Chapter Text
Hush, my little child, drift into slumber
In your dreams, you’ll run and play in paradise
Hush, my little child, gentle now, go to sleep
And somewhere in that moment
The lonely moon will dream
For a long time, You Huo felt like his world was confined to the colors black, gray, and white.
He didn’t know how he came into being, but his earliest memories involved white walls and black and gray equipment. And then, black became his closest companion when they bound his eyes during training, forcing him to listen to songs until he could note down the notes, forcing him to sing in suffocating darkness. The garden was the most colorful place he had ever lived in, and yet somehow those colors seemed dull to him.
Chu Yue’s red hair was brighter than those colors, and it was the brightest color he had ever seen.
Then there was Qin Jiu. His eyes were as black as the darkness that had haunted You Huo, yet this black was profoundly different. The black he was used to was cold, terrifying, and suffocating. But Qin Jiu’s eyes were warm and comforting. Thus, he made peace with the color of black. There was also something red about Qin Jiu. A different red from Chu Yue, not physically present, but for You Huo, it existed. When You Huo first saw him, fighting against the staff, he felt like he could see a spectrum of colors, but red, an orange-red, was the dominant one.
Now, a new red was vivid in his eyes. It was pooling beneath his twitching body, soaking the stage, staining his cheeks, and consuming his vision. It was not as bright as Chu Yue and Qin Jiu, but for now, it was all he could see.
As Chu Yue fell to her knees right by his side, as she held his body, cradling him, he finally saw her red again. It was still brighter than the new red, and he hoped it would never dim.
Too bad, he couldn’t see the other red for the last time.
***
When he and Chu Yue first arrived at the garden, he barely paid attention to anything. He did everything that was required of him numbly. The Garden was supposed to be beautiful, but to You Huo, even the most vibrant flowers were just shades of muted, predictable color. For him, the garden, his guardian’s sterile house, and the labs—were all the same cage with different paint. He usually just focused on his own work, or sometimes he exchanged whispers with Chu Yue, but it was surprisingly quiet.
Then, it was loud.
The boy, whose name he later found out was Qin Jiu, was wrestling with the staff members, his movements fluid and aggressive, fueled by an energy that felt completely foreign to this place. He was laughing, somehow managing to show his anger through that laughter. As Qin Jiu dodged a poorly aimed grab, You Huo saw it. It was a fierce, living spectrum emanating from Qin Jiu himself. His black eyes, wide with mischief and defiance, contained a presence that radiated heat. The color You Huo registered most profoundly was a rich, searing orange-red. It wasn’t physical, but for You Huo, it was indisputably there: the color of defiance. Compared to the lifeless, painted greens and blues of the plants, Qin Jiu was a fire.
Obedience had been drilled into them all—into him, Chu Yue, the others. Obedience meant less pain. For You Huo, by being obedient, perhaps he didn’t need to greet the darkness as much as he used to. Or perhaps, rather than being obedient, he had simply learned silence. He didn’t know the difference.
He couldn’t identify what drew him to Qin Jiu at first. Perhaps it was the bright color that enchanted him to take a peek at his every move. He watched from afar as Qin Jiu tried to sneak out, only to get caught once again. Every day after he watched Qin Jiu get tossed around, he sneaked to the medical room and took some Band-Aids, only to end up not approaching Qin Jiu. He didn’t know how to approach people, never needing to, never wanting to, at least not yet. And, Qin Jiu might be bruised, but at least he didn’t seem to be bleeding.
It was only when Qin Jiu truly bled that he had a reason to approach him. He looked down at Qin Jiu’s battered face, and then couldn’t help but mutter, “...Stupid.”
Didn’t he know that it would be better not to cause a ruckus? That way, it was easier to slip out and explore since the staff wouldn’t pay much attention to obedient kids. So far, it was working for You Huo. At least, here. Qin Jiu was too loud, so everyone kept paying attention to him. He threw out all the Band-Aids he had collected onto the boy’s face and then left.
…he didn’t expect Qin Jiu to start following him around and annoying him after that.
It was annoying how Qin Jiu kept disrupting his work, and it was annoying how Chu Yue seemed amused by this. Qin Jiu was an immovable, infuriating shadow, a constant presence. The first time Qin Jiu reached over and casually slid a music sheet from under You Huo’s arm, You Huo’s head snapped up. Their eyes met. Qin Jiu grinned like he had won something. You Huo wanted to hit him.
The next day, Qin Jiu followed him to his usual table and sat down directly across from him. You Huo finally spoke up, “Stop following me.”
“I’m not following you,” Qin Jiu said, settling in as if he belonged there. “I just want to sit here.”
It was a lie. They both knew it was a lie. You Huo glared at him, but Qin Jiu’s black eyes—warm, insufferably warm—just stared back without shame. You Huo should have left. He should have found another table, another room, another corner of this suffocating garden where Qin Jiu’s presence wouldn’t burn through his carefully constructed walls.
