전원우 클럽

Option One: The 17 Curios | Handle with care. Some objects remember.

Option 2: Project 17 | Watch with caution. This footage wasn't meant to be seen.

Option 3: Camp Seventeen | The woods remember every camper.

Option 4: Room 17 | We hope you enjoy your stay.

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.

JOIN MY PERMANENT TAG LIST • next part »

You used to recognize these streets. You used to be able to make a map out of them, all the crooked alleyways and dead-ends forming a knotted ball of yarn in your head. Now, nothing is as it used to be. None of the names feel familiar. The metallic, cartoonish jingles meant to lure you in like a siren song don’t, either, and you try to discern if you’re hearing them for the first time or if, like so much of this city, you forced yourself to forget. You take another step. All the old haunts you used to frequent are either boarded up or long gone. Either sequestered behind rotting caution tape that’s frayed and worn at the edges or nothing but exposed steel and concrete and a memory where a building used to stand.

God, this is fucking with you. Have you finally lost it? Done yourself in for good? You’re certain it used to be here, right where you’re standing. You know it was. Out of everything, you recognize the shape of the crack in the sidewalk—the one that’s shaped like a bolt of lightning. You remember how you used to joke that it was going to strike Hansol, rewire his brain like electroshock therapy, and you can see it so vividly: the way his lip curled as he sneered and said in return that was the only way he’d ever be able to tolerate you as his partner. How he used to turn his head to hide his eyes from view and the way the neon lights of the city swarmed in on him, filling in the contours of his cheeks and the slit in his brow. Another step and you remember the street vendor that used to set up there—the tent the two of you used to sit beneath in the liminal hours of the night to get out of the rain. The way you came to associate the pitter-patter against the cheap plastic with the bitter beer Hansol used to drink.

Even now, the sound of rain reminds you of him. Of stale beer and neon lights and memories you so desperately want to cling to that dissipate like smoke every time you try to reach for them.

As you stand in the graveyard of your old life, it’s clear the world has moved on without you.

Without him.

But you have to be sure.

You need to know there’s some semblance of truth to what you’ve been hearing. If you’re going to go down this path again—if you’re going to stalk these once-familiar streets with your eyes constantly trained over your shoulder, you need to be absolutely certain the incessant whispers have substance. Even now, there’s still an unshakeable weakness in you when it comes to Hansol, and you need to know what you’re walking into, because he makes you vulnerable. And if there’s a puppetmaster—if all of this is just meant to lure you out of the shadows—there you’ll be, dangling hopelessly from wood and string, only moving when you’re made to.

Nothing more than a marionette. A thrall for someone else’s whims.

You sigh and press the palms of your hands into your eyes. This liminal space is giving you vertigo—this world you recognize but don’t, long for but don’t, want to return to but can’t. Unable to tell the difference between remembrance and hallucination. What’d this place used to sound like? Had you sunk into the ambient noise like a warm bath, letting the conversations of strangers pull you just beneath the surface? Had you wrapped yourself in the muted sounds of their laughter? Their anger? Standing here now—the streets empty and devoid of life, nothing but ghosts to keep you company—you don’t remember. Maybe you can’t, or don’t want to. You want to scream until your throat is raw. Want to drop to your knees on the concrete and let the polluted rain seep into your clothes as you ask no one and nothing, What’s the point in any of this?

But you’re terrified the abyss will answer.

You’re terrified someone will tell you the point is Hansol, because nothing else could drag you back into this life. Nothing else could bloody you so badly and still draw you back in. Nothing else could conjure a fear so primal it left you—leaves you—paralyzed and still have you crawling over glass if it meant getting vengeance on every last person who harmed him. If it meant getting it right this time.

A chill runs up your spine.

You already know who will be standing behind you when you turn around. Hansol has always been a viper, preferring the safety of the fringes until it came time to strike. It’s what made him so effective, that you could feel his presence like a syrupy, tangible thing—that you knew there were eyes on you, that you could sense an apex predator camouflaged amongst the shadows, but you couldn’t see him. Not until it was too late. Not until fangs were sinking into flesh.

That’s what you expect now, for Hansol to charge and tear you apart, and you brace yourself. But nothing happens. There’s no movement. No sound except rain on concrete. You turn slowly, your movements stunted by the anticipation of something that never came, and you’d miss him if you didn’t know where to look. Didn’t know all his favorite hiding places.

And that’s what you do, immediately casting your eyes to the darkest corner of this desolate street, finding his silhouette exactly where you expected it to be. Hunched over to obscure his height, hood pulled over his head to hide his eyes. A lone sliver of moonlight slices through the darkness, and casts him in a silver glow, making him look otherworldly. It’s all that keeps him from being entirely disguised by the umbra.

Still, it feels hard to believe after so long—after time and circumstance formed such an insurmountable chasm.

You watch one another wordlessly, and as the minutes tick by you catch yourself counting his breaths. They’re all that tells you there’s a human being standing there rather than one of the many faceless phantoms taking up residence in this part of the city. That he’s real and not some illusion your brain has cooked up in order to cope with the crippling loneliness that accompanies your forced solitude.

