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[Logged in as tls123.]
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[Kim Dokja commented on your work.]
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Kim Dokja peered at a handful of boxes he had sorted out the other day. His belongings did not consist of much. These boxes next to Dokja himself had his clothes - this one some t-shirts and shorts, this one had winter clothing that he isn't wearing at the moment - and that was it. The rest contained books, some of which he bought on a whim, before finishing them within days or a week at best and stacking them on his desk, some were gifts from his relatives (if they even remembered his birthday a certain year.) But most were eomma's.
That Kim Dokja was going to start living by himself was not a gesture of defiance, nor an assertion of his own independence; it was simply bound to happen. A result of several part-time gigs and odd jobs during university and right after military service. He was neither an ambitious man who looks too far ahead of himself, nor was he a parasite. He would insist that he does think of what his own ambitions in the future, what his bucket list looks like in life. In truth, he thinks of no day past tomorrow, as long as that webnovel he had been reading for years now is still updating, he still has a reason not to stand on the rooftop and take that final leap.
After the rest of the boxes were carried downstairs, Kim Dokja waved a cab and told the driver the address. He thought about sitting at the shotgun seat before subconsciously opening the back car door and made himself comfortable in the middle seat of the back row.
Kim Dokja's phone rang in his back pocket.
[You have (1) new notification.]
[tls123 posted chapter XXXX of Three Ways to Survive in a Ruined World.]
Another chapter is now in waiting. Before he could read a page, however, the phone screen darkened. He was rather giddy last night about the moving alone thing, so much so that he wrote about it to tls123 in a comment. After he hit "Send", he had forgotten to charge his phone, so now the battery is flat. His phone was certainly not a brand spanking new model, neither was it an antique, by mobile phone standards, but was rather in such frequent use that charging would take an eternity. Kim Dokja sighed. Rather than striking up idle conversation with the driver, Kim Dokja turned to his right.
The frigid January weather of Seoul was not one he was unaccustomed to. Unlike the warm affection in its name , the capital city was coated in white. A beautiful color, but dull nonetheless, though nothing of the city at the moment particularly screams dreary. The sound of engines are deafening, but nowhere as shrill by the howling winds scratching against the window. Had it been the center of the city, there would also be the clashing dissonance of billboard advertisements, whether they are of the newest beauty product, or the next brand deal made by some idol group Kim Dokja couldn't be bothered to take notice of. Flakes fluttered about like dust specks in the dull sky. If this was many years ago, when eomma was still here, she would point out that every flake would look different, and each of them beautiful in their own way. Snow that had been previously swept into the nooks and crannies of every pedestrian walkway piles up, and a singular snowflake against piles that could cover the pavement at least 3cm thick, that snowflake should start to feel insignificant.
...Fortunately, he doesn't have to think about shoveling the snow when the storm lets up.
After footing the bill to the driver and unloaded his boxes, Kim Dokja turned the key and pushed the door open. An empty white space flushed the small room he now calls his apartment.
A fresh start, he thinks.
In truth, almost nothing would change had Kim Dokja not decided to move out on his own. Though this now means instant ramen and takeout gimbap will inevitably be part of his diet for at least the rest of his life since he can barely cook. However, he makes no argument against it. For that child who should have thrown his life away a decade ago - he still goes numb at every moment he remembers that day he lept off the school rooftop - simple accommodations such as a roof under his head and having enough to eat was enough to make him content.
A mattress was among one of the first things he unfolded in the handful of items he brought over from his old house before pushing it towards one of the power sources. Kim Dokja rummaged one of the boxes for the charger before plugging it by the same dock and letting the phone rest in his bed. Meanwhile for himself, he was exhausted from loading and unloading his belongings. Mind his being severely out of shape despite his rather lanky frame. He plunged himself onto the mattress.
---
When he woke up, Seoul wasn't under a serene blanket of snow; it was more accurate to describe it as a curtain of flames. Buildings were crumbled, the tang of iron - the smell of blood was in the air. Even a splatter of red made its mark against the window. Yet everything inside Kim Dokja's room remained almost untouched. And the unmistakable putrid smell of corpses wafted through closed doors.
Kim Dokja, still dazed from his sleep, pushed himself up.
A knock, then it was two. Three knocks.
An inexplicable feeling crawled his back. He dared not answer the door.
"Open up you bastard," a voice was heard, "I know you're in there." The rapping grew louder and louder before becoming full blown banging at the door. Kim Dokja dared not to answer. A crawling feeling told him not to. Yet there is an opposing force, another jolt. The door whisked open.
