curse each other, then.

Of the two people who knew about his Tilt, you were the more sensible choice to share his little accomplishment with. You would continue to keep the secret if you cherished your life. Hyunjin knew that, and selfishly so, he found that he was willing to take advantage of that fact.

He only wanted to share the overflowing elation that suffocated his heart yet freed his soul, and see it reflected in someone else’s face. He wanted to see that wonder fill your eyes again, drink in the sight to forget the silent guilt creeping over him.

So, he blurted, “Wait!”

You froze, and Hyunjin noticed the momentary clench of your fists before you turned around. “Is there something I can help you with, Sōrsānt?”

Your formality was funny, especially when Hyunjin recalled the way you recklessly accused him of being a liar while restraining him against the ground and aiming his Kizāri at his neck. It was as though the fight brought out a different side of you, one you concealed perfectly outside the square of sand.

You were a fool, but perhaps Hyunjin was the greater fool for letting you be.

“I want to show you something,” the words felt like coarse dirt in his mouth, but he managed to utter them, nonetheless. One timid step forward.

You hadn’t expected his response, mumbling a faint ‘Oh’ as your eyebrows lifted in surprise before you could think better of it.

Hyunjin, however, didn’t anticipate a proper answer from you. He knelt and pressed a palm against the sand with the hopes of you stepping closer without him explaining too much.

He practiced this throughout the night until he found himself slouched asleep against his desk, in a miniature bed of flowers. Luckily, no one had spotted him in that state, and he quickly discarded his flimsy creations.

Now, Hyunjin mimicked his previous efforts. He reached for his magic and pulled at it, stiff from years of disuse yet there, nevertheless. The action was so mentally taxing it felt like he was running for his life despite not moving, but he dragged himself through, willing the magic to gather at his fingertips and manifest into a flower in the sand.

Cold washed over him, prickling and addicting, followed by the tickle of petals against his palm. He was getting better at cultivation.

Hyunjin suppressed a smile when he pulled his hand away and a single plain-looking flower smiled back up at him. Standing on a weak stem with thin, pale petals and a center that was duller than it should be, the result wasn’t nearly as perfect as his mishaps, but it was something.

Something that Hyunjin was proud of.

Muted footsteps caught his attention, and he glanced up to see you walking toward him carefully. You set your Kizāri on the ground to crouch in front of the frail blossom, and he couldn’t help but follow the tides of your expression with the utmost attentiveness. As if he’d find a crack in your aloof guise.

Seconds stretched like hours until you finally spoke, “It’s beautiful.”

Hyunjin loosened an anxious breath. He was suddenly so exhilarated he wanted to laugh. He wanted to throw himself back on the sand and drown in the sun’s warm embrace. Thoughts that materialized into words spilled past his lips in a rushed whisper instead, earnest, “I can control some of it now.”

Your gaze flicked up to meet his, and there it was.

Wonder.

Not pity. Not scorn. But breathtaking wonder that struck him with such an earth-shattering force he didn’t realize he’d been seeking it so fervently all this time.

You didn’t say anything, and Hyunjin supposed he should’ve been ashamed. After getting so irritated with you for handing him the book and threatening you into silence about his magic, he went ahead and did the opposite of everything rational. He attempted to learn using his magic, succeeded, and even showed you.

But all Hyunjin felt was kind relief, like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. For at that moment, on the chalky sand, under the gracious sun, and hidden from the unforgiving world, this became a secret that the two of you shared. A heavy tapestry woven with bitter understanding and a strange form of trust that draped over the both of you.

Eventually, you hummed in acknowledgment, looking down at the flower and then asking, “Is this all?”

You were doing the right thing by ending the interaction, but Hyunjin still felt a twinge of hurt at your quickly returned indifference. The truth was that there was no place for his excitement in the world you lived in, and his few moments of happiness ended with that abrupt reminder.

He cleared his throat. On the rack of Azāri equipment was the leather-bound book that he wanted to return, but it was long forgotten. “Yes. You’re free to go now.”

You waited, as though weighing his answer, before unfolding from your crouch and picking up your Kizāri. With one last glimpse at the flower, you turned on your heel and resumed your leave like nothing had happened.

For a minute or two, Hyunjin stayed there, staring stupidly at the door you left through. He didn’t know what to make of your exchange, and he didn’t dwell on it further. All that mattered was the memory of the awe in your eyes, sincere, real enough to touch, and he cradled that image in this mind as he carried on with his slow day.

•❃•

Chapter Two: Understanding Flowering.

After the user has achieved basic cultivation, the following step is to refine and advance their creation abilities. It is imperative for Flowering Tilts to delve into the field of Botany, specifically in regard to flowers and flowering plants. Understanding the structure and functionality of the end product helps the wielder achieve the desired result. In this chapter and the following chapters, we will study the following aspects of interest to a Flowering Tilt: roots, stem and leaves, petals, and disk and reproductive systems—

A yawn interrupted Hyunjin’s reading. It seemed that he had reached his limit of staying up.

He shut the book, carrying it with him over to his bed where he stuffed it in its hiding place underneath his mattress and then fell on the silken covers. His long nights felt shorter when he had something to do, and sleep always approached him before he’d had enough reading.

Now that Hyunjin knew how to find and use his Heart of Magic, he wanted to learn more. His flowers were dull and sickly, nothing like the exquisite creations that slipped through his fingers in fear or in rage. It was greed hazing his thoughts, a vast and intoxicating desire. The wishes of a frightened six-year-old finally gaining a voice.

Yet another promise to himself broken.

A promise to yourself or to your mother?

Hyunjin didn’t want to answer that thought. He’d felt happier than he could ever recall when he succeeded in summoning his magic, even though it was something that would’ve angered his mother. So who was he addressing when he promised to return the book after a brief read?

If that book’s knowledge brought light into his bleak world, why should he want to rid of it?

There was an answer to that somewhere, locked away deep within his soul and guarded by messy, bittersweet memories that Hyunjin wasn’t yet prepared to untangle.

•❃•

Iron screeched against iron as your Kizāri clashed with Hyunjin’s. The two of you were the only viciously active beings at such an early hour of the day. You were sure that if you squinted at the sky enough, you would notice the sun’s frown for having been awakened by your sparring.

You spun, directing your Kizāri away and around to aim at Hyunjin’s legs instead. He foresaw your actions and leaped backward, arcing his weapon down to meet yours. If he succeeded, then he may be able to trap you.

You weren’t willing to give him the chance.

Flicking your wrist upward, you swung your Kizāri at his with increased force. It won’t disarm him, but it would divert his aim and switch your position in that second from defense to offense. And it was always better to be the one on the offense.

Clang! and Hyunjin’s weapon was sent arcing away, his attack foiled. Any average Azārāhi would’ve lost their grip on their Kizāri after such an assault, but the Sōrsānt was anything but average.

The sheer strength of your training partner was evident in the way he maintained his hold and redirected his Kizāri’s path to pierce the ground. He halted its hurtling all while righting his footing with immaculate grace. It was impressive, you’d hand that to him.

The sand in the air had barely settled before you unleashed another attack and Hyunjin reciprocated. You took turns parrying and ducking and jumping around the square, destroying the circular indentations on its surface and creating newer ones with the movements of your weapons. Like the masterful strokes of a painter’s brush.

It was easy to let yourself get dragged by your Kizāri. The heaviness of the weapon’s head, paired with the way it was wielded, resulted in a tremendous force that was enough to knock its user off their feet. As such, Azārāhis were trained to become the unmovable center and source of the torque. Taught to control the force and understand its nature in order to utilize it at its highest output. It was ingrained into your muscles and mind like a primal instinct.

When you swung your Kizāri wide, you expected Hyunjin to counter with a similarly large move. Instead, he chose to tread closer and direct his Kizāri up in a pointed attack, turning this into a close-quarters spar and safely leaving the range of your Kizāri. In less than a second, he had put you in the worst situation imaginable.

It felt like time had slowed down. Your weapon was out of range, leaving you defenseless and open for attack. You couldn’t move or dodge, not without abandoning your Kizāri. Abandoning your Kizāri meant disarming yourself, and once the weapon hit the ground, you would lose.

An embarrassing loss.

You weren’t such a coward to disgrace yourself like that, but you weren’t willing to let Hyunjin best you so easily either.

A wild idea crossed your mind at that desperate moment. You were the center of the torque. Your Kizāri swiveled around you. If so, then—

You let the handle of your Kizāri slip out of your grip and swept low to evade the silvered blur coming for your neck. With a pivot in a direction you loosely guessed, you stretched your arm out, barely touching the smooth handle of your flying Kizāri before you clasped it fully.

You reclaimed the upper hand.

If so, then you could vaguely trace the path the weapon would take if you let go.

Your Kizāri swung at Hyunjin again and he blocked your attack with ease.

“That was good,” his remark cut through the tension of the fight, and you scowled. What the hell?

You decided to remain quiet, but it seemed to urge him on. “Letting go of your weapon is a risk. People don’t use their Kizāris like that often.”

The Sōrsānt seemed to make a hobby out of confusing you each passing day. He was hostile sometimes and once threatened you into keeping his secret. Then came mornings like this, where he pretended to indulge you like one would a proper training partner.

The two of you would never have that kind of relationship, yet he rambled on, “I knew one person who used the Kizāri as more than a blade. He would propel himself into the air with it, much like a catapult. Though I suppose his Tilt might’ve aided him.”

He tilted his head at you, as though expecting you to add to his one-sided conversation. Curious, calculative eyes, but there was a strange expression of mourning ghosting his features. As if his words grazed a wound he didn’t realize wasn’t fully healed yet.

Your scowl deepened.

When your last practice session had ended, he'd said he wanted to show you something and you hadn’t turn him down. Realistically, you couldn’t, but part of you argued that you did it for the vulnerability cowering behind his tone. Not typical command, but like that of a hesitant, excited child.

Then he made a flower bloom in the sand, frail and pale, and you couldn’t help but compliment it. It only felt right to do so. Though that was all you’d said.

Did he think that exchange made you friends?

You lessened the force holding your Kizāri against his and narrowed your eyes. “If you think that—”

A dangerous grin split his features and he pushed against your weakened Kizāri before swinging at you with full force, barely giving you time to process his actions. “We haven’t drawn new half-moons yet. Don’t you dare let your guard down!”

Damn bastard. You gritted your teeth as you brought your Kizāri up to deflect his blow, narrowly avoiding a serious injury.

What’s with him today?

You put some distance between the two of you, and he seemed to be amused. Twirling his Kizāri in his hand, Hyunjin shrugged. “See? I have dirty tricks of my own too.”

A dumbfounded blink. 

Was all that talking just a trick? Infuriating shame prickled over you before bursting into a fierce inferno. You would play his game if he wanted.

“Talkative today, huh, Sōrsānt?” you brandished your Kizāri, prepared to counter any sudden attacks. The timid breeze chose to kiss his cheeks then, meddling with the dark wisps of hair framing his face. Unkempt, yet eerily perfect.

That curiosity glinted in his eyes again, and he regarded you as if he were weighing an idea in his mind. Perhaps deciding to spare you a witty response, he trailed a new half-circle in the sand around him instead. An invite to another round.

You relented, drawing out your Kizāri for a start-over.

As your Kizāris flashed in the sun’s disgruntled glare, you ignored the murmuring voice in your head. Hate him all you wanted, sparring with Hyunjin was its own twisted form of fun.

And you were beginning to enjoy it.

•❃•

Hyunjin set his quill down, turning his attention to the sickly flower whose roots he had severed to examine.

Studying wasn’t something he shied from. Growing up, his time was split between Azāri practice and long lectures covering subjects that ranged from mathematics to politics. All to shape him into the perfect heir for House Amaranthine.

He became adept at dissecting the text and annotating pages upon pages of information on his own. If he were to have a tutor alongside him, it would only be a waste of that scholar’s time. Hyunjin never thought that he would be thankful for such a skill, yet there he was, tirelessly trudging through the night with his worn-out quill in hand.

Hybrid Types were more technical than the Old Disciplines. In order to wield his magic in a way that mattered, Hyunjin had to study flowering plants thoroughly. As he learned from the book, his Tilt worked by mimicking the ideal environmental conditions for the desired product; manipulating earth, water, and sunlight. To do that, he had to pick and choose the traits he wanted for his creations and determine the correct conditions for said traits to grow. That was why he needed an arsenal of knowledge to refer to.

With enough practice, the process would boil down to simply imagining the flower he wanted and manifesting it. Everything else would become second nature, much like speaking and breathing.

Hyunjin peered at the tangle of thin roots he held between his fingers, checking for the signs mentioned on the page in front of him. The light of the lone candle he had lit swayed with the calm breeze that came through his open window.

“Too dry…” he muttered as a conclusion, putting the roots back and returning to the leather-bound book. They weren’t dead, he could determine that much, but the roots weren’t nearly as succulent as they had to be.

Hyunjin’s palm settled over the small mound of sand on his desk, now surrounded by imperfect blossoms, and tried again. Healthy roots this time, he willed the thought into his magic as he directed it out of his fingers. Just give them a little bit more water.

The flower that sprung in the sand was identical to the tens before it, but what mattered to Hyunjin was the state of its roots.

He pulled them out, running his thumb across the web that provided the plant with life. To any other eye, they would’ve appeared to be the same as before, but Hyunjin saw the minuscule difference. He felt it.

These roots were healthier, albeit slightly.

He dropped the flower beside its sisters and picked his quill back up, dipping it in ink before scribbling his observations at the foot of the page. Hyunjin knew that he was still far from perfecting his creations, but he was slowly getting better at his magic, and that was enough to stoke his newly kindled fire.

•❃•

Hyunjin made his way out of the cellar with an armful of firewood for his burner. He was sorely out of place, it was obvious in the wary glances that passing palace staff threw his way, but he couldn’t risk ordering a servant to run the errand for him instead. He was yet to dispose of all his blooming creations.

All the palace’s overground grandeur was a product of the work being done in the underground chambers. Food and resources were stored underground, alongside rooms for laundry, tailoring, and tapestrying. It was also where low-ranking staff found their sleeping quarters.

Though, beneath the bustle of workers, the underground chambers served darker purposes.

Hyunjin’s steps faltered by a door wide open in a secluded area of the tunnels. No staff were in sight. He must’ve wandered there accidentally while trying to avoid drawing attention to himself.

The room was scarcely lit and barely a quarter the size of his bedchamber. Inside, three guards dragged a bound, blindfolded, and bruised man across a square of dark stone where an Azārāhi stood waiting, Kizāri gleaming in the lamplight. A human girl, Hyunjin noted before his gaze strayed to the side and his eyes widened in surprise.

The Ērmār was watching them, draped in shadow beside a figure he couldn’t identify in the darkness.

The guards kicked the man to his knees, and he succumbed to gravity like a rag doll. A whimper left his bloodied lips, dying in the grim walls of the room. Unease trickled into Hyunjin’s heart at the sight. He should leave, he knew, but his feet were frozen in place, his eyes fixed on the scene before him.

The guards had barely loosened their hold on the man when the Azārāhi unsheathed her Kizāri, a familiar swiftness to the motion, and raised it high. Before Hyunjin could realize what was happening, she brought it down in one great swoop, slicing through the man’s exposed neck unhesitatingly.

Any sound he would’ve made was suffocated by the scream of wind.

Blood smattered the ground, a crimson crescent around the Azārāhi.

The man’s head rolled on the stone.

Too late did Hyunjin realize the room he’d stumbled upon. His hand flew to his mouth, physically suppressing a gasp as his gaze snapped to the ground underneath him. That was an executioner’s square. He had just witnessed an execution.

Breath stilled in his lungs like invisible pebbles that obstructed his airways. Death’s grisly fingers ran across his spine, crooked nails leaving their unwanted marks on his skin. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t blink. His horror was a bottomless pit that suddenly revealed itself under him, and he was falling, hurtling, with nothing to stop him.

The sound of muted steps cut through the haze of his panic, followed by the Ērmār’s taut voice. “Sapphirine are becoming foolish.”

Hyunjin’s ears perked at her statement, both intrigued and chilled. What had conspired between the two houses that he didn’t know of?

“To even think of assassinating a head of one of our branch houses… They call for a war they cannot win,” she spat, then, after a beat of tense silence, she said, “Leave us.”

