Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Wolf Keum is not superstitious by any means.

He's smoking in the school bathroom when it happens. The world turns black for half a second, like the sun has popped out of existence, and Wolf rubs at his eyes for a few moments before everything goes back to normal. He chalks it up to a school blackout, even though the sunlight filtering through the window at the top of one of the urinals also disappeared for that half second.

Then the screams start, summoning Wolf outside with his cigarette only half finished. He knows he's being childish by thinking this, but he can't help but think it anyway—someone better be fucking dead to warrant this disturbance. The anguished cries are coming from the oval, and Wolf looks out the window in the hallway, a few more students shuffling behind him. They don't really want to get too close to him, but their curiosity overrides their sense of self-preservation.

"What the hell is going on down there?" Hayden Ma saunters up next to Wolf, who barely gives him a glance. "Some of us are trying to study."

Wolf snorts. Everyone knows that Hayden doesn't study—all he cares about are girls and getting his next fix. Hayden looks more alive today—the last time Wolf got a proper look at him, he was stumbling around like a drunk, running solely off the fumes of cocaine.

"Is that sand?" someone asks, squinting down at the oval.

From the way it sifts on the ground, it looks more like a fine dust.

Footsteps reach his ears, and Wolf and the students turn to see one of their classmates—his sports uniform sticking to his chest and torso—staggering up the stairs and toward them. "They're fucking dead!" he screams. "Someone—someone get the teacher!"

The faculty room is further down the hallway. Sobering up, the students part like the red sea to let him pass. Wolf's half-smoked cigarette dangles from his hand, over the windowsill. He taps it, and ash falls from the lit end.

Something's wrong.

He can feel it in his bones.

Something is very, very wrong.

The corridor seems to stretch before him as he watches the student cry into his hands and bang his fist on the closed door of the teacher's lounge. It's a sunny day today—spring starting to give way to summer—but Ganghak High is shadowed by death. Wolf blows out a cloud of smoke before asking: "Where's Hwangmo? Isn't Hwangmo in Class Three?"

"Hwangmo?" echoes Hayden, glancing down at the sports field with a look of unease. "Uh—yeah. Yeah, he was. But where is everyone? All I see are the teachers and one or two guys."

Hwangmo Ju is almost impossible to miss in any crowd. He's broad-shouldered and tall, with a choppy tangerine mullet and uneven eyebrows that would make any good Christian auntie have a heart attack if she ever saw it. Wolf's eyesight has never been the best, but he knows Hwangmo isn't on the field, where he should be.

"What the hell is happening?" somebody asks again.

Nobody answers—not even Wolf.

China starts calling it the Black-Out. Russia soon adopts the term, followed by WHO and the rest of the world. The world went dark for an insignificant amount of time—and in that time, a significant population that was outside during the Black-Out were immediately vaporized to ashes and dust.

But many survived.

In fact, most survived.

Salary-men outside on their lunch break reported nothing but a passing breeze and a few milliseconds of nothing before everything returned to normal. University students running their festival food stalls reported a few minor injuries from burning themselves on stoves and pans during the darkness. In a worksite at Mapo, construction workers had a close shave when handling dangerous metal beams. Elderly folk on a community outing at the local park barely noticed the Black-Out, too distracted by board games, flowers, and feeding stray cats and dogs.

But—

Several school teachers were admitted to mental health wards after opening their eyes to nothing but large piles of ash where their students had last been standing. An entire national youth baseball team turned into dust on a routine jog around their training compound. Tutoring centers across Yeongdeungpo announced indefinite hiatuses after many of the students under their care wandered off for lunch outside and never made it back in. A woman who picked up her daughter from daycare early after getting some time off from work buried the same daughter after walking her out to the schoolyard to their car. She describes in disturbing detail the way she felt her own daughter disintegrating in her hand.

A WHO report comes out twenty-four hours after the Black-Out, after Ganghak High's administration sent all the surviving kids home until further notice.

According to initial observations, the cut-off age is eighteen.

The one or two students that Wolf saw after the Black-Out were freshly eighteen. The rest of their classmates weren't.

Hwangmo, Wolf finds out, is dead. He stays at home the days that follow, unable to rouse himself from the confines of his apartment even for Hwangmo's funeral. Not that he's invited—it's quiet and contained, just like Hwangmo's family. He spends the entire time on his phone, checking social media for updates and to see who made it and who didn't. Who he knew and who he didn't.

Sam Lee is dead, the unlucky bastard. He's dead, just like Ms. Kim, and a part of Wolf feels like he is the one that killed him. Sam Lee's birthday is in November. Barely two months away.

If only he'd been born two months earlier.

This is madness.

Wolf has never been superstitious.

But no scathing argument comes to mind when he sees religious crazies rioting in the streets, preaching to others with renewed vigor—this was God's punishment, they said, for the sins of humanity. Repent now, or die.

Wolf showers for the first time in three days—and on the same day, a new term emerges from WHO: The Black-Out Blight. When Wolf reads the report on his phone with a towel draped over his head and his glasses on the nightstand, he thinks it sounds like fiction. Bad fiction, actually. Wolf used to read a lot. He knows what good fiction reads like.

The Korean government releases a statement as well.

[...] numbers are appearing on the skin of the arms of several students in the Seoul area. The number varies according to each student. Students with the number '0' on their arm died within twenty-four hours of the appearance. Most common cause of death: Spontaneous organ failure.

Wow, thinks Wolf, numb. This is fucked. This is fucked, even by his standards.

His phone rings. Wolf squints at it, the screen blurry. Fuck, his vision has been getting worse lately. He picks up. "Yeah? What?"

"Wolf? You're alive?"

Jake Ji.

It's Jake Ji on the other end. Wolf's stomach flips. The last time they crossed paths was when the Union finally collapsed after Donald Na's untimely death from his chronic illness last year—freeing them from their shackles. Good riddance, Wolf thought. Now he could live a normal life. But the universe has never made a point to be kind to him—not ever.

Wolf swallows, tonguing his cheek. "What do you want?"

"I was going through my contacts," Jake replies, as if this is a normal thing to do. It probably is. Wolf's missed out on his chance to be completely normal—Nancy Oh, Sam Lee, and Ms. Kim have fucked him up for life—so it's not like he'd know. There's a long pause. "Dean and Timothy are dead. Eunchan's numbered."

Numbered.

"I'm alive," Wolf says. "For now."

"You're eighteen, right?"

"Yeah. Turned in April."

Jake sighs in relief. Wolf wonders why. "Then you should be safe. You'll live. You won't be numbered."

"It's too early to say that," points out Wolf. "You know I'm not the type to count my chickens before they hatch."

"Hah! Haha. Yeah. Yeah, that's true. You're one impulsive fucking bastard, but you've always been a schemer, too."

Wolf doesn't know whether to be offended or not. He brushes it off. "Whatever you want to say to me, just say it. I'm busy."

"Busy doing what? Mourning?"

"Don't be fucking stupid."

"Who died, Wolf?"

Wolf debates on hanging up. He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Hwangmo. He was outside when... When the Black-Out happened." The name slides off his tongue funny. It shouldn't be real. It shouldn't. "And—Sam Lee. Grape, that bastard. Dead as a fucking doorknob; his family confirmed it on Acebook. They're collecting funds for his funeral."

"Anyone else you cared about?"

"I didn't care about them."

"There's no one here, Wolf. You don't need to lie. All my friends are dead or dying."

"Fuck you," Wolf spits. "I'm hanging up. Motherfucker."

"Is Nancy Oh alive?"

The blood in his veins turn to ice. Wolf's hand is shaking—he's gripping the phone so hard that he might break it. He doesn't have the money to pay for another one now that the Union is defunct. Instead of throwing his phone at the wall, he looks out the window. It's a slate of muddy grey as rain pelts against the glass. He can see the Han River from here, the banks looking ready to burst from afar. Maybe they will burst, and the floodwaters will wash all the ash away. "Don't," Wolf grits out. "Don't ever talk about that bitch in front of me. In fact, I wish that she's dead. She's a fucking stain on the world."

