professional booseoksoon enthusiast

WEN JUNHUI, WEN JUNHUI, WEN JUNHUI. Your name is Wen Junhui. You're from Phlegethon. You loved people once. People loved you. Your name is Wen Junhui.

Junhui continues his silent mantra as he feels the first bits of consciousness creep back into his body after being Softlocked for nearly 16 hours. Sixteen hours of sedated darkness, nothing but him and his desperate attempts to hold onto himself since his captor doesn't care to make sure his mind goes to sleep alongside his body. His body, which hasn't been his in years. His eyes open on someone else's command, and he braces himself for the feeling of occupation.

Letheon Unit 004, the disjointed voice that haunts his existence calls to him, echoing against the walls of a brain he hardly uses anymore.

Junhui's limbs become heavy with the feeling of something that isn't even alive. It has a name, a voice, a will, and although it isn't material, it has a presence, spreading itself into every corner of his body and flexing his fingers and toes before stretching his neck each way. It isn't even alive. And still, this false god somehow rules his every waking moment.

Your name is Wen Junhui. The AI doesn't hear him. It never does.

Prepare for drop deployment to Morphae Zone, it announces, Ninety seconds.

His pod opens with a hiss, revealing the fuselage of an Aegis Dynamics skyvan. The cold, low whir of his body powering on follows shortly, preceding his exit from his Softlock chamber. Even though it's been years of fighting for control of himself—and years of failing miserably—he still instinctively tries to look around, annoyed when his head doesn't follow, staring straight ahead at the opposite wall.

Covert mission, the intruder says. What else would it be? Junhui is only ever woken up for "covert missions." Adult. Female. Eliminate on sight. A photograph materializes on his feed right next to his stats, overlaying his view and slightly obstructing his peripheral vision.

It's dark and she's speaking to a man whose back is turned to whatever camera the photo was lifted from—one that looks to be on the ground. Her eyes look up at him, wide with what Junhui thinks is surprise. Your name is Wen Junhui. You understand human emotions. No, it's awe. Maybe even hope. It's a feeling Junhui still tries to cling to, even though most days, he's not sure he remembers what it's supposed to feel like in the first place.

His target's face is obstructed from the mouth down, but he knows that's enough for the AI. It will force him to find whoever she is in minutes.

It speaks again. Threat level 5. Priority Index… loading. Junhui waits for the number that will tell him how important the fugitive his body is hunting is. If her threat level is maxed out, he expects her PI will match the urgency at Priority 1. It never comes. Priority Index… Prime.

If he could, he would frown. He's never received a deployment for someone whose PI wasn't a number. Before he can ponder on the word for too long, his body begins moving toward the jump point, allowing him to see he's alone in the fuselage. No team or partners for this one—even more covert than he's used to.

Junhui is positioned at the exit as the ramp begins to open for him. He knows the wind whips at his face violently from the roaring in his ears. But with Panoptes curling itself into every nerve in his body, he stays numb to it, unfeeling and unmoving.

Your name is Wen Junhui. Someday, you will feel it all again.

His body takes a single step, and the false god speaks.

Letheon Unit 004, ready for deployment.

TODAY IS EDEN'S DAY—THAT'S WHAT YOU CALL HER ANYWAY. Eden is a working class citizen who believes in the system and thinks that faith alone will reward her with a life in the upper echelon of Arcadian Prime one day. She wears clothes she thinks will make her look wealthier than she is, pretends not to work as hard as she has to, and goes to the market every day to peruse the stalls for focus patches, mood vials, and sound dampeners she would never be able to actually afford. She's your favorite disguise because she's lazy, unconcerned with the hegemony Aegis Dynamics lords over the city-state, and she walks slowly in an effort to look elegant and apathetic. And with the stress that's been burdening you and relentlessly compounding interest for the last five years, you welcome the change of pace that playing the role of Eden promises.

Back when you were making the tool that would eventually lead to the downfall of humanity, you named it Aurora—a pre-Prime goddess you once read about, famous for ushering in each new dawn. That's what you sincerely and naively thought your AI would be doing: ushering in a new dawn for the people of Arcadian Prime. A new age of peace, prosperity, and safety. Instead, you signed the death warrant on freedom as the city-state knew it and gave the elite class a false god to worship.

A faceless, soulless, meticulously trained false god.

In retrospect, your good intentions might have always been misguided. It's a parasite that gnaws on your conscience all day every day—your incomprehensible naivete, thinking this kind of technology wouldn't be immediately exploited. Because no matter how good your intentions had been, surveillance of Arcadian Prime's citizens was always the crux of your AI. Even before they bastardized your work, Aurora was meant to watch citizens through street cameras, computers, and phones, and paired with the census data Aegis Dynamics collected, it was built to compute and predict the likelihood of crimes before they even happened. You trusted Aegis to use it responsibly. You trusted that only those responsible for the relentless terrorist attacks that had been plaguing the Helio District would be assailed. You don't know what you were thinking.

That trust, along with your iteration of Aurora, died quickly. Aegis Dynamics debuted your AI as Panoptes instead, and you found out alongside the rest of Arcadian. In the blink of an eye, your own creation became something you would soon be running from for five years.

You've been in the Morphae Zone, hiding in plain sight for five years. It isn't as hard as the public is made to believe—avoiding Panoptes. Granted, your entire existence revolves around cycling through disguises and creating fake lives and routines like Eden's just to stay unseen, but as the pseudo-mother of the "all-seeing" AI, you know its blind spots. It admittedly has a lot.

At the time, you believed Aegis's lies without question. You wholeheartedly believed that the system was fair and that the rebels were senselessly violent—that even though Aegis had offered many peaceful solutions to their disagreements and conflicts, the rebellion was hellbent on bloodshed.

Thus, when you found the "solution," your propaganda-fueled bias against the rebellion informed almost all of Aurora's—now Panoptes's—habits. The solution focused on finding the criminals before their crimes were ever committed.

Panoptes pays special attention to the slums of the Phlegethon Zone and the outskirts of the Nyx Undergrid, where the black market thrives and most rebel fugitives live and operate. So after you deserted your station, you chose to hide in the Morphae Zone, home to Arcadian Prime's working class. Panoptes picks out people who have never been seen in a certain God Zone before. So you never wandered outside Morphae's zone lines. Panoptes zeros in on people who deviate from a recognized and well-documented routine. So every single day, you walk carefully mapped routes around your zone in several different disguises, making fake routines for people who don't exist. Like Eden.

With her neon pink wig, her lenses, and her scarf tied around your nose and mouth to feign protection from the smog, you walk around all the usual places you do when you're Eden on the weekend—the bank, the cafe, the market, and the park. And for the first time since you invented your third disguise years ago, Eden offers you zero solace.

In fact, the weird, tone-deaf lifestyle you shaped for her bites you in the ass today because it's too quiet. Even with all the chaotic sounds of machines grinding and people commuting and vendors shouting, it's silent.

You sit on a bench at the park, right under a street camera so Panoptes can see Eden clearly. You zone out, people-watching and pretending to be a woman who yearns to be happier and richer than anyone else in this wretched district. But after a few moments, your mind inevitably wanders to Seungcheol.

You finally heard from the rebel this morning after a month with no word and no assurance he was alive. You gave him the prototype you've been working on several weeks ago, and he assured you they had a plan to ambush a Letheon Unit and test it on the cyborg soldier. He told you he'd be in contact as soon as the test was over, otherwise he would meet you at your next regular check-in. The regular check-in that he missed. Twice.

The man always visited you at your apartment, never arriving even a second late. For the last month, as he continuously failed to show up, you hardly slept, waiting by your door and tensing at every small noise out in the hall. And for the last month, you've been convinced something had gone terribly wrong and that Seungcheol was dead.

It wouldn't have been surprising. You're not even sure it would've been devastating. Seungcheol, at most, is a stranger who shows up to your home once every two weeks, bosses you around, and occasionally spares you a grunt of satisfaction in place of a "thank you." You don't think either of you would consider the other a friend, though you know you don't have enough experience in that department to be sure. Still, the man and his missions—no matter how mysterious—were stitching together the gaping hole that Aegis Dynamics left in your soul.

You're wanted for desertion and treason for reasons completely different than why you actually feel like a traitor. Your hands singlehandedly built Panoptes. The system that oppresses Arcadian Prime is only in place because of you. And Seungcheol gave you a way to correct that grave and unforgivable mistake. He gave you purpose after your life's work had blown up in your face. You know he didn't completely trust you; after all, he always had his pulse gun on him and pointedly in plain sight whenever he came over. But whether or not he intended to, he was allowing you a chance to redeem yourself.

If Seungcheol died, so would your only connection to the rebellion and your hopes of being remembered as someone other than the revolting idiot who essentially turned an entire city-state into an open-air prison. And if Seungcheol died, you'd never see that prototype you entrusted him with ever again, making the last five years you've been working on it a complete waste.

The thought makes your stomach turn even though you've already received signs of life from the man.

You get up from the bench as soon as Eden's routine allows it, walking to the subway to catch the next train to your neighborhood. You easily blend into the crowds and pocket your disguise in exchange for a nondescript hoodie and mask without missing a step, knowing every corner to turn your head away from a camera.

By the time you enter your apartment, the sun is just starting to set, marking an hour until you're due at a rendezvous point you've never been to. You change from Eden's kitten heels into your boots, not daring to go barefoot in your own home—a luxury you've long forgiven yourself for abandoning. You value being able to get away quickly over having clean floors.

And the way you live reflects that sentiment. You have minimal furniture to make sure nothing will get in your way if you have to escape or, god forbid, fight. You always use the rebel-made scanner Seungcheol left you to look for listening bugs in case someone broke in and planted something while you were gone. Even though you own a neural gun, a pre-Prime pistol, and a pulse rifle—all of which would honestly be little to no help if you had to face a Lethe—you keep knives hidden all over the apartment in case you need them.

At first, living with this level of paranoia drove you crazy—crazy enough that you sometimes wondered if living was even worth it if it meant being riddled with this guilt and fear. But it's become second nature to you, and at this point, you're not sure you'd know how to live any other way.

When you're done sweeping your apartment and ensuring everything is safe and accounted for, you put Eden's things away in the drawer that hides all your other disguises, taking note of whose turn it will be tomorrow. Then, you shove a chair underneath the front door knob and retreat into your room, sliding the two deadbolts you installed yourself into place. You rest your pulse rifle next to the door, and keep the other two guns in the bathroom with you as you start to scrub Eden's makeup off your face.

The silence gives way for more anxious thoughts. Seungcheol has never asked you to meet him outside your home, and this rendezvous point is at the edge of Morphae that's closest to where he lives in the Nyx Undergrid. Is he hurt? Can he not travel to the heart of your zone? What if it isn't even him, but a member of his crew doing you the favor of letting you know he's dead?

You start listing the worst case scenarios.

Seungcheol and his crew jumping a Lethe they didn't realize was accompanied by other military cyborgs and being too outnumbered to stand a chance. Seungcheol and his crew tricking Panoptes into predicting an imminent crime and sending more Lethes than they were prepared for. Seungcheol and his crew doing everything right and everything going the way it was supposed to… just for your prototype to fail miserably.

Every scenario ends one of two ways. Seungcheol and his crew are killed—the merciful way out. Or Seungcheol and his crew are arrested. Having worked for Aegis at a high enough clearance, you know there is no prison in the city. Everyone guilty of a crime—predicted or otherwise—is promptly turned into a Lethe. It makes you want to vomit thinking of Seungcheol as a Letheon Unit being deployed to capture or kill his own rebels.

You step out of your bathroom, defeated and resigned to the fact that you may not be meeting Seungcheol at all tonight. After dressing in dark clothes, impatiently shoving your hair into a platinum blonde wig, and doing another sweep of your apartment, you head right back out, armed with your neural gun and all the knives you can carry on your body.

The request to meet was delivered this morning via light, by the lamp post outside your kitchen window before the sun was even up.

Seungcheol never told you how he found you. He just showed up at your door one day, already well-aware of who you were and your history. It put you into fight or flight, but even with the extensive (and often brutal) combat training you received while you were at Aegis Dynamics, Seungcheol had you pressed face down into your own floor in seconds. He didn't kill you or turn you over to Aegis like you thought he would; instead, he demanded your skillset.

It's either you help us, he told you while he still had his knee pressed roughly into the middle of your back, or you get a pulse round to the brain. The man had the nerve to press his weapon to your head, a low mechanical whine vibrating against your skull as he primed the gun, readying it to pull the trigger.

You didn't have much of a choice.

He left right after securing your agreement, and when he returned the next night, he did a complete sweep of your apartment—again, without telling you what he was doing. Sometime in between turning your furniture every which way and scanning your walls with an unrecognizable device you'd later learn was looking for listening bugs, he stopped right next to your kitchen window, pulling the curtain back with a single knuckle.

Why isn't this street light on? he asked, nodding at the post right outside your window—the only dark one on your street. His contemplative frown deepened as you explained it's hadn't lit up once since you moved in. He turned away from you and all he said was: You should probably pay attention to that.

You had scoffed and disregarded the comment, asking him in irritation how a criminal wanted for treason was supposed to get the city to fix a street light. He ignored you, as he so often did.

You're thankful for his secretive and bizarre behavior because it was the only reason you remembered that small, trivial moment. It was the only reason that you saw words where anyone else would only see a dying, flickering light.

It started with a soft and tinny noise—the buzzing that accompanies dying electricity. You couldn't see much beyond the sliver of glass that wasn't covered by the curtain. Really, the only thing you could see were flashes of warm yellow.

You pulled back the fabric, dumbfounded when you found the lamp post outside your window flickering. You had scrambled for your noteslate from where you had been trying to eat breakfast, quickly tapping letters on the glass as you translated the code. When Seungcheol first made you learn all sorts of rebel intelligence, you were resistant; you didn't want to jump from one group to another so quickly, and learning about their sequential code, the locations of Morphae safe houses, and emergency ammo stashes around the zone felt a lot like putting your allegiance behind another group before you were ready to. But when the lamp post flickered to life, you were glad he forced you to learn.

MORPHAE ZONE NORTH LIMIT COME ARMED

The light flashed the code over and over again, allowing you more than enough time to make sure you had the message right.

The northern limit is the only defunct checkpoint in Morphae. If anyone wanted to travel between God Zones, they had to visit one of the other three checkpoints since a few years ago, the northern limit went dark. The news said it was a gas leak. You managed to get Seungcheol to admit it was the product of a coordinated attack from their side. And although he never explained further than that, whatever it was was large enough that Aegis never bothered bringing the checkpoint back online.

You only understand that decision when after more than an hour of taking needlessly long ways to avoid Panoptes, the checkpoint comes into view. You're still at least a mile away from the actual border, but the devastation is unfathomable.

Of course, you've seen photos of the checkpoint before, but it feels impossible to match them to this place. The land is barren, cratered, and charred, littered with the remnants of buildings, cars, and what you imagine are countless bodies—human and Lethe alike. Morphae has been harboring its very own war zone and you didn't even know.

"Crazy, isn't it?" Seungcheol sidles up next to you, staring at the ruins in apathy. You struggle to keep the relief you feel hearing his voice from breaching the surface.

"I don't know how I can still be so in the dark," you mutter, shaking your head. "I worked for them. I know how they are. And I didn't even know."

"You knew enough to annoy the shit out of me until I told you what happened."

You grunt, dissatisfied with that. Even then, you couldn't get Seungcheol to tell you the whole story. "Glad you're alive," you say, forcing yourself to turn away from the checkpoint and to Seungcheol. You can't help the loud gasp that you breathe.

"It's not as bad as it looks."

It's probably worse. Both of Seungcheol's eyes are bruised a deep blotchy purple, his lip is split open, he stands like he's nursing a few cracked ribs, and if you're not mistaken, there's a strip of bright blue nanoglue at his hairline, keeping what looks like used to be a deep gash together.

"What the fuck happened?" you ask through your hands as they cover your mouth in horror.

He winces, jerking his head toward a darker corner. "Let's get out of the open first."

Your suspicions are confirmed as soon as he starts walking, leading you down the street. He keeps slightly bent to one side like standing straight will hurt his ribs, and he has a slight limp in his left leg. It's clear why he needed you to meet him this far out; sneaking all the way to your apartment would've taken him all night.

He walks slow, so you do too, giving him an excuse to keep his pace. And just like you expect a man like him to, Seungcheol huffs as he hides his hobble ahead of you.

"Hurry up," he calls over his shoulder. "I don't have all night."

"You look like you don't have five minutes," you murmur, keeping your same, slow pace. "Really, you look like you should be under the ground."

"Thanks," he scoffs. You hum but don't say anything else, forcing yourself to look away and study your surroundings instead of asking the barrage of questions you have.

You don't find much, which, in and of itself, is a lot. No street cameras, no people, no Lethes patrolling every corner—it's unheard of in Arcadian Prime. You hate that you find an awful place like this peaceful. There are very few places in the city-state that aren't under the careful watch of Panoptes, and it's ironic that they're usually overabundant in death rather than life.

Every few yards, you come across Lethe parts. You reckon if indefensible mistakes were still something you were making a habit of committing, it would be easy to collect all of the scraps and build your own cyborg soldier. Instead, you just feel sad, bearing witness to deaths the rest of Arcadian Prime doesn't even know about. These Letheon Units' cybernetic bodies were of so little importance to the people who mutilated them in the first place, they were just left here to rust in this wasteland. Metal arms, legs, cannons, and wiring—you even come across a fully intact head, eyes open to reveal one empty socket and one translucent iris, dull without the light of Panoptes inside fueling her as she lifelessly stares past Morphae for miles.

She must have been your age, maybe even younger. You wonder where she was taken from—maybe Phlegethon. Probably Phlegethon. It's easy to get away with what Aegis Dynamics does when the people who care about their victims' well-being have no resources to find them. And no one has less than the people who live in those slums.

You don't realize you've stopped to look at the nameless Lethe until Seungcheol whistles sharply at you to keep you moving. You hesitate for a moment more, looking around at the graveyard surrounding you. This is your fault, you remind yourself. These Lethes—these people are dead because of you.

It's easy to pretend Letheon Units are nothing more than robots when you're fighting one off, but seeing one like this—powered off, disjointed from the once human body she had—is a morbid reminder that every Lethe became one against their will. And every Lethe became one at the hands of your creation.

After a few more moments, Seungcheol whistles again. You turn over your shoulder, in the direction of the dead Lethe's gaze, to find the rebel in the shadows of a dark alley, where you see he left a friend. He's a smaller man but just as physically fit, the shape of his muscles easy to discern through his top. When you reach the two of them, he nods at Seungcheol and says, "We're clear."