He didn’t move.
The intrusions became routine. Qin Jiu would steal his sheet music just to make You Huo reach for it. Would hum deliberately off-key until You Huo, too used to hearing perfection, corrected him with a sharp glare and the proper note. He would ask questions that You Huo didn’t know how to answer.
“Why do you always sit alone?” Qin Jiu asked one afternoon.
“I’m not alone now,” You Huo replied, not looking up from his work.
“You know what I mean. Before.”
You Huo’s fingers froze on the page.
“I wasn’t always alone. Chu Yue was with me.”
“Not always.”
“She knew when to leave me alone,” You Huo said, finally looking up. “Unlike someone.”
Qin Jiu chuckled.
“So, why?”
Why do you keep asking? You Huo wanted to ask. But he felt like he had already heard Qin Jiu’s answer. So instead, he appeased Qin Jiu by answering, “It was quieter.”
It was…safer.
“Was that better?”
You Huo didn’t answer, but the silence felt like an admission. Quiet had been safer. Emptier. He wasn’t sure which he preferred anymore.
“You are not better than me.”
Despite his question, Qin Jiu was mostly alone, too.
One day, after Qin Jiu once again annoyed him, he realized that when Qin Jiu was around, he felt... alive. For the first time in his life, he felt a myriad of feelings.
So he stopped trying to escape. He even started using the same table, sitting at the same spots, telling himself it was just because he preferred this spot. Not because he had grown accustomed to the way Chu Yue’s red hair caught the artificial light, or the way Qin Jiu’s presence made the garden’s dull colors feel less oppressive. Sometimes Qin Jiu prodded him, and they ended up practicing the songs they were told to sing together. But You Huo never wrote and hummed his own songs in front of Qin Jiu. He didn’t know why, but if he did that, it would feel like he laid himself out too bare.
But he couldn’t deny that he wanted to. He wanted to absorb Qin Jiu into his small world.
One afternoon, he had been sketching out a melody, the notes barely formed, when he felt the familiar heat of Qin Jiu leaning over his shoulder. You Huo had been attempting to transcribe a piece that felt right in his head—a rhythm came to him during the sleepless hours, but now he had trouble completing it. He stared at his own scribbled notes. He should have hidden it, but then, before he could second-guess himself, he began tapping the rhythm against the table.
His voice followed—tentative at first, just a hum. Then steadier.
He felt Qin Jiu’s gaze on him like a physical weight. You Huo’s amber eyes flicked up and caught the expression on Qin Jiu’s face. It was a different expression he usually saw from Qin Jiu, calmer…softer. The orange-red that usually blazed so fiercely around him had shifted into something gentler, warmer—like embers instead of wildfire.
You Huo’s throat tightened. He had two choices: stop now, hide the song away, pretend this moment never happened. Or keep singing. Keep letting Qin Jiu see into the world he kept locked behind silence and obedience.
His lips quivered.
But the humming didn’t stop.
***
When he was much younger, before he had learned silence and obedience, Chu Yue used to hold him as he tried to stop crying. She was the only source of comfort he ever had, the only source of warmth. As time went on, he saw Chu Yue forcing a smile through pain, and sometimes he watched as she slumped on the corner of a room, trying to make herself invisible. He realized that he had been selfish—Chu Yue was tired, too. And she definitely needed comfort, too.
So he started sitting with her in those corners, several meters away, giving her her space and saying nothing, because he didn’t know what words would help, anyway. He didn’t know if his presence helped or not, but Chu Yue never pushed him away.
After their practices, when her hands shook too badly to hold anything, he would hold them until the trembling stopped. They didn’t speak about it—neither of them had language for what they were to each other. Maybe they were just two children learning to survive by keeping each other alive.
Sometimes, when exhaustion hadn’t stolen her voice, Chu Yue would sing. The only songs they knew were what they were given by their guardian, but sometimes she would make up her own melodies and lyrics. Her voice would crack on certain notes, imperfect and human, and You Huo would close his eyes and let the sound become the embrace she was too tired to give.
Sometimes, she would talk to him, telling him her imagination of the outside world they had never seen. He didn’t know how, but she would describe the blue sky so vividly, of the sun warming their skin and the wind blowing their hair. All they knew about the outside world was from the picture books their guardian let them see to enrich their imagination.
“Maybe, when we go to the garden, we will see the outside world!”
“I want to ride a light train. I wonder if it’s fun? It must be.”
Even as a child, he could see and hear the yearning in Chu Yue’s expression and tone. You Huo watched her face light up as she spoke, watching the way hope transformed her despite everything they endured. He wanted to feel what she felt—that bright yearning for something beyond their reach. But when he tried to picture the blue sky she described, his mind only produced the white ceiling above his bed. When he tried to imagine warmth, he only felt the cold of the training room floor.