"Wow." Jake sounds almost amused, but his voice falls flat. "You must really despise her. What about Hayden?"

"I don't know. Ask Naksung Yoon. Or is he dead, too?"

"Ah. I guess you wouldn't know. The Naksung Fam left Yeongdeungpo a few months ago. In any case," Jake chuckles, mirthlessly, "I'm not sure. Though, to be honest, I'm kinda hoping he's alive. I wouldn't want all of you bastards to go so soon."

"Oh."

Jake doesn't say anything after that.

The silence stretches.

Regardless, however, neither of them have hung up. Wolf's thumb hovers above the button a few times, but he never goes through with it. He can't bring himself to. He doesn't know why. Maybe it's because he hasn't spoken to anyone since the Black-Out. Maybe it's because if he stares at the dark corners of his apartment for too long, he starts spiraling into madness. He breathes in, slow and deep. "What is it?"

Jake answers straight away. "What's what?"

"The number." Wolf sits down on the edge of his bed. His hair is still damp, water dripping from the ends and down the back of his shirt. His shoulders are wet and uncomfortable. "Eunchan's number. What is it?"

"Four."

"Maybe it's just bullshit. He won't actually die when it hits zero."

"Maybe," Jake agrees, but he sounds uncertain. "I guess I'll have to wait and see."

"If I'm right," Wolf says. "Let's meet up and Ganghak after he hits zero. I want to see how much you've grown."

"I'm more of a lover now, not a fighter." Jake laughs, softly. "But fine."

"Fine."

Wolf hangs up.

The day after Eunchan's expiry date, Wolf goes to Ganghak High in the early morning. It's the first time he's gone out for something other than necessities. Though schools are still closed until the foreseeable future, he jumps the fence and goes for a morning run around the school oval—the majority of Year Three Class Three's final resting place. It's dark when he leaves the house, and still dark when he breaks into school.

He runs five laps before slowing down and retreating to the bleachers to watch the sun rise over the city. He sits in the quiet, puffs of white forming at his mouth as he breathes in and out, the air still frosty with the morning chill despite the season. Wolf's never seen the school so empty before.

The latest news from the world is a rise in youth suicides. Young people that can't handle the weight of watching the numbers on their arms slowly tick down to zero. Young people tightening nooses, taking blades to their wrists, pouring pills into their mouths, and holding guns to their temples. Wolf doesn't know if they're brave or if they're cowards. Doesn't know if it's accepting fate or choosing your own destiny.

Wolf smokes a cigarette while he waits.

This world is fucked. It feels like everything has changed, yet nothing at all. He's been alone for most of his life. It's been years since he last had friends. Barely a week since he last had lackeys. Wolf inhales, smoke filling his mouth and lungs. The world seems bigger now. Lonelier. A journey that takes ten steps now takes twenty in a way he can't explain.

Wolf unlocks his phone. Hayden Ma is having a weird breakdown on Issagram. His stories from eighteen hours ago are still up. He's gone on another bender, it seems, even though Hwangmo told Wolf that Hayden was trying to get clean. Wolf is not disappointed, nor is he surprised. He and Hayden are the same in a way—both addicts chasing a high. Wolf lives to fight and Hayden lives to party.

He taps through his thirteen story posts before finally arriving on the second to last one. There's no text or shaky recording or loud obnoxious music. Just a picture of the inside of Hayden's forearm, his sleeve rolled up.

There's a 'nine' tattooed on his wrist.

He's been numbered.

Wolf exhales. His mouth tastes like ash. His thumb taps the screen.

The last story is several baggies of cocaine and a poll on top of the incriminating picture. The poll question: Take it all?

The options are 'yes' or 'no'.

The results are already out.

54% yes.

46% no.

There are no further stories.

Wolf feels a chill go down his spine. His knee shakes, and he gets up, stretching. His ass feels cold, the bleachers having sucked all the warmth from him. Fuck it, he needs to do something. Anything. He drops his cigarette and breaks into a run, sprinting another three laps around the oval to get all the nervous energy out. He doesn't stop. He runs, and runs, and runs, until his legs are cramping and his abused lungs are practically begging him to stop. Finally, he collapses on the grass, chest heaving and glasses askew and fogged up on his face.

The sun is visibly beginning its climb across the horizon. It's probably close to seven in the morning now. Wolf fumbles around in the pocket of his hoodie and fishes his phone out for the time. Six-forty-five.

A notification pops up on his phone. Another news bulletin. Wolf groans, head dropping on the oval. Fuck, he's sick of the news. It's never good news—the world always finds a new way to crash and burn. But, morbidly curious about the new development, he checks it anyway.

The report has him sitting up, eyes wide.

People are surviving past zero. Scientists are running tests on them, Black-Out Blight consultants scrambling frantically to curate a treatment plan and contacting the family of known zeroes. People are surviving past zero.

People are surviving past zero.

There's hope.

For the first time in weeks, Wolf grins. Then the adrenaline starts pumping. People are surviving past zero, which means that Jake will be coming to meet him, and he'll be able to get all of his frustration out. Wolf wastes no time—he dials Jake's number, eagerly waiting for Jake to pick up.

Come on, Wolf taps his fingers impatiently on his knee, Pick up, you jerk. Pick up! Come here and fight me!

The dial tone stops droning in his ear. "Wolf?"

"Where the fuck are you?" Wolf demands, fingers drumming even faster. "I'm already at Ganghak. Get your ass over here now."

"Wolf—"

"Did you see the news? Zeroes don't always die. Zero doesn't mean death, Jake, it—"

"Eunchan passed away this morning."

Wolf stills.

Eunchan's... dead? No, that's impossible. What does he mean, that Eunchan's dead? Eunchan's fit and healthy as far as Wolf knows—there's no reason why he would die like a fucking loser. He opens his mouth, then closes it. What is he supposed to do—apologize? It's not even his fault. It's no one's fault, really. There's no one and nothing to point the finger at. There's nothing to say. Nothing he can say.

"All my friends are dead now, Wolf."

"Yeah," Wolf says, at last. "Mine too."

"At least I have Kenny."

"That's true." A beat. "So. We're not fighting, then?"

Jake huffs. "Goodbye, Wolf."

Society is in shambles. Everything has come to a crashing halt. Wolf doesn't know what's supposed to be normal anymore. When he's bored, he takes it out on the boneheads that spit and smoke on the streets. At some point, he even clashes with Chad Won from Guro High again, though he doesn't recognize him. He's just another washed-up loser. He drinks a lot less, only because he isn't used to drinking alone without a crew. Gas prices shoot up, so he isn't able to go for joyrides on his motorcycle as much.

Then his carburetor breaks down, and he stops going on any rides at all.

Maybe he should get a job. He's been living on Union money and the meager checks his dad sends him—both of which will run out eventually because his dad is a forgetful fuck and the Union's been obsolete for almost a year now. A few guys try to fight it out for control over the remains, but no one will ever run the Union like Donald Na did. Donald Na was the Union. Without him, they are just a bunch of tough guys pretending to be adults.

Is it really worth it, though?

The world may end soon. Sooner than before he runs out of money.

Maybe he'll get his own number.

Babies have almost entirely stopped being born—either dying in the womb or having a number appear on their wrists in the days following birth.

Humanity is marching toward an age of extinction. A few countries begin the descent to anarchy. Russia and China put a stop to the dissent quickly, as do the USA and North Korea. The rest continuing to try and wrangle their citizens under control.

There is still hope, however. Even in times like these, hope still exists. Wolf decides to see how everything pans out instead of throwing himself off the roof or overdosing like those numbered fucks. Researchers and scientists all over the world are still trying to find a cure for the Black-Out Blight—to stop numbers from appearing on the young people. The cause is still inexplicable, even after two weeks. It seems to be entirely supernatural, without an explanation bricked on the foundations of logic and reason. There is no vaccine, no cure, no treatment or prevention plan.