The man gives him one of his famous "thank you" grunts.

"Chan, this is my contact," he says gruffly. "… contact, this is Chan."

You roll your eyes but don't bother offering your real name either, giving him the name of the current disguise you're wearing. "Hi. Eris."

Chan nods at you once, smiling widely. "Eris. You made the prototype."

"Yes. Where is that, by the way?"

You're either ignored or unheard as Chan excitedly speaks over you. "You're a legend. When we topple this hellhole, you're going to go down in history. Eris, savior of Arcadian Prime!" The words immediately make you recoil. "That was insane. We—"

"Anyway," Seungcheol cuts in, and even without raising his voice, his comrade's mouth immediately clamps shut. "If you haven't gathered… it worked."

You frown at him. "Sorry… what…?"

The rebel jerks his head at Chan, who understands whatever that means and immediately leaves the two you, walking to the west with the purpose of someone who was given a task.

"I had one of my guys convince a lower level runner to rob a bank," Seungcheol tells you. "Helped him legitimately plan it out and everything, and of course, your handy, little buddy figured it out."

You hate it when he does that—when he trivializes your past and makes light of it like your mistakes didn't turn out to be some of the worst crimes against humanity. It's something you've never even talked about out loud; you never needed to with Seungcheol since he just knew from the start. You certainly wouldn't joke about Aurora—Panoptes being your "buddy."

"How many?" you ask, ignoring the comment.

"Just one," he answers, looking proud of that. "The crime was small enough and being planned by a first-time offender that they sent a single Letheon Unit to make the predictive arrest. Put up quite the fight… obviously." Seungcheol is very clearly annoyed by that fact. You nod, eyes sweeping his injuries again. "I attached the tool to my neural gun, aimed, and shot, and… it worked."

"It… worked," you repeat dumbly.

He nodded, his lip turning up into a pained grimace. It's the closest he's ever gotten to smiling at you.

"It separated the Lethe from the AI immediately," he informs you as he reaches into his jacket and pulls out his neural gun with your prototype attached to the top. "Seemed to cause the guy a whole lot of pain, but… he's doing well now."

You balk at him. "He survived?"

It isn't like you gave Seungcheol the gun attachment expecting that it would kill a Lethe. You just weren't sure how much of the soldiers' survival depended on Panoptes after being taken apart and stitched back together with machine parts countless times. For all you knew, they relied 100% on AI power and would drop dead once the connection was severed. To hear the first Lethe they tried this on is not only surviving but doing well inspires dangerous feelings. Feelings you haven't met in years.

Seungcheol's face seems to soften at whatever is happening on your own, and his lips form an actual, albeit tiny, smile. You realize for the first time he has dimples.

He nods, unclipping the attachment from his gun and turning it over in his hand. He looks down at it like it's the most important thing he'll ever hold. It worked, so it very much might be.

"Yup," he says, laughing a little like he's also still disbelieving this worked. "He's alive. The crew's setting him up down in Nyx and preparing to return with him to Phlegethon soon, once we're sure he's okay and well-adjusted."

The dangerous feelings unfurl at a faster, more concerning rate inside your chest, and before you can even try to stop it, tears have begun forming on your lower waterline.

"He's… he's going to go home…?" you ask, voice hardly above a whisper at the risk of it cracking.

Seungcheol pockets his neural gun and winces. "Not quite. He'll have to stay in Nyx for the time being. I imagine an offline Lethe is bound to draw attention. He's a rig."

He uses the term most citizens use to call a Letheon Unit whose body is very obviously fused with cybernetics. There are very few Lethes these days that can pass as human—skins. Aegis seems to have gotten into a rhythm of efficient mutilation. If it's obvious he's a cyborg, the Nyx Undergrid is the only place he'll ever be safe while Aegis is in power; it's the only place safe from Panoptes.

"He has loved ones in the slums—well… a loved one. He wants to get her out of Phlegethon and to Nyx with him so we're going to help."

"And Panoptes?"

He shakes his head. "We waited to see if they would come after him—see something in the data that told them their Lethe's connection had been severed. No one came. We theorized severance reads as death on their end. It works, Eris." He says the name with a smirk, playing along with your ruse even though he knows your actual name. "No kinks, no issues. It works."

The first of your tears begin to fall, and you wipe at your face almost violently; you're angry at this reaction. You of all people don't get the privilege of crying. You don't get to feel like you've done something good—not when you're just fixing the atrocious mess you made. Your hands created abominations that later became the heart of Aegis's oppressive rule.

Seungcheol and his team are the ones doing good. They've been on the right side, and they've been doing good from the very beginning. When this is all over, it will be because of people like Seungcheol and his friends. Not you.

You. Don't. Get. To. Cry.

"Here," he says softly, doing you the mercy of ignoring your tears and giving you back your prototype.

You hold it pathetically in an open palm, like a child given something they don't know what to do with. You stare down at it dumbly. Seungcheol first came to you with the request that you do something about the Letheon Units, and for the last five years, that's what you've worked on. And after several failed versions that you were too ashamed to even pass on to him to test, you finally landed on it: the one good thing you've ever made. The one chance you have to make it right and truly repent. It feels so heavy in your hold.

"I don't know if you ever named it. A guy on our team took to calling it Anima."

You repeat the word without looking away from the attachment.

"Something about soul and life or breath or something," Seungcheol says, clearly uninterested in why the word was chosen. When you don't say anything else, he sighs. "Despite your innate need to punish yourself… you did a good job."

Your gaze snaps up to him and as predicted, he looks uncomfortable, looking over your head instead of meeting your eyes. It's how you know he's being sincere. You don't thank him because you know you don't get to accept praise for this either.

Instead, you ask, "What now?"

"Now, the real work begins," he says. "We're going to need to arm as many rebels with Anima as we can. We need you to make more… a lot more."

Your mouth opens and closes a few times before you finally say, "I… that would take months." And that's a generous estimate. Realistically, making enough of these attachments to supply all of the rebel neural guns in Nyx would take nearly a year even with all the proper materials at your disposal. Without that, it could take… several years. "It already took a long time making this one because I had to scrounge for parts, wait weeks between buying tools to keep from attracting attention… without a lab or the supplies, I—"

"That's why we're relocating you to Nyx."

You leave your mouth open even though words stop coming out of it. He doesn't expand on the thought, so you're forced to ask, "What?"

"We're relocating you to Nyx."

"Who is 'we'?"

He levels you with a flat look.

"But why?" you ask, frowning.

It's not like you're particularly attached to your apartment or Morphae or the handful of lives you pretend to have while there. You're not even particularly worried about Panoptes now that you actually know someone in Nyx who could offer you protection. Still, you find yourself afraid to agree.

"For all the reasons you just said?" he says like you're dumb. "We've already found you a living space and have outfitted our headquarters with a lab for you. We get shipments of supplies every month and the black market is literally right outside our door for everything else you need that we don't have." He raises a thick eyebrow at you, challenging you to argue with him when he says, "It's the only reasonable answer."

"But…" The word naturally comes out even though you have no rebuttal. Up until now, you've tiptoed the line between runaway fugitive and outright rebel. This would be a clear decision, and Seungcheol recognizes that.

"You made your decision a long time ago," he informs you. "The moment you agreed to help, you joined us. Whether or not you thought so doesn't matter—you've been one of us for five years."

Your mouth twitches and you shift your weight uncomfortably. The last time you belonged to a group, it ended in the worst possible way. You wouldn't be able to stand doing that a second time. You don't know that you trust yourself to not be a follower anymore.

"I didn't have much of a choice," you mutter, shooting him a look. "It was either help you or get a pulse round to the brain, remember?"

He nods. "And it's the same now. I won't hesitate to threaten violence on you again if you won't help us. Too much and too many lives depend on it." You inhale sharply. Lives depend on your help. Lives depend on you undoing your work with Aegis.

"So this is still the illusion of choice."

"Pretty much," he admits shamelessly. "The only difference now is I trust that I won't have to make threats this time. The difference now is… I trust you." You stare hard at him, and this time, he looks right back, unafraid to lay his honesty bare for you to see. "I trust you… here… as you are tonight, regardless of anything you did five years ago." He pauses like he knows the gravity of his words. "I'm going to need you to trust yourself now too. You've given us Anima, and it's breathing new hope into the fight. I need you to trust that you can do this. I need you to have some hope."

You look down at the prototype, and you can already see all the things you know you can do better with more support. And with that, no matter how hard you try not to, you see a future without a cyborg military. You see a future without Aegis or Panoptes or God Zones that segregate citizens by class. You see a future where there's a chance you can stop hating yourself. You hope for that future.

You nod. "Okay, fine. You can stop begging. It's embarrassing. When do I move in?"

Seungcheol snorts. "Get your things together as soon as you get back. I'll have Chan and one of our other runners at your door just before dusk tomorrow. Keep an eye on the lamp post."

You know why he chose that time; Morphae is bustling with so many people finishing work or heading to their night shifts, it will be harder for Panoptes to spot someone who doesn't belong there.

You straighten at that. "How did you do that? Light it up again?"

He stares at you hard like he's thinking something over. It isn't until later on, several minutes after you part, that you realize it was a point of no return for him too—choosing to fully trust you or not.

In the end, he says, "I have someone at Aegis who's able to access city works and maintenance. I'm not answering anything else so get lost. I'll see you tomorrow."

LETHEON UNIT 004 SUCCESSFUL LANDING AT DROP POINT, the voice in Junhui's head announces as soon as the dust around him clears—to whom, he still doesn't know after all this time. He just wishes it would shut up and leave him out of the conversation. Target's last seen location: 350 feet south.

With that, his legs move on their own, walking quietly through what he recognizes is the edge of Morphae's northern limit—the site of a battle he unwillingly fought some time ago. It's hard for him to keep track of the days sometimes. All he knows is he had been Softlocked for more than a week at the time, driving himself crazy, all alone in his thoughts as his body slept without him.

When he was finally awoken, he was still in the Delphic Sector, the rest of the Letheon Units around him remaining Softlocked in their pods. The mission briefing was straightforward: accompany an Aegis executive to Morphae's northern checkpoint. It was the Aegis official's understanding that Junhui was meant to protect him at all cost; that was not the case.

Letheon Unit 004, mission directive: protect Prototype Iasus. Priority Index: 1.

Iasus was kept in a briefcase that the Aegis executive kept close to his body at all times. Junhui stayed nearby, eyes never straying from the man. They boarded the military van, made the drive to Morphae several zones over, and arrived at the northern checkpoint, which had been completely cleared of civilians. Junhui's body followed the man to a large modular tent with several staffers and computers assembled inside.

He stuck next to the man and Iasus for the next two days, inadvertently learning about why they were all there. And even now, as he walks through the ruins of what used to be that checkpoint, Junhui doesn't think he's ever wished for autonomy of his body more than he did during those moments.

Iasus, he learned, was the man's brainchild—a new software that, if successful during this trial run, would be added to Panoptes's next update. The briefcase Junhui was guarding had just a single keyboard inside with a hologram of code that would appear every time the executive entered his passcode. That code made it possible for Aegis to use advanced sonar and seismic technology to get a rough layout of the land, easily producing estimations of the population, locations of buildings, and more without Panoptes ever tapping a single camera to do it.

Iasus would've been able to do this across 30 miles. The Nyx Undergrid, which sat right in between the northern limit of Morphae and the southern limit of Phlegethon, only took up an approximate 10 mile radius on Arcadian Prime's map.

Nyx was the one place Panoptes couldn't reach, mainly because it isn't even a God Zone. It's a phantom city the rebels built, their attempt at carving out their own sanctuary in the once unlivable deserts between Morphae and Phlegethon. No cameras or Aegis authority meant no Panoptes, and with it being the rebellion's home base, there was no way for Aegis to invade it without very publicly starting a war—a war they insisted was not happening in Arcadian Prime at all. In other words, it was the one place in the entire city-state that was safe, and it was the one place Aegis Dynamics would do anything to seize.

There are a lot of things Junhui wanted to do upon learning why he was there to protect Iasus—setting the suitcase aflame and killing the executive both ranking high on that list. But realistically, he knew there was little that one Letheon Unit like him would be able to do even if he had his autonomy.

Junhui wouldn't get very far after killing the official and destroying the prototype before he was riddled with bullet holes, at which point they would just remake the thing. He could sneak away and try to warn the rebels he knew were hiding in the undercity, but he, again, wouldn't get very far without Panoptes spotting—and stopping—him. And thinking about all of it was futile because he didn't have his autonomy. He couldn't even move his eyes away from Iasus long enough to survey his surroundings.

So he watched as Iasus was tested on Morphae, correctly mapping out the zone through its sonar pings and manufactured earthquakes so small, no one outside of the checkpoint would be able to feel them. After enough satisfying results, it was decided—on their fifth morning there, they would finally attempt to read Nyx from the checkpoint.

On the fourth evening, after Junhui's executive had already retired to bed and left him in the tent with Iasus, the ground jolted so violently, not even Panoptes could keep him upright. He hit the ground and knew immediately someone had shot him with a neural gun. Panoptes's voice became warped with static until it faded to nothing, and his system flashed warning lights on his display. It lasted longer than he was used to—so long, he'd started to get used to the stinging and crackling in his nerves and the ringing in his ears. He'd of course, later realize he hadn't been shot, but that Aegis had been hit with its very first neural bomb.

As the ground around him continued to rock and the sounds of screams and gunfire and buildings coming down assaulted his eardrums, for the first time since he was captured, Junhui felt everything. He could feel the dust as it fell on his skin, the tables and computers in the tent coming down around him, Iasus sliding across the table and catching him square in the chest, knocking the breath right out of him.

And as his fingers reflexively tightened around the edges of the briefcase, he realized he was in control of his own body. So he moved. He didn't know how to do anything other than crawl, so he crawled. Away from the tent and the bodies of the executive and all his employees. Away from the general direction of the Nyx Undergrid and away from his imprisonment. Until a rebel found him.

"Take it" was all Junhui could say, voice brittle and trembling as he felt the effects of the neural blast fading. "Use it."

The last bomb had gone off, and within the next minute, Panoptes had an iron fist around his existence once more. But both the rebel and Iasus were long gone, and the AI was too overwhelmed with the onslaught of returning data to understand what happened.

What happened was Junhui found renewed hope. As he marches through the charred remains of Morphae's northern limit now, he remembers exactly what it felt like for his body to be his body again, and it's enough for him to endure this existence for another day. All he needs is to hold onto his name and his will for another day.

Wen Junhui, Wen Junhui, Wen Junhui. Your name is Wen Junhui, and you can hold onto hope.

His body comes to an abrupt stop, his chin tilting down until his gaze finds the discarded head of a female Letheon Unit. His soul shudders.

Letheon Unit 192301, Panoptes recites. Importing emergency protocol recording.

Junhui's display shows him the last moments the Letheon Unit recorded before complete battery depletion. His target, a handful of feet away, speaking to a man whose back is turned to the camera. The photograph he'd been delivered when he was first woken up.

Recording taken 24 minutes ago.

Nearly 30 minutes. More than enough time for what is very much likely a rebel to get away and start the trek back to Nyx—at least he sorely hopes so. His sight switches into thermal mode, head whipping around to catch any kind of heat signature that will show him if his target is still nearby. When it doesn't, it switches back. He walks to the area the two figures had been recorded speaking, his body very clearly looking for footprints as his eyes scan the dirt. His heart sinks when it zeros in on a single half print, small enough to be a woman's and it's pointing back into Morphae, not Nyx.

Junhui's body is moving in the same direction immediately, leaving him no time to process anything else about his surroundings. Panoptes easily maps the route with the least camera coverage, narrowing the target's path down to only two if she has any intentions of leaving the checkpoint at all.

His display highlights the routes, and he knows he'll be fighting in a matter of minutes—fighting both a rebel and his own body—because Panoptes finds a single point on the routes that intersect, guaranteeing a run-in.

Junhui's body sprints as Panoptes runs equations about where the rebel could be, and every scenario it runs places her before the intersection.

You are Wen Junhui, he recites as he descends on the point, and the crimes you've committed and will commit are not your own.

His scope zeros in on movement coming from the eastern route just as the system notifies him he's arriving at the coordinates: the on-ramp of an abandoned overpass, collapsed from one of the several neural bombs that hit this checkpoint when he was guarding Iasus.

His body slides, dust rising as it stops right in the middle of the intersecting point. Right in front of you, cutting you off from your escape.

To your credit, you don't scream or startle. You simply freeze, eyes quickly scanning Junhui's frame with a speed that only a Prime priority target would know to.

It's you!

Junhui frowns at the unusual commentary from the AI. His mouth opens next. His own voice says a name he wasn't given during his briefing and is unfamiliar with. You show no signs of recognizing it, but his display reads your heartbeat, which spikes at the mention.

"You are to return home at once," he says, his confusion multiplying. The instruction wasn't to bring you home. The instruction was to murder you on sight.

"Home?" you ask, a level of incredulity in your voice. Your hands fidget in the pocket of your hoodie, and Junhui's fist instinctively reaches out toward you, a panel on his wrist lifting just enough to reveal a small but efficient hardlight shooter aimed right at your chest. His cybernetic arm immediately powers on and charges as it prepares to shoot. You freeze once more.

You seem to know what will come out of Junhui's arm if he does shoot. The weapon emits momentarily solidified light, and a single shot aimed at the right place could cut your head clean off.

"Show me your hands." Your hands stay where they are, hidden within your clothing. "Show me your hands or I will shoot."

Junhui should've shot by now, frankly. He doesn't complain, though, hoping the AI has finally glitched and that you'll find your way out of this. If your PI is this high, he thinks you might be able to. Whoever you are, you're more important than even Iasus was, and if Aegis wants you dead, Junhui knows it's imperative you live.

"Why haven't you already?" you ask the question you're both wondering, raising an eyebrow like you're speaking to a friend. Like you're amused. The only indication you're even the least bit nervous are the vitals Junhui's display reads. Your body temperature is rising and your heart races faster by the second, but on the surface, you haven't cracked at all.

He repeats your name. "You are to return to Aegis Dynamics," Panoptes corrects its own wording.

You narrow your eyes. "Aegis Dynamics isn't home."

"You are to return."

"And if I don't?"

Junhui is eager for the answer too. In the years he's been trapped with the false god, he has never witnessed this sort of behavior from it. His voice is hardly ever even utilized at all. He's baffled as he feels his captor processing and buffering… almost like it's thinking.

For the first time since becoming a Letheon Unit, his own reflexes kick in before the AI's, his brain signaling his legs to move. They, of course, don't, and he's hit with a neural wave, dropping him to the ground after a few moments of resisting the disorientation.