There’s the flick of a lighter, a cherry red ember, and a plume of smoke before Hansol speaks. “Didn’t think you’d actually come.”

Why wouldn’t I, when you asked me to? you want to say, but it feels too intimate for a deserted street that reeks of garbage and stale piss. “I could say the same for you,” is what you settle on. “Suffice it to say I was pretty fuckin’ shocked to hear from you.”

He takes another drag of his cigarette. Exhales another plume of smoke. “Yeah, well.” Tosses the butt to the pavement and stomps it out.

That’s all he has to say about that.

[input_TIME >>: the before // input_DATE >>: may 2112.]

You fidget in your seat, silently cursing the bureau’s uniform requirements.

Two weeks out from graduation and you haven’t heard a thing your instructor has said. The bottom-most button of your blazer refuses to sit right, intent on digging into your skin, and you’ve been fucking with it all morning, hissing through your teeth at every stab of discomfort. If you would’ve known you’d have to dress like a middle-aged department store clerk, you would’ve applied to a different department.

That prompts a snort of hushed laughter.

As if you hadn’t been recruited. As if this bureau with the horrible uniforms hadn’t taken one look at your transcripts and handed you your dream job on a silver platter, effectively offering you everything you’d been working towards your entire life. As if it wasn’t a childhood dream that squeezed into a blazer and pencil skirt every morning for the last six months just to spend nine hours a day sitting ramrod straight in an uncomfortable metal chair. As if it wasn’t optimism and the constellation of stars in your eyes that pored over pages upon pages of notes each night, committing them to memory as you washed away ink smears and ignored the ache in your dominant hand.

Just two more weeks, you reassure yourself. Two more weeks and you’ll finally be done with your instructional training. Two more weeks and it’ll finally be real: a real job, a real title, real responsibilities. Two more weeks and you can finally put your education to good use. You can finally start cleaning up the streets.

Start making a real difference.

It’s this thought, more than anything else, that gets you through each day—more than finally earning a salary; more than finally being able to subsist on something more substantial than freeze-fried noodles and whatever’s on sale at the GS25. You’ll tolerate fourteen more days of this cursed uniform if it gets you one step closer to your place in the Ministry, the role waiting for you within it, and finally being able to realize your life’s purpose.

And it arrives in the blink of an eye. One second you’re metaphorically chained to your desk at the training institute; the next, you’re sitting opposite one of the Ministry’s middlemen as he monotonously explains the minutiae of your employment from his side of a glossy walnut desk. You try to listen but it feels like staring at the sun. All you’ve ever wanted is finally within reach, yet you can’t bring yourself to reach out and grab it. You sigh. Wipe your sweat-slick palms on the same pencil skirt you’d been cursing weeks ago, hoping desperately that whatever you’re feeling isn’t showing on your face. That he can’t smell it like a bloodhound.

There’s no one better equipped for this position. No one who wants it nearly as badly.

Some of your classmates had called you a brown-noser. Doesn’t matter now, you think, your broad smile coming easily as this man—someone important; someone who actually matters—uses more flattering words to describe you. Impressive. Hard-working. Ambitious and intelligent. One of the most promising recruits the Ministry of Welfare has had in decades.

He continues shuffling through your paperwork, tongue darting out to wet his fingertips. “Tell me again where you graduated from.”

You clear your throat. “Ewha Higher Education, sir.”

He hums an acknowledgement. “Ah! Yes, yes, here it is. Ewha Higher Education… double-majored in psychology and social welfare… perfect grades… awarded the highest honors... Yes, yes, very impressive, indeed.” There’s a spot of dark sauce on the corner of his mouth you hadn’t noticed earlier. “Inspector Choi could surely use someone of your caliber.”

You know that name. You wrack your brain, trying to remember how, and then—

Another blink of an eye as your field of vision is reduced to the size of a pinhead. Suddenly, your breath hitches, stuck in your throat as you feel your blood turn to ice. Please no, you want to beg, anywhere but there. But there’s no point. Before you can protest, the man pulls a giant rubber stamp from a drawer, officially branding your file.

MINISTRY OF WELFARE, CRIMINAL INVESTIGATION UNIT

The ink is so red it could pass for blood.

[input_TIME >>: the before // input_DATE >>: november 2112.]

“Again.”

You clench your jaw. Try not to spare any concern for the sound your bones make when you roll your neck to the side. You’re thankful that your back is to Hansol so he can’t see the irritated look on your face. Not that he’s paying attention to you, anyway—he’s taken up residence in the corner, slumped in a metal chair as he makes shapes out of the water stains on the ceiling. He’s silent, making absolutely no sound until it comes time to either criticize you or obnoxiously smack his gum.

So yes, you’re irritated. You’ve been at this for hours. Your arms are sore, you’re hungry, and the stench of mildew is bringing on a migraine. But it isn’t like Hansol’s criticisms don’t have merit. Inspector Choi won’t clear you for field work until you get better. Until you can prove you won’t be a liability.

Until your partner feels confident in your ability to save his life and do your job.

“Again.”