A few young social influencers that have yet to be numbered speak out in their hopes to reach their eighteenth birthday before a number appears. When one of them successfully turns eighteen without being numbered, she breaks down into tears on an Issagram livestream. Wolf doesn't watch it, but the stream is recorded and clipped and posted onto the net. Several online article writers get their pay by piggybacking off one another and the girl's relief.

Wolf waits for a day for somebody eighteen or above to be numbered, but it doesn't happen.

But for every good thing comes something to dishearten and dampen. Zero doesn't mean death—but not a single zero has lived for longer than four days past their death date. Doctors try everything to save them, but nothing is enough. Their bodies waste away until they're all skin and bones, some of them even having their limbs fall off their joints.

It's eight-fifteen, a Thursday evening, when Wolf receives another call from Jake.

He picks it up after a glimpse of the caller ID, as if it's become second nature despite the scarcity of their talks. "Yeah?"

"Hey." Jake's voice is rough. "You said you wanted to fight, right?"

The hairs on the back of Wolf's neck stand up on end. Anticipation buzzes through his body, but there are slivers of unease in the feeling. "Right now?" Wolf's breath hitches. He looks at his kitchenette. There's a pot of boiling water on the stove, and a pack of unopened instant noodles on the countertop.

"Yeah. I need to let off some steam."

"Ganghak High—"

"No need. I'm outside your apartment."

What the fuck? Wolf heads over to the window, opening it and looking down. Sure enough, he can see a silhouette through the rain that looks Jake-shaped enough for him to be convinced leaning against a car parked on the street. Wolf scowls, speaking into the phone, "How did you know where I live, you creepy fuck?"

Jake sounds genuinely confused. "What do you mean? Of course I know where you live. I've been to your place before."

"Since when?"

"Last year. Before Donald died. You wanted to fight me, and I gave in because you kept pestering me."

Oh. Wolf sighs, rubbing his temple. Yes, he remembers now. The force Jake slammed his head into the concrete was unparalleled. The memories are mostly a blur, but Wolf remembers slurring his address after refusing to go to the hospital. Did Jake take care of him back then? He doesn't remember. It doesn't matter now, though. Jake wants a fight, and Wolf has absolutely no reason to refuse. "I'm coming down," he says, taking off his glasses. "Just lemme turn off the stove first. Don't you dare leave."

"Uh huh."

What a funny bastard. Though, Wolf supposes that Jake must be feeling as pent-up as he is. They're all alone in this world, with only the ghosts of dead friends and memories of the Union to accompany them.

Sure enough, Jake is waiting for him downstairs. He's leaning on his brother's car, reading something on his phone despite the storm. Probably one of those comics he's obsessed with. Jake's always been a bit of a weirdo.

"Took you long enough," Jake says without any preamble.

"Fuck you," Wolf retorts. "I was making dinner, jackass."

Jake tucks his phone in his back pocket, smirking. "Let's stop wasting time."

"I agree—" He's not even done speaking before Jake throws the first punch, snapping Wolf's face to the side. Wolf bites his tongue. He tastes blood, but the adrenaline doesn't let him feel it. Jake continues to pummel him, and Wolf continues to take it with only halfhearted attempts to block or deflect. Right now, it's Jake's turn. But soon, Jake's turn will finish, and it'll be Wolf's turn.

Jake hits like a fucking truck, but Wolf isn't the same person he was a year ago. He tanks them like he does with every hit that goes his way, and grabs at Jake's shirt collar, twisting. "My turn, motherfucker."

He brings Jake to a world of pain with each hit. Wolf can see it in the way his face screws up with each hit—he really has grown soft in complacency, without Donald Na lighting a fire under his ass. It's hard to tell if Wolf's stronger than him or not, but that doesn't matter.

"Face."

Jake staggers back, his shirt tearing from where Wolf is gripping it.

"Face."

A grunt from Jake as he eats another one of Wolf's punches.

"And it's..." Wolf pulls his fist back. "Your face again."

Jake's palm strikes up and deflects the punch.

"You shitty bastard," Wolf snarls. "I wasn't done with my turn."

"Come on, Wolf, don't be a sore loser."

Him? A sore loser? Jake's the sore loser here, not even letting Wolf finish his turn. And even if he is a sore loser, Wolf reckons he's earned the right. The world is crumbling around them and he's wrestling with Jake in the middle of the street. Nothing else matters except for the boy in front of him. Wolf slicks his hair back, the corners of his lips twitching. His hand comes back slightly purple. He redyed his hair recently.

"You're trembling." The rain is sticking Jake's hair to his face, orange bangs splayed on his forehead. He looks akin to a drowned rat, but Wolf thinks he looks perfect like this. That they both do.

"I'm excited." Wolf grins, madly. "What—did you think I was afraid?"

Jake wipes the blood off his mouth, blinking slowly. "Nah."

The flash is so brief that Wolf thinks he imagines it at first. His heart drops to his stomach, and his arms fall to his side. One of Jake's eyes is beginning to swell, and he's beaten, bloody, and bruised. Wolf doesn't look any better, but that's not the point. "Show me your arm."

Jake flinches.

Wolf takes a step forward. "Show me your arm, Jake."

"No." Jake grimaces. "Why should I?"

"Show me your fucking arm!"

"I said no, goddammit, you fucking asshole!"

"Fuck you!"

Wolf punches him in the face. At the same time, Jake punches back. The fight that follows is one more savage than any other scuffle Wolf remembers being in. He feels like his bones are breaking with each punch and kick Jake manages to get in. At some point, they abandon any semblance of technique and scrabble at each other, snarling and snapping and tearing at one another like wild animals. They slip and slide on the concrete—on the rain and their own blood.

Finally—finally—Wolf lands the blow that sends Jake flat on the ground, one hand gripping his sleeve. It tears as Jake falls. Wolf pants, squinting through the rain at Jake's fallen form. He waits for Jake to get up so they can resume their mangling of one another, but he doesn't. Wolf frowns. "Oi. Oi, you jerk. Don't tell me you're tired already."

Jake inhales slowly, as if he's savoring the air. His arm flops lifelessly over his eyes, his bottom lip trembling. The sleeve of his shirt has been ripped, the fabric crumpled in Wolf's hand. "But I am. I'm so tired, Wolf."

"You're stronger than this."

"Am I really?"

"You are," Wolf insists. "So get up."

"If you want to look so bad, just do it. I told you, Wolf—I'm so fucking tired of this. Of everything."

Lightning lights up the sky—for a moment, it's cold and bright. Jake is supine on the floor, chest rising up and down in shallow breaths. His exhausted, but he is alive. The dull teeth of fear gnaw at Wolf's bones as—reluctantly, with great trepidation—he approaches Jake, lowering into a squat next to his head.

The sky flashes again.

Wolf sees the number clearly, and wishes to erase it from his memory.

Fifteen.

Jake has fifteen days to live.

"You're younger than me," is all Wolf can say, "How?"

Jake lets out a wheezy chuckle. "What do you mean 'how'? I was born in October. The twenty-sixth."

"That's..." Wolf does the math in his head. "In thirty days."

"Aren't you clever, Wolf?"

"Don't patronize me."

Wolf sits down, taking a pack of crumpled cigarettes out of his pocket. He offers one to Jake, who makes no move to take it. Shrugging, he lights up, exhaling smoke. "Who says you'll die? If you can make it an extra fifteen days, you'll live."

"Who says?"

"That girl lived, didn't she? She managed to avoid being marked before she turned eighteen."

"I've already been marked, though."

Wolf shakes his head, stubborn as a mule. "You can make it. You won't die at zero. Just live another fifteen days. That's all you need to do. Hah!" His laugh tapers off somewhere in the middle. "Sounds fucking easy to me."

"... You really are something, Wolf." Jake takes his arm off his face, resting it above his head. "Hey."

