beat a little harder in his throat.

“Did you… change your mind about the dance?” Chris lowered his head, trying to hold Hyunjin’s gaze.

“No, it’s not… it’s not about the dance.”

“Then what is it about?”

Hyunjin was uncontrollably blushing, trying to pick the right way to word this. Even though he wanted Chris in extremely disrespectful ways, the last thing he wanted to come across was crass. 

Because as much as bodily fluids, he wanted to exchange hearts with the exclusive owner of his soul.

“I’ve been… waiting,” he started with a small voice, “for–for us to…”

Oh god, is this…?

Because Chris had been waiting, too. He had been patiently waiting ever since he noticed that thing he felt whenever he caught a glimpse of Hyunjin was nowhere near brotherly. He was thoroughly consumed by his love for the kiwi boy who sported a buzzcut his entire life, and he would burn this world down for him if he asked. He wanted him to ask. Right fucking now.

But he would rather die than force Hyunjin to do something he wasn’t ready for. 

He smiled instead and reached for the backseat to pick up a small box that looked like a cube. Hyunjin instantly knew what was in there because of the signature packaging. Something they got to have only twice in a year. Chris picked up the singular candle resting inside, stuck it into the creamy frosting, and lit it up.

“Make a wish,” he held the red velvet cupcake before him, excessive adoration beaming out of his eyes.

Hyunjin closed his eyes, made his wish, and blew the candle. Then he broke the pastry in two and fed Chris one half.

“What did you wish for?” Chris asked licking the frosting off his lips.

“I want to be happy,” Hyunjin responded without a beat.

Those eyes… Those angelic eyes writhing under broken wings… It shattered Chris’ soul. He only wanted to see lights in there, but they were so dim. He wanted to rip his own heart out and give it to Hyunjin. He wanted to give whatever granular happiness he was able to taste to him. He wanted to shelter him. He wanted to love him.

He wanted to give him everything.

“I can… make you very happy,” he spoke somewhat abashed, eyes lowered to his own hands, “if you let me.”

He flinched in his place when Hyunjin unexpectedly reached for his face. Those long, slender fingers brushed against his lips, immediately coercing a sharp exhale out of Chris just with that simple touch. All Hyunjin could think about was how Chris had the most kissable lips in the world. So full, so inviting parted like that, begging him to come taste him. Fallen slave to his maddening desire for this man, he slowly closed the distance between them and spoke against those lips he had been violently daydreaming about.

“Do it again but don’t pull away from me this time,” Hyunjin whispered.

Bolts of lightning started to strike that car back to back.

One hesitant peck became two, then three, four, each staying a while longer than the last. One pair of lips hugged the other, extremely persuasive to go skinny dipping in the ocean of passion. 

They got their toes wet in the shallow end first. 

Just a kiss, but it was a promise. It was an abyss, making a man in love want to fall into it forever. A kiss, but it was a wordless confession. It was a heartless conviction, making a man in love want to become a prisoner for three life sentences straight.

That kiss was two souls merging into one in fate.

“You make sense to me,” Chris whispered breathlessly. “You are the only thing that makes sense in my insanity.”

Hyunjin felt so lost but he was right where he was always supposed to be. Nowhere felt as safe as Chris’ lips kissing his pain away, his arms the safest haven, his touch the only ointment to soothe the burn marks all over his charred soul. 

He wanted to say it all out loud, but every pause felt like an utter waste of time he could be spending loving him instead.

Chris snuck into the back seat, pulling Hyunjin with him. They were cursing at themselves for deciding to put on so many layers that night, but when they finally reached the last one and stood bare before each other, Chris was moved to tears by Hyunjin’s beauty despite the bruises covering him all over.

“God, you’re so fucking perfect,” he caressed Hyunjin’s face. “I can’t believe you’re real sometimes.”

Hyunjin held the hand breathing life into him and kissed each of those fingers like they were his savior and he was expressing his heartfelt gratitude. He kissed that wrist like the elixir of life was flowing in those veins. He pressed that palm on his chest like it could jumpstart his heart back to life again, then slid it down towards his crotch.

“Touch me.”

Chris thickly swallowed. He had imagined this moment embarrassingly often, but now that it was about to happen for real, he was having a little trouble breathing. He lay Hyunjin down and unbuttoned his pants, heartbeat going crazy in his ears as he stripped him bare. At long last, when he finally laid his eyes on what he only saw in his dreams…

“Oh, fuck me!” 

“I’m trying to,” Hyunjin responded with a straight face.

As they chuckled at each other, Hyunjin reached for Chris’ waistband and tugged on it, silently making a wish to be on equal grounds. He couldn’t help the throb between his legs when he witnessed the man of his dreams in all his glory, fully hard and begging for his touch. Chris lay next to him, basking in the unreal beauty, and sneaked a hand between Hyunjin’s legs, kissing him lazily as he gently stroked his girth.

Someone else’s touch. Chris’ touch. Something he always longed for but was too scared to verbalize even to himself. He was having the hardest time comprehending Chris was right next to him, naked, body ablaze, quietly moaning into his mouth while pleasuring him. 

Starting from his shoulder, Hyunjin traced the outline of Chris’ body with his fingers and stopped when he reached his waist, taking a turn towards his crotch. The heat he felt under his touch suddenly condensed, and Chris moaned louder when he felt Hyunjin’s fingers wrapped around him, rubbing his cock against his own.

“Do you feel it?” Chris pressed his chest against Hyunjin’s a little more. “How you make my heart race?”

Hyunjin fervently nodded. He couldn’t tell whose heart it was anymore, but it was pounding loud like it was about to burst, sending waves after waves of headrush straight to his brain, making all his thoughts go fuzzy.

“You have me. You’ve always had me,” Chris kissed Hyunjin’s palm, then pressed it on the left side of his chest. “Right here.”

Hyunjin was so overwhelmed that he was on the brink of crying. 

When Chris’ rhythm quickened, Hyunjin matched his pace, and all hell started breaking loose around them. He was running to the finish line at full speed but got sidetracked when a drop of Chris’ precum landed on his hand. He stared straight into his eyes, making a complete show of obscenely licking it clean, diminishing Chris into a panting, moaning mess just with that little display of what he was capable of doing with his tongue. 

“Let it out,” Chris urged him through his own moans. “Give me all of you.”

“Faster.”

“Cum with me.”

“I love you.”

“I love you. FUCK!”

The tremors traveling from one body to the other transformed into wet debris when they reached their destination. Gasps for air were silenced with lips crashing into each other, holding on tight until they safely landed. Neither of them cared about the mess; if anything they wanted more of it as ink to sign one another under their names. They held each other tightly, overdosing on the happiness and satisfaction they didn’t even know existed, sure to turn into instant addicts momentarily.

“Don’t you just love the sound of silence?” Chris dreamily smiled as he gazed into the neon silhouette framed by the window, fingers running on Hyunjin’s porcelain skin. The only response he received was a content chuckle and a kiss on his chest.

They listened to the city singing in the distance. They listened to each other’s heartbeats. Then listened to the silence cradling both of them.

It was all they needed besides each other.

“Come with me,” Chris repeated his earlier request, tangling his fingers within Hyunjin’s.

“Where?”

“Away,” he lifted his chin to look into his eyes. “Let’s escape. From this shithole. From all our misery. It’ll be an adventure!”

“Where are we even gonna go?”

“Somewhere nobody knows. It’ll be just you and me,” Chris shoved a thousand pleas into his voice. “I promise I’ll take all your pain away. Just promise me you’ll love me a little more every day.”

Hyunjin pulled himself up and sealed his promise with a kiss. Chris didn’t need to ‘take his pain away’; every time they were breathing the same air, Hyunjin was unable to feel it anyway.

“I promise I’ll love you a lot more,” he ran his fingers through the unruly curls he loved so much, “but in exchange, you will promise to give me all of you.”

“Please let me come in with you.”

“It’s fine. Just wait for me here,” Hyunjin reassured him. “He hides the money in the living room. I’ll be in and out in two seconds.” 

As soon as that back door closed, Chris started chainsmoking out of sheer nerves, lighting one cigarette before he even fully finished the other. No need to think about the worst, it was going to be fine. Hyunjin said he would be in and out. He would be out any second now, and they would leave to never come back.

But then he heard the sound of glass shattering inside as well as a loud groan, something possessed him entirely. 

“You fucking DID NOT!!!”

He barged into the house ready to kill, frantically looking for Hyunjin, but instead of a commotion, there was a bone-chilling silence haunting the place. His heart was about to jump out of his chest when he made it to the living room, terrified of what might be waiting for him inside. 

“H–Hyun?”

Hyunjin was looking at the lifeless body lying on the floor with glazed eyes. The coldest stare Chris had ever seen. No emotion on the face whatsoever, clearly struck with shock, beautiful hands covered in blood with one of them tightly gripping a large kitchen knife.

“Are you hurt?” he immediately kneeled before Hyunjin, quickly checking for an injury. “Look at me. He had it coming, you hear me? For years.” 

Hyunjin turned his blank stare to Chris, unable to snap out of it even though that was all he wanted to do, uncontrollably shaking.

“You have me,” Chris hugged him tight. “It’s over now. You have me. I love you.”

It was as if Hyunjin had teleported to Chris’ childhood bedroom. He remembered the night he was there for the very first time. How he slept the most peaceful sleep of his life in that bed, the heart beating next to him the safest blanket. 

I’ll protect you. Just follow me, okay?

Something in the back of his head suddenly snapped, vacuuming him back into reality through the vortex of memories, and the second his feet touched the ground again, a gut-wrenching wail ripped from his throat. No regret. No grief.

Just pure, unmitigated relief of being unchained from his darkness. 

He heard all his shackles loudly break, and years of pain drained from his body with every tear he shed. In the arms of the only man that could comfort him. 

And it would take a while for Chris to burn down the world for him, but he could still burn down something. 

He turned the keys dangling in the lock of the front door first, then went to the basement to pick up a gallon of gas, pouring it all over the place as he walked back to the living room. Then he grabbed the lighter on the coffee table, held Hyunjin’s hand, and headed to the back entrance. 

He took out his own pack from his pocket and grabbed one smoke for himself and one for Hyunjin. He clicked the Zippo to light both cigarettes, then threw it inside the house and locked the back door. They smoked in silence as if they had all the time to kill, listening to the savior phoenix growing even more majestic inside with loud crackles. As the rampant blazes consumed Hyunjin’s den of nightmares, the strangest feeling of serenity enveloped both of them.

The sky was burning, but it wasn’t the blood sun. It was the flames rising above Crown Street, 21. 

It was snowing, but it wasn’t snow falling from the burning sky. It was the ashes of a childhood burnt, a soul scorched, and shackles on fire scattered all over the South Side.

“Sometimes I get scared that you’re not real and I’m making you up in my head,” Hyunjin spoke with pensive eyes.

“Just because you’re making it up why would it mean it’s not real?” Chris smiled at the love of his life.

They leisurely walked to the car they made love to each other for the first time and settled in their seats with endless peace painting a genuine smile on their faces. Chris interlocked his fingers with Hyunjin’s and squeezed his hand tight.

“Don’t let go of my hand,” he pulled him closer for a kiss and looked into those beautiful eyes that harbored a newborn flicker of light in them. “You have me.”

He slammed on the gas pedal, and the two lovers drove away into the night. As they disappeared to a place nobody even knew, Chris thought to himself there wasn’t much he wanted from this life, nor did he need much to be happy. He could make do as long as he had three things only.

A guitar.

You.

And the streets.

「© 2025, cb97percent · No translations, rewrites, or reposts permitted」

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Hyunjin had heard the word muse before, but he thought it was something only the greats had. As in people who were born gifted. Who would look at the most ordinary things and manage to scrape an entire creative work from it? That was why they were so great after all, weren’t they?

The moment he realized he had his personal muse was when he caught himself doodling your name on his papers during a lecture.

The greats were that great for a reason. There had to be someone like you in their life to inspire the heck out of them. Someone they thought about day and night, even in their dreams, even when they were right next to them maybe. 

There was something about the way you smiled that awakened something violent in Hyunjin. When you smiled at him, he felt so overwhelmed that he felt the urge to land a punch on the nearest hard surface for some reason. Your eyes… Your deep, deep eyes that were constantly whispering him secrets… Your lips he could spend hours kissing… Or just listen to words spill from them. There was always a tinge of that powdery essence in your wind when you walked by. It was fucking powder, for fuck’s sake, why did that suddenly become the world’s most seductive scent for him? Why was your skin that warm to the touch every time he was close to you? Why was your voice the most titillating thing that had ever landed on his ears? Why? Why? Why? 

Hyunjin… Call me darling again.

Drowned in his thoughts, he suddenly found himself raising his hand to attract his professor’s attention.

“May I be excused, please? I feel very queasy.”

The second Hyunjin left the lecture hall, he made a run for the restrooms at the end of the corridor. He might have sold it to his professor because he was excessively sweating and heavily breathing, but the matter of the fact was…

He stormed in and punched each door open to confirm they were all indeed empty. Then he threw himself into one, dropped his slacks, and started stroking himself just like the way you taught him. 

“Oh, Jesus fucking—!”

He slapped his hand over his mouth to muffle his cries of pleasure, but he wasn’t able to control how vigorously he was stimulating himself. He was supposed to do this when the urges crept in, wasn’t he? He needed to know how to take care of himself, didn’t he? You told him not to fall victim to temptation, so if you didn’t want him to march back home and bend you over wherever the heck you were, he had to relieve himself right here right now. Now. Now.

You can ask your lady to do this for you, too. It’s not solely to be enjoyed when you’re alone.

“Do it for me. I want you to do it for me,” he whispered to himself with his eyes closed and started to stroke himself even more fervently, “Fucking crush me. Own me. Kill me. God!”

The more you prolong it, the better it will feel.

He slowed his ministrations down a notch and started to submerge himself in the most obscene thoughts he was having about you.

He was dying to know what his cock would feel like inside you. He just knew it was going to be the most sublime feeling in the whole entire universe. All warm and slippery around him just like you felt around his fingers. He would get your pretty cunt soaking wet in his mouth just the way you liked it, but you would still struggle to take him in even after he ate your pussy three times in a row. You would tell him to please please go slow for how big he was, moaning and whimpering his name over and over again, but that would only get him even harder for you. Of course he would go slow if you asked nicely. Of course he would fuck you with very shallow thrusts. At least until you got used to how full he was making you feel inside.

But what if… What if you weren’t like that at all?

What if you told him to run you over and have his way with you, treat you as nothing more than an object of white-hot pleasure? What if you dared him to fill you up through all your holes? What if you asked to eat his cum, and what if you fucking liked it?

He had to experience you fully just once before he departed this world. 

“Once. Just once. Please. Let me. I love you. I love you. I fucking love you.”

He pressed one hand on the wall against him as he came very hard. Surprisingly enough, this was Hyunjin’s most intense orgasm yet; he came even harder than when he was with you. Once he gathered his wits back again, he started questioning what the heck was different this time around. It couldn’t be because he was pleasuring himself since you were quite literally the reason he threw himself in that tiny space in the first place. Was it any better than when you made him cum? Not necessarily. This just felt… different. A good kind of different, but different nevertheless. Then he tried to picture the night he experienced his very first climax with you.

It was… very loving. Tender. Still lustful. He was aroused out of his mind in your lap as you walked him through it. If he had to pick a color for this, it would be a darker shade of hot pink. What he just experienced, on the other hand…

It was reminiscent of the night you threw him on the bed and almost ripped your dress open on top of him. The color was nowhere near anything rosy, though. It was a deep, deep, blackish shade of red. You were angry at him. You were enraged. Furious. But it was still the most passionate thing he had ever seen. Not in an amorous way maybe, but still in a vehement way. In a fiery way.

Passion was dripping off of you.

Caught up in his thoughts and trying to make sense of all these new things he was experiencing, Hyunjin walked out of that stall to splash some cold water on his face before he got another painful erection on the spot, and made his way home.

“Oh? You are quite early today, my lord,” you welcomed him in the kitchen, “Are you feeling well? You are sweating a lot.”

“Yes, I’m–I’m fine. Just dehydrated, I think. It is very hot outside,” he darted towards the copper pitcher that contained cold water.

“Are you quite sure?” you tilted your head with slight concern, “I had arranged a visit for today, but we can postpone it if you like.”

“What visit?”

“To the Lees. Her Ladyship has recently given birth to a baby boy.”

“Oh,” Hyunjin sat down at the table and filled himself another tall glass of water, “What’s the purpose of this visit exactly?”

“To give you a little taste of fatherhood, my lord,” you smiled at him brightly. Hyunjin, on the other hand, almost blacked out for an unknown reason.

It was happening again. Those thoughts were taking over him again.

“I want to ask you something,” he softly uttered.

“Yes?”

He took a moment seemingly to gather his thoughts and spoke with his eyes keenly on the cold liquid at the bottom of his glass.

“Sometimes I get this sudden rush of… feelings for you,” he briefly paused to choose his words correctly, “but they seem to be a bit different.”

“How so?” you raised your brows and encouraged him to continue.

“They are… still very affectionate but… but too affectionate. Maybe violently so,” he refused to look at you at all costs, “It’s like I… I liked it when you were… when you were…”

“Please be comfortable,” you held his hand on the table with a smile, “You are not going to offend me.”

Hyunjin glanced at your hand on his spreading your warmth all over him as if he wasn’t burning enough and finally managed to look at you.

“When you were quite rough with me. On our very first night.”

It caught you by surprise. You weren’t offended; it even stroked your ego a little bit, but it was… entertaining, so to speak, to witness how he was discovering things about himself.