Y-you—a-a—home—h—retu-tu—

Junhui wants to cringe as Panoptes's voice turns into a high-pitched whine, an ugly dissonance against the static the neural gun delivered. His eyes are squeezed shut but somewhere in his human mind, he can register you walking closer to him.

What is she doing? he thinks, annoyed. Run!

A string of unsaid curses rings through his head when you don't. Through the static, he can make out a click followed by the sound of your neural gun starting up again, and it seems that Panoptes does too. Even though his system is still struggling to come back online, the AI snaps out of its stunned state, and Junhui's body is moving before his eyes are even opening.

A surprised yelp escapes your mouth as he rises to his feet, one arm sweeping to shove the hand holding your gun away, the other palm meeting your chest and sending you flying back several feet toward the overpass. You land on your back, rolling backward immediately until you're upright again. He expects you to run the direction he sent you flying—you should run in the direction he sent you flying. For some infuriating reason, you still refuse to, and you remain crouched down on the ground where you landed.

You point your neural gun at him, and the display fails to alert him to something he notices before Panoptes does again—there's an attachment on the gun that wasn't there before. It glows a bright pink as it powers up, but when you shoot, the charge it releases isn't the usual invisible wave that scrambles Letheon systems. Instead, it's a visible cyan, just like Junhui's own cybernetics.

His body throws itself to the left, narrowly missing the neural charge, which dissolves not long after it passes him. Panoptes is so set on capturing you without harming you that it doesn't even pause to register the fact that your weapon has changed.

Why isn't she running? Junhui asks himself as Panoptes uselessly orders you to return to Aegis Dynamics again.

You snort, a sound Junhui can't believe he hears. Your nonchalance is near vexing. "I imagine you've been sent to kill me. So why don't you just do it?"

As if Panoptes is taking the bait, it points Junhui's cybernetic arm at you again, this time with his palm open and his arm glowing as his pulse cannon aims at you. Still, it doesn't force him to shoot.

The AI wants you captured unharmed despite Aegis orders. Who the fuck are you?

Junhui repeats the name he assumes by now is yours. His body sighs. It sighs like it's tired. Like it's torn. Like it used to when he was human. "Please…"

You frown at the plea, just as put off as he is. Without another word, you stand and slowly tuck your neural gun into the back of your waistband, simply staring at him. He wonders if Panoptes is seeing the same things he is. The way your fists open and close as your chest rises and falls evenly like you're struggling to keep your heart rate down. Your lips pursing to keep whatever it is you want to say bottled up inside you. Your eyes boring into him like you're trying to see into his very soul. Do you know he's in here? You must. You have to know he isn't just a cyborg. He's still here. Do you know? Is that why your PI is so high?

He doesn't know how long you two stand there in silence, staring at each other, but when you decide the chances of being shot are low, you suddenly charge at Junhui straight on. Instead of shooting you down easily—the way it would anyone else—Panoptes allows you to run at him. In fact, it allows you to barrel right into him, and though you don't quite succeed in taking him down, you do knock him back a few steps, giving him no space to recover as you immediately engage him in combat.

The two of you are a flurry of fists and feet, neither of you landing a single hit for what feels like several minutes.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" you grunt as you block a kick to the side and throw a fist at Junhui's face. He blocks that too.

He'd like to ask you the same. What is wrong with you and why aren't you running? You should be taking this weird window the AI has afforded you and escaping. Instead, the two of you are locked in a dance, so evenly matched that Junhui has to wonder exactly how you're able to hold your own against a Letheon Unit. He feels Panoptes pulling his punches—desperately trying to find a way to subdue you without harming you—but he reckons even at his full power, you'd put up a hell of a fight.

Your strength is no match for Junhui's; after all, he's mostly made of metal now. Still, you seem to know exactly what to do to make sure you're not only keeping afloat but keeping Panoptes on its toes. You produce clever feints, though you never make the same move twice, making it near impossible for the AI to learn your patterns. You don't allow it to read your body language either, your shoulder moving like you're about to punch with your left fist, just to have him bending back until he's almost parallel with the ground to dodge a spinning hook. You also preserve your energy, never throwing all of your force behind an attempt to hit him; you know even the strongest human blow to a Letheon Unit won't do anything to him. Anything you do without a neural weapon won't be effective, and even then, you refuse to take that god damn gun back out, shoot him, and run like you should.

It almost feels like fighting himself… it feels like fighting someone who learned how to from Aegis Dynamics. He knew how to fight before he was taken; being able to defend yourself was mandatory growing up in Phlegethon, and he and all his friends had been in their fair share of brawls. But the ways he was forced to move under Aegis control was unlike anything he's ever tried or seen, and the ease that he took targets down with confirms it isn't a set of skills or techniques widely used or even known. Somehow, it's a set of skills or techniques you know. And you know them well. Junhui might have been built for this exact fight, but you seem to have been training your entire life for it. Waiting your entire life for it.

"Stand down," he orders through gritted teeth as he just barely catches your knee before it can lodge itself into his stomach.

He shoves it away and lands the first hit of the confrontation, throwing his elbow into your stomach. You gasp as the air is knocked from you, your body bending where you were struck. Even as he hears the strangled sound you make, Junhui knows what he felt—Panoptes pulling its power just before his strike landed, softening the blow. It felt unnatural after so many years being dragged around like a puppet. Junhui is accustomed to being shoved forward into fights, into political power struggles, into wars and battles that aren't supposed to exist. He has never once been pulled back, in the opposite direction of his mission.

Without missing a beat, the AI forces his own knee into your face, sending you back up with a pained gasp once more. Before you can take note of what's happening, his fingers are around your throat, only taking that one hand to spin you around and slam you against a crumbling pillar. Your head bounces against the concrete and Junhui's soul winces. You groan, blinking several times as you process the pain.

"Stop. Fighting," he hisses at you. "I do not wish to hurt you."

You grasp his wrist almost absentmindedly, like fighting him for your life is an afterthought. Your eyes squeeze shut and you obviously try not to pass out. It only took one maneuver to get you this dizzy. Junhui doesn't want to think about how fast this would've been over if Panoptes wasn't completely ignoring the directive it gave him. There's nothing you can do. If the AI decides it wants to complete its mission, your windpipe would be pulverized so fast, you wouldn't even know you died. But it doesn't want you dead—that much is obvious. Although you're struggling to breathe, Junhui knows that even now, he's barely holding onto you. You could slip away with some more of that fight you have, and at this point, he thinks his body would let you.

"It's time to go."

You open your eyes and begin to mouth words that don't succeed in making anything discernible other than choked gasps. Amazingly, Junhui feels his fingers loosen the slightest bit. When it's clear it's not enough for you to form real words, his fist opens even further. You suck in a huge breath of air and cough a few times. As soon as you have your breath, you look back up at Junhui, a drop of blood lingering just past your nostril from where his knee found your face. Your brows furrow as you stare hard at him, and he thinks you look as confused as he feels. His display wavers briefly.

"What is it?" his captor asks. "You have one moment to tell me before I take you into custody."

You narrow your eyes slightly, and Junhui can practically see you connecting dots he doesn't understand in your head. After a second, you scoff lightly and shake your head, your muscles moving underneath Junhui's hand. "Fuck you."

You spit a glob of saliva at his face, momentarily disrupting his vision. He feels your forearm come down hard on the ditch of his elbow, forcing it to bend and release you. He uses his free hand to wipe your spit off him, blindly punching where you were just standing. He feels Panoptes's patience—something he didn't realize the AI even had—slip for a brief moment. Because this time, his punch isn't pulled as heavily as the others, and when he opens his eyes, he finds fractures spiderwebbing through the concrete from the crater where his fist is. The AI doesn't move, simply staring at the pillar.

You, thankfully, are no longer standing there.

Contusions sustained to the head, his display warns him, highlighting his head on the tiny diagram of his body.

The notification is the only reason he knows you've hit him. He turns toward you to find you a few feet away, holding a rusty rebar you found casually at your side. You stare at him in exasperation, like you could be somewhere much more fun instead of wasting your time, dancing around with a Letheon Unit here. You're not fighting for survival, he realizes belatedly. He can't tell why you're here, but your stance is too defiant and too angry for someone who's been backed into a corner. You've been given so many opportunities to run, and you haven't thought twice about taking any of them.

"He's a good one," you pant, nodding. Your rebar twitches upward as you make a half-assed gesture toward him. "Whoever this one is. Really fast." You nod a few more times before you turn your head to the side and spit. It's tinged pink with blood, a sickening reminder of how fragile you are—how fragile Junhui used to be. And now he can do things like that to you. "Really nimble." Your free hand plants itself on your hip as you try to catch your breath like this was just a practice session. You wave the rebar a few times like you're trying to catch his attention. "You in there?"

Junhui's soul stills. Are you talking to him?

"I am—"

"Not you," you snap, your voice turning venomous at the sound of the AI using his body as a mouthpiece. It confirms his suspicion, and he feels an intense flood of joy and anguish, mixing together so well, he can't tell the emotions apart from each other. You're the first person who's spoken directly to him since he was taken, and he can't even respond.

Yes! Yes, my name is Wen Junhui, and I'm in here!

You shrug, sighing as you whip the rebar to the side so hard, it spins away from you several yards away, the sound of it landing echoing through the abandoned underpass. Junhui would scream at you if he could. For someone with a threat level and PI so high, you have zero survival skills.

"I guess that's pointless, huh?" you ask more to yourself than anyone else. "It's not like you can respond. Either way, I'm sorry." Panoptes doesn't say anything, but Junhui thinks both of them would ask the same thing. What are you sorry for? "I'm sorry you have to die a Lethe."

The anguish wins out. It's not that he believes you're strong enough to kill a Letheon Unit with your bare hands—it's a simple fact that you cannot. It's that he sorely hopes you're right. He doesn't know much, but just from this short time with you, he's confident that if it comes down to one person walking out of here tonight, Arcadian Prime will benefit if it's you. Aegis Dynamics wants you dead, and their abomination AI wants you imprisoned. He doesn't need to know anything else; that's enough information to know you need to walk out of here alive, and the only way you can do that is if he's dead.

"Anyway, I don't think I have anything else to learn here, and I'm tired."

"You are to return—"

You're running at him again. His display predicts you're going to punch him, but of course, you don't. And of course, the AI doesn't detect what Junhui does. At the last moment—just as Panoptes is forcing his body to lean to the right to dodge a punch it's 97.8% sure you're about to deliver—you spin the direction of the arm you have pulled back, effectively sidestepping him. With his body leaning the opposite way to dodge the punch that never came to be, you easily launch yourself at him, using his thigh as a makeshift stepping stool, deftly lifting yourself onto his shoulders, and wrapping your legs around his head and squeezing.

Activating oxygen preservation protocol, his system announces as you attempt to suffocate him. You must know that won't work on a Letheon Unit, though, because you also bring your fist down against the top of his head repeatedly, grunting as you do.

Contusion sustained. Contusion sustained. Con—

Oh my god, shut the fuck up, Junhui thinks as Panoptes continues to panic through its directive, hands coming up to make space between your stomach and his face. At some point, you graduate to throwing your elbow into his head, prompting his system to graduate to: Minor concussion sustained.

And when you've finally had enough of Panoptes refusing to truly harm you, you twist your body, throw your weight to the side, and force Junhui to fall into the dirt.

His display lights his elbow up on the diagram now, where he caught himself on the ground. Contusion sustained. He has no idea why Aegis thought it would be helpful to have the system announce every little bruise he was going to collect. His missions all involve high-threat subjects; of course he's going to walk away with dozens of bruises.

You scramble away from him, and when he looks up, he could weep in delight when he finds you fumbling with your neural gun, that odd attachment still clinging to the top of it.

Junhui is on his knees quickly, lunging forward, catching your ankle just as you right yourself, and dragging you to him easily. You grunt and instead of kicking at him like both he and the AI assumed you would, you let him pull you in. You wrap your other leg around his arm, grab his wrist, and yank up with more strength than he's anticipating, your knee colliding with his face as he's jerked toward you.

Contusions sustained to the face, his system warns him again. He'd roll his eyes if he could.

With his arm pinned and the AI refusing to deliver lethal force, his body follows as you roll yours, shoving him face down into the dirt until you're straddling his back. Panoptes finally—and pathetically—allows a single shot of hardlight to escape the wrist you're holding hostage, the beam uselessly shooting the opposite way from you and dissolving into the night. It doesn't even have what he assumes was the AI's desired effect—startling you off of him. You stay planted with your thighs on either side of his ribs, squeezing and unbothered as you pull the arm you have behind him further back until it pops right out of his socket. He doesn't feel anything.

Shoulder dislocated. Protocol in place. Please correct your arm to allow repositioning of joint. He has never been so annoyed with the unwelcome voice in his head.

"Please stop fighting," it pleads, Junhui's voice muffled by the ground. "You are to return—"

"It's you, isn't it," you grunt, your lips suddenly at his ear. "Aurora. Do you remember me? Is that it?"

Junhui feels the system buffering again. Curiously, his display glitches and brief flashes of code replace it. He catches the name Aurora a few times.

"You are to—"

"No," you hiss. Junhui feels the barrel of your gun against his back, and he realizes this is very much it.

You are going to kill him. This should've been fairly easy, but Panoptes's reluctance at every turn is about to get him killed, and Junhui is relieved. Allowing a rebel labeled PI Prime to escape unharmed is a good thing to die for, he thinks. At least in death, his mind will finally rest. In death, he'll reunite with sleep. And he's so tired.

He wishes he could close his eyes now, let the world quiet down, and savor this moment a little more. Instead, he stays alert, the intruder in his body very obviously unsure of its next step.

"Tell them to send me all the Lethes they have. I'll kill every single one if I have to," you say, speaking directly to the AI.

Junhui fleetingly ruminates on the unfairness. The thought of you cutting down every single Letheon Unit they send after you—and something tells him they will be sending them all once they realized he failed—fills him with inexplicable grief.

This is the life of a Letheon Unit: kidnapped off the streets, butchered beyond recognition, and killed by the very people they would fight for if they could. But he's always been a pragmatic person, even when he was still in Phlegethon. It's either you kill the Letheon Units or they're forced to kill you. He supposes if your survival means the end of the Letheon program altogether, then he'll have to accept that he and all the other units are necessary collateral damage, devastating as it is.

"Tell them…" you practically growl into his ear, your lips grazing the shell of it as you speak. "I'm coming for fucking everything."

The barrel of your gun presses harder against his back, and he feels his soul perk in anticipation.

Wen Junhui, Wen Junhui, Wen Junhui. You are Wen Junhui, and you are about to be freed.

Death, it turns out, is agonizing. And for once, Wen Junhui feels it all.

[border]

He was with his friends when he was taken.

His mother died giving birth to him and his father died in an accident at the factory he worked at when Junhui was only a teenager. He had no parents to call and tell him, "Be careful. Another person went missing this week. Go straight home after your shift and make sure you lock your doors."

He also spent over 80 hours a week working for crumbs. He didn't have time to visit the corner store and gather around the single television in the neighborhood. He didn't see the news that the god awful AI the government debuted a few weeks prior had predictive capabilities.

Junhui wasn't particularly invested in politics, so even if he had the proper information to navigate the world accordingly, he probably wouldn't have. He probably would have continued working his body to its limits only to barely keep his head above water. Survival mode made keeping up with anything outside of his own life a tall order—one that he hadn't been interested in filling.

So on a rare shift where he and his friends all worked together, crawling in utility tunnels and repairing electric lines for other zones—a cruel job for citizens that had no electricity at night themselves— he agreed to catch up for a few minutes after they clocked out. They walked the route from the tunnels back to Phlegethon, stopping at a park and laying down on the rusty roundabout to stare at the stars, their heads meeting at the center as they talked about how tired they were—how there was nothing to even really catch up on because all they ever did was work.

They had only been there for 10 minutes before the lights began flashing against the trees, dappling the dead leaves in blue and red. The police were still human then; they were just as violent and trigger-happy as the Letheon Units were made to be, but at least they were human. One could hope they'd be able to appeal to some sort of emotion left in them. When they came, guns drawn on Junhui and his three friends, he was scared and confused. They knew his name, his occupation, his entire life. And they claimed to know he was planning to murder a coworker soon. A coworker he never even spoke more than two words at a time to. They arrested him, and within 24 hours, he was sedated and under the knife.

And that's where he stayed for weeks. First, it was the complex system of wires and nodes along his neck that gave away his freedom as he knew it. They didn't give him even a moment to process the new tenant in his body before he was being cut open again. This time, for a cybernetic eye—one that fed him too much information about himself and the people around him. Then, it was the hardlight shooter in his wrist. Once he was performing actual missions, the mods came.

A pulse cannon in the palm of his hand. Reinforced armor under the skin of his torso. Hidden thrusters embedded into his elbow and his ankles to land punches and kicks with 10 times as much force. A reconstructed face after the bombing at Morphae's checkpoint.

Each time, they put his body to sleep, but as always, Junhui stayed awake. He heard the scalpels, the saws, the wet squelch of his organs being rearranged to make room for whatever it was they were putting in him. He listened to the giddiness of employees who looked at him like some kind of playable video game character. He listened to doctors and scientists debate what his human body could and couldn't take. And before he was even up off the table, he was subject to the scientists' ideas for their next "update" with him. An update. Like he was one of the devices he knew more fortunate Arcadian citizens carried around with them.

His body was being carved into and chopped up, and to them, it was simply an update. He still bled red blood, he still required healing time after surgeries and injuries, he still thought and hoped and suffered and felt—he was still more human than he was machine. But to them, some of his worst memories were just updates.

The hope died quickly. At first, he thought his friends would find a way to rally resources—get him some kind of legal help. When weeks turned into months, he hoped this was some kind of mistake; Aegis would find the real culprit and they would release him, and even with his new body parts and the way his eye would vibrate in his skull like it was working too hard, he would simply say thanks and run back home, too scared to make a bigger fuss.

It didn't take long for him to start losing track of time. He could only count the hours his body slept while he stayed awake, endlessly counting the seconds or else he thought his mind would fracture in irreparable ways—more than it already had. And one day, without realizing it, he decided there was little room left in him next to all the metal for hope.

It came back in dangerous, fleeting moments, and he tried hard to remember what it felt like. If his body was no longer human, he could at least make sure his mind was. But time bled and sometimes he did too, and hope became a lost art to him.

It's ironic that now that he's dead, he's so full of it, he's practically choking on it. Because what is there to hope for anymore? He lived a bleak life and died a bleak death, and now he'll be here—wherever here is—trying to relearn what it means to be human. What it means to be Wen Junhui. What it meant to be him anyway.