He didn’t tell her this. Instead, he kept listening as she painted worlds he couldn’t see. One day, he asked, “If you have a chance, will you leave?”
Chu Yue fell silent. Unsure. It took a long time before she answered, “Not without you.”
You Huo felt mad at himself as relief washed over him. Turned out, he was still selfish.
For years, that was enough—Chu Yue’s fictional world and You Huo’s silent companionship, two children preventing each other from succumbing entirely into the cold.
Then Qin Jiu arrived.
They listened to Qin Jiu telling them about the outside world. About how he had felt the warmth of the sun on his skin, the chill of winter making him shrink, and, more importantly, the liveliness of humans huddling together in their small space. He watched as Chu Yue listened attentively, liveliness sparkling in her eyes. Unlike them, who had only known cages, Qin Jiu was once free. All his descriptions were real—and for once, You Huo felt that the outside world was not untouchable.
Chu Yue started following Qin Jiu as Qin Jiu started off his mischief, getting into trouble with the boy. You Huo stopped himself from following their steps—one of them had to stay out of trouble, so they could patch them up when their troublemaking brought them punishments. Even as worry squeezed his heart, he listened as Chu Yue felt excited as she got a sneak peek of the real sky outside, shaking You Huo’s body as she told him that the world outside might be very vast and they would need a lot of time to explore everything.
But even as Qin Jiu made the outside world tangible, even as Chu Yue’s eyes sparkled with renewed hope, You Huo couldn’t place himself in those descriptions. Couldn’t imagine his own body feeling the sun Qin Jiu described, couldn’t picture himself among the humans huddling together for warmth. His guardian did say that he always lacked imagination.
The outside world was real—he believed that now. But it felt like something meant for other people.
For Chu Yue, whose red hair belonged under real sunlight.
For Qin Jiu, who still carried the memory of freedom in his defiant eyes.
But for him…?
***
The red sky roared above them, meteor trails scattering like cracks across glass. You Huo kept his eyes fixed on that crimson expanse, refusing to watch as Qin Jiu walked toward freedom. He had mapped this route for months, stolen access codes, memorized guard rotations, all for his…friends. You Huo counted silently, waiting for the sound of Qin Jiu’s footsteps moving away. But it never came.
You Huo’s chest tightened. He forced himself to turn, to look, and found Qin Jiu standing completely still at the edge of the platform. He wasn’t moving, just staring at You Huo with an expression that made something crack inside his carefully maintained composure.
“What are you doing?” The words came out harsher than intended, anger coating the panic rising in his throat. “You don’t have time.”
Qin Jiu smiled. That infuriating, warm smile that had haunted You Huo since the day he had thrown Band-Aids at this stupid boy’s face.
“I don’t want to go either.”
The words didn’t make sense. You Huo’s mind stuttered, tried to process, failed.
“What?”
This wasn’t part of the plan. Qin Jiu was supposed to leave. He was supposed to find the warmth he had lost when they stole him from his previous life. He was supposed to be free and safe and far away from this cage. That was the entire point. That was why You Huo had spent months learning the hidden spots and routes, as well as memorizing patrol schedules.
Qin Jiu moved. But not toward the escape route.
You Huo’s breath caught as Qin Jiu reached out and grasped his hands, pulling him away from the terrace edge, back toward the entrance. Back toward the cage. The warmth of Qin Jiu’s palm against his was overwhelming, real in a way that made You Huo’s head spin.
No. This was wrong. This wasn’t what was supposed to happen.
You Huo tried to pull away, but his hands wouldn’t obey. His fingers had already curled around Qin Jiu’s, holding on when they should have been pushing away. Qin Jiu kept pulling him back toward the door, away from the open sky and the freedom You Huo had gifted him. Away from the only good thing You Huo had ever been able to give anyone.
You Huo’s mind raced through calculations. If Qin Jiu didn’t leave soon, the patrol shift would change, more staff would come back, and the opportunity would be gone. Wasted. He didn’t know when they would get an opportunity like this again—he had already failed Chu Yue, who couldn’t come with them because she was too exhausted and got sick after one of the lab sessions. He thought he could at least let Qin Jiu go.
“You wasted my time,” You Huo said, his voice cutting and cold, even as his hands trembled in Qin Jiu’s grip. It was the only defense he had left—anger, because everything else felt too dangerous to name.
Months of mapping routes. Months of stolen moments and calculated risks. Months of making the only gift he could give: Qin Jiu’s freedom. It wasn’t easy. Being the obedient and faithful kid meant that people paid less attention to him, but it didn’t mean that he was completely ignored. He had to strain his ears as he listened to the human staff talking about how they would have to work harder on some days because other staff would be gone, had to lie and make up reasons so he could create a mind map of this place.
