Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Yeonjun dreamed of voices.

Not the gentle kind—the kind that pressed against his skull, that whispered in the dark spaces between sleeping and waking, that refused to let him rest.

You're still not telling him the truth.

He was standing in fog. Thick and gray and endless. And in front of him, emerging from the mist, was a figure he knew better than his own reflection.

Beomgyu.

But not his Beomgyu.

This one was different. Softer around the edges. Eyes that held an innocence that V14 had never quite possessed. V1, he realized. The first one. The one who had appeared in the rain and looked at Yeonjun like he was magic.

Yeonjun's throat tightened.

"I already did," he said. His voice sounded strange in the fog. Muffled. Distant. "I told him. About the writing. About the versions."

V1 tilted his head.

You know what I'm talking about.

Yeonjun's heart clenched.

The real truth. V1 stepped closer, and his eyes were sad—so sad, so knowing. What you just told him is only the first part. The surface. The version of the truth that makes you look less like—

"Don't." Yeonjun's voice cracked. "Please."

Like a monster.

The word hung in the fog between them.

Yeonjun shook his head, backing away. "I can't. If I tell him—if he knows everything—he'll leave. He'll look at me the way V8 looked at me. The way V11 looked at me. The way V13 looked at me before I—" He couldn't finish.

V1's expression didn't change.

He won't, he said softly. If you tell him first. If you trust him with all of it—not just the parts that make you look human, but the parts that make you look like what you were. What you did.

Yeonjun's eyes burned.

"How do you know?"

V1 smiled. That innocent, heartbreaking smile.

Because I'm him. Because we're all him. And we all loved you anyway. Even at the end. Even when we looked at you like monsters. We loved you.

Yeonjun woke gasping.

The bedroom was dark. Beomgyu was beside him, asleep, his breathing soft and even. His hand was stretched across the space between them, fingers barely brushing Yeonjun's arm.

Yeonjun lay there, heart pounding, staring at the ceiling.

If you tell him first.

He won't leave.

He'll understand.

He didn't sleep again that night.

The days that followed were strange.

Yeonjun went through the motions—coffee, work, meals, conversations—but his mind was elsewhere. Circling. Obsessing. Planning.

He was going to tell Beomgyu everything.

The whole truth.

Not just the versions. Not just the notes. But everything. The moments of weakness. The choices he'd made. The way he'd sometimes wondered, in the dark hours, if he loved them or just loved creating them.

He was going to tell him.

He just needed the right moment.

But the right moment never came.

Beomgyu was quiet those days. Not in a way that was obvious—he still laughed at Yeonjun's jokes, still curled up beside him on the couch, still kissed him goodnight. But there was something underneath. A distance. A thoughtfulness.

He was listening to something Yeonjun couldn't hear.

Beomgyu didn't tell Yeonjun about the whispers.

How could he?

How could he explain that there were voices in his head—other voices, versions of himself that he'd never been? How could he say that sometimes, in the quiet moments, he heard them calling his name?

Beomgyu.

Beomgyu, can you hear us?

We're here. We've always been here.

He thought he was going crazy.

He thought maybe this was what happened when you were written into existence—eventually, you started to unravel.

You're not crazy, a voice whispered one night, when Yeonjun was asleep. We're real. We're as real as you are.

Beomgyu's eyes opened in the darkness.

"Who are you?" he breathed.

You know who we are.

We're you.

We're all the versions before.

The ones who loved him.

The ones who ended.

Beomgyu's blood ran cold.

Open the laptop, the voices whispered, all together now, a chorus of himself. Open it and see.

The truth is in there.

The whole truth.

Not just the parts he told you.

Everything.

Beomgyu sat up.

Looked across the room at the desk.

At the laptop, closed, waiting.

He shouldn't.

He knew he shouldn't.

But the whispers were insistent, and his curiosity was sharper than his fear, and somewhere deep inside him, he already knew—had always known—that Yeonjun hadn't told him everything.

He slipped out of bed.

Walked to the desk.

The laptop was warm—Yeonjun must have been using it earlier. The screen glowed to life when Beomgyu opened it.

Password.

He knew it.

Had seen Yeonjun type it a hundred times.

The day that Beomgyu came. March 13.

He typed it in.

The desktop appeared.

And there, in the corner, was the folder.

GYU.

Fourteen files.

Beomgyu's hand trembled over the trackpad.

Open it, the voices urged. Open it and see.

He double-clicked.

He started at the beginning.

V1.

The story was beautiful. Heartbreaking. This Beomgyu was innocent in a way that made his chest ache. He didn't understand the world. Didn't understand why he was here. Just knew that Yeonjun felt like home.

They fell in love slowly. Sweetly. There were market scenes and quiet mornings and a first kiss that made Beomgyu's eyes sting.

Then, at the end:

He was there. And then he wasn't. I reached for him and my hand went through. Like smoke. Like he'd never been real at all.

Below the story, in brackets:

[V1 notes: Too passive. Never asked for anything. Made me feel like I was taking advantage. Next time, give him more agency—but not too much. Need balance.]

Beomgyu blinked.

Read it again.

Too passive.

Need balance.

His stomach turned.

He opened V2.

Another story. Another Beomgyu—similar but different. More emotional. Quicker to laugh, quicker to cry. The love story unfolded differently—more passionate, more volatile.

The ending: faded. Just like the first.

[V2 notes: Better, but emotionally volatile. Cried too easily. Couldn't handle conflict. Next iteration: more emotional stability, less sensitivity.]

Less sensitivity.

Beomgyu's hands were shaking.

V3.

Distant. Reserved. Hard to read.

[V3 notes: This one was almost right. Independent, strong, but distant. Never really opened up. Need someone who lets me in.]

V4.

Loving. Smothering. Clingy.

[V4 notes: Loved too hard. Smothering. I felt suffocated. Dial it back.]

V5.

Good balance. No passion. Platonic.

[V5 notes: Good balance but no passion. Felt like friends, not lovers.]

V6.

Passionate. Jealous. Possessive.

[V6 notes: Passionate but jealous. Possessive. Couldn't handle him looking at others.]

V7.

Sweet. Gentle. Boring.

[V7 notes: Sweet, gentle, kind—but boring. No spark. No challenge.]

Beomgyu was crying.

He didn't know when it started. Just knew his face was wet and his chest was burning and the words on the screen kept blurring and sharpening and blurring again.

Version after version. Adjusted. Tweaked. Fixed.

Like he was a recipe. A project. Something to be perfected.

V8.

The story was longer. More detailed. This Beomgyu was curious—asked questions, noticed inconsistencies, wondered about where he came from.

Halfway through, the story stopped.

Abruptly. Mid-sentence.

[V8: He found the folder. Saw the other versions. Asked too many questions. I tried to explain, but he wouldn't stop pushing. Couldn't handle the way he looked at me after—like I was a monster. Had to end it. Start fresh.]

Beomgyu's blood went cold.

Had to end it.

Not faded. Not disappeared.

Ended.

He opened V9. V10. V11.

V9 faded naturally. V10 faded too.

But V11—

V11 was long. Happy. Full of laughter and quiet mornings and love so real it hurt to read.