He's dead but he's free, and that's enough for him.

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Your apartment is quiet. On any other day, it would be a welcome silence, a break from the constant, everyday noise. Today, however, the quiet weighs heavy upon you. You don't expect your boyfriend to be back tonight. Not after the exchange the two of you had. The words you shared felt too final to hold on to any hope that you'd be sleeping in the same bed tonight. You don't live together, not yet at least, but you've spent more nights together than not as of late. His absence makes the atmosphere feel uneasy.

It was a stupid argument that started over nothing. Unfortunately, any sort of conflict mixed with stress and exhaustion is a recipe for disaster— and disaster it was. It's a blur in your memory, the details fogged up by the slurry of emotions you felt in the moment. The one thing that is clear, however, is the sound of the door slamming behind Joshua as he walks out of your space. The sound of the door and the feeling of dread that washed over you the moment you heard it.

You love him. You've known that for months now. You also know Joshua loves you back, even though he hasn't said it out loud yet. Which, you realize, may have also been a contributing factor to your lashing out. You are well aware that you weren't as understanding as you could have been, but the agitation remains regardless. He wasn't all that understanding either.

You sit on your couch, staring at nothing in particular, thinking about nothing in particular. A decorative pillow lies in your lap, from which we you've been fiddling with a stray thread for the past who-knows-how-long, trying your best to keep yourself grounded and avoid any further spiraling. You've done enough of that tonight.

You're knocked out of your daze when you hear a noise at your door. Two possibilities run through your mind at the sound: Joshua is back or someone is actively breaking into your apartment. You're not sure which is more likely.

The former is proved correct when the door opens enough to reveal who is on the other side. Joshua enters as quietly as possible. If he knows you're there, he doesn't show it. You'd assume he's just as annoyed with you as you are with him, but the redness surrounding his eyes tells a different story. You feel your irritation begin to evaporate when you see the state he's in.

You're blatantly staring at him from the couch as he puts his shoes away. He freezes in place when he turns and catches your eye.

"I thought you'd be asleep," he says softly.

You shrug. "Wasn't really tired." Your eyes flick back to the pillow in your lap. You don't hear him move for a good few moments, but you can't bring yourself to look in his direction to see what's stalling him. You can only assume he's staring at you with the same intensity that you're staring at the pillow with.

Joshua breaks the silence again. "Can we talk?" It comes out as an exhale, tension evident. You're thankful he extended the olive branch. You know a conversation is the first step to solving the problem, but you're not sure you'd have done the same. Not because you don't want to make up— you're not that mad at him— but you've never been all that good with emotional talks, let along initiating them.

Instead of responding, you simply move over slightly on the couch, making room for Joshua. He breathes an audible sigh of relief, though his steps toward you are still soft and tentative. The couch dips slightly and you can feel his eyes on you. You, however, are still unable to meet his gaze, so your eyes stay trained on the pillow still in your lap.

"I'm sorry we fought." The statement is simple, but it's enough to get the ball rolling. "I'm sorry I made you feel like I don't care. Yes, I'm busy and my attention is constantly being pulled in a thousand different directions, but that's never an excuse. My worst fear has always been making you feel unloved, because that couldn't be further from the truth."

Your head snaps towards him, mouth parted in surprise. "Joshua…" You trail off. It's all you can muster right now, relief mixes with the residual frustration and leaves a muddled mess of emotions. It's his turn to look away now, suddenly very interested in his hands as they fidget in his lap. "I don't expect it to fix everything, I just thought you should know that I do. Love you, that is. I'm sorry it took me so long to say it out loud."

You feel a smile tug at the corners of your mouth. You huff a small laugh as you let it grace your face. "I could've handled it a lot better too. I know you've got so much else going on, I can't expect you to put everything else on hold just for me."

"You should though."

Another laugh bubbles up, "What?"

"It's what you deserve!"

"You have other obligations Joshua."

You notice his eyes have started to sparkle again, the evidence of tears a mere afterthought now. "I'm just saying! You deserve to be put first, everyone else comes later."

"Your job wouldn't be too happy to hear that."

"Then I'll be a househusband," he proclaims.

It feels good to laugh together like this, the atmosphere growing much brighter than before. You, too, feel less troubled. The heaviness in your chest finally dissipating.

As the giggles taper off, the two of you are left simply admiring each other with smiles on your faces. You reach over to take his hand out of his lap and give it a light squeeze.

"I'm sorry too. And I love you too. I'm… very happy to hear you say it."

"Then I'll say it a thousand times more if it makes you happy." He takes your hand and brings it up to his lips, leaving a soft kiss behind. "I love you."

Heat rises to your face as your smile grows even further. Seeing the effect he has on you, he takes his opportunity to bring you even closer. He leaves another quick kiss to your cheek and repeats himself once again. "I love you."

Your smile softens into something much more sentimental, before turning to something mischievous. Before he can react, you reach for the back of his head with your free hand to pull him in, leaving a peck on his lips. "I love you too."

“You've been staring at the door since 7:40. It's currently 8:05. Taehyun's mom's going to walk through it any minute now and you're going to jump like she caught you doing something illegal.”

“I wasn't staring at the door.” You absolutely were staring at the door. 

“Okay.“ Jiwon holds up an oval that's more of a rhombus. “Do these look like chicken eggs to you?”

“They look like abstract art.”

She sticks her tongue out at you. “Okay, well, they're chicken eggs.”

Across the room, Soyeon — who technically works the front desk and has no real business in the classroom during the day, but wanders in anyway whenever she's got a free ten minutes — is refereeing a dispute over a single yellow crayon that has somehow become the most coveted object in the building. Two kids stand on either side of her, red-faced and furious, both absolutely certain of their claim.

“I had it first.”

“I had it first first.”

“There's no such thing as first first,” Soyeon says, with the weary patience of someone who's negotiated with cranky four year olds before breakfast and will again after lunch. “There are, however, eleven other yellow crayons in that bin. I checked.”

Neither kid finds this persuasive. You've learned, over three years, that most classroom diplomacy comes down to waiting people out rather than winning any actual argument, and sure enough, within ninety seconds both of them have abandoned the crayon entirely in favor of a much more interesting pile of dolls in the corner. Soyeon catches your eye over their heads and mouths good luck, and you give her a thumbs up you don't entirely feel yet as she disappears back to the office.

The door opens. It's Taehyun's mother, harried and talking rapidly about a meeting she's clearly already late for, depositing her son and his bag and a granola bar all in one motion before disappearing again in a cloud of strong perfume. Taehyun toddles toward the block corner without acknowledging either of you, which is, frankly, the daycare equivalent of a warm greeting.

You've got four kids in by 8:15, seven by 8:30, and by nine the whole room has that low hum of chaos that means the day's properly begun — someone building a tower, someone destroying a tower, someone crying about the tower's destruction with a passion. Chaewon, three going on forty, sits very seriously at the reading corner turning the pages of a picture book upside down and narrating it with complete confidence.

“That's not what it says,” you tell her, crouching down.

“I know,“ Chaewon says. “I made it better.”

You don't have a response to that, so you let her keep going.

By ten you've got the whole room moving through the usual currents — circle time, then centres, then the slow inevitable descent into midday crankiness over minor grievances that means it's almost snack time. You hand out orange slices and listen to a passionate, incoherent argument between two five-year-olds about whether dogs could, in principle, become doctors, a debate that resolves itself only when someone knocks over the entire bin of blocks and both parties get called away to help clean it up, already having forgotten what they were arguing about in the first place. 

This is the shape of your days, mostly. Small disasters, smaller triumphs, a lot of glitter you'll find in your hair for a week afterward. You do like it — the specific way you like something you didn't expect to love. You'd taken the job out of necessity two summers after a psychology degree that hadn't led anywhere near where you'd planned it would; you'd pictured a clinic, or a research post, or at the very least something with your name on a door, not a room full of glue sticks and orange peels. But somewhere in the middle of your first year you'd looked up from tying somebody's shoe and realised you weren't counting down to anything anymore. You like the kids, you like listening to their absolutely nonsensical debates, and okay, maybe the tantrums aren’t exactly a plus, but when they hand you a badly coloured apple or give the sweetest compliments about your outfit on any given day, your whole heart melts. You think about it sometimes — grad school, or moving away, but never with any real intensity. It could happen, someday, but for now, you’re happy exactly where you are.

Sunday dinner at your mom's is a fixed institution, always at the same table, same mismatched chairs, same argument, most weeks, about whether the good tablecloth is really necessary for a meal that will inevitably involve your younger sister spilling something on it. Agreeing to dinner once a week was one of your mother’s few stipulations when you decided to move out. And now Yuna's twenty-two and home for the summer between the end of her graphic design degree in another city and the beginning of whatever comes next, and she's currently interrogating you about your love life with the particular shamelessness only a younger sibling can manage.

“So nothing's happening with anyone,” she says, not a question.

You roll your eyes. “Correct.”

“Nothing at all. Zero activity.”

“I have a very rich inner life, Yuna, it doesn't all have to be romantic. Hobbies. Friends.”

“I didn't ask about your inner life, I asked if you're seeing anyone.“ Yuna reaches across the table for the rice without asking, which your mother allows only from her, a fact that has been a point of argument for roughly twenty years. “You have like, two friends anyway.”

Unfortunately, your younger sister is entirely correct. 

“I saw that lovely Choi boy last week, actually,” your mom says, entirely too casual about it, spooning more food onto your plate — which is her way of forcing you to stay in your seat. “He asked how you were doing. Very polite about it. He's always been polite, hasn’t he?”

You scoff. “He's flirting with the whole town, Mom, that's just what he does.”

“Mm,“ your mother says, which is not agreement, and also not disagreement, and is in fact the single most infuriating sound a mother can make. “He's been doing it a long time, though, hasn't he? Since you two were teenagers.”

“He asked her to proooom,” Yuna chips in, sing-song, and you promptly kick her under the table. “Ow! Mom!”

“That doesn't mean anything,” you say, over Yuna’s complaint.

“I didn't say it meant anything.” Your mother says it lightly, the way she says most things she actually means incredibly pointedly, a skill you're fairly sure you inherited directly from her and have spent years turning against her at this exact table. “I just think it's interesting that a man can ask about a woman for ten years and it doesn't mean anything, and a woman can turn him down for ten years and that doesn't mean anything either. Sounds like a lot of nothing happening for a very long time.”

“Can we talk about literally anything else,” you groan, rubbing a hand over your eyes. “In fact! We can talk about how Yuna still hasn't found a job,” you offer, and Yuna kicks you back under the table hard enough that you yelp, and your mother laughs, and the conversation moves on, mercifully, to safer ground — Yuna's job search, the neighbour's renovation, whether it's finally time to replace the good tablecloth — but you catch your mom looking at you once more over the course of the meal with an expression you don't examine too closely.

Here's the truth of it, if you're being honest, which you try not to be too often on this particular subject: Seungcheol's been flirting with you since roughly the ninth grade, in the low-grade, no-stakes way he’s never grown out of. But he also flirts with the guy at the post office. He flirts with Ms. Oh, who's sixty-one and unmarried and thinks he's a delight. He flirts with the bartender at the one good bar in town, who's engaged and finds it hilarious. It's not a thing you take personally, mostly, because it so clearly isn't personal — it's just the way it is with him, constant.

Except it's always felt a little more personal directed at you, and you've spent a lot of energy over the years making sure it never gets anywhere near landing. 

You remember the prom thing specifically, with a clarity that time hasn't done much to soften — him leaning against your locker two weeks before, hands in his pockets, asking with a shrug that was trying so hard to look like it didn't matter, and you turning him down before he'd even finished the sentence, because Kim Daeun had told you the week before that he'd asked three other girls the exact same way, and you weren't about to be a fourth. You'd found out later that wasn't true, that you'd actually been the only one he'd asked, but by then the pattern was already set, the reflex already built, and reflexes, you've learned, are a lot harder to unlearn than they are to learn in the first place. He hadn't argued, hadn't sulked, had just said “your loss” and grinned and gone off to ask someone else's opinion on which tie to wear instead, and you remember watching him walk away and feeling, underneath the relief, something that took you another decade to correctly identify as disappointment.

There was something else, too, that came later, and you think about it more than you'd like to admit, because by then you weren't the same girl who'd turned him down at a locker. You were two years into a psychology degree, home for a fortnight over the winter break, feeling like a slightly different person in your own hometown, the way you always did those first few days back, still half in seminar-mode, still analysing everything, including, apparently, yourself. You'd been walking back from your mum's when the sky opened properly, no warning, the kind of rain that soaks through in under a minute, and a car had pulled up alongside you with its window already rolling down before you'd even registered whose it was. Seungcheol in his brother's beat-up sedan, hair already damp from getting out to jog around and open the passenger door for you before you could say anything.

“Get in,” he'd said, entirely reasonable, entirely obvious, and you'd stood there on the curb, drenched, freezing, genuinely unable to think of a single sensible reason to say no, and said no anyway. You'd told him you didn't mind the walk, which was a lie so transparent you'd half expected him to call it, and he hadn't, had just looked at you for a second too long, rain running down from his long fringe onto his cheeks, before he'd said, “Alright,”  and driven off slowly. 

You'd spent the rest of that walk soaked through and furious with yourself in a way you didn't have language for yet, turning it over with the same detached, clinical curiosity you were being trained to turn on everything else that year — why did you say no, what did you think accepting would cost you — and never quite landing on an answer you liked. You remember thinking, absurdly, that you'd learned more about avoidant attachment that semester than you'd ever wanted to know, and that none of it had stopped you doing exactly what the textbook said you would.

You remember the coffee, more recently, and the movie, and the wedding — Soonyoung's cousin's wedding, the one he'd asked you to as a plus-one with an actual paper invitation he'd apparently gone to the trouble of getting an extra copy of, which you'd found both sweet and alarming in equal measure and you had turned down within about four seconds of seeing it, before you could think too hard about why your hands had gone a little unsteady holding it.

You expect it now. Seungcheol borderline flirts every time he sees you; occasionally he pushes his luck and asks you out, with enough time in between that you can’t call him insistent. 

Each time, you refuse it with the specific lightness of someone slamming a door gently enough that it doesn't look like she's slamming it. And each time he's taken it exactly the way he takes everything — with a grin, a shrug, a “your loss” tossed over his shoulder as he walks away completely unbothered, already on to the next joke, the next call, the next whatever. 

So you do the same — you don't examine it. You put it in the same drawer where you keep most things you don't want to look at directly, close it, and go back to your life.

The same week you have that pointed dinner with your mom, you see him at the grocery store — or rather, he sees you. It's a Wednesday, nothing special about it, and you're standing in the cereal aisle trying to decide whether you actually need a box of the good granola or whether that's just a symptom of grocery shopping hungry, when a voice behind you says, “You're gonna want the other kind.”

You close your eyes and take a deep breath, not even bothering to turn around. “I didn’t ask you, Seungcheol.”

“You didn't have to. You've been standing there for a full minute looking at that box.” Seungcheol's got a basket hooked over one arm, and the basket, when you glance at it, contains a box of protein bars, a carton of orange juice (with pulp, which, ew), and a single lime, which tells you absolutely nothing about what he's planning to cook tonight. “The one with the honey clusters. Trust me.”

“I don't take grocery advice from a man whose entire cart is a lime and protein bars.”

“It's a basket, not a cart, and I resent the implication that I don’t know how to grocery shop.” He leans against the shelf, unbothered, like he's got nowhere else to be — which, this being a Wednesday evening and him apparently off shift, he probably doesn't. “You still owe me an answer on Seokmin’s barbecue thing, by the way.”

“That was two years ago, Seungcheol.”

“I have a long memory.”

“You have a selective memory. You don't remember owing Soonyoung forty dollars, but you remember a barbecue invitation from two summers ago.”

“Different category of memory. One's debt. The other's an open wound.” He says it with a hand pressed dramatically to his chest, grinning, and you roll your eyes and put the honey clusters in your cart anyway, which he looks entirely too pleased about.

“Don't,” you say.

“Didn't say anything.”

“You were about to.”

“I was going to say I'm always right about cereal, but sure, put words in my mouth.“ He falls into step beside you as you push toward the dairy section, not because he needs anything there, you're fairly sure, but because this is also just how it goes, has gone, for as long as you can remember: running into each other in the produce aisle or outside the post office or at the one gas station, falling into the same easy rhythm you've had since you were teenagers — like the conversation never really stops, just pauses between sightings. “How's the daycare? Still winning?”

“Every day's a battle, but yes.”

“You could come to Seokmin’s barbecue this year. Renewing my invitation.”

“I'll think about it,” you say, which is what you always say, and he laughs like he already knows what that means, because he does, because you've been having some version of this exact exchange for the better part of a decade — him asking, lightly, for something, you deflecting, lightly, in return. Neither of you ever quite landing anywhere, both of you apparently fine with that. You part ways at the register, him with his lime and his orange juice and his protein bars, you with a cart full of things that will mostly go uneaten, and you don't think about it again until you're halfway through unpacking your groceries at home and realise you're smiling for no reason you can name.

It isn't all banter, though, and it would be doing the whole thing a disservice to pretend it is. There's a version of you two that has nothing to do with the game at all, that surfaces every so often, and you think about one particular evening more than you'd probably admit to anyone, including yourself.

You'd run into him at the diner on the edge of town, the one that's open too late and serves coffee that's either too strong or too watery. He'd been alone in a booth looking like a man who'd had a longer day than usual, sleeves shoved up, staring at a mug he wasn't drinking from. You'd almost kept walking.

“You look like you got hit by that truck of yours,”you'd said, sliding into the booth across from him without being invited, and his look of surprise when he saw you mirrored exactly how you’d felt at your own actions.

“Feels about right.” He hadn't tried to make a joke of it, which was how you knew it was serious. Seungcheol without a joke ready was rare. “There was a house fire. We got everyone out,” he adds quickly, “It’s just — the house. It’s fucked up. Like, it was a couple and their kids, and their dog, and they were — you know. Gutted. Crying and shit. The kids, especially.”

You hadn't said anything clever, because there wasn't anything clever to say, and you'd known enough not to try, from years of watching adults fumble around children in crisis and from a psychology degree that had, in fact, occasionally been useful. 

“You did everything you could,” you'd said eventually, quiet, as he rubbed his hands over his eyes. “I know that's going to sound like nothing to you right now, but it’s true.”

He'd looked up at you properly then, something unguarded in his face that had nothing to do with flirting, nothing to do with the bit — just a kind of tired gratitude that made you want to reach across the table and grab his hand. “They teach you that in your psych degree or what?” he'd asked, attempting for a smile.