All these efforts. And Qin Jiu was throwing it away.
For what?
“I know,” Qin Jiu whispered, and there was no apology in his voice. No regret. Just quiet certainty that made You Huo want to scream. You Huo should have been furious. Should have been devastated. He had failed—failed to save Qin Jiu, failed to push him toward the freedom he deserved. But, underneath the anger, underneath the frustration and confusion, something else bloomed in his chest. Something warm and terrible and utterly selfish.
Relief.
Qin Jiu wasn’t leaving.
Qin Jiu had chosen to stay. He had chosen this cage. Had chosen—
You Huo couldn’t finish that thought. He stopped himself from thinking further about what Qin Jiu’s choice might mean. Because if he did, if he acknowledged the warmth spreading through his rib cage, the way his hands still hadn’t released Qin Jiu’s, the fact that some part of him had been hoping Qin Jiu would make this choice—
That would make him selfish. That would make him the kind of person who kept others trapped just to avoid being alone.
“You’re an idiot,” You Huo said finally, his voice rough, but small. “I won’t help you again.”
It was a lie. They both knew it was a lie.
***
The first time You Huo had an inkling of how he came to be, his eyes stared at a miniature version of himself.
No, it was not actually himself. But he truly felt like he was looking at a younger version of himself—those hollow amber eyes devoid of light, it was like looking at a past version of himself. The child’s face was bleak as he looked up at You Huo, recognition flickering there like he understood what he was seeing: his own future.
To say that this child looked completely like him was wrong. Somehow, You Huo could also see Chu Yue in the boy’s features. Upon closer inspection, his eye colors actually resembled Chu Yue’s more. It was unsettling at first. Then it became horrifying.
“He is 154,” their guardian introduced them, the voice from the interpreter machine crackling with static. “154, this is You Huo, your older brother. He will teach you when he is free.”
154? You Huo repeated in his mind, the number catching in his throat like glass. That was not a name. Just a designation. Just a product number.
At least he and Chu Yue had a name.
The children of the garden didn’t stay there all the time. The guardians often took them out—to perform, to be displayed, to serve whatever purpose their owners deemed necessary. His guardian usually took him and Chu Yue together, a matched set. But lately, it was just him; his number of performances had been increasing, and he even recorded some songs to be officially released. This time, You Huo had thought he would have to perform again. He didn’t expect his guardian to take him to the labs.
Seeing that place again brought unsettling feelings crashing back—the white walls, the black equipment, the darkness they had wrapped around his eyes until he learned to sing blind. But it felt worse now.
“He is my most successful experiment after you,” his guardian explained, gesturing to 154 with something that might have been pride in a creature capable of such emotion. “Unfortunately, he didn’t get a chance to talk to humans much. His speaking is... lacking.”
Experiment.
The word detonated in You Huo’s mind. He stared at 154—at the child who shared his face and Chu Yue’s features. At the product of their genetic material, created in a lab, raised in isolation, given a number instead of an identity.
Was this also how he and Chu Yue came to be? Not born, but manufactured from the genetic code of previous successful products, refined and replicated.
The question lodged in his throat. Instead, he asked another question, “Why me? Not Chu Yue?”
Chu Yue was much better at talking than him, better at putting people at ease, better at pretending warmth. This job was more fitting for her.
“She hasn’t been a good girl lately.” The guardian’s tone carried disapproval, even through a machine, something cold sliding beneath the static translation.
You Huo started feeling heavy. They noticed? Was that why Chu Yue had been stuck in the Garden for months now?
“That boy, Qin Jiu—he hasn’t been a good influence. I hate that kind of pet. So disobedient.”
You Huo’s heart lurched. His guardian continued, voice taking on an edge of disgust: “He was conceited. Dangerous. Arrogant. Haughty. Lazy.”
Each word fell like a hammer. You Huo kept his face carefully blank, even as something cold settled in his stomach. His guardian was watching, taking notes of their behaviors, measuring obedience, noting which influences were acceptable and which needed to be... eliminated.
“I don’t know why those bastards kept him,” the guardian added, almost conversational now. “If he were mine, I would have gotten rid of him already. Though his popularity seems quite good. Profitable, I suppose. For now.”
For now.
You Huo looked back at 154, at this child who existed because You Huo and Chu Yue had been deemed successful enough to replicate. Because they had been obedient. And suddenly, he understood with clarity: their guardian had been watching them in the garden all along. Every moment they thought was private—every shared meal with Qin Jiu, every whispered conversation, every composition they had created together—all of it had been observed, analyzed, and recorded.
His guardian knew about Chu Yue’s growing boldness, her questions, and the way Qin Jiu’s defiance had started to influence her responses. And his guardian disapproved.
That boy Qin Jiu hasn’t been a good influence.
The words echoed in You Huo’s mind as he began teaching 154 basic speech patterns, going through the motions automatically while his thoughts raced.