And near the end:

[V11: He started asking about the scar. Why he can't remember things from before a certain date. The questions were getting dangerous. Couldn't risk him finding the files. Ended it before he could dig deeper.]

Ended it.

Beomgyu pressed his hand to his mouth.

V12 faded.

V13—V13 was the longest.

Hundreds of pages. Half a year of story. Fights and make-ups and friends and family and life. This Beomgyu was so real—so present, so alive. He pushed back. He wanted things. He loved Yeonjun with everything he had.

The ending was different.

Not faded. Not deliberately ended.

He was there. Laughing at something on his phone. And then I—

I didn't mean to. I just wanted to pause. To think. To figure out how to explain.

But when I closed the file, he—

He just stopped. Mid-sentence. Mid-motion. Like someone had pressed pause on his existence.

I tried to open it again. Tried to bring him back. But when I reopened the file, he was different. Hollow. Empty. The light in his eyes was gone.

I had to end it. Had to start over. Had to try again.

I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry—

Beomgyu was sobbing now.

Quietly. Hand still pressed to his mouth. Tears streaming down his face, dripping onto the keyboard.

He'd loved him. Yeonjun had loved him—loved them—and still, still, they'd ended. Some by fate. Some by choice. One by accident.

And Yeonjun had carried that guilt. Alone. For years.

V14.

His file.

Beomgyu opened it with trembling hands.

The story of them. Of the rain and the market and the bookstore and the friends and the lake. It was all there—every moment, every laugh, every kiss. Beautifully written. Carefully preserved.

He scrolled.

Past their first time. Past the morning after. Past the teasing and the laughter and the quiet domestic moments.

To the end.

To the notes.

[Week 3: He asked about the laptop today. Just casually. But I saw him look. I felt the question. Old panic rose up—the urge to write contingencies, to plan, to protect myself. But I closed the file instead. Just... closed it. Sat with the feeling. Let it pass.

I didn't write anything down about how to "handle" him. Didn't make notes on what to "fix."

This is new.]

[Week 7: He laughed today. That real laugh, the one that crinkles his eyes. And I thought—I don't want to change a single thing about him. Not one. He's not a project. He's not an experiment. He's just... him. And I just... love him.

I haven't written notes on him in weeks. Haven't thought about "improvements" or "adjustments."

I think—I think this is what real love feels like. Not creating. Just... being. Together.]

[Week 10: I'm scared. Not of him—of myself. Of the person I used to be. The person who ended versions because they asked too many questions.

But when I look at him, I don't want to be that person anymore. I want to be worthy of the way he looks at me.

I'm trying. I'm really trying.]

[Week 12: He's asleep on the couch right now. The afternoon light is making everything soft and gold.

I'm not writing this down to remember it for later. I'm not writing it to capture him, to keep him, to control anything.

I'm writing it because it's beautiful. Because he's beautiful. Because I want to remember what it felt like to just... be happy. With no strings. No notes. No versions.

Just us.]

[Today: This morning, he looked at me—really looked—and I felt seen. Not as a writer. Not as a creator. Just as Yeonjun. The person who loves him.

If he ever reads these files—if he ever finds out what I did to the others—

I don't know what I'll do. I don't know if he'll be able to forgive me.

But I know I'll tell him the truth. All of it. No more hiding. No more notes. No more control.

Because he deserves that. He deserves everything.

And if he leaves—if he looks at me the way V8 looked at me—

Then I'll let him go. For real this time. No files. No restarting. Just... grief. Real grief. The kind you can't write your way out of.

Because that's what loving someone means. Letting them choose. Even if they choose away from you.

I love you, Beomgyu. This version. This one. Only this one.

I'm sorry it took me fourteen tries to learn how to love you right.]

Beomgyu closed the file.

Sat in the darkness.

His face was wet. His chest was hollow. His mind was a hurricane of everything he'd read—the versions, the endings, the notes, the love that had driven Yeonjun to do terrible things and beautiful things and everything in between.

He should be angry.

He was angry.

But underneath it, something else. Something that felt like understanding.

He was scared, a voice whispered—was it his voice, or one of the others? He was broken. He didn't know how to love us right.

But he learned.

With you, he learned.

Behind him, a sound.

Footsteps. A sharp intake of breath.

"Beomgyu."

Yeonjun's voice. Rough with sleep, then sharp with sudden, terrible awareness.

Beomgyu didn't turn around.

"You lied to me."

The words came out flat. Empty. Like someone had scooped out everything inside him and left only this shell.

Behind him, Yeonjun's breath caught.

"Beomgyu, I can explain—"

"I've read the file."

Silence.

Long and heavy and absolute.

Then, so quietly it was almost lost in the darkness:

"Which ones?"

Beomgyu closed his eyes.

Which ones.

Not I'm sorry. Not please let me explain. Just which ones. As if Yeonjun already knew. As if he'd been waiting for this moment since the beginning.

Beomgyu turned.

Looked at him.

Yeonjun stood in the doorway, frozen. His face was pale. His eyes were wide. His hand was reaching out, like he wanted to cross the distance but was afraid.

"All of them," Beomgyu said. His voice didn't change. Didn't rise. Didn't crack. Just stayed that same hollow flatness. "V1 through V14. The stories. The notes. The ones you ended."

Yeonjun's face crumpled.

"I was about to tell you," he said desperately. "I swear. I was going to tell you everything. I just—I needed the right moment—"

“It’s never the right moment for you!”

Beomgyu shook his head, a hollow laugh slipping out like something worn and tired. “I waited for months—for the truth to come from you, not from silence, not from guesses.”

His gaze didn’t waver. “And even when the moment finally came, you still held parts of it back.”

“So tell me, Yeonjun…When is the right time, Yeonjun?”

Yeonjun shakes his head almost immediately, stepping forward without realizing it.

“That’s not—” he tries, voice cracking.

But he stops.

Because he knows Beomgyu is right.

His hands hover awkwardly at his sides. His eyes search Beomgyu’s face, desperate, almost pleading.

Beomgyu shook his head again and continued, "You lied to me."

Beomgyu stepped back.

"You lied," Beomgyu repeated, and now his voice was cracking, now the tears were starting. "You told me they disappeared. You made it sound like fate. Like something we couldn't control. But they didn't all disappear, did they?"

Yeonjun's eyes were wet.

"Some of them—"

"Some of them you ended." Beomgyu's voice broke completely. "V8. V11. V13. You ended them. Because they asked too many questions. Because they got too close. Because they looked at you like—"

"Like a monster." Yeonjun's voice was barely a whisper. "I know. I know what I did."

Beomgyu stared at him.

At the man he loved.

The man who had created him and lied to him and loved him and ended versions of him.

"If I go now," Beomgyu whispered, "will you end me too?"

Yeonjun went white.

Stumbled back like he'd been struck.

"No." His voice was desperate. Broken. "No. Never. I would never—I can't—you're—" He couldn't finish.

Beomgyu watched him.

Felt the anger and the grief and the terrible, horrible understanding twisting inside him.

"Do you forget," he said quietly, "that they're still part of me?"

Yeonjun's breath caught.

