#multiverse au

𝐄𝐝𝐞𝐧 𝐔𝐧𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐲

Although the sun never shone in their world, class was never dull.

The sky above the Umbra Dome was a permanent haze of bruised violet and iron-grey clouds. The light filtered through was cold, scattered-unnatural. Buildings towered like obsidian spires, stitched together by veins of glowing blue energy. It was a world built not for comfort, but for purpose.

And within its pulse, they all sat in eight different classrooms—separated by walls, distance and design—but bound by the same hum in their chests. The sound of fingers tapping and pens clicking echoed across space in perfect unison.

Tap, click. Tap, click.

In this place, emotion was a variable—measured, observed and restrained. Professors drifted through lectures in sterile monotones, their voices laced with logic and data. But none of it seemed to matter anymore.

Not since the dreams began. Each one of them flashes of a world with skies that change colour. With music and treasures that weren’t coded but born from breath. With people who laughed without reason–and one person, always the same, always unknown:

You.

It was during assembly not long after the principle quietened the crowd for your introduction. The hall was packed with over two thousand students, but the weight of their eyes didn’t seem to faze you. Instead, you stood tall, grace curling around your figure like a cloak. Murmurs rippled through the crowd, speaking of your otherworldly beauty, of locs that slightly cascaded past your shoulders like silk spun from stardust.

They sat high on the back podium above–watching. Hands tense in their laps, fingers curled tightly against the fabric of the cotton slacks, struggling.

They didn’t know your name. Not yet. But they felt it, like a word at the tip of the tongue. Like gravity—pulling them forward.

“y/n,” you said softly, your voice steady yet warm. As though your beauty weren’t enough, your voice alone bore more gold than the pillars of ancient Greece.

“You’re being reassigned, " the principal announced flatly. That was their version of welcome. No explanation. No appeal. Just…arrival.

Within a week, the sterile walls of Eden crumbled into ash, and their world reshaped itself into something entirely new. Something warm. Too unpredictable. Too..human.

𝐄𝐝𝐞𝐧 𝐔𝐧𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐲- 𝐏𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐃𝐚𝐲

Now, the sky held color.

Even when the grey clouds loomed, it was alive. And the people? They were loud, messy, hopeful, selfish–real.

It has been a year since your arrival. At Eden, everything revolved around choice–classes, clubs, career paths. A world of options, entirely different from what you had once known. But there was one thing no one could choose, not here. It had to come.

“Your soulmate is revealed the moment before graduation.”

That was what Anessa Venus told you in your first week. She’d become the closest thing to sister you’d ever had From the moment she found you fumbling through locker numbers in the hallway, her big doe-like eyes and warm, chunky hands were there to guide you.

Since then, you’d been inseparable.

Now the two of you sat together at the fountain in the centre of campus, the gentle splash of water murmuring behind you.

“Grad’s coming up soon. Any luck with your soulmate?” she asked, chewing thoughtfully on a chocolate wafer stick.

You didn't look up from your book– City Of Darkness: Life in Kowloon Walled City by Greg Girard, page 28. The question stirred something uncomfortable.

You remembered her words from just the other day when you admitted you couldn't live a life you didn’t understand. One name. One fate. One truth. The idea haunted you.

You gave her a look, and she sighed with exaggerated drama.

“I know, I know,” she muttered. “What if there’s more than one soulmate? Yeah , I get it.”

A small smile tugged at the corner of your lips. “So you remembered.”

She blinked in mock offense, twirling her chocolate stick in front of your page. “No shit! Three whole words from you today. Have the Gods finally answered my prayers?”

A snort escaped you–completely unintentional–and louder than you expected. Across the courtyard, it caught the attention of them.

Wooyoung stood leaning against the bench, cigarette dangling from his lips, uniform pressed and perfect. His shoulder-length hair shimmered under the pale daylight.

“Wonder what’s funny,” he muttered, exhaling smoke through barely parted lips.

Beside him, Yunho stood tall and elegant—dressed like a professor. His quiet eyes, calm and unreadable, lingered on your laughing form.

Hongjoong sat cross-legged on the bench edge, hair dyed orange like a flame against the grey sky. He shrugged. “Probably the book she’s reading.”

“Nope,” came Seonghwa’s immediate reply. His polaroid camera lowered from his face.

“Anessa probably said something funny.”

Heads turned toward him.

“Quite the observer, aren’t you?” Wooyoung quipped, casting a narrow-eyed glance in his direction.

Seonghwa ignored him. He shook the polaroid gently, then tucked it into the pages of his art journal, scribbling a small note only he could decipher. He knew he was being watched.

Yeosang always noticed.

From his quiet place beneath the trees, he studied a STEM textbook while secretly writing love notes to you between formulas. Notes he would never send.

Jongho sat cross-legged on the grass beside Mingi—the former chewing thoughtfully on a salami sandwich while the latter poured his thoughts into an amateur poem written in a hand-stitched leather journal.

“I asked a question,” Wooyoung pressed, tapping Seonghwa’s shoulder.

“And I chose not to answer,” Seonghwa snapped back coolly.

This was their usual. The undercurrent of rivalry. The thinly veiled bickering Wooyoung always seemed to provoke. Their conflicting rituals were the only unchanging law in a world built on freedom—or so they wished. For the eight of them, the past year had been a silent torment.

Once constructs of purpose, now students of fate. Burned by a law they never asked for.

They were drawn to you. Every one of them.

And none of them knew why.

Perhaps it was selfish. Perhaps it was something deeper. But they all felt it—the shift in the air when you laughed. The way time bent when you entered a room. The tremble in their hands when you dared to speak to them, even for a moment.

“They’re all staring again,” Anessa whispered, breathing hot against your ear.

It sent a soft shiver down your neck.

You didn’t look back. You didn’t have to. You already knew.

And subtly so, they did too. You simply breathed out, sighing as you struggled to turn your unfinished page. The bell interrupting your thoughts—and the words you wanted to say but couldn't quite figure out.

“I guess we’ll see each other later. You got history?” Anesssa asked, squinting at the light that pierced across her eyelids like a bald of silver. Your hum was vague, noncommittal. Her eyes narrowed, ever perceptive. So you added softly, "I'll wait for you in the foyer. History, then STEM…i think.”

A smile curved her lips, satisfied with the sound of your voice—even if it was only a few syllables.

Campus always felt a little too open for your liking.

Stone pathways snaked through neat lawns, flanked by ancient trees whose roots cracked the cobbles like old scars. Eden was too alive, too sprawling—a contrast to the precision of your own world. And yet, something about it compelled you to keep looking, they somehow kept you looking.

Every step between classes was a quiet study in chaos. Red brick buildings stood tall against the ever-grey sky, vines curling up their sides like forgotten promises. And your favorite was the anomalous willow tree that stood in the distance.

Bulletin boards were littered with flyers—clubs with names that made no sense like, "disco astronomy” or “cake for chemistry.” Students rushed by in the little clusters, laughter echoing behind you like ghost trails.

You passed the literature tower, where a few students sat smoking on the marble steps. Your fingers brushed the edge of a rusted railing as you walked up the slope toward Ms. Maddox’s history class. The soft click of your shoes seemed to echo louder here.

The wind picked up just before the entrance, curling your locks into your cheek—pulling the pages of your book slightly ajar. You passed a palm to keep it shut, head bowed slightly against the breeze.

And that's when you felt it.

A tremor–not in the earth, but in the air. A shift. You didn’t look back, again you didn't have to, for one of them was watching again.

────────◷────────◶────────

“I’ve got Dance next,” Yunho said, adjusting the strap of his creme suede satchel. “What about you guys?”

They all stood at the edge of the upper courtyard, where the statue of Eden;s founder watched eternally over the student body. Yunho’s voice was casual, but the twitch in his fingers gave him away.

“Literature,” Mingi mumbled through the last bit of apple.

“Art,” Seonghwa replied quietly, slipping a new roll of film in his camera.

“Economics,” said San, his hands shoved deep into his pockets.

Jongho didn’t speak at first. He was staring, eyes sharpened at a distance. Yeosang followed his line of sight instinctively.

There you were.

Walking past the bell arch, hair catching the silver rays like it was painted just for you. The leather strap of your bag slung across your shoulder. Your eyes slightly downcast, but your presence–undeniably felt.

Yeosang’s breath caught just for a second . The corner of his textbook bent beneath his grip. And then he noticed Jongho…watching him. Their eyes met. No words were exchanged.

Tension settled like fog between them. Just then, wooyung’s voice cut through the silence like a firecracker. Clearly irritated at the tow gawking at you, but proud at the fact that you shared the same class next.

“History,” he said, clicking his tongue and flashing that unmistakable grin, “That’s where she’s headed, right?”

San raised a brow. “So?”

“So…” wooyung straightened his collar, a devilish glint in his eyes. “That’s my class. She sits a few seats in front of me, remember?” He let the words hang. “Guess fate’s got taste.”

But wooyoung wasn’t done. His cocky smile twisted with something a little darker–somehting between challenge and declaration.

“She looked at me last class,” he added, voice lower now. “Properly looked. Maybe she’s finally catching on.”

Yeosang turned his face slightly away, jaw flexing.

Seonghwa paused fidgeting with his camera. The film roll scrunching in his hands that held more tightly than ever. His hair threatened to turn white from jealousy.