“I feel very ashamed for feeling this way. It’s like there is something wrong with me,” he downed the remaining water in his glass as if trying to muster courage from it, “How do I make this stop?”

You couldn’t help your endearment over the layer of innocence coating his words. You finished the lukewarm water sitting on the table for some time, as well, and pushed your glass towards him to ask for a refill.

“It is not necessarily a bad thing to desire your lady in unconventional ways or for her to want you so,” you calmly explained, “Within the confines of your marital bed, you are free to explore pleasure together as long as there is consent.”

Hyunjin felt himself excessively tingle. He remembered the absolutely unhinged surge of thoughts infesting his imagination when he touched himself to you as though he was possessed by something.

“What do you mean by… unconventional ways?” he pushed your glass back to you.

You examined his face for a moment. He legitimately looked like he was on the very edge of his chair, dying to know the answer you were going to bestow upon him.

“Passion is a beautiful palette, my lord, never a single color. But that’s the talk of another day,” you smiled and stood up to your feet instead, “For now, I shall send word to the Lees that we will be visiting tomorrow instead.”

Another day, Hyunjin thought to himself as you left your powdery breeze behind you, Of course, another day. If I can survive myself.

「© 2023-24, cb97percent · No translations, rewrites, or reposts permitted」

An excruciating pain plummeting into your head precipitously pulls you out of the dreamless slumber, drawing out a wince from your lips, while the gradual return of your consciousness enables you to feel an indescribable affliction that aches tremendously in every part of your body.

You force your heavy eyelids to pry open, and once you do, your vision slowly adjusts to the red neon luminosity that provides such dim settings of your surroundings before you finally gain clear-sightedness, in which the view beholds stagger you. Though you remain immobilised with your cheek pressed onto the floor, you are acutely aware that there are dozens of mirrors ahead of you.

Soon, the confusion fuzzing your head is eclipsed by fear, impelling you to hasten away, but even the simple task of lifting a limb exhausts you as your body feels like it weighs a ton. You can feel your immobilised body shivering from the sheer coldness despite being adorned in a wool cardigan, denoting the protracted duration of your unconscious arrival at this unknown place.

As you remain motionless on the numbing hard ground, questions begin to surface in your muddling mind ─ who was responsible for knocking you out cold ruthlessly and why have they brought you to this place? Most importantly, what did you do wrong to deserve this?

For a moment, you nearly fall tempted to concede defeat and succumb to the inviting darkness that threatens to consume you once more, but when you immediately spot your phone just a reach from your outstretched arm, determination sparks in your eyes before you decide to rally every strength and courage from your inner core. The next thing you know, you force your upper body to rise from the ground despite the incessant aches.

You quickly retrieve your phone while silently thanking whoever is your kidnapper for being foolish enough to leave your phone with you, be it intentionally or not. Your eyes are fixed intently on the phone screen while your trembling fingers are trying their utmost to remain cooperative with the firm resolution to call the first person that comes to mind.

“Come on.” You mutter to yourself as you press on Yunjin’s contact, desperation lacing in your tone before the sheer disbelief comes forth as you are unable to reach out to her because of the deficient network, possibly due to the location you are at. 

You try again as you raise your phone a little higher in hopes of gaining a better signal, and this time, you attempt to reach out to Wonyoung, Karina, and even the four men who no doubt will come to your rescue. A glimmer of hope tingles in your chest at the moment you are able to reach Jake as the signal stabilises, just nearly, but disruption returns before he could even answer your call.

You refrain from erupting into waterworks as you tuck your phone inside your pocket. Refusing to remain a damsel in distress any longer, the firm resolution morphs into one that has you miraculously regaining vitality as you find yourself rising from the ground, now standing on your feet. You curl your slightly trembling fingers into a fist, grasping the courage that fuels your determination to save yourself from whatever possible imminent loom before it gets you.

Swallowing enough spit to moisturise your parched throat, you begin the first step to your escapade venture with the intention to find any doors that lead to the exit, but as your eyes wander to the mirrors that no doubt provide illusions and tricks, your determination falters as you find yourself questioning your perception and sense of reality altogether, especially as you reach out to touch the cold surface of the mirror before you can even carelessly bump into it.

You retract your hand, your eyes darting to your surroundings, which only daunt you further due to the unknown labyrinth filled with infinite reflections and endless hallways. Your chin wobbles and your breaths go slightly uneven as you grapple with maintaining equanimity while the panic expands in your chest painfully. How are you even going to find your way out of here?

Still, you advance forward with your arms latching around your figure to provide a semblance of security in an attempt to alleviate your inner turmoil, while the hauntingly cold atmosphere only feels progressively oppressive, as though there is more than just one predator awaiting the right moment to pounce on you.

A wince leaves your lips just as you bump into a mirror, your fingers ascending to rub your throbbing forehead that only seems to worsen your persisting headache while your palm presses on the mirror to support your body just when you nearly stagger back. Forcing yourself to focus and return to the right track, you release a sigh before lifting your head, but just as you do, you are being greeted with a manly silhouette from a few distances ahead of you.

Whoever they are seems to be taking a step forward, and this time, the red neon illuminating the figure allows you to gain a clearer view of him ─ clad in an all-black ensemble with the hood covering his head, but what sends you a huge wave of relief is the familiar yet distinct red mask he adorned.

It is peculiar because, despite the compelling urge to run into his arms, something is strongly holding you back as you remain rooted to the ground. Just before you can call out his name, the small smile on your lips falters as soon as your eyes catch sight of a gleaming hunting knife in his hand.

“Jaeyun?” Amidst the palpable fear that churns in your tummy, confusion laces in the echoes of your voice throughout these hallways as you call out to the man who you thought wouldn’t do anything to hurt you. “Jaeyun, stop it. This isn’t funny.” You muster the courage to sound as stern as you can, but cowardice soon influences you at the moment he begins to advance in the direction of your transfixed figure.

A part of you wants to believe that Jake is simply trying to give you a good scare, just as he did on that one night where he embodied ghostface, but you should know better than to defy your better instinct, and so you heed it, turning around with the intention to flee from the man who you thought wouldn’t hurt you.

Little did you know that you had been too inattentive to your surroundings to notice an ominous presence looming over you from behind, resulting in you bumping into a solid figure that nearly sends you plummeting to the ground, but you quickly regain balance before you look up with your breath hitching in your throat when you recognise the silver mask he adorned.

“Sunghoon.” You utter his name in a splintered whisper as you slowly back away from him, discerning the malevolent mockery just by the mask’s visage alone. A whimper clogs in the back of your throat as you spot a vaguely familiar axe in his grasp, which he used on Devil’s Night and was dripping with blood.

“S-Sunghoon─” Just when you decide to implore him, stark terror strikes you as he raises his axe with the intention to attack you, drawing out a genuine scream of horror from you before you swiftly dodge his wilful aim as he brings down his axe with such skillful precision that you know your body would be butchered into half if you had remained standing in front of him.

Refusing to dawdle any longer, you pivot on your heels in the other direction and dash forward in trepidation, fleeing from your two predators. It is as though you have mastered adroitness in countering the illusionary as you manage to avoid bumping into transparent glasses and mirrors, but you are too concentrated on getting out of here, hopefully unscathed, to marvel at your agility.

Tears begin to accumulate in your eyes while anxiety tightens your chest upon hearing their footsteps echoing from behind you, spurring you to pick up the pace despite your temporary vitality on the verge of teetering as the effect of the unknown substance they injected into you gradually returns.

In the face of peril, the tempestuous hurricane of emotions threatens to sweep you away, each vying for dominance, but you know that you can’t be distracted. Just as you drift to a corner, a terrifying shriek tears from your throat upon the appearance of another predator, adorning himself in a familiar black mask.

You scream as soon as he swings the sledgehammer, aiming for your head before you deftly dodge his attack, only for him to hit the mirror at the side as it shatters. Amidst the fear pumping in your heart, heartbreak is palpable as you watch him in horror. He is relentless, aiming for your head with his weapon while you continue to elude him.

“Jay! Please! It’s me!” You decide to implore in the hopes of knocking senses into him while your voice blends in with the sound of shattering mirrors due to his aims. “Jay.” Your voice trembles while your throat hurts from inhibiting a bundle of emotions that threatens to implode.

Finally accepting defeat in your failed attempt to reason with him, you run in the other direction while silently thanking God for the multitude of hallways that allow you to choose either one to continue your escapade. This time, however, your depleting vitality impedes your coordination to elude your predators, as evident in your laboured breathing.

Exhaustion begins its descent on you, followed by the weeping as you finally allow the brimming tears to cascade down with strangled sobs leaving your lips. Could this be what the anonymous guy meant after those cryptic messages he sent you regarding your safety and whatnot? Could he have also known that the reason behind Jinae’s death was because of the four men who have each captured your heart?

You grit your teeth while unrelenting tears continue their descent on your cheeks as you inwardly berate yourself for stubbornly refusing to listen and heed your best friends’ words of advice and warning after all this time. Yet, your mind is battling an internal conflict with the rational part of you, which adamantly urges you to expunge any affectionate feelings you harbour for them, but you can feel it in your pumping heart; your love for them outweighs your rationality.

Unbeknownst to you, another impending danger is set off to inflict harm upon you as he sees the apparent exhaustion in your tapering pace and how you are preoccupied with wiping your tears languidly. Lacking focus, you accidentally bump into a transparent glass, resulting in you losing balance and almost plummeting to the ground if it weren’t for strong arms holding you steady from behind.

Instead of gratitude, you become highly alarmed by the touch of your predator while your widening eyes are staring at the mirror just a few distance away from you, which reflects your figures, allowing you to soak up the haunting image of the familiar white with a vertical red stripe on half of the mask. Instantly, you force your way out of his chilling grasps before turning around to face him.

“Missed me, sweetheart?” The familiar voicemod device he uses to manipulate the pitch of his voice brings you back to Devil’s Night, taking you by surprise, which is your first mistake, because just as you blink your eyes, you feel the force of his gloved hand ramming your head into the mirror.

As soon as you hit the mirror, you feel a splitting pain that has struck you deeply in the side of your head, while the brutal impact caused the mirror to crack in a rippling effect. You don’t even have the opportunity to recover when he clutches a handful of your hair into a makeshift ponytail to seize control over you, ramming your head into the mirror once more and this time shattering the broken pieces of the mirror that have been stained by your blood while a cry tears from your throat due to the agonising pain that eventually melds with the effect of unknown substances flowing through your veins.

The rough release from him causes your weakened body to collapse to the ground as your buckling knees have given up on you. You can feel warm liquid trickling down your temple before your eyes flicker at your reflection in the mirror, only to spot blood oozing from the wounds on your head as it trickles down your temple.

“Give it up, sweetheart.” Heeseung─ no, White says with a sickening delight in his tone as he revels in the way you are pathetically trying to crawl away from him with sobs leaving your lips. Before you can crawl any further, he stops you with his booted foot on top of your leg by applying pressure, prompting you to look up at him with sheer fright. 

“H-Heeseung.” You whimper out his name while he becomes enamoured by the sight of your pretty eyes glistening with tears as well as the crimson smearing your skin. “Please don’t do this.” You implore him in between fearful yet heartbreaking sobs amidst grappling with the torrent of emotions within you, especially when he is now holding a fairly long melee knife, the blade promising pain.

“On the contrary, I do need to do this.” He crouches down to your level, toying with his knife idly before bringing it to caress your cheek with the sharp tip, causing your heart to rattle against your chest. “You have no idea how long I’ve waited for this.”

Despite the fear, a palpable heartbreak carves the hurt that was punctured in your chest while you stare at him with glistening eyes of betrayal. “I should’ve known that you were going to make me end up like the girl you toyed with the same way you did to me. Jinae.” You choke back a sob, wanting him to hear the remaining last words from you if this is indeed your last moment.

“So you finally learned about Jinae.” The tip of his knife is treading dangerously on your neck. Although he uses the same voice-mod device, you can discern the cruelty in his cold chuckles, sending involuntary shivers down your spine. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. After I fuck you, I’m going to kill you and carve out your heart to keep it in a pretty box. I’ll store it along with my other prized possessions.”

“You’re downright mental!” You manage to find your voice as it comes out strong, but soon the dam breaks as you weep again. “How could you do this?! I thought I meant something to you! I thought you loved me─” In a blink of an eye, your head is turned sideways due to the impact of his slap on your now-stinging cheek, while the ruthless action only seems to amplify the splitting pain in your head.

“Shut the fuck up, or I’ll cut off your tongue.” He nearly growls out before seizing your chin, forcing you to look at him again while feeble sobs leave your lips. “This wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t foolishly invited and spread your legs like a filthy whore so easily, but I guess you’re just the same as your mother. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree after all.”

The mention of your mother manages to send you a jarring sensation amidst the splitting pain that threatens to consume you whole as you stare at him confoundingly. “My mother? What do you mean?” You dare to inquire adamantly, despite knowing that he can end your life with a single swift drag of his knife across your neck.

“How pitiful.” He lets out a faux sigh. “You have no idea the dirty secrets they’ve been keeping from you, but just know that your mother is not the devout Catholic you thought she was.” His answer is vague, and just before you can ask him for more elaboration, he makes the disapproving sound of a tut. “A mouthy thing, aren’t you? Even in the face of death.”

“The only mouthy thing here is actually you.” You have no idea what possesses you, but it may stem from the fact that he insulted your mother, and thus, you take him by complete surprise when you use your foot to hit him in the sack hard, resulting in him falling to the side as he groans out in pain.

You try your utmost to gather whatever strength is left in you as you rise from the ground before wasting no time in fleeing from him. “Y/N!” You hear him roaring in sheer anger from behind you.

This time, your better instinct strongly beckons you to go in the specific direction in which you feel a sense of anticipation that you’re most likely able to find the exit, but he is not far from you, as evident in the sound of his footsteps. A terrifying shriek is elicited from you just as his melee knife hurls straight ahead of you, nearly hitting your head if you hadn’t been on time to dodge it.

“You can run for as long as you want, but you’re not going to live to see the next day!” He roars out to you again, but you choose to ignore him as you navigate your way to find the exit, remaining persistent. Finally, after every twist and turn, you spot it while hope and relief mingle in your chest.

Before you can have your mini celebration in your head, a pounding pain plummets into your head, nearly impeding you, but you quickly refocus and proceed on while strands of your hair are stuck to your sweaty skin.

The passage of time appears to be slowing down, with the red neon luminosity encompassing you gradually fading into a blur, while the bright sign of 'exit' ahead remains a beacon to your fortitude, but your quest to the road of freedom grows languid as the eventual exertion dawns on your body.

Tears welling in your lower eyelids are a recrudescence of terror, parallel to your inner turmoil that remains unabating, and you feel as though it is eating you alive from the inside, dwindling the hope you so desperately clutch onto.

Your ears perk up at the sound of familiar, heavy-booted steps from not far behind you, eliciting a forlorn cry from you before you force your weary body to pick up the speed in spite of the unknown yet lethal substance streaming through your every fibre and returning to take its major effect on your whole being.

No, this is not how you imagined facing your demise. You never would have thought that one of your worst nightmares had manifested itself and plunged into your reality.

Your skull is throbbing painfully, with blood seeping from the fresh wounds that trickle down the side of your face, while your heart aches tremendously. A sob emerges from the back of your throat before waterworks cascade down on you, but you refuse to allow yourself to die tonight, not when you’re nearly getting the taste of freedom.

Before you know it, you use the force of your body to push the door open as it swings outward violently, and you continue to run on the asphalt ground, having no clue of your current location, while your heaving chest is starting to hurt with how ragged your breathing is that mingles with the sobs.

“Please.” You choke out, your tearful eyes blurring your vision, while you feel as though more needles are piercing into your skull. “Please let all of this be a nightmare.” You manage to whisper in between broken sobs, nearly succumbing to the hyperventilation that renders you unfocused on your surroundings as your body remains in a fight-or-flight mode.

The next thing you know, you bump into a solid chest that nearly has you staggering back if it weren’t for strong arms latching onto your trembling form. The moment your eyes meet his concerned eyes that soon blaze with anger, a frightful shriek tears from your parched throat before you push him away from you, as though he is a disease.

“Princess?” Sunghoon, whose head is fogging with confusion, frowns visibly as he sees the way you are looking at him as though he is a terrifying stranger.

The movements from Jake and Jay catch your heightened sense, prompting you to cower away from them as you back away. “Stay away from me!” You shout at them, the fear is palpable in the tremor of your voice, to which they halt their movements.

“Baby, it’s us!” Jay exclaims while trying his utmost not to give away the tempest of wrath that storms within him upon seeing the state you are in. 

“Lovely…” Jake takes cautious steps towards you, but even his loving, gentle tone is not enough to dispel the betrayal and heartbreak you are still reeling from.

“I said don’t come close to me! Please!” To see you hyperventilating as you sob hard hits them in the face, but what pains them is the terror you exhibit right now because they never wanted you to fear them as though they would really hurt you.

You turn around with the intention to run from them, but this time, Heeseung’s figure is a hindrance as he blocks your way. His hands find their way to hold you firmly while you attempt to thrash and struggle in his captivity.

“Let go of me!” You become relentless, your fear is now eclipsed by anger that stems from the fresh betrayal.

Despite the confusion upon seeing the blazing anger in your crystalline eyes, Heeseung remains calmly collected as he holds you effortlessly yet is unable for you to escape from. “Sweetheart─”

Being utterly overwhelmed and blinded by the maelstrom of pain, betrayal, sadness, and anger, you raise your hand and bring it down to land a harsh slap to his now-stinging cheek, shocking the other three from behind.

