Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It's always a little unsettling, Chan thinks, talking to one of these.

It took him some time to figure out exactly why engaging with clones always gave him the chills, but eventually he realized they reminded him of Grandma Bang just before she passed. Same look. Monotone voices and frail, lifeless hair. 

Grandma Bang went peacefully. Dementia didn’t have a chance to ruin her entirely, but Jeongin wears the same expression that she had at the end of her life. That thousand yard stare, signaling an early departure to another realm. It's just that Jeongin will never go. That's the thing about him. Never have the chance to decay or live out his days in peace. One day, once they deem him useless, they'll simply shut him off. 

Jeongin's hair is the color of ash, and his eyes are like the deepest night of winter.

But as Chan sits there staring at him over the metal table that separates them, twirling the pen between his fingers, he realizes that talking to Jeongin has always felt different. Like a near-flawless imitation of sentience. At times, Chan thinks he can see something move behind the curtain. There'll be a streak of light, like a lone star crashing through the void in his eyes, and then burning out. But then it's gone. And also, mostly due to principle alone, and because of knowing his story, Chan absolutely refuses to call Jeongin Clone 143, the name in the documents from Bioseed Clones.

Saying his other name feels a little awkward, but it's also mentioned in the file that lays wide open on the table. Jeongin.  

Jeongin, Jeongin. This Jeongin is a strange phenomena.

The sharp white light in here doesn’t do him any favors, really. He looks even more sickly pale. Unusually pale, pale. Pale, like the sun’s rays never even came close to touching his skin. 

"So...Jeongin?"

"Yes."

Jeongin looks at him attentively, but without emotion. His hands are clasped in his lap, like he's a school boy reciting a prayer at church. There's a strip of mud running from his temple and down his cheek, but otherwise no one could guess he was occupied in anything unusual recently. The black waistcoat he wears is perfectly ironed, white shirt tucked neatly under it.

"What exactly happened today?" Chan clicks the pen, ready to take notes. Just a tiny hint of irritation bleeds into his voice at having to sit here at this hour, again. He could be at home, in bed, but he wanted to deal with this first.

"I don't really remember," Jeongin answers, dragging the syllables apart until they float into space. And then there’s nothing more.

"Why did you run away from Mr Choi’s mansion? You were disturbing traffic.”

"I…I think I took a wrong turn. I walked out the door, cause…cause I must have been confused. I was in the middle of doing laundry."

"You were…confused?"

"Yes. I just walked in the wrong direction."

Chan rolls his eyes at the vapid answers. The poor kid can't help it, but still. He never really thought about it, but Jeongin has a kind of distinctly foxlike appearance. Especially his eyes. They're elongated, and slightly tilted. 

Definitely a fox. 

It gives him an odd aura of mischief, a strange sign of life within the endless void. Cheekbones, high and marked. Hair, a little wavy.

"You were nearly hit by a car," Chan points out, unable to not sound condescending. But it’s not like the kid will pick up on it. "The driver had to make a sharp u-turn and hit a streetlight. Pedestrians were in danger of being harmed.”

They collected the kid just an hour ago, after receiving a call from the furious driver who nearly hit him. He followed willingly, not a word spoken in his defense, not a complaint filed. No communication whatsoever. Not until now.

"I'm very sorry for all the trouble I caused, officer,” he says in the same dry fashion, and Chan rubs his eyes with his knuckles. There's no awareness to be found here, so why is he wasting his time?

He focuses on the file in front of him again, the pages detailing the entirety of Jeongin's short life. Headshots, serial number. But no earlier convictions. Clones wouldn’t have convictions, anyway, because they’re bred to act like docile sheep. Docile sheep commit no crimes.

"You've been staying with Mr Choi for...a while now, right?" He stares at Jeongin’s headshot. The background is white and clinical and he looks like he’s made of wax.

"That's right,” Jeongin confirms with minimal interest. Chan stares at the picture, and then at Jeongin. He has made visits to the Choi residence a number of times over the years, just to check out some simple noise complaints, as well as a case of possible breaking and entering recently. While Mr and Mrs Choi freaked out over their maybe-stolen but probably just misplaced jewelry, Jeongin had hovered behind them with his head lowered. Like a shadow in the dark, easy to miss unless you know him to be there. Unnoticed, unseen. Chan's eyes had constantly wandered. 

There was just something about him.

"Uhuh," he says, hearing how sardonic he sounds. It might just be frustration, because he really wants Jeongin to say something of value. "And what are your daily tasks at Mr Choi's house?"

"I cook, I clean. I do laundry. And I organize the wine cellar.”

"Ya-huh...and does Mr Choi treat you alright? Takes good care of you, doesn't make you work too hard?"

"Yes. Mr Choi is a very kind man.”

"Alright…good. You shouldn't leave your home without permission, you can get into some dangerous situations if you walk out alone. You know that, right?”

Chan knits his hands on top of the table and waits. The interrogation room is quiet and stuffy, and his coffee has gone lukewarm.

I’m very sorry," Jeongin says in his insufferable robot voice. "I promise to never misbehave or cause trouble again."

“You didn’t  — eh, anyway, nevermind. I guess we’re done here. You can go home."

Mystified, Chan leans back in his chair, feeling his bed beckon him all the way from home. This conversation is fruitless. Opening the file again, he reads the same records, in hopes of finding the answers Jeongin won't give him. Clones do not run away from their homes. Ever.

It doesn’t take long until the metal door flies open, and Minho’s chestnut head peeks in. 

"Hey," he says, his eyes scurrying to Jeongin, and then to Chan. "That Choi guy is here to collect the kid."

Several colleagues suggest the clone glitched and should be put down, which makes Chan's organs scream out in pure misery. Put down. That’s wrong on so many levels, like they're talking about a rabid dog, but he doesn't argue. He usually has the energy to, but not now. It's gone one AM in the morning, the rain pours down outside, and Choi Rian arrives to collect his runaway servant.

“Where did you find him?”

Chan glances at Jeongin, who stands obediently next to him in the lobby, his attention elsewhere. No reaction, no shift in mood. No signs of distress or aversion, either. Mr Choi sounds out of breath and smoothes out the wrinkles in his navy peacoat.

“We, uh...someone reported him," Chan explains with a curt nod. “He was roaming the streets and crossed a busy intersection. Then we found him in an alley nearby. It’s okay, really. He caused a bit of a commotion, but no one was hurt.”

“I must have left the door open. Sorry, I'm so sorry about the inconvenience," says Mr Choi, and bows politely. "I’ll take care of this, I really appreciate the police force's help. Come, Jeongin.”

The pair take their leave, and night closes in. Mr Choi’s large, ring-clad hand reaches around Jeongin's shoulder to escort him out. 

From a distance, it might look like a protective measure, an interaction you would see between a parent and a child. A gesture of love. But Chan observes something different. That grip looks steel-wired and bruising, leaving absolutely no room for escape. 

After all this, Chan might start to listen to his gut more often. When it knows, it knows, that’s what he always said. It knows when it’ll rain, and when pollution levels rise to unbearable and he should just stay home. Just, no one’s interested in listening. This city is like a dry wasteland where nothing grows, barely a flower, and definitely not kindness, hope or love, or any other things that are pure and innocent. That’s what he’s always said.

You set out for peace but got nuclear war

And bashed in the eyes of them all.

Focusing on work is impossible. The station is buzzing, all hands on deck as they recover from a short-staffed week of full hell. It’s Friday. It's the peak of winter, for christ’s sake. There’s drug lords and homicides and hysterical people calling about being snowed in, and needing the tow car, as if it’s their job to supply. 