Hyunjin dared to raise his gaze then, just in time to see the Azārāhi sheath her bloodied weapon and turn around.

Your gaze slammed into him like a boulder.

No… The thought wriggled in his mind uncomfortably, bitter and broken with disbelief. What is she doing here? Why—

Your expression was blank, as if you weren’t in that dim room but some foreign entity had inhibited your body instead. Even though you were looking at him, it felt as though you were staring at something far ahead of you. Something that wasn’t quite there.

The firewood in Hyunjin’s arm felt heavy and weightless all at once. He wanted to crumble and disappear. He wanted to run and outrun the sight that burned itself into his memory.

You killed a man — he saw you do it — and you seemed to care not.

•❃•

It was the dead of the night. He shouldn’t have been there. Yet, by all the forces of fate, you saw the Sōrsānt standing outside that wretched room, blanching with naive shock.

It angered you to an unfathomable degree. How could he dare to wear such an expression of disappointment? He had no right to be betrayed by what unfolded in that room, so why did he stare at you like he was?

You halted at the double doors of his training court, taking a deep breath to steady your emotions before pushing the lacquered wood open. Whatever you had to do and whatever you saw the previous night didn’t matter now. “Good morning, Sōrsānt.”

Hyunjin was standing in the middle of the square, his back given to you as you walked in. As usual, your greeting went unanswered.

Though, what made you furrow your brows was his complete indifference to your arrival. Were you supposed to ask him to turn around and take his position?

“I didn’t know you were an executioner.”

You paused, one step into the square of sand, and snapped your head up in surprise. What?

The Sōrsānt whirled around. That was when you noticed the fists he made at his sides. His eyes seemed haunted when he croaked out, “Why?”

“Oh, no, no, no,” you scowled, your earlier attempt at pacifying your anger going in vain. “You can’t pretend to be hurt by what you saw last night, Sōrsānt.”

“Pretend? You—” his expression fell, and he gazed at you as if he were searching for an answer in your countenance. “You killed him…”

“So?” you pressed, not bothering to hide your annoyance. He really was a fool. And like a fool, he had no response to give you.

“Unlike you,” you jabbed a finger his way, “I don’t have the freedom to deny orders.”

At that, his expression shattered further. “You were…ordered to kill him?”

“Nilfyn don’t dirty their hands with such grim deeds.” you nearly laughed. Was he acting oblivious for the fun of it?

“But I thought—”

“What did you think, Sōrsānt?” you reached for your Kizāri instinctively, the challenge clear in your tone. Hyunjin didn’t miss the action. His towering figure stiffened as his eyes followed your hand warily.

Again, he gave you no response, and the coiled fury in your heart snapped. Sand rose with the movement as you wrenched out your Kizāri and swung it at him, a pale uproar.

The Sōrsānt parried your blow, his Kizāri drawn impossibly fast. You bit back a snarl as you arced your weapon back then at him repeatedly, blood running hot with anger and grief and so many muddled emotions you couldn’t place. How did you always find yourself in this situation? Was fighting the only way either of you knew how to deal with frustration?

You leaped out of Hyunjin’s reach, pointing your Kizāri downwards to catch your breath and clear the fuzz in your mind. You couldn’t fight that way unless you wanted to do something you’d regret later.

Hyunjin didn’t make a move to attack, simply choosing to watch you from his side of the sand square, poised for defense if need be.

“Do you think I wanted to kill him?” you asked through gasps of breath, not anticipating an answer. “I don’t have a choice, Sōrsānt. This is what I have to do to remain the so-called best human Azārāhi.”

You pointed your Kizāri at him. “Surely you know that it is a way to test my loyalty. Having me execute other humans—it’s a warning. What would become of me were I to betray the House.”

Your Kizāris clashed again when you ran up to him, not giving him the time to answer. You wanted to shout all the thoughts that had kept you up at night. The truth was that you were afraid of so much. Every day felt like a battle in a never-ending war. You strove to win, even though you knew that you would be defeated in the end regardless of your efforts. Such was the kind of life you led.

“Do you think it doesn’t hurt me?” the words escaped before you could stop them. Half a sob, half a shout, as though Hyunjin would understand the anguish that tore at your conscience.

For some reason, you knew he would.

You aimed your Kizāri at Hyunjin’s with all the might in your muscles, and the weapon tumbled out of his grasp, landing on the sand with a disgraced thump.

There, you thought in delirious triumph. You won.

Your Kizāri was cutting through the air again, fueled by the rage still pumping in your veins, but it never made contact with your target. At least, not in the way you unwisely intended.

Hyunjin was gripping part of the Kizāri’s long handle, impeding its fierce arc of motion. The deadly edges of your weapon were mere inches away from his face, but he seemed nonchalant about it, much to your annoyance.

You didn’t bother trying to wrest your Kizāri from his hand.

“I hate you.”

Hyunjin blinked, both taken aback and amused by your abrupt declaration of distaste.

You didn’t allow his demeanor to faze you, soldiering on with a sentiment that, by all logic, you shouldn’t share with him. “You know why? You have power and respect and a voice you choose not to use. You pretend to be weak when you’re not.

“But no matter how much I try, I will always be considered weak and disposable. No matter how much I train, how many necks I have to cut through, I’ll never be more than an inadequate human.

“That’s why I hate you, Sōrsānt. You anger me more than words can express,” you finished with gritted teeth. Your weapon may have been immobilized, but you hurled every word at him like a spear. You hoped it hurt.

When he maintained his silence, you sighed. You had done too much to be considered appropriate. “Why haven’t you thrown me in the dungeons yet?”

You were speaking anything that came to your mind at that moment. You were being careless, and it was almost liberating. “For all the disrespect I’ve shown you, I’m still standing. Why do you keep me here? What is it that you and the Ērmār want from me?”

“I didn’t choose this arrangement. I told you that before,” he finally spoke, and it struck a match in your turbulent temper.

“I remember,” you remarked drily, then tugged at your Kizāri. “Let go.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

The weapon stood between the two of you uselessly. The Sōrsānt’s eyes were studying you again. “Do you want to be thrown into the dungeons?”

A huff. “Of course not.”

“Then why do you ask?”

“Because it’s what other Nilfyn would have done in your place. I just— I don’t understand.”

You thought you saw Hyunjin’s gaze soften before he averted it almost shamefully. “I’m not sure you will understand even if I did explain it.”

“See for yourself then,” you pressed. “Tell me why.”

Hyunjin shook his head, though it wasn’t a sign of refusal. “Remember our first spar? I should’ve killed you then, you knew it too. But I didn’t. I couldn’t.”

It wasn’t the fondest of your memories, and it was clear that it wasn’t Hyunjin’s either. He shrugged, continuing, “I thought that we could…understand each other because of that. You didn’t scorn my magic either so I thought—” the words caught in his throat, as though he suddenly realized that they shouldn’t be uttered.

“You thought…?” you prompted. The Sōrsānt spoke as though he had a lot to say but never knew the right words. As though he were testing the flavor speech, unsure of whether he liked it or not.

He exhaled, looking up at the young morning sky before bringing his gaze back to the ground, almost glumly.

It was the barest whisper.

“I thought we could be friends.”

And for the second time that day, you found yourself exclaiming inwardly, what?!

“Friends?” you asked incredulously, not knowing whether to be angered or not. “You want us to be friends?”

“I only thought…” he mumbled. Only later did you realize that he was embarrassed by his statement.

Your hold on your Kizāri loosened, and Hyunjin took that opportunity to ease it from your fingers and drop it. You let him. There was no fight left in you, anyway. Everything around you was unfair, and you were so tired of it all; the Ērmār, the palace, the training. It was so easy for Hyunjin to think of such a preposterous idea.

You steeled your shoulders. “We can’t. We can’t be friends.”

“I know,” he admitted. It was the most vulnerable you’d ever seen him. Downcast eyes and shoulders that sagged and lost their prideful edge. There was mute protest in the slight part of his lips, helplessness in the clench of his fists.

This was unlike the discussion of his magic and his status. This was a breach of age-old customs and a defiance of the Ērmār’s rules.

“You accused me of pretending to be weak but in all honesty, I don’t want to be the strongest,” he looked at you, not searching but finding this time. The silver of understanding that began to shine through the mess of your thoughts.

“What do you want then, if not that?”

“I don’t know. But I don’t want to hurt anybody, human or Nilfyn. I thought you were like me in that prospect. That’s why…” Hyunjin’s words weren’t unkind, but you still felt a twinge of bitterness.

“I am nothing like you.”

“Yes, I know that now,” he acknowledged dejectedly. “I apologize.”

You raised a brow. “For what?”

“For angering you with my disposition,” he said, oblivious to how ridiculous he sounded, then tilted his head at the sky. He squinted at the sun before dragging his gaze back to you curiously. “You’re trembling.”

“What? No—” but his remark wasn’t false. Somehow, you hadn’t noticed the slight shaking of your hands.

It wasn’t a product of the weather, for the sun was beaming down on you generously, but an amalgamation of the dissonant emotions running rampant in your heart. The fear that always lined your thoughts. The sadness that followed your executions. The anger that never left you. And finally, unfamiliar relief, as if your earlier outburst was something you’d needed for long but never realized it.

“Listen,” you sighed, electing to ignore your trembling, “we can’t be friends.”

Hyunjin’s mouth flattened into a grim line, and he was about to say something when you interrupted him. “But,” you crouched, picking up the Kizāri you neglected off the ground. Perhaps you would regret your words in the future, but it felt right when you drew a half-moon in the sand, “we can be civil.”

The Sōrsānt’s lips curled in what you assumed was a novice imitation of a smile. “I’d be glad, then.”

•❃•

The reflection on the water stared back at Hyunjin, still and lost somewhere in thought. The words you had uttered yesterday repeated in his mind endlessly. We can be civil.

Truthfully, Hyunjin didn’t know what being friends entirely entailed, let alone what you meant by being civil. It had been thirteen years since the last friends he’d had. It felt foolish to be happy about something he barely understood.

And yet, a small part of him found unabashed joy in the matter.

What could he do to become your friend? What duties must he fulfill to become what you dubbed as ‘civil’?

He stared at the silver goblet of water in his hand, then glanced at the waterskin you chugged water from ungracefully. Surely that leather pouch could not keep the liquid cool under the blazing sun. Should he offer you a drink from the palace’s cooling water channels? Would that be the civil form of kindness you expected of him?

Hyunjin’s free hand found its way to his ear and he subconsciously fiddled with his piercings.

“Sōrsānt?”

He let go as though his ear had scalded him.

It was a bad habit he’d developed after his father’s passing, fidgeting with his many hooped earrings whenever he found himself confused or nervous. His mother would lash his hand with a stick whenever she noticed him do it. He’d long since buried the habit, but it would still appear unexpectedly at times he was unguarded.

Somehow, he’d been so lost in thought that he mistook your voice for that of the Ērmār reprimanding him.

Hyunjin turned his head to acknowledge your call. Sitting cross-legged on the outer edge of the sand square, you appeared somewhat hesitant when you asked, “Can I ask you a question?”

“Yes.”

“I noticed that you have more piercings than other Nilfyn Azārāhis… Why is that?”

Hyunjin felt his ears burn. You must’ve noticed his earrings when he childishly fiddled with them. He fathomed no reason for his current embarrassment by your attention, for you were always poking your nose into subjects that did not concern you.

He took a sip from his goblet. Perhaps this was what you meant by being civil. “The number of Channeling Cores indicates one’s societal ranking.

“First is the royal family. They are marked by the eight diamond Cores.” he ran a finger across the edge of the cup. “Then, seven Cores for those of inner circle aristocratic birth and six for those of outer circle aristocratic birth.

“The commonfolk are given one violet Core upon birth. Low-rank soldiers are given an additional black Core. Then, depending on one’s merits and achievements in society, they may advance to five Cores.”

Nilfyn society was deeply hierarchal. Each newborn Nilfyn was granted a number of piercings according to their rank at birth through the Royal Channeling Core Bureau.

“By that logic, I outrank the Ērmār. Not that it has ever mattered,” Hyunjin scoffed, but before he could let you dwell on his statement long, he added, “Those Azārāhis you mentioned are likely of rank two. Three, if they are squad commanders, but not higher.”

You stayed quiet, and for a moment, he was worried you’d realized what a mistake it was to speak to him. By society’s rules, Hyunjin was only second to the royal family, while you, a mere human who shouldn’t even be in his presence.

That thought made him uncomfortable in a way he’d never experienced before.

“Does the number of Cores affect your magic’s strength?”

Hyunjin relaxed. It appeared you were only processing the new information, not regretting your choice to ‘be civil’. “No. It does not.”

You hummed in acknowledgment then stood, brushed the sand off your trousers, and bowed. “It seems that I have been impertinent with my actions, Sōrsānt.”

Hyunjin stilled, but when you rose, he caught the ghost of a smile on your lips.

Oh.

He emptied his goblet and set it down. Of course, you wouldn’t now be fazed by his status, not when you’d been so brazen as to insult him before. “You have. How do you plan to make amends for it?”

You trailed your Kizāri on the sand, glancing back at him. “A good, honest fight.”

With a small grin, Hyunjin picked up his Kizāri and followed you.

A good, honest fight.

Perhaps being civil was much easier than he expected.

•❃•

A strange sense of awkwardness filled you whenever you thought about the Sōrsānt and the way he expressed wanting to befriend you.

What you were doing was forbidden by the Ērmār’s rules and yet, you found yourself helpless before Hyunjin’s own helplessness. You had decided you could at least grant him half of his wish. After all, you weren’t completely void of empathy, as much as you liked to feign it.

“Could I…show you something after this round?”

There it was again, that sleuthing awkwardness. It had been nearly a week of such tentative conversation. The many days you spent training together seemed to matter none when the idea of becoming friends loomed over your every interaction.

Hyunjin was making some progress though, you thought, bringing your Kizāri to clink with his on the sand. “Of course, Sōrsānt.”

Your agreement seemed to fuel him, for he won that round in a few measly beats. You bit back a curse at the soft touch of his Kizāri on your skin. Talented bastard.

You were crouched on the sand beside Hyunjin shortly, watching as he channeled his magic through the ground. When he removed his hand to unveil the flower, his fingers trembled with exertion.

Delicate snowy petals and lush green leaves adorned the little blossom which stood proudly on a strong stem.

“I have improved,” the Sōrsānt breathed. He reminded you of a pup seeking praise from its doting owner, eager to flaunt even the smallest of achievements.

“I see that.” you smiled, reaching out to brush your fingers over the soft petals. There were no flowers in Amaranthine palace. You allowed yourself to admire the rare view. “It’s very beautiful.”

It was not as perfect as the first, accidental creation of his that you had seen, but this flower was wonderful too. You could tell that the Sōrsānt had spent plenty of time improving his skills, and this blossom was proof. Much like how the previous flower was beautiful, in its weakness and imperfection, for it symbolized a new beginning.

Hyunjin beamed but said nothing in response to the compliment.

You stood a moment later and picked up your Kizāri to continue your training. Following you, Hyunjin pulled his flower from the sand and stuffed it inside his coat. His movements were quick, as though someone might walk in and catch him with this incriminating plant in his grasp.

You frowned, suddenly realizing something. “Do you get rid of all of them?”

He was surprised. “Yes.”

“Oh.”

It made sense that he would. It also made your heart twist with nonsensical loss.

“It doesn’t bother you?”

“It does,” he admitted, turning his Kizāri over in his hand. He appeared upset and suddenly, you found yourself missing his hesitant smile. “But I don’t know of a way to hide my endeavors other than this.”

You nodded solemnly, silently hoping for a future where he doesn’t need to hide his magic anymore.

But you didn’t say that, instead, “I hope it doesn’t weigh you down. I don’t plan on losing to you again today, Sōrsānt.”

To your unreasonable relief, the corner of Hyunjin’s mouth lifted into a challenging grin, and you were taking your positions in the square. “Oh? I wouldn’t worry about that too much.”

As your Kizāris swung, you dared to wonder if your awkwardness was born from your fear of the Ērmār, or of the revelation that you didn’t truly mind the Sōrsānt as a friend.

•❃•

Hyunjin was bored.

So bored that he found the point of his boot against the marble more interesting than the conversation happening around him.

It was neither riveting nor important, and Hyunjin knew that he should at least pretend to be invested in what his mother and the heads of House Carmine were saying, but their voices only droned in the background of his thoughts.