"What?"

"Can we go inside? It's fucking cold out here."

"Fine."

Chapter Text

She is like the sun—warm in her kindness and blazing in her fierceness. Young and full of dreams, unlike them. She reaches out a hand to him, but he bats it away, because adults aren't supposed to care about him. Her name is Hannah Kim. She is named after her grandmother and their middle school is her first teaching experience outside of tutoring.

Nancy Oh hates her at first. So does Wolf Keum. Sam Lee's a bit nicer than they are, but he doesn't think much of her either.

Still, she stays.

She doesn't ask for much.

Just an opportunity to teach.

To teach them about the world, and to teach them how to dream, because they are young and that's what they should be doing.

"Do you like reading?" Ms. Kim asks him one day, when she finds him hunched over a book he stole from another kid. She's used to his behavior, thinks he can learn to grow out of it, and he looks up at her, warily.

"No," he says. "This book sucks." It does. It's a dumb story about some kid saving the world from alien invaders and he's only reading it so he can make fun of it later.

"Let me find you some better ones, then," she offers.

Ms. Kim stops by his classroom each day even though she isn't his homeroom teacher. With her, she always brings a haul of books from her house or the local library. There's so much to read and so much to absorb that he has to begrudgingly invite Nancy and Sam over at lunch so they can help him finish it all before Ms. Kim brings the next batch along.

After a few weeks, Nancy huffs and puts her book down. "Why are we doing this? She never said you had to finish all of it. You don't need to humor her, Wolf."

"Shut up," he snaps. "This is the good part."

"Whatever. Me and Sam are gonna go to the roof to smoke. You should come join us."

He ignores them.

When Ms. Kim finds him again, the sun is setting and he's asleep on the table in an empty classroom, drooling on an open book. She laughs to herself, quietly, and drapes her shawl over him so that he won't be cold.

The thunder splitting the skies and a persistent ringing wakes him up. Wolf opens his eyes to the ceiling and a crick in his neck. His body is sore all over, but it feels good. Reminds him that he's alive despite everything. His arm is hanging off the side of his bed before he lifts it to fumble around on his nightstand for the phone. "Who is it?" he mumbles into the speaker, blearily.

"Jake? Is that you?"

Jake? Jake Ji? No, it isn't. Wolf grumbles, one hand reaching under his nightshirt to scratch an itch on his chest, "Mm'no. Who the fuck are you?"

"Why do you have his phone?" the stranger interrogates, and Wolf feels his temper rising.

"Wolf?" Beside him, Jake stirs, eyelids fluttering as he is roused from slumber. The blanket is twisted haphazardly around his bruised, bandaged body. Immediately after they finished treating themselves, they collapsed into Wolf's bed without a care. "Who is it?"

"That's what I want to know."

"Is that Jake?" says the stranger on the phone. "I heard him—that was Jake, wasn't it? Can you put him on please? Tell him that it's his brother—Kenny."

Wolf tosses the phone on the blanket. "It's Kenny."

Jake yawns, sitting up. He's wearing one of Wolf's bigger shirts—one of the few that fit his broader stature. His hair sticks up like straw on one side of his head. He feels around for the bed for the phone, his eyes still adjusting to the dark. "Kenny?" He clears his throat when his voice comes out raspier than normal. "Kenny."

"Where the hell are you?!" Wolf hears Kenny shout. Jake must've accidentally put him on speaker. "I waited all night for you—"

"Sorry," Jake apologizes, and he sounds like he means it. "I... I needed to clear my head."

"Where are you now? I'll—"

"Don't. You don't need to come get me. I'm not a child or an invalid."

"But you're..." Kenny trails off, and an awkward silence follows. The tension is suffocating, and Wolf thinks that he's gone deaf until his mind registers the gentle thrum of storm water against the windowpane.

"I'll be back in a few hours," says Jake, tersely. "Don't call me again." Then he hangs up, without giving Kenny any opportunity to answer.

"He knows," Wolf states.

"Yeah, he knows. He... He means well. And I understand that. God knows how much of a mother hen I turned into when he was still recovering his leg." Jake looks like he wants to say more, but he doesn't. Instead, he gets out of bed, feet hitting the tile flooring with a muffled thump. He groans softly, rolling his shoulder. "Damn. You hit harder than I remember."

"The morning after is always the worst."

Jake snorts at that.

Wolf doesn't see what's so funny, but Jake doesn't bother explaining, standing and stretching. "Thanks for the fight," he says without turning around. "I guess I'll see you around. Maybe."

"That's it? You're not even gonna stay for breakfast?"

"I never took you for the hospitable type."

"No, but—" He stops. But what? Jake is Jake. So what if he's numbered? Wolf doesn't think he's going to go down that easily, especially to some stupid disease. Jake is a fighter that could've ruled the streets if he wanted to. In fact, Jake doesn't look sick at all. He certainly doesn't look like he's dying. "Ugh, fine. Just—just get outta here."

"What would I do without you?" Jake says, dryly. "All my friends are dead, but at least you're still here."

"Fuck off."

Without further prompting, Jake does exactly that.

'Wolf Keum' is a name that is feared among the delinquents of Seoul. He is the terror of Ganghak, and the king of Yeongdeungpo's streets. Wolf Keum smokes, drinks, swears, and drives without even possessing a license—Wolf Keum does not go to the movies because he thinks it's a waste of time.

"I can't believe you wanna watch this shit," Wolf says to Jake. They're standing outside of the movie theater, Wolf giving the poster on their left a snide look.

It's been five days since Jake left his house in a mood. Wolf's face and neck are still covered in white plasters. He uses the ones with menthol, just like how Jimmy Bae—the pussy—likes his cigarettes. Wolf has always relished the burn in his throat. Jake's current state is no better. He looks like he's lost a bit of weight, and his face is adorned with plasters in a similar fashion to Wolf's.

"You agreed," Jake points out, smirking.

If the Black-Out Blight isn't going to kill Jake, Wolf is. "Fuck you. Motherfucker."

Society is in the agonizingly slow process of returning back to normal. The Black-Out Blight doesn't affect adults, and since the majority of the world's population are comprised of adults, the world is still able to somewhat function. But the possibility of extinction still looms over everyone's heads—the government has begun offering large sums of money to men and women to freeze their sperm and eggs so that babies can still be made after a cure to the mysterious Black-Out Blight has been found.

The Blight gives you ten days left, Wolf thinks as they enter the cinema together. Jake indulges, buying large buckets of cheese, caramel, and chocolate popcorn. Cinema food is insanely expensive. Wolf just gets a large drink with plans of mooching off Jake's popcorn later on. It's such an unwanted thought that Wolf wishes he could physically beat it up so that it will never show its ugly face around his mind ever again.

They watch a superhero movie. Rather, Jake does. Wolf sleeps through most of it, head tilted back and snoring softly as the main protagonist fights the ultimate villain in a climax that has been built up over twelve movies to protect the sanctity of the universe. He only wakes up when the end credits are rolling, from a slap across the back of the head, courtesy of Jake.

"You damn bastard," Jake sounds pissed as they walk out of the theater, "Don't tell me you slept through the whole fucking thing?"

Wolf scoffs. "Did you seriously not notice until the end?"

"Well, I was wondering why you weren't saying anything—but I gave you the benefit of the doubt. I thought you were enjoying it so much that it made you speechless."

"You're the one making me speechless right now. I don't get how anyone could possibly enjoy that juvenile shit. 'Hero X'. Hah, fuck. They must have shit for brains."

"What was that?"

It's not Jake who says it, but rather some punk with a mullet and a cigarette hanging between his teeth. He and his crew are squatting outside the cinema, spitting like llamas on the concrete. He's glaring at Wolf.

Wolf begins the countdown. "You heard me. I said you must have shit for brains to like that."

Three...

Two...

One.

Wolf takes off his glasses, handing them to Jake, who steps back to enjoy the show. These motherfuckers are dead. "Hey, dickwad. You should've kept staring at the ground like a good little bitch."