Hansol is not feeling very confident, needless to say.

You raise your arms. Press your tongue into the fat of your cheek. Squint one eye as you center the target. The silhouette stares back at you, riddled with bullet holes, numbers demarcating body parts. You aim your pistol at the bright red X on its chest, trying to imagine a reality in which you have to do this. In which the silhouette was real, living and breathing right in front of you—the difference between kill or be killed. Would you take a life to save your own? To save Hansol’s? It made you sick at first, the thought of it. You used to lie in bed and swear there was blood on your hands, viscous and sticky, but every time you’d stumble to the bathroom and flick on the dingy fluorescent light there was nothing there.

Made you wonder if you were turning into a monster.

But you can do this. You have to. The tattered silhouette is not the difference between life or death, not right now, but it is the only thing standing between you and a dream. A duty. You exhale slowly, trying to steady your erratic heartbeat, and place your finger on the trigger. Before this job, there was a foolish naïveté in the way you thought there was a particular weight to this decision, but not now. No, now you think there’s a foolish metaphor in how little it takes to fire a gun. Just the slightest hint of pressure and you can shoot for whatever reason you choose: to paralyze and stun, to contain—and to kill, of course, if necessary.

If the System deems it so.

Nonsense has clearly made its way into your head. You’re safe. The System keeps you safe, as does the Ministry. The same one you work for. The reason you’re stuck down here in this basement shooting at numbers until it’s instinctual, training to keep others safe. Listening to Hansol chew his gum like a cow. Rummaging through the rubble of everything he says, discarding all his snide remarks as you search for feedback you can actually use.

Another exhale. You widen your stance and plant your feet. Focus on that red X. Adjust your aim by nanometers. Finger firmly on the trigger, just a little bit of pressure, you can do this, you can do this, you can, you will—

Pop!

You startle, letting out a sound of frustration more akin to a wild animal. Hansol pays you no mind, just plucks the remnants of the popped bubble from his face and stuffs the wad of gum back into his mouth, no doubt gearing up for a repeat performance. It’s got to feel more like chewing on rubber by now, but you wouldn’t put it past him to saw off his own foot if it’d annoy you.

Sighing, you lower the pistol and put the safety back on, turning slowly as you dig deep, trying to gather whatever professionalism is left in you. “Hansol.”

Pop! That one was bigger than his—

“Headshot.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“Head. Shot,” he repeats, tone belying his belief that you’re nothing more than a stupid child. He sits up straight, finally making eye contact with you. Nods in the silhouette’s direction. “You see those circles above his head? Big and red?” You ignore his taunting. “C’mon, they’ve got a big X on ‘em and everything. Not even you could miss that.”

Proverbial fingers stuck in your proverbial ears, you turn back around. The silhouette stares wordlessly. It doesn’t beg for its life as you remove the safety just as quickly as you’d put it back on. Doesn’t start bargaining, desperate and incoherent, as you raise your arm and squint through one eye. Doesn’t do anything at all as you pull the trigger and blow a perfect hole right between its eyes.

Now that you think about it, though, it does start to look a lot like Hansol.

[input_TIME >>: the before // input_DATE >>: february 2115.]

Inspector Choi says he’ll handle the paperwork and bids the two of you goodnight.

Snow falls steadily. It’s rare these days—too warm, not the right kind of precipitation—so you’ll covet it, even though it covers the streets and sidewalks in an unsightly and inconvenient layer of brown-grey slush. As always, Hansol isn’t quite so romantic. He scoffs, hands immediately going to his coat pockets in search of his cigarettes. When he pulls them back out, his knuckles are red from the cold, hands trembling slightly when he tries to use his lighter.

“Give it here.”

With a roll of his eyes, Hansol hands the lighter over and moves in closer, cupping his hands around the tip of the cigarette to block it from the wind. You flick the wheel, a low flame sparking after a few well-practiced tries. Hansol erases more of the space between you. Steps in closer and lights his cigarette, sucking the first pull of it deep into his lungs, a small explosion of cherry red embers. He’s close enough for you to smell the smoke that lingers in the wool fibers of his coat. It’s not a smell you ever thought you’d find comforting, but it’s the one you associate with him the most.

“You heading home?” Each word is reluctant, as if they’re being pried out of his mouth by force. He exhales another drag of his cigarette. Doesn’t move entirely out of your space, but turns his head just enough so that the smoke doesn’t blow directly into your face.

Snowflakes land and immediately melt on his eyelashes.

One of the Sybil drones approaches, whirring as it wheels by you on the sidewalk. Every few meters it slows to a stop, moving side to side as it completes its scans, leaving behind perfectly parallel tracks in the slush. The crowd parts biblically as it continues down its pre-programmed path. Every face you can make out wears a look of trepidation; of anxiety and unease. It’s always the first thing you notice. People don’t look at you and see a savior. Don’t see a protector or a guardian or even a role model. People look at you and see someone responsible for defending and upholding the status quo.

The turning of the tides has been slow, but certainly not subtle.

You can feel Hansol’s eyes on you, his gaze heavy and pointed. “Hey,” he says, dragging you out of your head, “I asked you a question.”