“Do you think this is meant to be humorous to you?!” The rage in your voice is unmistakable as it sounds foreign to your ears, but your focus remains on his face as he slowly turns to look at you while you are oblivious to the raging storms in his dark eyes. “Is this really your endgame?! Once you’re satisfied after fucking me, you'll kill me?!”

Heeseung’s deadly silence only seems to fuel your wrath, and so you begin to throw punches into his chest that don't even have any effect on him. “Fight back!” You scream in between sobs, tears relentlessly streaming down your cheeks. “If you want to kill me, do it now!”

“Y/N, stop.” Jake and Jay appear from behind, intervening as they grab you away from Heeseung’s defeated grasps while you continue to struggle and fight against their strong hold valiantly despite feeling debilitated.

“What are you talking about?” Heeseung’s calm voice manages to reach your ears despite the sound of your hysteria.

“Yeah, what do you mean by killing you, lovely?” Jake asks with a frown as soon as you shoot him a glare. “We would never do such a thing─”

Miraculously, you manage to escape from their grasps, and your glaring eyes penetrate into each of them. “Don’t lie to me! I know you’re the ones who kidnapped me and brought me to this God-forsaken place, and for what? To kill me!”

“We didn’t!” Jay objects vehemently, disbelief lacing his tone. “Why would we ever want to kill you?”

“Liar!” You retort before breaking down again, the sound of your cries only fuels their anger to hunt down whoever dared to hurt you. “If you weren’t the ones back there, then how did you even know where I was?”

“I installed a tracker on your phone. It’s the reason why we managed to track your location.” Jake steps forward, his softening eyes seem to balm your hysteric nerves. “But you have to believe us, love. We would never do anything to jeopardise your life.”

You open your mouth to speak, but a whimper comes instead as you feel the familiar pain plummeting into your skull, prompting you to clutch your still-bleeding head, and Sunghoon, being the nearest to you, holds you steady against him just as your body sways lightly.

“You’re still bleeding, princess.” Sunghoon murmurs, his gentle tone and his touch send you into a whirlwind of confusion. Disappointment seeps through him as you push him away while your mind is waging a battle of internal conflict, recalling the girls’ words about them, but at the same time, your love for them remains palpable, which only makes your head spin.

“Don’t touch me.” You protest weakly as you attempt to yank your arm from Heeseung’s firm grasp, but the substances injected into you that flow in your system wholly revoke the remnants of your vitality, rendering you debilitated as you find yourself leaning into him.

Without a word, Heeseung effortlessly carries you in a bridal style, with your whole body going limp as your consciousness slips away faster than you like before the darkness welcomes you once more.

“Gather all the knights from your respective houses. We’ll be having a meeting tomorrow morning.” Heeseung orders calmly, causing the three to exchange glances. “All of them, and not a single person is to be left out.”

“You got it.” Jake gives him a firm nod.

Heeseung catches Sunghoon and Jay’s eyes, and they immediately understand his deadly intent. “Find those fuckers inside and do what you need to do. Bring their heads to me.”

▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰

It turned out that no heads were brought to Heeseung last night, much to their discontentment. Both Sunghoon and Jay have conducted the hunt throughout the entirety of the place, not missing out on every nook and cranny, which took them approximately an hour just to find no one other than shattered mirrors alongside your blood. But the four of them have shared a mutual understanding and collectively concluded that the likelihood of who was responsible for what happened to you must have been orchestrated by their very knights, especially when they are more than aware that they have enemies even within their fraternity. It’s just a matter of time before those said enemies finally decide to drop their amiable pretences.

Hence, with the exception of those who are currently travelling abroad for the holidays, every junior and senior knight from their respective houses has been summoned to the meeting, which is highlighted as crucial. Those who dare to defy will, of course, face the consequences.

The cold atmosphere in the general meeting room is patently imbued with a palpable tension that derives from the four leaders as they stand before these suspected knights. The intimidation emanating from the four silent leaders seems to dominate the entirety of the fraternity in the room as the sound of their incessant chatter and exchanged conversations decreases.

“This meeting won’t end unless you come forth and confess that you did what you did.” Sunghoon raises his voice with a distinct authority that has almost the majority of knights feeling dreadful, especially as they recognise the signature callous smirk drawn on his lips. “We can wait all day.”

“Or better yet,” Jay toys around with the metal baseball bat in his grasp, evoking fear from some. The smirk on his lips mirrors Sunghoon's, while his eyes gleam with a familiar delight at his penchant for brutality. “We can do this the hard way by beating the confession out of you. Every single one of you.”

“This isn't fair! Us juniors did nothing!” One of the juniors, who goes by the name Taesan, bravely speaks for his fellow peers, earning him murmurs and whines of agreement. “At least I know I did nothing.” Taesan adds, his tone lacing with sincerity.

“Yeah. We weren’t the ones responsible.” Another junior, Jaehyun, says this as he stands next to Taesan. “As a matter of fact, the juniors were out partying at Sunoo’s crib last night.”

“Sunoo?” Jake looks over to the familiar blonde-haired male, who has been occasionally checking himself out on the camera phone. “Is it true that you hosted a party at your crib last night?”

“Oh, yes.” Sunoo, alongside Jungwon and Riki, doesn’t appear to be the slightest affected by the leaders’ intimidation, as he beams with a lopsided grin on his face, scrolling through the gallery on his phone before showing them a video. “Look! Seunghan went completely wasted and sprawled by the dance floor after puking up─”

“Dude!” Seunghan’s loud groan can be heard amidst the snickering amongst the juniors, while Sunoo shoots him an innocent smile.

“They’re all right.” Jungwon steps forward, drawing the four leaders’ attention to the intense conviction written across his features. “You told Sunoo, Riki, and I before that you have complete faith in us and trust us, so trust me when I say that the juniors were not the ones responsible for whoever captured and attacked Y/N.”

“Even if any of our juniors dared to, you know that I wouldn’t allow for this to pass.” Riki adds on, the austerity he exudes is clear in the way he casts a momentary yet warning glare at his fellow peers. “We knew better than to mess with someone else’s prey.”

“Right, prey.” This time, someone else from the senior batch decides to speak up, drawing their attention to Choi Soobin, who adorns a smirk that is clearly a mockery as he stares sharply at the leaders. “It does beg the question: why do you care so much about your prey?”

“Yeah, who cares if she has gotten injured because of what happened last night?” Hyunjin scoffs, agreeing with Soobin. “Preys are meant to be hunted down by hunters, which is us.”

“I personally think that you should be grateful that someone else is doing the job for you by hunting and hurting your precious prey.” Taehyun remarks with a cynical smile that only adds more suspicion to the leaders. “Plus, she was probably hallucinating or even fabricating shit when she might be the mastermind behind the attack on herself.”

“Hallucinating?” Jake is seething with anger, taking the others by surprise with his unexpected shortness of temper. “You dared to spew shit about my girl, Kang? For fucks’ sake, she was bleeding out of her head! Who in their right mind would inflict harm on themselves?!”

“Easy.” Heeseung, with ease, holds back Jake as he places his hand on the latter’s chest before directing his sharp attention on Taehyun. “Congrats, Kang Taehyun. You’ve just become our number one suspect.”

“Y/N could’ve died if she hadn’t gotten immediate medical attention.” Sunghoon says, clenching his jaw as he tames the tempest of wrath within him upon the obvious agreement to Taehyun’s statements. 

“Even if she had died, why does it matter?” Hyunjin asks, and a smug smile dawns on his lips as he leans back on his seat leisurely. “I mean, look at what happened to Jinae. She was your prey, just like Y/N, and yet her death didn’t seem to affect you in the slightest.”

“Who is Jinae?” A collective murmur of confusion emanates from the juniors, including Sunoo, Jungwon, and Riki, whereas the seniors look equally dreadful, and some are sighing at Hyunjin’s idiocy.

Sunghoon and Jake exchange wary looks while Jay is more than ready to launch his attack on Hyunjin, but as they finally look at Heeseung, they find it surprising to see his calmly collected demeanour.

Hyunjin continues to run his mouth idly, not affected by the foreboding tension in the air. “Either way, you guys are going to end up killing your prey─” Seated beside him, Jeongin punches his shoulder in an attempt to silence him.

“Meeting dismissed.” Heeseung announces in a low rumble that this is enough to send almost all of them scurrying from the meeting room. His eyes meet Beomgyu’s for a fleeting moment, and yet, despite Beomgyu’s small smile, which he knows is supposed to send some form of supporting assurance, it only seems to stir his inner turmoil.

“We have two suspects. Taehyun and Hyunjin.” Jake informs his best friends once all the knights have made their departure except their three apprentices.

“Add Choi Soobin as well.” Sunghoon rolls his eyes in annoyance, followed by a disdainful scowl etched on his face. “Did you see the way that fucker smirked? I bet he’s involved too.”

“What are you guys still doing here?” Jay asks sternly, his attention directed to their three apprentices while they exchange glances with apparent curiosity in their eyes.

“Yeahh, you see, we’ve been wondering who the hell Jinae is. So we’re not leaving until you tell us.” Jungwon voices out, his face is devoid of any mischief as he crosses his arms over his chest. “And what did whatever Hyunjin meant earlier mean?”

“And how come we’ve never heard of this Jinae girl?” Sunoo frowns, his lips jutting into a pout. “I thought we were all the best of friends to share secrets!”

Riki, ever the most observant, whose sharp eyes are scrutinising the four leaders who have been silent, notices the sombre casting shadows over them alongside the irresolution written across their features. “This Jinae, the girl you’ve preyed on before, is dead. Isn’t she?”

For a moment, the air in the room shifts uncomfortably with palpable intensity. Heeseung catches Jay’s eyes and gives him a head nod before the latter steps forward with a sigh. “Since you guys are so annoyingly adamant, I’ll tell you the truth, but not a single word goes out to the others.” They don't miss the edge of warning in his tone.

“I don’t understand. If it’s the truth, then why does it matter if it goes out to the others?” Sunoo inquires rather bluntly while his eyebrow is arched inquisitively.

A muscle pulses in Jay’s jaw as he briefly looks away. “Because the truth is more complicated than you think. Come. Let’s head to my office.” Like a bunch of ducklings, Jungwon, Riki, and Sunoo begin to trail behind Jay without any objections.

“We should check in on Y/N.” Sunghoon tells Jake and Heeseung as soon as the others leave the room, earning him nods of agreement before they proceed to venture their way to your room with silence wrapped around them.

After you passed out in Heeseung’s arms, they wasted no time in bringing you to the hospital where Heeseung’s older brothers were working. Coincidentally, Daehyun and Jaesung were working night shifts when you were referred to the emergency department instead. To say the twins were shocked upon seeing the dire state you were in was an understatement, but nonetheless, they offered to be the ones to oversee you as their patient. You had only been admitted to the emergency ward after your wounds were treated and the drugs in your system were excreted, until Heeseung adamantly requested that you recover in the palace instead.

Of course, the older twins could never refuse Heeseung, and so here you are, currently asleep and tucked comfortably under the covers on your bed as Sunghoon, Jake, and Heeseung watch as Jaesung has just completed another medical check on you, especially since your body is still recovering from the drugs injected in your system. Their hearts ache upon seeing the white bandage wrapped around your head. They recall when Daehyun informed them last night that if they hadn’t brought you to the hospital sooner, you would’ve been in a coma or worse.

“She needs plenty of rest and sleep over the next few days since the drugs that were previously in her system strongly affected her body.” Jaesung informs them with a mask of professionalism that immediately recedes when his eyes narrow at his brother. “You owe me, brother. Now, care to explain what the hell happened?” Before any of them can speak, Jaesung heaves a deep sigh as he pinches the bridge of his nose. “For the love of God, please don’t tell me that you’re doing what I think you’re doing.”

“And what do you think we’re doing?” Sunghoon asks rather rudely, to which Jaesung dismisses since he has long since gotten used to the bunch being so ill-mannered, even towards their elders.

“You know exactly what I meant. Toying around with Y/N just as you did three years ago.” Jaesung’s lips press thinly while a sombre shadow casts over his features. “I understand that the preying has always been part of the devil’s knights’ tradition, but to the point where their lives are endangered─ don’t you think it’s too far? I don’t know what Y/N did, but she most certainly doesn't deserve to get hurt or worse.”

Heeseung scoffs coldly, his eyes are ablaze with seething anger. “You thought so lowly of us just because of what happened three years ago when we would never dare to harm Y/N.”

“Heeseung’s right. If we were the ones who harmed her last night, Heeseung and Jake wouldn’t have brought her to the hospital quickly.” Sunghoon intervenes before Heeseung can get further pissed off at Jaesung. “Besides, Y/N is different.”

“Y/N is not like Jinae.” Jake adds, his clasped hands raising to support the back of his head as he leans.

A humourless smirk plays on Sunghoon’s lips. “Yeahhh, our girl is not crazy pants.”

“Guys, the least you could do is to talk about the dead girl respectfully.” Jaesung shakes his head, expressing his disapproval, before he glances down at his wristwatch. “Since my job here is done, I’ll be taking my leave, and don’t forget to feed her the medication I’ve given you.” Jaesung pats Heeseung’s shoulder firmly before exiting your room.

“Wonyoung texted me earlier. She and the other girls will be coming over to visit Y/N.” Sunghoon breaks the silence, watching as Jake heads over to the bed and crouches down next to you, holding your cold hand in his to give a gentle kiss on your knuckles. Sunghoon tears his gaze away from you to look at Heeseung. “I tried refusing, but you know, Wonyoung being Wonyoung.”

“Let them. If it weren’t for them, we wouldn’t have known that Y/N were taken by some fuckers.” Heeseung clenches his jaw while his callous eyes harden. The thirst for vengeance is palpable in his veins. He looks over to Jake, who remains by your side and whose longing eyes are tethered to your angelic face. “Jake, what’s the progress of cracking the code? It’s highly possible that whoever the anonymous texter who pestered Y/N before is responsible for this.”

“It’s getting nowhere.” Jake releases a soft sigh, and his shoulder slouches in defeat. “Trust me, I tried, and I even got extra helping hands from Sunoo and Riki, but it’s as if their firewall is made out of an impenetrable shield for us to hack through.”

Sunghoon’s phone chimes loudly in his hand, prompting him to look down at his phone screen. “Be right back. Wonyoung and the girls have just arrived.” He informs them before departing your room.

Jake places one last kiss on the back of your hand before standing, and he even reluctantly releases your hand gently from his grasp. He walks over to Heeseung, who appears to be in deep thought.

“Heeseung, what do we do when she wakes up? You’ve already seen how terrified she looked at us last night.” Jake sighs out in frustration as he brushes his long strands to the back. “I’m suspecting that whoever attacked her impersonated us in some way.”

“Our masks.” Heeseung blurts out as a bulb lights up in his head. He meets Jake’s storming gaze that parallels his wrath. “It makes sense. If not, why else would she be so afraid of us?”

Before Jake can voice out his thoughts, a knock on the door interrupts them, prompting them to look over to see Wonyoung, Karina, and Yunjin. The two spot Sunghoon behind them, who beckons them to give the girls some privacy with you, and they do, but not before one of the girls speaks to them.

“Has she not awakened since morning?” Karina asks sadly, the only one who doesn’t entirely have her guard up around them, unlike Wonyoung and Yunjin. Though they did inform the guys about the commotion Yunjin heard over the line last night that resulted in your sudden disappearance, that doesn’t mean they trust the leaders.

Jake shakes his head in response as the two are standing at the entryway. “She might be awake in the next few hours or so, hopefully.” He tells them curtly.

“Heeseung.” Wonyoung’s cold voice draws their attention while her unwavering eyes penetrate into Heeseung’s, to which his eyes narrow as he senses such hostility from the tall girl. “You guys may be the ones who rescued Y/N, but if I ever find out that you guys were the mastermind behind all of this, you’ll be sorry.”

“Is that a threat I sense?” Heeseung’s voice drips with callous mockery while a smirk plays on his lips and his eyes glint dangerously. “Careful, Wonyoung. You might want to remember who you’re speaking to. I can only tolerate much.”

Jake shields in front of Heeseung in case the latter decides to do something unpredictable. He casts a charming yet wary grin at the girls upon noticing how Wonyoung is fuming. “We can assure you, ladies, that we weren’t the ones responsible. We care for Y/N more than you think.”

“Oh, really? Do you really?” Wonyoung lets out a sardonic chuckle while Yunjin is holding the girl by her arm. “If you had cared for Y/N, you wouldn’t have preyed on her in the first place.”

“Enough.” Sunghoon intervenes with a low warning rumble, his stern eyes meeting Wonyoung’s. “We’re not here to fight you. We’re all here for Y/N, aren’t we?”

In return, Wonyoung scoffs before turning her back on them at the same time the guys do as they proceed to leave your room. The longer they are in the vicinity of the ones you called your best friends, the more they find them insufferable.

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The sound of murmurs and the heavy dip on your bed rouse you from the deep slumber you were in before an incessant pounding pummels into your skull, causing your face to contort into a grimace, as well as a whimper that emits from you alarms them. You can hear them calling for your name, but they sound muffled as your mind decides to focus on collecting the fragments of the events that transpired last night, which eventually coalesce into one account.

You have been hoping that it was all just a nightmare, but the tremendous aches throbbing in your body as well as the splitting pain in your head counter otherwise. The sensation of a warm hand enveloping yours causes you to flutter your eyes open, to which you are greeted by the ray of sunlight filtering through the window that casts shadows across your ceiling.