"You son of a bitch!"

The guy throws the first punch, and Wolf lets him. Jake is watching with his eyes at half-mast, as if this fight isn't even worth his time. Wolf doesn't really blame him—each hit he takes feels like a breeze on his cheek compared to the likes of Jake and Donald. Wolf doesn't even let the guy finish his turn, already bored of how pathetic he is. He catches the moviegoer off guard with a punch that definitely breaks his nose.

"You—!" His lackeys stand up and throw their cigarettes away, but Jake is on them like white on rice. He has Wolf's glasses perched on his head like they're designer sunglasses as he takes them down with a kick. There are people watching but nobody intervenes, choosing instead to leave the premises after they have their fill of teenage nonsense.

"That was lame," Wolf says, shaking his hand. His knuckles barely even sting in the way that he likes. Great—now he's all worked up with nothing to take it out on. Nothing except... He looks at Jake. "Oi. You. Me. Ganghak sports field. Now."

"Are you for real?" Jake returns Wolf's spectacles. "You're such a fighting addict."

"Don't act like you're not."

"I'm not as bad as you are."

Wolf grins as he puts his glasses back on. "I could make you worse. Do you want me to?" He lets out a surprised yelp that sounds shamefully like a dog getting its tail stepped on when Jake grabs him by the hoodie and drags him along. "Jake Ji—!"

"What? We're going to Ganghak."

Stunned, Wolf can only allow Jake to carry him along like a scruffed cat before he snaps out of it, swatting Jake's hand away. "I'm driving."

"Let me," Jake says. "You drive like a maniac. I hope you never get your license. If I let you drive, I might end up dying before zero."

It's such a morbid joke that Wolf can't help but cackle. Then he sobers up, reality sinking its claws into his marrow. "Okay," he agrees, trying his best to sound flippant. "But if you crash it, you're paying for all of it."

"Yeah, yeah." Jake chuckles, catching the keys Wolf throws to him in midair.

It's a sunny day today, not unlike the day of the Black-Out. After several days of constant rain, a little sun is welcome. Jake likes to go hard and fast, but he's a bit more careful than Wolf, who has at least five close calls on a regular afternoon. It's not so bad, having someone else drive. Maybe this is why Jimmy Bae used to have Jack Kang drive him around most of the time.

Ah, Jimmy Bae.

Wolf doesn't know if he's alive or not, but he does not particularly care about his fate.

Jake stops at a red light. Loser. "What are you thinking about?"

"Hm? Nothing. Just... I wonder if that Jimmy Bae is still alive."

"I called him already," Jake reports. "He's fine. His birthday was in July so he managed to make the cut."

Well, lucky him, Wolf supposes. "And Jack Kang?"

"Also alive."

"How nice of the universe to give the married couple their happy ending," Wolf sneers.

Jake guffaws. "They really do look like that, don't they?" He's about to jet off again when some idiot zips through the intersection despite it being a red light, and Jake swears as they jerk forward before stopping. Wolf lurches forward, bumping against Jake's back. He feels warm. Alive. "Motherfucker! Learn how to drive!"

Ganghak isn't too far from the theaters. Most of the Yeongdeungpo area is pretty contained. Wolf takes in the city sights while Jake drives. It's rare for him to simply sit and watch the world go by—normally he has to keep his eyes on the road at all times to avoid an untimely vehicular death. Seoul is drearily metropolitan—Wolf grew up in the concrete jungle, but he's always found more appeal in the countryside. Never-ending fields and long, winding roads if those vacation billboards are any indication of what there is out there.

They park behind the school and jump the gate, heading straight for the sports field. It looks exactly the same as it did the last time Wolf was here—when Jake broke the news of Eunchan's death.

"So," Jake begins when they're warming up. Wolf doesn't really need to, but Jake insists, stretching his legs and reaching for his toes. "How does it feel to be alive?"

"The same," Wolf answers, flatly, "as you probably do."

"Well, I'll be dead in just over a week—"

"Shut up, Jake. Shut the fuck up."

"Heh, sorry."

"Why are you hanging out with me, anyway?" Wolf asks, standing and brushing grass off the back of his pants. "It's not like we were friends before... all of this."

"All my friends are dead, as you already know," Jake replies. "And my brother... I don't want to worry him too much. He keeps acting like a concerned mother every time I'm with him. Like if the wind blows too hard, I'm gonna be swept away. But I won't. I'm fine."

"You won't be fine after this," Wolf says, cracking his neck. "Can we start already? I hate wasting time."

"Sure, sure."

They fight. It's their third scuffle with one another, and they're still getting used to one another. Wolf is a fast learner—always has been—but Jake's foundation is simply so strong and so tall that he's still a half-step ahead of him. They beat each other to a pulp, though it's not as savage or as bloody as the other night. Part of Wolf is disappointed in that, but another part of him is also aware of Jake's... affliction. Still—

"Are you holding back?" Jake accuses him at one point, temper flaring. "Because—"

Wolf answers with a hard punch to his face. "Don't fucking insult me like that."

Eventually, they end up sprawled on the grass, panting and bleeding and beaten. Oddly enough, it feels like they've just had a conversation. One that required no words, but a conversation all the same. All of their worries and frustrations converted to marks and bruises on their young, living bodies.

"We should do this again sometime." Jake sounds weirdly cheerful. "Why don't we make it a regular thing?"

Wolf gives him a look. "You're fucked in the head."

"I'm a dead man walking, cut me some slack. So—can we?"

Wolf doesn't disagree.

They do as Jake suggests, meeting up every day for a scrimmage at Ganghak High. Each day is the almost exactly the same—they beat the shit out of each other, recover for a bit in the grass, and then maybe go for a jog around the track. Sometimes, they go out for lunch or dinner or try their luck at the arcade claw machines after patching themselves up.

It's monotonous, but it is by no means tedious, and Wolf thinks there is a world of difference between the two. It's like a reading routine. Monotonous, yes, but not tedious by any stretch of the definition.

The days tick away.

Jake—

Jake slows down.

Wolf doesn't notice at first. But then the difference between them becomes more and more visible. When Jake spontaneously bleeds from his nose after a fight without Wolf even hitting him there once, he knows they have to stop.

"I don't want to," Jake says, hotly, wiping the blood away frantically. "I can keep going—"

"But I don't want to," snaps Wolf, shaking his wrist out. It's sprained thanks to Jake, but it'll heal with time. "Let's just stop for today."

Jake's expression is thunderous, and Wolf nearly cows at it. But he stands his ground. "You don't get to decide that."

"Oh? Don't I? It's a two-way street, you know. You don't call all the shots here, Jake—we both do."

"Hypocrite. So it's okay to make me fight when you want to fight, but it isn't when I want to and you don't?" Jake doubles over and laughs. "You fucking hypocrite, Wolf!"

Wolf barely even hears him. He's been the doing the math in his head. If he's not wrong, Jake's number should be two today. He lets out a deep breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. God, he needs to be patient—he needs to. Jake's temperament has been all over the place lately, even by Wolf's standards. "Let's go for a run," he says out loud, even when it sounds like there's an ocean thrashing between his ears.

"Fine," Jake grinds out. "It's not like I can stop you now."

They run one lap.

Two.

Three.

Jake collapses on his knees at the start of the fourth. Alarmed, Wolf turns back around and kneels down beside him, but Jake holds up an arm. "Don't."

This can't be right, Wolf thinks. Just a few days ago, Jake was fit as a fiddle. Just a few days ago, Jake was running almost thirty laps around this fucking field. "Fuck," he hisses, turning away. "Fuck!"

Jake doesn't get up. He sits down instead, breathing heavily and hanging his head. Beads of sweat drip down his temple, and his cheeks are bloodless. Wolf tosses him a drink bottle. It lands beside him, and Jake chugs the entire thing, letting out a sigh at the end. "Okay," he says. "You're right. Let's stop."