On the other side, a man clad in complete black. His hand held a blade, clean without any trace of blood. Yet somewhere within Kim Dokja's subconsciousness, it had seen many a friend and foe cut down with this very blade. Surprisingly, he sheathed it away.
Had it not been for his apparent horrid personality from earlier, calling a stranger a bastard, through appearance alone, Kim Dokja could have mistaken him as some sort of Greek deity. A jawline so straight you can use it as a ruler. The hairdo felt unruly, like someone, should there be someone taller than he was, had ruffled his hair, yet it felt dignified. Though this and more can be described in excruciating detail across countless paragraphs, such that all the ink in this world is insufficient to portray this one man, a certain someone else is far better suited for the job. What can be said, however, that this Adonis of a man's appearance was perfect.
His eyes narrowed like razor blades at the other man in front of him. Though it was rude, certainly, for a man to waltz in and bang down the doors of another without their discretion, he felt that who this man is more than explained that attitude. Even if he had the slightest hint of disbelief, there was no mistaking it. This is the very protagonist of the webnovel Kim Dokja had been reading for years.
"It's you," Yoo Joonghyuk muttered. He wanted to retrace every word of it, like he could not believe in his eyes.
Who now?
A toss. A turn. Another, a swift motion that Kim Dokja couldn't catch. Right then and there, he found himself propped against a nearby wall, whereas Yoo Joonghyuk was facing him. Kim Dokja felt something crawling on his back.
Yoo Joonghyuk merely let out a low chuckle. The briefest smile faded as quickly as it flashed.
What's in this bastard's head?
Kim Dokja would try to wriggle free, he did, but there was no budging this sunfish.
But that doesn't mean he can't lean in ever so slightly closer.
Meanwhile, Yoo Joonghyuk found himself scrunitizing Kim Dokja's every detail. This is indeed "him". But this "him" is... far too frail. Too sickly, like a ghost fresh out of his grave. He studied Kim Dokja's expression. A quizzical look. Something that didn't fit "his" usual face. None of it particularly screamed "him".
Then, this isn't that guy Yoo Joonghyuk is apparently so familiar with. Yet, within his subconscious, he knows that it is "him", without question, even if this is some illusion. So he indulges himself anyway.
Through thousands of chapters that Kim Dokja read about Yoo Joonghyuk, none of... this makes sense. Usually, it would be expected that he would use Sage's Eye, his best detection skill, right then and there, but he didn't. Yoo Joonghyuk wouldn't have greeted a stranger so amicably, at least to Yoo Joonghyuk standards, anyway.
One could say it is severely out of character for this bastard.
So this isn't the Yoo Joonghyuk Kim Dokja has become familiar with and whose stories he had treasured for years.
(After all, this is all a dream.)
Yoo Joonghyuk leans closer, as well. Their noses were practically touching. A palm cupped the smaller man's cheek, thumb wiping off a solitary tear. Kim Dokja doesn't know what's he's crying for, and why he is.
Yoo Joonghyuk leaned closer, and closer still, until their lips crashed. Kim Dokja was taken aback, and all he could do was throw his arms on Yoo Joonghyuk's shoulders.
They only broke when Kim Dokja was gasping for air. A trail of saliva formed between their lips. Kim Dokja pulled in again. This one was much shorter-lasting, but a kiss is a kiss. A bite into Kim Dokja's lower lip to gain entry. He obliged. Damn dream protagonist and his kissing skills. Despite that, he does hope that Yoo Joonghyuk's experience can compensate for them both. They broke off. And leaned in. Again and again.
A head rested against Kim Dokja's shoulder. It wasn't immediate, but after some point, that very shoulder felt damp. They both know that the other isn't real, yet they treasure this moment anyway.
---
If there was a quality shared between all dreams, it's that it is short. Most people forget what their dreams contain. A pity.
Kim Dokja shuttered his eyes open. His alarm hadn't gone off.
[Fully charged.]
He decided to pick up where he left off from that morning's update.
---
[Incarnation Kim Dokja will be killed by the one he loves most.]
If there was something one should know about Yoo Joonghyuk, was that he mourns alone, no matter the number of companion he's garnered in a regression.
Ever since that incident, Yoo Joonghyuk hadn't been himself lately. Not that he shows it on the outside. What his party does know, and is concerned about, is that he goes out alone much more often.
Though that bastard always come back, somehow, something tells him it will take far longer than usual.
But it doesn't help that his performance in sub scenarios has been affected as well.
[Sub-Scenario failed.]
[Your punishment is being calculated.]
[Your punishment is: Meeting with an illusion.]
But who's to stop a mourning man from seeing the very person he's mourning for?