"V1's innocence. V2's emotion. V3's distance. V4's desperate love. V5's steadiness. V6's passion. V7's gentleness. V8's curiosity. V9's quiet. V10's fire. V11's questions. V12's perfection. V13's—" His voice broke. "V13's determination to love you anyway. They're all in me. You put them in me. When you upgraded from version to version, you carried pieces forward. I'm not just V14. I'm all of them. All the ones you loved. All the ones you ended."

Yeonjun was sobbing now.

Quiet, wrecked sobs that shook his whole body.

"Beomgyu—"

"Was any of this ever real?"

The question hung in the air between them.

Simple. Devastating.

Yeonjun stared at him, face wet, eyes desperate.

"Yes," he whispered. "God, yes. You're real. This—us—it's the most real thing I've ever—"

Beomgyu shook his head.

Slowly. Sadly.

"I don't know if I believe you."

He turned toward the door.

"Beomgyu, wait—" Yeonjun moved to follow.

Beomgyu held up a hand.

"Don't."

The word stopped Yeonjun in his tracks.

Beomgyu looked back at him. Just once. Just for a moment.

"I need time."

Then he walked out.

The door closed behind him with a soft click.

Yeonjun stood there, frozen, listening to the sound of Beomgyu's footsteps fading down the hall. The apartment door opening. Closing.

Silence.

He was alone.

🐻🦊

Beomgyu walked.

He didn't know where he was going. Didn't care. His feet just moved, carrying him away from that apartment, away from those files, away from the man who had created him and lied to him and loved him and ended versions of him.

The night air was cold against his skin.

He was wearing only his pajamas—the duck pajamas, the ones Yeonjun had bought him, the ones he'd worn a hundred times because they made him feel safe. He hadn't thought to grab a jacket. Hadn't thought to grab anything. Had just walked out, numb and hollow, into the darkness.

The streets were empty.

Quiet.

The kind of quiet that usually felt peaceful, but tonight felt like a tomb.

Beomgyu walked past the convenience store where Yeonjun bought his ramen. Past the corner where he'd first appeared in the rain. Past the park where Tuna lived, where they'd fed her together, where Yeonjun had taken approximately four hundred photos.

Everywhere he looked, there were memories.

Everywhere he looked, there was Yeonjun.

He didn't cry.

Couldn't cry.

He was too numb for that. Too hollow. Like someone had scooped out everything inside him—all the love, all the hope, all the feeling—and left only this walking shell.

He just walked.

And walked.

And walked.

He ended up in a part of the neighborhood he didn't recognize.

Somewhere near the edge, where the buildings were older and the streets were narrower. A corner, where a wall jutted out, creating a small alcove away from the main road.

He stopped there.

Crouched down.

Pressed his back against the cold brick and let his head fall forward, chin to chest.

His breath came in ragged gasps.

Too fast. Too shallow. His chest was tight, his lungs burning, but he couldn't seem to get enough air. It felt like something was pressing down on him—a weight, a pressure, the crushing truth of everything he'd read.

V1 too passive.

V2 too emotional.

V3 too distant.

V4 too smothering.

V5 too platonic.

V6 too jealous.

V7 too boring.

V8 too curious — ENDED.

V9 too quiet — faded.

V10 too aggressive — faded.

V11 too inquisitive — ENDED.

V12 too perfect? — faded.

V13 almost there, but — ACCIDENT.

And then him. V14. The upgrade. The one who was supposed to be right.

His body started shaking.

He didn't notice at first. Didn't realize that the trembling was coming from inside him, that his shoulders were heaving, that his breath was catching in his throat.

Then he felt it.

Wetness on his cheeks.

He was crying.

When had he started crying?

He pressed his hand to his face, and it came away wet—tears, streaming down his cheeks, dripping off his chin onto the pavement below. He hadn't even felt them start. Hadn't felt anything except this vast, endless numbness that was somehow also the most pain he'd ever felt.

He cried without sound.

Just tears, falling silently into the darkness.

And then it started to rain.

At first, just a few drops. Scattered. Innocent.

Then more.

Then a downpour.

The cold water soaked through his thin pajamas in seconds, plastering the fabric to his skin, making him shiver uncontrollably. But he didn't move. Didn't try to find shelter. Just sat there, crouched against the wall, letting the rain wash over him.

It made everything worse.

Because every drop reminded him.

The first time.

He'd been standing in the rain, soaked and shivering, when Yeonjun found him. Yeonjun had looked at him like he was something precious. Like he was a miracle. Like he was someone.

"You're late," he'd said.

And Yeonjun had blinked, confused, and said, "Sorry?"

And Beomgyu had known. Even then—even in that first moment—he'd known there was something between them. Something that felt like recognition. Like coming home.

He thought about the way Yeonjun had looked at him that night.

Those eyes—dark and deep and knowing. Like he was seeing someone he'd been waiting for his whole life. Like Beomgyu was the answer to a question he hadn't known he was asking.

And later, when Yeonjun had taken him to his apartment—when Beomgyu had stood there, dripping on the floor, waiting to be asked to leave—Yeonjun had just handed him a towel. Made him tea. Treated him like he belonged.

Not once had he asked Beomgyu to go.

Not once had he made him feel like an intruder.

Not once had he questioned why this stranger was in his home, wearing his clothes, sleeping on his couch.

Beomgyu had known, even then, that there was something hidden.

He wasn't dumb.

He'd felt the weight of Yeonjun's gaze. He'd noticed the way Yeonjun sometimes looked at him like he was seeing someone else. He'd wondered, in the quiet moments, what secrets were hiding behind those dark eyes.

But he'd trusted.

He'd waited.

He'd told himself that when Yeonjun was ready, he'd share. That the bad things—whatever they were—couldn't be that bad. That the love they had was real enough to survive the truth.

He never imagined this.

He never imagined versions. Notes. Endings.

He never imagined that he was just... an experiment. A project. A thing to be adjusted and improved and debugged.

A broken laugh escaped him.

Hollow. Echoing. Wrong.

"It's like a system," he whispered to the rain. "My own existence is just a system that people debug."

The words hung in the air, swallowed by the downpour.

He looked up at the sky.

At the rain falling endlessly from the darkness.

He held out one hand, palm up, and watched the drops land on his skin. Watched them pool in his palm. Watched them slide down his wrist, his arm, disappearing into the soaked sleeve of his pajamas.

And suddenly—violently—he felt sick.

He scrambled to his feet.

Stumbled to a deeper corner, behind a dumpster, away from the main road, and threw up.

Everything came up. The dinner he'd barely touched. The coffee he'd drunk earlier. Bile and acid and the taste of his own despair. He gagged and heaved until there was nothing left, until his stomach was empty and his throat was raw and his whole body was shaking with the force of it.

He slumped against the wall.

Breathing hard.

Trembling.

Crying again—or still, he couldn't tell anymore.

"Young man?"

Beomgyu's head snapped up.

A figure stood at the edge of the alley, silhouetted against the streetlight. Small. Silver-haired. Holding an umbrella.

The grandmother.

His heart lurched.

"Oh my god." His voice came out wrecked, scraped raw. "I'm sorry—I didn't mean to—I'm sorry—"

He scrambled to stand, to move, to hide—but his legs wouldn't cooperate. He stumbled, caught himself on the wall, stood there shaking and soaked and mortified.