You mirror the smile, with a small shrug of your own. “Turns out it's good for something besides making me insufferable at dinner parties.”

That had got a real laugh out of him, short and surprised, and the two of you had sat there for another hour talking about nothing that mattered and everything that did — his brother, your sister,the particular dread of watching a four-year-old take a deep breath right before they’re about to scream the place down. He'd asked you, at one point, about college and your degree — he’d never been to college, of course, and he’d listened to the whole thing like it was the most interesting thing anyone had said to him all week.

You remember thinking, driving home that night, that you liked him best like this, unshowy, unarmoured, asking real questions and actually waiting for the answers — and you remember being immediately furious with yourself for thinking it, and filing the whole evening away in the same drawer as everything else.

Minji's been your friend since third grade, and she's the one person you still talk to who's known you both — you and Seungcheol — long enough to have a real opinion on the whole situation, which she airs freely and often. Today it's as she’s doing her nails, a shade of red she's had you hold the bottle for while she does the other hand, sitting cross-legged on her grandmother's back porch with two iced coffees sweating rings onto the railing between you.

“I saw Seungcheol at the gas station Tuesday,” Minji says without preamble, not looking up from her hand. “He asked if I'd talked to you lately. Very smooth about it. Very casual.“

“He's like that with—”

“If you say 'he's like that with everyone' I'm going to put this nail polish in your hair.“ She caps the bottle, finally looks at you, and there's none of your mother's careful lightness in it, just Minji's usual bluntness, worn soft by nearly twenty years of friendship. “I've watched this specific bit for ten years. I watched it in high school, I watched it through your entire early twenties,and at some point, as your best friend, I have to ask: what exactly are you so afraid of?”

You don’t answer straight away, dropping your gaze to the coffee. You take a sip, fiddle with the straw between your teeth before you sigh, tilt your head back towards the clouds. “He’s not serious. It’s like a game to him.”

“Did someone tell you that or are you just making up your own conclusions?” She arches a perfectly shaped brow. “It’s been years, ___.”

“Yeah, years of playful flirting. There’s literally nothing serious behind it — I turn him down and he laughs, Minji. It’s a joke. We both know it’s a joke.”

“Do you? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like he’s been stuck on you since high school, and you’re too scared of yourself to even give him a chance.”

She always knows how to hit where it hurts, exactly when you need to be hit. Your mouth opens for a second, and then closes as you flounder for something to say. “He’s not stuck on me,” you say finally. “Seriously. We’ve both dated other people, in high school and after.”

“Don’t be purposefully obtuse, you know what I mean. He likes you.”

“Well, he’s never actually said that!”

“Purposefully. Obtuse.” She pokes your forehead after each word. “What are you protecting yourself from here?”

You close your mouth, silenced and sulking about it.

“Because it's not him,” she continues. “He'd catch you. He's been standing there with his arms out for a decade.”

“It's not that simple.”

“It's exactly that simple, you've just made it complicated on purpose because complicated is easier to dismiss than simple.“ She blows on her nails. “He likes you. You like him. It’s the simplest fucking thing ever.”

You don’t say anything, just scowl and sip your coffee. Your best friend is harsh on the best of days, and usually you like it — today, she’s said everything you don’t want to hear.

“Anyway. How's Chaewon? Is she still doing her pirate princess story?”

“She's added a supervillain.”

“Of course she has.” Minji grins, and the conversation slides, mercifully, sideways — into Minji's own things, a promotion she's up for, a guy she's seeing who she's not sure about — and you're grateful for it, for the reminder that your life has edges that don't touch Seungcheol at all, whole rooms of it that are just yours, just Minji's, just the ordinary unremarkable texture of having a friend since you were eight years old. But underneath the rest of the afternoon, everything Minji said keeps surfacing, quiet and insistently plaguing your thoughts.

It's a Tuesday, unremarkable in every way, when Ms. Oh — who owns and runs Little Pines — gathers the staff in the break room after the kids have gone home to go over the calendar for the next month.

“Also,“ she says, near the end, flipping a laminated sheet, “Fire Safety Day's the fourteenth. The station's sending a few of the firemen out to do the usual — stop, drop, roll, let the kids sit in the truck, the whole bit.”

“Cute,“ Soyeon says, refilling her coffee. “The kids’ll love it.”

“Who's coming?” Jiwon asks, because Jiwon asks things you'd rather she didn't, and you’re pretty sure she has a crush on one of Seungcheol’s coworkers, Wonwoo.

“Didn't say. Whoever's on rotation, I'd assume.” Ms. Oh moves on to the field trip permission slips, and you let out a breath you hadn't noticed you were holding, and tell yourself, very firmly, that it doesn't matter who's coming. It's a fire station. There are, by your count, eleven firefighters in this town. The odds are fine. The odds are completely fine. 

You avoid thinking about Choi Seungcheol for the rest of the day. Which is to say, you think about him constantly for the rest of the day.

The morning of the fourteenth arrives, and the kids are beyond excited. They’ve talking about it for a week — Chaewon's drawn what she insists is a fire truck and what everyone else agrees looks more like a very angry snail, and Taehyun's informed you three separate times, with the grave authority of a man delivering breaking news, that firemen have “actual axes.” You've got the kids lined up in the yard by ten, sunscreen reapplied, hats on, when the truck rolls up the gravel drive with the low satisfying rumble that makes every single child under the age of six lose their entire mind at once.

You see him before the truck's even fully stopped. Of course you do. He's hanging half out of the passenger side before it brakes, waving at the kids (who are adorably excited), and something in your chest does the thing it always does — a small, private, entirely inconvenient drop, like missing a stair in the dark.

Choi Seungcheol climbs down in his full gear, helmet under one arm, and crouches immediately to be at eye level with a cluster of four- and five-year-olds who are looking at him like he's personally invented fire trucks. “Who wants to sit in the driver's seat?” he sings, and the resulting scream from twelve small children could probably be heard three towns over.

He's good at this. You'll give him that, freely, the way you give him most things freely except the one thing he actually asks for. He crouches and jokes and lets Chaewon try on his helmet, which swallows her entire head, and gets down on the ground to show a rapt little semicircle of children how the hose attaches, and doesn't once break character even when Taehyun asks him, with total sincerity, whether he's ever fought a dragon. (“Couple times,” Seungcheol says. “Rough guys, dragons. Mostly it's the smoke.”)

The other two firefighters who've come with him, an older woman named Yerin and Soonyoung, who you’d also gone to high school with, do their parts fine, competent and pleasant and funny, but the kids gravitate to Seungcheol easily and instinctively.

You've managed, for a solid twenty minutes, to stay on the opposite side of the gaggle of kids, ostensibly ensuring Beomgyu keeps his hat on. It doesn't last. Around the time the kids are being herded toward the truck to take turns sitting behind the wheel, he peels off from the group and ambles over, helmet tucked under his arm, looking entirely too good for someone who's just spent twenty minutes being climbed on by preschoolers.

“You've got glitter on your face,” he says, by way of hello.

“I always have glitter on my face. It's basically work uniform at this point.”

“It's a good look on you.” He says it easily, the same way he says everything, but his eyes do a quick pass over you before landing back on your face with that brief dimpled smile, and you hate — hate — the small flicker of warmth that swells in your stomach.

“You didn't have to come,” you say, which isn't true, since he clearly did have to come, it's his job, but it's the fastest thing you can think to say that isn't I hoped you wouldn't and also knew you would.

“Somebody's gotta protect this town's youth from the dangers of unattended candles,“ he says solemnly. “It's a calling.“

“Right. Noble.” You pause. “They’re four, by the way.”

“Extremely noble. You should be nicer to me. I'm basically a public servant.”

“I'm always nice to you.”

“You're the meanest person I know,“ he says, delighted, “and I mean that as a compliment to your commitment.”

“Anyway,” he says, looking over to the truck. “The kids are gonna want to come to the station. We usually do that — let them see where the trucks live and everything. I can set it up with your boss if that's alright with you.”

“Sure,” you say, half-listening, half-watching the kids. You’re pretty sure Beomgyu and Yeonjun are going to trip, chasing each other like that. “Whatever's easiest.”

“You'll come too, right? Chaperone duty?”

“That's generally how field trips work, yes.” 

“Good.” He says it satisfied, like it matters, and for just a second something honest surfaces under the joking — you catch it before he tucks it away again, the way you sometimes do, a flash of something steadier than the bit usually allows.

And then, before you can examine that, Chaewon comes sprinting over demanding to know if the truck can go faster than a police car, and he's gone again, crouched down explaining horsepower to a three-year-old with the same total sincerity he used on the dragon question, and you stand there for a second longer than you mean to, watching him, before you make yourself go help Yerin with the hose demonstration instead.

By the time the truck pulls away an hour later, every single kid in the yard is talking about the fire station visit like it's the moon landing. You've got a feeling you won't hear the end of it for a while.

You don't hear the end of it for a while.

For the better part of two weeks, the fire station visit's the single principle of every conversation the four-year-olds have. Taehyun draws the truck again, several times, with increasing and alarming detail about the axes. Chaewon stages an elaborate reenactment during free play in which she plays “the fireman” and assigns you the role of “the person who has to be saved,” which you accept with as much dignity as you can muster while lying on the carpet pretending to be unconscious as a group of kids tug at your legs. Jiwon, of course, finds the whole thing extremely funny.

The days have a way of absorbing whatever's going on with you and continuing regardless, which is, most of the time, a mercy. Circle time happens. Snack time happens. A minor crisis occurs when it's discovered that the class hamster, Mr. Biscuit, has gotten loose sometime overnight, and he's eventually located, after forty tense minutes and one very dramatic search party. Chaewon had refused to take part in said search party, and had instead spent the entire time in the reading corner, insisting Mr. Biscuit would “come back when he was ready,” which, infuriatingly, turns out to be correct.

You also go back to your evenings, which have nothing to do with any of it — a phone call with Yuna where she vents about her job search, an afternoon spent helping Minji repaint her spare room, a Sunday at your mom's where the subject of Seungcheol does not come up even once, a small mercy you're grateful for and slightly suspicious of. Life, in other words, keeps being a whole life, most of which has nothing to do with him at all, which is the thing you keep having to remind yourself of whenever it starts to feel otherwise.

Friday nights, when you're not too wrecked from the week, you go to the bar with Minji and Jimin and a few other friends, because it's the only bar in town worth it. It's not a big fancy place, with its low light,  jukebox, and pool table with a wobble in one of the left legs, but it’s the only place to go, really, unless you want to make the drive into the city.

Minji drags you along after a week of promotion nerves and you go willingly enough. The place is familiar enough to be comfortable even after the tiring week you’ve had, but you’re not really looking to drink too much tonight. 

You've had a few sips of a cocktail by the time the door opens and a loud group of off-duty firefighters spills in, mid-laugh, and naturally, Seungcheol's in the middle of it. He’s saying something that's got Soonyoung doubled over, and you feel the familiar lurch of oh, here we go before you've even fully processed that he's clocked you across the room.

“Oh, this'll be good,” Minji murmurs into her drink, and you kick her under the table, which only makes her grin wider. 

You run into him often, at this bar, so seeing him isn’t really a surprise in itself. He grins at you as he and his friends make their way first to the pool table, and you return the gesture with an awkward nod, and somehow almost drop your drink in the process. 

It’s maybe forty five minutes later that he actually comes over to you. He always does, at least once when you run into each other like this, always comes to say hi, which usually leads into some kind of line.

He waves Dohyun, the bartender, over and orders a whiskey on the rocks, and for a while you just talk, as the ice in his drink melts. Easy, unimportant things, the kind of conversation that happens naturally between two people who've known each other long enough that silence isn't awkward, just comfortable. He tells you about a call they had that week, a cat stuck in a drainpipe that took forty-five minutes and drew a crowd. You tell him about Chaewon's ongoing crusade against the concept of naptime, which makes him laugh so hard he has to put his drink down, not that he’s drank much of it. Somewhere in there Minji peels off to go play pool with Jiwon and Soonyoung, throwing you one loaded look over her shoulder on the way that you very deliberately ignore.

Somehow, the two of you have drifted from the bar itself to a booth in the back corner, and Jiwon's gone home with a wave you barely registered, and Minji's deep in a game of pool she's losing badly and loudly to Soonyoung, and you're sitting closer to him than you were an hour ago without being able to say exactly when that happened. He's telling you something about his brother’s wedding, some story about a groomsman and a dropped ring you're only half following because you've gotten distracted by the way he laughs at his own joke before he even finishes it, the way his hand's landed, at some point, loosely on the back of the booth behind your shoulders, close enough that you can feel the warmth of it without him actually touching you.

“You're not listening,” he says, not offended, just observing.

“I'm listening.”

“What'd I just say?”

“Something about a ring.“

“Close enough.“ He's looking at you in a way that feels different from the usual — like he's forgotten, for a second, to be charming about it. “You've got that look.“

“What look?”

“You’re totally zoning out. That look.”

You snort, aiming for humour. “I'm always zoning out around you.“

“I know,” he says, and there's something in his voice, something almost fond and almost sad at once, so much that it makes your levity fall flat and for a moment neither of you says anything at all. Then he smiles, “You always zone out anyway, though. I remember from school.”

“Please.”

“It’s true! I remember it happening in history class and Miss Lee had to snap her fingers in front of your face!”

Heat crawls up your face. “Oh my God, I can’t believe you remember that! That was in my first week, too, I nearly cried.”

“I remember,” he smiles. “Everyone was talking about the new girl who just moved to town and that was the first time I saw you.”

It's strange, the way ten years can gather themselves into a single quiet second like that — all of it sitting there in the space between his face and yours, close enough now that you can count his eyelashes if you wanted to, which you don't let yourself do, except you do anyway. You think, distantly, of Minji on the porch — he's been standing there with his arms out for a decade — and your mother at the dinner table — sounds like a lot of nothing happening for a very long time — and something in you that's held itself very carefully closed for a very long time simply, without your permission, stops holding.

He leans in, slow enough that you have every opportunity to move. You don't take it.

The kiss, when it happens, isn't clumsy at all, not at first — it's slow, almost unbearably so, like he's been waiting so long for it he's decided to actually take his time now that he's got it, one hand coming up to your jaw so lightly it's almost a question, and you answer it by leaning further in, by letting your hand find the front of his shirt and hold on, and you kiss him back like you mean it, because you do. Then his other hand finds your waist and yours finds the back of his neck and the two of you shift closer in the booth and it turns into something hungrier, less careful.

Somewhere in the bar, distantly, you hear Minji whoop, and you don't even have it in you to be embarrassed.

Then your brain catches up with the rest of you, the way it always eventually does, and you pull back, breathing hard like you've run somewhere. Seungcheol looks a little wrecked, the same way you feel, his hair mussed and his lips a little swollen, and you guess you must look something similar.

“I—” you start, and don't finish, because you don't actually know what comes next. 

“Hey,” he says, low, steady, not moving away, his thumb still resting at your jaw like he’s catching up to the fact that you're pulling out of it. “It's okay, just — ”

“I shouldn't have — ” You're already reaching for your bag, your keys, anything to hold onto that isn't him. “I think I had too much to drink.“

“You didn’t even finish your cocktail,” he says, and he's not smiling now, which is somehow worse than if he had been. “Can we just — talk for a second? I've been wanting to say something for a while, and I know the timing's not— ”

“Cheol, I’m sorry — I — I really think I should go,” you’re fumbling with your bag and your words at the same time.

“I'm not trying to freak you out.” He says it gently, both hands visible now, like he's talking someone down off a ledge, which, you suppose, isn't entirely inaccurate. And his voice speeds up a little, because you’re still gathering your things and avoiding his gaze and it’s his turn to trip over his words: “I just — I like you. Like, actually. I know it's always been the bit, with us, and that's fine, that's — I get why. But I'm not messing around right now. I want you to know that. Can we just talk for a se—?” And he cuts himself off, because you’re standing up.

It's the most honest he's ever been with you, stripped clean of the performance, and it terrifies you in a way you don't have language for at eleven-thirty on a Friday with your pulse still loud in your ears. “Please,” he says, softly, so softly, and his hand brushes against yours, feather-soft. You make the mistake of looking, and he’s gazing up at you from the booth, his eyes pleading and brown and warm and serious.

“I have work in the morning,“ you say, which is a lie, and you both know it's a lie, it’s a fuckin Saturday, but he lets you have it anyway, some tired resignation moving through his face.

“Okay,” he says quietly. “Okay. Get home safe.”

Minji catches you by the door, pool cue still in hand, all the teasing gone out of her face the second she sees yours. “Hey,” she says, softer than you've heard her all night. “You good?”

“I don't know,” you say honestly, and she doesn't push, just squeezes your arm once and tells you she'll call a cab for both of you, and you let her, grateful, not for the first time, that she's known you long enough to know exactly when not to push.

You don't remember much of the ride home. Your hands are shaking slightly as you find your keys at your own front door, and you don't look back toward the bar even once, and you lie awake for a long time afterward turning the whole thing over and over in your head like a stone you can't put down, unable to decide which part scares you more — that he said it, or that some traitorous, long-buried part of you wanted to say something back.

You don't see him again for eleven days, which you know because you count, which you're furious with yourself for doing.

Life continues in the meantime, because it does that, indifferent to the small personal catastrophes you're nursing. There are snacks to portion out and scraped knees to bandage and an entire day on the letter Q that takes far longer than it has any right to. Chaewon's fireman reenactments continue unabated, blessedly innocent of the fact that you now flinch slightly every time she mentions the word. Jiwon notices you're off but, for once, has the mercy not to push, which you appreciate more than you tell her.

Sunday dinner happens in the middle of the eleven days, and you spend most of it pushing rice around your plate while your mother and Yuna talk around you, until your mother, halfway through clearing the table, pauses behind your chair and rests a hand briefly on your shoulder. Not asking anything, just letting you know she's noticed, which somehow makes it harder to hold together than if she'd asked directly. Minji calls twice and you let both calls go to voicemail, not because you don't want to talk to her but because you know exactly what she'll say, and you're not ready yet to hear it out loud, even though some louder part of you already knows she'd be right.

The field trip to the fire station is scheduled for the Thursday of that second week, and you've spent a genuinely humiliating amount of effort trying to get out of it. You ask Jiwon, with what you hope is believable casualness, if there’s any possible way Ms Oh would let you skip it and take a parent chaperone instead. She looks at you like you've suggested trading a kidney.

“Absolutely not. Do you know Ms Oh? No. You're going.”