Everything feels languid, even as you turn your head to look at the person who is holding your hand gently yet with familiar reverence. Upon meeting the tenderness of his warm eyes, a soft smile unfurls on his lips. “Hey, baby.” Jay greets you softly, his tone holds an unmistakable affection that is only reserved for you.

“Jay.” Your throat feels dry as sand as you whisper his name, longing, but at the moment he squeezes your hand in return, it is as though something in you has triggered off, prompting you to immediately yank your hand from his while your abrupt change of demeanour startles them.

A frown touches Jay’s lips before he attempts to reach out for you again. “Baby─”

“Go away!” You yell, tears accumulating rapidly in your eyes as you attempt to scoot further away from them until your back hits the headboard. Your body is trembling, emanating an intense fear, while your mind is in tumultuous chaos, as manifested in your irregular breathing.

“Princess,” Sunghoon, who has been sitting next to you on the bed, holds your arm firmly while his concerned eyes examine the borderline hysteria you exhibit as you are reeling from the transpired event that serves as a playback tormenting you in your mind. A frown pulls at his lips as he sees you struggling in his firm grasp. “Princess, it’s us.”

“Get out!” You scream in between sobs as tears descend on you. You are more than conscious to know that they were not the ones responsible, but you can’t help with your mind as the sight of their hands reminds you of the weapons their impersonators possessed and attempted to murder you.

“Sweetheart, you know that it wasn’t us.” The mellow tone of Heeseung’s voice miraculously manages to break through the whirlwind of hysteria you are in as you flicker your eyes at his towering figure by the bed. Despite his benign demeanour, you tremble under his gaze, recalling his impersonator's brutality towards you that nearly cost your life.

“I-I─” The words you wish to utter are stuck in your throat, and a whimper emits from you instead as you shake your head in protest while your chest feels encircled by pressure, rendering your breaths alarmingly uneven as though something is choking you. 

“Princess, hey!” Sunghoon holds you by the shoulders as he forces you to look him in the eyes, but your vision is in an unfocused blur while the sound of your irregular breathing gets frantic, and your pounding heartbeat is going rapid as it drums loudly in your ears. “I need you to calm down and focus on me.” But Sunghoon’s stern instruction only seems to worsen the situation as you weakly attempt to push him away from you, recalling his impersonator with the lethal axe.

Your surroundings feel disoriented, as do the muffled murmurs from them in the background. Finally, Sunghoon’s hands slip from your shoulders, only to be replaced by another pair of warm hands cupping your tear-stained cheeks. Before you can even jerk away from their touch, his gentle tone serves as a temporary balm.

“Breathe, love. Slow and steady.” Jake says so softly yet firmly, enough to draw your focus as you finally meet his warm brown eyes that hold an unmistakable affection amidst the solicitude. Your hysteria ebbs away at the moment his warmth touches you, and you begin to follow his guidance as you attempt to regulate your breathing, earning you an encouraging head nod from him. “That’s it. Good girl.”

“J-Jaeyun,” Your voice sounds hoarse as you utter his name brokenly. Another sob escapes you, rivulets continuing their descent on your vulnerable countenance. “Jae─”

“I got you, love.” Jake pulls you into his warm embrace, hugging you closely while you don’t hesitate to cling your arms around his torso, your face burying into his chest as you continue to weep into him.

Oddly, there are no ill feelings as they watch Jake, who has successfully managed to be the one to calm you down, comforting and holding you close. Only a huge wave of relief washes over them. Jay makes a gesture to Heeseung and Sunghoon, beckoning them to leave Jake alone with you, and they do before Heeseung, being the last person to exit your room, closes the door quietly.

With one arm around your heaving body, the other ascends to run his fingers through your soft locks and occasionally massage your head, careful enough not to come into contact with the bandaged area. He presses a gentle kiss on the side of your uninjured head before dipping his head down to kiss your earlobe and whispering, “I’m here. We’re all here. No one is going to hurt you ever again.”

You only squeeze your arms around him in return, while the sound of your weeping gradually ebbs as you continue to silently bask in the comfort he emanates, providing you with a blanket of security. The weight in your eyelids seems to be pulling down, and before you know it, you flutter your eyes closed as you slowly go lax in his arms.

You have no idea how long it has been since the moment you returned to your slumber, but long enough to be awakened by a strong arm encircling your waist and his hand cradling the back of your head as he tucks your face into his chest, prompting you to briefly glance up just to see Jake being asleep.

Your heart warms at how protective yet intimately he has secured you in his embrace, even as he is sound asleep. But then comes the cold reality as your mind recalls a certain memory you don’t wish to revisit.

“You have no idea the dirty secrets they’ve been keeping from you, but just know that your mother is not the devout Catholic you thought she was.”

Maybe you would turn out to be wrong, but you have a strong sense that whatever Heeseung’s impersonator meant is highly correlated to the four leaders, which also involve your mother.

However, the big question remains: Why would your mother be involved? And why did he speak in a manner that you would’ve assumed he knew your mother personally?

So many questions are throbbing in your head, and yet you know you should unravel whatever secrets have been kept from you sooner, even if it means that you’ll be destroying established trusts.

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When the next day arrives, the compelling urge that derives from your fervid intuition for you to start the investigation beckons, resulting in your intrusion into the familiar yet prohibited part of the palace once again. With steely eyes of determination, you recall the distinct memory of when Anonymous’s instruction the last time enticed you to invade the forbidden, as you now find yourself entering Heeseung’s office.

This time, however, you could care less if either of them discovered of your abrupt rebellion, especially when your wilful mind is set straight with one ultimate goal, and that is to discover what sort of association your mother had with the devil's knights. Sure, you could turn out to be proven wrong, and the likelihood of you getting punished by Heeseung or any of them is high, but you adamantly wish to dispel your vehemence of curiosity.

Still, despite the steel of your resolve, your fingers are trembling slightly as they hover over the keyboard while your stomach churns with turmoil, but you immediately fix your composure, distinctly recalling Anonymous’s instruction the last time he enticed you to do this with the exception that you are now doing this of your own accord.

The familiar sight of the computer screen displaying files arranged meticulously in rows greets you before your keen eyes begin to search for the familiar folder named ‘001’, and once you do, you use the mouse to click on it.

Naturally, you expect a pop-up webpage that requires you to enter the password to appear again, but this time is different because, when you click on it, it reveals a few different files listed, bringing a frown to your lips and your face contorting into confusion.

Ding!

Your phone chimes in your pocket, and you quickly fish it out to check, only to be greeted at an eerie notification from an unknown number to which you have a strong inkling that it is the same anonymous as before.

UNKNOWN NUMBER: You’re welcome :)

Goosebumps arise on your skin, ignoring the fact that he is undoubtedly watching you, and you have no idea how or where. Instead of replying, you shove your phone back into your pocket and redirect your focus to the computer screen.

As your eyes scan these mysterious files, something feels odd as you recognise that some of the files are saved as images. Slowly, as you hover the cursor over the first file, your pulse drums loudly in your ears while your stomach begins to churn violently. Before you allow hesitation to seize you, you begin to click on it.

What greets you isn’t anything you expect. It’s pictures in sequence of your mother and the familiar face of Heeseung’s father in a car. The images seem to look recent, but the file's name states otherwise, as it was saved a few months ago.

Your eyes narrow at your mother and Heeseung’s father’s interaction, noticing how intimately close they are in the first picture, while the second picture looks like he is caressing your mother’s cheek with his eyes full of unmistakable affection. The third picture has you gasping in sheer disbelief, as they are undoubtedly in lip lock.

Haphazardly, you close the file and proceed to open another, and this time, you recognise Jake and Sunghoon’s fathers in this sequence of pictures, seated in a cafe with your mother. In the first few sequences, they seem to be catching up, and you would’ve thought that they were long-lost college friends if it weren’t for the fact that one of them embraced your mother in an intimate hug before the next image shows the other kissing her forehead.

You can feel the sheer betrayal and hurt squeezing around your pounding heart. You know you should not continue, yet you find yourself going through another file, showing images of Jay’s father and your mother standing on the porch of your home in an intimate hug as well as in a lip lock unabashedly.

“No. This can’t be true.” You murmur to yourself, distress is written across your features as you decide to close the file, unable to look at your mother’s unravelling infidelity any longer.

You don’t understand why your mother would do this when her declaration of love for your father has always been consistent, and most importantly, how did she know them?

It is as though something is beckoning you to the answer you seek as your eyes spot a video that looks starkly different than the others, and the date indicated on the file shows that whatever is contained in it is older than you think.

Swallowing down the bile of emotions harshly, you proceed to click on it and brace yourself, or perhaps you didn’t prepare yourself enough for what is presenting to you. 

“Oh my god….” You whisper brokenly as tears fill your waterline. More gasps emit from you, prompting you to cover your mouth with your palm. The longer your eyes remain fixated on the obscene orgy that their younger selves were engaged brazenly alongside their lewd noises, the more you feel utterly revolted, wanting to puke up as the churns in your tummy become intemperate.

Upon the atrocious revelation that entailed the dark history your mother had with their fathers, you decide that what you have just unravelled is enough as you quickly close the file and proceed to shut down the computer.

In a state of complete distraught, with tears flowing down your face, you continue to make your departure from the prohibited territory. Fortunately, the four of them are nowhere in the palace, as Jake texted you earlier that they had some business to settle. You wouldn’t know what to do if you had to face any of them sooner, or maybe you don’t wish to see them at all.

As you wallow in the overwhelming tumult of emotions on your bed, all curled up and underneath the covers, you weep. You can’t believe that your own devout Catholic mother would do this, but above all, confusion mingling with resentment and betrayal is directed at Heeseung and the rest for storing such videos, and for what?

You simply don’t understand what benefits them, as they keep this dark revelation to themselves. Had they known all the while that their fathers had always harboured some form of affection and lust for your mother, even back in their college days?

After having had enough of wallowing, you decide to head into the bathroom to wash your face. As you look at yourself in the mirror, momentarily grimacing at the visible exhaustion on your complexion, which denotes how mentally drained you are, a firm resolution hardens your once-bleary eyes.

You don’t have the heart to meet them or even to see a glimpse of their faces. You should’ve known that they were more than capable of anything, especially after killing Jinae. You feel genuinely sick and disturbingly uncomfortable at the thought of being around them any longer.

No longer are you able to withstand this incessant dread that crawls on your skin, and so with a heavy heart, you proceed to pack whatever minimal necessity into your sling purse before heading into the walk-in wardrobe to change your clothes into something a little presentable, but you end up choosing an oversized hoodie.

Biting down your lip harshly, you look down at your phone, where the screen displays your group chat, before typing away with your trembling fingers. 

Y/N: I’m going back to my dormitory.

HEESEUNG: Why?

SUNGHOON: Is something wrong, princess?

JAY: Yeah, are you feeling too lonely, baby? We’ll be returning soon.

Y/N: No, I just miss my best friends and I want to reconcile with them so I won’t be returning to the palace. Please understand.

JAKE: Of course, lovely.

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Arriving at the lobby of your dormitory gives you a whiplash as you recall when the lights fully blacked out before you were attacked and rendered ruthlessly unconscious, causing you to wrap your arms around your frail form before you hasten your steps to the elevator while you ignore the odd stares you receive from the other students.

However, with each step nearing the door of your dormitory, the nauseousness you forced yourself to keep at bay surges while your mind is still reeling in revulsion from the prior discovery. You wish to wash your eyes with bleach and erase the stark images of their obscenity.

With a shaky hand, you fumble with tapping your access key card on the smart lock, and once it chimes, you quickly push down the handle and open the door, haphazardly entering the household that is filled with distinct chatter from your roommates.

“Y/N!” Karina is the first one to spot you by the living room, but you overlook the genuine surprise written across their faces upon seeing your unexpected appearance as you dash for your room. You hear them calling for you, but you are too preoccupied with the pain of holding back your nauseousness.

Finally barging into your bathroom, you head for the toilet bowl before crouching down with your back hunched as you lean over to throw up liquid content into the bowl. It appears that the alarming sound of your retching reaches the ears of your best friends, and before you know it, you hear footsteps rushing from the outside to your bathroom.

“Oh my god! Y/N!” You hear Karina gasp loudly amidst the echoes emanating from your retching throughout these bathroom tiles, but you don’t turn around to see them as the pain from your stomach and your throbbing head consumes you, as does the pain that stems from the fresh betrayal.

“Y/N.” Wonyoung’s worried voice manages to break through before you feel her presence next to you as she assists you in holding your hair up to prevent the strands from getting in the way before you continue to puke for another time while Yunjin crouches down on the other side to rub your heaving back soothingly.

After what feels like forever, both Yunjin and Wonyoung assist you in bringing you over to the sink for you to wash your mouth, while Karina heads out to the kitchen to grab a mineral bottle for you. Yunjin and Wonyoung exchange confused yet wary glances at your resonating silence as they hold your frail body, walking out of the bathroom.

“Here.” Karina jogs into your room, one hand holding the bottle as she extends her arm towards you. Without meeting her gaze, you shake your head before taking a seat on your bed, with Yunjin and Wonyoung refusing to leave your side. Karina releases a sigh. “You need to hydrate yourself after throwing up nothing but water.”

“For that matter, why are you here?” Yunjin inquires worriedly, and her tone indicates that she wants to chide you. “You should be resting in the palace, and even if you wanted to come back here, you should’ve at least texted one of us to fetch you. What would’ve happened if you had fainted on your way here?”

“Jen’s right, Y/N.” Wonyoung places her hand on your tensed shoulder, taking notice of your loud silence and your avoidance as your head hangs low. “What happened? Are you feeling sicker than usual? Or are you─” Wonyoung pauses as her eyes widen, mirroring the same expression as Yunjin and Karina. “Are you pregnant?”

You barely flinch at the obvious wince in her tone as you remain reeling in pain from the betrayal. A part of you wants to confide in your best friends, but you also don’t wish for them to know the revolting truth about the history your mother had with the four leaders’ fathers, fearing that they would abandon you again out of sheer disgust.

“No. I’m not pregnant.” Your voice sounds scratchy due to all the puking that leaves a bitter acid on your tongue. “I um─” You pause, swallowing harshly as you look down at your trembling hands on your lap before you clasp them together, but the tremor in your voice remains. “I couldn’t stay there any longer.”

“What? Why?” Wonyoung asks, her tone sounds firm. “Did they hurt you? I swear if they hurt you─”

“They didn’t.” You shake your head, the instinctive urge to always defend them is still strong, which is perplexing because you know that you no longer feel comfortable being around them, and yet the emotional attachment you have towards them remains unchanging. You bite down on your lip hard, completely frustrated with yourself. “They’ve never hurt me, but I don’t think I want to be around them any longer.”

“But aren’t you in love with them?” Karina inquires, treading carefully with her words as she kneels down in front of you to get a better look at your face. She places her hand on top of yours. “Y/N, we don’t understand─”

A sharp sob leaves your lips, unable to articulate your muddling thoughts and feelings that are parallel in a tumult, and alas, the waterworks erupt with uncontrollable sobs emitting from you, prompting Wonyoung and Yunjin to offer you their comfort with their hugs while Karina holds your hand firmly. The three share the same sympathy despite feeling genuine confusion at your abrupt emotional breakdown.

“I know they wouldn’t hurt me, but─” A hiccup escapes you just as you manage to speak in between sobs. Wonyoung pulls you into her side embrace, allowing you to fall weak as you rest your head on her shoulder. “But I’m honestly scared. I really love them, and I don’t know what to do.” You continue, letting your established feelings be known to them, no matter if they vehemently disapprove.

“Y/N, if you really love them, then you should let them know.” Karina tells you, encouraging you with a small smile, but you shake your head in return.

“It’s complicated.” Wanting to tell them the truth is so close, but you force yourself to hold back. Instead, you resort to another path, and only you know that they wouldn’t do something so deplorable to you, or at least you hoped. You lean forward as you clutch your head with your elbows on your thighs, supporting you. “Maybe it isn’t love, or maybe it is, but what you girls said about Jinae the other night got me reevaluating my feelings for them.”

“It’s true that she died because of them, but Y/N, as much as we hate to admit it, we can see that they care greatly for you.” Wonyoung rubs your back comfortingly. “I think they love you the same way you do.”

Silence is all they receive from you for a moment before the sound of your sniffle comes, watching you wipe your tears away from your cheeks. You finally lift your head to look at the three of them, your nose and eyes red from the relentless weeping from earlier until now.

“I still don’t understand why they killed her, and how did she die?” You allow yourself to voice out one of the many questions lingering in your head.

“Initially, we didn’t know what to believe because of different speculations circulated on campus, but at the end of the day, it had been confirmed that Jinae did something to piss off all four leaders greatly.” Karina unravels, and it does seem like an uncomfortable subject for her to talk about, as evident in the grimace on her face.

“She was found dead in their palace.” Yunjin continues for Karina after a brief, sombre silence. Her lips press thinly while her eyes search for yours, seeming to be studying your expression. “But since they’re the sons of affluent figures in the eyes of the government, of course they were not arrested for committing another crime.”

“It’s one of the reasons why I despise them.” Despite Wonyoung’s declaration, her tone remains gentle as she speaks to you, matching the way she offers you a small smile as she tucks a hair behind your ear. “But I’ve long since realised that you couldn’t help with who you’ve fallen for, even if they turned out to be the ones I despise most.”

From your inner core, you are terribly shaken up by this new information. To be honest, you never really wanted to believe that the four leaders were responsible for Jinae’s death, but upon hearing the undeniable truth that she was found dead in their palace, it genuinely fucked you up in the head.