And Hongjoong…simply stood there. Still.

His orange hair rustled in the breeze, but he didn’t move. His fingers–clenched just so at his side–gave away what the others didn't see in his expression. Something between anxiety and fire. Like he was preparing for war, but not the kind fought with weapons. The kind with hope. And loss.

A moment of stunned silence followed Woooyung's last remark. Then, like the snap of a matchstick, San scoffed.

Loudly.

“Please,” he muttered, shaking his head. “With that level of confidence, you might as well sit right next to her.”

The words hung there–like a dare. Maybe not intended, but absolutely heard. Wooyoung didn’t flinch. Instead, he straightened, then gave a breathless, mocking laugh.

“Oh?” he relied, his smile spreading like oil on water. “You know what? Maybe I will.”

That earned a few side-glances.

Mingi leaned back a little, eyes narrowing. Jongho tensed where he stood, chewing the inside of his cheek. Even Yunho's usual calm slipped slightly as he shifted his weight.

But no one said a word. Not yet.

Wooyoung reached into his blazer, slipping the half-smoked pack of sigs into the inside pocket with practiced ease. He flicked one last drag from his fingertips, let the ember fall and fizzle on the stone, then stepped off the overlook’s edge.

“You all have fun with your lectures,” he tossed over his shoulder, the wind catching his voice. “Me? I’ve got Miss Maddox's class. And a date with destiny”

He didn’t wait for a reaction. His shoes tapped confidently towards the stairs, movements fluid like he was born for this spotlight.

The others watched, each motion of his exit igniting a different kind of flame in them.

Mingi clicked his tongue, annoyance bubbling beneath the surface.

San folded his arms, jaw tight, eyes narrowed. His mind flooded as he tread to his next lesson.

Yunho exhaled sharply through his nose, eyes trailing after wooyoung before casting a quiet look at yeosang. Jongho left the scene straight after, his mind a silent calculation like that of a sergeant.

Yeosang–who hadn't moved since the moment he sat–watched the way wooyoung tread the path you’d just taken. His fingers resting gently on the spine of his textbook.

Seonghwa–expression unreadable,but the stroke of his nails snapping onto the fabric of his trenchcoat. He fiddles with the thread on the button. He didn't speak, but his gaze on wooyoung was one that looked older than time itself.

And hongjoong…

Still silent. He looked down briefly at the scuffed edge of his boots, then out toward the path ahead–where history class awaited, and where you were already seated in the far right corner of the room, unknowingly becoming the gravitational centre of something that could never be undone.

The history wing always smelled faintly of sandalwood and chalk.

Miss Maddox’s classroom–room3B–was tucked at the far end of the east, where ivy trailed the windows and the floor creaked in places no matter how careful your steps were. The light was softer, filtered through pale linen curtains that swayed like ghosts whenever the windows were cracked open. You always chose the same seat. Third row from the front, right-hand side. The place where the light never quite touched the floor–but where, somehow, the window still reached you.

It was comforting. Quiet. Safe.

Miss Maddox hadn’t arrived yet. The room was half-filled with students, students trickling in with the lazy pace of post lunch fatigue. Others seated with the ones they declared as their soulmates, a phenomenon they called “the early spark.” A few whispered conversations, the occasional laugh, the tap of a pencil here and here.

You opened your book slowly. Page 28. You’d never got to finish reading the page, but there was something soothing in restarting. In repetition. In silence.

The door opened, and the air changed. Just like earlier.

Footsteps–a certain rhythm, unbothered, almost a little theatrical. Like every room was a stage and he never entered without an audience. Like a prince.

Wooyoung.

He strolled in with the same energy as always had–untouched by the weight of the day. Shirt collar slightly loosened. Blazer slum lazily off one shoulder, and that signature smirk–like he was in on a joke no one else had heard yet.

Except this time, he didn’t take his usual seat at the back. He paused. Scanned the rows. And then he saw you. His gaze landed like a pinpoint of heat against your skin. You didn’t flinch, but your fingers hesitated just slightly against the edge of the page.

Then…

Shoes against tile.

You turned your head only halfway when the char beside you scraped lightly backward. Wooyung dropped into the seat. Right next you.

“Hope this isn’t taken,” he said, voice low–warm, edged with amusement.

It wasn’t a question.

Your eyes flicked sideways. He was already looking at you, head resting lightly in his hand, elbow popped up on the desk. Like he’d done this a thousand times before.

You didn't answer right away. Instead, you returned to your book. Then, after a few seconds, calmly,

“...it’s open.”

Somewhere across the room, someone coughed. The girl in the front whispering something to her friend. You could feel their eyes, feel the traction. Not too loud. But it thickened the air like perfume.

From your peripheral, you could see Wooyoung shift. He was trying to act casual, but something in the way he tapped his foot, the way his fingers fiddled with the edge of his sleeve, told you he was burning to say more.

Miss Maddox entered moments later with a stack of papers and a tight bun on her head, her heels clacking sharply against the wood. But it didn’t ground the room. It didn’t shift the mood back.

The seat beside you wasn’t filled, it was claimed. And you weren’t sure what that meant yet. But you felt the change.

Deep.

Unmistakable.

Unraveling like red thread pulled loose from the hem of something sacred.

The papers were set on her desk with a thud and clasped her hands behind her back, pacing slowly across the front of the classroom like a general surveying a battlefield.

“Today,” she announced sharply, “we dive into one of my favourite contradictions–Ancient Egypt.”

A few groans rippled through the room. One student in the forefront muttered, “again?” under their breath. Others perked up, either out of curiosity or sheer boredom.

Miss Maddox didn’t miss a beat.

“Before you sigh too loudly,” she warned, eyes narrowing, “we’re not talking pyramids or mummies today. We’re talking power. Symbolism. The way truth is shaped–not by what is real–but by what people choose to believe.”

A pause. Then she turned toward the whiteboard, scribbling a name in sharp, looping letters:

Akhenaten.

“The heretic king,” she said, underlining it with a fierce stroke. “Some called him revolutionary. Others, delusional. Akhenaten was the pharaoh who tried to erase the Gods. All of them. He replaced Egypt’s rich pantheon with a single deity–the Aten, the sun disc.”

Her voice rang across the room, rich with academic pride.

“He changed the art. Religion. The laws. Even the way he was painted. History’s still unsure whether he was divinely touched–or just deeply mad.”

Wooyung leaned sideways toward you, chin resting in his palm again. His voice lowered, playful.

“Sounds a bit dramatic. Don’t you think?”

You kept your eyes forward. “It's history.”

He chuckled. “Sure. But it’s also kinda romantic. One guy rewriting religion…al for what he believed in.”

You glanced at him, suddenly caught in his words.

“And what exactly do you believe in, Jung?”

He blinked, then grinned wider. “Books. Mostly.”

You raised a brow. “You read?”

His smirk faltered. He recoiled just slightly, mock offended.

“Wow. That’s cold,” he muttered. “You think I’m illiterate or something?”

“Didn’t say that,” you answered calmly, turning back to your book.

He leaned in again, whispering, “Fine. You’re judging. But you ever read The Shadow Parade by Tenza Marlowe?”

You paused. It wasn’t a common title.

“I have it in my dorm,” he continued, pride creeping back into his voice. “It’s about this kid who’s born without a shadow, right? So no one believes he exists. Whole world forgets him unless he keeps moving. Kinda wild, but… I like it.”

You looked at him, expression softening just a little.

But before you could respond—

“Mr. Jung,” Miss Maddox’s voice cut through the whispering haze, sharp as obsidian. “Perhaps you’d like to share your commentary with the rest of us?”

He straightened instantly. “Just talking about ancient Egyptian architecture, ma’am.”

“Really?” Her eyes narrowed. “Then why don’t we have Mr. Jung here demonstrate for us.”

A few students snickered. Someone hissed, “Oof.”

Wooyoung’s smugness slipped into a grin that said he didn’t mind at all. Not really.

“Sure thing,” he said, rising slowly, pushing the chair back with that same easy confidence he always carried. But as he walked to the front, he glanced over his shoulder—right at you.

A spark in his eye.

“You never answered my question,” he whispered out of the corner of his mouth. “You find your soulmate yet?”

You didn’t reply. But your silence said enough. Because the truth was...

You weren’t sure what scared you more—not knowing who it was… or the idea that maybe, just maybe, he already did.

Wooyoung made his way to the front with the slow swagger of someone who knew all eyes were on him—and knew exactly how to hold them there.

Miss Maddox gave him a cool nod, stepping aside and folding her arms.

“Let’s see if you can articulate something coherent, Mr. Jung.”

He took the marker from her outstretched hand, uncapped it with his teeth, and scrawled AKHENATEN across the board with bold, jagged strokes.

Then he turned.

“Okay,” he began, tossing the cap into the air and catching it without looking. “So... Akhenaten. The guy who erased the gods, yeah?”

Some students murmured in response. Wooyoung pointed to the name.

“Here’s a guy born into legacy. Power. Tradition. He had everything, right? Palaces, temples, armies, pyramids. And he said, ‘Screw all that. I see something else.’ One god. One truth.”

He started pacing slowly.

“You know how insane that must’ve sounded back then? A dude just waking up one day like, ‘Nah, this isn’t it. We’ve all been wrong.’ That’s either bold as hell—or completely unhinged.”