Wolf rolls his eyes. "Finally. You're so fucking stubborn."

"Like you have room to talk."

I'm not the one looking on the verge of death's doorstep. Wolf sits down beside him, shoving his hands in the pockets of his hoodie.

"I don't want to die," Jake declares.

"Well, yeah," Wolf answers. "Just live for another fifteen days. You'll probably be fine after that."

"What if I can't?" Jake looks down at his hands. They're covered in dirt, from when he fell on the grass. "What if I'm not strong enough?"

"Don't be fucking stupid. You're the strongest person I know."

"Hah... Hahaha!"

When Jake cries bitterly, Wolf lets him.

The day he hits zero, Wolf is with him. They're at Wolf's apartment, because Jake just can't stay away from him, apparently. Neither of them speak much, as if doing so would summon death from the abyss to snatch Jake away from Wolf.

They don't do anything physical or intensive.

Instead, Jake surprises Wolf with a hobby of his on the day of his marked death.

"You draw?" Wolf puts down two cups of sweet tea on the dining table. Jake's brought his sketchpad with him today, and is in the middle of drawing what seems to be an intense action scene. He takes a closer look and his nose scrunches up when he realizes what he's looking at. "Comics. You draw comics."

"What?" Jake grins up at him, pulling the tea a bit closer. "What's wrong with comics?"

"Nothing, I guess." Wolf takes a seat adjacent to him, leaning over his shoulder. "Huh. You're pretty good."

The zero on Jake's arm is hard to look at. He's wearing a t-shirt today after weeks of Wolf only seeing him in long-sleeved shirts. Wolf tries not to stare, but he finds his gaze drifting toward the ugly mark a few times. If Jake ever notices his staring, he doesn't remark upon it. "Do you want to know what it's about?"

"No," Wolf deadpans. "I'm not interested in that kinda shit."

"I figured as much." Jake continues to draw. "From the movies."

"I'm not a little kid."

"Nobody is if you think about it," says Jake, and wow, that's a macabre thought. Wolf raises an eyebrow at that, but doesn't refute it. It's true, after all. He can't even remember the last time he saw an actual child. They're all dead.

It's raining outside, water pelting relentlessly against the window. Wolf drinks his tea slowly, savoring the sour-sweetness. "Did you always like to draw?" he asks. It's to fill the dreadful silence, but he's curious as well. He's never really met Jake outside of fighting—doesn't know a thing about what he's like when he's not giving someone severe head trauma.

"Yep. Since I was a kid. I used to show the other kids my comics in elementary school."

Huh. He's kind of a nerd. Wolf already knows that he has peculiar interests, but he's never really known how far they go until today. Jake moves his hand on the paper like he's been doing it his whole life. His sketches look more finalized drawings to Wolf than actual sketches. He could go far with this.

"I always wanted to make a comic," Jake goes on, "Something popular, like Won Piece. Something that cheers people up, and keeps them invested in the story and the characters."

Wolf huffs a small laugh. "You're so... lame."

"And you're such a jock. Always looking for a fight." Jake shakes his head. "You should really get another hobby, man, before you get your head beaten in for good."

Another hobby? He did have such a thing once. Wolf drinks his tea thoughtfully, eyes darting from the clock hanging on his wall to the zero on Jake's wrist. Finally, he says, "I used to read a lot. Fucked up my eyesight, but whatever."

"Really?" Jake's eyes go wide. "You? Reading?"

Wolf glowers. "Don't act so shocked."

Jake puts down his pencil. "What kind of books did you like?"

"... Sci-fi, mostly." He names a few, and Jake nods along.

The next hour is filled with Wolf describing to Jake some of the storylines he's read before. "Keep going," encourages Jake, listening even as he draws, "I need some inspiration for my story."

"Plagiarizing piece of shit," says Wolf, but he humors him anyway.

At some point, the rain and the hot tea lulls them both to sleep. Wolf wakes up close to seven in the evening with a crick in his back that he quickly stretches out. Jake is still asleep beside him, head resting in his arms. His pencil is next to his empty tea cup. There's a drop of tea on the corner of his sketchpad.

Wolf nudges him, just to make sure he's still alive. Jake groans, stirring, and bats Wolf's hand away.

He should let him sleep.

Wolf digs around in his closet until he finds what he's looking for buried at the bottom of a box filled with books he never gave back to her. It's a woman's shawl, untouched for years. It doesn't smell like anything anymore, just stale air. He unfolds it and drapes it around Jake's shoulders.

Then he punches a number into his phone.

"Hello, Kenny? I think he's gonna make it."

Jake lives.

He's in the hospital now, the latest marvel in a long string of failures for doctors and scientists to fawn over. They tell him that they can feel it, that he's going to be special, and they give his family an absurd amount of money as well.

Wolf visits him every day. It's a maximum of three people per visit, but Wolf always makes sure that Kenny and Mr. Ji aren't there when he pops by. It's too much of a bother explaining his relationship to Jake.

Every time he drops by, Jake is drawing. He's a damn machine, that guy, fixated on only one thing.

"You should take a break," Wolf advises one day, sipping a can of dark coffee he got from the vending machine. It's four days past his death date. Jake is skinnier now, and he's hooked up to all sorts of machines. "Or your hand might fall off."

"I can't," Jake says, unexpectedly fierce. "I can already feel my muscles atrophying. Soon, I won't even be able to pick up a pencil, let alone draw."

"It won't be the end of the world. You can always pick it up again at a later date."

He's gotten a lot more patient, Wolf thinks. Patience is a quality he's always lacked—perhaps fundamentally—but these past weeks have had him exercising self-control in a manner that he's never done so before.

Jake hums. "Maybe."

He doesn't stop.

Ten days past his death date.

The doctors inject something into Jake's side. "Hold still," they say. "You might feel a pinch."

Wolf is smoking through his fifth cigarette outside the hospital lobby when Kenny comes to find him. "Hey," says Kenny. Wolf looks to him. They haven't really spoken, though they have crossed paths a couple of times. "You can come in now."

"How is he?" Wolf asks without moving.

Kenny looks tired. Even though his body isn't the one rotting away because of some divine punishment (or so the zealots claim). "As well as he can be." He lets out a mirthless chuckle. "I guess this is how he must've felt when I..." He chokes on a sob. "Oh, man. Oh, man. Jake..."

Wolf lets Kenny cry it out while he finishes his cigarette.

Jake looks more drained than usual in the hospital bed. His eyes are closed, and he looks to be asleep, but he opens them up as soon as Wolf steps into the room, closing the door behind him. "You're back." Jake wears a strained smile. "Ah. You smell like cigarettes. I missed the smell."

"You don't smoke," points out Wolf.

"Some of my friends did," says Jake. "And so does my dad. The smell—it's comforting."

"Weirdo," says Wolf. He grabs Jake's sketchpad off the table and hands it to him, frowning when Jake makes no move to take it from him. "Aren't you gonna draw?"

"I can't move my arms anymore."

"Oh."

"You can look through it, though," Jake offers, a little hurriedly. As if he wants to move on from this revelation. "If you want."

"Nah," Wolf refuses, "I'm not a fucking nerd."

Eleven days have passed since Jake's number turned zero. It's the longest anyone has survived thus far, and he has presidential candidates visiting him in their subtle electioneering attempts. Everyone starts to want monopolizing his time. They only see him as something worth paying attention now, rather than before. It frustrates Wolf—rubs him the wrong way.

Jake is so much more than a medical miracle.

When everyone is finally gone—when Wolf finally gets to see him again—Jake looks more exhausted than ever. It hurts a part of Wolf to see him that way, but he pushes the feeling away.

"Wolf," Jake asks—no, demands, "read to me. I'm bored."

"Read what?"

"One of your books. The ones you used to read."

"I didn't bring any with me."

"Can't you just look up an online copy?"