The snowfall is heavier now, the flakes larger and less watered-down. You know the entire city will be covered and iced over soon. You know the government will tell everyone to go home and stay there, that there will be a losing battle mounted against it using plows and shovels; that the public transit systems will stop running and, even though you don’t live far, it’ll be a headache to get home if you don’t get going.

But you stay rooted in place, unable to bring yourself to care.

A half-turn with a shit-eating grin. “No,” you finally answer, feeling a thrill jolt through you as Hansol raises an eyebrow in question, “I’m taking you out for a drink.”

Surprise stuns him into silence, leaving him unable to protest. You take advantage, grabbing onto the lapel of his coat as you drag him down the sidewalk towards the pojangmacha the two of you frequent:  the one that never seems to close; the one that has slowly come to belong to you and Hansol.

“Absolutely fuckin’ not,” he grumbles, using all the strength he possesses to pull himself in the opposite direction but he slips, no traction to be found in the snow. He swears. Starts bitching about how fucking cold it is, it’s getting late, he lives all the way across the city and the fucking trains never run in the snow so how the fuck’s he gonna get home, he’s gonna be fucking stranded here and it’s gonna be your fucking fault.

Perpetually open, the amber lights of the pocha spill onto the sidewalk, contrasting against the harsh neon of the city. The heater is cranked to full-blast; you can hear the gears clanking as it works overtime and you find yourself desperate for the warmth. Pulling back one of the flaps, you snark, “I don’t live that far, so if worst comes to worst you can crash on my couch.” Hansol scoffs, making no attempt to hide the fact that this would not be his contingency plan if there were any other options available.

You move aside and gesture for him to go in.

Soonyoung greets you immediately from his spot at an empty table. He waves you over and relinquishes his seat to Hansol—who’s clearly still sour about this entire ordeal—before disappearing to fetch menus neither of you need. “Come on, it’s your birthday,” you argue, dropping into the seat opposite your sulking partner. “Can you please find it in yourself to stop being miserable for one hour and enjoy one of those shitty beers you always drink?”

The corners of his mouth turn up minutely, blink and you’ll miss it, before he schools his expression back into familiar annoyance. “They’re not shitty.”

You roll your eyes. Soonyoung reappears with sweat dotting his hairline, cheeks ruddy from the heat. A complimentary bowl of tteokbokki is placed between the two of you: seemingly a preemptive apology for the unprompted report of the weather forecast that he launches into. You roll your lips. It’s extremely detailed—you might even dare to call it impressive—but what little patience Hansol had is fading fast. So you politely interject, cutting him off to order, “Two shitty beers, please,” which obviously makes no sense to him. Nevertheless, he nods and disappears once more, two cans of beer cracked open and poured into frosted mugs that make your fingers ache, and when you take a sip of what he sets in front of you, it’s just as metallic and awful as you hoped it’d be.

Your lips pucker from the taste and Hansol laughs, not bothering to tamp down his smile this time.

[input_TIME >>: the before // input_DATE >>: august 2115.]

Discontent is swelling.

What used to exist in the undercurrent has morphed into something palpable, the cells of it multiplying as rapidly as a tumor. What was once communicated through knowing glances shared in the safety of silence is now being spoken into existence. Lone protestors on street corners have become grand-scale demonstrations; the handmade signs, once shoddily painted and nailed into a plank of wood, are now replicated and distributed en masse, printed on paper so glossy it’s nearly blinding. What was once a gentle rain is now thunderous. What once thrived only in the shadows of the underbelly has made its way above ground.

Tension permeates every inch of the city, sparing no one. Your branch of the Ministry feels it heavier than the rest. After all, the system they’re protesting was given life here, born from computers and tangles of wires as thick as jungle vines—the system that was once heralded as the guiding light into a new age of governmental omnipresence. What was once revered as a beacon of safety is now regarded with deep distrust, as yet another oppressor with its fingers crossed behind its back, chains ready and waiting for anyone needing to be contained.

Once that skepticism had taken hold, there was no vanquishing it. No going back. Now it has you by the throat, squeezing increasingly tighter, watching with indifference as you struggle to breathe. As the crowds of protestors jeer at you, spittle flying as they hurl their curses and accusations, call you names. It watches with indifference as Inspector Choi locks himself in his office day after day, lights off, speaking to no one, bankrupt of guidance. As Hansol spends his time pacing between his desk and the large window that overlooks the city, a severe crease between his brows as he stares down at the raucous mob, his fragile, fraying nerves unraveling entirely as he chainsmokes with trembling hands, resolving to throw himself off the rooftop before admitting his worry. It watches with indifference as you step into the elevator and descend into the labyrinthine depths of the building; as you navigate the funhouse maze and pass the biometric scans.

Watches with indifference as the automatic door whirrs shut behind you, sealing you in Wonwoo’s domain. This place has always made you uneasy: the neon green lighting that falls over your skin, making you feel like you’re being bathed in acid; the nonstop humming of the servers; the humid, stale air that the fans try—and fail—to circulate. You don’t know how he works down here. How he copes with the unyielding darkness and the liminal passage of time.