Chan doesn’t care about any of that shit, they can remain snowed in for the rest of the year, for all he cares. All he can think about is his own, very personal vendetta against the clone industry.

Because of his gut and all of the things that it knows. Because the police station received a report of a missing clone. And that clone is Jeongin. 

Jeongin has been gone for three days. Three.  

How is he not dead? Is he dead? 

Chan is sure he's developed a stomach ulcer or something, and that the burnt coffee he chugs by the buckets isn't the only one to blame. 

Jeongin could be laying dead in a gutter, face paling beyond what he ever thought possible. Snowflakes swivel down to cover his body, and then he’ll turn lifeless beyond what anyone ever thought possible. Not like that would take much. Clones have no innate tools to navigate the labyrinth of this debauched city on their own. They have no idea how to survive anything, let alone a blizzard. And why does Chan care anyway?

This kid is just…a clone. But there’s nothing just about that, and Chan is attached to him, and of course he cares, because that's a human and not a robot. Each time he studies Jeongin's headshot, he’s about to be sick. So he cares. He cares so much that nausea stirs his tummy into a frenzy, and today's lunch wants to come up again.

He leans heavily over the desk in his office, head hanging over the familiar, yellowing pages. Jeongin’s documents. New notes have been added, and they don’t make any sense.

Stole a gun.

Paperclipped to the front is another photo, only a few weeks old. The freshest photo of Jeongin. It shows a well-groomed young man, eighteen, with a facial expression that Chan can’t discern. It isn't a smile, not a frown either. It’s just apathy.

His smile was unearthly. In his previous life, he smiled more. Now he doesn’t have it in him to smile.

"Hey."

Minho enters abruptly like always. He uses Chan's office for many purposes; as a lounging area, and sometimes cafeteria, like now. Chan’s attention stays on the files. But he just reads them over and over, and it’s so useless.

Jeongin — Clone 143.

“They should be banned," he hears himself saying for the fifty-eighth time ever. He can feel Minho and his ham-sandwich breath as he leans in to have a look.

"Who should?"

“The damn clones.”

He flips to the picture on the next page. Mr Choi. A fine specimen of a man, wearing a suit just as spotless as his record. Side-combed black hair, his chin regally raised, eyebrows straight and thin. On his left wrist, Chan can make out a very expensive-looking watch. Minho coughs and chews and gets crumbs all over the floor.

"Chan…I know this is shit.” He sounds sympathetic, but blunt, in that typical Minho-escue way. “You know the rich pay for them, as long as there’s a market. You know that, and as long as there’s a supply of fresh DNA to use, they will keep being manufactured. They cost almost nothing to keep, don’t demand pay. You know we can’t do much about it except hope they're treated well.” 

Chan grumbles that he knows that. Money over morals. Of course he knows that, that there's actually people willing to sign a paper and allow the clone companies to stop by to harvest a little skin sample because it pays good. But who would cash out on their newly deceased loved one for a quick buck, really?

Heartless degenerates, that's who. This city is destined for ruin.

The times he talks to clones he can count on one hand. Clones are not part of society, they're like inanimate objects, like phantoms in the homes of the wealthy, only stepping out for rare sightings. He nods stiffly.

"It just needs to stop. The whole industry, I'm telling you. It was the worst idea ever, to start creating these, I mean who in their right mind considers this even remotely okay? And it's about to go so horribly wrong. It already has, and no one gets it."

Can do much about it. He thought he'd be able to do a lot more, but turns out he's just a pawn in someone else's game, because the law is catering to the old and the greedy, and no one else.

"Couldn't agree more, I just don't know how to stop it," Minho says, and settles heavily into the chair across Chan’s desk. Minho actually looks deceptively irritated most of the time, like he’s fed up with everyone’s shit. But he's a softie. Chan knows that, because he’s known Minho for a long time now. He's one of those people who believe that they can make a difference, a real difference in the world, if he just stays on the grind. An optimist where some would call him naïve.  

Chan doesn't judge him for that — in fact, he wishes he could be more like Minho. And he was, once. Easy to get along with, the friendly neighborhood cop who rescues kittens from trees, and helps old ladies cross the street. He might even have been called passionate, then. Not so much the things he is now, too cynical, grumpy, and crumbling under the weight of society. Always questioning everything, because why not?

“Why would a clone steal a gun anyway?" 

Chan thinks out loud. He imagines Jeongin doing that, and it’s imagining the unimaginable. He doesn’t seem like the type, not a merciless killing machine gone rogue, by any means. "They’re supposed to be harmless. No ill intent. Like robots, no will of their own, just designed to do whatever is asked of them. Right?"

"They are," Minho confirms with dejection, and tosses the sandwich wrapper in the bin. Is it moral, no. Does anyone care? Also no.

Jeongin is only a few years old. He doesn't know that, of course, because he doesn’t really grasp the concept of time. He knows nothing, and sometimes, Chan wishes he was just as blissfully unaware. And then again, fuck no. It costs very little to grow a clone into a fully capable artificial human within a few days. Jeongin is not supposed to know anything, as per the design of his makers, just carry out his duties with tireless diligence.  

Housekeeper, they call them. Chan calls them slaves.

“You look like you’re about to stir up mayhem again,” Minho comments innocently. Chan looks into his attentive doe eyes. Again. 

Having an opinion is considered causing trouble in this town. He knows exactly where Minho is going with this, and doesn't want to hear it and come to grips with it at all. 

“I’m not. Just want to find...him. Something about this stinks, I feel like there's foul play involved.”

“What do you mean? The guys are saying it's just a malfunction, something in his programming that flipped."

“You think it's that simple? He just turned from calm and totally oblivious of the outside world, to lethal, and took a hike? You know how they usually have this vacant stare, like they’re just empty vessels with nothing inside?"

Minho nods and winces in discomfort as he pictures it. It’s not right, he’s not one to disagree. Chan leans over his desk, closing his eyes until he can see stars. He’s developing a headache.

“Well every time I met the — him...I felt like...he...might be more conscious than they usually are.”

"Really?"

“Clones don't knock a big ass man down and steal a gun, and especially not this one," Chan concludes, his fingers curling around the front page of the folder. Suddenly he has an uncontrolled urge to go home. Lock all of the doors, barricade the walls, and tell everyone to fuck off for a while.

"Nope.” Minho bites his lip and swirls a lap in the chair. “No, they don't."

He gauges Chan’s reaction, deeming the tight-lipped silence fitting. Some practices have always been hard to wrap their minds around. But everyone around here, even the kind-hearted officers, just repeat “it is what it is” on a loop. If one questions that, one might land oneself in hot water.

“Chan, I know it's shit. I don't agree with it either, but don't try to argue with Beom, cause you know you'll end up —”

Exactly what or where remains a mystery. On Chan’s desk, the automatic notification system starts to go blink and go wild, drowning out Minho's voice.

“Ah, fuck. We have to go, and I know, Chan.” He points to the file, and then to his friend. “This shit is fucked but we have to go. Okay? Don't get yourself even further into your cold war with Beom, please. Don't cause a scene.” 

Chan snorts incredulously. Him, a scene? Never would he dream of such a thing. He finds himself grabbing his belt and following Minho's lead out of the office. Through winding corridors and past cubicles and jaded police officers that all look the same. This disturbing case isn't all that pressing, it seems, what with all the drug dealing and illegal gambling plaguing the city. Chan is probably the only officer who thinks a runaway clone is a bigger deal.

Deputy chief Beom, a short, round man with a nasal voice, greets them in his usual pouty manner. Chan tried to tell him a joke, once, something about two cucumbers crossing a street. But it didn’t go down well. Deputy chief Beom considers jokes a waste of time, so therefore, he’s automatically at the top of Chan’s list of most uninspiring people ever. And therefore, even if he was talking about something new and exciting, Chan wouldn’t be paying attention anyway. 