Wolf groans, running his fingers through his hair. "Fine, fine, fine. Fuck's sake." He looks up one of the more memorable ones that should be available online from just how much of an old classic it is. He clears his throat. Reading aloud is not his forte—reading, to Wolf, is supposed to be a quiet activity. But of course Jake Ji is ruining that for him. It's just like him to do that.

Jake slumps into his pillow. "Start whenever."

His mouth feels dry all of a sudden, but he begins, reading out loud and slow, "'I am by birth a Genevese, and my family is one of the most distinguished of that republic. My ancestors had been for many years counselors and syndics'..."

Kenny catches him one day, reading to a sleeping Jake. He's on the third chapter of Frankenstein, and Kenny pauses at the doorway to watch the peculiar sight. Wolf Keum, the terror of the streets, reading to a boy in a hospital bed. He seems strangely invested in the activity, not even noticing Kenny standing at the door.

There's something intimate about the scene.

He doesn't interrupt them.

Wolf starts staying the night. Whenever Kenny can't be by Jake's side, Wolf is there. They alternate some days, but Kenny works night shifts, so Wolf ends up being the one to stay late.

A physical copy of Frankenstein sits on the table next to Jake's untouched sketchpad.

Wolf wonders, just briefly, if Jake's story is any good.

"Why me?" Wolf asks one evening. "It didn't have to be me. It could've been Jimmy. Or even Jack or... anyone else."

"But I wanted it to be you," is all Jake says.

Wolf doesn't understand him at all.

It's the middle of the night when Wolf wakes up, throat parched.

It's the middle of the night when Wolf sits back down at Jake's bedside, sipping on a cup of cold water, and Jake, who should be asleep, says, "I'm sorry."

Wolf pauses, swallowing. "For what?"

"Wolf. I'm not gonna make it."

"Don't say that," Wolf says, but it sounds like a lamb's bleat to his own ears. Deep down, he thinks he knows, too—has known for a while now. Jake's barely hanging on by a thread. Jake knows it, Wolf knows it, Kenny knows it, the doctors know it.

They're preparing for a funeral already. Wolf nearly punched the head doctor when he found out. Because Jake has too much to live for—he can't die now—why is everyone giving up on him? He's destined for greatness. Jake can do anything he wants to. He's smart, he's strong, he's charismatic. He's brilliant—a diamond in the rough. He can be so much more than—than this.

Their story isn't meant to end this way.

"Can you get me up?" Jake asks, quietly. "I want to go outside. Just over there."

"You should rest—"

"Wolf."

Wolf sighs, holding out a hand. "You're going straight back to bed after this."

He helps Jake into the wheelchair, rolling all the little machines he's attached to along. The blanket twisted around his legs falls to the ground, and he has to pick them back up. All the while, their hands remain intertwined.

"You're trembling." Jake blinks, slowly. "Are you excited again? You freak..."

"No."

"Are you scared, then?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Fine!" Wolf throws his hands up in the air. "Fine, I'm scared! Goddammit, Jake Ji, you—"

"Why?"

Wolf blinks. Anger flashes across his face, briefly, before his expression settles like a low-burning flame. "Why? Why do you think? Your birthday is less than twenty-four hours away, but you—" He exhales, sharply. "You..."

"I must look horrible."

He does. He's all skin and bones and his face is paper white, his paleness noticeable even in the dimly lit room on the fifth floor. Wolf expected this. He told himself that he would be ready to see Jake like this, but the truth of the matter is that he isn't. He isn't ready at all, and to see a man he considers his equal—considers as so much more—bed-bound and wasting away is... is... Wolf's throat bobs. "What are you talking about? You look like you always did. Do."

"You're such a horrible liar, man."

Is he? Wolf rubs at his face, as if it will wipe off any emotion that might be visible even in his dark, still room. He glances at the clock on the nightstand. Glowing numbers read the time: six-fifteen in the morning. The sun will be up soon. Yawning, he stands, the chair scraping against the floor.

Wolf opens the curtains, slowly. Uncertainly. As if the rays of the sun will disintegrate Jake on the spot. Then he opens the sliding door, greeted by a fresh breeze with a hint of oncoming rain. Jake can't move his arms anymore, so Wolf wheels him out to the balcony. He feels like he can't breathe—like he has to force each breath to push air into his lungs. The long, steadily receding shadows of the night carve trenches in their haggard faces as indigo diffuses across the sky.

"Are you scared?" Jake asks again, abruptly.

"I should be the one asking you that," replies Wolf, rubbing under his eye. His knuckle lifts his glasses momentarily. His fingers are ice cold.

Jake smiles. "I'm not scared."

His hands are quivering.

Wolf slides his fingers between Jake's. He squeezes once. Jake squeezes back, but Wolf barely feels it. The hand that once felt like it could shatter his bones now rests limp.

"You don't have to pretend," Wolf says, remembering the day Jake first called him after the Black-Out, hitting up all of his contacts to make sure that nobody he cared about was dead. "There's no one here, Jake."

All my friends are dead or dying.

Jake squints at the gathering of the dawn. "Can you get me my sketchpad?"

"But you can't even—"

"I know. I want you to do it."

"I can't draw."

"I know that, too. But will you? Just this once."

Wolf huffs, but doesn't argue. He disappears for a few seconds before returning to Jake's side with his sketchpad, a pencil, and a plastic chair so he can take a seat next to Jake. "What do you want me to draw?"

"The sunrise," Jake says. "It's funny—this view in front of us. It's exactly how I pictured the story would end." He hums. "Well—with a lot less buildings, I guess. A grassy hill, with a tall, tall sycamore. The sun rising over the hills. The protagonist is surrounded by his friends and family. The battle is over. They won. Now they're taking the next steps into the future that they fought for."

"It's generic," criticizes Wolf. "And lame." It's everything he hated reading in middle school, and everything everybody else seemed to like at that age.

"Sometimes, all you need is a good happy ending."

"Isn't it boring?"

"I think it's nice."

"Alright." Wolf picks up the pencil, making some preliminary strokes across the A3 page. "Tell me more. In fact, tell me the whole damn thing. What you wanted to write."

"I think the main theme is that 'everything will be alright'. Even though the beginning isn't happy, the main character is determined to decide his own fate. The story starts off when he's betrayed by his friends..."

How quaint, Wolf thinks, even when Sam and Nancy's faces flash through his mind. He adds some shading.

"... and his mentor was murdered. He loses everyone in his life and goes on a killing rampage across the land. But one day, he meets someone. And he changes."

"Bullcrap," Wolf interjects.

Jake continues like Wolf hasn't said a thing. It's so terribly on-brand that Wolf finds himself kicking the thick sheet of protective glass beneath the railing. Jake Ji—Jake Ji, who always commands the situation with such little effort. Jake Ji, who doesn't let himself be drawn into petty squabbles like Wolf does. Sometimes, Wolf feels like a child next to him. "He changes—for the better. He becomes inspired, and he no longer takes out his anger on others. His inventions start saving people, and he advances their civilization. There's still a lot of fighting, because neighboring countries become threatened by the success of his kingdom, and a lot of people die.

"But they win in the end. They struggle, they take losses, but they overcome it all. And that's the ending of the story—the protagonist," Jake coughs, clearing his throat, "and his friends stand on the hillside, watching the sunrise. And it's beautiful."

Wolf's hand stops moving across the page. "I'm done."

"Can I see?"

The finished product looks like a child's drawing. Wolf is almost embarrassed to show it to Jake, but he does anyway. Jake doesn't criticize him, accepting the sketchpad back with a small smile and staring at the pencil strokes like they're a work of fine art. He takes a long time. Time seems to bleed into nothing—it's just Wolf, Jake, and a myriad of unspoken words hanging between them.

"It looks good," Jake says in the end, placing the sketchpad on his lap.

"Don't lie," Wolf says, irritably. He wants a cigarette, but he's run out. "It looks like shit."

"I can see the story it's trying to tell. And that's all a drawing really needs, isn't it? You can always brush up on your skills at a later date."