It was the second day of the annual tour of the branch houses, a ten-day-long affair that was meant to strengthen ties between them and the main house.

House Amaranthine had six branch houses located throughout the major cities of the kingdom. They provided a network of informants and allies, ensuring the spread of Amaranthine’s influence across Greria. They also supplied soldiers, consorts, and heirs should the main house lack. Hyunjin knew, for his own mother hailed from House Vervain, the branch based in the far north.

Normally, he would find respite from the dreary palace walls in these visits, but he only felt restless now. As though he would rather be doing something else.

And he would.

It had just begun, but Hyunjin was counting down the days until he could return to his room and study his magic further. Being around the Ērmār and under the scrutiny of members of the branch houses all day meant that he didn’t have the privacy to experiment with his magic.

He was beginning to miss the tingle of it at his fingertips. And he missed something else, a small voice in his head tempted, though he was too shy to admit it.

Despite not paying his fullest attention to the discussion around him, Hyunjin still noticed the hush that befell the room. He fished his mind out of a sea of wandering thoughts and glanced around, finding four pairs of eyes fixed on him, bemused, expectant, and one bothered.

“It appears that we have lost the Sōrsānt in our dull chatter,” the Ērmārvi of House Carmine smiled, dark eyes gleaming with a patronizing kindness. Next to her, the Sōrmārvi laughed, contorting the old scar that ran across his cheek. “Surely not!”

Hyunjin avoided his mother’s reprimanding gaze, hoping a polite bow of his head would hide his embarrassment. “My apologies. I was lost in thought.”

The Ērmārvi turned to her eldest child. “Yeji, why don’t you walk with the Sōrsānt in the garden?”

“Yes, mother.” the Ērsānvi obliged, standing up with a swish of light beige skirts. She drew a pleasant smile on her lips as she addressed Hyunjin. “My Sōrsānt, would you care for a stroll?”

Hwang Yeji, despite sharing a surname, was no relative of Hyunjin’s. Only another rival more skilled and competent in the Ērmār’s eyes. She had her mother’s delicate features and gentle demeanor, and her father’s talent for Pyro magic—the ideal for a lady of the outer circle, and someone he had to be wary of.

The Sōrsānt responded with a courteous smile of his own, accepting her offer as he rose from his seat. He wouldn’t deny her after being caught unceremoniously spacing out in the hospitality of her family. “I would.”

Yeji led him out of the receiving room, into a glass-domed lobby, and out again to a lovely expanse of greenery. The Carmine residence was an extravagant display of architectural mastery. With tall windows, sweeping arcs, and malevolent pillars, the mansion was the image of elegance and wealth.

The garden Hyunjin was ambling through was maintained with visible care. Birds hopped across lush blades of grass and sang between the branches of plum trees, which had borne sweet fruit and sagged with their weight. Pristinely trimmed bushes lined their stone pathway, peonies embracing sunlight with soft pink petals. A lake shimmered at the end of the path, and Hyunjin could see a flutter of swans on its surface.

It was a place that seemed to coax all the restlessness out of his system and discard it somewhere with the playful breeze.

Hyunjin stopped to admire a bed of peach-colored dahlias when he heard the Ērsānvi speak up behind him, “Sōrsānt?”

He straightened and turned around, curious. He had offered a few lines of small talk on their way, but other than that, the girl had been silent. “Yes?”

Yeji averted her gaze, turning her head away in the slightest, and the cuff on her ear caught the light. Ruby-red, with six spiked points to indicate each piercing. Hyunjin had often thought it resembled a flame.

“House Carmine will be holding my gracing ball in two months’ time,” she said, the words as soft and tentative as the wind tousling her long hair. “It would be a great honor to have you among the attendees.”

She directed her eyes to look at him then, expectant, and Hyunjin felt his throat dry up. This must have been the Ērmārvi’s plan from the start. A simple suggestion between aristocrats couldn’t be one without ulterior motives.

A gracing ball was a tradition amongst the aristocracy who were seeking partners for their daughters. It was a party with the sole purpose of gathering favors from bachelor prospects. In this case, it was also a veiled attempt at the future position of Ērmār of House Amaranthine.

Hyunjin wasn’t surprised. If anything, he guessed he would only be receiving more such invitations in the upcoming days. He was nearly of age, after all, and each of the branch houses was aware of that fact.

He maintained a refined smile when he answered, “It would be my pleasure.”

•❃•

It was a whim that led to Hyunjin sending a summons to your room.

He and the Ērmār had returned to Amaranthine Palace in the depths of the night and were immediately ushered to rest by fussing attendants. When he awakened the next day, the sun was still slumbering, but he was eager to start. Eager to feel the weight of his Kizāri in his hands, the force of it clashing with another’s.

You burst through the doors of his training court, and Hyunjin’s attention was on you before he could help it. You had been in a rush. Your overcoat was yet to be buttoned, your hair loosely styled, and a strange emotion unfurled in his heart at the sight of you.

“Welcome back, Sōrsānt,” you said, sounding breathless as you offered him a formal bow. He had heard those words from staff, guards, and advisors alike since his return, but they resonated differently coming from you. Even though he knew that you were only saying them for the sake of formality.

The smallest of smiles tugged at Hyunjin’s lips. “Good morning.”

You fixed the leather braces around your wrist, sparing the sky a furtive glance before regarding him dubiously. “It is still dark outside.”

“And yet, you are awake,” he quipped, the words rolling easily off his tongue. It had been a while since he’d had an honest exchange with anyone, unwary of hidden motives and masked insults.

Your hands went to the buttons of your coat, working the strings around with ease. A shrug. “I was doing my drills.”

A thought flickered in Hyunjin’s mind, too quick for him to ponder.

“Drill with me, then,” he was saying before he could stop himself, and your hands halted their movement in surprise.

Perhaps, he was feeling rather bold this day, he surmised when no apologies or excuses took shape in his head. He held your gaze, surprisingly at ease when yours was shocked.

You composed yourself, asking with an intrigued tilt of your head, “Is this the reason you summoned me so early?”

He hesitated for a beat. There was no cause he understood for his wish to see you, but he couldn’t admit that aloud. “Yes.”

“All right,” you sighed, visibly relaxing before unsheathing the Kizāri at your back. Under the light of the lanterns, your weapons swiveled and gleamed, light steps in tandem as the two of you performed the basics. Precise jabs and steep swings, quick spins and swift retreat.

Hyunjin could hear you count the moves under your breath, a steady ‘one, two, three’ that soon made him falter to observe your movements. You were deeply focused, controlling your Kizāri with so much strength despite the early hour. You were not one to take Azāri lightly, were you?

He was suddenly filled with a desire for mischief. “I fear for the air from your wrath.”

“I’m imagining it’s you,” you deadpanned, not looking his way, though the joke was obvious in the quirk of your lips.

“Oh?” Hyunjin stabbed the sand with his Kizāri and leaned on it. “I didn’t know I was on your mind so often.”

It seemed that many days away from the palace truly had emboldened him.

The points of a Kizāri flashed before his face, the deadly blades a whisper away from his skin. Your voice sounded behind the weapon, laden with teasing. “You wish.”

That unfamiliar feeling erupted in Hyunjin’s heart once more, and he understood it this time—he had missed you.

•❃•

“Here.”

You looked up from the mouth of your worn waterskin to be faced with the gleam of a silver goblet. The Sōrsānt towered over your sitting form, growing embarrassed when you continued to stare at him blankly.

“It’s refreshing,” he quickly explained.

Water from the palace’s channels? You hesitated to take his offer. Cold water was a luxury you could only enjoy in wintertime, when the bitter bite of frost steeped itself into the air and shards of ice floated in the wells. It would be nice, you thought, to drink from the cooling channels on a summer day such as this. The water would certainly be cooler than that which was maintained by your trusty waterskin.

Though, you never expected Hyunjin, in all his foolish, aristocratic arrogance, to share his water with you. Your mute surprise had begun to infect him, and he retracted his hand slightly, mumbling, “Actually I—”

You reached out and grasped the goblet, sparing him the awkward excuse. When the tips of your fingers brushed his, he pulled his hand back as though the contact had stung and stepped away.

You could tell that he had been pondering this gesture for a while, for his snarky confidence was nowhere to be found. Instead, Hyunjin watched you with tentative anticipation, as if he had expected his plan to go awry from the beginning and had no expectations for its outcome.

You fought back a grin. To make such a fuss over a goblet of water was something only the Sōrsānt was allowed to do. And, mortified, you realized that you wouldn’t have cared if it were anybody else.

Expressions of gratitude were not your greatest strength nor your favored exchange, but you supposed this matter was an exception. So, you turned your gaze toward him, smiling politely. “Thank you.”

You didn’t wait for a response and decided to take a sip from the silver cup in your hand. Cold water raced down your throat, an antidote to the sunbeams glaring at you. You were not short on water, yet it felt that way as you drank more and more. When the goblet emptied, you were almost remorseful.

You noticed Hyunjin still standing there, beaming as though he had achieved a significant feat. It was endearing, as you were once again mortified to find.

Influenced by the kind atmosphere, you dared to ask, “How has your magic training been?”

“Oh,” he blinked, taken aback by your inquiry. “It has been well. I’ve been training to manifest my magic without using sand.”

There was a beat of silence before he added, “Would you like to see?”

You nodded eagerly, and he clasped his hands before him. Though the way Hyunjin performed his magic wasn’t grand, it left you awestruck in the few times you’d witnessed it. Deliberate and careful, it was evidence of the care he poured into his flowering creations.

After a short while of anticipatory silence, Hyunjin visibly relaxed and opened his hands. You pushed yourself to your feet to get a better look at what lay between his palms.

It was a small flower, with petals the color of the sky at sunrise, and it was the loveliest you’d seen of his recent making. You resisted the urge to reach out and pick it up, instead choosing to murmur a compliment. “It’s beautiful, as always.”

“Can you materialize a flower from thin air?” you wondered, to which he shrugged. “I could try.”

Clutching the pink blossom, Hyunjin turned to the side and raised his free hand before him. Why he was humoring your curiosity, you couldn’t tell, but you didn’t ponder over it further.

Long, futile moments later, Hyunjin frowned, shoulders slumping in defeat as he brushed his fingers through his hair. “I don’t think I—”

Your eyes widened, and so did his.

In the wake of Hyunjin’s fingers, between the dark strands of his hair, little flowers unfurled like a smattering of stars. Smiling, innocent, as though this were their destined home.

You were captivated by the sight.

And when Hyunjin’s hands moved to hastily remove the flowers from his hair, your lips were moving before you could realize what was happening. “Stop!”

The Sōrsānt did, bewildered by your outburst. His brows were raised, and you wished for the ground to split open and swallow you at that moment.

Why did you say that?

“Flowers look good on you.”

And another careless thought.

You were sure that if your embarrassment didn’t suffocate you, Hyunjin’s quietness would have. You had crossed the line, you determined when he swiftly gave you his back. 

What a senseless thing to say, you chided yourself, starting to apologize when he said nothing. “My apologies, Sōrsānt—”

“You think so?”

Hyunjin’s voice seemed distant, but the hopefulness in it was so palpable it silenced you. Suddenly, apologizing felt like such a stupid idea.

“Yes.”

“Then…I’ll keep them,” he declared softly, turning to face you.

You let a genuine smile adorn your lips. “You should.”

•❃•

Dinner with the Ērmār was Hyunjin’s least favorite part of the day.

The dismal quiet, the stifling tension—it felt as though every breath he took was incomplete. Ever on edge. Endlessly wary.

On this evening, however, the Sōrsānt had something to distract himself with. A new, untainted memory.

Flowers look good on you.

He had recalled those words over and over in his mind, watched that scene repeat endlessly throughout his lessons and meetings. Five simple words that seemed to unveil a part of his heart that he had thought long lost. A statement that filled him with so much warmth, he didn’t know what to do with it.

He had found himself at once embarrassed and overjoyed. What had possessed you to say such a thing?

What was he to do for you to say it again?

The Ērmār placed her silverware over her plate with a soft clink, indicating the end of the dinner and bringing Hyunjin back to the realm of reality. He stood after his mother did, wordlessly pinning his gaze to his half-empty plate as she passed by him.

He anticipated the distancing clatter of her shoes, but instead, it stopped beside him.

“What is that in your hair?”

Hyunjin’s shoulders went rigid at her icy question. He made sure to remove the flowers from his hair before leaving his training court. Had he missed one?

“An accident,” he said, raising a hand to his hair. “You need not worry. I discarded it and made sure no one saw it.”

He couldn’t turn around to face the Ērmār, and he was glad he didn’t have to meet her gaze. She would pierce through him and his blatant lie with cruel ease. He could at least feign some confidence this way.

The Ērmār scoffed after a beat of dubious silence, resuming her exit from the dining hall. “Go wash up. I do not want a repeat of this incident.”

Right, Hyunjin sighed inwardly. The time he shared with you every day was a strange fantasy, and nothing more. Outside his training court, he was but a magicless, useless heir. If he were wiser, he would forget your kindness and seal its memory where he couldn’t retrieve it. Perhaps even discard his magical studies.

But, the Sōrsānt found that he wasn’t the wisest of men.

•❃•

Heading House Amaranthine was the Ērmār’s rightful destiny.

From the moment she had taken her first steps, her parents had ensured she excelled at every field fit for an aristocratic lady. Her skills in magic, the arts, science, and politics had earned the fervent praise of many masters across Greria. Whispers of her beauty and grace chased her anywhere she went.

In her prime, she was the most fitting of the noble ladies to be at the young Sōrmār’s side. She was the only logical choice.

That man was her better in every aspect. The Sōrmār of House Amaranthine was stronger than she was. Kinder, wittier, braver. More graceful and knowledgeable and beautiful than she had ever known a person to be. In a life where she had been alone at the very top of the world, he was a new height to conquer. A challenge, a breath of fresh air, a consolation.

She had loved him at some point in time, as he had loved her too. They were happy, untouchable in their palace, away from everyone else.

Then, he was gone.

Without warning, she was once again alone. So far from the rest of the world, with no companion, no aide. All he had left her was a title, a palace, and a son whom he had cherished with his entire heart.

Hyunjin was the only living part of his father that had remained. And he was nothing like the late Sōrmār.

So, she had to make him be. To give life to the memory of the man she had loved, Hyunjin had to be better in every way. Better than any before him and any who may come. So that he may reside at the utmost heights of the world, never to be reached by another. Just like his father.

Yet, no matter what she did, she found her son to be lacking. His Tilt was a disgrace, his Azāri was imperfect. No matter what, she never saw the late Sōrmār in him. Her vision was only dying in him, and she couldn’t let it be. She refused to lose him twice.

The Ērmār was determined to see the man she had loved again, regardless of the sacrifices she had to make.

Her son stood before her now, tense, with squared shoulders and a raised chin. There was a brazen air to him these days, she didn’t fail to notice.

“The Carmine ball is a month and a half from now, is it not?” she asked as she opened a ledger lying on her desk.

“Yes, mother.”

His responses were always void of confidence, sounding like admittances of defeat. She thought it was evidence of his inherently weak character.

“I want you to express favor toward the Ērsānvi during the event,” the Ērmār said. Yeji was the most promising of the branch Houses’ eligible ladies. It would be foolish not to grasp the opportunity.

“What?”

She looked up from the ledger to find her son clearly displeased. He appeared almost offended at her order.

“Is there a problem?” she narrowed her eyes at him. She couldn’t begin to guess what silly thoughts rampaged in that mind of his.

Hyunjin clenched his jaw, his frustration evident in the lowness of his tone. “Is that truly necessary, mother?”

“Yes,” she responded simply. “This has nothing to do with your personal feelings. Yeji is an excellent young lady and the perfect candidate for the position of Ērmār. It would do you good to start thinking about the House’s future.”

He said nothing, choosing to glare at the floor as if that could change anything. There was a protest in the hunch of his shoulders, and he seemed to be fighting it.

The Ērmār predicted that this would happen. She didn’t trust Hyunjin to make a beneficial decision for himself, let alone for the future of House Amaranthine. She would have to instruct him, as she had always done.

She repeated, louder, having grown tired of this exchange, “Is there a problem with what I said, Hyunjin?”

He stiffened then gave in, finally biting out, “No, mother.”