More laughter this time, but Miss Maddox didn’t stop him.

“And maybe it wasn’t about god at all,” he continued, voice dropping just slightly. “Maybe it was about focus. About clarity. Like when everything else fades, and there’s just one thing—or one person—you can’t stop thinking about.”

He paused. Just long enough to feel it.

The tension. The air.

Your breath caught without meaning to.

He glanced at you—so briefly most people wouldn’t have noticed.

But you did.

“I think Akhenaten wasn’t trying to convince the world of his god,” he said. “I think he was trying to convince himself. That what he saw was real. That he wasn’t crazy. And yeah, maybe he lost everything because of it. But at least he believed in something.”

Silence followed his words.

Then came a scattered applause—half-mocking, half-genuine. A few students whistled. Someone muttered, “Damn, Jung.”

Miss Maddox tilted her head.

“Well,” she said, clearly unimpressed—but unable to deny the room’s reaction. “That was... dramatic. But not entirely incorrect. Points for creative application.”

Wooyoung gave a short bow, smirk intact.

As he walked back to his seat, a few students reached out to slap his arm or whisper something about his ‘performance.’ But his eyes weren’t on them.

They were on you.

Again.

He slid back into the chair beside you, leaned slightly over your desk, and whispered just loud enough for you to hear:

“Still think I don’t read?”

You didn’t answer.

But your fingers paused mid-page.

And that was enough for him.

From the back of the classroom, just beyond your peripheral, Yeosang’s pencil snapped. Seonghwa’s jaw clenched so tightly the vein at his temple twitched. And Hongjoong… he just sat there, eyes shadowed, finger tapping silently against the corner of his desk—one beat behind the ticking of the classroom clock.

Tick.Tick.Tick.

And yet, time had never felt more like it was about to break.

The bell rang, loud, final and mildly chaotic. Desks screeched as students stood, bags unzipped, conversations erupting into messy trails toward the door. Miss Maddox, ever composed, waved her hand once without raising her voice.

“Dismissed.”

You closed your book quietly, the crisp thunk of the cover oddly satisfying. Just as you stood, you glanced toward the front. Miss Maddox was rearranging her desk—then paused, looking up.

Your gaze fell on Wooyoung.

And for a second—just a second—you smiled.

A small one, sure, but warm. Painted with the kind of amused admiration reserved for those who surprised you. It held no mockery, no sarcasm. Just… genuine appreciation.

Catching his slow-blinking, stunned face as you gave a single nod, then turned to the door to leave. Wooyoung looked like he might combust on the spot. And yet, somehow, he held it together—at least on the surface.

You left the room with the rest of the class, lips tugging into something unplaceable. But behind you, the story was only just beginning to twist.

Hongjoong tapped his pen against his clipboard as he leaned beside the doorway of his next lecture. Yeosang stood nearby, textbook hugged against his chest like a shield, eyes staring through the corridor like they could pierce the future.

Then came the footsteps.

Rhythmic. Light. Cocky.

Wooyoung rounded the corner with a strut that could’ve rivaled a runway model during fashion week. His blazer swung over his shoulder with one finger, and his grin? Blazing. Like he’d swallowed the sun.

Hongjoong and Yeosang saw him at the same time.

And Wooyoung saw that they saw him.

He didn’t say a word.

Just gave them a smug, full-bodied smile—and then, without sound, mouthed:

"She smiled at me."

Yeosang blinked slowly, expression unreadable except for the slightest tension in his jaw. His grip on his textbook didn’t budge, but his fingers flexed—once.

Hongjoong let his pen still in his hand. He tilted his head and said nothing. But behind his eyes, something shifted. Not anger. Not jealousy. Something older. Something colder.

A warning.

Wooyoung breezed past like it was nothing, humming under his breath.

The silence left in his wake was worse than any insult.

Yeosang didn’t look away for a long time. He stared straight ahead until the corridor had emptied again—until the echo of Wooyoung’s steps vanished down the stairs.

Then he spoke, voice low.

“He’s too loud for someone who doesn’t understand what this means.”

Hongjoong pushed off the wall, eyes sharp.

“Let him play. The louder he laughs,” he said, walking toward the classroom, “the quicker the silence will hurt.”

Yeosang followed.

And behind them, a thousand thoughts swirled in both their heads.

Because this wasn’t just about your smile.This was about the beginning of something irreversible.

────────◷────────◶────────

“Alright, get into groups of three for an assessment,” Roberto's voice echoed through the mirrored dance studio, smooth yet stern as always.

Everyone moved. Students scattered like petals swept by wind, the polished floors humming under slippered feet.

The dance studio smelled faintly of resin and chalk, warm from the light spilling through tall windows. The light clung to the edges of bodies clad in beginner ballet attire—soft pastels, form-fitting silhouettes, skin peeking through thin mesh and ivory tights.

And then there was you.

Dressed no differently, yet no one wore it the same. There was something about the way the fabric hugged your frame, the way your presence shifted the temperature in the room without effort. Every movement—no matter how small—seemed deliberate. Dreamlike.

Yunho couldn’t look away.

He stood across the room as you adjusted the ribbon of your slippers, something about the way your fingers moved with care–it tugged at something in him.

In the filtered fluorescent light, you looked ethereal. Like a bride.

Not his–not yet. But perhaps. Possibly. Hopefully.

There was grace in your stillness, something sacred in the air around you that made his throat tighten. When your eyes flicked up, even briefly, and met his, Yunho's chest lifted without warning. Like gravity had let go.

He didn’t move until you did.

Almost instinctively, a warm pair of chunky hands wrapped around yours—Anessa, of course—always grounding, always soft with her touch, like a promise of safety even amidst the chaos.

But the one who stood beside you next made your heart skip.

Tall, composed, his presence quietly magnetic—Yunho, his gaze steady and eyes warmer than most spring mornings. He didn’t ask with words. Instead, he simply looked at you, the silent tilt of his head, the slight curve at the corner of his lips saying all there was to say:

"Can I be in your group?" Not the other way around. Not a demand. A request.

You gave the slightest nod, barely perceptible—but enough.

But not everyone was breathing easy. Across the room, San had stopped mid-step. He wasn’t even sure if he was still breathing.

His eyes had found you the second you stepped into the studio, just like they always did. But this time, the sight of you in ballet attire—hair tied back, collarbones catching the light, posture composed—felt like a wound opening up slow and deliberate.

Because to San, you didn’t look like a bride. You didn’t look like something that could be held, promised, or given away.

You looked like a star.

Distant. Celestial. Unreachable.

And yet, something in him begged to reach anyway. He hated how natural it felt to ache for something so far beyond him. He had taken a step forward when the instructor had called for groups. Just one. But it had been too late.

Yunho had already crossed the space between you. You had already nodded. And now… now San stood beside a girl whose name he barely remembered. She smiled up at him, eyes full of silent hopes and easy affection.

San smiled back—he always did—but his jaw tightened as he glanced past her shoulder.

Toward you. Toward Anessa. Toward Yunho.

And no matter how much he tried to focus on the upcoming choreography, the only rhythm San could hear was the one inside his chest. And it was off-beat.

It started with a gentle waltz–slow, unselfish, gliding steps over the polished floor, a measured breath between each pivot. Then came the pirouetted sequence, Robertos’ voice fading into the background as muscle memory and instinct took over.

Yunho stood at the centre of the formation, solid and graceful, shoulders square as he held the rhythm with elegant poise. On either side of him, like mirrored wings, were you and Anessa.

Three bodies moving as one.

It was unspoken, unrehearsed, yet seamlessly aligned. The curves of your arms matched his reach. Your spin flowed into his turn like you had rehearsed together a thousand times. And when he held your hand to turn you beneath him, there was a quiet awe in his eyes that nearly broke the performance.

Across the room, San saw it all.

From the corner of his eye, while moving in time with a partner whose name he had already forgotten, his gaze locked on you. Watching you fall so effortlessly into place at Yunho’s side felt like swallowing glass.

It was like watching ice melt into water—natural, smooth, inevitable.

The kind of perfection that made your absence beside him all the more jagged. His arm was around another’s waist. But his heart was somewhere else entirely. The girl giggled softly as he spun her. She had soft eyes, a soft smile, and soft words that she whispered every time their feet landed in sync—

“It’s fate.”

“We’re meant to be.”

“I can feel it, can’t you?”

San didn’t answer. Didn’t even nod.

He simply kept moving, steps sharp, the ache behind his eyes growing sharper.

Because no matter how perfectly he danced this piece, no matter how closely his partner clung to him,his rhythm was off. You were the missing note in a song he wasn’t allowed to finish.

And yunho? He had the final melody in his arms.

“Last sequence!” Roberto clapped his hands twice, his voice cutting through the swell of piano. “Prepare for the final pose—elevated centre and hold!”

The studio buzzed with rustling limbs and quickened heartbeats.

Yunho adjusted his footing ever so slightly, his hand finding the small of your back as Anessa took her position opposite you, forming the closing triangle. The aire was this with anticipation, sweet, and something far more complicated–hope. Fear. Longing.

As the music slowed to its final crescendo, you stepped lightly forward, curling into Yunho’s lead. His arm supported you with instinctive care, his other hand extending toward Anessa to complete the frame.

You looked up—your eyes catching something closest to the sun that peeked through the high studio windows.