The grandmother didn't move.

Just looked at him with those kind, crinkled eyes.

"Are you okay?" she asked softly.

Beomgyu laughed. A broken, hollow sound.

"No," he whispered. "No, I'm really not."

She stepped closer.

Shielding him with her umbrella, even though he was already soaked through.

"You're in your pajamas," she observed. "It's raining heavily. You'll catch a cold."

Beomgyu shook his head.

"I'll be fine. I just—I needed air. I should go—"

"Go where?" Her voice was gentle but firm. "Back out into the rain? To sit in another alley and throw up again?"

Beomgyu's face crumpled.

She knew. Of course she knew. She'd probably heard everything—the retching, the crying, the whole pathetic scene.

"I'm sorry," he whispered again. "I didn't mean to—I'm not usually—I just—"

She reached out.

Touched his arm.

Her hand was warm, even through his soaked skin.

"Come with me."

Beomgyu blinked. "What?"

"My apartment. It's right there." She nodded toward a building across the street. "You're freezing. You're soaked. You're clearly in no state to be alone. Come with me."

Beomgyu shook his head.

"I can't—I don't want to intrude—"

"It's not like you haven't been here before." Her eyes crinkled with something that might have been amusement. "Now stop arguing and come. You can tell me what happened, or you can sit in silence and drink tea. Either way, you're not staying out here."

Beomgyu stared at her.

At this stranger who had no reason to help him. Who had found him vomiting in an alley and was still offering kindness.

"Okay," he whispered.

She smiled.

Took his arm.

Led him across the street and into the warm.

Her apartment was exactly as he remembered.

Small. Warm. Smelling of sesame oil and garlic and something slow-cooking, even at this hour. She ushered him inside, immediately grabbing a towel from a nearby closet and draping it over his shoulders.

"Sit," she commanded, pointing to the couch. "I'll get you dry clothes. My son left some here—they'll be too big, but they're warm."

Beomgyu sat.

His body was shaking uncontrollably now—from cold, from shock, from the aftermath of everything. He pulled the towel tighter around himself and stared at nothing.

The grandmother disappeared into a bedroom, returned with a stack of clothes—sweatpants, a sweater, thick socks. She set them on the couch beside him.

"Change," she said. "Bathroom's down the hall. I'll make tea."

Beomgyu looked at the clothes.

Looked at her.

"Why are you being so kind to me?" he asked. His voice was small. Broken. "You don't even know me."

She tilted her head.

"I know you feed stray cats," she said simply. "I know you have sad eyes. I know you're here, in my apartment, freezing and broken, and I have a warm house and tea and soup." She shrugged. "That's enough."

Beomgyu's eyes burned.

"Thank you," he whispered.

She patted his shoulder.

"Change. Tea. Then we talk. Or don't talk. Whatever you need."

She disappeared into the kitchen.

Beomgyu sat there for a long moment, just breathing.

Then he gathered the clothes and walked to the bathroom.

When he came back, dressed in clothes that were too big and smelled like someone else's laundry detergent, the grandmother was waiting on the couch.

Two mugs of tea sat on the coffee table. Steam rose from them, curling into the warm air.

Beomgyu sat beside her.

Wrapped his hands around the mug.

Let the warmth seep into his cold fingers.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Then the grandmother said, quietly:

"He hurt you."

Not a question. A statement.

Beomgyu's throat tightened.

"Yes," he whispered. "No. I don't—" He shook his head. "It's complicated."

"It always is."

Silence.

Then, slowly, the words started coming.

Not everything. Not the files or the versions or the endings. But enough. About love. About lies. About discovering that the person you trusted most had been hiding something enormous. About feeling like your entire existence was a lie.

"He kept things from me," Beomgyu said, staring at his tea. "Important things. Things that change everything."

The grandmother nodded.

"Did he have a reason?"

Beomgyu laughed. Hollow.

"He was scared. He said he was going to tell me. He said he just needed the right moment."

"Did you believe him?"

Beomgyu was quiet for a long moment.

Then: "I don't know. Part of me does. Part of me saw—" He stopped. Swallowed. "He's not a bad person. He's just... broken. And scared. And he made terrible choices because of it."

The grandmother was quiet.

Then: "My husband lied to me once."

Beomgyu looked up.

"Early in our marriage. Before we really knew each other. He lied about something small—I don't even remember what now. But when I found out, it felt like the end of the world." She smiled, soft and distant. "I screamed at him. Threw things. Told him I never wanted to see him again."

"What happened?"

"He let me go." She met Beomgyu's eyes. "Didn't follow. Didn't beg. Didn't try to explain or justify or make it better. He just... let me have my space. And when I came back—hours later, cold and tired and still angry—he was sitting exactly where I'd left him. Waiting."

Beomgyu's heart clenched.

"He said, 'I was wrong to lie to you. I was scared. And I'm sorry. But I'll spend the rest of my life trying to earn back your trust, if you'll let me.'"

She paused.

"And I did let him. Not right away. Not easily. But I let him try. And he did. For forty-seven years, until the day he died, he kept trying."

Beomgyu was crying again.

Soft tears, sliding silently down his cheeks.

"I don't know if I can," he whispered. "I don't know if I can look at him without seeing—"

"Without seeing the lie?"

He nodded.

"That's the hard part." Her voice was gentle. "The lie becomes part of the story. You can't un-know it. You can't go back to before." She leaned forward. "But you can decide what comes next. You can decide if the love is worth the work."

Beomgyu thought about Yeonjun's face when he'd flinched away. The devastation in his eyes. The way his hand had frozen in mid-air, rejected.

Thought about the notes. The later ones. The way Yeonjun had stopped trying to fix him and started just... loving him.

This version. This one. Only this one.

"He said he'd spend the rest of his life trying to be worthy of me."

"Then let him try." She reached across and patted his hand. "But only if you want to. Only if you think it's worth it.

Beomgyu looked at her.

This stranger who had opened her home and her heart to a broken boy in an alley.

"How do I know if it's worth it?"

She smiled.

"You don't. Not for sure. That's the terrifying thing about love—you never know. You just... choose. And hope. And try."

Beomgyu was quiet for a long moment.

Then: "What if I choose wrong?"

"Then you'll survive." Her voice was steady. Certain. "You'll hurt. You'll grieve. But you'll survive. And you'll know better next time."

"And if I choose right?"

"Then you'll have something beautiful. Something worth all the pain it took to get there."

Beomgyu looked down at his tea.

At the steam still rising.

At his hands, wrapped around the warmth.

"I don't know if I'm ready to go back," he admitted.

"Then don't." She stood. "Stay here tonight. The couch is comfortable. In the morning, you can decide."

Beomgyu looked up at her.

"Thank you," he whispered. “For all of this.”

She smiled.

"Drink your tea. I'll get you a blanket."

🐻🦊

Beomgyu didn't sleep.

He lay on the grandmother's couch, wrapped in a knitted blanket that smelled like lavender and age, and stared at the ceiling.

Thought about Yeonjun.

About the way he'd looked when Beomgyu walked out—broken, desperate, lost.

Thought about the files. The notes. The versions who'd been ended.

Thought about V13, who'd loved Yeonjun for a year and come back wrong.