He zones out, rolls his thumbs, and pretends to listen to whatever unimportant details are being shared. But he’s just thinking about Jeongin. Jeongin, the clone, who is braving the elements outside as they speak, equipped with a gun. 

“And if you find the clone, seize it,” deputy chief Beom finishes his briefing. He pauses to look at them like a stern school teacher, one by one. “Take it to the station. Mr Choi wants it investigated and potentially shut down.”

The rest of the officers glance at each other, but nod dutifully. Shut down. That's a sugar coat for terminated. They make it go poof. There's a little specifically brewed potion of doom that they inject into clones that no longer serve their purpose. No blood and guts and all, they just shut down, much like a machine. Chan already knew where this was going, and quite frankly sees little point in arguing. But has that ever stopped him before? 

“On what grounds? Just like that, like pressing a button? That's a human, you know, and this is insane."

The deputy chief turns to him slowly, his little beady eyes already glimmering with menace. 

"Not you again."

"Just asking a question.”

Chan’s fingers keep tap, tap, tapping at the tabletop. He doesn’t move a muscle. He does not care, not about Minho’s glare that tells him to shut up, or about a potential suspension . If no one pipes up, nothing changes. But now deputy chief Beom is in front of him, having turned tomato-red and all worked up in seconds. Christ almighty.

"It's not a human, it's a clone.”

"It has organs and a brain and shares our DNA, and it needs air and sustenance and rest to function. And it can feel things. I'd call that human."

“It doesn’t matter what you’d call it. It stole a gun, Mr Bang. It’s unheard of, and this is an unusual and potentially threatening situation, so do as you're told.”

"He stole a gun."

“Semantics,” comes the barked response. Chan feels like spitting some obscenities, so he studies his nails instead. It feels safer to look away while the little rant continues.

“Mr Choi owns the clone, he’s reported that it started behaving violently, knocked him down and ran out. There's something wrong with it. We don't know why, or what a clone with a weapon might be capable of. If you encounter it, you will bring it to the station. That is all."

Deputy chief Beom turns on his heel and marches off, the door rattling on its hinges as it flies open. The other officers in the room observe, but stay quiet. Looks of empathy reach Chan from all sides. But who are they to fight the establishment? They’re not the ones to blame, and Chan only feels more bitter, and feels just a little bit more resentment, as if there’s even room for more.

“Yes sir," he says to no one in particular, still staring at his fingers. He needs to trim his nails. 

Minho walks up to him, and is met by a shrug. If he were to take a wild guess, Chan’s temper is going to murder him. Or get him sacked, which is basically the same thing. Without anything to occupy his days with, he'd go crazy anyway. The guy is a bit unpredictable. He has kind eyes and a kind smile, and a heart made of glass and a shell made of rock, and no patience for injustice. And this world is full of it.

“I know what Beom said, but don’t get yourself in trouble, I mean it,” he says as they walk out, becoming disgruntled at the chuckled reply. Chan just saunters off with the usual spring in his step, turning briefly to throw a wink over his shoulder.

“Wouldn't dream of it buddy. See you later.”

Him, getting himself in trouble. As if he would ever do such a thing.

It's easy to get oneself into trouble in this town. 

It's a fun place, if you enjoy concrete, litter, and massive neon signs inviting you into questionable places for gambling, drinking, prostitution and decadence. There used to be trees, once. Chan knows that, because Grandma Bang told him. She talked about lush green forests and lakes with sparkling silver water in her youth. But now, the trees have been cut down. The atmosphere is all smog and sweat and cigarette smoke, unable to sustain life.

Chan only saw one in a picture — a tree. According to Grandma Bang, it’s why they installed massive air filters on top of buildings throughout the city. Clean the air, so they can breathe it. Trees would be better, she said. It’s all gone to shit, she said, and then she took her last breath, and traveled to greener pastures. Chan is inclined to agree, but such is a digression. 

He backs out of the parking lot he was stalling in, the tires leaving deep slush marks in the snow and grinding it into gray sludge. If there’s anything positive to be said about the approaching snowstorm, it seems to have chased away all the crooks from the streets and into their caves for the night. He can’t spot a soul anywhere. Good for him, at least.

When Chan was younger, the idea of becoming a police officer felt more appealing. More magical, somehow. He entered the police academy with the idea that he could end up saving the world, or at least a block, but it didn’t really happen like that. All the years of too-early mornings and paper-cup coffee have left him a little more disillusioned. 

What kind of trash world is this, and is anyone worth saving? Nothing grows here. The buildings all look identical and everything is synthetic. Even winter.

Surely, it had its charm once, but this winter is harsh, bringing out the worst in everyone, Chan included. He drives without counting the streets now, because he sees them in his sleep, in his past. He knows them in and out at this point, but without realizing it, his eyes flit back and forth across the dashboard with vigilance, even though there’s not much to see.

He doesn’t fully realize it, but he’s actually looking with clear intent.

He’s searching for Jeongin.

Jeongin, Jeongin, Clone 143. But where on earth would he go?

A clone has nowhere to go. No home beyond its assigned one, no family. No instinct or desire to go anywhere. 

Snow starts falling diagonally as the wind picks up, and Chan’s windshield wipers work overtime to keep the windshield from freezing up. It’s getting late, and he stops at a gas station. The residents huddle with their mugs of tea and stale doughnuts, and chat about the same old things as always. The damn weather, the damn inflation, and someone's upcoming hip replacement surgery. Chan salutes them and steps out again with his own tea, and heads into less frequented territories, further and further into the night. The older side of town, where many have met their fate — users, alcoholics, prostitutes, orphans. The invisible citizens of society. Graffiti covers every wall, and unless the snow hid it, the mountains of trash would be visible. The older side of town is unsettling, but as he drives past the old public library building, he faintly recalls going there a few times as a child. 

The library. It’s closed now.

The library closed down because no one is reading books anymore. They watch porn and gamble and lose it all, and fall into heavy debt. Everyone, everyone but the rich, with their fancy servant clones, and they keep getting richer. Chan’s grip on the wheel tightens as he looks out of the frost-tinted window. Now it’s just a desolate, forgotten chunk of history, no one in sight or mind. The flurries get thicker and stickier, and the notification screen in his car lights up in regular intervals, various announcements filtering in, but it can do that all it wants. None of it sounds too urgent. The most urgent thing is nowhere in sight.

It’s useless, and tonight will bring little, if any, action. So he might as well head back. Maybe to convene with Minho, to quiz him on any potential sightings. And maybe head for a drink at his place after their shift ends, to complain some more, and numb his mind. He takes a right turn, and then a left turn at an emergency signal that’s just flashing yellow. But then, he only gets about halfway.

Because there’s a heap.

There, just as he passes it, sitting along the doorframe of an old, boarded up strip joint, there’s a heap. Blanketed in a thin layer of powder snow, sure, but it’s clearly a someone. 

The car jerks on the slippery street as Chan hits the brakes, and flings himself out of the car, leaving the keys in the ignition and the heating unit blasting. He can’t get out fast enough, but one thing is certain right away as he wades through the white dunes. He didn’t stumble upon a corpse. Because the pile moves, a little bit, he’s sure of it.

It’s difficult to see through the snowfall, but another thing is certain. It’s a person. With every step he grows more certain that it’s not just a person. But that it might actually be… 

“Jeongin…kid?” 

Chan’s heart skips at least ten beats when the pile moves again. He reaches for his handheld flashlight to click it on, squinting to see properly. But once the area is illuminated, he finds himself paralyzed. Not just that, but he’s staring into the barrel of a gun.