The light hit your face.

And for a second, the room felt like a still painting. A masterpiece hanging in some timeless gallery. Yunho’s breathing slowed. Every student in the room faded into the background, their poses held in uneven effort, while you—the centre of his universe—breathed quietly beside him.

Across the room, San almost missed his cue.

The girl beside him stumbled slightly in confusion as San’s eyes fixated on the way your fingers gently rested on Yunho’s shoulder. How his hand remained steady at your waist. He saw your chest rise. Your lips part slightly. The way your smile, though small, wasn’t forced.

It wrecked him.

He steadied his partner quickly, masking the sting behind a crooked grin—but his jaw remained tight. The final hold felt more like a restraint than a pose.

“Good,” Roberto finally announced, the piano stopping mid-key. “Hold for three... two... and—release.”

Bodies exhaled. Arms fell. Shoes scuffed faintly against the studio floor. The room buzzed with tired laughter, claps, and light chatter.

You stepped back, breath a little short but light-hearted, and gave Yunho the briefest smile of thanks.

He returned it, eyes brighter than they’d been in weeks.

And in the corner?

San was still holding the hand of the nameless girl—though he hadn't noticed. Not until she tugged lightly, bringing him back.

Outside the studio, Hongjoong leaned against the wall, his water bottle untouched at his side. He hadn’t seen the dance, but he’d seen the way Wooyoung left history class. How he had practically glowed.

And now he was seeing Yunho exit the studio with that same lightness in his step.

Beside him stood Yeosang, arms crossed, lips pressed into a thin line. His eyes flicked between you and Yunho with an unreadable calculation.

“They’re falling like dominos,” Hongjoong muttered, almost amused—but the tension in his throat said otherwise.

Yeosang didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His eyes narrowed when you laughed again—free, gentle, unbothered.It made everything hurt worse.

Because one smile from you, and they all crumbled.

And not one of them knew how to win you—without tearing the others apart.

────────◷────────◶────────

Eden had turned to night by the time everyone scattered into their dorms. The air outside was crisp and cold, echoing through the open windows with the scent of dew-kissed ivy and the rustle of campus trees. But inside, the shared dorm was aglow–warm lamplight casting soft halos across floral bedspreads, scattered books, and laundry half-hung on the back of chairs.

Anessa flopped backward onto the nearest bed with a thud, arms splayed, her hair fanned out like a lion’s mane.

“Remind me to never do double pirouettes after lunch again,” she groaned.

You chuckled, unzipping your hoodie as you stepped over someone's slipper. Around you, four or five other girls from your floor were already changed, dressed in various mismatched pajama sets—fluffy socks, oversized shirts, a couple in worn school sweaters. Everyone looked relaxed, even radiant, in the post-evening haze of girlish comfort.

The air was filled with faint perfume, giggles, and the rustle of cotton as conversations began to bloom.

“Okay,” said a girl with a cloud of curls and caramel skin, twisting a band around her wrist. “Spill. Someone had a soulmate moment today. I felt it.”

Another girl hummed from the corner. “Yeah, Cherrie said she saw Julianna trip into Ken’s lap during econ. Full K-drama moment.”

The group gasped and cooed accordingly.

“She’s been praying for a plot twist,” Anessa laughed, reaching for her satin bonnet. “That’s her third ‘accidental brush of fate’ this semester.”

The talk bounced around like popcorn—stories of almost-touching hands in the library stacks, a shared umbrella during the downpour last week, or a boy looking just a second too long across the canteen. Everyone had a moment to share.

Everyone but you.

You were halfway pulling off your tights behind your bed curtain when Anessa’s voice chimed, teasing and smooth.

“So,” she called over the rustle of fabric, “what about you, mystery girl? Anything soulmate-worthy today?”

The air paused briefly, waiting.

You stepped out, now bare chested and drawstring pants on, brushing a lock of hair from your cheek. Before you could even speak, a faint flash of light flickered at the window. Quick. Distant. Almost insignificant.

No one noticed. Or at least, no one important.

Except for a girl sitting silently at her desk by the corner window, chin in her palm, half-focused on the discussion. Her eyes flicked toward the glass, narrowing—but she looked away again. Maybe just someone outside. Maybe nothing.

“Me?” you finally said, smoothing the hem of your fluffy sweater. “Not really.”

“Oh come on,” someone teased, “you’ve been on everyone’s radar since orientation day. There’s no way no one’s said anything.”

Anessa tilted her head. “She’s too elegant to notice. Like a painter doesn’t notice their beauty ‘cause they’re staring at the canvas.”

The room broke into soft laughter.

You gave a faint smile, noncommittal, but your fingers toyed with the hem of your sleeve. You had felt something today. You weren’t ready to name it. Not with all their eyes glowing, waiting for you to tell them that you too had felt the click, the pull, the unseen string that tied one soul to another.

You hadn't. Not just one, anyway.

But across the courtyard, in the shifting light of every classroom—you had felt too many.

And one of them had seen you undress tonight.

Or thought they had.

The grand hall was alive with the buzz of conversation and the clicking of cutlery against porcelain. Tall, arched ceilings soared overhead, the stone engraved with gold-veined patterns of old civilisations–an ode to Eden university’s obsession with time, history and hidden truths.

Long tables stretched across the room like rivers of shared fate. Candles floated midair, bobbing slightly with every breath of the crowd. Platters of roasted vegetables, honey-glazed meats, herb-flecked rice, and fresh bread filled the air with the perfume of salt, spice, and earth.

You entered alongside Anessa and the others, all of you slightly late after laughing too long in the dorms. The chatter softened—just a little—as the heavy wooden doors closed behind you. Maybe you were imagining it. Maybe not.

You moved toward the third table from the front, where you always sat. Anessa was already waving to a few girls from the ballet class. Your steps were slow, unrushed, as your eyes scanned the crowd unconsciously.

From the second table to the left, someone stilled his fork mid-air.

Yeosang had been sipping water. But it didn't reach his lips. His gaze cut cleanly across the hall, pinning to you the moment you stepped into view. His posture straightened, shoulders tensing beneath his soft sweater vest. A quiet ache stirred low in his chest.

At his side, Hongjoong tapped his knuckles against the table to distract himself, teeth pressed hard into the inside of his cheek. You looked… soft tonight. Ordinary but untouchably luminous. He couldn't decide if he wanted to write you a poem or run far enough to forget your face.

But it was Wooyoung, sitting one row behind them, who grinned like the devil had whispered a joke into his ear.

“She smiled at me earlier,” he mouthed again, for the third time. "Right after class."

Hongjoong’s head turned so slowly it was almost comedic. “And you’re still alive?”

Wooyoung chuckled, cocky and untouchable. “Flourishing, hyung.”

“Dying,” Yeosang muttered.

“Same thing,” Seonghwa added quietly, though he didn’t look up from his untouched food. His mind was too loud tonight, eyes slightly glancing at his camera. Every scene of you smiling—at him, at Wooyoung, at anyone—played like a skipping record. It shouldn’t matter. But it did. And it always would.

Meanwhile, San had already seen you. You hadn’t even passed his side of the table, but he knew your walk. He could recognize your silhouette from behind closed eyes. His fork scraped against the plate, hand clenched tight.

Beside him, Jongho said nothing—but his eyes flicked up once. Just once. Then back to his tray.

Yunho, seated at the far end beside Mingil, caught sight of your ponytail swaying gently with each step. His heart lifted slightly without reason. He didn’t smile. But his eyes did.

As you slid onto the bench beside Anessa, your tray warm and untouched, you felt it again—that static in the air, like the universe holding its breath. You didn’t know who was watching you.

But you felt all eight of them.

Wooyoung hadn’t touched his food much—not really. The buttered rolls had gone cold, the roasted squash forgotten at the edge of his plate. He sat with one leg crossed over the other, back straight like he had something to prove, eyes sharp like he was waiting for a cue.

Across from him, Mingi was unusually quiet.

Fork in hand, elbow on the table, Mingi pushed around a grilled peach half like it had personally offended him. He hadn’t spoken since they sat. Not even when Wooyoung had cracked a joke about Jongho’s “soulmate list” theory being longer than the actual census.

It was weird.

Too weird.

“Alright, what’s with you?” Wooyoung asked, tone casual, but the edge was unmistakable. “You look like someone buried your guitar.”

Mingi didn’t even flinch. He blinked slowly and muttered, “Just tired.”

“Since when do you get tired?” Wooyoung pressed, leaning in a little. “You always say sleep’s for mortals and heartbreak.”

Hongjoong glanced up. Sharp, perceptive. But he said nothing. It wasn’t his place to speak for Mingi, and he knew better than to interfere—at least not yet.

Instead, it was Seonghwa who answered.

“Leave him alone.” His voice was calm. Clipped. Final.

Wooyoung turned his head slowly toward him, a sharp eyebrow raised. “I wasn’t asking you.”

“You didn’t have to,” Seonghwa replied without pause, eyes still fixed on the plate in front of him. He hadn’t lifted his gaze once.

The silence that followed cracked like glass.

Wooyoung stilled. His fingers tapped once against the side of his tray before they curled slowly into his palm. He glanced at Seonghwa. Then, at the camera hanging beside him, always looped across his shoulder, resting like it was part of his anatomy. Like it held things he didn’t say out loud.