Thought about his own notes—Week 7, Week 12, Today—and the way Yeonjun had learned to love him without trying to fix him.

That was real, he told himself. That has to be real.

But underneath it, the doubt whispered:

Was it? Or was that just another version of control? Another way of making you into what he wanted?

He didn't know.

Didn't know anything anymore.

🐻🦊

In the morning, the grandmother made him breakfast.

Rice. Soup. Tea. The kind of meal that felt like love, even from a stranger.

They ate in comfortable silence.

Then, as Beomgyu was helping with the dishes, she spoke.

"Have you decided?"

Beomgyu was quiet for a moment.

Then: "I don't know if I can go back."

"Then don't."

"But I don't know if I can stay away either."

She smiled.

"Then you're not ready to decide. That's okay. Give yourself time."

Beomgyu looked at her.

"How did you get so wise?

She laughed—a warm, genuine sound.

"Forty-seven years of marriage. Three children. Six grandchildren. A lot of mistakes and a lot of forgiveness." She patted his cheek. "You learn, or you die bitter. I chose to learn."

Beomgyu smiled.

Small. Fragile. But real.

"Thank you," he said. "For everything."

She nodded.

"Anytime, young man. Anytime."

🐻🦊

He left her apartment.

Walked through the waking city, still in the borrowed clothes, still carrying the weight of everything he'd learned.

He didn't know where he was going.

Didn't know what he was going to do.

But somewhere, deep inside, a small voice whispered:

You know where you want to go.

You know who you want to see.

He kept walking.

🦊🐻

The door closed.

Yeonjun stood there, frozen, listening to the sound of Beomgyu's footsteps fading down the hall. The apartment door opened. Closed.

Silence.

He didn't move.

Couldn't move.

His hand was still reaching out—toward nothing, toward empty space, toward the ghost of where Beomgyu had been just moments ago.

If I go now, will you end me too?

The words echoed in his skull, relentless.

He pressed his hand to his mouth.

Breathed.

Tried to breathe.

But the air wouldn't come. It was like someone had sucked all the oxygen out of the room, leaving him gasping, choking, drowning on dry land.

He stumbled to the couch.

Sat down.

Stared at nothing.

The first hour passed in a blur.

He didn't move. Didn't think. Didn't do anything except sit there, replaying every moment of the past hour—Beomgyu at the laptop, Beomgyu turning to look at him, Beomgyu's face when he said which ones?

Which ones.

Not I'm sorry. Not please let me explain. Just which ones.

Because he'd known. Somewhere deep down, he'd always known this moment would come. Had been waiting for it, dreading it, preparing for it in the small hours of the night when Beomgyu slept beside him and he couldn't.

And now it was here.

And Beomgyu was gone.

🦊🐻

At hour two, his stomach turned.

He made it to the bathroom just in time—fell to his knees in front of the toilet and threw up everything he'd eaten that day. Which wasn't much. Just coffee and half a sandwich and the taste of his own fear.

He heaved until there was nothing left.

Until his throat was raw and his eyes were streaming and his whole body was shaking with the force of it.

Then he slumped against the wall.

Sat on the cold bathroom floor.

And waited for the strength to stand.

🦊🐻

At hour three, it started to rain.

He heard it first—the soft patter against the window, growing louder, harder, until it was a downpour. The kind of rain that had always meant something to them. The kind of rain that had brought Beomgyu to him in the first place.

He crawled to his feet.

Stumbled to the bedroom.

Found his phone on the nightstand.

He dialed Beomgyu's number.

The person you are calling is currently unavailable. Please leave a message after the tone.

"Beomgyu." His voice was wrecked. Hoarse. "Please—please call me. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Just—please let me know you're okay. Please."

He hung up.

Called again.

The person you are calling is currently unavailable.

Again.

The person you are calling—

Again.

The person—

Again.

—currently unavailable.

He lost count after twenty.

🦊🐻

At hour four, he started texting.

Yeonjun: Please. Just tell me you're okay.

Yeonjun: I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I should have told you everything.

Yeonjun: Please come back. Or don't. Just—let me know you're safe.

Yeonjun: It's raining. You didn't take a jacket.

Yeonjun: Beomgyu please.

Yeonjun: I love you. I know that doesn't mean anything right now. But I love you.

Yeonjun: Please.

No response.

Nothing.

He paced.

Back and forth, back and forth, from the living room to the bedroom to the kitchen and back again. His legs couldn't stay still. His body couldn't rest. Every nerve was screaming, every muscle was taut, every thought was where is he where is he where is he.

At hour five, he called Kai.

"Hyung?" Kai's voice was groggy—it was late, or early, depending on how you looked at it. "It's 3 AM. What's wrong?"

"Has Beomgyu texted you?"

Silence.

"What?"

"Beomgyu. Has he texted you? Called you? Anything?"

Kai's voice sharpened. "No. Why would he—hyung, what happened?"

Yeonjun hung up.

Called Soobin.

"Yeonjun?" Soobin's voice, alert despite the hour. "What's going on?"

"Has Beomgyu contacted you?

"No. Is everything okay hyung?"

Yeonjun hung up.

Called Taehyun.

"Hyung." Taehyun's voice was calm, but there was an edge to it. "Tell me, is there something wrong?"

"Beomgyu's gone. He left. Have you heard from him?"

A pause.

"No. I haven't. What do you mean, gone?"

Yeonjun hung up.

Stared at the ceiling.

The rain kept falling.

🦊🐻

At hour six, he stopped pacing.

Just stood in the middle of the living room, staring at nothing, and let the tears come.

They came silently at first. Just wetness on his cheeks, dripping off his chin, soaking into his shirt. Then the sobs started—wracking, heaving, ugly sounds that tore out of his chest like they'd been trapped there for years.

"I should have told him," he whispered to the empty room. "I should have told him the first time. I should have told him everything."

He sank to his knees.

Pressed his face into his hands.

"He trusted me. He trusted me. And I—"

He couldn't finish.

Didn't need to.

The guilt was enough.

He stayed there for a long time.

On his knees. On the floor. In the dark.

And slowly, without meaning to, he started remembering.

Not the fight. Not the files. Not any of that.

Something else.

Something softer.

🦊🐻

Flashback 

The aquarium had been Beomgyu's idea.

"You've been working so hard," he'd said, tugging on Yeonjun's sleeve with that pleading look he knew Yeonjun couldn't resist. "Let's go somewhere. Somewhere fun. Somewhere that isn't this apartment."

Yeonjun had pretended to think about it.

"The aquarium?"

"Yes!" Beomgyu's face had lit up. "I've never been. Well—" A pause. "I don't remember ever being. Which is basically the same thing."

Yeonjun's heart had clenched at that—at the casual way Beomgyu acknowledged the gaps in his memory, the life he hadn't lived. But Beomgyu wasn't sad about it. Just curious. Just eager.

"Okay," Yeonjun had said. "The aquarium it is."

The aquarium was crowded.

Weekend afternoons always were—families with strollers, couples on dates, children pressing their faces against the glass. But Beomgyu didn't seem to mind. He moved through the crowds with wonder in his eyes, stopping at every exhibit, pressing close to the glass like he could touch the fish if he tried hard enough.