Regardless, this is Wonwoo’s empire, its walls built out of CCTV monitors that oversee every inch of this city, scanning and listening and anticipating. Wires dangle from the ceiling. On every computer screen, endless lines of code rapidly scroll by, jumbled and nonsensical, only having to make sense to one person. And there he sits in the center of the room, his figure illuminated by a silvery-blue aura, fuzzy around the edges as if he’s slowly being absorbed by the technology he spends all his time with. There’s an energy drink in his hand and a pile of empty cans at his feet. Every so often he moves—to alter a line of code, to change the view of the CCTVs, to push his glasses up the bridge of his nose—but otherwise he’s entirely still, a ghost on autopilot, and it only adds to the restlessness you feel here.

“How haven’t you gone blind yet?” you half-joke.

Wonwoo snorts a laugh, spinning his chair 90° to greet you. No one else bothers to come down here. “Here to get away from the hellscape outside?”

“Somewhat,” you admit, stepping in closer. Unsurprisingly, Wonwoo’s got cameras trained on every crowd. The one that has assembled right outside the Ministry’s doors is displayed on its own screen. “Got anything we can use?”

He hums and presses a button. The Ministry protestors now up the entire wall of monitors in front of you. “Not really.” He scratches at the back of his neck. “They aren’t protesting anything new. No new faces, either.”

“They’re relentless,” you mutter. “What’s Sybil saying?”

Wonwoo presses another button and the screen splits in half. The camera trained on the protestors remains on the left. On the right, however, is a familiar array of identifiers, colors, and numbers. “Psycho-Pass levels continue to be heightened, as you’d expect, and all Crime Coefficients have remained within normal range. So far, nothing has even remotely approached clouded status.”

You sigh, forced to live another day in this in-between, unable to do your job. Protesting the government isn’t strictly forbidden, per se. It’s certainly frowned upon, but so long as nothing gets flagged by the Sybil System, it remains begrudgingly legal. It’s not your responsibility to arrest petty demonstrators, anyway—that’s the role of another department entirely, so it’s not the crowds themselves that have you so anxious.

It’s the novelty of it all.

The country (and its capital city, especially) has a long history of protesting, but never before have citizens been able to keep their numbers—stress levels or their overall mental wellbeing—within range. Protesting is directly at odds with neutrality, so it seems to be a foregone conclusion that those levels will inevitably surpass the established ranges dictated by the government. Sybil is almost always flagged. Someone almost always ends up institutionalized, locked away to prevent the spread of dissent.

That’s not happening this time, though.

The numbers remain acceptable, ultimately unactionable despite teetering on the knife’s edge of concern, liable to tip over in either direction. Discord continues to circulate. Animosity and distrust continue to fester, burning every bridge the government attempts to build. A plague continues to take over the city. It’ll reach pandemic status soon, and that’s your fear: that by the time everyone else notices, takes it seriously, it’ll be too late.

It’s too late now, you think, eyes scanning over the monitors. You read all of the signs. Listen to all of the synchronized chants. Try not to let the odious words and malice in their voices send you spiraling deeper. You try to trick yourself into believing this will turn out like the others: a brief period of unrest that barely registers as a blip in the country’s history in the end. A government crackdown that widens the chasm but brings an end to the chaos. A bandage stuck uselessly over a bleeding, gaping wound.

You want to believe this. You have to believe this, because there is no fathomable alternative.

Lost in thought, you miss it but Wonwoo doesn’t: a line of code that doesn’t look right. Doesn’t fit with the rest. He types something into the screen and isolates it, and this time you don’t miss it when all the color drains from his face. When you ask what’s going on and he tries to stutter his way through an explanation. When, in fragments, you make out the system didn’t catch it… don’t know how long… should’ve caught it… I don’t know who or what…

You swallow your panic and ask, “Can you fix it?”

Wonwoo doesn’t bother as he answers, “I don—I don't think so? I don't—”

It’s too late.

It’s too late.

When it comes to you and Wonwoo you both have some similarities, but are also quite different. You both have jobs online. Wonwoo is a successful streamer, and you're known for your spicy paid subscription website. You've been on online fans, and working as a cam girl for a few years now. You've managed to absolutely make bank, and have built quite the online following even away from your site.

You and Wonwoo have quite a few mutual friends. It turns out he's had a crush on you for a while. Once Seungcheol found out, he decided to introduce you two.

The first time you crossed patches was at Seungcheol's birthday party. You're not dumb, you're well aware of who Wonwoo is. There is something about a cute nerdy gamer with glasses, who clearly has the body of a Greek god, that does something to you.

You’ve found yourself being a silent viewer in a few of his streams.

At Seungcheol’s party, you learned Wonwoo was interested in you, but you aren't in a place with your career where you could try and navigate having a boyfriend.

The entire night Wonwoo flirted and eventually you exchanged numbers. You let him know then that you weren't looking for any type of connection with anyone.

It's been six months since you met, and it turns out you couldn't push Wonwoo away. He’s turned into someone you texted often, and even flirt with all the time.