“Don’t come any closer.”

He nearly shits himself then. There's no trace of apathy now. Jeongin’s face is not lifeless anymore. This is not the face of a robot, no. The streetlight casts sharp shadows across his face, and his fingers clasping the handle of the gun so tightly that Chan can see the bones shift in his hand. Snowflakes keep swirling around them, while they just stand there, in a silent draw. Chan’s hands have already flown up on reflex, his voice ready to bargain and cajole.

“Take it easy."

“Leave."

This is so bizarre that he wonders if he stepped into his own lucid dream. Maybe he’s actually home in bed. Firstly, Jeongin sounds nothing like Jeongin. He sounds like a growling fox cub, and his excuse for winter wear is sad. An ill-fitting, gray coat, not nearly thick enough to protect him in sub-zero weather. A scarf that’s soaked, beanie with frozen clumps of ice stuck to it, no gloves. Frost sticking to the ends of his hair. Chan moves a little closer, making sure to keep his hands visible.

"Are you hurt?"

"I said leave. Just leave me alone."

Turning now that he finally located the runaway? No way in hell. But Chan stops, and looks down at Jeongin with polite interest, as if he's just encountered an old friend out on a stroll.

"What will you do if I leave, hm? You've been outside for days, it's doomsday cold out here. Where will you go?"

Chan hopes for the best. Little puffs of vapor escape from Jeongin’s nose into the cool air, and thin, long fingers curl around the gun like vines. 

"You don't have to worry about that, just turn around and get out of here,” he croaks out, followed by a cough. His tongue sounds heavy and slow in his mouth, but he seems completely coherent. He also looks like he might have a pretty good aim. This could turn ugly. 

“You don’t want to do this, believe me,” Chan warns, paying attention to what each one of his limbs is doing. Feet, hands, be still. No surprises. Can't make a wrong move.

“I really think I do,” Jeongin says flatly and cocks the gun. The sound unleashes a rain of memories in Chan’s brain. Shattered glass, blaring sirens. Close encounters with unstable individuals powered by mania, pure adrenaline, and sometimes drugs. But somehow, he can’t find it in himself to tremble. No attempt to reach for his own firearm, none. He's dodged many bullets, and even encountered a handful of cold-blooded killers. And this is no killer. It's just a lost kid. A frozen snow flower. He takes the smallest, smallest step forward. 

“Do you remember me? From a few months back?”

There’s a sniff of recognition. The gun still hangs mid air, one pound of life-dismantling steel in the hands of someone very desperate. 

“Of course I remember you. Officer Bang.”

“Yeah. You said things were fine then, with Mr Choi.” Chan speaks calmly, while he makes quick calculations. He's fairly sure he could grab that thing before Jeongin could react, but he can’t really be too sure. “Listen, I don't know what happened that caused you to run away. But whatever it is, we can fix it. I'll help you.”

A smile meets him then. A tiny, resentful thing, a pretty uncomfortable thing. And Chan is definitely not talking to a robot anymore.

"Nice speech, almost convincing. I know what happens if I go with you." 

"You do, huh? I promise, though. Cops honor.”

“Cops honor." Jeongin's mean smirk grows in a way that makes the hairs in Chan’s neck rise. And his smile would be pretty, if it wasn’t so haunted and bitter. "What honor? You have no honor, no one in this city does. All you do is lie and manipulate and take advantage of the weak, you and your so-called protectors of society, and you don't give a shit about anyone but yourselves. You’re taking me straight to the station.”

"Jeongin, listen, I’m not.”

It’s a little rough around the edges, because in all honesty, it was the deal Chan signed up for. Collect the clone, drop it off for termination, as per the regulation that he despises and hates with every fiber of his being. Another life just callously taken. Mr Choi will place another order for a pliant housemaid, and another, and another. Perhaps he’ll file a complaint for a faulty product, and choose a double-checked, triple-checked, even-more-perfect specimen.

For sure. And it’ll be like Jeongin never even existed in the first place.

So what’s a guy to do then?

Well, break a few laws, possibly. Just a couple.

He stares at Jeongin, at his hands that shake, his voice that's broken into erratic pieces that color the snow black. The gun shakes in his hand, too, and Chan starts worrying that something hasty and reckless will happen for real.

"I promise," he tries again, but Jeongin doesn't want to hear it.

"I’m done playing around now, you're going to let me go, okay? So back off, leave to wherever you came from, and we’ll pretend you never saw me."

“Okay." The tone is familiar, like a fire alarm seconds from going off, so Chan lowers his head in instant capitulation. "Okay, alright, sure, we'll do that."

It sounds pretty convincing. And it’s shameless, but he has a knack for acting. He should have been an actor, cause that’s what Grandma Bang always said. It's not like he's about to just leave, but he really wants to give off that impression. So he backs off a few feet. Jeongin gets up on shaky legs, but he looks seconds from toppling over again. This weather leaves no one unscathed.

He struggles to catch his breath, all his attention on his revolting lungs, and Chan sees a window of opportunity. He’s fast, too. Gun wrenched out of the unsuspecting hands, and Jeongin whines in surprise as he's spun around. It's comically easy, like wrestling a child. Jeongin goes limp almost right away, as if he anticipated this but it doesn't feel right by any means. It feels dirty.

"What, you're gonna go all melted cheese on me now?" Chan mutters while he pulls the cuffs from his belt and Jeongin sags against the wall, just accepting his fate. "Kind of preferred the fire-spitting beast."

He observes the young man critically, then empties the gun's magasine of bullets and turns it over in his palm. It looks fully functioning but hardly used.

"Why did you steal his gun?"

Jeongin shifts on his feet, struggling to adjust to the restricted range of movement. He sounds congested and like he's given up on everything.

"Cause I knew people would be coming after me."

Right. Chan keeps his words tucked away behind his lips and pockets the emptied firearm. The wind keeps howling at them in regular intervals as if to tell them to get the hell inside, and fast. Jeongin’s arm has stilled in his grasp. And this, as it dawns on Chan, is now his responsibility. 

Well, shit.

What to do now?

He stands there, grappling with himself, but it only leads him back to the starting point. Who is he kidding, exactly? This was the only outcome. The only acceptable route, despite the fact he’ll be harboring a fugitive, in technical terms.

“I'll take you home, to my place," he hears himself saying, as if it’s that easy. As if he's picking up a stray puppy. And it’s not as easy as just going, either. Not when Jeongin looks like he’s talking to filth that he wants absolutely nothing to do with.

“I don’t trust you,” he says, each quiver on his vocal cord audible. Sure, he doesn’t, that much was clear already. 

“I don’t think you have much of a choice in that matter. I promise I won't hurt you, I just want to help you."

Promises. What do they mean? To Jeongin, they're just dust in the wind. He wants to argue further, but he interrupts himself, his voice becoming small and swallowed by a another wet cough.

"You have a cold too, huh, figures," Chan mutters, using his arm to steady the collapsing body. They need to get out of here, now. Jeongin’s coughs are the kind that sound painful to listen to, let alone endure. It makes Chan grit his teeth and wonder how long he’s been coughing like that.

“You’re okay, let’s go," he commands, tugging them forward. Jeongin has gone limp, deadweight that is quite easy to maneuver into the car. He doesn’t weigh much, and Chan decides he isn’t much of a threat now (as if he never was). So he uncuffs him again, before his arms have a chance to lose even more blood circulation.