"Look at this one." He pointed at a small, brightly colored fish. "He's so tiny. And angry-looking."

"He's not angry. That's just his face."

"That's an angry face, yeonjun hyung. Look at those eyebrows. He's judging us."

Yeonjun laughed. "Fish don't have eyebrows."

"This one does. He's special."

They moved on to the next exhibit. And the next. Beomgyu asked a million questions—what was that, how big did they get, what did they eat, could he have one as a pet. Yeonjun answered what he could and made up the rest, and Beomgyu laughed every time he caught him guessing.

"You're making this up."

"I am not. I'm very knowledgeable about marine life."

"You thought a stingray was a pancake."

"A flat pancake. It's a reasonable mistake."

Beomgyu's laugh echoed through the corridor—bright and real and his.

Yeonjun felt his heart flip.

The jellyfish exhibit was Beomgyu's favorite.

They stood in the dim blue light, watching the translucent creatures drift and pulse. Their movements were hypnotic—slow, graceful, endless.

"They're so beautiful," Beomgyu whispered.

Yeonjun looked at him.

At the way the blue light played across his face. At the wonder in his eyes. At the small smile playing at his lips.

"Yeah," he agreed softly. "They are."

Beomgyu caught him looking.

Blushed.

"What?"

"Nothing." Yeonjun smiled. "Just—you're beautiful too."

Beomgyu's ears went pink.

"You're so cheesy."

"Your cheesy."

They stood there for a moment longer, watching the jellyfish drift.

Then Beomgyu spoke again.

"Yeonjunnie hyung?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm glad I'm here. With you." He glanced at Yeonjun, shy and open. "I know I don't remember much before. I know I'm still figuring out who I am. But I'm glad I'm figuring it out with you."

Yeonjun's throat tightened.

He reached out. Took Beomgyu's hand.

"Me too," he whispered. "I'm glad it's you."

They walked through the rest of the aquarium hand in hand.

Beomgyu dragged him to the gift shop at the end and spent twenty minutes choosing a small stuffed seal. ("He looks like he needs a home. Look at his face, hyung. He's lonely.")

Yeonjun bought it for him without being asked.

Beomgyu clutched it to his chest the whole way home, chattering about everything they'd seen, everything he'd loved, everything he wanted to do next time.

And Yeonjun—Yeonjun just listened.

Watched.

Loved.

He didn't want to change a single thing about this moment. About this Beomgyu. About them.

For the first time in any version, he felt like he didn't need to fix anything. Didn't need to adjust or improve or control.

He just needed to be here.

With him.

🦊🐻

Yeonjun came back to himself on the living room floor.

His face was wet again.

His chest was aching.

He knew in that moment, he didn't want to change him.

Knew this Beomgyu—this one—was the one.

Knew he'd do anything to keep him.

And now he was gone.

🦊🐻

Morning came eventually.

Yeonjun didn't sleep. Didn't eat. Didn't do anything except sit on the floor, staring at nothing, replaying every moment of the past seven months.

At some point, he stood.

Walked to the bedroom on autopilot.

Started tidying—not because he cared about tidying, but because he needed to do something with his hands. Needed to move. Needed to exist in a world that felt like it had ended.

He straightened the duvet.

Smoothed the wrinkles.

Tucked in the corners.

And then he saw it.

Beomgyu's phone.

Wedged between the mattress and the headboard, half-hidden by the pillow. He must have left it there last night—must have been charging it, or reading in bed, or—

Yeonjun's blood ran cold.

He grabbed the phone.

Stared at it.

Beomgyu didn't have his phone.

Didn't have money. Didn't have a wallet. Didn't have anything except the clothes he was wearing.

The clothes he was wearing.

No jacket.

No shoes? He'd had shoes—Yeonjun remembered the soft sound of them on the floor—but no jacket. No warmth. No protection against the cold October night.

And it had rained.

It had poured.

"Oh god." The words came out strangled. "Oh god, oh god, oh god—"

His legs gave out.

Beomgyu was out there.

Alone.

In the cold.

In the rain.

With nothing.

He could be anywhere. He could be hurt. He could be—

"No." Yeonjun shook his head violently. "No, don't think like that. He's fine. He has to be fine. He's—"

He was talking to himself.

Suddenly, he grabbed his coat.

Grabbed Beomgyu's coat—the warm one, the heavy one, the one he'd need if he was still out there.

He was going to find him.

He didn't care how long it took. Didn't care if he had to search every street, every alley, every corner of the city. He was going to find him.

He threw open the bedroom door.

Ran to the front door.

Wrenched it open—

And froze.

Beomgyu stood in the hallway.

His hand was raised, mid-knock. His eyes were red-rimmed and swollen. His hair was damp—from rain, or tears, or both. He was wearing clothes that didn't belong to him—sweatpants too big, a sweater that hung off one shoulder.

But he was there.

Alive.

Real.

Yeonjun couldn't move.

Couldn't breathe.

Couldn't do anything except stare at him like he was a ghost, a miracle, a prayer answered.

Beomgyu's eyes traveled over him—taking in the coat, the frantic energy, the bare feet. His brow furrowed slightly.

"Do you need to go somewhere?"

His voice was quiet. Careful. Tired.

The question broke something in Yeonjun.

Here Beomgyu was—after everything, after the lies, after the truth, after walking out—and the first thing he did was ask about Yeonjun.

Yeonjun's throat closed.

He shook his head.

"No." His voice came out raspy, wrecked, barely there. "No. I was about to look for you."

Beomgyu blinked.

"I didn't bring my phone."

"I know." Yeonjun's voice cracked. "I just found it. In the bed. I was—" He stopped. Swallowed. "I was so worried. It rained last night. It was cold. You were in your pajamas. You didn't have anywhere to go."

Beomgyu was quiet.

Just stood there, looking at him with those dark, exhausted eyes.

Yeonjun stepped back.

Held the door open wider.

"Come in."

Beomgyu walked inside.

Yeonjun watched him move through the apartment—slowly, carefully, like he wasn't sure he was allowed to be here anymore. He stopped in the middle of the living room and just... stood there.

Yeonjun didn't know what to do.

Didn't know what to say.

He wanted to reach out. Wanted to touch him. Wanted to pull him close and never let go.

But he was afraid.

Afraid of being rejected. Afraid of making it worse. Afraid that Beomgyu would flinch away again, and this time Yeonjun wouldn't survive it.

So instead, he went to the bedroom.

Grabbed the softest blanket—the one Beomgyu always used—and brought it back.

He approached slowly.

Carefully.

Held it out.

"You're shivering," he said quietly.

Beomgyu looked at the blanket.

Looked at him. Took it.

Wrapped it around his shoulders.

"Thank you."

The words were soft. Polite. Distant.

Yeonjun's heart ached.

They stood there for a long moment.

Neither speaking. Neither moving.

Then Beomgyu spoke.

"I went to the grandmother's house." His voice was quiet, tired. "The one from before. She found me in an alley. I was—" He paused. Swallowed. 

Yeonjun's eyes burned.

"I'm glad," he whispered. "I'm glad someone was there."