It turns out when you only have sex with yourself and toys, you start to get pent up.

THE GIRL ON THE SCREEN

Wonwoo is hosting a game night at his, and his best friend Mingyu’s apartment. You picked out your outfit with the intention of possibly trying to get laid. You've been debating on crossing the line with Wonwoo for a while. Tonight finally feels like the night.

The boys live in a pretty big three bedroom apartment. It seems their entire friend group plus some of the boys significant others are here.

The first person you see is Seungcheol. He leads you into the kitchen where Wonwoo is talking to Seokmin. The moment Wonwoo's eyes lock on yours you have his full, undivided attention.

What was supposed to be a game night quickly turns into a night of drinking games. The more you drink the drunker you get. The more alcohol that floats through your veins, the more you flirt with Wonwoo.

The whole time he's talking to you, your eyes just focus on his pretty lips, and how he's nervously pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. You want Wonwoo so bad, you could scream.

-

The light peaking through the curtain slowly wakes you up. Your eyes flutter open and you're hit with the realization you're not in your room. Lifting the covers you see that you're fully naked.

The clicking sounds of the keyboard catch your attention. Looking over into the corner, you see Wonwoo on his computer. The scrambled memories of last night start flooding back to you.

Wonwoo turns in his chair removing his headphones. He tilts his head looking at you. "Good morning, sunshine."

Slowly you sit up in his bed, holding the covers up. "Did we have sex?"

"No, you were drunk and I refused to even kiss you while you were intoxicated." He says firmly.

"Why am I naked?" He turns his chair around so he's fully facing you.

"Because after you tried to kiss me, you thought if you got fully naked, I would fuck you."

The memories of what happened between you are sparse, but you remember some of it. Awkwardly, you look around the room. Wonwoo's room looks exactly how you thought it would. Seungcheol always jokes and calls him a neat freak, and it looks like nothing is out of place in his room. It even looks like he's folded your clothes and placed them on his dresser.

You look at the other side of where Wonwoo's phone is sitting on the nightstand. "I slept in the living room on the couch."

"Oh." Turns out Wonwoo is a gentleman and respectful.

"I came in here so we could talk once you’d woke up."

Holding the blanket close to your chest, you get a little more comfortable. You know there is no way you can get out of talking after you clearly threw yourself at him last night.

"What did you want to talk about?" You try to play innocent.

He rolls his eyes. "I don't know, maybe the fact you threw yourself at me last night."

"I thought you liked me?" Wonwoo's made it very clear in the past he's interested in you.

He pushes himself up from the chair. Without thinking your eyes travel up and down his body. He's dressed in a pair of God forsaken grey sweatpants and a tight tank top that shows off his glorious shoulders.

"See, here's the thing—I like you, a lot actually." He pauses, stopping at the foot of the bed. You know there is a but coming. There is no way he'll leave it just at that. "But I only mess around with girls who behave."

Your brows knit together, processing his change in tone. You've never heard him sound so stern. "Am I not a good girl?"

"No."

"I literally put myself on a silver platter for you."

He cocks his head to the side. "A good girl wouldn't have pouted and called me a virgin, because I wouldn't fuck her while she was drunk." You most definitely don't remember saying that to him. A hot wave of blush crawls up your neck.

"I'm sorry."

"I thought you were a good girl until last night." He reaches out, grabbing your chin. "I know that you play with yourself online before I met you, I'd seen some of your videos. None of your them ever made me think that you would be a brat." His words are firm. Your eyes go wide, taking in each and every word he says.

"I didn't think you were some hard dom." You retort.

He narrows his eyes, as a smirk tugs at his lips. "I'm not normally a hard dom. I like control in the bedroom, but if you behave I won't have to be hard on you."

He turns on his heels walking to his dresser. You watch carefully as he pulls out a box. He grabs what looks to be a vibrator wand, handcuffs and a bottle of lube.

"Are you going to fuck me?" You let the blanket fall, leaving your chest fully exposed.

He glances over his shoulder. "Do you still want me to fuck you?"

"Please." If Wonwoo only fucks girls he considers to be "good girls" you must be on your best behavior for him.

"Say it." He turns around, holding the handcuffs.

"Say what?"

"Ask me, tell me you want this." He raises his brows.

Without saying anything you push the covers off, leaving your naked body fully on display. "Wonwoo, I want you to fuck me. I'll be so good for you. Just please fuck me." You've never been one to beg, but right now, you'll do anything he asks of you.

He moves toward the bed without saying another word. "We'll use the traffic light system. At any point if something is too much, you need to tell me. I'm not sure what you're used to, but I'm in control."

Silently you nod.

"Use your words."

"I understand, sir." His eyes light up at the use of sir.

"You're a quick learner, princess. I need to know, what are your boundaries."

"I like choking, but don't be super rough with it. You can slap my ass, but not my face." You pause, suddenly feeling embarrassment crawl up your throat.

"Keep going."

"You can be rougher with how you fuck me. No gross stuff please. Oh and don't call me mean names. Like I don't want be fully degraded."