The Ērmār returned her attention to the open ledger while Hyunjin stalked out of the study without further comments.

She scoffed inwardly. She assumed he was heading to his training court, where he seemed to enjoy spending his time. From sunrise until the sun centered the sky, he was dutifully training. With that foul human.

That girl was still alive, and it had been months since the Ērmār assigned her to be Hyunjin’s training partner. It had been a test. She wanted him to kill the human, but he failed miserably. And as though the humiliation wasn’t enough, he even continued to train with her.

That human’s survival was unacceptable. It was a shame more grave than imaginable. A definitive sign of weakness, and knowing Hyunjin’s pitiful nature, the matter may have escalated beyond remedy.

The Ērmār needed to rid of the Azārāhi soon, and she had a suspicion that a valid justification would reveal itself once she investigated the two of them.

There should be no acceptable reason for her son to be so attached to a human girl, after all.

Part One | Part Two | Part Three

Mini Glossary:

Azārāhi: a skilled practitioner of Azāri.

Azāri: a fighting art developed by the magical Nilfyn.

Ērmār: high master (feminine).

Ērmārvi: minor high master (feminine).

Ērsānt: lower master (feminine).

Ērsānvi: minor lower master (feminine).

Kizāri: the long-handled weapon with an trident-like head used in Azāri.

Sōrmār: high master (masculine).

Sōrmārvi: minor high master (masculine).

Sōrsānt: lower master (masculine).

Sōrsānvi: minor lower master (masculine).

As he was pondering over all the ways the universe seemed to personally despise him, the door to the meeting room opened, and two strangers stepped in.

His colleagues immediately fell into a hush and bowed their heads in greeting, their small huddle around him dissipating. "Good afternoon, commanders!"

Not strangers, he realized with a chill as he mimicked the rest. He simply hadn't the opportunity to interact with them up close to recognize them. But he had heard of them. Who in the Shadow Front hadn't?

Seo Changbin, the one who wore an eye patch. Y/n, the one who wore a burgundy coat. Two commanders of the Chaos Crescent infamous for being downright insane.

Jisung wanted to jump out the nearest window.

"Han Jisung. That's you, right?"

He tensed up for a second. Her voice was softer and smoother than he anticipated, but why did he even expect her to sound like a fragment of his darkest nightmares in the first place?

"Yes," he squared his shoulders when he answered, daring to hold her—disconcertingly—sparkly gaze.

Why him?

Jisung had nothing to offer besides an uninspired soul, yet there she was, extending her hand out to him. “We’re excited to have you on board Action Unit 19, Han.”

That was his chance. He had better decline this ridiculous promotion and hope that if he weren’t to be released from this farce of a life, he’d at least remain in the bottom ranks where no eye nor mind regarded him.

But she was still looking at him intently, absorbing every millisecond of his hesitation with those knowing eyes. Behind her, the commander of Action Unit 17 regarded him with as much interest as one would grant a fly on the wall.

It appeared that his so-called chance was a farce, too.

Sure that fate was laughing its twisted ass off at him, Jisung clasped the hand of his new boss.

“Thank you, commander.”

•⭓•

Action Unit 19 was always busy solely by virtue of being yours, for you never sat still and never lingered in one place for too long. This new lifestyle was the very opposite of each of Jisung’s unheard hopes.

It was his third week, and he was standing amidst the havoc being wreaked by his comrades, idle. If any will was left in his empty soul, it was definitely not spared to raise the gun in his loose grasp or engage himself in the raid they’d been tasked with. It was a miracle he’d even survived this long, having been doing the exact same thing on every mission so far—absolutely nothing.

If anyone in his unit noticed, he was sure they’d kill him for it, or at least pummel him to the ground because that was the kind of unit he’d been promoted to.

One that would answer, ‘how high?’ if their commander told them to jump.

It moved Jisung’s soul not one bit.

In his impassive state, he felt a weight crash into him, nearly toppling him to the ground had he not quickly caught his footing.

The man who had collided with him was now clutching his issued suit. A bruised cheekbone and a busted lip, yet he snarled at him, spitting blood, “Go to hell.”

Frankly, Jisung couldn’t be bothered to fight him off, so he only stared back at him.

An enemy. Maybe he could finally release him from his hell.

The man fished out a knife, and it glinted with the tantalizing light of freedom, before it was snuffed out by two dreadful gunshots.

A bullet to his arm and another to his neck, and he convulsed, choking, letting go, dying. Exposing Jisung’s actions, or lack thereof, to his comrades.

The floor they’d been fighting in quietened, the silence only disrupted by the bold clacking of dress shoes and your demanding question behind him.

“What are you doing?”

He didn’t turn around to face you, gaze still fixed at the dying man now crumpled at his feet. There went the chance he’d been waiting for.

Jisung doubted that you wanted his answer to that question because he was doing nothing, and that was the exact problem. His listlessness placed the rest of his unit in danger, and any resulting casualties would be your burden to carry in front of the higherups.

But he didn’t really care.

He knew better, in the depths of his mind, than to anger his boss. Still, he held on to the inkling of hope that maybe this way, you’d realize your mistake of hiring him and demote him back to the solitary humdrum of the lower ranks.

Anything to destroy this ever-growing snowball of mistakes.

You scoffed, and it sent a terrible chill down his spine. “I guess you don’t care if you died then.”

His body snapped in your direction, fast enough to see you point your gun straight at his head. Strangely, and against all reason, his heart lurched with the most sickening feeling. Wait—

Three gunshots deafened him as they echoed. Before he could speak. Before he could blink. Before he could breathe.

You were known to be wasteful with your bullets, but your aim was never sloppy, and instead of searing pain, Jisung heard a shriek from behind him.

Oh. Figures you wouldn’t actually shoot him.

He was frozen in place when you strode past him, your face a blank slate that somehow made the threat leaving your lips worse, “Get your act straight or you’ll wish those bullets went through your skull instead.”

•⭓•

Jisung thought that few things were more suffocating than his waking hours, one of which was being awake and in a party.

He managed to slip out of the loud hall with unsurprising ease. He was only a rookie in Action Unit 19, after all. No one would ask for his particular company during the half-year party where the entirety of the Shadow Front, bosses and underlings alike, gathered to drink and sweettalk their ways into higher positions.

Eager to be as far away from their pretenses, Jisung eventually found himself opening the door to the rooftop and stepping out to a stunning sunset. Even from this height, the view of the sky was the same as that seen by the passengers of the cars zooming below. Innocents who’d committed no mistakes as grave as his, and still got to enjoy something so mundane.

He leaned into the ceramic railing and nearly jumped out of his skin when a hum sounded behind him.

“The sky is green.”

He spun around so quickly he should’ve lost his balance, but Jisung only sputtered out, “Ma’am—!”

It turned out there were others beside himself who sought a breath of fresh air.

You were lying on the bare concrete, one outstretched leg over the other with your signature coat bundled up to cushion your head. How he hadn’t noticed you from the start was a wonder he could only attribute to the clouding of his mind, wanting nothing more than to escape the party.

As if his situation wasn’t sufficiently awkward on its own, there was the added fact that Jisung had been lying low ever since you rebuked him during the raid. Now, he was alone on the deserted rooftop with you and no smooth way to make an exit.

Damn it.

“Han Jisung.”

Maybe he should’ve stayed at that wretched party.

“I know you don’t want to be here.”

He stiffened at your words, carried by the soft breeze to his cold ears.

“I’ve known it for a while. Ever since your recruitment.”

So what? It wasn’t like he tired too hard to hide it. His life had been tainted by this organization, and he didn’t remember how or when it all began. Only that he couldn’t stand it anymore.

“But here’s the thing,” you sighed, and he heard the whisper of fabric as you sat up. “There’s nowhere but here for you and me.”

You were right. Of course you would be. Hands so thoroughly steeped with blood like his could have no other occupation.  

“So quit this rebellion of yours. It’s only going to kill you in the end and you know they don’t hold nice funerals for people like us.”

Jisung didn’t need to have this heart-to-heart with a criminal. He knew there was no getting out of this alive, let alone unscathed. Still, he had to try. He had to do something, anything, otherwise that bastard—

“Why are you even doing all this?”

Your question—perhaps prompted by his silence, or perhaps ignited by your curiosity—forced him to finally look at you and absorb the way the golden sunset bathed your skin. A divine halo for the most wicked of devils.

You were all too relaxed, head tilted back to regard him almost lazily, and somehow, for whatever reason, his heart skipped a beat. Or dropped to the pits of hell. It was a feeling that unsettled him either way, and Jisung found himself at a loss for words.

“I…”

Or maybe his words were so abundant that he didn’t know where to start, or whether it was even appropriate for him to say what was on his mind. You seemed to notice too, for you let out a humored huff, “Well, whatever it is, I can tell you don’t actually want to get yourself killed.”

“Of course not,” he stated a bit too roughly, fists curling into themselves as he gritted out his frustration, “I’m just—”

He was helpless. There was nothing he could do to resolve his situation without hurting his sister, and he couldn’t bear for his days to go on without change either.

“I see,” you murmured when he lapsed into silence again. He didn’t know what exactly you ‘saw’, but he supposed reading others came with your job description.

You rose to your feet and dusted off your burgundy coat as though your business was concluded. Without so much as another glance his way, you turned for the rooftop’s door, imparting onto him a few last words that had clearly, very easily, seen entirely through him.

“What you are is angry, Han Jisung. Make use of it.”

There was that twisted feeling in his chest again.

Jump.

•⭓•

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing in this house?!”

The beer can, intended for Jisung’s head, clanged against the paving that led to the house. The assault did not deter Jisung, and he shouted back, “You used it all for your fucking drugs didn’t you? I gave that money to Mina!”

The assailant heaved with drunken anger. Once upon a time, Jisung knew him as his stepfather, but this man was no more than a stranger, now. He had lost himself to alcohol and narcotics after his wife’s abandonment and grew to resent her son as though it were his sworn duty.

His hatred was something that Jisung didn’t care for too much. He was an adult and had no reason to associate himself with this deteriorating household anymore. A luxury, yet he kept returning to this family because of her.

“That money wasn’t yours,” Jisung snarled, “Give it back.”

“You son of a bitch—!” the man's face reddened, as though he were choking on his own words. “I told you not to come here again! We don’t need your filthy money—”

“Right,” Jisung had to let out a bitter laugh. “That’s why you had to take the money I gave to my sister—”

“She’s not your sister!”

The shout should’ve rattled him, but Jisung stood his ground as his stepfather descended, fuming, hands outstretched as if to catch him by the collar and strangle him. He spat like a sputtering kettle, “I don’t want to hear her name coming from your mouth ever again—”

“Damn, you’re really insecure, huh?”

That voice did not belong in their family’s front yard, and it brought immediate quiet upon them. Jisung’s head snapped up, his heart sinking.

What the hell are you—

“Who the fuck are you?” his stepfather demanded, faltering in his angry steps as he glared at the intruder wandering into their property. Jisung could only watch, helpless, because he couldn’t simply exclaim at his boss’ face to leave.

“My name is Y/n,” you provided, a pleasant, yet utterly bland smile on your face as you walked up to the swaying drunkard. A black business card seemingly materialized between your fingers and you held it out to him, introducing yourself further, “I’m a general manager at House of Cosmos. Nice to meet you.”

“What the— How did you get in here? This is private property!” he hissed, completely ignoring your outstretched hand, and Jisung saw the masked disdain in your gaze grow. Disinterested, you dropped your business card on the ground and pointed behind you, shrugging, “Door’s wide open.”

And it was. The gate to their property was unlocked and yawning on its old hinges. Still, that didn’t explain your presence.

“Anyway, I’m here for my colleague,” you remarked, casually slinging an arm around Jisung’s shoulders and lying through your teeth with such terrifying ease. “You see, I offered to drive him to the company barbeque so I came by, but then—"

“I don’t care. Get out, both of you,” his stepfather interjected forcefully and you ceased your story making, letting go of Jisung’s stunned form with a scrunch of your nose and a mutter, “Huh...”

The man seemed to lean to his left a bit too steeply, a bit too slowly, slurring and struggling with this words, “A-And if I see your… face around here again—I s-swear I’ll—Argh—!”

The thud of his body against the yellowing grass was quiet.

A beat passed, then—

“I guess all that alcohol caught up to him, huh?” you murmured and Jisung stared, eyes like glass, at the limp body of the man he loathed more than anybody else. The cause and very source of all his misery and turmoil, motionless for once in his worthless life.

What the hell just happened—?  

“Hello?” your voice was muffled through the fog in his mind as you called emergency services. “A man collapsed in front of us—I think from a stroke… Yeah… Middle-aged, I believe. Okay. We’re at 11B street, Villa 1053C…”

No. No. No!

Jisung’s breaths were coming too short, his vision too dark.

He’s dead? How can he be dead? I didn’t even touch him—

“Okay. We’ll do that. Thank you.”

You ended the call and he spun to face you, grabbing your arms in manic desperation as he gasped, “They’re going to arrest us now— They’ll think I did it—!”  

You seemed all too slow to react to his outburst, wriggling out of his grasp with a dispassionate sigh, “Relax. You’ve got witnesses.”

“Witnesses?” he stepped back. “Who exactly?”

You furrowed your brows at him as if confused by his panic, then pointed at yourself, “Me.”

At the corner of the house, “the camera.”

Then somewhere above the two of you, “and her.”

Jisung’s gaze followed your finger to the window on the second floor and met the wide eyes of his sister gaping down at the scene. He realized, with a pang, that she had seen it all transpire despite every effort he’d made to keep her away from their fights all these years.

“Anyway, you know some first aid right?” you crouched next to his stepfather’s body, beckoning with your hand, “Come help me—”

“What are you really doing here?”

Jisung’s question made you stop and frown at him again, answering like it were the most obvious thing, “I’m here for you. Did I not say that?”

You did say that, but it made no sense and he was pretty sure it was a lie made to trick his stepfather.  

“You weren’t picking up and I was nearby,” you told him simply. “Now, If you’re done with your questions, come help.”

“I…see.”

Again, that feeling nagged at him.

Jump.

•⭓•

Two men in smart black suits halted in their steps when Jisung passed by, making way as they greeted him, “Good morning, VP.”

“G’morning,” he raised his free hand in a half-wave when he returned the greeting. In Jisung’s other hand was a hefty weight he’d been dragging across the floor. It left a faint red trail behind him, but he didn’t care much. Their janitor wasn’t going to be cleaning anything anytime soon, anyway.

He smiled at the two guards and dropped the body at their feet. “Take care of this for me, will you?”  

“Yes, sir.”

Feeling much lighter, Jisung resumed his way to his original destination. He was supposed to be there seven minutes ago, but there had been a minor distraction on his little trip. His tardiness wouldn’t be an issue, though, but the smudged blood on his gloves was, most definitely, unacceptable.

With a sigh, he pulled off his gloves and shoved them into the inner pockets of his blazer. It was a shame, truly. He really tried to make as little a mess as possible this time.

Jisung reached his destination and knocked on the polished door, pushing it open before getting his answer.

“You’re late,” you stated immediately upon his stepping into your office.

“Sorry,” he said as he shut the door behind him. “Caught a rat in the janitor’s closet.”

“Another one, huh?” you chuckled like it were a joke and not an attempt at your life, once again. Jisung clenched his jaw to bite back his frustrations.

You were lying haphazardly on one of the couches in your vast office. Feet propped up against the backrest and your head nearly dangling off the edge. Jisung didn’t know which was worse—your shoes against the leather or the fact that you were supposed to be recovering in bed today.

Farther towards the tall windows, someone else stood gazing out at the city with disinterest. Not once did he turn back to acknowledge Jisung’s entry, likely too unbothered to expend the effort, but that was to be expected of the Right Claw. Second only to the Boss, Seo Changbin wouldn’t even take more breaths than he was absolutely required to.

Jisung shut away the disappointment that flooded his chest at seeing him.

“You asked for me?” he questioned once he stood near the couch and you looked up at him from where you lay, grinning. Only then did he notice the pristine envelope in your grasp.

“Come take a look. It’s an invitation from the prince of the underworld.”

Jisung received the envelope from you and took out its one page contents. The letter was short, simple, and made his blood boil instantly.

Your voice sounded from behind the paper. “What do you think?”