154 struggled with the word “sky,” his small tongue tripping over the unfamiliar sound. You Huo corrected him gently, demonstrated again, and watched the child’s eyes focus with desperate concentration.
This boy would live the same life You Huo had lived. Would spend years in these white rooms before being transferred to the garden. Would learn to sing with a cloth bound around his eyes, darkness teaching him to focus, pain teaching him obedience. Would be shaped and molded until he became another perfect, hollow instrument. This child was even worse off—created in isolation, raised without anyone else bearing the pain together. At least, You Huo and Chu Yue had each other.
He deserves better than this, You Huo thought.
You Huo thought about Chu Yue, who dreamed of feeling real sunlight on her skin for more than a fleeting moment. Thought about Qin Jiu, who still carried the phantom warmth of the world he had lost.
They all deserved better.
Chu Yue…if their guardian thought Qin Jiu was a bad influence on Chu Yue, what did that mean for Chu Yue’s value? Her safety? And You Huo himself—he had been just as influenced by Qin Jiu, maybe more so. He had learned to want things he shouldn’t want. To feel things that made him less obedient, less perfect.
If he were mine, I would have gotten rid of him already.
This was the threat. If their guardian decided Qin Jiu’s influence was too dangerous, too corrupting, Qin Jiu himself could be eliminated. His guardian was powerful, well-connected—he would find ways to eliminate Qin Jiu that would be profitable.
The lesson continued. You Huo taught 154 words, sentences, and the basic communication skills that would make him useful.
On the transport back to the garden, You Huo stared out the window at the city passing by—the real world that Qin Jiu had described, that Chu Yue had dreamed about. It was right in front of his eyes, and yet it was still unreachable.
If he stayed close to Qin Jiu, their guardian would continue monitoring that relationship. He didn’t know how long he could pretend that Qin Jiu didn’t have any effect on him. When he breaks, his guardian would see You Huo becoming less obedient, more influenced by Qin Jiu’s defiance.
They might deem You Huo’s value declining.
They might have decided that Qin Jiu needed to be removed.
And Chu Yue—she might be stripped of freedom completely.
He had to stay alive.
He thought about how he needed to be a perfectly obedient toy. He couldn’t let Qin Jiu affect him in any other way, and staying too close to Qin Jiu would only make his guardian pay more attention to Qin Jiu. It would be better if Qin Jiu went unnoticed. He racked his brain on how to keep Chu Yue safe—he didn’t want to tell her about how their guardian had noticed her change, that would dim her, but he didn’t know how to make her safer.
By the time You Huo returned to the garden, his decision was made. He would become the perfect student again. Would pull away from Qin Jiu gradually, carefully, so Qin Jiu wouldn’t notice at first. That distance was the only weapon You Huo had against his guardian’s surveillance.
Maybe it would be cruel.
But it was the only kind of love he knew how to give.
***
Though perhaps that was also a selfish decision.
You Huo sat alone in his room, the glow of the monitor casting pale light across his face. His guardian had made them watch competition footage for years—study material, they called it—but when he was younger, You Huo had never paid attention to anything beyond vocal technique and staging. But now, he analyzed the videos in more detail, trying to take notes of everything: what made one lose and what made one win. Now that he was older, as he watched more and more videos, he noticed more beyond the technical details.
He didn’t know who these singers were, what their relationships were, but now he could see the signs.
In one stage, a contestant faltered when they sang, but that contestant was the one who won. It was because the other contestant noticed their faltering and seemed to be taken aback, causing their own singing to falter even worse. You Huo rewound that moment three times, watching the exact second where care became fatal—the flicker of concern in the loser’s eyes, the half-second hesitation before their voice cracked.
In another performance, two singers moved around each other with practiced familiarity, their harmonies too perfect to be accidental. They had clearly rehearsed together for years. When the votes came in, and one began to lose, the camera caught the winner’s face crumpling, catching them reaching out as the gunfire started.
In yet another, the contestants stood rigidly apart, never making eye contact throughout the entire performance. Strangers, You Huo thought at first. But then he noticed the way one’s hand trembled when the other hit a particular note, the way their breathing synchronized despite the physical distance. Whatever they had been to each other, they were trying desperately to hide it.
He realized that the early stages might be designed that way—those who were close to each other were put against each other.
He imagined if he were being put against Chu Yue or Qin Jiu.
He didn’t want that to happen. He was afraid that would happen.
The thought of having to face either of them made his stomach hurt—so he realized, maybe taking his distance from both of them would lessen that chance.
So outside of training sessions, he kept himself inside his room, not getting out, but not letting anyone in either. Of course, they noticed when he rushed back to his dorm whenever he could. They would come. Chu Yue knocked on his door regularly and always asked, “You Huo? Are you okay?”