"Are you okay with princess, good girl, and brat?"

"Yeah, those are fine."

"Can I put you in handcuffs and edge you?"

"Yeah."

Holding the handcuffs out towards you, he nods his head. "Give me your hands." He clicks the cold metal against your skin. They're tight, but not tight enough to hurt. "If they hurt just tell me. Communication is key here."

"Yes, sir."

He goes to take off his glasses. "Please leave them on." You can't escape the thought of him wearing his glasses whilst doing the dirtiest things to you.

"Okay. Lay down, and do not touch me."

Quickly you obey him. Laying on the bed you spread your legs, giving him full access to your needy core. He walks over to the dresser, picking up the vibrator and the bottle of lube before returning and sitting them on the bed next to you.

Your eyes stay focused on him as he pulls off his tank top. Taking his time, he neatly folds it and sets it on top of the dresser, next to your clothes.

Placing his knee on the bed, he crawls towards you slowly. He stops once he's sitting on his knees between your spread legs. His large hand rests on your thigh, rubbing soothing circles into your skin, helping to relax you. You aren't sure why you're so nervous. Maybe it’s because this is the first time you're ever letting a man fully take control.

Picking up the vibrator, he clicks it on. "Color?"

"Green."

He presses the vibrator directly against your clit, earning a moan instantly. He doesn't give you a moment to breathe before he clicks up the speed. Your body tenses immediately.

Your lips part, sinful moans and whimpers filling the room. He unexpectedly drags two fingers through your folds. Closing your eyes, you tilt your head back.

Without thinking your push your hips up towards the vibrator.

"Don't." His words catch you off guard. Your eyes snap open and you see him glaring at you. "Don't try and get yourself off. You'll take what I give you."

"Yes, sir."

Two fingers are suddenly pushed into you, earning a wanton moan. He clicks the vibration speed up another level, as he drags his fingers in a come hither motion, touching that spot inside you that has you seeing stars.

"Let me know when you're close."

"Okay." You whine.

The feeling of his fingers and the vibration is too much, your orgasm is speeding towards you at one hundred miles per hour.

"I'm gonna cum." You cry.

The precipice of your orgasm is rapidly approaching, suddenly everything stops. He rips the vibrator and, fingers away from your needy core. Your orgasm is right there, and he stopped everything.

Your eyes fly open, and you look at him confused. You know he said he would edge you, but you thought he would change his mind.

"Wonwoo—" you cry.

"You're such a good girl, you didn't cum without my permission." He taunts you. Your eyes are wide, you try your hardest to process the situation. "Can you do that again?" You aren't sure if you can, but you'll try anything for him.

He puts the vibrator against your needy clit again. He goes back to his same task of pumping his fingers in and out of you, except this time he's added another finger— this orgasm barreling towards you quicker then the last.

Before you can even tell him you're close he stops everything. Every nerve in your body feels like a live wire. Tears brim your eyes. Another orgasm being ripped away from you is devastating.

“Fuck—“ you cry.

“Such a filthy mouth.” He says teasing you.

He pushes the vibrator back onto your clit. He has the speed all the way up. This orgasm is going to hit you like a freight train. He pumps three fingers in and out of you at a rapid pace.

All the muscles in your body are tense. It’s taking everything in you, to not lift your hips, attempting to chase your release.

"Wonwoo, please let me cum. I'll be so fucking good for you if you let me cum." Tears spring from your eyes. You pull your hands up towards you. If you keep your hands anywhere near him, you know you'll try to grab him.

He rips the vibrator away from your clit and tosses it on the bed. This time he doesn't remove his fingers. He keeps pumping them.

"You can cum princess." He dives in face first into your core. His lips lock around your clit. He's practically making out with your pussy, whilst he pushes you over the edge.

The white hot wave of your orgasm is excruciating. Your walls pulse around his as your head is thrown back moaning his name. He doesn't let up on your clit. He keeps sucking until it’s overstimulated and sore.

"Wonwoo." You cry, squirming underneath him.

He pulls back, sitting back on his knees. Sliding his fingers into his mouth, he licks them clean of your release.

"Pretty baby, can barely handle being edged." He teases.

No words form, silently you blink at him, processing everything that's happening. He turns around stripping away the rest of his clothes.

When he turns around you're greeted to the sight of his massive cock. This is by far the biggest cock you've ever seen with your own eyes.

"Should I grab a condom?"

"I'm clean. I haven't slept with a man in over a year." It's probably dumb to fuck without a condom the first time, but all the logical thoughts left your brain long ago.

"You sure?" He raises his brow.

"Yes, I want you to cum inside me."

He barks out a laugh. Walking closer to the bed, he reaches out and grabs the chain that holds the hand cuffs together. "I'm going to lock your hands above your head. If it's too much, you have to tell me."

"Yes, sir."

He hoist your hands above your head. He hooks the chains into a hook you didn't even realize was built into the headboard.

"You've done this before?" You ask.

"Many times." He smiles.

"Wonwoo?"

"Yes, princess?" He's standing over you.