A crooked smirk ghosted across Wooyoung’s lips. Dangerous. Knowing. He inhaled through his nose like he was about to say something that could incinerate the whole table.

But before the words could leave his mouth—

Ding.

The intercom buzzed sharply, followed by the voice of the Principal, flat and cold like always.

“Attention, students. The temperature is projected to drop drastically beginning tonight. Please ensure you remain indoors after curfew. And… a reminder to all graduating students: Twelve days remain until the Ceremony. You are advised to finalize any open preparations by then. That is all.”

The sound cut off.

The grand hall buzzed with murmurs, forks paused mid-bite. Even the candles dimmed a little, flickering as if stirred by something greater than air.

Wooyoung leaned back in his seat, his tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek. The smirk returned, softer this time, tinged with something thoughtful.

Twelve days.

He looked toward the end of the room—where you sat. Laughing softly at something Anessa said. Backlit by golden candlelight.

He glanced at Seonghwa one last time. Then whispered under his breath:

“Hope your camera’s got a fast shutter, hyung. Time’s running out.”

The candlelight flickered against the silver of his plate, casting a warp of shadows that danced across the woodgrain like ghosts he never invited.

Seonghwa flattened his gaze on wooyung. He just sat there, still, silent, as if the tension hadn’t carved its claws into his spine.

He swallowed slowly, fingers tightening around his fork. Wooyoung wasn’t wrong. The camera had seen more than it should have. Little glances. Tilted smiles. The curve of your spine when you got dressed for the day.

It was his curse and his sanctuary–to observe.

To record what he could never touch.

He knew everyone was drawn to you.

But none of them watched like he did. None of them remembered the way he did.

Yet that didn’t make him worthy.

“Do you think it’ll snow before grad day?” Julianna asked, her dessert spoon rhythmically tapping against the edge of a spider-glass bowl, its delicate webbed pattern catching the glow from the room’s soft lamps.

The question drifted into the air like smoke, curling through the warm, slightly sleepy atmosphere of the shared dorm room.

Honestly, no one knew.

“No clue,” Anessa answered, leaning back into her bean bag with a yawn, her curls wrapped in a silk bonnet. Her voice was casual, but the weight of the question wasn’t lost on anyone.

You sat cross-legged on your bed, brushing the pad of your thumb over your bottom lip in thought. The hum of the heater filled the spaces between conversations, and your gaze drifted to the frosted window where condensation blurred the moonlight.

For a moment, you felt something strange—an ache wrapped in a question.

“What does the snow mean?” you asked softly, your voice barely louder than the whisper of the wind outside. It came out like a child asking for a bedtime story, the kind with magic and mystery, the kind you weren’t sure you’d believe in—but hoped might still be true.

There was a pause. Even Julianna, who never stopped talking, went quiet.

Eyes turned to you. Some wide with surprise, others crinkled in kind-hearted amusement, as if they were witnessing a tender innocence unfold.

“The snow’s like a clock,” Anessa said finally, her voice dipping into a softer register. “Usually, it falls on graduation day. Sometimes the day after. Either way, it marks the end—and the beginning.”

She licked the spoon clean and added, “It’s how the realm chooses to reveal your soulmate. When the first snowflake lands, your heart knows. And then… the remnant is sealed.”

You tilted your head slightly. “Remnant?”

Anessa nodded. “The last piece of who you are. The part that’s been searching.”

It sounded beautiful and terrifying.

“And if it snows before?” you asked, almost afraid of the answer.

This time it wasn’t Anessa who responded, but one of the quieter girls in the room, Sara, who was curling her braids into silk pins by the mirror.

“It hasn’t happened before,” she said, not looking up. “At least, not in any record we know of.”

The words hung there, suspended, a bit like snow before it falls.

A chill ghosted down your spine—not from fear, but from the unknown. You weren't sure what scared you more: the snow not coming at all… or coming too soon.

────────◷────────◶────────

The wind howled faintly against the high dorm windows, like an omen trying to speak but failing to form words. The air had grown colder by the hour–sharp, glassy, almost metallic in how it stung the skin. Yet despite its bite, not a single snowflake had fallen.

The annual soulmates day was yet to come.

And the world felt…suspeneded.

Inside the boys dormitory, silence reigned. A silence so unnatural it made the room feel smaller, heavier. Usually, mornings like this would be full of banter–Wooyoung teasing Mingi about misplacing his socks, Jongho wrestling with his teddy bear, San throwing half folded shits at yeosnag, and yunho humming something off-tune.

But today, not a word was spoken.

Each of their beds held the same solemn offering; a perfectly pressed graduation gown, dark as obsidian, lying flat beside its matching cap. The onyx fabric shimmered faintly against the dull morning light, an eerie contrast to the weight each garment carried. The finality of it. The promise of answers or heartbreak…eternal.

Seonghwa sat at the edge of his bed, buttoning his cufflinks with practiced precision, though his thoughts were a thousand miles away. His camera, for once, sat untouched on his desk. Still. Silent. He hadn’t taken a photo in days.

Across from him, Hongjoong adjusted his collar in the mirror, his jaw set tighter than usual. He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. His eyes—those sharp, storm-lit eyes—reflected what all of them felt: restlessness. Dread. A quiet desperation they didn’t want to name.

“Where is she?” Wooyoung muttered suddenly, voice breaking through like a scratch on glass. He wasn’t asking anymore directly. But everyone knew who he meant.

You.

“She’s probably not thinking about any of this,” Jongho said, half-laughing without humor as he tightened the laces of his boots. “She never looked bothered.”

“That’s what kills me,” San said sharply from the window, arms crossed as he stared out at the campus below. “We’re here burning alive, and she’s just… floating.”

Yunho spoke next, quietly but not without weight. “Maybe she already knows. Maybe that’s why she isn’t scared.”

Yeosang, who hadn’t looked up from his desk where he was absentmindedly flipping the same page of his textbook over and over again, finally spoke—but this time, his voice cut through the tension like a blade.

“Is she the only thing we’re ever going to talk about now?” he snapped, eyes sharp as he turned to face the others. “Is she really going to be the reason we stop speaking to each other like we used to?”

The room froze.

None of them replied right away. They hadn’t heard Yeosang raise his voice in months—not like this. Not with that edge.

His hands clenched slightly around the textbook as he stood, the calm mask he usually wore now cracked with something closer to frustration. Exhaustion. Maybe fear.

“It’s like we forgot who we were before she showed up,” he muttered, eyes sweeping over each of them. “Before the dreams. Before the soulmate theories. Now we just sit around waiting for her to pick one of us like it’s the only thing that matters.”

Yeosang didn’t move from the window, voice lower now—but laced with venom.

“And you,” he muttered, eyes narrowing at Wooyoung, “you make your jabs like you’re better than everyone here. You provoke Seonghwa every chance you get like it’s a game. Like all of this is some twisted competition.”

Wooyoung blinked once, his jaw tensing. “Please. Don’t act like you’re the only one seeing clearly now. You want to talk games?” He stood, brushing invisible dust from his pants. “Fine. Let’s talk truth. Let’s talk about what Seonghwa actually takes pictures of.”

All heads turned—some sharply, some slowly—as Seonghwa visibly stiffened across the room, his hand pausing mid-motion as he zipped up his jacket.

“Wooyoung, don’t—” Yunho started.

“No, let him,” Seonghwa said coolly, though his fingers gripped the edge of the desk so tightly his knuckles went white.

Wooyoung didn’t flinch. “You all think he’s just journaling and sketching campus life? Half those polaroids? They’re of her. In class. In the library. Reading under the willow tree. Eating lunch. Hell—he even took one the day she cried in the art studio. One when she was in her dorm room changing. You think that’s normal?”

Seonghwa’s jaw tightened, his silence screaming louder than any words.

“That’s rich coming from you,” Jongho bit out suddenly. “You literally switch electives just to be in the same room as her.”

“Don’t talk like you’re innocent,” Wooyoung snapped back. “You sit behind her in lit class just to hear her read aloud. You only speak when she’s around.”

“And what about you, San?” Yeosang said darkly, turning from the window. “You switched economics, just because you couldn’t stand the thought of her being around yunho. You-You think we don’t notice how you follow her gaze like a puppy?”

San’s eyes flared. “At least I don’t treat her like a research project,” he hissed, eyes cutting to Yeosang. “I saw that spreadsheet you made. Every interaction. Every wished conversation planned out. Every time she wore that necklace. What the hell even is that?”

This was not supposed to be happening at all. It's as though the crazy 8 had forgotten who they were. The threads of time slowly unravelled as they quarrelled, hearts filled with a quiet annoyance, and a diluted sense of hatred that only seemed to scrape the surface.

“Oh, and we’re ignoring hongjoong now?” Mingi added coldly from the corner, arms crossed. “The guy who rewrote his entire final project because she mentioned liking architecture. Who stops speaking when she enters the room, hoping she’ll notice how ‘mysterious’ he is?”

Hongjoong turned sharply, eyes flashing with something wounded. “And you’re any better, mingi? You edit the school radio playlist to match whatever she’s been listening to on the lawn.

“Shut up,” Mingi growled. “You don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

“I think we all do,” Seonghwa finally said, his voice calm before a storm. “We’ve turned into versions of ourselves none of us recognize. All over one girl. And none of us even know if she’ll choose any of us.”