“I think he’s either stupid or stupidly full of himself to order you around,” he said, and he was cooler and calmer than he’d imagined himself to be because in all honesty, Jisung wanted to tear the paper to shreds then set it all ablaze.

And after what those bastards did…

He folded the letter and slipped it back into its envelope. The so-called prince of the underworld was an audacious man, but this was an opportunity and Jisung was going to catch it by the tail. “I’ll go.”

“No,” you didn’t miss a beat. “We’ll go together.”

“Why? I can give him a piece of my mind just fine.”

You were silent to his protest, but the sudden darkness that shadowed your gaze screamed louder than any voice could. And Jisung heard it.

His emotions ran impossibly hotter, his whisper so chillingly low.

“So… Jeongin found something.”

“Yes,” you smiled and it made him crumble inside.

That wasn’t satisfaction or excitement. It was pain and old suffering that quirked your lips, and it had been that way for a while now.

He hated it.

He despised it so much that it sickened him to his very core.

So, Jisung allowed your desire for revenge to consume him whole. This mantle wasn’t his own, yet he carried its heavy weight on his shoulders because he was willing to do anything. A world that dimmed the spark in your eyes was a world that ought to be damned.

And so, he let that angry flame burn.

Your orders were soft, not at all demanding, “That’s why we’ll both go entertain the little prince.”

Jump.

Jisung smiled. “As you wish.”

How high?

Previous Chapter | Series Masterlist | Next Chapter

“That’s an odd way to propose to someone, Y/N. And please, you’re asking an obvious question.” Chan looks up at you from his book. His smile is gentle, soft at the corners with his dimples sinking in—it’s how you know that he means it—the way it usually is these days. The way it has been for the past year. It is almost obscure, you think, how you both would have wanted each other’s head on a stick a year ago before one of you managed to make the other person cry out of gratitude.

You lift the book away from his face, glimpsing at the cover. Because Chan is an absolute heathen, he has been reading No Longer Human and you’re being annoying about it because he hasn’t come out to train with you for two days already. “Are you telling me you’ll say ‘no’?”

“We’re already doing laundry and taxes together. We will just have matching rings and a signed piece of paper,” Chan gives you a pointed look; he always looks so serious whenever he wants to correct you as if your sarcasm is that dry. “So it naturally implies as a ‘yes’, idiot,” he nags, even though he doesn’t mean the last part.

“Oh how you wound me, love,” you bite back, even though you don’t mean it either. “Chan, come on. You’re locking yourself up in a prison.”

Chan lets out a long, heavy sigh as if he’s insulted that you have just called his room a prison—which you never verbally hinted at, he simply interpreted it that way. He reaches over to grab the book from your hand, seemingly giving up his reading time for you, and places it on his bedside. 

“What are you–” You watch as Chan walks over to one of his mahogany drawers. “-doing?”

“I need caffeine to talk to you.”

Despite your bristling, he stays true to his words and finds himself a mug, a tea bag, along with a boiler. By the time Chan finishes filling up the boiler with water and turns on the heating switch, your legs are dangling over the edge of his bed as you puff up like a cat, baffled and offended. 

“So,” Chan inquires, a steaming mug of tea in his hand. “What’s up?”

“I find your current state distressing to look at,” you elaborate with glee, a glint coming into your eyes that Chan knows you’re up to no good. “Take a week off with me. We can go anywhere you want, it’ll be a short getaway, just the two of us.”

Chan’s back is turned toward you because he’s too busy searching for a spoon but you can boldly assume that he’s smiling. It’s hinted in his tone when he asks, “You mean a vacation?”

“Brilliant interpretation, Chan,” you smile wryly. “Of course, I meant a vacation!”

“No, you can go have fun by yourself. You have my permission,” he shakes his head. “I have things to attend to. Meetings, banquets, important business transactions. You know how boring the mafia lifestyle is.”

You still, voice low and suppressed in something Chan can’t seem to grasp at. “You’re going back to your family.” It’s barely a movement, a small enough action. Any passerby would think that you have only faltered a little but Chan has observed you for a good while now to notice you’re holding your shoulders back from trembling. 

“I am going back to my family,” he repeats calmly. “Only for a week, though. It’s nothing for you to worry about.”

“Chan, I know they want to see me.”

Chan tries not to let anything show on his face. “And they may very well kill you because that is what they are. Godawful, egoistic, and incapable of compassion.”

“Let me go with you, I—” you begin, though you cut yourself off almost instantly. The room is suddenly steeped in silence, unwieldy at the absence of your words. Every noise seems amplified in the quiet: the boys’ chatters echoing dully from the living room, the ticking hands of the clock, and every breath you take to calm the anxiety in your rib cage.

I do not fear death, sickness, or anyone’s hatred. What I fear most is losing you, Chan. It’s all so beyond you because a year ago, you were a thief, taking things as you please and sending them away when they’re no longer of use for your benefit. Now there is someone who you will live for and his kiss you will kill for, his laugh you will die for.

“Chan, do you have any idea what I would turn into if you left me?” You have always worried loudly, from the volume of your attentiveness and the anxiety beneath your skin all lie in the tender manner of how you love Chan—the same goes for him, that you can be certain of.

“I will never leave you, Y/N. We will be okay,” he assures you, unbearably calm.

Chan is a liar. 

second attempt —

Chan is supposed to go back to the Bang family’s estate with Yuriko for the New Year. Yuriko is the housekeeper whom he has retired for about a year ever since you came into the picture. The boys, especially Jisung, have been forced into keeping their surroundings clean because, for some wicked reason, they think you are absolutely terrifying when you’re upset about their muddy shoes dirtying the floor after a mission. Yuriko always giggles at that, her Young Master surely knows how to pick a partner. 

“I’ve got word that your father wants you to back to the estate, Young Master,” Yuriko tells Chan when she finds you and Chan in the archive because you have insisted on reading about something you won’t say a word to him. Surely, Chan recognizes what you’re searching for but he doesn’t mention it. 

“He said he wanted to make sure you are ready to take over his position. And there is a dinner he wants your attendance for,” Yuriko continues, hands clasped behind her back. You didn’t even realize when she stepped in and approached Chan—for a mere housekeeper to be so swift and quiet with her movements, you have long guessed that she’s not just any old woman to be hired by the Bang family.

The way Chan stiffens in his seat is telling all on its own. You are suddenly struck with the recurring memory of how Minho used to babble about how much of an ass Chan’s family is when he has had one too many drinks. “You don’t know how bigshot mafia families treat their children, do you? They kept the world from knowing for a reason. I’m surprised Chan didn’t turn out to be a monster like them.”

“Forgive me, Yuriko, but you can tell the old man to suck it up,” Chan says softly but his voice is dark, tense, riddled with a sharpness you haven’t heard from him in a long time—you were threatened just the same way when you had stolen his mother’s ring. Now you realize Chan only ever speaks so heartlessly if something precious to him is hanging on the verge of being taken away. 

“Young Master,” Yuriko frowns for two reasons; firstly, Chan has never been able to decline his blood family of anything and secondly, there isn’t much that she can do to solve the problem at hand. She’s a mere servant for the Bang family; she doesn’t have much power to begin with and therefore, she can’t exactly tell them ‘no’. 

“No, you can’t make me,” Chan grits because he knows, he understands it all too well. Unsaid words of all the things money can buy hang in the air like bile. 

“Young Master Christopher, you must know what happens if you defy your father.” And there goes Yuriko’s final warning along with Chan dashing out of the archive, straight through the hallway and the front door of the mansion, completely vanishing in the white curtain of December snow.

Yuriko murmurs something under her breath, unintended for you to hear her. You continue staring forward, the file in your hands completely forgotten. “He can come home with me,” you say without actually thinking about it until she turns to stare at you, expressionless before breaking into a fit of giggles.

“I think Young Master would like that.”

With that, you set off to find Chan.

“No one will love you unconditionally like we do.” “You belong to us, so do as we say.” “Work to kill, kill or you’ll die. You were born to kill, it’s a gift that not everyone receives.” “The world will bow before you and sway the way you want it but you’ll have to-”

“I don’t want any of that,” Chan hisses but the voices keep coming back louder, harsher, with more bite than he has ever heard from them. “None of you ever gave me anything that matters! You just can’t admit that you made me a murderer!!” 

The snow around him sinks with each step he takes, their words still echoing in his mind and sending shivers down his spine, driven so deeply inside his skull that he wishes he could have nothing of this reality. “Be mindful of yourself. Control it.” “Your fangs and claws are too sharp for you to be swinging just at anyone,” he hears them again

His nose burns in the cold but Chan doesn’t notice something warm and wet trickle down his cheekbones. “You never cared about restraint. You said I must kill or I would die. You all just want to possess me, you want me not as an heir but as a commodity!!”

“It’s how we’ve been running this family. It’s how we keep things in order. You’re one of us, Christopher, you are this family.”

With a huff, Chan eventually gives in and listens because he has no other choice but to; he slides down against concrete with a white-out vision, a quivering figure with nothing on but his cardigan. “Then you’re just as godawful as any of them,” he tells himself, knees curling against his chest, almost justified in his own lie that he wants to burst out laughing.

Chan knows they have made him more of a weapon than a child, more of a monster than a man and he is stuck with it for good. He has been holding onto life just because he can, not so much that he wants to. Because he never truly wanted anything before or was wanted in any way.

“Oh my god, you’re a fucking man-child!”

He hears someone’s nagging from afar and ignores it, hugging himself impossibly tighter because asking for comfort is unacceptable, they taught him so. “Chan!!” He hopes it goes away with all of the other voices. 

It doesn’t. Instead, it comes closer in a humane form, boots crunching against the snow and warm breaths sounding rhythmically. “It’s been an hour. Do you have any idea how worried we all were- how worried I was?! What the actual hell,” you snap. “Now I’m going to hear all this shit from Seungmin again because I let you run off and he’s too terrified of you to properly lecture you. God-”

Your rambles cut off when you kneel down next to him, rummaging for a scarf, a pair of gloves, yet another pair of gloves, his puffer jacket, and a hat from your bag. Chan quietly watches as he tries to blink away the oncoming tears but he can’t—they keep coming. He doesn’t reply when your scolding goes on because even though your voice is sharp, Chan can catch the worry hidden along the edges. Being cared for and cherished like this has made him realize how much he doesn’t want to come back to his family and he wants to cry like he’s the fourteen-year-old boy who used to refuse to pick up a gun all over again.

A child who was unable to stuff down the overwhelming agony and grief forced upon him. A child who was weaponized. A child who was threatened into killing his own mother. “If you can’t kill what you hold near and dear, you’ll never be able to kill anyone to save yourself.”

“Chan?” you call out to him, unbearably soft. There’s a certainty, a sort of gentleness in the way his name is said that only makes his tears come hotter, more and more of it because your love feels big, overwhelming.

Chan hates crying so he never did, not when they had locked him up in his room, not when they had starved him because of his disobedience, not when they had made him pull the trigger with the gun’s mouth pressing against his mother’s chest. Chan hates crying but it seems to be all he’s doing now. 

You’re wrapping him up so gently and trying to warm him up because you know he’s just as human as any mundane individual out there. Humans shiver when the temperature drops, they shed tears when they’re upset, and they bleed and bruise at the right amount of impact. That’s why humans are so clingy toward each other so they can prevent harm from coming the other person’s way. Because no one enjoys getting hurt and there is no good reason to voluntarily get hurt; it sounds like common sense but Chan never grew up with such things. He never came to think he was deserving of such things.

“Chan, come home with me. Forget your family. I don’t need to know about them,” you smile at him, somehow empathetic and so understanding when Chan has barely given you an explanation, when he is desperate to fill the silence but he knows his voice will be weak with tears, stumbling, and pitching all over the place.

Chan sniffles, finding the courage to say something back because he wants to, not because he feels like he has to, “Can I really…come-come home with you?”

“I’m sure the girls wouldn't mind, they might be a little annoying. Yeji, though, can be wary of strangers,” you shrug, something so relaxed about your posture tells him that you have learned to accept something without telling him. 

A breathy chuckle. “Especially when they’re a mafia leader.”

An exhale. Chan shudders when you embrace him wholly—every moment of pride and arrogance, betrayal and hurt that he has been boxing away—as the beautiful mess that he is. You’re the safest person on the face of Earth not because you are on equal terms with him in power but because you never care about those things. You will let him break something, burn something down, cry, and laugh however he pleases but you won’t ever let go of his hand. You never ask him for anything in return while continuing to save him over and over again.

He’s so unbelievably lucky, Chan thinks but doesn’t say it aloud, instead, he tells you, “If you’ll have me.”

The night after you drive Chan back to your mansion, the place goes up in flames. Only you are able to open your eyes to see the next daylight.

“Welcome home,” you want to whisper but can only watch a last smile bloom on the face of a ghost amidst the orange blaze.

third attempt —

You decide to come home with Chan.

For a non-mafia family, it might go like this.

Meeting Chan’s parents will be the hardest thing you have ever done—and that is coming from someone who has broken through the world’s most modern security systems and got your hands on objects worth billions of dollars. 

You will bow when you meet them, use the politest speech you have taught yourself last minute, and desperately try not to remember how Chan was forced to shoot his own mother as a child. They will pinch your cheek and call you lovely, chuckling at how stiff you are and offering you a ‘Come on in! Don’t mind the mess, it’s always how our house is.’

You will smile and you will play along because you want them to like you so badly it hurts. 

Chan will gawk at you without even trying to hide it because you have given him a completely different experience upon your first encounter. Casual, timid, and quick with your tongues when it comes to those witty retorts.

They will then ask you, ‘‘What are your hobbies? Any sports? Instruments?’’ Purely in the Asian parents’ style. 

You will be so nervous that you forget you play the violin and practice meditation occasionally. You will sit at their dinner table in their cozy, lived-in home, and rack your brain for a proper answer that might be deemed reasonable for a mundane girl. “It can be anything you do for fun, honey. No need to be nervous,” they will say again and you will give them a small grimace in return. 

It’s probably deeply fucked up when the first thing that comes to your mind is ‘I retired from heists a year ago because museums are fucking boring so I have moved on to finding new and creative ways to eliminate anything that might be the cause of Chan’s suffering.’

“…You play the violin beautifully,” Chan will suggest quietly beside you, his hand laced with yours beneath the table. “And you interrupt my reading time whenever you need attention.”

“I…I like to be with you,” you will finally find the courage to say with a firm squeeze of his hand, and the strength to smile when his eyes widen faintly, flustered yet not surprised. 

Still, it doesn’t matter whether Chan was born from a mafia family. You don’t hesitate to hold his hand beneath the table when Chan tenses up from the disappointed gaze of his father, lean over ever so slightly, and whisper, “I like to be with you.” He almost gasps but refrains. “Wherever we are. As long as you allow me to stay by your side.”

For once, Chan lets himself think that he won’t fuck up something before he even gets to have it in his arms. 

You did come home with Chan even if the dinner is anything but cozy and mundane. Their smiles are cold porcelain, a familiarity with death so staggering you feel nauseous. They are all here, though. Every single one of them. “I’ll be back,” you say and excuse yourself to use the restroom, he assumes.

Chan finds an uneasy slick in his throat, almost thick like blood when he sees a bright thing in your eyes. He lets you go anyway. Will things happen differently if he holds you back? 

Minutes after your withdrawal from the dinner table, an explosion goes off downstairs. The mansion quivers with a long string of rumble, a horrible feeling looming over everyone in the room like an ugly shadow. Though, no one bats an eye. Maintaining such a high position in the Underworld for so long is more than enough for the bounty on each of their heads to go up to millions of dollars. 

As much as Chan detests his blood family, he doesn’t want to die here, a horrendous place for his corpse to be found. So he stands as the rest of the room begins arming themselves, doing his best not to pay any heed to his father, and bolts downstairs. 

In situations like this, he is taught to close his heart and kill. Hence why there was barely any screaming when the commotion occurred, only the metallic sounds of bullets being clicked into their chamber. Truth be told, there is a weapon vault on the main floor of the mansion. Chan knows the most efficient shortcut there and can run through any hallways even without any lights on. He did grow up in this terrible place, and now he will make use of that to get you out of here before anything else. 