"She gave me clothes. Food. Tea." Beomgyu's lips twitched, almost a smile. "She talked about her husband. About how he lied to her once, early in their marriage. About how she threw things at him and left."

Yeonjun listened.

"She came back hours later. He was sitting right where she'd left him. Waiting." Beomgyu met his eyes. "He said he'd spend the rest of his life trying to earn back her trust."

Yeonjun's breath caught.

"He did," Beomgyu continued. "For forty-seven years. Until the day he died."

Silence.

Heavy. Full. Waiting.

Yeonjun took a shaky step forward.

"I don't deserve forty-seven years," he said quietly. "I don't deserve one day. But I'll take whatever you'll give me. Whatever you're willing to let me try."

Beomgyu's eyes glistened.

"I read your notes," he whispered. "The ones about me. Week 7. Week 12. Today."

Yeonjun's face crumpled.

"I saw when you stopped trying to fix me." Beomgyu's voice shook. "When you started just... loving me."

"I did." Yeonjun's tears fell freely now. "I do. I love you so much it's destroying me. I love you and I lied to you and I don't know how to make that right."

"Neither do I."

The words hung between them.

Honest. Raw. True.

Yeonjun nodded slowly.

"Then we figure it out together," he whispered. "If you want to. If you can stand to look at me long enough to try."

Beomgyu was quiet for a long moment.

Then he moved.

Closed the distance between them.

Reached out and took Yeonjun's hand—the one that had been reaching for him, then pulling back, over and over.

Yeonjun went still.

Looked down at their joined hands.

Looked up at Beomgyu with eyes so full of hope and fear and desperate love that it made his chest ache.

Beomgyu whispered. "I don't know if I can forget what I read. What you did. The versions you ended."

Yeonjun nodded. Swallowed. Waited.

"But I know I don't want to be anywhere else." Beomgyu's voice cracked. "I know that when I was sitting in that alley, freezing and broken, the only person I wanted to see was you."

Yeonjun's hand tightened on his.

"And I know that you waited. You put on a coat to come find me. You were going to search the whole city."

A tear slipped down Yeonjun's cheek.

"So I'm here." Beomgyu squeezed his hand. "I don't know what happens next. I don't know if we'll be okay. But I'm here. And I'm not leaving. Not tonight."

Yeonjun broke.

Pulled Beomgyu into his arms and held him so tight it was hard to breathe. Buried his face in Beomgyu's neck and sobbed—great, heaving sobs that shook his whole body.

Beomgyu held him back.

Wrapped his arms around him and held on.

"I'm sorry," Yeonjun choked out. "I'm so sorry. For lying. For the versions I ended. For every time I made you feel like a project instead of a person. I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry—"

"I know." Beomgyu's voice was soft against his hair. "I know."

They stood there for a long time.

In the middle of the apartment. Holding each other. Crying together.

The blanket fell from Beomgyu's shoulders, puddled on the floor. Neither of them noticed.

When Yeonjun finally pulled back, his face was a mess—wet and red and swollen. But his eyes, when they met Beomgyu's, were clear.

"Can I make you tea?" he asked quietly.

Beomgyu laughed. A small, wet, broken sound.

"Yeah. Tea would be good."

Yeonjun nodded. Wiped his face with his sleeve. Moved toward the kitchen.

Then stopped. Turned back.

"Beomgyu?"

"Yeah?"

"I love you." Simple. Honest. Terrified. "I don't know if that means anything after everything. But I love you. Only you."

Beomgyu's eyes welled up again.

"I know," he whispered. "I read it."

Yeonjun's lips curved—just slightly, just enough.

Then he went to make tea.

🦊🐻

They sat on the couch.

Not touching, but close. Close enough that Beomgyu could feel Yeonjun's warmth, could see the way his hands shook slightly as he held his mug.

The tea was good. Chamomile. The kind Yeonjun made when either of them was upset.

"I don't know where to start," Yeonjun admitted.

Beomgyu was quiet for a moment.

Then: "Tell me about them."

Yeonjun looked at him.

"All of them." Beomgyu's voice was soft. "Not the notes. Not the versions you ended. Just... them. Who they were. What you loved about them."

Yeonjun's eyes welled up again.

But he nodded.

And he talked.

He started with V1.

Innocent and sweet. The one who looked at the world with wonder, who cried at sad movies and laughed at stupid jokes and held Yeonjun's hand like it was something precious.

"I loved him," Yeonjun whispered. "I really did. But he was—" He stopped. Swallowed. "He was too passive. He never asked for anything. Never pushed back. Never told me what he needed. And I—" His voice cracked. "I thought that meant I was doing something wrong. That I wasn't giving him enough. So I started thinking about how to make the next one better."

Beomgyu listened.

Didn't interrupt. Didn't judge. Just listened.

"V2 was more emotional. He felt everything so deeply. He'd cry at the slightest thing—happy tears, sad tears, frustrated tears. And at first, I thought that was beautiful. But then—" Yeonjun shook his head. "He couldn't handle conflict. Any disagreement, any tension, and he'd fall apart. I felt like I was walking on eggshells. So I thought, next time, I'll make him more stable."

Beomgyu's throat tightened.

"V3 was stable. Too stable. He was distant, reserved, hard to read. I never knew what he was feeling, what he needed, whether he even loved me at all." Yeonjun laughed bitterly. "So I thought, next time, I'll make him more open."

He kept going.

V4—too loving, too smothering.

V5—too platonic, no passion.

V6—too jealous, too possessive.

V7—too gentle, too boring.

V8—too curious, too many questions—ended.

"I didn't even realize what I was doing," Yeonjun whispered. "It became a project. A system. I was debugging, finding the flaws, trying to create the perfect version. And I was so focused on that—so obsessed with getting it right—that I forgot they were people. Real people. With feelings and fears and lives."

Beomgyu's eyes were wet.

"I told myself it was love," Yeonjun continued. "I told myself I was doing it for them—to make them happier, to make us better. But that was a lie. I was doing it for me. I wanted a version that fit me perfectly. That didn't challenge me. That didn't make me uncomfortable. That didn't—" He stopped. Swallowed. "That didn't look at me like a monster."

The words hung in the air.

Like a monster.

Beomgyu thought about V8. V11. The way they'd looked at Yeonjun at the end—with fear, with betrayal, with horror.

"And V3," Yeonjun said quietly. "I didn't tell you about V3."

Beomgyu's brow furrowed. "He faded. The notes said he faded."

"He did." Yeonjun's voice was barely a whisper. "But not naturally."

Beomgyu went still.

"I didn't mean to," Yeonjun continued, his voice cracking. "I was experimenting. Trying to see if I could—if I had any control. I typed something. Just a small thing. A change in his behavior. I wanted to see if he'd—" He stopped. Pressed his hand to his mouth.

"What happened?"

Yeonjun's eyes were streaming.

"He disappeared. Right in front of me. One moment he was there, reading on the couch, and the next—" He sobbed. "He was just... gone. Like I'd erased him. And I realized—I had. I'd written something that hadn't happened yet, and when I typed it, it made it happen. I had control. Real control. Over their existence."

Beomgyu's blood ran cold.

"I didn't know," Yeonjun whispered. "I swear I didn't know. I thought they just... faded. Like V1 and V2. Like it was natural. But V3—" He shook his head. "I killed him. Accidentally, but I killed him. And after that, I couldn't stop."