It’s pitch black, and Minho has left him several messages, and even more calls. While Jeongin coughs and fades in and out of consciousness in the back seat of his cruiser, Officer Bang keeps his promise. Minho will kill him. So will everyone at the station. He should clock out since it’s the end of his shift, which he doesn’t, and they will all kill him, and then resurrect him to kill him again. But the thing is, he lives in the moment, and maybe in the past, a little. When everything was greener and better, and when Jeongin wasn't. But the original Jeongin was.

Jeongin mumbles some nonsense as they make the last sharp turn, something about needing to find someone, but without context it’s just little garbles of sound. Maybe he's developing a fever. Chan glances over his shoulder, hoping no one will see them. But the streets are as barren as before, so he mutters at the kid to just stay put. 

The two bedroom apartment he calls home isn't exactly welcoming, by any means. It’s located inside a square block of concrete, just one in a row of many more blocks. The furniture is mostly gray and boring, too. Because Chan has no significant other, no one to tell him to add cushions with tassels, or a potted plant here and there, or something.

(He did have one, actually, but she packed her things and left. It's been over a year now, and a few days after her departure, Chan saw her in a nearby shopping mall, exchanging saliva with some toupee-wearing business class snob.)

It's just another reason why winter, has lost its charm. The Christmas trees at the market were synthetic, and everything else, too. If he ever sees a real spruce, god forbid, he might find it within himself to care again.

The place is as he left it. If he knew he’d have company, he would have tidied up. There are unwashed dishes in the sink, and beer bottles on the table, kindly left behind by Minho. But somehow, he has a feeling his guest cares little about the mess right now. 

"Here we go, I'm setting you down on the couch, alright?"

Chan mumbles reassurances and dumps Jeongin on the couch as promised, tapping his cheek lightly. He’s a bit scared that he’s lost him already, that the life will just seep out of him and onto the floor any second now.

“Hey…Jeongin?”

It takes a while, but then his eyes open like blinds, blinking at Chan in slow motion. And there’s that calculating fox stare again. He seems to become aware they’re not outside anymore. A ceiling, bright white lamp, dark blue velvet curtains. So they're inside, which is an improvement, to be honest, no matter how unsure of this whole situation he is. He struggles to sit up and accepts the blanket handed to him, quickly burying his face in it. Basic first-aid training tickles the base of Chan’s brain. Treating hypothermia. They need layers.

“I’ll get you something dry to wear,” he grumbles and marches off to his bedroom in long strides.

What will even fit this kid? Nothing, everything he has is going to be a bit oversized, but that doesn’t seem like too much of an issue. Item after item ends up on the floor as he rifles through the closet. Sweatpants, two layers of sweaters. Woolly socks. Chan slides off his own cap and drags a hand through his head, noticing it’s sweaty and plastered to his head. 

So maybe he was a little nervous then, after all. Tiny bit. Anyone would be when there's a gun pointing at them, but while he’s in here, he quickly changes out of the police uniform and winter coat. Some old sweatpants of his own, and a t-shrit with a printed bunny in the front, that he recognizes to be Minho's. Maybe the kid will be more partial to him if he looks more like a regular twenty-something, and a bit less like the scum of the earth he has been branded.

Jeongin’s cough is what makes him race back, clothes in his hands. He finds the kid horizontal, having doubled over as he heaves and hacks uncontrollably. God damn it. Chan curses out loud, and runs to get a glass of water, and then, nearly slipping on the floor on the way back.

“Breathe, come on. I don't need you to suffocate now, please, I don't want to have a corpse on my hands. Look at me and breathe, in, and out.”

He grabs onto Jeongin's shoulders just as he’s about to keel over again. Somehow, it works. His voice is hard, but gentle enough to make Jeongin recall why he’s fond of Chan in the first place. Why he smiles timidly each time Chan stops by Mr Choi’s mansion, even though he never noticed. 

Chan always looked at him like he was a someone. Like he was seeing an old friend in passage, each time he took off his cap and nodded at Jeongin, too, when greeting the Choi’s. It’s so meaningful to Jeongin, the tiny bit of kindness that Chan shows to him.

"I'm okay," he presses out, shying away from Chan’s touch, and into the corner of the couch. His throat burns, but at least he can breathe again. The clothes are set down onto the seat next to him without theatrics.

“Here, change,” Chan encourages him, and nods to boot. Jeongin studies the little collection with hesitation. But it's like he can't ignore a direct order, it's like it’s weaved into his DNA, not to disobey authority. Moreover, he’s soaked to the bone. So he starts to work his coat off, and that’s Chan’s cue to leave for a moment to give him some privacy. 

He hangs the drenched clothes to dry, and then finds himself in the kitchen, standing over the sink with his gaze locked on yesterday’s dirty dishes. The leaking tap. And then, the kettle. He should move things along, make himself useful. He fills the kettle with mechanical motions, and raids the cupboard for teabags. A sensible voice, filtering in through the chaos, tells him it’s a good idea. Maybe some crackers and fruit, too, he has to eat. 

Jeongin has changed and sat up, his hands bundled into sweater paws and wrapped around his knees. He’s startled as Chan makes an appearance again. Somehow he's had managed to forget there’s two of them here. But he’s hushed, the table cleared, and the mug set down.

“Careful, it’s really hot.”

“What is it?”

“Just tea, don’t worry, not poisoning you. Peppermint.”

Whether or not Mr Choi ever treated Jeongin to hot beverages remains a mystery, but it doesn't seem like it. He casts suspicious glances at the mug, before he finally reaches to snatch it. Like a raccoon pocketing some stolen treats. And then, he retreats into his private corner again. 

Chan can't help but snort a little at his odd mannerisms, before he flops down next to him. He figure's that safe to do. It's unusually quiet. Like the entire block has gone to sleep. Well, it has, it’s that late. It’s just the blizzard that rages on and turns deadly outside, with no signs of stopping. And what the hell should he do now, anyway?

If he had a plan, it only reached up to here, and not a second further. They’re warm, and out of harm’s way. And then what?

Jeongin takes cautious mouthfuls of his tea, and Chan watches him discreetly. The color that returns to his skin, little by little. The damp black waves of hair that flow down and lick at his cheekbones. His bony knees. Questions bubble to the surface, amplifying along with the hum of the heater that Chan has turned to max. Questions. It feels strange to talk to Jeongin, now that he’s within a few feet’s touching distance.

"How did you even know how to use a gun?"

He receives a quick side-eye. Jeongin looks to be caught in internal warfare again, wondering if he should really put his fate in this person’s hands. Well, it’s understandable. But the desolation in his mind and weariness in his bones wins. If he can’t trust Officer Bang, he can trust no one.

"I saw Mr Choi load and unload it. He has a whole collection."

"Does he really." Chan scoffs at that. Seems suspicious to say the least. "And where have you been staying for three days? It's freezing cold outside, and you must be absolutely starving."

"Well I…I crashed at an old factory," Jeongin reveals, shame dusting his pale cheeks pink. "And…I'm not exactly proud of it, but I shoplifted some food from a corner store."

He sounds genuinely apologetic, as if that’s a the scummiest of crimes. Not in this city, baby, not even close. It turns Chan’s heart to mush, a little. 

"Well, don't worry,” he says, offering a genuine smile. “I won’t charge you for it, I’m just glad you survived. We have other things to worry about. Remember back at the station a few months ago, after you had left Mr Choi's, and I interrogated you? When you allegedly took a wrong turn out of the door in all your confusion.”

Jeongin glances up at him, his jaw muscles stiffening. Chan is certain he remembers, and that he was fully conscious back then, even though he managed to conceal it with impressive ease.

"Was all of that an act? Did you mean to escape his house then, but you were caught?"

"Maybe I did."

A barrier raises between them. It's clear he doesn't want to talk, and it's understandable. But maybe’s aren’t good enough. They don’t have time for cryptics right now. 