He sat on the other side of the door, his back pressed against it, and said nothing. He heard her sighed and her footsteps retreated.
Qin Jiu was more persistent. He didn’t just knock—he tried the handle, called You Huo’s name with increasing frustration, and eventually resorted to shoving notes under the door. You Huo collected them without reading them, stacking them in a neat pile on his desk. He didn’t dare to open them.
Thankfully, it wasn’t long before they graduated. It became easier for him to stay away from them as he got busier with the schedules his guardian made for him, as each of them became busy with their own careers. But sometimes, they crossed paths. He and Chu Yue still crossed paths with each other, but conversations weren’t as easy as when they were children.
Qin Jiu’s rising fame made them sometimes come across each other during some schedules. Qin Jiu never changed, despite everything. He still went around making trouble, annoying, but also endearing.
During those times, You Huo had become an expert at measuring distance and at timing.
He knew where he was close enough to intervene if Qin Jiu’s rebellion went too far, how to stop things discreetly, and knew when he could come to check that Qin Jiu was still alive. Sometimes, he succeeded in running away before Qin Jiu realized he was there. Sometimes, he failed. When Qin Jiu hugged him, he should have run away, but he stayed too long. So, when You Huo saw Qin Jiu in a corridor, he forced himself to turn away, clenching his fist and kept walking. Behind him, Qin Jiu’s stare burned. It was hard not to look back.
As he started at two billboards promoting their albums side by side, a song start to form in his mind:
Drawn by unseen lines, can’t escape; your pull defines the path I take.
Each time I near, I lose my peace; each time I stop, the longing speaks.
It's a sweet dream, it's happening today, wait for me
I'm going too, you'll see
Lord, please, when this song is over
Come and save me from this, please
After he graduated, as one of the A-grade celebrities, he worked alongside many people. Most were Segyeins, but some were humans who had managed to secure work as session musicians, accompanists, and stagehands. Some had probably graduated from gardens but been deemed not good or entertaining enough for competition. Most kept their heads down, moving through their duties with barely any passion, squeezed dry of whatever vitality they once had.
But some were different.
A session musician named Gao Qi caught his attention. Competent but unremarkable—exactly the kind of skilled mediocrity that made humans invisible to alien employers. You Huo had performed with him many times, and gradually, he started noticing things.
Gao Qi sometimes left sheet music behind. The abandoned scores always had marks in wrong places. You Huo studied them across several rehearsals. Those marks weren’t for performances. They were for something else.
Sometimes, he saw news about human rebellions creating havoc in distant sectors. He started to wonder if that rebellion was closer than he thought. He began observing the humans around him more carefully and noticed patterns—people who positioned themselves like lookouts, subtle exchanges, and anything else. During one performance, Gao Qi made deliberate mistakes, and You Huo’s trained ear caught everything. The next morning, the venue had been ransacked overnight. Several humans had gone missing, and security footage had mysteriously corrupted.
You Huo pondered about it.
Approaching meant exposing himself. If he were wrong, he would be in danger. But he also knew he had a rare chance to actually do something. So, You Huo chose his moment carefully. After a rehearsal, he asked Gao Qi to stay behind to discuss the mistakes that happened in some performances. Gao Qi had no choice but to comply. You Huo led him to a bathroom that had no surveillance, then presented the music sheets he had collected.
Gao Qi’s eyes widened, then filled with something like fear.
“With your skill, you wouldn’t make mistakes like those and in the performances,” You Huo said. “The marks don’t make sense musically, but they follow certain patterns.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Gao Qi said. He couldn’t meet his eyes.
“I’m not going to report you,” You Huo said immediately. He didn’t have time for prolonged negotiation, and despite lingering uncertainty, he continued speaking. “I want to help.”
Gao Qi looked up, surprised.
“Help with what?”
“Whatever you’re doing. I have access you don’t.”
Gao Qi’s expression remained doubtful.
“It would be dangerous. If you’re caught—”
“I know the risks,” You Huo interrupted. “I’m willing to accept them.”
In the end, it was surprisingly easy. The rebellion probably needed intelligence more than it needed another pair of hands. You Huo could provide what they couldn’t obtain themselves. Within weeks, You Huo was also leaving coded music sheets in designated locations.
It was also why he didn’t refuse or question when his guardian suddenly informed him that he would join Alien Stage earlier than planned.
“It will be good for you to gain experience,” his guardian explained through the crackling translator. “The contestants this season are weak. You can win easily.”
The subtext was clear: If you can’t win against weak opponents, you’re not worth keeping. Refusing wasn’t an option anyway. At least, You Huo saw the opportunity. An early entry meant access to competition facilities, security protocols, backstage operations—information the rebellion desperately needed. Of course, many variables could change between seasons, but any intelligence was better than none.
He accepted the assignment with perfect obedience.