The confession hung between them.

Heavy. Terrible. True.

"I became obsessed," Yeonjun continued. "Every time a version faded—even the natural ones—I'd open the file again immediately. Start a new one. Try again. It was like an addiction. Like I couldn't stop myself. I'd tell myself it was love, it was grief, it was missing them—but really, it was control. I needed to feel like I could fix it. Like I could get it right."

Beomgyu's hands were shaking.

"And V13?"

Yeonjun's face crumpled completely.

"V13 was different." His voice was raw, scraped clean. "He lasted longest. Half a year, Beomgyu. We were happy. Really happy. He pushed back and we fought and we made up and we loved. I thought—I really thought—maybe this time. Maybe he'd stay."

He paused, gathering himself.

"But then he started asking questions. About the scar. About the dreams he was having—hands typing, a voice begging, falling through darkness. He was getting too close. And I panicked."

Beomgyu remembered V13's file. The accident.

"I just wanted to pause," Yeonjun whispered. "Just for a moment. Just to think. I closed the file—I didn't even type anything, I just closed it—and when I opened it again, he was—" He sobbed. "He was wrong. Hollow. Empty. Like I'd broken something I couldn't fix. And I had to—" He couldn't finish.

"End him," Beomgyu whispered.

Yeonjun nodded, tears streaming.

"I had to. He wasn't him anymore. He was just... a shell. And I couldn't—I couldn't leave him like that."

Beomgyu closed his eyes.

Thirteen versions. Thirteen lives. Thirteen endings.

"And after that?" he asked quietly.

"After that, I couldn't write for two years." Yeonjun's voice was hollow. "Couldn't open the files. Couldn't look at them. I just... existed. Went through the motions. Let time pass. But underneath it all, I was—" He pressed a hand to his chest. "I was empty. I missed him. Missed all of them. But I was also terrified. Terrified of what I'd done. Of what I was capable of."

Beomgyu listened.

"I spent those two years going back to the notes," Yeonjun continued. "Comparing versions. Listing pros and cons. Trying to figure out what went wrong, what I could do better, how to create a version that would—" He stopped. Swallowed. "That would stay."

"A version that wouldn't ask too many questions?"

Yeonjun flinched.

"Yes," he whispered. "That's exactly what I was doing. I was trying to create someone who would love me without making me face what I'd done."

Beomgyu's heart ached.

"And then I wrote V14."

"You."

Beomgyu opened his eyes.

Looked at him.

"And when you appeared—" Yeonjun's voice broke. "I knew immediately you were different. Not because of anything I'd written. But because of how you were. You were curious but patient. Loving but not smothering. Strong but not distant. You asked questions but you waited for answers. You trusted me."

Beomgyu's throat tightened.

"And I—" Yeonjun sobbed. "I betrayed that trust. Every day I didn't tell you the truth. Every moment I let you love me without knowing who I really was."

He slid off the couch.

Onto his knees.

In front of Beomgyu.

"I know you're scared of me now," he whispered. "After everything I've told you. After everything I've done. I know you're looking at me and seeing a monster. Someone who created people and ended them and treated them like projects."

Beomgyu shook his head. "Yeonjun—"

"Please." Yeonjun's hands reached out, hovered just above Beomgyu's knees, not quite touching. "Please let me say this."

Beomgyu went quiet.

Yeonjun looked up at him.

Those dark eyes—red-rimmed, swollen, desperate.

"I was a monster," he said. "For eight versions. For eleven. For thirteen. I was the person who wrote notes and made adjustments and ended lives when they got too close. I was that person."

He paused.

"But not with you."

Beomgyu's breath caught.

"With you, I stopped." Yeonjun's voice was fierce despite the tears. "I don't know when it happened exactly. Maybe week three, when I closed the file instead of writing contingencies. Maybe week seven, at the aquarium, when I realized I didn't want to change a single thing about you. Maybe it was gradual, day by day, until one morning I woke up and you were just... you. And I just... loved you. No notes. No plans. No control."

Beomgyu was crying now.

"You're the first one I didn't try to fix," Yeonjun whispered. "The first one I just let be. And you're the one who makes me want to be better. Not because I need to debug you, but because you make me want to deserve you."

He reached out.

Took Beomgyu's hands in his.

"I know I don't deserve forgiveness," he said. "I know I don't deserve you. But I'm asking—I'm begging—for a chance. Not to make this right, because I don't think I can. But to try. Every day. For as long as you'll let me."

Beomgyu stared at him.

At this man on his knees.

This man who had created him and lied to him and loved him and ended versions of him.

This man who was now looking at him like Beomgyu was the only thing in the world that mattered.

"I'm scared," Beomgyu whispered.

Yeonjun nodded.

"I know."

"I'm scared that if I stay, I'll end up like the others. That one day I'll ask too many questions and you'll—" He couldn't finish.

Yeonjun shook his head fiercely.

"Never." His grip on Beomgyu's hands tightened. "I would never. I can't. You're not a project. You're not an experiment. You're you. And I'd rather lose you by letting you go than lose you by trying to control you."

Beomgyu's eyes widened.

"That's what I learned," Yeonjun continued. "That's what you taught me. That love isn't about creating the perfect person. It's about choosing the real one. Every day. With all their flaws and questions and everything."

He pressed Beomgyu's hands to his chest.

Over his heart.

"I'm choosing you," he whispered. "You. This one. Only this one. For as long as you'll let me."

Beomgyu was silent for a long moment.

Then he moved.

Slid off the couch.

Onto his knees.

Facing Yeonjun.

"You're an idiot," he whispered.

Yeonjun laughed—wet and broken.

"I know."

"You're a monster who learned how to be human."

"I know."

"You hurt people. You ended people. You did terrible things."

"I know."

Beomgyu reached out.

Cupped his face.

"But you also loved them. All of them. And you're still here, on your knees, begging for a chance to do better."

Yeonjun's tears fell onto Beomgyu's hands.

"I don't know if I can forgive you yet," Beomgyu whispered. "I don't know if I'll ever stop being angry. But I know—" He swallowed. "I know I don't want to be anywhere else."

Yeonjun's breath caught.

"Beomgyu—"

"I'm not saying everything's okay." Beomgyu's voice was firm despite the tears. "I'm not saying I'm not still hurt. But I'm also not saying I want to leave."

Yeonjun pulled him close.

Held him tight.

Pressed his face into Beomgyu's shoulder and sobbed.

Beomgyu held him back.

Let him cry.

Let himself cry.

And for the first time since reading those files, he felt something other than rage and grief.

He felt hope.

They stayed like that for a long time.

On their knees. On the floor. Holding each other.

When they finally pulled apart, the sun was rising through the window.

Yeonjun's eyes were red and swollen, but there was something in them that hadn't been there before—peace, maybe. Or the beginning of it.

"Thank you," he whispered. "For coming back."

Beomgyu didn't answer.

Just reached out.

Took his hand.

Held it against his chest.

I'm here, the gesture said. I'm still here.

Yeonjun closed his eyes.

A tear slipped down his cheek.

And they sat there, in the morning light, holding on.