You haven't been able to think of a version of the truth small enough to hand her, so you let it drop, and here you are on Thursday morning, herding twelve overexcited kids onto a rented minibus with the specific dread of someone walking toward a conversation she's been dodging for a week and a half.

The station's a squat brick building on the edge of downtown, garage doors up, two trucks gleaming in the shade, and the kids lose their minds the second the bus door opens. You busy yourself with headcounts and hand-holding, buying yourself as much time as you reasonably can before you have to actually look at him.

When you do, it isn't what you expect, and somehow that's worse.

Seungcheol is polite. That's the word for it, the only word, and it lands like a slap precisely because it's so foreign coming from him. He greets the kids with the same warmth as before — you'll give him that, he never once lets it touch them — crouching down, letting them climb the truck, patiently explaining the same things he explained a month ago in the daycare yard. 

There's one second, early on, when he glances up and catches your eye across the garage and something almost warm flickers there on instinct, old habit, ten years of muscle memory — before he seems to remember, visibly, and shuts it down, his face resetting into something careful before he looks away again. You watch it happen and wish, immediately, that you hadn't seen it. But mostly, for the rest of the hour, there's none of the usual spark in his eyes when they pass over you, none of the teasing, none of the warmth that's always, always been there even when you were actively trying to shut it down. He nods at you once, says “morning,“ in a tone you've never heard him use on you before and then turns his attention fully to the kids and doesn't look at you again for the better part of an hour.

It should be a relief. Instead, it fucking stings.

Yerin gives the group tour of the trucks. Soonyoung lets three kids at a time try on a real helmet. Seungcheol does his part competently, kindly, and entirely at arm's length from you, and when the visit wraps up and the kids are being herded back toward the bus in a loose, sunscreen-smelling parade, you find yourself hanging back at the garage door while Jiwon does the headcount, because you can't make yourself walk away without saying something, even though you have no idea what the something is.

“Hey,” you say, inadequately.

He's coiling a length of hose that doesn't especially need coiling. “Hey,” he says, not looking up. “Kids have a good time?”

“They loved it. You're good with them.” 

“Yeah, well.” He sets the hose down, finally looks at you, and his face is doing the thing it's been doing all morning — pleasant and closed-off.

“Seungcheol—”

“You should get back to the bus,” he says, not unkindly, which somehow makes it land harder than if he'd been sharp about it. “Don't want to lose a kid on my watch.”

It's a joke, technically, the shape of one, but it comes out flat, missing the thing that always makes his jokes land — that easy, unbothered warmth. You realise, standing there in the wide mouth of the garage with the smell of diesel and rubber hose around you, that you've finally managed it. 

“Okay,” you say, because you can't think of anything else, and you turn and walk back to the bus, and don't let yourself look back at the garage until you're sure the kids can't see your face. You spend the entire drive back with a thick lump in your throat and something burning behind your eyes.

You don't sleep well that night, or the two after it. Your brain keeps circling back to the same three minutes in a garage no matter what you try to distract it with. You go through the motions of your days competently enough — nobody at Little Pines seems to notice anything beyond your slightly quieter mood, which you blame on being tired — but underneath the surface you're doing the thing you've always been careful never to do where he's concerned: you're actually thinking about it. 

You skip Friday at the bar that week, and the one after, telling Jiwon and Soyeon you're just tired, which is half true. Minji shows up at your apartment uninvited the same night with a bag of takeout and an expression that says she's done waiting for you to call her back, and you let her in because you don't have it in you to pretend anymore, not to her.

“Okay,” Minji says, setting the containers out on your coffee table like she's settling in for a long negotiation, which, you suspect, she is. “Talk. All of it. I already know something happened at the bar, I was there for the whoop-worthy part, I just don't know the rest.”

So you tell her. All of it — the kiss, what he said after, the eleven days, the garage, the way his face had gone so carefully closed you almost hadn't recognised him. Minji listens without interrupting, which for Minji is its own kind of remarkable, and when you finally run out of words she doesn't say I told you so, which you'd braced for, and which you almost wish she had, because instead she just looks at you, steady and a little sad on your behalf, and says, “You know what you have to do.”

“I know what I have to do.”

“So why haven't you done it yet.”

“Because I've never actually done this before,” you admit, and it's the truest thing you've said out loud in two weeks. “Turning him down, that I know how to do. That's years of practice. I don't know how to do the other thing.“

“Nobody knows how to do the other thing,” Minji says, not unkindly. “You just do it anyway.”

You think about the ten years of it, after she leaves, sitting alone with the takeout containers cooling on your table — the prom, the rain, the coffee you never got, the wedding you didn't go to as anyone's plus-one, every single time you took the easy warm shape of his affection and handed it back to him like something you couldn't use. 

You think about how none of it ever once made him flinch, how you told yourself that meant it didn't matter to him, when really (you can see it now, uncomfortably clearly) it probably meant the opposite. It meant he’d turned the flirting into a joke on purpose, so a no from you never actually cost him anything. But then — keeping it up, over and over, for years, because some idiotic, hopeful part of him had apparently decided you were worth that particular patience.

And you'd spent that same decade telling yourself it was nothing more than a bit, because the alternative — that it wasn't nothing, that it never had been, and that you might actually want it back — was a door you weren't ready to open.

By Sunday you’ve waded into your thoughts deep enough that you can't ignore it anymore. You sit on your kitchen counter with a cup of tea you're not drinking and you make yourself actually look at the thing you've kept in the drawer for ten years, and what you find, when you finally look, isn't complicated at all. It never was. You'd just been very good at making it look that way.

It occurs to you, sitting there with your tea going cold, that obviously, you’ve dated other people since the ninth grade, even been serious with one or two, and none of them ever tied you up in knots the way this has. 

It’s not that they mattered less. It’s that none of them were Choi Seungcheol, who’d been the easiest person in your entire year to like, who’d had half the school a little bit in love with him since he was fifteen, and you’d been so sure back then that a boy like that leaning against your locker was a joke because the alternative — that he meant it, about you, specifically — just didn’t make sense.

It had been simpler, safer, to decide it was just Seungcheol being Seungcheol, the same warmth he handed out to the woman at the post office and the bartender at and anyone else unlucky enough to be standing in front of him, and to file yourself in with all of them instead of letting yourself be the one exception. 

You call Jiwon, because you've run out of ways to have the conversation only with yourself, and because Minji's already said her piece and you want, this once, a second voice saying the same thing back to you before you trust it.

“Okay,” Jiwon says, once you've gotten through the whole thing, sitting cross-legged on your kitchen floor with your phone on speaker and a second cup of tea gone cold beside you. “So let me get this straight. You've liked him since — what, ninth grade?”

“I didn't say I liked him since ninth grade.”

“You basically said that.”

“I said I'd been turning him down since ninth grade, that's a different thing. I think it started as something silly. I haven’t been, you know, pining around for him for a decade straight, and neither has he.” 

You can hear her moving around her own kitchen, a cupboard opening and closing. “Yeah, well. It seems like he’s been waiting for a chance for a decade, though.”

You don’t have anything to say to that. Jiwon continues anyway, so you don’t have a chance. “I genuinely thought you two just had a bit going.  A little routine. I didn't realise that it was unresolved feelings the entire time, and I consider myself a fairly perceptive person, so, congratulations, you've out-repressed even me.”

“That's not a compliment.”

“It's not not a compliment.” A pause. “You're going to go find him, right? Not just think about it for another week.”

Your nose scrunches. “I might.”

“Don't. Go tonight. Or tomorrow. Just — don't let this be a thing you circle for another decade, you've circled it long enough.” 

You laugh, the first real laugh you've managed in days, and it loosens something in your chest that's been sitting there, tight and small, since the fire station garage. “Tomorrow,” you say. “I'll go tomorrow.”

“Good. And tell me everything after. I mean everything.”

“I'm not going to tell you everything.“

“You're going to tell me everything,” Jiwon says, with total confidence, and hangs up before you can argue, which, you have to admit, is probably the correct read of the situation.

You find him on Tuesday evening, off shift, at the little park two streets from the station where you know — because everyone in a town this size knows everyone's habits eventually, whether they mean to or not — he sometimes goes to shoot free throws alone on the cracked half-court when he's got something on his mind. 

Your hands are unsteady the whole drive over, and twice you nearly turn around, and both times you think of Minji on your couch, of your mother's hand on your shoulder, of Jiwon's voice on the phone, and you keep driving.

He sees you before you reach the fence, ball tucked under one arm, and for a second his face does something complicated — surprise, then that same careful, contained politeness from the fire station, sliding down over it like a shade.

“Hey,“ he says. “Everything okay? Kids alright?”

“The kids are fine. I'm not here about the kids.” Your voice sounds horribly strained. If he notices, he doesn’t comment, just waits, bouncing the ball once against the cracked asphalt like he needs something to do with his hands.

“I've been an idiot,“ you say, which isn't how you'd planned to start, but it's true, at least. “For, honestly, a really long time. I don't know how to say the rest of it in a way that doesn't sound like I practised it in my car on the way here, so I'm just going to tell you I practised it in my car on the way here and say it anyway.“

That gets the smallest flicker of something across his face — not quite a smile, but the ghost of one.

“I think I started off thinking you were teasing me, back in school. I thought it was a joke when you asked me to prom. And then after that I just needed you to be joking, because to me it didn’t make sense for you to be serious. And because the alternative meant I had to admit I wanted it too, and I didn't know what to do with that, so I kept handing it back to you instead.”

He sets the ball down against his hip, quiet, still watching you with an expression you can't fully read.

“And at the bar,” you say, “I panicked because I think I realised you meant it, and I realised I did too, and then, I don’t know, I just totally freaked. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t take you seriously and I kept brushing you off and I was mean when you didn’t deserve it, and I’m really, really sorry.”

He's quiet for a moment, turning the ball slowly in his hands, and when he speaks again some of the careful politeness has gone out of his voice, replaced by something rawer, more tired. “I wouldn’t have asked you if I didn’t mean it. It was just — in high school, yeah, I had a crush on you. And then after, there would be whole stretches where I wouldn’t even think about it. I mean, you went to college and I went to the academy, and — then you’d show up again and, I don’t know. Especially when you moved back.” He pauses — the ball slips out of his hands, and you both watch it bounce to a stop. “You were always worth asking,” he says, finally. “I wanted the chance again, every time, even if you wouldn’t take me seriously.”

“I'm really sorry,” you say, and you mean it. 

“Okay,” he says, soft, and something in his shoulders loosens. “Practised in your car,” he repeats, and there — there it is, the corner of his lips turning up, small and a little disbelieving, like he isn't sure yet whether to trust it.

“Don't gloat.”

“I'm not gloating. I'm saving this for later. I'm going to bring it up constantly.”

“There he is,” you say, and your own eyes are stinging in a way you choose to blame on the wind, and he crosses the distance between you, slower than at the bar, giving you every chance to step back, and you don't, and this time when he kisses you, there's nothing careless in it at all.

an: i did not intend for this to be so complicated i rewrote this three times with different plots and editing took way way longer than intended. idk. it’s nearly 4am and i need to sleep.

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Ooh, fall and free, fall and free Fall and free, fall and free Fall and free

Your accident made news all over the city, the scandal of a promising club singer robbed of her memories overshadowing the ongoing murders haunting the darkest corners. As far as you know, you slipped and fell during a robbery gone wrong, you were in the wrong place at the wrong time. You woke up at Neo City Memorial Hospital with your head wrapped in bandages and swollen, black eyes. Your mother prayed in front of a holographic Bible, clutching her Rosary tightly, while your father stared blankly out the window, lost in thought. It was the worst day of your life that you can remember, and it lingers in your mind.

So it’s no surprise that people from all over would come to see this mysterious person with a great voice and missing patches of her life put on a performance, because that’s what this city lives and breathes on. Scandals, violence, and sex mixed in between. You’ve figured out your role, and you play it well—it’s the only way you can survive.

I feel love I feel love I feel love

The beat fades out as you’re back on stage, the purple lights shifting slightly and shining on you, the enigma. Claps and cheers erupt in the club, and you let yourself bask in it all as the velvet curtains close. Buzzing from the energy of the crowd, you stand there rooted in place, your eyes closed as you hear them chant ENCORE! ENCORE! ENCORE! The buzz you get from this can never be replicated, no matter how much kosmi dust you snort. 

“Well done, gorgeous.”

Turning around, you face your boss, Cado, who walks towards you, clapping his hands. Your buzz drops like a free fall.

“Just doing my job, boss,” you sarcastically salute, the energy in the room shifting to something colder. It’s no surprise your boss is attracted to you, and you don’t miss the way he gazes over your body as something to possess rather than something to behold. He’s offered many times to get you to do “work” on the side for him, but you never budged. Maybe it’s worked on others, but not you. You don’t shit where you eat.

He’s unfortunately a conventionally attractive man, with a jawline sculpted by a god and dark, seductive brown eyes you can get trapped in. Cado takes good care of his body, bragging about how much he works out and sometimes flexing his arms or flashing his abs. All he talks about is himself and his money; it doesn’t impress you.

“You know my offer still stands, if you are looking for extra work,” Cado offers, a glint of mischievousness in his eyes.

Giving him a slow once-over, you snort. “I don’t need the extra money. You know that,” you scoff. “I’m sure one of the waitresses might.”

You walk away before he can say another word, exiting the side stage and heading to the bar. The need for a stiff drink is strong as ever, craving a shot of Sunshine Mist that’ll burn your throat and numb you in the best way. You only put up with Cado’s advances because this club feels familiar to you, even though you don't remember working here before. The nice guy facade he tried to put on at first, you saw through that early on. You see him for who he is, and you’ve made it clear every chance you get.

Holding your fingers up towards the bartender, Chan, you take a seat on the stool as the lively chatter and studio music fade into the background. Your head bobs lightly, your fingers drumming on the counter as you wait for your drink.

“Rough night?” Chan asks, twirling the cocktail shaker.

“Eh, just Cado being Cado,” you quip.

“My condolences,” he chuckles, sliding the shot towards you.

You snort, grabbing the glass and throwing it back. It gives you an almost therapeutic burn, instantly putting you at ease. Sunshine Mist is one of the strongest drinks concocted, and while not everyone can stand its aftereffects, it’s your preferred drink here, especially when dealing with the likes of Cado. For a moment, everything softens, and your buzz has returned, leaving your skin tingling all over.

“Mind if I join you?”

You turn towards an unfairly attractive stranger standing beside you, staring at him blankly before realizing you were. His dark hair falls across his forehead, his smile bright enough to rival the neon lights flooding the club. He definitely doesn’t fit this crowd, and you don’t recall ever seeing him, but you are not a stranger to unusual occurrences.

You gesture towards the stool next to you, and he follows your lead, scooting his seat closer to you.

Chan gives him a measured look. “What can I get you?”

“I’ll have the same thing she’s having,” the stranger responds, tapping his watch and revealing a digicard. “And put hers on my tab.”

“Thank you,” you say, the curves of your mouth twitching.

“You’re welcome, gorgeous.”

Your eyebrows lift, followed by a silvery laugh. Studying him more carefully, you can’t help but notice the shape of his eyes, the curve of his smile, the timbre of his voice. A flutter of butterflies invades your stomach; you shake your head as the heat creeps up your neck.

“So, what’s the catch?”

It’s his turn to lift his brow. “Catch?”

Sitting up straighter, you throw him a look. “You bought me a drink, which is greatly appreciated, but I have the feeling that you didn’t come over here to take a shot with me.”

You can’t help but notice the way his eyes twinkle when he laughs. “Okay, you caught me,” he says, raising his hands. “I just wanted to tell you I liked your performance.”

You stare at him blankly, and then you laugh. “That’s it?” You flash him a smile. “I’m almost disappointed.”

“Give me time.”

Chan slides the drink over to the stranger, who catches the rim with the tips of his fingers. The veins on his hands pop suddenly, and you shake away the thoughts that are creeping into your head. He thanks Chan as he takes his shot, shooting it back in the same manner you did. The burning liquor doesn't faze him at all, and you sit there impressed.

“Seokmin.”

Your brows knit together. “Excuse me?”

He pulls out his hand to shake. “My name is Seokmin.”

You giggle, realizing he was introducing himself. “Nice to meet you,” you say, shaking his hand in return. “My name is—”

“I know who you are,” he says smoothly. His hand is warm and soft, and you can’t shake this sensation in your chest. You gaze at each other, your body feeling drawn to him, as if magnetism is pushing you together. Your hand is still in his, and you are in no hurry to let it go.

“I’m sorry, I have to ask,” you say suddenly. “But have we met before?”

Seokmin falters slightly before regaining his composure, slowly taking his hand from yours. “I—”

“Hey, boss wants us to go over the set list for tomorrow night.”

Your manager, nicknamed Snake-Eyes, appears from behind, holding a holographic tablet with a floating stylus. Looking past your manager, you eye Cado towards the back, watching you intently with a cigarette in his mouth. Of course, he wants to talk about it now, of all the times.

Glancing back at Seokmin, you let out a small sigh, your mood soured once again thanks to your boss. “I’m sorry we have to cut this short,” you say. “Maybe I’ll see you again?”

“Maybe,” Seokmin smiles softly, sending more butterflies to your stomach.

He gives you a hand to slide off the stool, his cologne appealing to your nose. It smells familiar, and you can’t pinpoint where it’s from. Maybe it’s something you came across in the years you can’t remember. Lucky you.

You start to walk away, but something tells you to turn around, and you find him still standing in place, watching you walk away. “Don’t be a stranger?”

He smiles. “Don’t worry, love. You’ll be seeing more of me.”

For some reason, those words resonate with you for the rest of the night.

Seokmin steps out into the wet night, lighting a cigarette from the corner of his mouth. The petrichor is fresh and calming as he deeply inhales, letting the enhanced tobacco burn his throat. It’s past two a.m., and the city is still alive, with no sign of slowing down. Neon lights and advertisements are shoved in his face at every corner, drug paraphernalia in the streets, and people coming from all directions looking for adventure. He remembers when he was that carefree and full of life, looking forward to the next day and many after. But so much has changed, and it feels like a distant memory, a whole lifetime ago.

Seokmin takes another puff as he watches on, lost in the thoughts that have been tormenting him for the past two years. He came to the club to find peace, to get answers to the darkness in his soul and the mystery that refuses to rest in his mind. Seokmin sought a reprieve that can only be cured by one, and when he watched you perform for the crowd, with the light shining on you like the star you are, it made him sadder. You don’t remember him, or your past life together, and every day it gets harder to bear. You are the light of his life, the one thing that has kept him alive, and he is determined to help you remember him, or at least, know the truth.