"I really need to know what happened, why you did that.”

Needles of confliction tug at Jeongin's face. Chan waits. The wind presses its nose against the window outside, watching two peculiar characters interact in peculiar ways. But the hour just grows later. There's no answers, and Chan takes the empty mug from the kid's grasp.

“Hey, Jeongin,” he presses. “I need to know why you ran away from Mr Choi.”

It feels like history repeats itself, and he’s talking to a creature with zero communication skills again. But it's okay, Chan's patience is thick, and his voice softens.

"Jeongin. I can't stress this enough, it's really important that you tell me."

“I need to go find my friends.”

Red-ringed eyes turn to him, and he straightens out his posture, one of the cushions falling off the couch. Jeongin looks at him breathlessly. If Chan wasn’t scared before, when being faced with a gun and most-certain-death, he is now. Surely he must have misheard. 

“Your —”

"My friends," Jeongin says again, with more emphasis, and there’s hiccups in time. Hiccups in Chan’s brain. His neurons bounce around like ping pong balls, unable to comprehend this. What the hell is happening?  Should he have seen it coming, was this what he worried about subconsciously, ever since he learnt of the disappearance? 

The mumbled sentences back in the car weren't just gibberish, and Jeongin is more conscious than anyone thought. And for the first time, Chan wishes that he wasn't.

“What…what are you talking about?”

“My friends, I need to find them. That's why I left."

“Jeongin,” Chan repeats like a broken record. This will turn absolutely turn ugly unless he saves it, and he scoots closer, but the kid shoots up then. Out of his reach, and onto the rug.

"I keep seeing them in my sleep,” he explains, tripping over the words, as if he can’t get them out fast enough. “And I remember things. Snippets, like really vague scenes from a flimsy film. I have all these memories that I didn't have before."

"What things?"

Chan swallows down the clump of bile, and keeps his eyes fixed on Jeongin. He walks back and forth, gripping his forehead. Back and forth on Chan’s rug, the coffee table separating them. His expression is focused, as if he’s trying to exorcize a demon.

“I don't know. It's foggy but I’ve been having dreams, about us. And I’ve been remembering their faces, their voices..." He stops then and turns to Chan, his eyes blowing into saucers. "I know that I was somewhere else before I started working at Mr Choi, cause I remember them. I needed to leave, cause my friends are out there. I just know they are."

He looks to the tall windows, at the churning storm outside. Outside promises nothing, it’ll eat him alive if he ventures out there. Chan is certain he’s the one pale as a ghost now. Jesus christ.  

Two and two make four. This is all about to go to shit. He gets up, moving slowly, even slower than earlier. Just don’t let this happen, not this.

“You remember…them?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jeongin confirms with enthusiasm, using his sleeve to stifle another cough. “I even remember their names, and I remember us living together…before, I just can't recall where, I can't recall any details. And Mr Choi wouldn’t let me leave, but I just know I need to." He stares down at his knuckles, skin cracked open by the cold, and then up at Chan. And then, counts on his fingers, name after name. 

"Felix, Seungmin, Jisung, Hyunjin…I have to find them.”

So he can smile. Chan witnesses it. Like a sky lighting up with fireworks that fade too fast, because it'll be gone too soon. And this Jeongin has no braces, of course he doesn’t. Because he’s perfect. All those tiny flaws terminated in the process, at the moment of creation, no braces needed. Chan thinks and time ticks, and he knows he has to catch this situation before it spirals beyond what he can mend. The kid’s smile starts to sag already, the leaves on the flower start to wilt, and the petals loosen.

"Chan? I have to. They're out there somewhere and they must be looking for me too. Cause we’re best friends.

Nervous lines begin to form in his forehead when all he gets back is utter silence. He tries louder.

“Will you help me find them? Please.”

Chan kneads his chin with one hand until his jaw aches, and time has run out. How to express this? He can’t, and he has to. The stupid storm outside, and the stupid police force who will stop at nothing, and he has to. And it's then Jeongin becomes frantic in all his desperation.

“Please, please Officer Bang, I miss them."

"Jeongin, listen."

"If you won't help me, then I have to leave, I've been looking for days already."

Jeongin is standing on the rug, and then he’s not. Chan jerks around, following him to the front door, one step behind him. Is he about to fling himself out into the icy hell, without shoes, without anything?

"No, no, hold on. Hold on.”

He catches the hem of his sweater, gathering the fabric into a tight fist, and yanks. A little wrestling match starts, but ends quickly. Chan tries to soothe him, while Jeongin strains against him, repeating that he has to find his friends. It’s just awful.

"Listen to me —"

"Please just help me!"

“They're gone."

Chan’s words sound like a gunshot in his ears. And they put a stop to everything. The useless battle they’re fighting, cause Chan will win anyway, even though he doesn’t want to. But they also end the tiny spark of hope, and extinguish the fire in Jeongin’s eyes. He steadies himself against the door and swipes the bangs out of his forehead, sheer shock overtaking his features.    

“What?"

His voice sounds miles away. Chan watches him, a flower that withers, the last one. This shouldn't be happening. He clears his throat, his fingertips still clinging weakly Jeongin’s arm.

“Do you know how clones are made, Jeongin? Do you know how you were created?”

All he gets is a head shake. Of course he doesn't, cause no one tells him anything, cause he's not supposed to question anything. 

“No," he says roughly, his voice torn apart by anger and heartache. "And I don't care, cause that's not important, all I know is these memories are real.”

“They’re not,” Chan chops him off. “Well, they are, but they're not yours. You’re not supposed to remember any of this, or question anything about your existence. You’re not even supposed to have a long term memory. You were created to be a robot."

He feels like a devil, a destroyer of all things good and pure, for having to say this. Somewhere among the pile of clothes he left behind in the bedroom, his phone wails and begs for his attention. Jeongin looks at him with disbelief. And then, with simmering anger again, because that can’t be true. He backs up until he can’t anymore, bumping into the dresser behind him.

“How can I have them then, they’re real. I remember them."

"Listen to me." Chan tries to soothe him, while still having to discard the truth as fast as possible. It’s the only way. "Your body double, the kid whose DNA they harvested to create you…you’re a replica of him. It's his friends you’re remembering, his life, his past. It never happened. Not in your lifetime, at least."

"You're lying," Jeongin deadpans, but his crumbling expression doesn’t match the conviction. It’s too much to process, it’s too much. The anger boils over, and he pushes Chan with both hands, sending him toppling backwards.

"This is bullshit, cause I remember them clearly, they're my best friends! And they exist!”

Chan, seasoned enough as he is, recovers quickly. He grabs onto Jeongi’s arms, onto his wrists. They feel like twigs in his grasp. And he’ll remember this for long, this moment, as a haunting memory, because nothing could have prepared him for this, not waking at the crack of dawn to concern this morning, not the heated situation with the gun earlier. Nothing.

“They did,” he says, giving Jeongin a little sobering shake. “Once, not anymore, they're just past projections of another life. They don’t exist anymore, they're gone." He loosens his grip, and lowers his voice several tones, knowing that it won't help. "The people you remember…all of them were students. They lived together, and yeah. They were friends, the best of friends, spending almost every waking moment together. One night on the highway, a long time ago...they suffered a fatal car crash. No one survived.”

Jeongin winces in agony, his face tilting up to search Chan for clues of deception. Analyzing the sound of every inhale, the duration of each blink. His pupils scurry around in his eyes, his cracked lip twitching, mouth closing and opening. 

"Are you lying?"