Silence fell—thick and ringing.

“I’m not apologizing,” Wooyoung muttered finally, turning to the mirror to fix his collar. “I meant every word. If you think any of you are less obsessed, you’re lying.”

“No,” Yunho said softly, bitterly. “We’re just all too scared to admit we’re the same.”

And still, the snow refused to fall.

Immediately stepping toward the door, suit crisp and grey with irritation, Yeosang halts—just for a moment. His hand lingers on the handle, shoulders squared like he has one more thing to say. But the words—whatever truth or venom they carried—collapse in his throat.

He swallows them whole, jaw tight, and turns away without looking back.

The door clicks shut behind him, and with it, something heavy settles into the room.

No one moves.

Hongjoong exhales slowly, dragging a hand through his hair, the tension curling at the back of his neck. Mingi finally sits, legs bouncing with nerves. Seonghwa returns to packing up his camera wordlessly, though his grip is iron. San leans back against the dresser, arms crossed like a barrier. Yunho watches the door Yeosang walked through, as if he still might come back.

And Wooyoung just stands there, not smug, not victorious—just still. For once, no words.

Only silence.

Meanwhile,

You stood quietly in the old greenhouse at the edge of campus.

A place most had forgotten.

The glass was fogged from the cold outside, breath misting as you traced a finger along the condensation, watching it break into droplets. Faint greenery still clung to the walls, winter’s reach not enough to kill it completely.

You found yourself here more often these days.

Not out of hiding, but for silence.

The kind that didn't ask questions. The kind that let you just be.

You clutched your book loosely in your lap, half-read with words you couldn’t understand–faces, fragments of dreams, eight indistinct shapes from phrases that somehow felt familiar even when you tried not to think about them. And between them all: a clock. Always ticking. Always just out of reach.

You leaned back on the stone bench, letting your eyes trail up to the dome overhead. No snow yet.

Just sky–grey and indecisive.

“Still holding out on me?” you murmured, speaking to no one but everything.

Your fingers moved unconsciously over a torn scrap of paper you’d tucked between the pages of your book. A note Anessa had written to you two days ago.

“No matter who it is—just promise me you’ll choose with your heart. Not theirs.”

The bell tower rang in the distance–once, twice.

Eleven chimes.

The final school day before graduation was almost over. And still, you felt no different.

No revelation. No soulmate.

Just the strange certainty that everything was about shift.

You stood slowly, brushing off your jacket and casting one final glance toward the sky.

Still no snow.

But the air tasted like a countdown.

And something—someone—was coming.

The air smelled like something ancient. Life frost hadn’t quite kissed the earth, but was watching it. Waiting. The campus clock had just struck seven. Everyone gathered beneath the massive, weathered willow tree that stood like a sentinel in the centre of the school’s main grounds.

The staff had not yet arrived. But the students have.

They trickled in, slowly, and then in droves–cloaked in the matching obsidian of their graduation gowns, murmurs weaving into a growing undercurrent of nerves and anticipation.

And then–you arrived.

Your gown, though uniform, flowed around you differently–cut just slightly more fitted, tailored at the waist, its sleeves flowing open like silk wings when you walked. Beneath the robe, the faintest shimmer of moon-dusted silver peeked from the hem of your dress, a soft contrast against the dull black.

Your hair was pinned with minimal effort, wisps trailing along your cheekbones. The kind of beauty that did not try, yet never failed to command attention.

Leaning against the courtyard’s outer wall, Wooyoung lit a cigarette just to distract himself. But he forgot to take a drag the second you appeared. A low whistle left his lips, barely audible. “goddamn ,” he mumbled, a crooked grin pulling at the edge of his mouth. He didn't care that it hurt to watch you like this–graceful, untouchable. He was used to pain. But desire? That was something else entirely. And tonight, it was beyond unbearable.

Mingi shouted uncomfortably where he stood, a group of classmates still trying to pull him into light hearted banter. But his gaze never left you.

The murmur around you had begun to dull into a kind of white noise, waves crashing at a distance–students greeting, laughing, nervously pacing. Even still, it all felt far too loud. Every face you passed looked like they were waiting for something invisible tto fall from the sky.

Maybe you were too.

San, seated on the outer steps with arms crossed and eyes half-lidded, clenched his jaw. Not because you looked good—but because you looked like freedom. Like light. Like something no one could own, least of all him. It burned. He hated it. He loved it.

Jongho, silent as always, leaned against a tree trunk near the base of the hill. His eyes traced your every motion with a mixture of reverence and melancholy. He didn’t look at you like a peer—he looked at you like a prophecy.

You didn’t notice all of them. Not at once.

But you felt it.

Like gravity on your skin. Like breath on your neck.

You spotted her easily through the press of robed silhouettes—Anessa, standing near the foot of the willow, chewing at the end of her sleeve like she always did when she was trying not to overthink. Her graduation cap was tilted slightly off-center, eyes flitting through the crowd like she was searching for someone. Or maybe trying to avoid someone.

You called her name softly, and she turned.

“Hey,” she breathed, relief lacing her voice.

She walked toward you and immediately hooked her pinky into yours the way she did in your first year, before soulmates, before prophecies, before all of this.

“Please tell me you’re internally combusting too,” she muttered.

You smiled, but it didn’t reach all the way. “I'm trying not to look up in case the snow decides to fall out of spite.”

That made her laugh—quiet, tired, honest.

“I swear, if it happens tonight,” she whispered, glancing up at the sky anyway, “I’ll scream. I’ll actually scream. Like—‘ah yes, let’s reveal soulmates when I still haven’t even memorized my speech.’”

You nudged her gently. “You’re going to be fine. You always are.”

She gave you a sideways look. “Says the girl who’s got at least eight people on campus walking around like they’re ready to duel each other over her.”

Your heart skipped.

Yunho caught sight of you mid-conversation with a peer, and the sentence he was saying vanished from his lips. His eyes softened immediately. He didn’t see a fellow graduate—he saw something sacred. The way you held your robe, your delicate steps, the way your eyes scanned the space like you were searching for no one but still belonged to everyone. It was enough to break him open.

Seonghwa stood in the inner ring of students, camera hung loosely around his neck. But he didn’t raise it. He didn’t need a picture of you. Not tonight. You were already burned into his memory, even in the shadow of the falling dusk. He stared quietly, jaw tight. Regret etched deep in his posture.

Hongjoong stood alone on the far end of the lawn, hidden beneath the limbs of the willow itself. Orange hair bright against the black of his robe, he stared at you not like you were his—but like he didn’t know what would happen if you weren’t. He didn’t smile. He didn’t frown. He just watched, and something unreadable passed through his eyes.

Yeosang, though, was the last to arrive. Fresh from whatever solitude he’d slipped into since your greenhouse run-in. When he saw you—his whole body paused. He’d thought distance might dull the pull. He was wrong. If anything, you were worse now. More radiant. Like the universe had decided to punish him for walking away.

Eight boys. Eight destinies. All bound to a girl who walked through time like she’d never been told she’d break it.

“I didn’t ask for any of that,” you said softly.

“I know you didn’t,” she answered, her voice suddenly more serious. “And I hate how this school acts like it’s normal. Like... like we’re all supposed to be okay with waking up one day and suddenly someone is fated for us.”

A long pause settled between you. She sighed.

“I just don’t want it to hurt when it happens,” she admitted. “For either of us.”

You looked at her. Your best friend. The only person who had seen every part of you without needing some cosmic string to tie you together. The only one who chose you without a tether.

“I don’t think any of us are coming out of this without some kind of bruise,” you whispered.

Anessa leaned her head on your shoulder.

The air was colder now. The wind had teeth.

But her presence warmed you.

And somewhere, just behind the rows of gathered students, at least eight pairs of eyes were trying not to look too hard.

Trying—and failing.

Out of instinct—like they could read each other’s thoughts—the boys looked at one another, each noticing the other. Lips pursed, tongues pressing against the insides of their cheeks. They were still green with jealousy, masked by selfish desire. They had allowed it to consume them—all of it—right up until this very moment. This special day, where only love was meant to shine.

The sound came like a thread pulling silence taut–a chime. Not from a bell, but from the old willow tree itself. Hidden deep within its branches, a brass chime rang once, twice, then stilled. Conversations fell away like dust.

All eyes turned to the podium.

There stood the principal, cloaked not in a robe but in a ceremonial garb of the Umbra council–black and deep navy, etched with silver filigree that shimmered under the cloud-veiled sky. His hands rested on the podium as though holding up the air itself.

“Students of Eden," he began, voice the same, “the sky has not yet wept, but its breath grows colder with every hour. This is unusual. And yet, perhaps fitting,”

His gaze swept over the crowd.

You could feel it brush your skin like a searchlight.

“Eden was never meant to mimic the worlds we came from. It was designed to hold truth. To make space for fate. To restore what the ancient architects called the tether.”

Some students shifted nervously. You heard Anessa inhale sharply next to you.

“As you know, your soulmark will awaken with the first snow,” the principal continued. “Be it at dawn or the day after, it will come.”

His voice deepened.

“Whether you believe in destiny, or defy it—whether you await your other half with hope or fear—it does not matter. The snow does not seek permission. It does not arrive with kindness. It arrives with truth.”

And still, the snow did not fall.