When he finally stood on that stage, though, a small, traitorous thought came to his mind: It would be easier to just die here.
He crushed it immediately. He had to survive. He had to gather information. He thought about Qin Jiu and Chu Yue. Reminded himself that staying alive meant staying useful to the rebellion, which meant protecting them indirectly and maybe even saving them eventually.
He sang with perfection and zero mercy.
His opponent died beside him, blood pooling across the stage floor and spattering You Huo’s clothes. He tried not to be affected, tried to maintain the mask of cold professionalism. He failed—something inside him recoiled as he watched the body twitch and then went still.
He held on.
Survived round after round, gathering information between performances. He sang, and killed, and survived.
His face remained blank after the performances. After he won, in his sleep, he dreamed of Qin Jiu and Chu Yue in his opponents’ positions, bleeding on that floor, their eyes going dim while the audience cheered.
He held on.
***
He knew that he would join the stage again; there was no way his guardian would let go of the opportunity to use him. So after that first season ended, he and the rebels began planning for the next, gathering more information that could grant them access. The stage was the only place where the contestants were stripped of their guardians’ direct control and together in one facility. Thankfully for them, the stage would still be held in the same place.
He didn’t join the planning directly, but Gao Qi told him what he needed to know in small ways, between rehearsals, over shared sheet music. The rebellion had people working to secure backstage access, and so far, it was going unexpectedly well.
For once, hope blossomed in his heart. But he tried to dampen it. He rewatched the competition videos over and over, taking notes on how people lost. He wrote down what not to do as much as what to do. When he looked at his notes, he almost laughed at himself as he thought maybe he could release it as a guide on how to win the stage.
He gave recordings and music sheets to Gao Qi under the pretense of needing help with arrangements, though they were really for safekeeping. Just in case something happened to him. When Gao Qi told him that rebels had secured some backstage access, hope rose again, harder to suppress this time. If the timing was right, if the plans held, maybe they could save others.
Maybe he could survive, too.
For the first time, his thoughts were about his own survival.
He tried his best on his first stage, even when the song was higher than his usual songs. The opponent was another girl who also attended the garden at the same time as them, now someone unfamiliar. Her voice trembled when she reached the high notes, even when the song was in her range, and so he knew from his experience that she was going to lose. He felt guilty. It was too early. The rebels weren’t ready yet. He closed his eyes as the girl died by his side, for once showing his emotion about it.
He watched Chu Yue sing with everything she had, her voice bright and clear, passionate. It was like she poured all her hopes into the song, and You Huo couldn’t help but think that she was the brightest she had ever been, despite the desperation he could also hear in her voice. They hadn’t talked much, but he knew that Chu Yue was planning the same thing as he was, and he also knew that her desire to truly live never dimmed.
When he saw the votes and realized that Chu Yue won, he felt relieved.
“Just hold on, we will kidnap you,” Gao Qi said to him several days ago.
You Huo shook his head.
“Make sure to kidnap Chu Yue and Qin Jiu first.”
In the next round, he and Chu Yue could not see Qin Jiu’s performance from where they waited, but they could hear him. You Huo stood in the holding area, hands clenched, listening to Qin Jiu sing. His voice rang beyond the walls—fierce, unwavering, carrying the same intensity it had when they were children singing in the garden. That orange-red fire You Huo had first noticed years ago in the garden—it was still burning.
Chu Yue stood beside him, her breathing shallow. She probably wasn’t surprised they ended up here together—she had always said they both had shit luck. She still looked nervous, though. For their upcoming performance. For Qin Jiu. For all of them.
As Qin Jiu’s final note faded and the crowd roared, dread pooled in his chest. If Qin Jiu lost here, he would die before You Huo could do anything,
The announcement came.
Qin Jiu won.
Relief surged so suddenly that You Huo’s shoulders dropped, his jaw unclenched. The mask cracked.
Qin Jiu was still alive.
Qin Jiu had passed through.
The in-ear monitor in You Huo’s ear had been hacked by someone in the rebel group who had somehow managed to study the technology. Static crackled, then a voice came through—barely audible.
“Access confirmed.”
You Huo’s breath caught.
They might actually survive this.
All of them.
He turned to Chu Yue, and the words left his mouth before he could think them through.
“Chu Yue, let’s live.”
He ended up not being able to fulfill his own words.
As his body fell, blood spreading warm beneath him, he heard Gao Qi’s voice crackling through the in-ear: “I’m sorry, please—”
He felt Chu Yue’s warm hands holding his cooling body, her calling out his name. He could barely hear anything anymore. Still, he smiled at her to tell her that it was okay.