Tears well in your waterline as you look at them with a pained expression. “Do you think they’ll kill me just like they did to Jinae?” You ask in a splintered whisper, and you feel as though a vine has wrapped itself around your heart, squeezing it painfully with the jagged ends prickling you. 

“I don’t think they would ever do anything to hurt you, Y/N.” Wonyoung reassures you with her balming tone, but as she looks at Yunjin and Karina, you can see the glimpse of uncertainty in her eyes.

“What if you’re wrong?” A fallen tear trickles down your cheek at the agonising thought of your life being ended in the hands of your loved ones. “I did something, Wony. I broke one of their rules again.”

“What did you do, Y/N?” Yunjin inquires sternly, but you know that she is concerned for you. Yunjin flickers her gaze at Karina and Wonyoung. “Should we do something? I don’t know about you two, but I don’t want to risk anything concerning Y/N’s life.”

“Calm down. We’re only adding more panic and stress to Y/N.” Karina tells Yunjin with a disapproving frown before returning her gaze to your face, her eyes softening. “What do you want to do now?”

The thing is, you have already made up your mind about your next move. They see it in your eyes—the firm resolution that is familiar to them whenever you are determined to get what you want. “I need your help.” You tell them.

“Of course. Whatever you need.” Wonyoung gives your shoulder a firm squeeze.

“Yes. We’re here for you, Y/N.” Karina reaffirms this, earning nods from the other two.

You meet Karina’s eyes. “I need you to drive me home tomorrow afternoon. I want to visit my parents.”

The three of them exchange wary glances, feeling an immense sense of guilt after being the reason why your mother has practically disowned you.

“But why?” Yunjin dares herself to ask, her eyes studying your expression carefully. “I don’t mean to burst your bubble, baby girl, but aren’t you on bad terms with your parents?”

She is more than right, but frankly speaking, you’re still in contact with your father, whereas your mother refuses you. You don’t meet any of their gazes as you discreetly curl your fingers into a fist. “I have something important to confront my mother.” You say curtly, and just the tone of your voice is enough for them to avoid prying.

“Okay. I’ll drive you home instead.” Karina offers as she rises from the ground. She checks the time on her phone. “We’re actually planning to dine outside. Do you want to join us?”

“No, thank you.” You politely decline, giving her a weak smile. “I still don’t feel good.”

“I’ll check if there are any medications for you. Stay put.” Yunjin instructs you, like a mother to her child, before she walks out of your room.

“Rest, Y/N. We’ll buy some food for you.” Wonyoung tells you as she assists you to get comfortable on your bed, tucking you under the covers.

A faint chuckle leaves your lips while you hold back from crying again, feeling touched and nostalgic about this dynamic with your best friends. “I’m not a baby, Wony.”

“Nonsense, you’re our baby girl.” Wonyoung insists before pausing, almost as if she is contemplating whether to take back her words. “In a good, unrestrained way, of course.”

“What Wonyoung meant is that no matter what, you are still the same Y/N we know and love.” Karina adds, and it doesn’t help that you are gradually getting sappy as you smile at them with tears blurring your vision.

Not too long later, the whole of your dormitory is filled with complete silence as your best friends have left to dine outside. At first, you feel the familiar comfort of your old, homey room as you get snuggly under the covers, but soon, a profound sense of loneliness dawns on you.

Your eyes turn crestfallen as four handsome faces appear in your mind. There is no denying that you are already missing them, despite your rationality, which has given you a litany of reasons why you should not have given your heart to them in the first place.

Your phone buzzes next to you, and you reach for it to read the message from a certain individual.

SUNGHOON: Can I video call you? I’m already missing you, princess. 

Tears immediately spring in your eyes as you choke back a sob. The strong yearning in your bleeding heart consumes you. But you don’t reply to him, knowing that you’d only cave in to your yearning, and so you choose to sleep without any of their warmth embracing you that you have grown accustomed to.

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Old habits really do die hard. It is something you have always done, ever since you were young. Throughout the two-hour journey from your dormitory to the town you grew up in, your fingers would occasionally ascend to fiddle with the silver cross in an attempt to seek a semblance of alleviation from your churning inner turmoil.

Unlike Wonyoung and Karina, who are currently settled in the backseat and comfortably sound asleep, you chose to forgo the calling of sleep that beckoned you, only focusing and thinking about any worse possible outcome of the impending confrontation, and you have no idea if you are being ignorantly foolish about this, which resulted in you remaining frozen in the passenger seat.

“It looks like your parents are having guests over.” Karina remarks as she leans forward, her folded arms resting on the leathered steering wheel. Her eyes trail over to you while you are staring at the same sight of four different car models parked on the massive asphalt road outside of your two-story house. “Do you recognise those cars?”

“No. Not that I know of.” You frown, your face contorting into confusion, and yet, your inner turmoil seems to worsen at the mere sight. You look at Karina, giving her a wry smile as you busily unbuckle your seatbelt. “Wish me luck.”

“Call us if you need some help.” Karina offers you an encouraging smile that does nothing to ease your incessant perturbation.

The crisp afternoon air greets you as soon as you exit the vehicle before making your way to the sidewalk. Your steps feel heavier on the concrete pavement as you feel daunted. Your palms are starting to feel clammy, to which you wipe them on your skirt as you now walk on the gravel path that leads to the familiar front porch of your humble abode.

A wave of nostalgia washes over you as your eyes flicker to the creamed wooden swinging bench on the front porch, alongside the lovely adornments. You recall the times when your father would find you seated there to wallow in sadness, which prompted him to accompany you and engage in talks with you in an attempt to cheer you up, or whenever you willingly helped out your parents in decorating the front porch to match the seasons. 

But the sentimentality that softens your features immediately fades away, only to be replaced by something so sour that embitters you as you vividly remember the picture of your mother and Jay’s father on this very porch.

The vehemence of resentment you now harbour towards your mother sets in motion, storming towards the ajar door and pushing it open as you break through the threshold, not forgetting to remove your shoes and wearing the house shoes you retrieve from the rack.

Your eyebrows arch inquisitively upon seeing four different polished shoes that no doubt belong to businessmen, before your ears perk up at the sound of chatter coming from somewhere in the living room. You amble further, but those manly voices accompanying their laughter evoke a tremendous dread in you. You hope that they’re not the ones you think they are.

Mustering whatever bravery you have left, you increase the pace, and alas, the sight of the four men being amicable with your mother appals you, causing you to flinch visibly as though you have been smacked in the face.

Upon your obvious presence in the room, all eyes are on you, each mirroring the other, filled with genuine shock, but your blazing eyes are fixed intently on your mother’s soon panicked expression as she rises from the single couch.

“I’m home, mother.” You announce your arrival calmly, and the word itself comes out of you as though it is poison, to which your mother flinches. A cold smile plays on your lips, wickedly revelling in the way she becomes flustered amidst the apparent panic. “Where is Dad, by the way? Does he know you have guests over?”

“Y/N Kang, I taught you better than to be discourteous.” Your mother reprimands you, but the tremor in her voice is palpable, eliciting a low scoff from you. Your mother flashes ingenuine smiles to the four men in distinct sumptuous suits as she heads towards you. “Forgive my daughter’s lack of manners. Please continue. I have to speak with my daughter privately.”

You fold your arms over your chest, displaying your defiance, while the coldness in your eyes mirrors your mother’s. “I, for one, feel that we should have our conversation here since, after all, it involved these intruding guests.”

“Enough, Y/N Kang.” Your mother is practically seething with anger beneath her composed demeanour as she holds your arm tightly. “I won’t tolerate this disrespect any longer. Follow me.” It is not as if she gives you a choice, as you find yourself being dragged by her.

Once you are out of their sight as your mother finally brings you to the kitchen instead, you yank your arm from her tight grip roughly, adding to the palpable tension that sizzles in the air before you meet her glaring eyes.

“How dare you even step foot into the house when you are not permitted to come home, let alone disrespect those four gentlemen? Do you even know who they are?” Your mother speaks harshly—nothing to the mother you once knew and viewed her as—because the woman standing before you is someone you no longer recognise.

“Should I know them? I mean, sure, they look classy and rich, but don’t you think it’s a little inappropriate to have male guests around while Dad is away for work?” You are more than conscious that you choose to cope with sarcasm, as your voice drips with mockery, which only fuels your mother’s indignation, as evident in the way she is fuming. 

“Don’t you dare teach me what is appropriate and what is not.” She snaps back coldly at you, and you can see it in her eyes that her firm, scowling demeanour is teetering due to the unceasing panic. Disgust forms a sneer on her features. “What do you know about morality when you’re the one who spreads your legs like a shameless whore for their sons?”

You ignore the pang of hurt in your chest, masking it with a humourless grin that smears across your lips. “Like mother like daughter, don’t you agree?” Your coy remark makes her go visibly flinching, and you know you managed to hit a spot.

Your mother quickly recovers with a glare, but her trembling hand is enough for you to be satisfied that she is feeling disturbingly antsy. “What are you talking about? If you’re here to show your insolence instead of sincerely apologising and redeeming yourself, then get out.”

“Oh, don’t feign ignorance, mother.” You sneer at her, unfolding your arms as you stalk towards her. “I know what sort of relationship you have with them. I know about you.” Your tone holds a tint of darkness that is foreign to you, but you are driven by the resentment towards your mother as you continue with the cruelty deepening your smile. “Ah, the lovely irony of whore-shaming your own daughter when you’re just the same. The apple indeed doesn’t fall far from the tree─”

A loud smack resonates throughout the kitchen as your head is flung sideways from the impact of your mother’s palm, and there comes the stinging pain on your cheek, but you refuse to allow the waterworks you have been keeping at bay to erupt any sooner, and so a chuckle leaves your lips instead as you slowly divert your attention back to your now teary-eyed mother.

“How could you stoop so low to disrespect your own mother?!” She raises her voice, and the betrayal in her tone elicits a disbelieving scoff from you while she continues. “You don’t know anything, Y/N Kang!”

“Don’t I, really? I’ve only recently discovered your infidelity, but I know for a fact that you had an immoral history with them! Yet you dared to chastise me for fucking around with their sons when you don’t even have the right to!” It has now become a screaming match, no longer are you bothered by the fact that they might hear you.

“Y/N!” Your mother gasps loudly as though you have just physically attacked her, but you are relentless, and this time, tears begin to spill from your eyes. “I am your mother! And you have no idea what I feel for them─”

“I don’t give a damn about your feelings, but for fuck’s sakes, you are a married woman!” The veins in your neck are protruding as you overpower her sound. A sardonic yet broken chuckle falls past your lips. “Oh, so now you want to remind me that you’re my mother, but weren’t you the one who declared that you no longer recognised me as your daughter? Because to you, I’m apparently a whore!”

You cut off your mother before she can open her mouth to speak, hurling your pent-up emotions, including resentment towards her, like shooting bullets. “You’re a hypocrite, mother!” You spit out while hot angry tears continue their descent on your face. “You condemned me for spreading my legs and fucking around, but you’re even worse! You sneaked behind Dad’s back to pursue your trysts with them! Do you even realise how disgraceful that is?!”

It seems that your words are impactful because this time, any traces of indignation in your mother’s firm demeanour completely dissipate, replaced by the fear and indignity dawning on her. Her lips tremble as she attempts to reach out for you. “Y/N─”

The fresh pain of betrayal and hurt consumes you as you back away from her. “Dad has always worked hard for this family, and no matter how busy he gets, he always makes time for us and for you.” You sob out at the same time she does. “I thought you’re in love with Dad. I thought you’re happy with him.”

“I do! I still love your father!” She defends herself, lacing with such desperation, and yet her declaration doesn’t deter you. “Please, honey, my feelings for your father have never changed, but you have to understand that my history with the four of them is something that is complicated. I still care for them, but the one that I truly love is your father!”

“But those pictures said otherwise.” You sniffle, wiping the continuous tears away from your cheek.

“What? What pictures?” She asks, confused.

“It doesn’t matter, but what matters is that you ruined what I thought the love you had for Dad was.” You manage to utter something in between the weeping as you stare at her with betrayed eyes. “I feel so fucked up because, throughout my life, I have known you as a doting mother who is a devout Catholic. You even instilled the teaching of Christianity in me, and yet what I discovered has ruined the version of my mother I viewed in my head.”

“I’m so sorry.” Is all she can utter, covering her mouth with her palm as she looks down due to the mortified realisation and sheer humiliation.

“Like what you’ve always said, seek forgiveness from God instead.” You say wryly. “Oh, and maybe seek forgiveness from Dad too, if he has yet to learn of your infidelity.”

“Y/N! Wait! Please, wait!” Your mother frantically calls for you just as you turn your back on her, wanting to exit from the kitchen, and she manages to grab a hold of your arm. “I’m sorry! I shouldn’t have done what I did to you!” A sharp sob heaves from her, and the sound of it only seems to clench your heart. “I’m so sorry for disappointing you.”

Of course, you’re not about to forgive her just so easily. Without a word, you force yourself to escape from her flimsy clutch and hasten as you navigate your way around with the intention to leave the house, choking back more sobs before you cover your mouth with your palm.

Just as you walk past the living room, Heeseung’s father stops you as he calls for you, causing you to halt your steps before turning to meet his eyes. You hate how he is gazing at you kindly while guilt is written across his features.

“We admit that we overheard your conversation with your mother.” He pauses to look over his shoulders, meeting the others’ gazes as they nod their heads before continuing. “But don’t put the blame on your mother. Blame us.”

“He’s right.” Jay’s father steps forward, and it takes everything in you not to cower away due to the icy intimidation he exudes despite his neutral gaze. As you stare at the man, you can only see him as a pathetic excuse for a father who abused his son. “It was our fault. Your mother is a great woman, and she has always wanted the best for her baby girl.”

“Do you guys still love my mother?” You inquire sharply, wanting to get straight to the point. The silence from them and the way they avoid their gaze tell you all you need to know, which only brings a sneering disgust to you. “You are married, and yet you dare to love my mother? Do you think this is a game to you?”

“Y/N, I can assure you that nothing is a game, including our feelings for your mother.” Sunghoon’s father firmly counters, and you recall when Heeseung told you about Sunghoon’s father wanting his son to be erased from the face of this earth.

“I don’t care about your feelings for my mother or that you still love her, but please don’t ruin my parents’ marriage.” You plead in a cry, tears springing in your eyes once more before you cast them a withering glare. “Don’t fucking ruin my family just because yours are fucked up. I don’t want any of you to be around my mother like you always have.”

You don’t wait for their response as you flee from the living room, making your way to the door. After hurriedly putting on your shoes, you are ready to leave when the door swings abruptly open, revealing your father, who looks delightfully surprised to see you.

“Honey! What a pleasant surprise.” He stops as soon as he notices the tears staining your cheeks, the redness on your cheeks, and your lower lids from the relentless weeping. He cups your cheeks with his callous palms while his eyes go stern. “Baby girl, what’s wrong?”

You only manage a whimper in response as you shed tears silently. You open your mouth to speak, your chin wobbling with sadness, but it is as though you lost your voice, and with a heavy heart, you shake your head at him before gently pushing him away and running past him.

Yes, you hate your mother, but seeing your father after so long, you don’t have the heart to reveal the truth about your mother’s infidelity to him. You decide to sob out whatever is left in you, wiping your tears with your sleeves as you make your way to Karina’s car.

Forcing yourself to compose despite the annoying hiccups emitting from you, you startle the girls as soon as you open the door and shove yourself inside the car before slamming the door.

“That was actually longer than we thought.” Yunjin remarks from the backseat, oblivious to the sadness you emanate, but Karina, who has been examining you the moment you entered, is no stranger to the redness of your eyes and nose.

“Y/N, what happened?” Karina asks quietly, and her question draws Yunjin and Wonyoung's full attention before they lean forward to get a better view of your side profile.

You don’t meet any of their eyes as you lean back comfortably, your eyes gazing out to the window instead. “I don’t want to talk about it. Can we go somewhere else, please?” Your voice sounds hoarse from the crying and screaming.

“Of course. We know just the place you need.” Wonyoung chimes in hopes of livening the atmosphere in the car, but you remain the same. With a resigned sigh, Wonyoung’s eyes meet Karina’s with a certain knowing. “You know where.”

“I, in fact, don’t.” Karina replies as she proceeds to drive off from the curb, earning a glare from Wonyoung, but Karina, in fact, knows exactly what you need.

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“So, do you feel better now?” Yunjin’s voice pulls you out of the stupor you are in, prompting you to gain full consciousness of your surroundings and spot Karina and Wonyoung making their way to your table from the restroom.

Apparently, the three of them thought that bringing you to the ice cream parlour, which is located near your campus, was a good idea and may lift your spirits, but honestly, you feel even worse. Never mind the fact that the strawberry cheesecake-flavoured ice cream tasted amazing.

“Ice cream won’t solve my problems, you know.” You state this flatly while Wonyoung and Yunjin return to their seats.

“But you love your ice cream, though.” Yunjin points out, earning hums of agreement from the other two. “Come on, you must’ve felt at least slightly better.”

“Alright, fine.” You concede, and maybe you do feel a little better now as you find yourself adorning a faint smile before your eyes glaze with gratitude as you look over to them. “Thank you so much for being my moral support. I don’t know what I would do without you.”

“Consider this as our apology.” Wonyoung grabs your hand to give it a squeeze. You notice the guilt in her delicate features. “We didn’t mean what we said to you before, and we shouldn’t have treated you like that.”