Chan wishes that he was. That this was some sick, cruel joke. But all the information about his origins, the original Jeongin and his ill-fated friends, is in Jeongin's file on his desk, supplied by Bioseed Clones. The file he knows at the back of his hand. And now, the brilliant eyes flood with tears, and he can’t do anything to stop it.  

"Just tell me that you’re lying. Please tell me that."

"I'm so sorry," Chan whispers. And he truly is, he’s sorry on behalf of the people he despises, that it has to be like this. He’s about to offer something more, patch up what can be patched, but there’s no time.

All of a sudden, they’re fighting over the door again, but Chan uses a hand to keep it shut, his fingers spreading out to apply more pressure. He should lock it, he really should.

"Let me go," comes a hiss after a moment. Jeongin leans against the sleek wood, sounding defeated. But he looks ready to throw a punch or two, even in this weakened state.

"Where are you going?"

Jeongin's face is hidden from view, arms crossed over his head. He doesn’t know. Nowhere, now. No one wants him, misses him.

"Anywhere."

"You'll freeze to death out there,” Chan notes with sympathy. “If they don't have a chance to catch you first."

And then he'd be gone. All clones are human, there’s no doubt about it. He doesn’t care what anyone says, and yet they’re considered disposables. But this clone is more human than other clones, he has memories, sentience, for goodness sakes. So surely they would reconsider, they would have to? But in a world so wretched and immoral, can he really be sure?

Jeongin's back moves in sync with his lungs, like ocean waves. And Chan's hand shifts, his thumb running up between his shoulder blades, feeling his vertebrae through the sweater.

"I know this is shit. It's a…big pile of shit. Just…don't go out there. You're safe here, and you need to rest, eat, and not catch even more of a cold." He bites his tongue, not even wanting to name all the rest of the dangers lurking outside." Just…stay."

He strokes palm over his back, until Jeongin’s breathing starts to match his movements. He doesn't say a word. But eventually, through the lack of protests, they come to a silent agreement. Chan can take his hand and lead him back to his safe haven on the couch. He curls up into a ball, and Chan grabs the blanket from the headrest, draping it over him. Soon he can hear silent, muffled cries filtered through the fabric. Of course.

He places a gentle hand on what he assumes is Jeongin’s shoulder, and wants to say something. Anything. But what? It feels like every single word of consolation he could possibly conjure would fall short.

What is he to do, while Jeongin mourns the loss of a life that was at the tips of his fingers, but never his. 

So he swallows his own tears, and after a while, he turns on the TV. And he checks his phone. There's so many messages from Minho, but he’ll deal with them tomorrow. It'll be Saturday. He needs a plan, and he has no plan. No idea what to do. The only thing he knows is that Jeongin out into the wild, to be hunted down or succumb to the cold, is not an option.

Jeongin doesn't take any note of him now. It's like he's given up. Whether that's good or bad, Chan isn't so sure. Maybe a bit of both. Having Jeongin here in his home, wearing his clothes on his boring gray couch, surrounded by his mess, isn't a reality he's really grasped yet. There’s no metal table between them. No titles, they're not officer and perpetrator anymore. They’re — what are they now? 

He takes a seat, none the wiser, and pours all his worries into a massive exhale. Soon he notices activity from Jeongin’s side. He keeps peeking at the TV screen with one eye, surveying the characters with interest.

"I know this movie."

Chan turns his attention to the moving pixels. He recognizes the title fast. Now that he remembers it, he read something about a marathon of oldies that would be playing over the weekend.

"Schindler’s list?”

Jeongin nods, heaving himself up on an elbow. Recognition flashes in the tear-stricken face as he sees the monochrome figures pass on the screen, and the little girl in the flaming red coat. The only splash of color in a dreadful world.

"It was playing one night…back at Mr Choi’s. He’d fallen asleep already. I watched it."

"Really? It's almost a hundred years old.”

"Yeah.” He nuzzles into the blanket again, pulling it all the way up to his nose.“The nazis treated the jews horribly."

"That they did," Chan hums, his brows creasing at the introspection. That’s an understatement. He wonders if any more interesting comments will follow, but no. Jeongin is beyond exhausted, to exhausted for a verbal exchange. It doesn’t take long before he has drifted off to the soundtrack of John Williams. 

He whines cutely in his sleep, his eyelashes fluttering now and then. He reminds Chan of a stubborn, sleep-deprived university student. It’s hard to ignore the fact that, at his core, it’s really all that Jeongin is supposed to be at his age. 

For the first time today, Chan feels himself relax into the cushions, if only a little. Outside the tall windows, behind the velvet curtains, the sleet comes down sideways against a black backdrop. Not even a street lamp is on. Because they have to save electricity, they have to save everything, while they spend every ounce of humanity they have. A life costs nothing. This city was like a beautiful song, Chan thinks, with so much wasted potential. The melody grew forgotten as the chaos grew stronger, and now nothing remains but a pitiful echo.

"Chan."

He’s pulled out of his repose then. Chan. Chan. Mr Bang. 

It’s the first time Jeongin has spoken his name with such tenderness, as if he’s addressing a long lost friend. Chan reverts all his focus on the Jeongin-bundle again, clearing his throat. It’s getting late — he needs to figure out accommodation for them, and tomorrow will arrive too fast. Christ almighty.

"Yeah, kid?"

“Will they kill me cause I ran away?”

Chan feels some color drain from his face, and the scene on the TV changes to a furious battle. Jeongin looks at him, not with fear. Just indifference. Like he doesn’t care, like he would accept a yes, no, maybe, obviously . Without a second’s thought, or question. Even Jeongin entertains no illusions about the reality in which he lives, like he’s heard that same forgotten melody, too. That he knows the instruments are broken and collecting dust, with no chance of salvation. Not this, not such questions. Not this.

"No," Chan says simply, with such impressive finality that he’s almost inclined to believe it himself.

Chapter Text

Chan rarely dreams, but as he wakes, he feels an odd, lingering phantom of a dream. Something important. But he thinks nothing of it, and all he can really feel is the remnants of yesterday's headache.

He massages his sore temples, and pauses by the tall, frosted living room windows on the way to the kitchen. They're big, Chans windows, and beautifully arched. There’s just not much to see. Skyscrapers and massive concrete buildings, towering like neon monsters beneath a cloudy sky, as far as the eye reaches. Dark skyscrapers and colorful, blinking billboards covered in a shining white glaze, and the storm that continues to rage on. Without the disturbance of honking cars and blaring sirens, the landscape almost looks pretty. 

Plugging the phone into the charger doesn't really feel tempting, because he knows what might await him. Minho's wrath, for one. But he kind of has to. He wants to be accessible in case of an emergency, and maybe, maybe they found Jeongin.

It’s what he thinks for about three seconds, until yesterday’s events hit him like a fire truck. The headache, because he stayed up so late, calming the kid down, and eventually managing to get him to sleep. Because Jeongin isn’t missing. Not anymore.

He is in fact here. 

Tucked away in Chan’s guest bedroom, not a sound emerging from within. A rare treasure that he’s reluctant to release out into the wilderness again anytime soon, if ever. 

The phone buzzes to life in his hand, and there’s a message from Minho. And then there's a second. And a third. Chan stares at the hordes of question marks and hurries to tap a response. Minho absolutely can’t come knocking on his door, not yet, and it's absolutely vital that he and everything else on the police force stay precisely where they are.

Minho: Why aren't you answering??? Did you have a stroke??? I’ll beat your ass if you did. I always said you're overly caffeinated, your heart probably suffered necrosis [received 3:20 PM]

Chan: Hi drama queen. I'm alright, sorry, I caught a cold yesterday and my battery died. Had to go home [sent 3:23 PM]

Even in print, the words reek of suspicion. He’s a terrible liar, and this alibi is paper-thin. Minho might be serious about his threat, too. A shifty-eyed emoji appears before the three dots that indicate typing.