The courtyard buzzed in quiet suspense, conversations hushed to a still as everyone stood, eyes forward—except for them. The eight.

They fidgeted. Jittered. Palms slick, shoulders stiff. Their eyes flicked back and forth between each other and you. You, who stood under the same willow where everything had first begun. Unbothered. Or perhaps just unreadable. That unreadability gnawed at them most.

A murmur ran through the crowd like wind through tall grass.

“And so,” he said, “I ask you not to brace yourself for love... but to brace yourself for clarity.”

You swallowed.

Yeosang shifted his weight, jaw tight as he cast a quick glance at Wooyoung, who wouldn’t stop clenching and unclenching his fists. San stared forward, his chest heaving slightly, while Yunho’s gaze flicked between the principal and the curve of your shoulders like he couldn’t decide which held more power.

“Some of you will find yourselves tethered to the one you longed for. Others, to someone you never once considered. And some of you...” he paused, “...may find that the person you’ve waited for does not walk this earth at all. And still, the snow will fall.”

You weren’t sure who he was speaking to anymore.

Only that his words felt colder than the air.

Seonghwa, hands clasped behind his back, eyes half-lidded, caught Hongjoong’s sideways stare and offered nothing in return. Mingi didn’t move at all—but his ears were red. And Jongho exhaled, hard, his stare locked entirely on you.

“Tonight, I ask you not to seek your answer. Only to breathe. Let the frost come. And when it does...”

Silence pooled like water around everyone’s feet. Nervous giggles from some students, sharp exhales from others. Eyes glanced to the clouds, to the horizon, to the crowd. But the eight didn’t look anywhere else.

Only at you.

Each one of them.

Then, the principal stepped down from the small podium, standing at the edge of the willow’s shadow as if it lent his words more weight.

He paused. Even the birds in the trees seemed to go silent.

The boys moved slightly.

As if a silent alarm had been triggered in all of them at once.

“...you will know. But for now—stand beside the one you believe may be yours. Be near them. Share this moment, even if it’s borrowed.He paused. Even the birds in the trees seemed to go silent.

They shifted—barely perceptible at first—hands twitching, shoulders straightening. Feet angling toward you.

Preparing.

To get to you before it was too late.

All at once. Selfishly. Determined.

Eyes trailed each other with veiled hostility, bodies tense with unspoken rivalry. A silent race born from a year of buried emotions, missed chances, and a connection none of them could deny—but none of them could share.

It has to be me. I’m the one they’re meant for. Not him.

Then came the words.

The principal stepped forward, and something about the weight in his posture made everything stop.

“Let the tether be restored.”

The wind shifted.

Students began to stir, slowly at first—then all at once.

Laughter broke out, gasps of surprise, sudden confessions. Some squealed in delight as their eyes met those they had only dared to dream about. Others panicked, pushing through the crowd to find the one they hoped would look back. It was chaos veiled in euphoria.

“Find your tether,” the principal had said. And so they did.

Bodies bustled across the courtyard in waves—feet crunching over frost-dusted stone, shouts ringing in the air. Arms outstretched. Hands fumbling to intertwine with hands. Some were crying. Some were already kissing. Others stood stunned, waiting for something—anything—to make it clear.

Anessa’s hand slipped from yours in a flash, her fingers brushing yours one final time before she disappeared into the crowd with a grin, off to find her eye candy. You turned your head to watch her go, but your feet didn’t move.

You stood still.

Right in the center of it all.

Like an anomaly. A single note in a song that was already halfway through its chorus.

You weren’t calling out for anyone. You didn’t chase, or run, or reach. You simply stood, hands at your sides, eyes wide beneath the drifting clouds that still refused to snow.

From across the grounds, the staff watched it unfold. Their gazes followed the eight boys—those same eight final-year students who had spent the year in a silent war of glances and subtle battles. Now, all of them moved. All at once.

Charging

Running.

Like their lives depended on it.

They pushed past dazed students, bumping shoulders, cutting corners with almost reckless abandon. Gowns flaring behind them like wings.

And every single one of them was headed for you.

The noise was deafening—heartbeat-level loud. Their breaths, ragged. Their eyes, wide and wild. Hearts hammering as one thought pulsed in all of them:

“Let it be me.”

Then–

Tick.

A sound split the air like a pin dropping in a cathedral.

Tick.

It came again.

Tick. tick. Tick. tick. Tick.

Faster now. Like it was racing their steps.

Tick. tick. Tick. tick.

Ten times. Rapid. Unrelenting.

Until–

Silence.

Everything stopped.

Everything—but them.

The crowd froze. Mid-step. Mid-word. Mid-breath.

Gowns halted in motion. Leaves still in the air. Mouths agape, laughter stuck between syllables. The willow tree, frozen in sway. Even the sky, in its heavy grey, seemed to pause.

Including you.

Only they can move. Eight hearts pound in collective panic.

“What the hell?” San breathes, eyes scanning the frozen crowd.

Mingi reaches for a passing student—his fingers glide through a still image. Wooyoung's voice cracks, “Is this... part of it?”

Faces contorted in shock as they looked around—watched everything turn to glass, unmoving. The weight of reality hit all of them at once.

They all watched, fearful now, standing around you like a religious crowd and the symbol in the centre.

You were frozen, head turned up slightly as you looked at the sky.

"She's not moving..." Yunho murmured, reaching a hand toward you, but stopping just short of contact—afraid.

Then—

Tick.

It was soft. Subtle. Almost imagined.

"Did you hear that?" Mingi asked, his voice taut with tension.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

It came again, like a clock tucked beneath the earth, its rhythm pulsing louder with each second.

"Where is that coming from?" San stepped back, head swiveling, eyes scanning the air.

Tickticktickticktick—

It grew louder. Too loud. Almost suffocating. Like time itself was slipping through the cracks of their control.

Then—

Silence. No ticking.

Only a low hum filled the air–vibrating through their bones. Like a distant thunder, but no storm. A static lull. The atmosphere held its breath.

All eyes turned upward in sync. And then they saw it.

The first snowflake.

Small, silent, perfect.

It fell slowly, like a decision being made. And it landed–directly on the crown of your head.

A sharp sound followed:

Ding!

Like that of an elevator. And then–

Black.

The world collapsed into nothing. No light. No sound.

Only they could feel the certainty that nothing would ever be the same again.

Then—It all unpaused.

The air shifted. The noise returned.

Students moved again, conversations bubbling back like a tape resuming mid-play. Some laughed, some cried in joy, and others blinked in confusion, unsure of what had just happened.

But a few… felt it.

Something was missing.

Someone was missing.

Cherrie, the quiet girl who always sat by her desk in the dorm, felt the difference first. Her hand hovered over her heart as if to still its sudden race.

“Guys…” she whispered, but no one heard her.

Everything continued—too easily, too normally. Until Anessa felt it too. A cold prickle on the back of her neck.

“Guys!”

The desperation in her voice rang louder, forcing heads to turn.

“Where are they?” she asked, panic clinging to every word as she searched the crowd—her eyes frantically scanning for familiar faces.

Hongjoong.

Mingi.

Wooyoung.

Seonghwa.

Yunho.

San.

Jongho.

Yeosang.

But no one had an answer. Silence fell, uncomfortable and sharp.

Anessa’s voice broke through it once more.

WHICH ONE OF YOU FOUND MY PRIVATE ASK BLOG??? THAT SHIT ISN'T EVEN PUBLIC LMFAOOOOOOO WHO DID IT AND HOW DID YOU FIND IT :BROKEN_HEART: (It's a friend ask blog, meaning I won't tag the fandom it's in or share it at all you'll have to find that on your own)

I FUCKING HATE YOGURT. Oh my god yogurt is so nasty, I ate this thing that had yogurt in it and I felt like vomiting, it was so nasty I just can't with yogurt

My friend introduced me to this backyard wrestling channel called CHW(Crazy Hardcore Wrestling) and I'm obsessed over it, it's so fucking funny oh my god, Robb Banks I love you you're so silly

peter stares as the bats remove their masks, for the first time, in his presence. because not only does he vaguely recognize some of them as very famous, very rich people, but he recognizes one face in particular, and it sends his brain screeching to a halt.

“tim?” he breathes, shoulders slumping and heart stuttering, as he stares at timothy drake.

the man in question furrows his brows, “you know me?” he asks, voice tinted with confusion.

“i-“ peter sucks in a breath, “not this you. the you from home.” his voice cracks a bit on that last word, as he tries to keep the tears from falling.

tim blinks at him, stepping towards him carefully. the rest of the bats look properly intrigued, especially bruce, watching with bated breath.

“who are you?” tim finally asks.

peter tries to steady his breathing.

“no one you know. i don’t exist here, remember? one of the requirements when moving to a new universe.” he tries to quip, but the humor falls short, and the bats continue to watch him, enamored.

peter sighs, reaching up and tugging the mask off of his face in one smooth motion.

“my name is peter.”

looking back at tim, is his own face, sort of. the same features, but they look softer. freckles dotting the same pale skin they share, smile just a tad wider, eyes the exact same shape as his own, but brown, like his mother’s. the same short, lean figure. peter’s hair was lighter and curlier than tim’s own, again, more like his mother’s.

(they share scars, not exactly, but skin blemished nonetheless.)