"You haven't even kissed me." There is something quite humorous about the fact that he's already made you cum and you haven't even kissed.

"Do you want me to kiss you?"

"Please."

Without another word he leans in, pressing his lips to yours for a searing kiss. His hands holds your face as your lips dance together. He kisses you like you’re air in his oxygen-deprived lungs. Pulling back, his teeth tug on your bottom lip.

"Happy?"

"Yes."

He picks up the bottle of lube, clicking it open he coats his entire length. You're going to need all the help you can get, taking someone his size.

He pours some of the cold lube on your core, earning a gasp from you. "Oh—"

"I'm big, so this might hurt."

"I can take you." Even if it hurts you don't care. You'll make him fit.

"Such an eager girl.” He tosses the lube on the bed next to you. "Keep your legs spread wide."

He pushes in slowly, giving you time to adjust. He goes in inch by inch. The moment you're filled to the brim, it feels like he's splitting you open.

Out of instinct, your hands tug against the handcuffs. "Are you okay?" His voice is soft and gentle.

"Yeah. Just—" your brain is having a hard forming words. He's managed to leave you cock drunk. "You're so big."

A smile tugs at his lips. "Am I too big for you?" He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

"No—" you cry.

"Color."

"Green, green." You stutter out. If he stops now, you'll break down crying.

"Did you want me to move, or do you still need time to adjust?" His hand that rests on your thighstarts rubbing soothing circles again.

"Please move, I'll be so good for you if you move." You can't help but beg.

He gives you a smile before he pulls his hips back and slams back into you roughly, knocking you back. He keeps a quick and brutal pace. With each thrust your breasts bounce.

Grabbing your leg, he hooks it over his arms. He keeps snapping his hips into you, over and over.

There is a weird contrast as he leans down kissing the top of your knee gently.

He's so big, he's touching parts inside of you that you didn't know could be reached. Your hands tighten into a fist as you try not to cum too early.

Out of nowhere he drops your leg. Your eyes fly open, looking at him confused.

"Color?"

"Green."

He stops moving for a moment. He's still sitting on his knee, snug inside you, but he moves so he's hovering over you. He snaps his hips back into you.

"Fuck—" you can't help but moan.

He takes your breast in his large hand. He gropes the flesh, earning wanton moans from you. This is the best sex you've ever had in your life.

"Wonwoo—" you cry.

"Does Princess want to cum?" He taunts you.

"Please, I'm so close."

"You can cum." He snaps his hips harder.

The cry that leaves your lips is loud. You're hit with the realization that Mingyu might be home. You pray that he left long before you and Wonwoo started fucking.

This orgasm hits harder then anything you've ever experienced before. You see spots as your walls flutter against his cock like a heartbeat.

Tilting your head back, you leave the delicate skin of your neck fully exposed. Without saying a word, his large hand wraps around your throat. He applies just enough pressure to send you futher over the edge.

"Fuck— fuck." You cry out.

He doesn't stop moving. He keeps thrusting into you, over and over as you ride out your high.

"Where do you want me to cum?" He ask, leaning in even closer to you.

"Inside." You cry.

He releases your neck and drops down to his elbows, so he is plastered against you. He slows down a little, rolling his hips into you as he chases his release.

His lips crash into yours for another heated kiss. Your tongues slide together, muffling your moans.

His thrusts get more sloppy as he gets closer to finding his release. "I'm going to fill you up." He moans against your lips.

True to his word, he fills you like you've never been filled before. He keeps thrusting into you as he paints your walls with his milky release. He came so much, it's starting to leak out around his cock.

It takes a few moments for him to slowly stop moving. He pulls away from you and reaches up for your hands. He releases the chain from the hook and slowly brings your hands towards him. He unlocks the handcuffs and gently rubs your wrist, focusing on the spot where the metal started to bite your skin. He places gentle kisses on both wrists. This is the complete opposite of the man who just fucked you until you cried.

"How are you feeling?" He's still inside you, he hasn't tried to move.

"Like my legs probably don't work." You let out a little laugh. “Please tell me Mingyu isn’t home.”

“He left hours ago.”

He leans in and presses his lips to yours for another kiss. "You're way nicer now." You say with your lips against his.

"It's because you were a good girl."

"I'll always be your good girl, if you'll fuck me like that." Reaching up, you tangle your fingers in his fluffy hair. It feels nice to actually touch him.

"So was this a one time thing?" He asks as he pulls back from you.

"No."

Slowly he pulls out of you. He sits back on his knees, watching as his release starts slowly sliding out of you. He takes two fingers and scoops it up, pushing it back inside.

"Don't waste it." He says, giving you a wicked smile.

"I need a shower." You sigh.

"Let's shower together, and then I'll take you out for breakfast."He holds his hand out towards you.

"Like a date?" You push yourself up, immediately realizing how sore you are.

"Yeah, if you want me to fuck you again we have to go a date."

You can't help but smile. For someone who just dom’ed the hell out of you, he's acting pretty cute right now.

"I would like to go out with you."

Things are definitely going to change after this, but you're okay with that. Clearly what you and Wonwoo have is special.