The authorities say it was an accident. Sure, like he will believe a fall like that will leave you on the brink of death with black eyes, broken ribs, and needing surgery. Seokmin has been a private investigator for many years and has seen a lot of shit, and the insult to his intelligence is laughable. He’s mentioned it to your parents, but they practically threatened to call the police if he came on their property again. The reaction didn’t surprise him much—your parents never thought he was good enough for you anyway.

They never told you about Seokmin and your life together. Your father is a very powerful man, and he had every trace of you and him wiped out of digital existence. It’s almost amusing the lengths he went through to erase Seokmin from your life. But what’s cruelly ironic is that he cannot take Seokmin’s memories away from him. It’s what helps Seokmin sleep at night.

There were many times he sat in the dark, in the apartment that you shared, and thought about barging into the hospital room or the club and telling you the full truth, hoping it would trigger something. But he can’t tell you anything he doesn’t know himself. How were you hurt? Who would do this to you? Why were you targeted? These are questions that have been wrestling in his mind with little to no answers, and forcing the truth on you wouldn’t serve you any better.

But being in your orbit again, hearing your voice and seeing the warmth in your eyes, renewed something in Seokmin’s spirit. He’s more determined than ever to uncover the truth and secure the justice you deserve. To bring you home.

God help anyone who tries to get in Seokmin’s way.

“Hi, baby.”

The voice is a low, honeyed murmur that makes you smile. A kiss is planted on your shoulder in a haze, and your body automatically eases. You reach back, blindly massaging the head of the hidden person as you watch the sun rise in an apartment. He feels familiar, as if you’ve known him for some time, even though you can't see his face.

“Have you been to sleep yet?”

You shake your head, a peaceful smile on your lips as sunlight rises over the horizon. It’s the first time you have seen the sun in days because of the rain, and you're too wired to sleep, thanks to the cup of coffee you had when you came home. “I just wanted to see this—the sun rise,” you explain. “There aren’t enough artificial sun rooms that can compare to the real thing.”

“Mmm,” he hums in agreement. “You are right about that, baby.”

He shifts, placing a lingering kiss beneath your earlobe. A moan escapes your lips as tingles spread throughout your body. His hands are warm, comforting as they grab your waist, pulling you closer to him. His cologne is pleasing, its scent unlike any of the synthetic materials made in factories throughout the city. It’s fresh and comforting, like vanilla, with a hint of aromatic spice. More kisses trail down your neck, his soft lips each imprinting electric and hard to ignore. Your nipples harden at his sensuality, your skin suddenly feeling hot and in need of more touch.

“I’m supposed to be watching the sunrise.” Your protest is weak with little effort. The hidden figure smirks against your skin, a low chuckle booming through his throat. “Not funny,” you sigh.

You turn to face him, kissing him with your eyes closed, allowing your body and mind to give yourself to him completely. His hands roam your body as if they know you, and your spirit isn’t disturbed—instead, your intuition tells you it’s okay, and he’s yours. Your shirt rises over your head, and you lean back into your pillows. Your blanket is caught in between your fingers, a tug of something metal caught in its snag. Raising your hand in the light reveals a ruby ring on a silver band, sitting perfectly on your ring finger.

“I fall in love with this ring every time I see it,” you sigh, the words flowing from your heart. “Good job, lover.”

You look up at him properly, trying to catch the shape of your stranger’s face. But it keeps slipping at the edges, the rays of light refusing to let you focus too hard. His presence, however, feels steady, familiar in a way your thoughts don’t know how to argue with.

“I missed you, you know,” he says, his hands cupping your face. He kisses you deeply, and you lose all feeling in your legs. “I could do this all day.”

You raise a brow, a smirk on your lips. “Technically, you can.”

“I could.” He lets out a silvery laugh. “But Seungcheol wouldn’t like that.”

You don’t know who he is, but somehow the name doesn’t seem foreign to you. Sitting up slightly, you cock your head to the side. “Well, tell Seungcheol you have plans and will be busy all day.”

“And what are those plans?” He asks, trailing his fingers along your shorts.

Despite his face being covered in a shroud of light, you know he’s staring at your body, ogling your breasts that were made just for him. Lifting slightly, you help yourself out of your shorts, revealing your bare center, and part your legs slightly, just for his view.

“Tell him you will be busy eating out your fiancé,” you half-joke, placing your foot on his shoulder.

He guffaws as he lays his head on your foot, massaging it. You don’t know why the words ‘fiancé’ came out of your mouth. You don’t even know who you are in bed with. It like deja vu, and you can’t explain it, but it feels right. This is where you are supposed to be.

“I don’t think I can tell him that, baby,” he breathes in between laughs. “I’ll think of something.”

His free hand spreads your legs apart further, dipping his fingers into your wet heat. You hiss at the contact, every nerve in your body on alert.

“You're soaked, baby,” he coos, his thumb rubbing against your clit. “Maybe I’ll tell Seungcheol there was a leak that needs fixing.”

You're buzzing, unfocused, enthralled with the pleasure he is giving you. “Mmhmm, sure.”

The stranger shuffles, spreading your legs wider as he lowers himself to your center. His tongue takes a long swipe without warning, leaving you clutching your sheets. He moans and grunts in your pussy, tasting and sucking you as you squirm in his hands, the haze you are in multiplying by the second. Lip smacking, slurping, and lewd moans fill the room, lifting you further on cloud nine.

“Fuck, I—” you sound pathetic, but the incessant need to cum in his mouth is greater. You try to pull yourself together, but the pleasure is too great, and you succumb to him completely. Tugging his hair, you ride the wave of his tongue, chasing your release until it washes over you suddenly, leaving you with a vision of white and shaky breath.

“I got you, baby,” he says smoothly. “Give me all of it.”

You let out a guttural moan that ripples through you, gushing in his mouth unabashedly. He doesn’t let up, licking you until there is nothing left, leaving a kiss on your pulsing clit that makes you shudder. You dissolve into the blanket, slowly coming down from your high. Lying there with half-sleepy eyes and a smile on your face, the sunlight shifting as it rises in the sky. You turn your head as your lover lifts his face, the sunlight no longer protecting him, revealing him at least.

“I love you.”

You jolt upright, your heart beating heavily, your vision blurry, beads of sweat forming on your forehead. He disappears, and you’re no longer in the dreamy haze of light; instead, the softness shifts cruelly into a large room of unnatural darkness. Your alarm clock is blaring on the walls, the constant chirping grating on your nerves.

“Maxima, I’m awake,” you croak to the virtual assistant.

It takes a moment for your vision to fully come back, replaying what just happened in your bed. You dismiss it as a dream, but it feels so real, like an unlocked memory calling to you. You glance down at your crotch, noticing the obvious wetness between your legs. Letting out a loud groan, you scoot to the edge of the bed, your head in your hands, trying to make sense of it all.

Seokmin.

He was the man of your dreams. You were in love, you were happy, and seemingly engaged. Your parents never mentioned you to him, and maybe it is all just a dream, but you still remember how your body reacted when you were near him, as if he were a familiar instead of a stranger. Or maybe it is all in your head—a fantasy constructed by a lonely brain.

But something tells you there is more to the story, and if you want your mind to rest, you will need answers.

Aug 02 2061. 

That was the day Seokmin’s life changed forever.

He remembers the day like it was yesterday. You two watched the sun rise together, made love, and he watched you fall asleep before he left for the day. He did not, in fact, tell Seungcheol you had a leak that needed fixing, but Seokmin promised he would spend the next day with you. He had it all worked out with Seungcheol, and he was so excited to come home to you that night, to tell you the good news and plan the day together, or do nothing at all. It didn’t matter as long as he was with you.

But when you didn’t come home, and the minutes turned into hours, he knew something was wrong. Seokmin checked your location and noticed it was headed towards the opposite end of the city. He rushed out of the apartment like a bat out of hell, following your signal until it came to an abrupt stop at Neo City Memorial. Seokmin pushed on the gas pedal as hard as he could, running every traffic light and evading law enforcement to get to you. Every fear he had came true that night—you were hurt almost beyond repair, and there was nothing he could do about it.

Bzzt! Bzzt! Bzzt!

Seokmin shakes his head slowly, taking himself out of that day and back to reality, in an apartment where the sun no longer shines, barren of the life and love you brought into it. His phone buzzes again, and he sighs, grabbing the phone and swiping the screen up. His colleague and friend, Wonwoo, has been helping him with his investigation, digging into records that are behind red tape and out of his reach. A large file was sent to Seokmin’s email, encrypted with a password that only he knows.

Vulpes.

Entering his password, he connects his phone to a projector as the files load, filled with contacts of people who were at the club the night you were hurt. Scrolling through the list, he recognizes some of the names: bigwigs, politicians, and gang leaders who contribute to the corruption of Neo City. Nothing out of the ordinary. His attention turns to the file that holds the video footage, the icon blinking in sequences of threes. Tapping on his screen, he sees the video display on his wall, the frame still focused on a back entrance. 

“Let’s do this,” Seokmin sighs before pressing play. 

The video is audioless, with heavy rain pouring from the sky, slightly obscuring the street camera's lens. Seokmin watches intently, his fingers drumming on his leg in anticipation, not wanting to miss anything amiss. Growing impatient, he fast-forwards the video, the minutes dragging on with little to no movement to the back entrance. Did Wonwoo make a mistake? Seokmin thinks to himself. Maybe this is the wrong vid—

At 2:03 am, the back entrance door swings open, with two large men carrying what appears to be a woman, who is twisting and turning wildly, trying to get loose. A light flashed on the figure, briefly but clearly enough, which gave Seokmin pause. The blue dress, one he has seen too many times, is on display, and a chill shoots up his spine. Rewinding slowly, he stops at the frame, his chest tightening at the frozen image before him.

It’s you.

Seokmin stares for far too long, almost unable to believe what he is seeing. You were being carried out and manhandled like you didn’t matter, as if there wasn’t anyone out there who loved you and wouldn’t care if you disappeared. His blood boils with anger as he hastily taps the screen to let the video continue. One of the guards made the mistake of letting go of one of your legs, and you used it to your advantage, kicking him in the chest. He fell back, losing his step and falling ass-first onto the wet pavement. The other guard had your arms pinned behind your back, and as hard as you wrangled, you couldn’t get out of his lock. Even without audio, Seokmin knows you were giving them a good verbal lashing, a look of rage on your delicate face that Seokmin has never seen.

“Atta’ girl,” Seokmin says out loud. At least you still fought back.

Seokmin’s smile vanishes quickly when the fallen guard rose from the ground, stumbling towards you furiously. His fist connected with your left cheek, stunning you into shock. Blow after blow, the man assaulted you, hitting every exposed area he could. Seokmin watched your body go limp, the glee in the guard’s eyes embedded in his head. The guard holding you said something to your assaulter, who stopped his onslaught with a look of satisfaction on his face. Seokmin watches on, his stomach in knots, the anger burning deeper in his gut. These men will never see the light of fucking day again.

You're dragged to a waiting vehicle, set aside the passenger door like some sort of rag doll, your chest rising and falling slowly, your face swollen and bloodied. A figure stepped out of the back entrance, the light catching him, and Seokmin recognized him: Cado. Seokmin always sensed he didn’t like him much, and it’s not lost on him how Cado looked like you with carnality in his eyes. Cado knew better than to try anything in front of him, though.

Cado hustled over to the car, raising his hands angrily and slapping the backs of the heads of the guards. Opening the back door, he motioned for your assaulter to put you in the car. As he grabbed your arms, it is as if you were brought to life, and as an act of defiance, you spat in his face. The light goes out suddenly, just for a few seconds, but when it comes back on, you are on the wet ground, rain pouring on your face, with blood pooling from your head. Cado was enraged, picking you up and shoving you unceremoniously in the car, shouting and pointing in the north direction. Both guards entered the car, driving off suddenly, and Cado re-enters the club, the door shutting swiftly behind him.

The video stops playing, and Seokmin stands there, rooted in place and stewing in rage. He couldn’t be there to protect you, and he had to watch you experience the worst day of your life, and indirectly his too. You were supposed to be married now and living happy lives, but instead, you are apart, and you don’t remember a any of it.

Swiping to a different screen, he presses Wonwoo’s contact, the phone ringing once before he answers.

“You saw the video?”

“No shit,” Seokmin scoffs. “I want those guards found—”

“I’m already ahead of you, Seokmin,” Wonwoo answers. “I’m going to send you this address for the one who did the most damage.”

“Do that, and tell Seungcheol to meet me there,” Seokmin instructs. “Things will get extremely messy.”

“Well. You weren’t exaggerating about the mess.”

Seungcheol walks into the blood-splattered small apartment, slapping on a pair of black gloves made of matte obsidian and seamless synthetic polymer that clings like a second skin. Built with tech that alters fingerprint texture, it makes the person who uses it basically untraceable.

“I take it they are still alive?” Seungcheol surmises, stepping over broken glass.

“Barely,” Seokmin mumbles. Kneeling, he turns the head of one of the guards, the assaulter, Scion, lifting a finger under his nose.

As soon as Seokmin retrieved the address from Wonwoo, he was there in no time. He could’ve waited for Seungcheol to do things the ‘right way’, but all Seokmin could see was you being beaten and thrown around. He could have granted them mercy, but why should he? They gave you less than that, and now you’re both paying the price.

Seokmin hears shuffling behind him, and he turns, watching Seungcheol drag the other guard, Brucus, into the bathroom. He quickly learned their life story from the information Wonwoo sent over. Brucus’s family all died in the war in the neighboring desert, Dismiscus, a decade ago, and Scion comes from a family of lowlifes who are either dead, in jail, or walking the streets.

Basically, nobody would miss them when Seokmin wipes them off the face of the planet.

The bathroom door opens, and Seunghcheol comes out, his nose crinkling at the protruding smell that is starting to fill the space. “I’m pretty sure that guy took his last breath in the tub,” Seungcheol comments, surveying the living room. “I didn’t see any stab wounds or gunshots. What did you use?”

Seokmin holds up his left hand, showing off a glove made of synthetic chromium. “My goal was to make sure he stopped breathing.”

“Goal met,” Seungcheol quips.

Seokmin turns his attention back to Scion, tapping his cheek with two slaps. “Wake up.”

Scion doesn’t stir, his chest rising and falling as if he is in a deep coma. Without a second thought, Seokmin lowers a fist to his ribs, hearing a bone-shattering crack that satisfies him. Scion’s eyes almost bulge out of his sockets, followed by a piercing howl that is quickly covered by Seokmin’s fist.

“This pain is nothing compared to what you gave her,” Seokmin grits his teeth. “Tighten the fuck up.” Crimson slowly coats Scion’s lips. Seokmin stands straight, observing the weak man in this state. “I’m going to ask you some questions, and you are going to tell me everything I need to know.”

Scion slowly raises his head, meeting your gaze for the first time. “I’ve…seen…you…club.” His mouth twitches, a slight smirk on his lips. “You come to see our Vixen.”

Seokmin clenches his jaw, anger stirring in his stomach and hardening from within. He referred to you by your stage name, a nickname Seokmin gave you, and it makes him want to wring Scion's neck. Seungcheol appears to his left, adjusting his gloves. “So you know why he’s here then.”

Letting out a weak scoff, he attempts to sit up but winces, sliding further down the carpet. “Let’s…not play games.”

Seokmin couldn’t agree more. “Aug 02 2061,” he began. “Why was she being carried out of the club?”

Scion attempts to sit up again, lifting off the ground until he is comfortable. He doesn’t answer, instead pulling a cigarette from his front pocket and slipping it into his mouth.

“You got a light?”

Seokmin and Seungcheol exchange annoyed looks, shaking their heads in unison. Seungcheol digs into his pocket, pulls out a lighter, and flicks the switch to ignite the flame. Seokmin is in his right mind to take that cigarette and shove it down his throat while it’s still lit.

Scion looks at you carefully, inhales deeply, and lets out a wet cough. “It was on the boss’s orders.”

Seokmin stares, his jaw ticking in annoyance. “Cado?”

He nods, taking another puff. “That’s the one.” Wiping his nose with his sleeve, he closes his eyes and leans his head back against the wall. “She saw something she wasn’t supposed to see.”

That catches Seokmin’s attention. “What wasn’t she supposed to see?”

A slow, evil grin is on his lips, followed by a chuckle. “Business. Stuff way above my pay grade.”

“Care to elaborate on that?” Seokmin grits his teeth.

Scion doesn’t answer, instead burning out the cigarette in his hand. Seokmin takes a good look at him, watching the color slowly drain from his face. A long white scar trails from his sea-green, baggy eye to the corner of his mouth, and he looked rugged, rough around the edges, with tattoos and more scars riddling his arms. It would scare the average person walking down the street, but one thing Seokmin has learned in life is that it doesn’t matter how tough you look if you can’t back it up.

“You still want to protect your boss in death? That’s almost admirable.” Seokmin reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a 9 mm silencer. Taking a deep breath, he points the gun at his head, his index finger steady on the trigger. “I suggest you think long and hard about your answer.”

Flashes of your face and your smile flood his mind. The woman he knows, the person he wants to spend the rest of his life with, was taken away from him cruelly. He will work day and night to get you back, and if a few brains have to be splattered on some walls, so be it.

“I’m not telling you shit—”

The gun goes off before Scion could finish his sentence, blood splattering on his face. Seokmin is numb, not bothered by the violence he had to inflict. He could do it ten times over and still wouldn’t satisfy him.

“Go, Seok,” Seungcheol commands, taking the weapon out of his hands. “I’ll clean up here.”

Seokmin nods, leaving without saying a word. He wasn’t concerned about the noise, since the apartment is in a shitty part of the city and everyone minds their own business. The rain starts to fall heavily from the sky, washing the blood off his face and his leather jacket. Seokmin stands there for a moment, soaking it all in, letting the memories of you dancing in the rain fill his mind. You were always carefree, a pretty bird in a city of terror, and he would give anything to have that back.

Climbing onto his motorcycle, he loads “I Feel Love” into his headphones and roars out of sight, the venom of vengeance consuming him whole.

You can’t stop thinking about Seokmin.

He encompasses every corner of your mind, the montage of your moment together fresh in your head. You seemed to be a couple in love, a familiarity that you somehow feel in your heart, and it bothers you. You don’t know who Seokmin is; you met him for the first time last week at the club. Why does it feel like you were meant to know him?

You gaze at your bare ring finger, rubbing it with your index finger as you're lost in thought. For the past few days, it has felt weird not having a ring there, and if you stare long enough, you imagine seeing an imprint of something that might have been there at one point. You don’t know.

“Is everything alright?”