“you’re a drake.” tim finally says, unable to look away. he hears a few quiet gasps behind him, slightly annoyed that this moment can’t be private, but mostly relieved his family is standing with him. peter shrugs, a half smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“not by name. but by blood, yeah.” he says, like it’s no big deal. like tim isn’t on the verge of his world changing forever.

“your name isn’t drake?” he doesn’t know what to do, what this means. tim isn’t the only one left?

“it’s parker. peter parker. it was… it’s not the… in my world, janet and jackson drake were not the best people.” peter averts his eyes, like he’s ashamed to inform tim that their parents were pieces of shit.

tim thinks he loves this kid already.

“they weren’t here, either.” he replies bluntly, watching as peter’s eyes slowly blink, like he was hoping, terribly, for it not to be the same. “what happened?”

“they never wanted kids, but they needed an heir, so they had you. then, four years later, they accidentally had me. apparently abortion was just one step too far for them. they gave me up for adoption the same day.”

“same here, never wanted kids, couldn’t be parents for the life of them.” tim ignores a sniffle from behind him, sure that dick will get over it by himself. “but here..?”

“no, i don’t exist here, remember? maybe they never got pregnant again, or maybe they had an abortion, i don’t know.” tim swallows heavily, trying to not imagine a life where he wasn’t always alone. (he was alone in peter’s world, too.)

“anyways, i grew up in the system. didn’t even know who my birth parents were.” peter continues, speaking as if he’d said the same thing a million times, as if this isn’t shattering tim’s world view. “the parkers took me in, and when they died i went to their immediate family, my uncle ben and aunt may.” here, he stutters his breathing, taking a moment to regain composure. “then… then they died when i was fourteen. around the same time i became spider-man. it was either go back into the system or find out if i had any family. that’s when i found out about the drakes.”

“they wouldn’t have taken you in, though. janet and jackson.” and of this, tim was sure. he knew how his parents worked. which wasn’t at all.

“they were already dead, when i found out. but… you were alive. and eighteen. i contacted you.” tim sucked in a breath, eyes wide and disbelieving and- “yeah, you took me in.” a sigh of relief. “i lived with you until i ended up here.” and peter looks down at his feet, like he’s ashamed.

“and i just let you go? i just-“ tim heaves. he knows, knows viscerally that he would never, and will never, let his family go so easily.

“you didn’t know.” and they both seem to freeze, before peter explodes with a desperation that they haven’t seen before. “i… it was the only way to save the universe, tim. you would have died, everyone would have died. i had to, okay?! i had to!!” tears spilled down his cheeks, and all tim could do was surge forward, and hold him as good as he knew how. as tight as he had wished he had been held.

Sammy really tries not to mope around like Dean– Ben. Ben keeps laughing at him, and tells him to relax a little bit because he's with the Soldier Boy, and nothing can happen to him when he's with him. Ben is not too awful to live with, driving from one motel to another, usually on a stolen car, and after breaking someone's arm or other body part for whatever reason, or maybe because Ben fucked someone's wife and they have to move out of their motel room.

Ben is messy, throws his shit around and doesn't clean much after himself, so Sam is left to pick up after him, and he's annoyed, because “Aren't military men supposed to be clean and tidy?”

Ben’s hand freezes mid-air, about to chug half a bottle of beer and stares at Sam. Sammy freezes too, like a deer in the headlights, realising this man can break every bone in his body without breaking a sweat. But all Ben does is smile, “I'm not in the army now, am I?”

Sammy nods, noticing the smile not reaching his eyes and just gathers the clothes in his arms, putting them in the hamper near the wall, letting out a shuddering breath as Ben watches him clean around their motel room as if he's his housewife.

Ben, who gets a bit too comfortable around Sammy, walks around butt naked, and hollers at him to order them some food, and laughs when Sam turns red and shouts at him to put on some trousers. Ben who likes to eat a worrying amount of pizza while watching the TV, a hand on Sam's thigh, squeezing hard whenever Sam moves a little, just so he doesn't leave. and when Sam finally complains that he has to go use the toilet, Ben turns his head and looks at him without blinking. For a second Sam is terrified he'll tell him to hold it, but all Ben does is slide his eyes down at Sam's jean clad lap and stares openly at his groin. He doesn't say anything for a long time then takes off his hand from Sammy's thigh, “Go, and bring back a six pack with you, Sammy boy”

Sam slides out of the sofa, sweat collecting at the nape of his neck, his brain screaming at him to run away, to run and never look back because this man was not his brother. He may look like him, behave like him to a certain extent, but Sammy can't leave him, he needs Dean. in whatever version he can have him.

Sam also realises that this man sleeps like shit, he sleeps for short intervals at a time, waking up shouting from nightmares, his body surging up with energy and concentrated compound V running in his veins. Sam eventually pries some answers from him, after some quietly asked questions and giving him pitiful puppy eyes and Ben cracked. He was uncomfortable when he told him, tried to hide it, tried to make it seem like it doesn't haunt him still, but Sammy knows he's lying. Ben tells him they did experiments on him during WWII, injected him with all sorts of chemicals, fed him dreams of glory and American Patriotism, made it seem like he was saving the nation. Nobody is born like this, everyone was made into a Supe, and whatever they tell people nowadays on the Internet and Television, it's all bullshit.

Sam feels a little bad but tries to remind himself that this Dean probably committed countless of war crimes and God knows what else, if those theories on Reddit are anything to go by. and he understands why these theories would be popular on certain places of the Internet. Soldier boy was built to be a weapon, and he was but a man, driven by desires and emotions. He's broken, wrong, sinful and dangerous, but Sammy can't bring himself to be disgusted, not when he himself is too tired, so tired of not having what he wants, and all he wants is the one thing he can have, this Dean, this man who wears his brother's face.

He knows it probably makes him a shitty person to stay with this 105 year old racist prick, but this man looks like he's only in his 30s, walks like Dean, sounds like Dean, looks like Dean, even smells like him.

Sammy found that one day after he found himself burying his nose in the man's dirty t-shirts that were thrown over the sofa. He's embarrassed at his weakness and tries to forget how the smell of sweat, musk and something so Dean made him feel weak in the knees and an army of butterflies errupted in his stomach.

Sammy has also been close enough to smell him and feel the warmth of his body against his. It happened in the middle of the night, when Soldier Boy was once again woken up by a nightmare. So Sam blinked his eyes open and turned his head to look at him on the other bed, but a big warm calloused hand pressed the side of his head down on the pillow hard so he won't move. he can't move. not with the type of strength Ben possesses. Sam held his breath, praying Ben won't snap his neck in half, mistaking him for an enemy soldier, mind broken, fractured and riddled with PTSD.

But all Ben did was lean down, his hot breath washing over Sam's face, his body frozen in fear. He didn't say anything for a long time, and Sam knew he was looking at him, then he whispered in his deep and heavy voice, “Sleep, Sammy.” Sam’s heart jumped in his chest, and he bit his lower lip so he wouldn't whimper and felt his mattress dip. Ben slid under the covers, easily pushing Sam’s body further in the bed, making space for himself, practically plastering himself to the back of Sam’s body, throwing a heavy arm over Sam's waist, getting comfortable right behind him, their bodies touching from top to bottom.

Sam gulped and parted his lips, breathing out a weak, “Ben-”

Ben didn't like that. So he clasped a hand over Sam's mouth, pressing hard, covering both his mouth and nose at the same time, Sam fought against his instincts telling him to kick that man as hard as he could but he can't, he may as well just ask Ben to kill him right then and there.

Ben lifted his head and breathed down Sam's ear, his nose touching his flesh, “Shut the fuck up, Sammy,”

Sam nodded before he could help it and Ben let go, finally granting him permission to breathe. While Sam gulped in oxygen and Ben got comfortable on the bed, squeezing Sam to his body like a giant pillow, “You're warm,” Ben whispered, sounding tired.

Sam’s heart broke a little, but that didn't last long when Ben added, “Shame you don't have a warm cunt to match,”

And right as he said it, he rolled his hips and Sam felt like throwing up at what obviously was Soldier Boy’s half hard cock right against the crack of his ass, then he settled, Sam listened for Ben's breathing and his heart finally stopped hammering in his chest when Ben's breathing evened out and he was surely asleep.

Sammy was terrified, but also safe at the same time, but also simultaneously in danger of losing one of his limbs if Ben has another nightmare or kills him in his sleep. Sam has never felt this close physically before to Dean, never so warm and cozy, but also so horrified and sick to his stomach because this isn't how brothers are meant to behave. But Ben isn't his brother. That's one of the first things he ever told him. That he wasn't his brother.

Sam closes his eyes tight and prays for his safety and for a way to go back home. And shivers when he realises he wants to take this man with him back home. Obviously nobody gives a shit about him in his world, and he'd do much good back in theirs. Soldier Boy was strong, a supe, and with the right training he can easily be one of the best hunters there was. And Sam is sure Dean wouldn't mind, not when this man kept Sam this safe for so long, looked after him, and plus this man may not be Dean, but he's still family in a way, and Sam's not very keen on leaving him behind. (That's Sam convincing himself that he'll be the one deciding to take this mfer with him when he knows that Ben will demand to go back with him, Ben won't let Sam leave him alone.)

.

tagging the ppl kind enough to tell me they enjoyed my insane ship :) this is for you <3