Wolf doesn't plan on honing any meager art skills he might possess. "So can you."

Jake doesn't answer, but Wolf can see it in his eyes—Jake doesn't want to die. They still gleam so brightly, even beneath the ash-like build-up that spreads a muddied film across his retinas.

For a while, they just sit in silence, neither saying a word. Two young men on the cusp of adulthood, and only one young man that will live to see it, the curtains of adolescence drawing shut.

Then—

"Hey, Wolf?"

"What?"

"The next issue of Won Piece is coming out tomorrow in Hop Magazine. Can you buy me a copy?"

Wolf leans back in his seat. "Why should I?"

"Come on, man. Pretty please?"

Well.

Maybe it'll give him some incentive to live longer.

(But he's already dying.)

Wolf laces his fingers together, looking out toward the horizon. Seoul is waking up, cars moving like black ants across blacker roads that look like toothpicks from here. His heart is racing despite the calmness of the situation, and his palms are sweaty even in the early morning chill. It dawns on him—he's scared. He's so, so scared. Wolf is scared—he's scared of how coarse Jake's hair feels, and how dull his skin is. He's scared of the black tattoo that marks the inside of Jake's wrist and he's scared of how brittle Jake's fingers are when he touches them.

"Fine," Wolf says, gruffly. "I'll buy you your stupid comic. And you know why? It's because tomorrow's your birthday, Jake." He feels more breathless than ever before. Like all the air has been sucked out from his lungs. "It might take a while for you to get back on your feet. To—to recover from all this. But when you do, we're gonna fight again. And I'm gonna make you wish that you were dead. Do you hear me?"

Jake laughs. He doesn't say anything to refute him, or to accept him—he just laughs, like Wolf's said something very funny. Wolf wants to hit him across the head for making a joke out of him. But he doesn't, because the sound is oddly soothing despite its watery quality, like listening to the weight on his shoulders finally being lifted. "Oh, Wolf. You really are something."

"I'm serious. You know that, right, Jake?"

The sun peers over the Han River as the world welcomes the morning of the twenty-fifth.

"Jake?"

Everything stills.

Wolf is alone.

Later on, when his family comes to pick up the body, Wolf realizes. Wolf realizes it when he's jostled to the side for Kenny to hug his little brother's corpse, sobbing violently. The Ji brothers don't have a mother, but they have a father—he remains stolid, hiding his face with one broad, calloused hand, but Wolf thinks he sees his shoulders shaking.

And Wolf—

Wolf realizes.

All his friends are dead.

And so is Jake.

Chapter Text

The first post-Blight baby born in Korea without defects is celebrated across the globe, fifteen years after the Black-Out. Korea receives many congratulations from the other nations, and more funding is granted toward Blight research to further its development of a foolproof treatment plan.

The symposium, hosted by a world-class doctor and an expert consultant in the Black-Out Blight on a cold October night, is a success. There is now a seventy-two percent survival rate for young Blight victims. Several top Blight researchers take the stage, answering questions and proposing theories.

Then the main body of discussion is wrapped up, and dinner is served. Afterward, they—they who have spent nearly two decades trying to find a cure for the Blight—shed their stresses and worries and socialize, champagne flutes in their hands.

He's talking with Professor Kim from Seoul National University Hospital and Chairwoman Elise from Germany's biggest pharmaceutical company—Weiss—when she joins their small circle, murmuring polite greetings. Their eyes light up, and they welcome her into their idle talk.

"It's always good to see you, Dr. Oh," says Chairwoman Elise. "Have you been acquainted with Professor Keum yet?"

The medical world is not a huge one. He knows about her—knows that she's a Blight surgeon in the USA now.

Dr. Oh smiles at him, warmly. "Of course."

"Dr. Oh," he greets her. "It's been a long time."

"Yes, it has, hasn't it?"

"Oh, do you two know each other already?" says Professor Kim. "We'll give you two some time to catch up."

With that, he and the Chairwoman disappear into the crowd, laughing between themselves.

"Congratulations," starts Dr. Oh. "Professor Keum. You've hosted a wonderful symposium."

Professor Seongje Keum snorts softly into his champagne glass. His tastes are more suited to hard liquor. Something coarser, something less refined. "You haven't changed a bit, Nancy."

"Haven't I?" Nancy Oh laughs into her hand. "Oh, Wolf—can I still call you that?"

She's older now—they both are. He's thirty-three and she's thirty-four. Her face is sharper than he remembers, and there's actually light to her oyster-gray eyes now. Her hair—which was long and pink and messy in high school—is cropped short in a pixie cut and back to its original color: chocolate brown. She looks happier. Like she's no longer on the verge of snapping and cutting a vertical line down her wrist.

"I don't care." Seongje takes a sip. "As long as you don't cuss at me."

Nancy tilts her head. "I could hardly recognize you. I forgot you used to have black hair. It looks good on you."

Seongje harrumphs. However good it looks, he doesn't feel particularly comfortable. His hair is slicked back and tidy and he smells like cologne. He wants to drag his fingers through his hair until it's all messy and tufted and loosen his tie.

"She'd be proud of you, you know."

"Who?"

"Ms. Kim." Nancy looks up at him, almost imploringly. "She always wanted the best for us. And, well, here we are." Her shoulders sag. "Almost all of us."

Seongje wants to go home. If he looks at Nancy's small, pretty face long enough, he will see the ghostly shadow of Sam Lee flickering behind her, eyes big and wide and sad. But there's still the closing speech—the only part of this whole night he's been looking forward to. There's somebody he needs everyone to remember for the rest of their lives. To remember his aptitude, his potential, and his contribution.

Finally, the moment comes.

Nancy and all of those memories they once shared fade to the background as he takes center stage. All eyes are on him—the man who worked himself to the bone to find a cure for the incurable. The man who will resume his work again tomorrow and never stop working until the Blight is eradicated from existence.

"My friends and fellow doctors," he begins at the stand, the mic crackling for a moment. "I want to thank you all for attending tonight. We have all worked long and hard to bring about an end to the Black-Out Blight. Before we conclude tonight's symposium, I would like to briefly recall the life and legacy of the man integral in advancing our research. His name was Jake Ji, and I was beside him when he passed away. He survived fourteen days after being marked as a zero.

"Fourteen days. Not a single Blight survivor before or after him lived for that long. His body held out until the very end—a demonstration, pure and simple, of his extraordinary will to live. Had he lived, I believe that he would have become something great. In fact—I am certain. He possessed a brilliant mind and a kind personality. There are no words I could possibly say that would encompass the depth and virtue of Mr. Ji's character. Mr. Ji was an artist of incredible caliber. He had dreams, friends, and a family who loved him. He had many stories to tell, stories that I know the world would have all enjoyed, had he been allowed to tell them.

"I, alongside his family, watched the Blight—slowly, but surely—erode Mr. Ji. Throughout it all, he laughed as readily as he cried. Perhaps he, too, like the rest of us back then, hoped that death would spare him. On the day of Mr. Ji's death, the world suffered a great loss. Mr. Ji—" Seongje clears his throat "—in the time that I knew him, was sharper than I could ever hope to be. I am a cynical man. But if he had been born just a little earlier, maybe tonight's celebration would have happened a decade ago.

"I would like to thank Mr. Ji's family for donating his body to research. If not for Mr. Ji, I know we would not be here tonight, celebrating our successes. I cannot say I fully understood Mr. Ji, but he was a man full of surprises, even in death."

The symposium concludes.

Professor Seongje Keum receives a round of applause as he leaves the stage. Professor Seongje Keum says goodbye to Dr. Nancy Oh, Professor Kim, Chairwoman Elise, and many of his other colleagues, most of which he has met only briefly. Professor Seongje Keum leaves the hotel and heads straight to his car.

Inside, Wolf Keum pulls out a fifteen-year-old copy of Hop Magazine from the glove box.

It's the twenty-sixth today.