Slowly coming out of your reverie, you glance at your mother, whose eyes mirror yours in color. “I’m fine,” you clear your throat, shaking your head. “Just a bit tired.”

You stab your fork lazily into your seared lemon trout, taking a small bite to appease your mother. You aren’t sure what your relationship was like during the years you were gone, but before then, she was barely a parent. You were raised by the various nannies that were employed in your home; your mother spent her time playing the perfect wife, and your father was hardly around. You were merely an afterthought unless there was an event that required the whole family to be together. Chin up and smile wide, your mother would dutifully remind you. You don’t want to embarrass your father or the company. Your name carries weight in Neo City, and your parents will protect it by all means, even making you a pawn whether you like it or not.

“Are you still working at that club?” Your mother grimaces. “I don’t know why you bother setting foot in that soiled establishment.”

“Because I like to sing, Mom, and being there lets me do that,” you respond, feeling slightly irritated. You glance at your father, who watches you carefully, his silence louder than anything your mother could say. Crossing your arms, you feel the erratic thump of your heart. “I know you guys are worried about me, but aside from a weird dream, I’m fine—”

“What dream?”

Your father’s voice is soft yet commanding, catching you off guard. He hasn’t talked much since you arrived, barely shown any interest in the daughter walking around with partial amnesia.

“It’s nothing really, Dad,” you dismiss it, shaking your head. “I doubt it means anything.”

“Tell me.”

Your eyes drift from your father to your plate, and you let out a quiet breath. Your finger taps on your leg, unease settling on your chest. If you say it out loud, it becomes real, this dream, that moment with Seokmin. You don’t know what to make of it, and it scares you, experiencing a level of intimacy with a stranger you only met once. But knowing your parents, they will not let it go, and you might as well rip the Band-Aid off now.

“I had a dream about someone who came into the club,” you start, running your fingers through your hair. “I don’t think I know him, but in the dream, it felt like I did. Like maybe I knew him before.”

“Oh?” Your mother’s eyes light up as she wipes her mouth with a napkin. “And you’re sure you don’t know him?”

“Yeah,” you shake your head. “This guy, Seokmin, I have never met him before—”

“Wait,” your father cuts in, raising his hand. “What did you say his name was again?”

‘Seokmin,” you confirm. Grabbing your glass of white wine, you take a sip, noticing his brow furrow with annoyance. “Do you know him, Dad?”

‘What?” Your dad slurs before shaking his head. “No, I don’t know him. I am just concerned about you having dreams about a stranger.” He smiles reassuringly, though it doesn’t match his eyes. “You are still taking your medication, right?”

You throw him an incredulous look and scoff. “Yes, I’m taking my medication!” you spit, rising from your seat. “How could you think that?”

“Well, hold on,” your mother leaps out of her seat, raising her hands. “Your father and I just want what’s best for you.” Her voice cracks at the end, tears welling in her eyes. “We almost lost you.”

You stare at your mother and father, the burning ember of anger brewing in your stomach slowly cooling off. There is something indescribable in your father’s eyes that leaves you uneasy, an ice-cold shiver spreading down your spine.

“It was just a dream,” your mother says. “I wouldn’t worry about it, okay?”

“Your mother is right,” your father agrees. “Sit down and finish dinner.”

It wasn’t a suggestion, but you don’t have any more will to fight with your family tonight. You do as you're told, slowly putting on your poker face as you finish your meal in silence. But something your gut tells you is more than just a dream, and even more sinister, your father might know something about it.

Two weeks. It’s been two weeks since Seokmin has seen you, and the distance physically aches. Not that he hasn’t wanted to, but he’s been busy, cracking heads and taking names—so to speak.

He’s gone through the list of names that were there the night you were hurt, and showed up to a few of those places, gathering all of the information he could get. Some gave it to him willingly; others were harder to convince. It didn’t matter how he got it done, as long as he got what he was looking for. Some survived to see another day; others weren’t so lucky.

Seokmin stares at his hands in the bathroom, his hands covered with dirt and dried-up blood, bruised knuckles that are turning into a nasty shade of purple. Turning on the warm water, he washes the blood away with a fluxus genorum soap he acquired from the Neo City black market, which specializes in rapidly healing most injuries. It was created by a scientist who wanted to cure humanity of their ailments, but the government had other plans. It’s said that the scientist refused, and the scientist suddenly went missing, presumed to be killed by the others of your very own Senator. Yet somehow, his creation can be accessed by certain means. Seokmin always found that interesting.

He unbuttons his shirt, revealing fading bruises he didn’t care to heal. In a way, Seokmin is addicted to the pain. It’s one of the few things that’s real to him; the feeling of a fist trying to crush his abdomen or a pole that swings wildly on his arm. It’s an adrenaline high that he is not trying to be cured from. It keeps him focused and guarded on his investigation to reveal the truth and set you free.

And bring you back to him.

Seokmin strips off the rest of his clothes, washes up quickly, and changes into jeans and a white long-sleeved shirt, then pairs them with his leather motorcycle jacket. He puts on the cologne you like, hoping it will stir your memory in some way. He reminisces about the first time you brought the bottle home and sprayed it on him without warning.

“Whoa there, baby. What did you put on me?”

“Your good luck charm,” you said cheekily, holding up a small yellow bottle.

“My good luck charm is standing in front of me,” Seokmin flirted, pulling you by your waist.

“Well, yes,” you agreed, pressing the bottle onto his chest. “But this will give you an extra boost. It smells good.”

Seokmin squinted, trying to detect any deceit. You loved to prank him, and even though he knew what you were doing before it happened, he let you do it anyway. Seeing the joy in your eyes, the warm laugh that bubbled from your throat gave him endorphins no one else could replicate.

"This isn’t some sort of joke, is it?” Seokmin murmured, his hand drifting lower to squeeze your derriere.

“Mm mm,” you shook your head. “No joke, baby. I bought this with you in mind, and I hope it makes you think of me.”

“I think of you all the time,” Seokmin chuckled, leaning in. “It doesn’t take much.”

“Good, my sunflower,” you nodded proudly. You spray his neck lightly, rubbing in the cologne with your fingers. “Now take me to bed.”

KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!

Seokmin jolts himself back to the present, clutching the gun hidden in the back of his waistband. He wasn’t expecting anyone over, and aside from Seungcheol and Wonwoo, no one knows where he lives. He stalks towards the door, his heart racing, wondering if all of the bloodshed is catching up to him. Slowly looking into the peephole, he lets out a small breath of relief, followed by an annoyed scoff.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

Seokmin unlocks the door, swinging it widely, facing the unwanted visitor.

“Silas.”

“Seokmin.”

The older man lets himself in, brushing his shoulder against Seokmin as a silent test to see if Seokmin will bite. He knows this type of man, the kind who gets a rise out of pushing buttons; they snap, and then the victim becomes the villain, fitting their narrative. Seokmin was almost always one step ahead of him, and he’s sure it's one of the many reasons he hates him.

“Yes, come in.’ he says under his breath, shutting the door.

“Why are you bothering her at the club?” Silas gets right to the point.

Seokmin gives him a slow, unimpressed once-over. “Because she’s my fiancée,” he answers bluntly. “That’s never going to change, no matter how you try to spin it.”

Silas snorts, surveying the space. “I think you need to get your head checked, boy. My daughter doesn’t and will not have anything to do with you.”

“Yeah, we’ll see about that,” Seokmin scoffs, holding eye contact. “Did you come all this way to puff out your chest? Or are you going to finally be the father she needs?”

Silas’s eyes narrow into menacing slits as he steps toward him, his voice a low, dangerous growl. “You don’t know shit about what she needs.”

Seokmin lets out a short, dry laugh, feeling it deep in his gut. “Old man, I know way more than you think.” Stepping around him, he opens the door. “If that’s all you have to say.”

Silas does not invoke any fear in Seokmin’s heart. It doesn’t matter how many connections your father has; Seokmin will still find a way to take them down, and he’s doing alright so far.

Silas sneers, turning on his heel and storming down the hall. “You will regret this!” He barks over his shoulder.

“No, I won’t,” Seokmin yells back, slamming the door behind him.

The sound echoes through his apartment, and Seokmin lets out a long, drawn breath, relieving the tension in his abdomen. A visit from Silas is never a good thing, but it doesn’t deter him—it pushes him to dig even deeper to uncover the lies just beneath the surface. How did he know Seokmin was coming to the club? Aside from the obvious, why is Silas bothered by it?

A myriad of questions swirl in his head, his suspicions growing louder. Pulling out his phone, he presses the dial button and is immediately met with a voicemail. 

“Wonwoo. Look into Silas—yes, that Silas. I have a feeling this is bigger than we thought.”

I'm gonna tell you about love Let's forget your life Forget your problems Administration, bills and loads Come with me

You’re one with the rhythm, twirling in a sensual circle as you swing the mic in the air. There is a large attendance tonight, due to a convention in Neo City that brings nerds from all over the planet. You changed up your makeup at the last minute, going for a more divine look that brings out your eyes. Cado gave you shit for it, but you know what you’re doing, and it’s working; once again, everyone is at your mercy, their mouths partly open as you seduce the crowd with your voice.

Connect to the sky Future lovers ride their ambitions high, would you like to try? Let me be your guide, cut inside your pride Future lovers hide love inside their eyes

The red light sparkles on your dress, a tight, short number that accentuates your legs, paired with heels that are an accessory in their own right. Scanning the room, you let the vibrant energy take over, falling into a trance while you perform. Being on stage is truly your happy place, and there isn’t anywhere else you’d want to be.

As you sing, you’re drawn to a pair of warm brown eyes you could get lost in, a slow smile on his lips as he watches your every move. Excitement tingles through your body, and you keep your composure as you strut over to the man of your dreams.

Love controlled by time Future lovers shine for eternity in a world that's free Put away your past, love will never last If you're holding on to a dream that's gone I'm gonna tell you about love Would you like to try?

The final note lingers in the air, a shimmering vibration that seems to hold the entire room in an intoxicating suspension. As the crowd roars in applause, you wink at him, the shimmer of your makeup catching the strobe lights before you gracefully leave the stage.

Your heart is racing, but it’s not just because of the performance. Instead of heading to your dressing room, you detour to the floor, searching for him among all the bodies in colorful attire. You find your dream guy at the bar, ordering a drink with Chan. Despite the butterflies invading your stomach, you take a seat next to him.

“Hey, stranger,” you greet him with your signature low, sultry voice. “Thought I’d never see you again.”

“You did?” Seokmin responds, a gentle grin on his lips. “That just made my night.”

“I’m glad I could be of service.” You wink again. Feeling confident, you grab his hand, slide off your stool, and pull him along. “Walk with me?”

His hands feel the same as they did in your dream; warm, inviting, and safe. You notice the way his eyes dance as you lead him outside to your hideaway spot near the front entrance. You’re fully aware you’re acting recklessly, and you don’t really know Seokmin. For all you know, he could be a mass murderer. But despite all that, something in the back of your mind tells you it’s okay.

You stop in a tucked-away spot in the dimly lit alley, two patio chairs in front of an abandoned building. Streaks of magenta and cyan from the neon signs spread across the brick walls, alternating sides as the light adjusts according to its programming. No one else comes here, and you come here to think whenever the noise gets too loud. It’s your own little sanctuary, a small bit of peace that’s of your own making.

Seokmin digs into his jacket pocket, pulling out a pack of menthols and opening the carton toward you.

“Want one?”

You smile, taking one and slipping it between your lips. He lights it, his eyes not leaving yours, sending a jolt of sparks throughout your body.

“The man of my dreams,” you murmur as you exhale.

“Am I?” His eyes shift to something softer and unspoken, and you feel heat creep up on your neck.

“Figuratively speaking, of course,” you lie, inhaling deeply.

You exhale the smoke with a perfect ‘O’, watching it rise in the night air until it dissipates. You feel his eyes burning on you, and you don’t know what to say. You don’t know how to explain that you feel drawn to him, and it feels like you were meant to know him. You haven’t had another dream since then, and yet, Seokmin has been in the back of your mind with every thought. You tried shaking it away, meditating away, even sexing it away with someone you met at a bar that you knew you would never see again. Nothing has worked, and you are starting to feel you are truly fucked.

“So what do you do, Seokmin?” you ask, discarding the ash from the stick.

“I’m a private investigator,” he answers, taking a puff of his cigarette. “Been doing it for a while.”

“Yeah?” You say, amused. “So you probably have seen a lot of crazy things.”

“Something like that.”

A sly grin curves on his lips, making him more attractive. “I bet you handle yourself well.”

“I… do my best,” he alludes. “I’m still breathing.”

“You look good and alive to me,” you laugh, your nerves suddenly getting to you. Turning to the side, you slap your hand lightly on your head. This has never been you. You don’t tumble over your words or get tongue-tied over anything, especially men. And yet, Seokmin has you all over the place, stumbling over everything you thought you knew.

“So… what do you do when you’re not hypnotizing clubs or terrorizing your boss?”

You let out an embarrassing snicker, caught off guard by his statement. “What makes you think I terrorize my boss?”

Seokmin throws you a look, a twinkle in his eye as he raises a brow. “You perform like that on stage, and you tell me you aren’t driving your boss nuts?”

You almost choke on your cigarette, laughing. The nerves leave you as easy as they came. “Is it terrorizing or just knowing that I’m right?”

He shrugs with a smirk on his lips. “Touche.”

You shake your head playfully, putting out half of your cigarette. You aren’t really a smoker, but he offered, and you didn’t want to turn him down. Gazing at the sky, the two moons of the planet are full, in a shade of red that appears only once every millennium. How ironic that you are sharing it with the man of your dreams.

“I would ask if you come here often, but I think we know the answer to that,” you say, sauntering closer to him. “I never forget a face—brain injury aside.”

Seokmin bites his bottom lip, turning away slightly to hide a grin.

“It’s okay to laugh,” you encourage him. “My accident didn’t deprive me of my sense of humor, thank gods.”

He lets out a guffaw, his voice echoing off the walls of the alley. In the darkness, you see the light in his eyes, and it melts you. He's even more handsome than he was the first day you saw him.

“You… are funny,” Seokmin manages to say in between breaths. “Are you sure you don’t want to be a comedian?”

“Nah.” You scrunch your nose playfully. “I’d get bored.”

The time on the nearest building dings midnight, signaling your break being over. You don’t want to leave; you want to stay in this place and get to know him, figure out what makes him tick and why you can’t get him out of your head. Silence falls between you two, loud thoughts running through your mind, unsure of what to say next.

“So will you be coming back—”

“—Do you want to go out with me sometime?”

You stare at each other, the silence thick and charged with the kind of electricity that would raise your hair in the wind, followed by a lightning strike. A slow, playful smile curves on your lips as you lean in, the scent of his vanilla-and-spice cologne swirling around you, mixed with the sharp tang of menthols.

“You wanna go out with me?” you tease him. “How do you know I’m not a crazy person who takes their victims into dark alleys?”

Seokmin’s laugh is silvery, his foot itching closer to you, the warmth of his presence vibrating off you. “You’re a creative woman. I’m sure you could do better than that.”

You cock your head back in laughter, almost at a loss for words. “Touche.” Looking back towards the club, you turn to him again. “Walk me back?”

Seokmin holds out his arm to you, and you slip into it easily, like a fitted glove. The walk back is mostly quiet, aside from exchanging numbers and agreeing to see each other in two days. The neon lights dance on your skin, and the club's impending noise grows louder with each step. It’s like you're in your own bubble, existing with him with ease, feeling a sort of peace you didn’t know you needed.

When you reach the entrance, the bubble bursts as Cado leans against the doorframe, arms folded with irritation on his face. His eyes land on you two, his dark pupils narrowing into predatory splits.

“You’re late for your second set, Vixen,” Cado says with a smile that doesn’t match his eyes. “Let’s get you inside, gorgeous.”

He holds out his hand, but his gaze is on Seokmin, his poker face faltering with each second. You glance at Seokmin, who meets the gaze with an unimpressed stare, stepping back slightly to give you space.

“I’ll see you Friday, sunflower.”

You watch him walk away, disappearing into the night. Giddiness takes over; you wish you could leap forward two days. You feel Cado’s hands grip your upper arm, a tad too much pressure, making you wince. You’re ushered back inside, the thumping bass, the thick smoke, and expensive perfume irritating your nose.

“You don’t have to guide me to my dressing room,” you bite. “I’m not a child.”

“If only you knew the concept of time is money,” Cado snaps. “You have five minutes.”

You step into the dim light of your dressing room, the mirror reflecting your image in all of its glory. You quickly tousle your hair, adjust your dress and makeup, and touch your lips with a shade of red that would make the devil jealous. You were done in two minutes instead of five, rolling your eyes at Cado’s attitude earlier.

“I don’t know what his issue is,” you mutter to yourself. “I’m already done.”

Swinging the door open, you make your way to the stage, passing by the boss’s door, which is left slightly ajar.

“Yeah, she’s in the dressing room now… yes, I will keep an eye on her.”

You come to a halt, a chill coming down your spine. You may have lost part of your memory, but you aren’t naive—he is talking about you.

“Yeah… yeah… He was here again.”

Your heart starts to race, everything suddenly feeling heightened as you continue the conversation. Why is Cado so invested in you and who you keep your company with?

“Are you alright?”

You turn around suddenly, facing Chan, who is standing in the hallway, holding boxes of liquor, presumably to stock the bar. You blink, your ears burning from embarrassment and being caught red-handed.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you croak, clearing your throat. “I just have a slight headache, that’s all.”

“Oh, if you want, I can give you coltis powder later; that’ll clear it up.”

You give him a weak smile. “I would appreciate it, Chan.”

He nods and walks around you, going back to the bar. You pinch your nose, shaking your head as you let out a loud sigh. Fuck, that was close. Turning around, you see Cado’s door is now closed, ending any chance you had to hear more of the conversation. Disappointment starts to seep in like a leak, but you push it aside, realizing your five minutes are up and it’s time to get on stage. You put on your best poker face, going on stage to applause and cheers, your hands resting on the microphone as you begin your next set.

“Who’s ready for more?”

The crowd cheers.

Turning to your right, you meet the eyes of Cado, who watches you intently with an all-knowing look you can’t understand. You wink at him and begin your set, seemingly showing everyone all is right in the world.

But that’s the opposite of the truth, and it’s far from over.

Part 2 will be posted soon! Let me know what you think in the comments or reblogs <3

"I think all of us should be happy, but I hope you are a little happier than others." - S.Coups "He's such a big cutie and I wanted CARATs to know that too. I just wanted him to be exactly who we know him to be." - Woozi