At least he had managed to buy more time for her and Qin Jiu.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
The sound of Qin Jiu’s heart beating was what greeted him awake, so loud in his ears that it was grounding. His ear was right on Qin Jiu’s chest, and he could feel Qin Jiu’s body slightly shift beneath him. His eyes fluttered open. The astronomy book was spread beside them, its pages heavy with diagrams of celestial mechanics, greeting You Huo as his sight cleared. Qin Jiu lay back on the grass, one arm behind his head, while his other hand played with You Huo’s hair. His gaze was fixed on the ceiling, probably imagining the sky beyond.
“Must be nice, to be the center of something,” he muttered, his voice a low, casual rumble.
You Huo, who had closed his eyes again, barely opened them, still drowsy from his nap. Qin Jiu felt so warm, so alive under him. To this day, Qin Jiu was still the most alive thing in this place.
“Aren’t you already the center of your own world?” You Huo replied, the words dry and laced with the usual judgment he reserved for his friends’ dramatics.
Qin Jiu’s grin, when it appeared, was lazy and wide, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yes, but that is too lonely, don’t you think?”
It was the quiet honesty in the reply that made You Huo look at him properly. Loneliness…it was probably a concept everyone here was familiar with. Did Qin Jiu feel lonely, now, even with You Huo here? You Huo wished he could ease that loneliness, but he was fully aware that he wasn’t capable of it. Qin Jiu ruined the one-sided seriousness by tipping his head back and adding, half-laughing, “It would be nice to have my own moon.”
You Huo let the silence settle between them. A moon. A satellite. Something that was bound by gravity, revolving constantly around a larger mass, an object of comfort and stability, predictable and always present.
You Huo turned and looked back down at the page. The diagram showed the Earth casting a shadow on the Moon during an eclipse. He didn’t say anything. There was nothing to say—nothing that he wanted to say out loud. You Huo rolled off Qin Jiu’s body to lie beside him, both of them staring at the ceiling. The pages called Earth humanity’s home—a warm place to return to, filled with people one loved.
Home. You Huo didn’t know what that meant. Not really. But when he stole a glance at Qin Jiu’s sleeping face, something in his chest tightened.
This place—the garden, the training rooms, the cold walls—wasn’t home. Could never be home. But Qin Jiu...
His eyes drifted back to the book, to the illustration of the Moon’s orbit.
It would be nice if home were wherever Qin Jiu was.
The thought settled in his mind with quiet certainty. Qin Jiu was the Earth—solid ground, constant, the anchor point that defined the space You Huo moved through. The gravity that kept him from drifting into nothing.
And if Qin Jiu was Earth, then You Huo was the Moon. Not the sun burning with its own light. Not a distant star. Just the satellite, bound by invisible forces, revolving endlessly, watching from the dark.
You Huo stared at the diagram, tracing the Moon’s orbit with his eyes.
The Moon had no light of its own. It borrowed brilliance from the sun, reflected what it received, and offered that pale glow to the Earth. You Huo had spent his entire life learning to be a mirror—wearing expressions painted on his face during training, becoming whatever shape the guardians demanded. He was never meant to burn with his own fire.
The Moon never left Earth’s side, even when Earth’s shadow fell across it.
Even during an eclipse, the Moon remained.
That felt right.
He could never be the sun.
.
.
.
.
.
.
One day, when he was sitting alone in the garden after Qin Jiu had been called away for his session, Chu Yue approached him. She sat beside him without asking permission—she never did. He turned to her, watching the breeze blow her red hair, then studying her expression. It was a rare conflicted look, similar to the one she had worn when he asked if she would take the chance to leave, if she could.
“You’re happy,” Chu Yue said, not even a question, but a statement. There was no hesitation when she declared it, and somehow, You Huo felt that he was laid bare. He looked away, unsure how to respond. Happy felt like a strange word, unsuitable for him.
“I don’t know what you mean,” he said, an automatic deflection. But he knew exactly what she meant. Even when he tried his best to keep everything inside, she would always notice the changes.
“Yes, you do.” Her voice was soft, and when he glanced back, she was smiling. “It’s okay. I’m happy for you, too.”
You Huo studied her face. She looked uncertain—not about him, but about herself. About where she belonged. Perhaps this was unfamiliar territory for both of them. For years, it had been just the two of them—two children learning to survive by keeping each other alive. Qin Jiu was a new variable they were still adjusting to. You Huo wondered if part of her wondered if she had been replaced. But that wasn’t true.
He didn’t know how to explain how, when the three of them were together, he felt warmth from both of them, wrapping around his usually cold body. When he watched Chu Yue write lyrics for the melodies he had created, when he heard Qin Jiu singing them, he felt like he was in a safe haven instead of a cage. Those moments were the happiest he had ever been.
He didn’t speak, and instead, he reached out and found her hand.
Her fingers curled around his, familiar and steady. They sat together in the artificial garden, neither speaking, just existing in the same space the way they had for years.
Maybe he didn’t need to explain.
Chu Yue had always understood him better than anyone else.
She would understand this, too.