“Wonyoung’s right. We’re sorry for what happened.” Yunjin offers you an apologetic smile. “To be honest, we’ve missed you so much.”

“We’ve missed being with you like this, just us girls.” Karina adds, turning the once lively atmosphere in the parlour into a pensive sadness. “Let’s never fight like that again.”

“What happened in the past is already in the past, so let’s not dwell on it.” You reassure them with a smile before proceeding to engage in another topic, gradually losing track of time due to getting immersive to the point where you almost forget all sorts of problems in the back of your mind until the night has fully ascended.

“Is it possible to get full just by eating three ice creams?” Karina asks with a groan as she pats her belly while your arm is interlocked with hers. The four of you are currently walking along the pavement to make your way to the parking lot.

“Maybe it’s just you, but I can easily finish off five ice creams and still have room for other desserts.” Yunjin tells her, and a smug smile on her lips earns her a playful scowl from Karina, to which you chuckle as they proceed to engage in banter, and soon enough, you have reached the nearly empty parking lot.

“Uh oh. It looks like we have unwanted people coming this way.” Wonyoung’s remark prompts you to look at her, spotting the sternness in her face with her eyes looking straight ahead, which you follow as you turn your head just to see two familiar figures clad in leather.

Your eyes instantly meet Jay’s steely ones, and from his expression, you have a feeling that you may or may not be in trouble. Before you can speak, Wonyoung shields you from their sight, prompting the other girls to follow her protective stance.

“Move.” Jay’s cold voice cuts through the nightly air sharply, but his stern command doesn’t deter your best friends. “I don’t have time to fuck around with you. I said, move.” You flinch slightly at the hint of warning in his flinty tone.

“No.” Yunjin seems to match the level of his austerity, and as you try to take a peek, your eyes widen at the stark, raging storms in the glaring eyes of Jay, whereas Sunghoon’s demeanour appears to be collected, but you know that he is just as pissed off as Jay. “Why are you here?”

“We need to speak with Y/N.” Sunghoon answers, his vehement tone indicates that there is no way they are leaving unless they get what they want. “Alone.”

“Whatever you need to say to her, you can tell her now.” Wonyoung counters strongly, as she has her arms over her chest in an intimidating stance.

“Didn’t you hear him? He said alone.” Jay glowers at them, but they remain unmoving, to which Jay no longer bothers to conceal his detestation towards them. “Why the fuck are you acting like her bodyguards? For fuck’s sake, it’s not like we want to hurt her!”

“Do you, really?” Karina asks in an annoying mockery that has their eyes twitching. “You guys are beyond predictable, so we don’t trust you to be alone with Y/N.”

Before things can get worse between them, you decide to step in, moving out of their body shields and revealing yourself in front of Sunghoon and Jay, whose eyes immediately latch on your figure.

You offer your girls a small smile in an attempt to assure them. “It’s okay. You girls can go ahead and wait for me in the car. Besides, they won’t do anything to hurt me in public.”

You can feel the sheer disbelief emanating from Sunghoon and Jay as their eyes drill into the side of your face. You ignore them as your eyes meet Wonyoung’s, giving her a firm nod.

Wonyoung releases a sigh, denoting her resignation, before nudging the other two. “Let’s go.” She says, and they eventually acquiesce, but not before shooting the guys a withering glare.

As the girls make their retreat to the car, you finally shift your attention to the disbelieving males, and this time, there are no traces of austerity or callousness they exhibited in front of your best friends. Just noticeable hurt glinting in their eyes by your previous statement, but they composed themselves with the rare sternness patch on their countenance.

“Do you know how much trouble you’re in?” Jay initiates the confrontation, his steely eyes penetrate into yours. “You shouldn’t have done what you did. Have you forgotten that there are always consequences to your actions?”

Your lips press thinly, refusing to back down despite feeling gradually small under their dark, pinning gaze. Your arms latch around your form, feeling the chilly wind hitting you. “I don't know what you’re talking about.” You lie so easily, and yet there is a palpable tremor in your voice.

“Heeseung is furious at you, princess.” Though Sunghoon is just as austere as Jay, the softness in his tone is so unmistakable that it almost impels you to cave into your longing and run into the comfort of his arms.

“We’re furious at you.” Jay seems to correct Sunghoon’s statement, and you nearly deflate like a balloon under the intensity of his dark gaze as he takes an intimidating step forward. “We don’t know why you did what you did, but you better have a good, reasonable explanation.”

“Stop.” You force your voice to come out strong as you back away, just before Jay can reach out to you. Your glare of hostility throws them off, and it is as though they are back to square one with you. “I’m not going anywhere with either of you. Just leave me alone.”

“Why are you being like this? Did we do something wrong?” Sunghoon voices out his frustration, while there is a hint of longing in his tone. “Talk to us, princess. Don’t shut us out.”

You shake your head, fighting against your vehement longing for them. “I just think it’s better for us to distance ourselves from each other.” You utter a broken whisper as you look away from their confused yet hurtful gaze. The tumult of emotions threatens to come down on you, springing tears to accumulate in your waterline. “You guys overwhelmed me, so please give me the space I need. Tell Heeseung that I’m sorry.”

Just as you are prepared to leave, Jay grabs you by the arm, pulling you close to him until he has you flushed against him. Your heart pumps rapidly at the warm contact of his body on yours and the way his dark eyes bore into yours deeply.

“You’re not going to walk away from us until you tell us why you’re avoiding us.” He demands calmly, while the low rasp in his voice awakens a familiar flutter in your beating heart. You notice the way his eyes flicker at your parted pink lips briefly. “I don’t want to force the answer out of you, baby.”

“Just go away!” You attempt to push him away from you in the chest while he still seizes control over your other arm, so you struggle in his unyielding grasp. Tears prick your glaring eyes as you look back at him. “I don’t have anything to explain to you! I’m not even your girlfriend!”

“Princess, calm down.” You feel Sunghoon’s presence behind you before his hands land on your tensed shoulders, alarming you at the fact that you are now being sandwiched between them.

You remain adamant, shaking your head vehemently before trying valiantly to escape from their possession, but exhaustion dawns on you more quickly than you like. “Just please…” You plead, and your voice has a noticeable crack in the end as you are caught in a whirlwind of emotions.

Succumbing to defeat, you hang your head low, hiding the sight of you in tears from them, before you instinctively lean your forehead against Jay’s chest. “Please let me go. I don’t want to argue with you two any longer. I’m tired.”

Sunghoon resists the urge to wrap his arms around you from behind, and when his eyes flicker to meet Jay’s, he gives him a firm nod, causing Jay to loosen his hold on you, but you remain in a defeated stance, unmoving.

“Fine, we’ll give you the space you need, but don’t think for a second that this is the last time you’ll ever see us.” Sunghoon speaks in a low murmur next to your ear, his cold breath fanning your earlobe.

Sniffling, you finally look up and push them away from you. Avoiding their gazes, you hug yourself in an attempt to provide some warmth amidst the chilly wind. “Forget it. I don’t want to see any of you anytime, sooner, or ever.” Despite your declaration, your heart vehemently disagrees. “I’ve decided to revert to the girl I was before she foolishly allowed herself to fall for your charms.”

“Princess…”

“Baby…”

You muster the last of your courage as you glare at them through your teary vision, unable to see the expressions they wear. “Whatever we had before, it’s over. We’re over.”

You don’t give either of them the opportunity to speak or counter-remark, as you immediately flee from them, heading towards Karina’s car, where your best friends have been watching the entire interaction closely. As you shove yourself in the passenger seat and slam the door, Karina wastes no time in driving you off, and alas, you release the restrained waterworks.

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You stayed true to your firm decision about reverting to the good Catholic girl you were before all the corruption you allowed to break you from the inside, because when Sunday morning arrives, you find yourself entering the familiar divine building alongside other churchgoers. Settling on a pew in the right aisle, you grab your bible from your tote bag and place it on your lap while your other hand clutches the rosary as you await the service to begin. 

It feels foreign to you to come back here after so long, but above all, stepping foot on these holy grounds evokes an immense guilt in you, and you feel as though you are undeserving after having your impurity ripped off due to your immoral willingness. Nevertheless, you know that those thoughts are whispers of the devil in order to lead you astray again.

As soon as the service commences, you attempt to direct your full attention on the pastor as he delivers his preaching, but your eyebrows furrow at the feeling of eyes watching you, nearly dissuading you from your focal point before you force yourself to refocus again while clutching your rosary.

Perhaps it is your paranoia at the possibility that whoever attacked you the other night is back to hunt you down, but you can’t shake off the feeling of eyes fixated on your figure, especially in the way the back of your hair rises and goosebumps on your skin hidden underneath your white cardigan that matches well with your cute white floral dress.

Okay, maybe you are being paranoid, and those eyes probably belong to people seated in the rows behind you since you are seated in the very first row, but you have this strong urge to turn around, and you do so slowly. As your eyes briefly scan these people, their focus seems to be on the preaching. Just then, you feel a burning sensation drilling into your face, prompting you to shift your eyes elsewhere.

At the moment your eyes lock with his, your breath goes hitched in your throat while your heart pounds hard against your chest. Seated amongst the other churchgoers somewhere in the backrow in your aisle is Lee Heeseung.

The bill of his cap does nothing to shadow the wicked glint in his dark, mesmerising eyes, and a devilish smirk plays on his lips. Your eyes follow the movement of his tongue gliding across his bottom lip, which is adorned with the familiar silver ring. Despite the forbidden arousal stirring in your core, confusion fills your head.

What is he doing here? At least to your knowledge, Heeseung has never gone to this church, nor is he someone who is religious, so his unexpected appearance greatly confounds you. Nevertheless, you force yourself to break the devilly yet heavenly trance from his eye contact, facing the front again.

When the service ends, you exchange polite greetings and farewells to the others in your vicinity before abandoning your seat to make your way through the departing people to greet the priest, and midway, you look over your shoulder to check if Heeseung is still there. A frown touches your lips at the empty spot where he was seen earlier. His sudden disappearance only seems to unnerve you.

You grace your countenance with a polite smile as soon as the priest greets you warmly. The thought of Heeseung immediately dissipates as you engage in a meaningful conversation with the priest. However, you feel weirded out upon noticing his lecherous gaze and how often he compliments your overall look, not forgetting the way his eyes linger on your revealing legs even though the length of your dress reaches just above your knees.

You inwardly shake your head and silently berate yourself for such ill-thoughts of the priest when he has always been kind to you. Besides, your intention is to make a confession entailing your sinful pursuits, and so the priest begins to guide you to the sacrament of penance while the church gradually becomes quieter due to the others’ departure.

However, uneasiness is gnawing at you while your stomach churns, noticing that something is indeed off as he guides you to a different route and the atmosphere gets ominous.

You bite down your lip, contemplating before deciding to act upon your better instinct. “Um..Father, from what I recall, this isn’t the way to the─” You are cut off when he grabs a hold of your arm tightly, feeling as though he has stopped the blood flowing in your arm.

“What are you doing?!” You try to yank your arm from his deadly grip as he continues to drag you with him into one of the rooms where the lights are dim, shoving you inside. Panic and anxiety expand in your chest as you feel helpless against his strength.

Something dark casts a shadow across his features as he looks at you, his lips curling into a wicked sneer while you grimace at the lecherous gaze of his. “I’ve waited a long time for this, for you, my sweet child.” He says so amorously, pulling you closer until his prominent bulge is pressed against your thigh.

“Get away from me, you perv!” You scream, trashing against his hold, no longer do you hold such respect for him. “Help! He’s trying to─” He slaps you hard on the cheek and shoves you to the ground, standing over you.

You choke back a sob while tears prickle in your eyes, not understanding why the priest would do this to you. Just when you think there is no hope, the door is violently pushed open, with the handle being wholly destroyed. Before you know it, the priest has been shoved away from you, manhandled by an imposing figure.

“You sick hypocritical fucker!” Jake’s enraged voice startles you as it reverberates throughout the room. When you look at the side, you gasp upon seeing Jake deliver brutal yet skillful punches to the priest’s face as he hovers over. “You dared to assault my woman?!” He roars out, making you go flinching.

Jake is seeing absolute red and becoming relentless. Another punch, and this time, you can’t bear to see the violence as blood begins to spill. 

You stand with shaky legs, getting ready to bolt your way out of here, but when another figure enters the room, you gasp again upon seeing a melee knife in Heeseung’s grasp while his eyes are ablaze with rampant storms. His focus is solely on the priest, who is being beaten relentlessly to the pulp.

You should be running away by now, but you remain frozen with fascination and horror as you watch the vicious element Jake revels in, as evident in the way he smirks. Clutching the nearly half-dead priest by his blood-stained shirt, Jake casts a glance at Heeseung. “Should we kill him off quickly or painfully slowly?

Heeseung mirrors Jake’s smirk as he toys around with the knife. “The latter is music to my ears.”

Your heart drops to the pit of your stomach at the dreadful realisation of their firm decision to kill off the priest. Sure, you now loathe the priest and feel completely revolted by his assault, but killing doesn’t sit right with you.

Just when Heeseung brings the pointed tip of the knife near to the priest’s bloodied face, you stop him with a plea, “Don’t kill him!”

The sound of your voice draws their attention in an instant, but the expressions they wear on their faces cause your stomach to churn unpleasantly. Jake scoffs, his gaze burning into your face. “You don’t get to decide the fate of this sick bastard. He fucking assaulted you, Y/N. He must pay the price.”

“N-Not like this. Please.” You try to reason with them, and a tear trickles down your cheek while you tremble with a palpable fear for them. “We can report him to the police instead. Just please, no killing.”

“You don’t seem to understand that you are in no position to make demands.” Heeseung says lowly, the warning projecting in the rasp of his voice while his dark eyes penetrate into yours. A cold smirk plays on his lips as he diverts his attention to you. “For that matter, you had the audacity to stop us and tell us what to do after what you did.”

“H-Heeseung…” You whisper in a panic, your tearful eyes bringing him a wicked delight as you slowly back away from him.

Heeseung stalks towards you, chuckling softly. “Oh, sweetheart, you didn’t think I’d forget your rebellion, did you? It’s time for you to face the consequences, and how fitting it is to punish you on these sacred grounds.”

Entering fight-or-flight mode, you decide to flee from them, bolting out of the room and navigating your way back to the pew since you had left your belongings there. You hear thundering footsteps from behind you, eliciting a fearful sob from you as you know that Heeseung is relentlessly chasing after you, and unbeknownst to you, he is catching up fast.

When you arrive at the crossing, you are greeted by a desolate sight, bare of any churchgoers. It is eerily silent too, with the exception of your harsh panting as you halt from running, needing to gasp for air while your chest feels tight. Running really is your weakest suit.

You spot your belongings at the previous spot you were seated at, and just before you move forward, the door ahead of you from afar opens, revealing Sunghoon and Jay sauntering into the church leisurely with equal boredom on their countenances, and in their manner, it is as though they are on the grounds of their territory.

“You two are just in time.” Heeseung startles you from behind, but your reaction in eluding him delays, resulting in you being caged in his possession with his hands seizing your arms now being interlocked behind you securely.

“Heeseung! Let go of me!” You struggle valiantly against him despite apprehension coiling within you, and when a rising anticipation at the feasible thrill of what they have in store for you stirs in your inner core, you silently berate yourself for nearly forgetting your morality.

Your eyes flicker to Sunghoon and Jay as they continue to advance forward, their neutrality at the sight of you being held captive in Heeseung’s possession confounds you. Nevertheless, you have no idea why you desire their help when they are probably in it too. “J-Jay, Hoonie…” You utter their name weakly, feeling dejected by their indifference.

“They’re not going to help you, sweetheart.” Heeseung chuckles lethally and softly beside your ear, sending shivers down your spine. “They’re here to take out the trash, and who knows if they want to watch us as well?”

“Heeseung, please.” You whimper out, fear is palpable in the tremor of your voice, and yet you can’t seem to put a stop to your stirring arousal in your core at the deliverance of your punishment from him. “I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean to.”

“Oh, but you did mean it, sweetheart. The camera in my office captured everything. You just couldn’t keep your pretty hands to yourself and stayed curious like the good fucking girl you were supposed to be.” He snarls coldly, evoking more dread in you that soon mingles with your unbearable arousal, causing you to discreetly squeeze your thighs together.

The commotion coming from the side prompts you to turn your head, and your eyes widen in horror at the sight of the fucked-up priest, whose face is close to wrecked with blood smeared all over, being dragged across the floor by Jake with ease.

“Thank fuck, you guys are here. He’s heavy as fuck.” Jake groans loudly as he releases the priest’s limb without any thought of gentleness when Sunghoon and Jay approach him. “Handle him, and I don’t care how or what you choose to do with him.”

“What did he do again?” Jay inquires rather uninterestedly, wanting this to be done as soon as possible.

“Sexually assaulted young girls for the past few years and threatened them into staying silent.” Jake lists them down, whereas you become genuinely appalled by the revelation. When his eyes flicker at yours fleetingly, you flinch slightly. “The fucker assaulted our girl too.”

“Say less. We’ll get the job nicely done.” Sunghoon affirms, adorning a smile that gives you the chills. You watch as Sunghoon and Jay drag the priest by his arms, seeming to be making their way to the other exit and leaving you with the very two predators you should be evading.

“Lovely.” Jake drawls out, his charming grin is a deception you recognise, while his eyes are overtly displayed with a mingling displeasure and lust. “Where are your manners, my love? We did save you from that pretentious bastard.”

“T-Thank you.” You stammer, your cheeks flushing pink with humiliation, under their burning derogatory gaze.