Chan arrives at the main floor and there is nothing but a giant hole and crumbled metal pieces in the weapon vault—or what used to be the weapon vault, blown up by a bomb it seems. Well, shit, he doesn’t even know how to register this. The entrance to his father’s most treasured place in the mansion has a three-layered door with an extremely lethal surveillance system, who and how the fuck-

He stops. He doesn’t so much as twitch. It gives him a moment of pure chill when the main floor has gone completely muted, both audibly and visually, like his life has just tipped off balance and leaned towards the bad part of a zombie movie. Upstairs, there is a cry for help and the sound of bullets continuously firing. 

“My fucking god,” Chan curses and turns on his heels, steeling himself mentally while rushing up the stairs. 

Upon arriving at the scene, it’s difficult to say whether turning up just five minutes earlier would have made much of a difference. Fuck, but if he had held you back, would things have taken a different turn?

There is a lot of blood. Too much blood to be explained away, and too much evidence to be traced back to no one else other than you. Well, to be fair, you’re the only person still standing and kicking aside from Chan anyway. The shotgun in your hand with a silencer attached speaks volumes, a knife between your teeth, and your left hand is fisted tightly. 

“…Y-Y/N,” Chan utters, in disbelief. “You’re Y/N, aren’t you?” 

You release something in your left hand and several fifteen-bullet magazines drop to the ground, the sound scratching his spine in the wrong way. The knife also hits the ground, metal echoing loudly against hard marble. 

“You’re here, Chan,” you reply, like your hands and clothes aren’t painted red. Swiftly, you duck to fumble for something beneath the dining table. Chan’s gaze follows you suit, prompting uneasiness to crawl down his throat when he realizes everything is, quite literally, drenched in blood. When he manages to snap out of it, you are unwrapping something from a white blanket—Berry, his eight-year-old Spaniel. 

You don’t look one bit surprised to see him—you have been expecting him. You simply keep on tucking Berry neatly into the blanket, murmuring something along the lines of ‘it’s over now’ and ‘I’m sorry I scared you’. Berry offers you a small whimper in return, still startled and recovering from the loud ruckus. 

Chan inhales very slowly. Exhales. “What did you do?”

“I killed everyone here,” you say levelly, as if mass murder is no big deal. “You’re a little late. I thought your intuition would be keener than that.”

“This is no time for a fucking joke,” he snaps. Chan has snapped because he’s mad at himself. He has been living purely by his intuition for more than two decades already, without it he would have died a long time ago. Yet when it comes to you, he’s always the most irrational. 

Your lips twitch like you’re about to smile but realize he’s upset. “You’re right, sorry.” 

Chan moves further into the room, his shoes squelching with each blood-drenched step he takes. He takes the scene in once again and keeps calm because that is what he has trained himself to do ever since the first time he got kidnapped. When his gaze brushes over the corpse of his father, he tries not to think about anything just yet. What’s done is done but Chan can piece the scene together from the explosion downstairs—a bait that anyone will be eager to take and a good way to disarm your enemies—to the scattering of hole-filled bodies, their blood blooming against the marble floor like a grotesque bouquet.

The crux of it is you know all too well he will run to find you without question, lending you the space and time to kill whoever remains.

“Why?”

Your eyes sweep over the mass of bodies, dull and distant. “Does it really matter?” You don’t think it’s fair to say you did it because you love him; it will become a curse that haunts him for as long as he lives. Yes, you love Chan with your entire soul but you also simply want to act as you please, allowing yourself to have your selfish ways of declaring your love for him. 

His chest heaves without any stability. “I thought you said you’re used to taking many things but you don’t take lives!!”

You cut right in, all glass. “Will anyone be able to do anything about it? Can anyone possibly arrest me, Chan?” 

Chan shudders, a sour thing gnawing at the back of his throat. It’s a morbid feeling he knows will become recurring at night, on the bad days. Chan wants to be furious, it feels like a moral obligation to be. Then again, everything the world has learned about empathy is already torn up by his family, they smeared it beneath their feet like it’s common trash. In the end, all of his nightmares and source of fear amounts to this, a mass of corpses with no resolution. 

“Do you want to kill me, Chan? If so, do it. You’re your own person, you are free.” 

Your eyes have turned into ice, and suddenly you have become so intangible that Chan slowly grows afraid. He thinks of terrible things, Am I allowed to have you? What makes you want me so badly? Why am I different from any of them?

The sound of retching interrupts his train of thought. It takes him precisely half a second to stare at how you are folded over your knees, dry heaving at the marble floor with Berry fumbling for help right at your side. Chan rushes to you to keep your hair out of your face as you gasp for air, choking on stomach bile and body raking with shudders. Once his hand smooths over the fabric on your back, you eventually cough and hack out the last of whatever is left that your system rejects. 

You breathe as shallowly as you can. Quiet wheezes, hollow breaths that pull in and out of your lungs too quickly. Chan rubs small, gentle circles on your back and doesn’t expect it when you snap up to look at him with wide, pained eyes as though you didn’t just murder his entire family in cold blood minutes ago, like you didn’t just take out the Underworld’s most feared lineage of demons by yourself.

Chan decides not to say anything, lets you lean into him shakily, and tries to figure out what you’re attempting to do with your hands. Dry blood makes your skin itchy every time your fingers twitch but you don’t mind it. 

“I’m here, I’m here,” he finally whispers with you sitting in the circle of his arms; you’re shaking like you’re sobbing even though you make no noise and cry no tears. Chan lets you squirm with a wild mania in your eyes, frantic and lost. He can’t quite pinpoint what you want until he gets it. 

You stop shaking the moment your head leans against the left side of his chest, right where his beating heart is. A pattern in his rib cage and a rhythm in your ears, relief so immense you feel like you can finally breathe. What you want is just to hear the sound of his heartbeat. It makes Chan feel a little exposed, somewhat scrutinized but he really doesn’t mind taking himself apart to hand his heart over to you. 

“I’m sorry,” you mumble, your tone wet and warm with oncoming tears. 

Chan presses his lips into a thin line, feeling like a hypocrite when he keeps you caged in his arms. “What are you sorry for, silly?” From the bottom of his heart, it’s abominable, he thinks—that even amidst such gruesome bloodshed created by your own hands, Chan is relieved that you are not hurt.

“I’m sorry this isn’t real.”

fourth attempt —

Chan is coming home with you. The childhood home you used to grow up in with two extremely loving, a little too oblivious parents who never once questioned their daughter’s occupation in the big city. 

It takes time to adjust but Chan is sliding into your little family without noticing it himself. He manages to impress your mom with his cooking and discusses politics with your dad. You might be going delusional but you swear you saw him chuckling faintly at your parents’ terrible taste of reality TV. 

The house might only amount to one-tenth of his mansion but it smells like fresh laundry all around, tender and soft, smothered in the love of ordinary human beings. So everything just feels that much bigger, a love so warm and overwhelming it stains Chan’s eyes with unfamiliar myriads of emotions. It takes him a few days to finally laugh a little louder, not refraining his speech to specifically formal phrases, and allowing himself to nag you in front of your parents. He even makes a sound of disbelief when you keep telling them he’s only a friend from work.

“Oh my god, why are you so salty about it,” you chide and close your bedroom door. “If I had said you’re my boyfriend, they would have started interrogating you!” 

Chan sits on the duvet you have laid on the floor for him—your childhood bed is too small to share—and mumbles something morbid under his breath, “I am quite good at tolerating any methods of torture thank you very much.” However, he doesn’t miss the look your parents give you whenever you bid them goodnight with Chan hovering over you in a way that’s nowhere near platonic.

You snort, actually, no, it’s too bitter for you to even react. “The worst they will do is leave you out when we watch TV,” you grin to relieve the inevitably building tension, shit-eating and all.

“That’s cruel. You know I love reality TV,” Chan replies, completely monotone. He flings an arm over his eyes like he’s putting in effort to mimic a dying body trying to convey his love in a Shakespeare play. Wrestling with like ten other housewives to buy those eggs on sale for your mom was more of a workout than any gun fights he has engaged in.

“Sleep. Mom said we’re going outside tomorrow,” you huff, tossing him a teddy bear from your bed—the amount of stuffed animals you own is impressive, they easily take up half of your bed so Chan had to accept his fate with the duvet. 

“I thought we’re heading back?”

“We will after going out with her. She said she wanted something from the bakery.”

Chan hums in response, his gaze skimming over the interior of your room again. Light pink wallpapers, white bookshelves and wardrobe lining the corners, and soft hues of blue on your bed and curtains to top it all off. “Truly, you are the designer of a generation.”

“Toddlers usually don’t like black. And I was eight, Chan, shut the fuck up,” you laugh, the sound so hearty it makes him want to bottle it and keep it all to himself like a child hiding his favorite candy. 

“Hurts my eyes a little, but I like it,” he declares and unwinds for the day.

You never realize you don’t really walk around town every time you visit your parents. Maybe it’s because you didn’t have many friends growing up, meaning there’s no one to call up for a hangout, or maybe it’s because all of the memories you want to relive here are with your parents, in the warmth of their home. So you walk down the sleepy streets with laziness on your shoulders, somewhat at peace when Chan can’t seem to keep his eyes in one place, secretly comparing the imageries of bright, colorful Seoul with this hazy rural area.

“What is that place over there?” He asks when you stride past a sketchy-looking building when in reality, it’s a spa run by this really nice old lady upstairs.

“Did you go to school here?” He ponders when you glance at what looks like a middle school; no kids are running and shouting in the playground since it’s the New Year holiday. 

Your mom notices how much curiosity Chan has for an apparent mid-twenties young adult so she giggles, offering to point out something she thinks he might be interested in, “That’s a small park Y/N used to play at. She wouldn’t leave when I came to pick her up after work.”

You can’t decide if you should scowl at your mom or burst out laughing at her implication that Chan, the leader of a notorious mafia group, should go and sit on one of the swings while she heads inside the bakery. “Come on, Chan,” you quickly make your choice. 

Chan sighs, though the sound is fond because he sees a sort of excitement blooming loud and clear in your pretty eyes. You have observed Chan long enough to know when he has given in so you laugh, turning to your mom and saying, “We’ll be back in a minute.” The familiar promise melts Chan inside out but he doesn’t tell you that. 

You accidentally drop your phone while walking down the stone steps so you turn away for half a second. And when you look back, Chan is seated neatly on the swing which is definitely not fitting for his age—his long legs dragging against the soil as his arms are crossed in front of his chest. As serious as he tries to look, you find the whole imagery so ridiculously unserious. He senses your gaze burning holes on the back of his neck so he stands, reaches upward, and lifts himself to sit on the metal bar that the chains rain down from.

“Chan, what the fuck, that’s not how you use a swing,” you chide, nearly rolling on the ground and barking a laugh. “If I take a photo of you right now, how dead am I?”

Chan doesn’t even need to turn his head. “What do you think?”

He looks down when your footsteps squish against the snow and he tries to imagine how a little you would hang around this place for an entire afternoon, up to no good things while waiting for your mom. “Concise as always, boss,” you purse your lips at him, nostalgia a heavy weight on the curve of your shoulders as you peer over places you used to designate as your hiding spots. 

Chan catches something shifting on your face and he ponders; why would you voluntarily involve yourself in outlaw doings when you could have had a perfectly normal life? “When did you start stealing?” 

“Probably when my parents sent me away for university. I hated it. School was hard and the expenses were awful for their bank accounts but they wouldn’t tell me that,” you mutter and decide to join him, legs dangling over the edges, a confession dragged from your lips unwillingly. 

Chan scoots a little closer, a hand reaching over to your left side to keep you from falling. “And you figured you were pretty good at it?”

“Nothing to be proud of, obviously,” you shake your head and can’t help a small grin. “Okay, maybe just a little. I was making money from racing on the side as well.” 

It takes him a moment to register your words when surprise halts the words in his throat. No wonder you’re better at handling car chases than any of his teammates who have been involved in this business for years. You look over at him, seeing that he’s having trouble reacting so you pinch his nose teasingly, “I know, so sexy, ain’t it?” 

Chan rolls his eyes, neglects the warmth spreading on his cheeks, and simply sits with you. The swing creaks and groans beneath the weight of two adults, rust staining his hand when he lifts it to check. 

“It was enough money for me to graduate and I was fine with that. Mind you I was always the top of my class,” you scoff, thinking of long days when you used to get little to no sleep, of when you had mustered the best smiles for your parents through FaceTime, of how you had begun not caring for how much money the jewels you had stolen were worth. 

None of it matters anymore, you think as you lean into Chan, and he lets you. “I’ll guess this, you were homeschooled?”

Chan doesn’t answer immediately as realization tightens his ribs. You don’t talk about home or how you grew up, and Chan doesn’t talk about his parents. Perhaps you both are similar in that way so neither of you mind when the other person never initiated it. “I was. Everything I ever learned was taught in that forsaken mansion. Most of it, actually.”

“Everything?”

“You can’t run away from what you’re surrounded with,” he says, and there’s a chilling edge to it, an icy kind of shiver that makes your fingers more numb than the winter cold ever can. 

“Chan, you’re not them,” you declare out of the blue, eyes crinkling up in adoration. “You are free, okay? No matter how hard they try to ruin you, you can’t become them.”

When you look up again, his eyes have a glassy shine when he says, “I know that now.”

“Don’t cry,” you huff out a breath.

“I’m not crying,” Chan shakes his head slowly, voice suspiciously shaky. “I guess I just thought you had a lot to live for and I was…you know, it was arrogant of me to keep you by my side.”

You laugh, a sharp, crisp bark of a sound that cuts right through his doubts. “Who do you think you’re talking to? If I wanted to run, I would have and no one could catch me, not now, not ever.”

“Well, I did,” Chan retorts, though there is no bite to it.

“Only because I let you,” you play along sedately. It’s the soft hum of your voice that makes breathing for him feel easier, and his shoulders feel lighter. When Chan exhales, it no longer tastes like the unfathomable, untouchable nightmares that he was so used to choke down, swallow, and not allow himself to throw them up as proof to show anyone else. 

Your mom returns perhaps in about an hour, a box tucked in her arms and groceries hanging from her elbow. “Time to go back,” she yells from the top of the stone steps. “We need to cook dinner, kids!”

You don’t dare budge. Chan notices it and nudges your shoulder gently, sensing your discontent. “You heard your mom, come on now.”

“I don’t want to go back,” you disagree. “Let’s stay here. I want to go to the beach with you when it gets warmer. And diving, kayaking, too!”

“You told me to leave my credit cards back home. You’ll have to feed me and pay all of my expenses,” Chan reminds you.

“Guess what, I left mine at home too,” you reply breezily. Maybe you both need to find new jobs. You don’t think Chan should worry about that because there’s nothing that he can’t do if he puts his mind to it, he’s just that great. Chan is the greatest thing there is, the best thing that has ever happened to you.

You watch rosy lips part, brown eyes widening as his grip on your shoulder falters faintly. “I don’t deserve good things, Y/N. I can’t stay here with you,” Chan says like he means it. “Tell me to leave.” He really is stupid until the very end.

“If you’re worried about that, I’ll kindly decline my spot in heaven and go to hell with you,” you assure him, your voice chirping with mirth but even that doesn’t seem to elevate his gloom at all. A groan. “Fine then, as the most wonderful person alive, I now denounce us of all our wrongdoings. And I announce us to be the best of normal friends as normal people!”

His solemn expression crumbles and now he just looks straight up insulted. “It’s supposed to be ‘husband and wife’,” Chan nags while fighting off a grin of his own.

A light feeling burgeons in your chest. “I thought you didn’t care about that kind of thing? We’re already doing laundry and taxes together, right? It’s not like we have enough money to buy the rings either.”

“I suppose I’ll have no say in that,” Chan sighs in defeat, finally smiling brightly as he reminds himself of what he has, and what he wants to become for you. “But I like to be with you as well. If you’ll have me.”

You look back at him, wanting nothing more than to burn those words into the flesh of your heart. “I already have you right here, don’t I?”

Because Chan’s existence is etched deeply somewhere inside your soul. And you love him everyday for that.

If it were the me of a month ago, I would have said yes. Simple reason right, because it creates a nice silver lining. The one thing that brought them together at the beginning was now the thing that tied them to each other for the rest of their life together. But now, I would say no. Chan would simply put it in a box and place it in a drawer, not in the glass display of his father’s museum because it’s his way of moving on from his trauma and leaving his mother to finally rest in peace.

To make it worse, if it’s not enough angst already, Chan must have already bought MC a brand new ring but his shitty self-worth was holding him back. He was afraid of things that may never even happen. As someone who was raised to be a killer leading other killers, he never thought of how he could be gentle with someone like he’s touching glass. Oh my god NOT TO MENTION because he was forced to kill his own mother, the one person that wholeheartedly loved him, it created this negative association when it comes to affection and being tied down with someone for life.

I pretty much rushed through his past and lore but to be clear, he wasn’t that good at being a god and heaven definitely was fucked up in its system one way or another. He was an idealist, or heaven simply conditioned him to be that way. Evil should be obliterated so only good things remain, a very black and white principle. In reality, the world is not ideal; not to mention, there exists an agonizing amount of gray areas.

Minho was constantly trying to help anyone and everyone because he’s a god, he’s supposed to know everything and able to do anything. Gods don’t complain, gods don’t feel pain, gods don’t bleed. “I am only human,” is what many would think when faced with impossible hardships but what about non-humans? Gods are worshipped, gods are whatever labels people stick onto them without asking for it. If they don’t answer a prayer, they are cursed at. If they do answer a prayer, every expectation and condition must be met, no accidents or slacking would be tolerated. It's a big deal because it has a lot to do with a mortal's life, right? Mortals are weaklings because they bruise and bleed and cry and eventually die. What about gods, then? Does their life and well-being mean any less just because they are not able to physically die?

I was going in circles a little there but get this, when faced with that reality of a grey world, Minho could only hold on for so long before shattering under the pressure. Good intentions could only get him so far. Because how many times had he saved someone because everyone deserves salvation and that person had gone out to kill other people? If he knew even just the approximate number of it (consider the fact that he’s 800 years old), he would throw up.

The fic is set during the period long after his banishment from heaven and I think I did subtly hint at the fact that he has begun to accept consequentialism. He was homeless for months not because he couldn’t make enough money but he thought a house wasn’t necessary. He didn’t need food either because, well, he wasn’t allowed to die. Minho was working diligently and saving up a bigger amount for something significant in the future. He didn’t want to relax, he was afraid of rewarding himself in any way because the good consequences he was expecting overruled mundane things like good food or nice clothes. As someone who was conditioned to believe he only deserves good things when he delivers good results, it’s difficult to not associate satisfaction with trauma. (He had to so constantly switch jobs because as a god, he found it hard to control his strength and would often break things or create opportunities for people to question his inhumane capabilities).

In the haze of his delirium, he discerned the telltale squeak of the doorknob turning. He didn't bother sitting upright and greeting his visitors. It hurt, so all he could do was flop to his other side and watch with heavy lids.

“Hyunjin, you’ve got a new friend.”

Mercy. Where could they have found this one?

He blinked once to look at a figure barely tall enough to reach the teacher’s hip. The blue lapels on her plain tunic were like a flame in darkness.

She’s a special one.

Squinting, he made out the stitched lettering on her breast pocket.

G-6-3.

Y/n.

How unfortunate. She was younger than him.

“Go on, Y/n. And you be nice, Hyunjin.”

He pushed himself to sit, his answer slurred, “Yes, teacher.”

The teacher smiled. It was as unfeeling as the crisp, white coat dressing his body. Though when he turned, the emblem of a black iris embroidered on his back seemed to sneer with wicked glee.

The door closed, and the girl’s eyes bored into him relentlessly. Hyunjin was sure she expected something from him, but he was content to disappoint.

Flopping back on the mattress, he grumbled, “Your side is over there. Sleep or figure out something else to do. I don’t care.”

“But I can’t sleep!” her protest was immediate. “Mama said if I was a good student today, she’ll take me to the toy store later.”

Hyunjin pulled his blanket over his head, muffling the scoff that slipped from his lips.

Some promise that was.

•⭓•

Hyunjin’s new friends always cried after the first day of being in this room, and you were no different.

“Come on, now, Y/n. If you do as you’re told—”

“No! I want Mama! She said she’ll take me today!”

“Yes, yes. If you come to class with me, I’m sure—”

“No! No! No!”

Hyunjin buried himself deeper under his blanket in a fruitless attempt to drown out the racket. Class was of the utmost importance for all children, so no matter how loud or how insistent your wailing was, you wouldn’t win against the teacher.

Gradually, your voice would wither away, your tears would dry, and you would find yourself seated in a classroom, listening to the teachers drone on and on about creation and mortality.

One step at a time. One day at a time. Until you forgot your mother’s promises.

It was only the natural course of events in this school.

Through the warm cocoon of his blanket, Hyunjin heard the teacher sigh. Deep and uncomfortably long.

“Your mother won’t be happy to know how disobedient you’re being.”

His stomach twisted for the briefest moment. He had seen children be forcefully dragged to class before, and it never ended prettily.

But you didn’t know that, so you screamed.

“I’m not going!”

This was stupid. You were only making trouble for yourself, and it annoyed him.

Stupid.

This is so stupid.

And because it was so stupid, Hyunjin flung the blanket off himself, sprung upright, and called out, “Teacher!”

The teacher looked at him, clearly exasperated.

“What is it, Hyunjin?”

Your crying hiccuped to a halt as you stared. Cheeks glistening with tears and snot trailing down your chin, he would say you looked pathetic, but what else would he expect of a six-year-old?

If anything, he found himself to be the pathetic one.

“I’ll go to class.”

There was silence, and he repeated, “Let me go to class in her place.”

“Oh?” the teacher frowned. “But you don’t have class today.”

Hyunjin could still feel a dull ache in his bones, but he ignored it as he hopped off the comfort of his bed.

“Let me go.”

He stepped toward the teacher and grabbed the sleeve of his white coat. His gaze had lost all feeling years ago, but the teachers seemed to like seeing that depravity in him.

Hyunjin grinned and his words felt like mouthfuls of filthy dirt.

“I want to become a god, after all.”

•⭓•

It wasn’t always like this.

Hyunjin remembered the beginning.

B-0-2.

Hyunjin.

He was born within these walls, hence the zero in his identification number.

A normal school. A normal family. He grew up alongside five brothers and two sisters.

And they were to become gods.

So they studied well and played little and listened to their teachers. Gods were wise and all-knowing and did not indulge in trivialities, after all.

But one day, the teachers watched them bleed and cooed that the gods had to bleed for their people too. That only through suffering were they born.

Then, one by one, his family slept and never reawakened. Somehow, he remained, like a curse, like the stubborn blood stains on the floors of class.

Though, there were always new friends to join his family, so maybe it wasn’t so bad.

They studied, then bled, then left him like clockwork.

Hyunjin was sure that would be your fate too, and you were crying today as well, as though you knew.

“Hey.”

You ignored him, and he shifted to sit, hugging his blanket close to his body.

“I can’t sleep. Shut up.”

You were slouching against the room’s door, still wailing as though it hadn’t been nearly a week since you were brought in. Perhaps it was precisely because it had been a week did you continue to cry for your mother. Either way, Hyunjin was tired of it.

He tsked, muscles spasming as his feet touched the carpeted ground. Leaving the safety of his blankets, he reached for the bookcase snugly positioned between your two beds. The uppermost shelf of the case was empty, for his arms could not reach it, but the rest carried a neat collection of books and toys.

Like his spacious bed and warm blankets, they were his rewards for being such an outstanding student.

Hyunjin grabbed the smallest book then stepped toward you with a wince.

“Hey.”

No use.

“Look at this book,” he said, waving the item in blue binding with the most interest he could muster. “Seems fun.”

You blinked at him once as if assessing the so-called ‘fun’ then decided that it wasn’t worth your time and resumed your tearful performance.

Sighing, Hyunjin stared at the ceiling.

This was so stupid, and he was too exhausted to deal with it.

So, he did not bother.

Ignoring the jolt of pain, he lowered himself to sit in front of you and opened the book to read as loudly as he possibly could.

“Do you know the color of the sea?”

•⭓•

“Read for me! C’mon, Jin-Jin!”

Hyunjin rolled further into his blanket as if the action would block out your voice.

“Read by yourself. And stop calling me that.”

“But that’s no fun,” you whined, and he felt the dip of your small hands on the mattress. Faint thumps accompanied your badgering, “Get up, get up, get up. You’re no fun.”

Your battery of his mattress wasn’t going to change a thing, really, but you continued.

Hyunjin supposed he had no one but himself to blame for this becoming a routine. He was the one who tried to distract you by reading books in the first place. It worked, and you stopped crying, but now his precious sleep time was squandered by your requests to read and play instead. Maybe it was because he knew a few more words than you did, or maybe it was because you were bored, but you insisted to such a stubborn degree that eventually, he would find himself relenting.

Despite his most earnest wishes, today was no different.

After ten or so minutes, Hyunjin huffed in annoyance and untangled himself from his blankets to sit upright.

“Give me that book,” he grumbled, snatching it from your hands as you cheered, undeniably victorious.

It was a small book in blue binding.

He frowned. This old thing again?

He’d read the same book for you over and over again for the past week because you kept bringing it to him, much to his utter bewilderment.

It was a book for toddlers, so why were so obsessed with it?

Hyunjin’s mouth opened to ask, but then he closed it. He wasn’t that interested in understanding your thought process. Besides, finishing this easy little book meant that he could go to sleep sooner, so perhaps he should mind his own business.

You placed your elbows on the edge of his bed, leaning in to watch as he flipped over the first page.

“Do you know the color of the sea?” he read, and you recited along with him, somehow finding enjoyment in the simple words.

“The color of the sea is blue, like a big, shiny sapphire.

“Do you know the color of a sapphire?

“The color of a sapphire…”

And so it continued, the book of blue things, which seemed to be your favorite.

Hyunjin turned the last page, eyes taking in the sprawling illustration of an endless, open azure. The words printed in white jeered at him.

“Do you know the color of the sky?”

Even when his voice dwindled, you chanted, “The color of the sky is blue, like the beautiful, wide sea!”

That was it. He should’ve closed the book and buried himself in his blanket, but Hyunjin did neither. Instead, he asked, almost to himself, “What is the color of the sky?”

You looked at him like he’d grown a second head. “It’s blue.”

“You think so?” he let out a curt, dry laugh.

Hyunjin had never seen the sky. In all his eleven years, he’d only caught glimpses of it from beyond the school’s towering walls.

That blank, blue, never-ending canvas pictured in the book, blanketing every living being, was almost terrifying to imagine.

He shut the small book and flopped to lie on his bed, proclaiming, “I think the sky is green.”

“What?” you deadpanned behind him. “That doesn’t make sense.”

Maybe you were right. He didn’t really care because at that point, he could no longer feel his arms. “I don’t know.”

If he couldn’t see the sky, then he couldn’t see this blue you spoke of. As far as he was concerned, the sky was any color he wanted it to be.

“You’re wrong. It’s blue. I saw it myself.”

You were so stubborn it made Hyunjin want to laugh as he sank further into the suffocating warmth of his blanket.

He truly pitied himself.

“Right. I’m gonna sleep now so don’t bother me.”

•⭓•

It hurt, and Hyunjin thought this would finally be it.

He’d been floating in a sea of his own consciousness for days. In and out of sleep. In and out of pain.

Sometimes he would catch your voice and feel you tug at his blanket to wake up. Sometimes he would bask in the eerie quiet of his blank mind.

Sometimes he would imagine his brothers and sisters running across the halls, laughing their hearts out, calling his name.

Screaming.

Or maybe he was the one screaming, because it felt like he was falling, tumbling helplessly into the bottomless abyss.

Hyunjin was jolted awake, his body half rising before it slumped back on the bed, lifeless as doll’s.

There was a gasp somewhere in the room, followed by the soft padding of feet.

“Are you awake?” you asked, seemingly unaware of his suffering.

He could only groan in response. Neither affirming nor denying because if he were to be honest, Hyunjin wasn’t sure himself. He could be hallucinating.

He probably was.

You were silent for a few long moments, and then—

“Will you read for me?”

Soft, hesitant, scared. Perhaps you weren’t so unaware after all.

For some reason, he felt sorry.

“Later, maybe,” he forced his voice through his throat. “Wanna sleep right now.”

“Do you promise?” Hyunjin could guess the expression you wore as you said that. Wide, hopeful eyes. He might’ve only known you for a month, but you were so easy to read.

So open and honest to still believe in promises.

“Yeah. Promise.”

“Really?”

You never did allow him a moment of respite, did you? But Hyunjin was tired. So, so tired, and he wanted nothing more than to fall asleep. So he let his heavy lids fall and his breathing settle with one last reassurance.

“Cross my heart.”

Some promise that was.

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“Had fun snooping around?” she tilted her head. “Tell me, what were you doing here?” 

His snarl was like a crack of thunder. “What did you do with Chan?”

“Chan? Ah, your detective friend.”

Felix’s blood became ice in his veins.

“Hah. And you think I know something about him?”

“Of course you do,” he clenched his jaw. “He was investigating you when he disappeared. Tell me what you did to him.”

“That’s exactly what I’m curious about myself. Why were you investigating me?”

“What?”

As though the chill he felt coursing through his body wasn’t enough, another wave slammed into him.

“Surely you didn’t think it would be this easy to track me down?”

It was easy, and it was unbelievable, but Felix had paid it no mind at the time.

“W-Wait…”

Now, though, it felt like the ground was caving in beneath his feet.

“You mean you lured me here…and only to ask that?”

Here, cornered in an alleyway behind the abandoned warehouse which he had been eavesdropping on.

“Look at you. You’re quite adept at your job, detective,” the humor in her voice was as cold as the gleam of her gun, still magnanimously directed at his skull. “Now, tell me. What were you looking for?”

So what if it was all a setup? If answering her questions would give Felix his answers, then so be it.

“There’s a plot of land that the City Council wants to purchase,” he began, holding her cool gaze in defiance of the gaping gun barrel, “But the owner is unnamed and the land itself is suspicious. Senior Investigator Bang Chan was appointed to the task, and our investigation led us to you before he deemed it unsafe. One day later, he’s missing. And you want me to believe it wasn’t your doing?”

There was a stretch of silence before she sighed, retracting her weapon and turning away, “I thought as much.”

Just like that?

Felix peeled himself off the grimy wall and forced his legs to trail after her. “Hold on!”

She was dangerous.

She was dangerous.

She was dangerous.

He knew that, and he was sorry to the friend who relentlessly cautioned him, but he needed her.

“Isn’t your partner dead?” 

The Shadow Front’s Left Claw, the infamous, burgundy-dressed killer, halted in her step. An excruciating stillness swallowed the narrow alleyway, squeezing the air out of his lungs, and it seemed to last a lifetime and a half—

But then she shrugged her shoulders without a care.

“So they say. They didn’t let me see his corpse, though.”

Whispers of his death had been rippling throughout the underworld. The Shadow Front’s Right Claw, the one-eyed brute who always appeared alongside that murderous woman.

Invoking his name was sure to stir something in her, and Felix was prepared to lie to obtain her aid.

“But it’s curious, isn’t it?” she swiveled around to face him again before he could say anything, and the nonchalance in her tone unnerved him. “My partner dies, and the next day, your detective disappears, both having been investigating a similar case.”

She raised a finger in the air, an eerie imitation of a teacher in a classroom. “My theory is that the two of them stumbled upon information they shouldn’t have and were eliminated as a consequence.”

It was an excellent theory and the worst possible scenario Felix could imagine.

Eliminated?

It couldn’t be. He refused to let it be.

But it made sense. The coincidence was glaring.

“Here’s a deal for you, kid.”

Her voice startled him, suddenly too close as she pressed a single finger square against his chest. Perhaps he should have been afraid then, when she smiled and her eyes reflected nothing but an endless, unfeeling void.

“Work with me and I’ll find your friend for you.”

•⭓•

He wasn’t sure if he imagined it, but there was something amiss about the atmosphere in this car. Felix glanced at your reflection in the tinted window, shuffling through the case files he’d smuggled out of the station.

It was unnerving, this silence of yours.

As though all that had transpired in the alleyway were but an act, you sat there devoid of emotion. Not once did your brows furrow or did your lips press into a concentrated line, body as still as a statue. It was unlike the image Felix had constructed of you after collecting all those street rumors—that wildcard of a mafioso you were in his mind.

Could it be because of that man? Felix wondered.

Perhaps criminals felt grief, after all.

“What’s wrong?”

The other man in the car asked, his eyes not once straying from the road he was driving through.