“Awww, isn’t she adorable, Heeseung?” Jake coos, his gentle tone dripping with mockery, as does the way he looks at you, akin to how a predator is ready to pounce on their prey before devouring them alive.

 Heeseung hums in agreement as he strokes your cheek in a hauntingly loving gesture. “You’re right. She’s so fucking adorable.” You hear the sneer in his voice before he directs his speech to you. “Just like how adorable you were trying to escape when you should’ve known that I’ll always win over you, sweetheart.” 

“I wasn’t trying to escape!” You accidentally display your defiance, denying the obvious truth, and you smack your lips shut together while berating your idiocy once more.

“So she lies as well.” Jake tuts disapprovingly. “The list just keeps adding. First, you broke one of our rules by trespassing on Heeseung’s office for the second time. Second, you didn’t want to see us anymore. Now, this?”

“Someone needs to be taught a lesson or two.” Heeseung chuckles darkly, eliciting an enticing whimper from you that goes straight to their cocks. “It really is fitting for our girl to be punished on these sacred grounds, right, Jake?”

“Definitely.” The sensation of Jake’s eyes raking all over you feels scorching. “Bad girls need to be taught some lessons, and it looks like our sweet angel has fallen. We can’t have you become bad. No, you need to be good just for us.”

It is really confusing. You are caught up in a predicament where the rational part of you beseeches you to follow your morality and refuse your awaiting predators, but another part of you, which you regard as corrupt, is pulling you to its side, lulling you to succumb to their depravity.

“Did you know that Jake was such a good boy, just like you?” Heeseung purrs in your ear, dripping with his seductive allure that projects in his husky voice.

You shudder lightly as you feel his wet muscle licking a stripe on your earlobe before speaking to you in a deceptive, gentle tone that belies familiar darkness. “Oh, yes. He even took his studies in religion to a higher level, which almost granted him the opportunity to become a preacher. It’s rather fitting for him to preach and correct the errors of your ways now, yeah?”

A whimper leaves your lips when Heeseung seizes your chin without any gentleness to forcefully turn your head to look at Jake, whose dark eyes penetrate into yours and bear such wicked intent, while a smirk unfurls on his lips as he stalks towards you.

“Please.” Your voice is barely above a whisper, while a tear escapes from the corner of your eye as Jake caresses your cheek in a hauntingly loving gesture. “I-I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to─”

“Oh, you’ll be begging for forgiveness, alright.” Jake chuckles coldly, no traces of his usual charming mirth are detectable. His thumb brushes across your bottom lip sensually before tugging it down, causing your lips to part open while you remain helpless in Heeseung’s impenetrable hold.

“I’m your fucking preacher now, and since you are so desperate to seek forgiveness, you’ll be confessing your sins to me while I fuck you until I decide when you can be pardoned.” Jake says so harshly, causing more tears to accumulate in your eyes. His dark eyes bear zero ounces of clemency, while his countenance reminds you of the night when he embodied a serial killer. “Now face the damn cross and get down on your fucking knees.”

Once Heeseung releases you, you know better than to delay further, following Jake’s instruction despite the humiliation descending on you before you finally find yourself kneeling on the ground and facing the imposing cross.

“On your fours, sweetheart.” Heeseung instructs firmly, his gentle tone does nothing to ease your frayed nerves. You swallow down a whimper as you reluctantly lean your body forward with both palms pressed on the floor, feeling exposed from the back since you are bare of any safety shorts.

You feel Jake’s hands manoeuvre from behind you, lifting the entirety of your dress to fully expose your ass, with your white lace underwear barely covering the expanse of it. You don’t have time to grasp the sensation of his callous palm landing on your ass cheek hard, as it sends you a shocking wave in a painful ripple through your body before he does it again.

“Ah! Jaeyun!” You yelp out, your body jerking forward due to the impact, before you feel fingers tangling in your hair to grab a fistful of your hair and apply enough pressure to pull your head to the back, making you face the high grand ceiling.

“I’m not hearing any apologies from you yet, lovely.” Jake tuts as he rubs the soreness of your ass cheek soothingly before taking you by surprise when he smacks it twice hard, eliciting a sob from you, and yet, you can feel your arousal staining your underwear as it leaks from your needy cunt. “I can do this all day.”

“Please! I’m so sorry! I made a mistake by breaking your rule!” You begin your confession, apologising through sobs as well, while tears are prickling in your eyes as he remains unforgiving in spanking you. “I promise I won’t do it again! Please! It hurts!”

“Oh yeah? If it hurts, then why are you so wet from your punishment, lovely?” He chuckles sardonically as he finally ceases the spanking, only for his fingers to migrate your lace underwear and stroke the outer of your cunt, where he spots a visible wet patch on the material. “Naughty, dirty angel. If you wanted to be punished like this so badly, then why didn’t you say so?”

You feel him releasing your hair, allowing your strained neck to rest. “I-I don’t─” A gasp leaves your lips at the moment Jake practically tears your underwear savagely and tosses it aside. “Jaeyun! My underwear─”

“Shut up.” Jake cuts you off sharply, earning him a dejected whimper from you while he loosens his slacks, freeing his erection that desires to be buried in your warmth after so long. “I’m going to fuck your sweet cunt, and you’re going to fuck Heeseung’s cock with your mouth. You’re going to take us both like the well-trained slut you are for us.”

It isn’t really helping when your cunt keeps clenching anytime either of them delivers their degradation to you, and it’s even worse when you are eagerly anticipating for their cocks and for them to ruin you once more.

“Come on, sweetheart. Open up.” Heeseung towers over your figure in front of you while your hungry eyes are staring at his erection, the pink tip is engorged. You part open your lips, inviting him to push his cock into your hot cavern, and he does. 

You try your best to avoid gagging as the head gets further away, grazing against the roof of your mouth. A pleasurable sigh leaves Heeseung’s lips as soon as you begin to fuck him with your mouth, your tongue swirling around the head before deepthroating him skillfully like a pro, earning you an approving rumble from his chest while his dark eyes watch you.

Seeing as you are too distracted with Heeseung’s cock, Jake smirks softly and aims his cock directly at your cunt, just for the head to rub against your slick folds, eliciting a muffled moan from your stuffed throat as the head continuously bumps your neglected clit.

Without any further foreplay, Jake thrusts the entirety of his length into you as your walls welcome him, despite the tightness that has him biting down his lips. The sheer girth of his shaft has you whimpering and moaning that are restricted by Heeseung’s cock, causing you to stop as Jake unyieldingly delivers his slow yet hard thrusts into your needy cunt with the walls fluttering around him.

Not satisfied with your performance, Heeseung grabs a fistful of your hair while your jaw goes slacken, and your teary eyes meet his stern ones. “I didn’t say you could stop, did I?”

You immediately shake your head at him before resuming, but it is getting harder to focus on Heeseung when Jake is fucking you from behind so deliciously as the sound of his thighs smacking against your bums resonates throughout these sacred walls.

“Oh, fuck, lovely.” Jake throws his head to the back, gritting his teeth at the delirious sensation of your fluttery walls practically vacuuming his cock, as though they never want to let go, prompting him to deliver shallow thrusts while picking up the pace. “You must’ve missed my cock that much, yeah?”

There is no possible way to verbally respond to him other than muffled moans. Heeseung uses your hair as leverage to fuck himself into your mouth; each thrust gets shallower as the head hits the back of your throat.

“Good girl. Take my cock like the champ you are.” Heeseung coos, admiring your tear-stained face and how sinfully innocent you look with your eyelashes fluttering as you look up at him while your mouth is stuffed full by his cock. A muscle pulses in his jaw, unable to prolong the impending orgasm as it reaches its climax. “I’m gonna cum, sweetheart. You know what to do, yeah?”

You nod your head, eager to please him, and hurl him to the edge as you play around the sensitive tip with your tongue before deepthroating him and going still as he finally cums into you while you gladly swallow every drop.

“That’s it. Oh, my beautiful sweetheart.” Heeseung continues to shower you with compliments that make your heart swell, whereas Jake feels neglected by your lack of attention.

As soon as Heeseung steps away from you, Jake grabs you by the hair and pulls it back while he fucks you harder yet precisely shallow, which has you nearly seeing stars in your vision.

“Oh God!” You moan out, lost in a haze of intense pleasure, with your eyes rolling to the back of your skull as he sets a brutal pace that you never knew you needed from him.

“No God, baby.” Jake rasps, his voice thick with gratification and his eyes darkening as he revels in the sweet sound eliciting from you, adding to the symphony of your sinful intercourse in front of the holy cross. “Only Jaeyun for you. I’m your God now.”

“Jaeyun!” You begin to blabber, deprived of complete coherence, as you begin to fuck yourself back on him, wanting to feel him deeply, and when the head manages to hit that spot deliciously, a loud moan tears from your throat. “Oh! Jae! Right there!”

“Right fucking there?” Jake growls as he tightens his grip on your hair, drilling his cock deep into you, and fuck, he feels it, the head hitting something spongy inside you while the repeated action of his draws out more moans from you. “Yeah? That’s your spot, lovely?”

“Please! More!” You sob out, completely delirious to the sensation of his cock that consumes your every sense, and unbeknownst to you, more than one pair of eyes have been watching you.

“Don’t be greedy, love. It’s a sin.” Jake chuckles, mockery lacing his tone, but his voice sounds nearly strained as his impending orgasm comes forth, rendering him teetering at the edge while his vigorous thrusts don’t let up. “Fuck. I’m going to cum in you, lovely.”

You whimper out while tears cascade down your cheeks, and at the same time, your orgasm hits you violently when his hips go completely stilled with his cock burying to the hilt, dumping his cum into your womb to mix with yours. Still, you feel dissatisfied, as evident in the way your walls go clenching around him like crazy, eliciting a breathy chuckle from the male.

Jake gently pulls out his cock from your nearly battered, fluttery walls, earning him a needy whine from you, which he clicks his tongue at. “Don’t worry, lovely. You’ll get what you want. Now get up.”

Slowly, you stand on shaking legs while your thighs and knees are evidently sore. Heeseung takes you by surprise when he grabs your arm firmly to guide you forward. Your confusion is mingled with immense guilt as you feel the weight of the holy cross glaring at you while he guides you until you reach the altar.

“Sit and lay down with your legs spread open.” Heeseung calmly instructs you, but you remain frozen, shaken from the core at the realisation of what he is about to do. “I’m not going to say it again, sweetheart.”

Not wanting to piss him off, you obediently follow his absurd instructions while ignoring the wicked thrill in you. As you sit on the altar and face the front, your heart nearly drops at the sight of Sunghoon and Jay, who seem to have been watching you from the spot where Jake had fucked you, while one of them is clearly recording you with his phone.

In a blink of an eye, Heeseung has you laid down on the altar, your legs now spread flexibly for their eyes to feast upon your cunt that pulsates with the incessant need to be stuffed full again.

“Greedy for more, aren’t you?” Heeseung looms over your vulnerable figure in front of you, whereas Jake stands behind you to bind your wrists above your head, denying you any possible defiance against what Heeseung is about to do. A smirk plays on Heesueng’s lips, seeing the heavy lust amidst your teary eyes. “It seems you’ve forgotten that this should be your punishment. I guess Jake didn’t execute your punishment properly.”

“Fuck you, I did.” Jake retorts, but Heeseung merely ignores him as his eyes trail to your pink, slick folds from both Jake and your cum. A breathy moan leaves your lips as his fingers stroke your throbbing clit before rubbing it for good measure, just to take you by surprise when he suddenly lands a sharp slap on your pussy.

“Heeseung!” You scream as he does it again painfully, and another comes that has you struggling in Jake’s firm hold while your hips jerk at the impact. You sob out, feeling your pussy being abused by his relentless slaps and teasing of his fingers, occasionally rubbing your aching clit, as though to edge you in an agonising way. “Please! No more!”

“No more? But you’re fucking wet, sweetheart.” Heeseung unfurls a soft smirk as he finally relents, just to slide his fingers down on your slippery folds that are coated with your slick arousal. “Gonna baptise you, pretty girl.”

“Our sweet angel just loves the pain, doesn’t she?” Jake smirks down at you cruelly, his eyes marvelling at how docile you are being displayed like this and how your legs seem to be spreading for more room. “Oh, you do want this, yeah? Fucking give it to her, Heeseung.”

You flinch again when Heeseung delivers one last smack on your drenched-reddened folds before he lowers himself to level with your throbbing cunt and wastes no time delving into you, his hands pressing on your inner thighs to keep your legs from closing.

You gasp at the abrupt intrusion of his wet muscle thrusting into your cunt, but as his tongue dances across your sensitive flesh, licking your every wall with his nose rubbing your clit, you arch your back as you move your hips in tandem with his expert tongue delving into your cunt and the way he teases your quivering walls with his lip ring. His cap has completely fallen off as he becomes utterly drunk in your sweet pre-essence, his hunger for your cunt is insatiable.

Jake watches as your angelic face contorts into pleasure with your eyes fluttered close and moans spilling from your lips that go straight into his now-twitching cock.

The slick sound emanating from your slick cunt is utterly obscene as it reaches to your ears, only turning you on more as does the

“Oh my god! Seungie!” You mewl at his uninhibited movements, ravaging you as though your pussy is his last meal. You feel him humming, sending vibration through your quivering body, before he drags his tongue across your slick folds to find your clit and sucks on your nub, setting your bundles of nerves aflame.

“Fuck!” You cry out when he bites down on your nub without any ounce of mercy before he laps it up to soothe the pain, and yet it is a pain you have grown to crave. “Seungie.” You mewl again, moving your hips sensually as his tongue expertly swirls and licks your sensitive clit, and you become wholly consumed by the pleasure.

Without letting up his tongue, Heeseung plunges two fingers into your sopping cunt, thrusting vigorously with primal abandon. The sheer intensity of his tongue and fingers hurls you to the teetering edge, your pleasure building to a crescendo while wanton moans spill from your lips, surrendering to the rapturous onslaught.

Your tearful eyes meet Jake’s, whose eyes darken with a primal lust as he watches Heeseung unyielding punishment to your sopping cunt, and you begin to feel it—the familiar white-hot sensation sizzling through you at the same time his fingers curl in you, hitting that spot unrelentingly. “I’m gonna cum.” You moan brokenly, sobbing.

“Do it, lovely.” Jake coos as he brushes away the messy strands from your face, his eyes hold an unmistakable affection amidst the lust. “Wanna see you squirt for us.”

With Heeseung’s one last flick on the nub, your orgasm comes crashing down like tidal waves, and your release gushes out messily with fluid while your body convulses uncontrollably on the altar as you sob out at the sheer intensity of the overwhelming pleasure. Just when you think he is done, his fingers resume fucking into you, even as you continue to squirt.

Heeseung looms over your figure, his face is demented with primal lust, and a devilish smirk plays on his lips. Your heart flutters at how good he looks, his sheeny nose and chin dripping with your slick essence while his hair is tousled and his dark eyes gleam with insatiable lust for you. You whimper as he roughly removes his fingers to deliver a slap on your wholly drenched pussy.

“Look at you. Being fucked and ruined by us on these holy grounds.” Heeseung's husky voice is laden with lust, while his dark eyes gleam with familiar corruption. He slaps your sensitive clit sharply, drawing out a cry from you as he continues to degrade you while you remain powerless against Jake’s hold. “You should be ashamed of yourself, sweetheart.“

“I’m sorry.” You sob out, unable to think straight as your mind has melted into a puddle, only wanting to succumb to the exhaustion.

“That’s right. Seek forgiveness only from us.” Jake says so softly, his caress on your cheek feels deceptive, and yet you lean into his touch, your lidded eyes struggling to stay open. “We’re your salvation, lovely. You need only us.”

You nod your head slowly, feeling languid, but just as you are about to succumb to the darkness that nearly consumes your every sense, you manage to spot them holding their phones, snapping shots of you, before you finally pass out on the altar from the sheer exhaustion.

▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰

As soon as you gain consciousness, the soreness in your lower region serves as a reminder of the event that transpired earlier in the holy church, and the recollection hits you with an unadulterated mortification as you remain numbly unmoving from the bed, facing the familiar ceiling that is painted in delicate tapestry from the soft glow of the moon filtering through your window.

You can’t help but feel surprised when they bring you back to the palace instead of abandoning you and leaving you half-stark naked on the altar, considering that you did displease them and how their cruelty was punctuated in the way they gave you both pleasure and pain.

Yet, despite the gratification that satisfies your longing lust for them, you are still caught in the dilemma of whether you want to be closer to them or to listen to your rationality and depart from their lives for good. Tears prickle in your eyes, frustrated at the clear dissonance of your heart and mind.

Not long later, you are freshened up. The whiff of your shampoo scent hits you as you march your way around to find them, your eyes hardening when you vividly recall one of them recording the entire obscenity in the church earlier, spurring you into confronting them while a stab of betrayal plunges into your heart.

After long minutes of searching for them, you finally found them across from the arcade room, where they are in the middle of playing billiards. The lighting in the room is aesthetically dim, exuding an air of allure, especially when the entire space is dominated by their tantalising presences.

You ignore the familiar jitters that flutter in your tummy at their distinct, sharp gazes on your figure, while the cold atmosphere feels oppressive, punctuated by the cadence of your rapid heartbeat. Ignoring the jitters, you focus on the resentment that stems from the betrayal, which has deeply stained the mistrust you have developed for them.

“I know you guys recorded and snapped pictures of me earlier.” The coldness of your voice is tinged with utter disbelief while your steely eyes glare at their seemingly neutral demeanour, with the exception of their equally callous gazes. A muscle pulses in your jaw, refusing to back down from their oozing intimidation. “I did not consent to any of it. So please delete them.”