The righthand man, Felix determined, having nothing but his prior intelligence to piece his identity. The third person in this car was known across the city for his frightening loyalty to none other than the Left Claw—you, who sighed after a moment’s contemplation, “These files are both useful and utterly useless.”

Felix couldn’t stop his shocked interjection. “What do you mean?”

“Nothing here is new information, though I had hoped otherwise. And yet…” you trailed off, flipping through the most recent file.

 “You say your detective disappeared on the twenty-third?”

Felix’s balled fists tightened where they were placed over his thighs. “Yes.”

“And his car was found on the highway bordering the Angelrise Forest.”

“Yes.”

“That’s impossible,” you proclaimed, tossing the file in your hands back into the box snugly seated beside you, and your nonchalance caused Felix’s heart to race, panicked.

“What do you—”

“We wiped out the head of the operation that occupied the plot of land on the twenty-second of this month,” you provided, and he exhaled, vaguely relieved.

“So, you do know who the land belonged to.”

You fell into that disconcerting silence again, before scoffing so softly, “No. Seems I never did.”

It wasn’t only grief, Felix concluded then, high on the rush of meeting you and sneaking the case files out of the station. There was something dark and bitter twisted within your words. A glimpse that was urgently replaced by a commanding tone, “Jisung, let’s head to the warehouse in the West Port.”

“Are you sure? There might be nothing left there,” the righthand man, Jisung, expressed his concern with the slightest frown, but his doubts were cast aside by your despondent murmuring.

In the reflection, Felix saw you rest your head against the window, solemnly gazing at the passing scenery.

“Who knows? We might’ve missed something there.”

•⭓•

“Looks like they cleaned this place out already,” Jisung commented, glancing at your surroundings, and you strode past him.

“Still, let’s see if we can find a clue.”

Somehow, Felix had tagged along this search and now found himself trudging through the rubble and soot-covered remains of this dubious warehouse. The structure of the building survived the minor explosion, miraculously, but the roof of the once-warehouse had been completely obliterated. So, the rosy sunset sky made for your canopy instead.

Felix didn’t know what exactly he had to be seeking. Amid all the destruction, he doubted anything survived in the first place, and if what Jisung claimed was true, then the chances of finding clues were even smaller.

Yet, he scoured the burnt wreckage because that was what you were doing too. It was only after half an hour’s worth of quiet work did he notice some commotion coming from your direction and stopped his searching.

You were clutching a small item in your hand, blackened and indiscernible, and before Felix could ask about it, you fished your phone out of your pocket and made a hasty call.

“Hey, I found a phone—scorched, practically melted—but do you think you could salvage something from it?”

•⭓•

It had been bothering Felix.

“Good. This might just lead us to them,” you said as you stuffed the burnt phone in your burgundy coat, which was marred with the slightest smudges of soot.

“I hope so,” Jisung concurred. His own suit was all-black, so no evidence of the past half-hour’s work showed on him. “Let’s leave for now. This area is too exposed.”

“I don’t understand,” Felix’s voice cut through your exchange, and the two of you stopped in your tracks to stare at him questioningly.

“I thought you said they were likely eliminated, yet you speak as if they’re merely lost.”

“Oh, I don’t know about your detective, but I know my partner isn’t dead,” you shrugged, and there was that unsettling calmness again. Where he found the courage to keep speaking with you, he didn’t know, but a meager voice in his head whispered that maybe he should cease garnering that mysterious bravery.

That maybe he could live his life without needing to know the inner mind-workings of an infamous killer.

You ambled toward him in lazy steps, hands stuffed in your pockets as you went on.

“I mean…a warehouse explosion is simply too dramatic, it makes no sense. His death would most likely be by a gunshot to the back or something just as anticlimactic.”

But death had no rhyme or reason, that much was a truth Felix knew wholeheartedly. Trying to find justification behind fate’s workings would only extend one’s grief and expend their will.

You came to stand a couple of steps before him and declared with all your twisted normalcy.

“I’m going to find him and kill him myself instead.”

What the actual hell.

“What about you?”

You inquired in spite of the sheer horror that spiked his heartbeat. Kill him?

And there he thought you were grieving.

“He’s your home, isn’t that why you want to find your detective?” you prompted, and you were right. Chan was the only person on this terrible earth he’d consider family.

“That’s good. Homes are nice,” like a random busybody on the street, you kept talking, entirely disregarding the one-sidedness of the conversation. Or maybe you were simply unbothered by it. “I left mine when I was barely a teenager.

“Wanna know what I did when I left?”

Felix wasn’t particularly curious, now, given your recent record.

“I burnt it all to the ground.”

There was no gravity in your tone and clearly not a shred of remorse. Felix was glad he couldn’t see your eyes then, for you had tilted your head to face the darkening sky amid your confession.

“I let the children escape, of course, but everyone else? Gone in a brilliant blaze.”

Arson, murder, and what he could only assume was the world’s most staggering collection of crimes seemed to make up your past. It should’ve made him ill simply thinking about it.

But perhaps he wasn’t thinking, otherwise he would’ve missed the barest whisper that left your lips.

“The sky was beautiful that day. Though, I suppose today is different.”

You brought your attention back to him, mysteriously revitalized despite his non-participation in this conversation. “Tell me, what do you think is the color of the sky?”

“Uh…” Felix blinked, entirely taken aback by both your question and your multiplying scrutiny. For once, you didn’t answer in his silence, and he felt his mouth dry up with sudden dread.

He stole a glance toward Jisung who stood a few steps away in the background, and the man only gave him a pointed look as if to say, ‘just humor her for a moment’.

Left to fend for himself, Felix looked at the sky replacing the roof and found no special answer to give. The sun had set a while ago, and the somber blues of dusk had enveloped the world. Was there something he was missing?

Felix ventured, having nothing else to offer, “I guess…it’s blue?”

You appeared neither disappointed nor satisfied with his response, merely shrugging, “I see,” before turning around and walking away.

As though you had not spent the last few minutes in some strange monologue.

“We’re leaving, detective.”

•⭓•

“Figures you’d bring backup,” your steely voice sliced through the pained groans filling the air.

By all accounts, Felix had no place in this fight, but somehow he found himself a front-row seat, standing alongside Jisung who played with his gun in boredom.

It was all too much for him.

The phone you found in the warehouse did have a salvageable memory chip, despite all the damage it suffered. Once its data was recovered, you did not hesitate a beat to reach out to its owner. As a result, you found yourselves in this present situation.

A man in a standard black suit was in some sort of cruel standoff with you, having been cornered to a dead end. The comrades he brought with him were all down, either dead or dying, and he alone remained to point his gun at you.

“Stay back! The boss won’t— Argh!”

He was cut off by his own scream when you shot at his hand, forcing him to abandon his weapon and drop to his knees in agony.

“Yes, do tell me more about this boss of yours,” you said, that same expressionlessness that unsettled Felix yesterday returning. He watched you from the sidelines as you walked up to the doubled over man and crouched beside him. With the ease and patience of a kind nurse or a goodhearted Samaritan offering help, you placed your hand on his shoulder and pushed him to lie down.

And he obliged, no doubt courtesy of the gun you so politely pressed against his heart.

Felix was beginning to feel it then.

This was all wrong.

Everyone around him was wrong.

“Who do you work for?” you asked simply, gazing down at him, and the man squirmed, hissing through the pain that was surely pulsing through his arm.

“The boss won’t let this slide— He’ll hear about this—”

“Right, so tell me.”

You were bored much like your righthand man standing beside Felix, and it was wrong. So, utterly, disgustingly wrong.

“I’m not telling you anything. You’re fucking insane—!”

His gasps were interrupted by a simple yet catchy tune, and it sounded from somewhere within the man’s suit jacket.

Jisung stopped fidgeting with his gun. Your slow gaze traveled to the source of the sound. And the adrenaline that had been fueling, blinding, Felix for the past thirty-seven hours was finally snuffed out.

You made your mind up in a breath’s time.

“Well, that’s too bad.”

The shot that rang in the air pierced Felix’s ears, immediately killing the mysterious assailant. Without so much as a moment of respect for his death, you reached into the man’s jacket and pulled out the ringing phone.

Felix wanted to scream until his throat bled. Until the savage sickness in his stomach disappeared.

You stood up and answered the call, letting the voice on the other end crackle through the speaker.

“What the hell is your squad doing at the West Port, Jonah?”

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"it's in the sink. thanks," han grumbled as he turned away from the ingredients he carefully laid out for a cup of hot tea. he needed something to combat your fever and its unsurprisingly severe effects on him.

jisung watched han from his peripheral vision. his brother sluggishly moved from one point of the kitchen to another, grabbing a cup of water, it seemed. he could tell han was annoyed, but more so defeated than being doused in a fit of rage because he hadn't been able to do anything successfully today.

it started with your abrupt migraine this morning. the twins were grossly unprepared for the pain spiking in your head to be the first thing they experienced. they could not guard against it, causing the ground to shake briefly and the light bulbs around the house to pop. changbin called the school about your absence on his way out to buy new light bulbs and over-the-counter medicine. meanwhile, han failed his multiple attempts to clean the shattered glass on the floor. everytime your headache spikes, he loses control over his actions.

trying to cook breakfast was a terrible idea. han should have known how much of a hassle it would be to make food, but he wasn't willing to deviate from his daily routine over inconsistently-timed outbursts. all that resulted was an uproar of stove fire and eggs flipped high to the ceiling. jisung was already pouring a bowl of likely overdue cereal three groans into the breakfast journey.

without school occupying their time, which at this point the twins weren't sure if they preferred, they decided to put a movie on while they waited for changbin's return. but trying to pay attention to the screen and take all plot points proved challenging, too. even though they've somewhat gotten used to being influenced by the flu you caught, the ringing noise in their ears and the increasing feeling of shared pain still took up most of the space in their head. using a movie as a distraction was useless.

"he's taking an awful long time to get medicine," han muttered when he was within earshot.

jisung chuckled faintly as he watched han drag himself to the other end of the couch and slump down. there was barely any space left after jisung laid himself down with a blanket over his knees, but he buckled his knees to avoid being sat on. as han dropped onto the couch, he raised a finger slightly to catch the hot water that spilled over the edge of han's cup and discreetly returned it to where it came from. han took notice of it, grimaced, and said nothing.

"maybe there's a lot of people at the pharmacy," jisung said.

han put his hand under the cup to further heat the water up. his chest heaved steadily with each clipping of commercials on the television, enjoying this strange moment of calm instead of refuting jisung's claim.

he didn't think there were a lot of people at the pharmacy or the department store, whichever changbin was at. he believed changbin was taking so long because he didn't know what kind of medicine to get for the flu. he never had to get one for himself, and he never had to for a child. he was now forced to gather information on which of the millions of options work best, which, if he knew better, all of them technically should work.

that was a roundabout way to say han didn't think changbin was fit to be a parent, let alone you three's parent.

"what do you think about him?"

jisung peered without turning his head. he was comfortable lying on his forearm. "who? changbin?"

"yeah." han nodded.

there was a soft, nonchalant him. jisung was thinking, but the hum could very well be an indifferent response, serving as the end of the conversation. that wouldn't be far off from what jisung thought about changbin. he managed to see into changbin's past the first day you met, and nothing was interesting. he cdetermine if the man was good or bad. if han was asked about what he saw in changbin's past, which was mostly blood and death, he wouldn't be able to use that to make up an answer about his character either.

all there was of changbin now was that he was stoic, straightforward, and didn't enjoy speaking to any of you. jisung didn't care for social interactions with him enough to dislike the fact that he was limited to it.

"there must be something you want to say," han urged quietly.

"i don't know him well enough," jisung said. "i'm waiting for him to mess up."

"and i want to go home," han took a short sip of water, "i want mom and dad back."

jisung raised a brow in mild surprise. han has never explicitly expressed his liking toward your old foster home. he was always the harder one to read; he would speak, usually on your behalf, but he would say anything about himself. he pointed out apparent things and kept his opinions to himself. it was easy to suspect he didn't like it there, so hearing him address the married couple you previously housed with as mom and dad in this context was unexpected.

"i don't understand why they never adopted us," jisung muttered.

han's eyes reflected the colors flickering across the television screen. a door down the hallway opened before another one was closed; you likely left your room to use the bathroom. at least you managed to get out of bed. he swore he felt a bad case of growing pains just now. his chest moved slowly once and stopped, then he softly responded, "i think you know why. we all know–argh!"

the glass cup in han's hand ripped a few cracks around its body before it shattered, letting the liquid inside leak onto his lap. jisung opened his squeezed-shut eyes to catch the television pause from its shaking. he inwardly sighed at the faint hum of the commercial jingle in the company of your weeping from the bathroom. the neighbors may have a complaint or two after today.

sparing han a brief glance while he got off the couch to check on you, he saw that han was trying to get all the glass pieces off his thighs and the couch surface. he didn't need any extra help, and even if he did, jisung wouldn't lend a helping hand when you were crying so loudly in the bathroom. bare feet pitter-pattered their way across the floor to the hall, where among a wall of shadow was the light beaming in the size of a single door. jisung approached the frame and peeked inside, finding you on the floor with your head resting on the toilet seat and one of your hands halfway into the toilet bowl.

he made a throaty noise of disdain upon your tear-stricken face as he crouched next to you. "han broke another cup. his–" he rolled his eyes skyward and hummed–"fifth one today."

you hiccupped away the acidic taste in your mouth. "i puked."

"i figured." he arched his neck to look inside the toilet. grimacing, he reached a hand up to press on the silver handle. "you also didn't flush."

"because i was puking!" you exclaimed, your teary voice covered by the rush of water draining the fluids down the toilet.

it started as a bad stomachache, then there was an abrupt rush of sourness at the back of your mouth, flooding onto your tongue with your saliva. you went to the bathroom to spit the phlegm, but the second you bent your waist, the urge to puke took over. the pain all over your body, your aversion to puking, the suddenness of its arrival, and the stamina it took forced you to burst into tears.

"i'm hungry," you muttered, featured scrunching up. "i wanna eat mom's porridge."

jisung stared at you in silence for a while. the consensus was that switching foster homes was a wrong arrangement. unfortunately, it wasn't an agreement came to by anyone who would be impacted by it. it never was. and han was right. he knew why you three were never adopted. the glass pieces on the floor and the rumbling of apartment walls were enough trouble. being under watchful eyes was a wicked responsibility not all parents would care to share.

he often wondered how your mother would have reacted. your mother–the woman whose womb he slept in for however many hours or days before you three were found. he wouldn't exist if she was alive, but he admitted he possesses a discreet yearning to be loved, always be your brother, and be normal. sadly, the current story was his birth acting as a result of her death. he would always be the remains of your mother's undoing–his mother's demise.

"i miss her food too," jisung said as he reached for a tissue to wipe your mouth. "come on, let's go outside."

he clumsily took you into his arms and stood up. han had already returned to his seat on the couch when you arrived. the water was gone from his lap and the glass pieces gathered on a tissue paper on the coffee table. he made space for you to lay down, your head on jisung's lap and your legs curled to your chest. the television program switched from commercials to an old drama show that was surprisingly intriguing. at least the human-spoken dialogues were better white noises than loopy commercial jingles.

"they puked and started crying," jisung informed.

"all of a sudden?" han scoffed out a chuckle.

he glanced down at you and frowned when he caught jisung secretly taking the sickness from you through his palm on the side of your head. you three have agreed to cut down on healing you at any minor inconveniences to hone your resiliency. besides, it was ironic that they wanted to be like other regular kids but wouldn't let simple things like a bloodied knee and catching a cold happen to you. your chest heaved according to your hiccups–you're just beginning to calm down from crying. han looked away from jisung's hand and decided he'd say something.

"changbin is gonna be upset when he comes back and finds out [name] doesn't need the medicine anymore."

jisung froze in surprise. he snapped his head to pull a face. "how would you know? are you two best friends?"

"he's always upset." han shrugged.

"i think that's just his face."

han waited a moment before he laughed. "he does look upset all the time."

"oh hey, here," the pharmacist said, holding out a small box of allergy pills. "seems like you need it."

changbin tilted his head with furrowed brows, his hand letting go of the cash in his wallet. "what?"

"you kept sneezing. it might be allergies," the pharmacist said. "either that, or someone is talking about you."

changbin sent a half glare toward the man. he didn't believe in those superstitions.