Still, your sensibility has been hoping that they would listen to you since they always do, but the air of nonchalance exuding from their imposing figures shatters that hope, and the cruelty shines through in the way Heeseung smirks.

“We knew that you’d be confronting us about it, but we’re not going to delete them unless you confess to us about why you did what you did.” Heeseung says calmly, leaning his lower back against the pool table with his arms crossed over his chest.

“Oh, so you’re trying to blackmail me? Is this what you’re doing now?” You let out a disbelieving chuckle while you feel as though a knife has slashed your beating heart. “And if I don’t confess? What do you plan on doing with them, then? Posting and spreading those pictures and videos online?” You bombard them with rhetorical questions.

Heeseung narrows his eyes at this, and you notice a flare of protectiveness in his eyes. “No, sweetheart. We would never do any of that, because your body is meant for our eyes only.” He nearly growls out, as if the thought of anyone who dares to get a glimpse of your nudity enrages him.

Nevertheless, you scoff, rolling your eyes as you fold your arms below your chest. “That doesn’t change the fact you guys took them without consent from me!”

“How else are we going to get your undivided attention when all you’ve done is avoid and try to escape from us? Especially after knowing what your mistake was.” Sunghoon counters firmly, his eyebrows arching at you.

“That’s the second time you broke one of our rules, Y/N.” Jay remarks, the austerity he emanates reminds you of his father, to whom the elder managed to leave an impression. “We didn’t expect such behaviour from you.”

“Speaking of behaviour, you’ve become different after going through Heeseung’s computer.” Sunghoon points out. “Clearly, you’ve discovered something that led to your avoidance, princess.” You ignore the way your heart lightly flutters at the endearment.

“And we don’t usually give second chances to anyone’s rebellion, not even you.” Jake’s statement deepens the hurt in your chest, which springs the tears in your waterline, and when you look at him, he seems to regret the words left in his mouth before the steeliness in his eyes melts. He releases a soft sigh, settling on the single couch at the side. “Just tell us the truth─”

“I found out about our parents.” You cut him off sharply, trying your utmost to maintain your composure and not go all hysteric on them. You continue, even when the cold atmosphere feels foreboding. “I saw those pictures of them, and what disgusts me the most is that you kept an old tape of theirs─” You inhale sharply as you turn away from them, unable to continue when the recollection of that God-forsaken tape resurfaces in your mind.

From your peripheral vision, you spot Jay moving towards you rather cautiously. “Baby, we can explain─”

Your eyes are ablaze with anger and hurt as you return your gaze to them, every fibre of your being surging with unbridled tumultuous emotions that you have been keeping at bay. “What is there to explain?! That it’s beneficial for you to keep such sickening content?” You lash out at them, and fuck, you hate it whenever you are caught up in the haze of your anger, tears will always spring up in your eyes.

Jake clenches his jaw, his eyes storming dangerously with pique. “Lovely, if you just allow us to explain─”

You cut him off with a sardonic chuckle, which escapes you as your chin wobbles with sadness that derives from their betrayal. “Oh, I know. Those pictures and videos you took of me, you’re going to keep and jerk off to them just like you do to our parents’ orgy.” You can see it in their countenance—how greatly angered they are by your statements, which they deem false.

“Fucking hell, Y/N. Why would we jerk off to their sex tape when it’s meant for blackmailing our fathers?!” Sunghoon exclaims, his eyes in utter disbelief at your accusation. “Fine, if you want to know why, it’s because we’re going to blackmail our fathers once the time is right.”

“For what? Revenge against them?” You press on the matter, scoffing as you wipe away your tears. “I don’t care about whatever grudge you have against your fathers, but to involve my mother in your revenge scheme? How could you─”

“It’s not in any of your business, Y/N.” Heeseung’s low voice serves as a warning. His callous gaze seems to hurt you more. “You don’t have the right to question what we do.”

“It is when my mother is involved!” You retort angrily before sobbing, as tears are unrelentingly cascading on your cheeks. “If I had known that you were this deplorable, I shouldn’t have given my heart to you in the first place.”

“Baby.” Jay attempts to reach out to you, but you back away from him, shaking your head.

“I can’t do this anymore with all of you, and this time, I mean it when I say that whatever we had, whether I’m just your fuckdoll for you to toy around or whatever, we’re over.” You force your voice to come out strong, and yet you falter with the pain expanding in your tightening chest.

But Heeseung stops you just when you are ready to egress. “Y/N Kang, don’t you dare leave this room without taking back your words or─”

It is as though something so profound snaps within you as you whirl around to glare dementedly into his eyes. “Or what?! You’re going to kill me just like you did to Jinae?!”

This time, your strident exclamation staggers them into a complete silence that is deafening throughout the room, with the exception of your harsh breathing. The look on their faces dispels any lingering doubts about them being Jinae’s murderers, although it is not a telltale sign of guilt but rather something so cryptic as you scrutinise them for another time.

Nevertheless, your resolve remains unwavering, determined to get the entire truth out of them, wanting to listen to their side of the story of what exactly happened three years ago.

“No more hiding anything from me. Tell me the truth.” You demand, and the palpable tremor in your voice punctuates your qualm. Their deafening silence only seems to aggravate you as you clench your fist. “Why did you kill Jinae?”

“It’s been three years since her passing. Why bring it up now?” Jake deftly dodges the question as he looks away from you, his chiselled jaw goes clenching.

“How did you know about her?” Sunghoon asks sternly, his thick eyebrows furrowing at you.

“It doesn’t matter how I know about her, but I know enough that she was your prey, just like I am now. That’s why you guys targeted me in the first place, right?” Your resolve in the way you firmly speak slowly wanes as hurt flickers in your gaze at the dawning realisation. “I’m not anything special to you. I’m just your prey for you to fuck me over until you decide to end my life the same way you did to Jinae if I ever cross any of you, right?”

“Do you really think the worst of us, sweetheart?” Heeseung asks quietly, something that is akin to the hurt reflecting in your eyes glinting in his. “Do you really think that we would ever do anything to jeopardise your precious life?”

His questions hit you like whiplash as you blink away your tears, and a shaky breath leaves your lips, unable to think of anything other than the look in his eyes. Never have you ever seen Heeseung being hurt, especially by you.

Still, you don’t relent, acting upon your ego as you swallow the painful emotional lump in your throat. “Yes.” You answer shakily, looking away from them. “But by all means, you are welcome to prove me wrong. Until then, I don’t want to be around any of you because I no longer trust you.”

Like a bolt of lightning, you depart from the room before any of them can stop you, your hasten steps guiding you back to your room with the intention to pack whatever necessities and head over to your dorm.

You sniffle, wiping the remnants of tears away from your cheeks with the sleeves of your blouse, unaware of your surroundings to even hear heavy footsteps behind you that punctuated his vehemence in preventing you from ebbing away from his reach any longer.

A startled gasp tears from your throat when a hand latches on your wrist to spin you around. Transient confusion fills your muddling head. “Sunghoon─”

Without a word, Sunghoon manoeuvres you swiftly, being quite nonchalant in the way he does as he carries you over his shoulder effortlessly with one arm hooked around your waist for security before he advances forward.

You gasp once more before vexation takes you over, swinging your legs and delivering puny punches to his toned back in defiance. “Park Sunghoon! Put me down!” You squeal just as his palm smacks down on your ass cheek, causing your cheeks to turn rosier while the stinging pain of the impact renders your silence.

Not too long later, Sunghoon pushes open the door to his room and brings you over to his bed before settling down as you stand by the edge of his bed. It seems that he has already predicted your next move, because before you can dash for the door, he grabs your wrist tight and spins you around.

“Park Sunghoon─” You don’t have time to process anything when he yanks you into his chest and silences you with his lips slamming into yours.

The faint taste of cigarettes on his lips pervades your overwhelming senses, and just when you have every intention to push him away, the way he is kissing you dissolves your resistance as you melt against him like butter, reciprocating the kiss with equal fervour while your hands go winding in his hair.

Sunghoon manoeuvres you over his bed without breaking the lip lock. Your back is pressed against the mattress with him hovering over you as he kisses you like he needs air, prompting you to force yourself to pull away from his chasing lips.

The sound of your bated breath mingles with his as you gaze into his dark, penetrating eyes that swirl with unfathomable emotions. His hair is just as tousled as yours, tempting you to skim your fingers through his soft locks once more.

Before you can speak, he silences you again, capturing your lips in a kiss that is a reflection of the depths of his feelings for you while the fluttering butterflies remain in their wake.

“Sunghoon,” You manage to utter in between the kisses, your hands latching on his nape. You gasp when he gently nips at your bottom lip before placing a chaste kiss at the corner of your lips. “Sunghoon, wait─”

“Don’t leave, princess.” Sunghoon’s desperation is accentuated by the uncharacteristic softness of his deep voice, which throws you off guard, his lips ghosting yours and pressing a deep, tender kiss on your lips while his arm slithers beneath your back, hugging you close to him with a longing sense of raw intimacy.

You gasp for air as soon as he pulls away, and when your eyes flutter open, your breath hitches at the glinting vulnerability in his eyes. You swallow harshly, looking away from him. “You can’t change my mind, Hoon.”

“Please, I─” Sunghoon dips his head into the hollow of your neck, mapping his kisses on your skin, each a testament to his desperation and affection reserved for you and only you. You hear him whimpering, or maybe you heard wrong, but you swear something stirs in your fluttery heart. “I can’t bear the thought of you leaving for good. I need you, princess.”

“You don’t need me. You never had.” You whisper, choking back a sob as you are overwhelmed by emotions. Your feeble attempt at pushing him away ceases, and you surrender yourself to his addictive kisses on your neck.

“Just don’t leave.” He remains adamant as he murmurs against your neck before trailing his kisses upward and reclaiming your lips in a searing kiss. “Let me fix this, yeah?” He rasps hotly against your lips before forcing his tongue into your mouth, exploring every inch and dancing in an intimate tango with your tongue, eliciting a breathy moan from you.

His kisses and his touch feel like a scorching brand all over you, enticing you to succumb to his overpowering allure. Finally caving into what your yearning heart desires, you slowly wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him close to you and deepening the fervent passion in the exchange of your kisses.

Maybe it won’t hurt you to indulge your heart, but you know that, at the end of the day, you need to put some distance between you and them for the sake of your sanity.

Losing track of time since the moment you made out with him, Sunghoon now basks in the warmth of your arms in silence, his head comfortably on your chest while his cheek is pressed against the plumpness of your boob with his arms around your waist, never letting go of you. Your fingers gently treading through his soft locks lull him to sleep, and having fallen for your deception, he allows himself to drift into the realm of sleep.

But Sunghoon is roused awake by the missing warmth of your body and your scent, which he has grown addicted to. Sitting up on his bed, he ruffles his tousled hair in frustration, silently cussing himself out for falling deep asleep, as evident in the soft glow of the moon filtering through his room.

Just as he has every intention to go to your room, his door pushes open, revealing Jay. Sunghoon’s frown deepens upon seeing the sombre casting a shadow on his best friend’s countenance.

“Don’t bother. She left the palace a few hours ago.” Jay tells Sunghoon in a grave tone as he leans sideways against the doorframe. A muscle pulses in his jaw. “As much as I oppose the idea, maybe it’s better if we give her some space to think.”

“What if we lose her for good?” Sunghoon voices out his worst nightmare while his eyes harden. “We can’t lose her. There's no way in hell I’m about to let that happen.”

Jay opens his mouth to speak, but footsteps approach from behind him, prompting the two of them to look at Sunoo, whose face is adorned with a mischievous smirk while Riki’s countenance remains ever so stony.

“We have good news.” Sunoo informs them in a cheery manner, totally ignoring the grimaces on Sunghoon and Jay’s faces at his bright demeanour.

“Yeah? Unless it’s Y/N coming back, then fuck off.” Sunghoon shoots him a scowl, earning him a pout from the latter.

“Well, if you don’t want to know the identity of Y/N’s anonymous texter,...” Sunoo drawls out, smirking as he sees the obvious shifts in their demeanour. “Oh, yeah, we finally cracked the code. But before we tell you who, Heeseung and Jake are waiting for the both of you in Heeseung’s office.”

“Just tell us who the fucker is, damn it.” Jay says impatiently. “Is it any of the guys on our suspected list?”

Sunoo and Riki exchange glances. Riki releases a sigh before finally revealing, “It’s─”

In the solitude of his room, Jake remains stagnant on the edge of the bed, only adorned in his pants as he had come out of the shower moments prior before this. His hands clutch his head that is throbbing with a raging tempest of emotions he seeks to quell, but it only intensifies at the agonising thought of you and the stark clarity in your resolve despite how defeated you sounded at the end.

A muscle pulses in his jaw while his eyes harden as he represses those emotions from being potent that could manifest themselves in the tangible form of his rage. He knows better, because the last time he unleashed that rage, his best friends had to subdue him with all of their might amid the rampageous chaos.

Despite the inclination towards brutality that stemmed from his depravity, Jake was never the type to exhibit such violence unless it was in a suitable situation, and he had never been vigorously hot-tempered until your departure happened. 

It was as if he and Jay had swapped temperament, as he is now the most volatile out of them. No longer was he the most amiable and laid-back one in the group, as he had become someone whose unbridled rage courses through his veins. Even his best friends could never fully conquer it, and Jake knew this.

The only person who can tame his rage is you, and only you alone, as it was your departure that changed him for the worse. He knew that he could never blame you for the change in him, only having himself to blame for his lack of self-control over his emotions. He recalls the times he had taken you for granted, most especially in the beginning. Oh, he truly and so desperately wants to atone for his past sins towards you.

But then, your words struck him deeply, as did the way you looked at him with an unfamiliar coldness that made his skin crawl four days ago ─ four long fucking days that only exacerbated his misery, to which he feels the incessant impatience that vehemently impels him to get you back in his arms, even if it means that your hatred for him grows.

Jake gets sidetracked from his rumination when he hears the animated bustle from the outside ─ most probably his best friends will be taking their leave to go to work, just as he should be as well, but in this condition, he doesn’t have the mental capacity to do anything except to run back into your inviting arms he dreamed of every night.

Jake is more than aware that he should not be neglecting his responsibilities to further dwell in this misery of his yearning for you, especially when his best friend can easily terminate his employment for his lack of competency in his role as a professional cybersecurity, owing to his cyber prowess that also enables him to manipulate and hack devices and data for his pernicious pursuits.

Back in Seoul, Jake landed the same profession as he does in the present, with the exception that he worked for his father’s company despite his resentment and hatred for his father, but he merely did it for the sake of distracting himself from the pain and retaining whatever remnant of sanity he had left.

Even when his days were painted blue and grey in Seoul, Jake genuinely enjoyed his profession, seeking miniscule contentment in the days he worked tirelessly with the intention to tire his mind that was always thinking about you, but at the end of the day, you managed to weave through the labyrinth of his mind.

Your face, your eyes, your scent, your smile, your laughter ─ everything about you occupies his mind unabatingly. Sure, it could be just pure obsession, but he knows that it is beyond obsession, and not even the love he has for his profession can outweigh the love his heart harbours for you.

Throughout the blues and greys of his days after learning of your departure, Jake shut out everyone for almost an entire month, and his parents were no exception. He became foreignly callous, painfully detached from everything. He was preoccupied battling with the onslaught of devastation that racked through his body.

Although he became volatile with his uncurbed emotions, he was also the most emotional. Out of the four of them, Jake was the only one who couldn’t care less about staining his tough guy image and has shed tears the most even in front of them, especially on most of his sleepless nights. Sometimes his best friends would take initiatives to check on him and found him in rivulets of tears as he called for your name weakly in his sleep while hugging his bolster tight as though it were you he was hugging instead.

Having already suffered with abandonment issues, your departure wounded him so deeply that not even his old therapist could help in pulling him out of the dark abyss he chose to spiral into. At times, he wished to rip his heart out of his chest as he couldn’t handle the palpable yearning that felt intensifying as days passed.

Jake wanted you. He wanted to be consumed by your everything. He wanted to drown in the thought of you and the memories he had with you. You were the only person who could make him become good, and what he thought was impossible happened when he found himself praying to God that you would return to him one day. You made him become religious when he should be worshipping at your altar instead, because you were and still are his salvation.

You are his Goddess. His to worship, his to provide for, and his to love until the end of time. Love was a sacred sentiment he thought was illogical until you happened. You, who have made him embrace love, which he never wants to let go of, most especially you.

Just like that, fear strikes him at the thought of you, prompting him to abandon his bed to head for his closet, browsing through the ironed blouses he had meticulously arranged and hung in the wardrobe before grabbing the black blouse. He deftly buttons up the blouse and rolls up his sleeves, busily grooming himself to look at least presentable before he hastily grabs his necessities and exits his room in a hurry.

Jake has some fears, but the thought of losing you again where you would be beyond his reach once more completely terrifies him that he can feel it twisting in his guts. Fuck it that you might hate him once he shows up. He would rather die trying to earn your forgiveness and for you to love him than to never try at all.

“Where are you going?” Heeseung’s query draws his attention briefly as he wears his shoes in a haphazard manner. It looks like Heeseung is working from home, judging by the meticulous setup of his laptop and other working necessities on the table in the living room, whereas Sunghoon and Jay are decked out in formal attire, preparing to head to work.

Jake presses his lips thinly together. It astounds yet infuriates him how they seem indifferent and have yet to talk about what happened after you pleaded for them to leave. Now he feels relieved that he will be initiating the first step instead of them.