Minho: The flu. [received 3:25 PM]

Chan: Yeah, it’s this weather, I’m coughing up my lungs, and my nose is running. Might not be in on Monday [sent 3:26 PM]

Before a phone call can happen (which seems to be a matter of seconds) Chan just decides to shut off the device again. It’s the coward’s way out, and he knows it, but it’s just easier. He can always pretend to be too sick to type, and it's also not a matter of will Minho figure out that he is full of shit, but when . He can trust Minho, for sure — but he doesn't trust the establishment employing him.

He takes a shower instead to warm up, wash away the grime from yesterday, and make sure he doesn't actually catch a cold. It’s bad enough that one of them is coughing themselves in half, but right now, not a peep comes from the guest bedroom. That must be a good sign, right? He loiters in the kitchen and brews a massive cup of coffee for his necrosis, and tidies up wherever he can, just wanting to make himself usefu as much as just stalling until he can make the next move. It’s not until darkness falls outside that he starts to gravitate the guest room door, equipped with another mug of tea. 

Jeongin is still passed out, wrapped up much like a child in the blankets.He lays with his back facing the door and the black hair in tangles, the comforter pulled up to his chin. That's how Chan left him last night, pretty much dead to the world the second he lay his head on the pillow, and Chan was left alone with his thoughts, with his questions. And with his fears. 

At the risk of appearing totally and completely invasive, he stares at Jeongin for just a moment. He looks like anyone else, especially like this, with his guard down. Just any kid, anyone’s son, nephew, or friend.

As he sleeps, his fingers and hands twitch, softly clutching and unclutching the blankets and pulling them tighter to his body. It almost looks like he’s having a nightmare, and Chan wonders if he even wants to know what Jeongin is dreaming about—or if they’re even dreams at all.

A bit longer. Just a bit, just watching him, before he decides that it’s about time to wake now, before the tea goes cold. This moment feels much too fragile, like it could just go up in smoke if he handles it incorrectly. He reaches down and lightly, very lightly, shakes Jeongin’s shoulder, just enough to rouse him without causing alarm. The last thing he wants is to scare his heart into arrhythmia, but somehow he manages to do that anyway. Well, nearly.

The younger wakes disoriented, shooting up like a light, his eyes darting around the room. Chan doesn’t miss the way they lock on the exit, longer than they hesitate on anything else, but this time the front door is locked. Chan’s academy training is second nature to him. He raises his hands just high enough to show that he isn’t carrying any weapons just as Jeongin bumps his skull against the headboard, and winces in pain.

“Easy, it’s okay,” Chan coos, as if he’s reciting a script. Well, he is, because he's said those words about a million times, to drugged out prostitutes, to hysterical spouses, to victims of all types of crimes. But somehow it feels much more real now, like all the other times he’s said it were just practice runs. Jeongin is a whole new type of scared. Chan takes a seat on the bed, speaking softly when he addresses him, as if though he is delicate and liable to break if treated too harshly.

"You slept for quite some time, you might be a bit...confused. You're at my place, remember? And you’re safe here.”

Jeongin rubs the back of his head, looking like a deer caught in headlights. But recognition floods his face pretty quickly. He sounds like his nose is stuffed with cotton, but it’s not as bad as yesterday.

“Officer Bang."

"Yeah, or just...Chan is alright."

Individuals who let him refer to them by their first name surely mean no harm, at least not right away. It's what Jeongin wants to think, so he relaxes back into the pillows, his hair sticking up in a spiderweb of different directions. A blue ceramic mug is set down on the nightstand next to him, the same one from last night.

“I brought you more tea with honey, we need to fight off that cough.”

As on cue, a small cough crosses Jeongin’s lips. He hesitates, but then grabs the drink, letting it bring a bit of blood back into his fingers. Who is he to decline a hot drink, really?

"You're not at work." 

Chan blanches at the statement as he sits down at the edge of the bed. He hadn’t expected to be engaged in conversation quite so soon, but it’s a positive surprise.

"Oh, no. Saturday, it's the weekend and all. I mean, I do occasionally work Saturdays, cause they're the busiest, and all…” The words die on his tongue. Jeongin hates cops with a passion, so he doesn't need to hear this. “Anyway, nope, no work," he clarifies in one breath instead. "Drink up, you need breakfast soon, it’s late. You slept forever.”

To be honest, Jeongin is reluctant to leave the temporary nest he occupies. But he’s equally unable to disobey a direct order, so he takes a few more sips to empty the mug, and crawls out. Their way leads into the kitchen, but Chan can’t help but notice how Jeongin flinches a little at every sound. The howling wind outside, the ticking of the wall-mounted clock, even Chan's footsteps if he happens to pad a bit too heavily. It makes him wonder if the skittishness might be a learnt behavior.

“Do you want toast? Orange juice? Hold on…I might have some leftover breakfast noodles…”

Jeongin sits down at the table, his mouth flying open to respond. But nothing useful comes out. A cough rips through his throat, and then a whole wet avalanche, and Chan swings around again, leaving the fridge door wide open.

“Hey, hey, hey.” He is quick to grab onto Jeongin’s shoulders, steadying him when the force of his heaving almost tips him onto his side. “Breathe with me, Jeongin. One, two, three…and exhale." Chan counts for him, but Jeongin’s breath is too short from the hiccuping coughing fit. It's impossible. His eyes are wet and teary, and he keeps gasping because it hurts so much, each cough sending sharp shockwaves through his ribs. He hears Officer Bang’s voice from afar, and then his body moves, hitting something soft. The couch.

“Breathe, come on," Chan mutters as he tries to help him sit up. But there’s a sudden outcry. He retracts his hand instantly, watching Jeongin double over instantly and back up into the corner, his arms tightly guarding his midsection.

"What?"

All Chan gets in response is more whimpering. Unknowingly, he’s poked a few fingers into Jeongin’s ribs, and disturbed the bird inside its fragile cage.

"It hurts," is all Jeongin can muster, even though his voice sounds tiny and pitiful. The pain ebbs, but the sound of glass shattering becomes louder and louder. He closes his eyes. He doesn't want to return there, not now, not when everything is finally calm.

When he opens them again, he finds Chan hovering above him.

"What hurts?"

There’s no response, but no response is needed. Chan’s attention is stuck around Jeongin’s waist, and something is so horribly wrong. So wrong, he thinks, but he inches a little closer, making sure to move in slow motion. Jeongin lowers his gaze, but he doesn't protest when the hem of the loaned sweatshirt is grabbed and rolled up.

Chan is unsure what he's really seeing, at first. Jeongin's exposed tummy, but it shouldn't be that discolored. His ribs shouldn't be littered with bruises, some of them having turned yellow, others remaining purple, and Chan stares at them until he feels queasy.

“You said Mr Choi treats you well,” he says with too-much bite. But he’s not reprimanding Jeongin, nah. Himself. Stupid idiot. Wasn’t it obvious, how Jeongin moves with difficulty, like a hunchback, and how he clutched his tummy when Chan dragged him inside yesterday.

He swallows down the torrent of guilt and ghosts his hand over the wounded area, feeling Jeongin’s skin twitch in its wake. It looks like someone took a rough paintbrush to his skin, fully without permission. He recovers his hand and rolls the sweatshirt down again with care.

“What happened here? Did he kick you?”

Jeongin refuses to look at him, but the lines around his mouth deepen. Chan loses his patience, only a little. Only because this whole situation has a whole new layer of gravity.

“Jeongin. You have to talk to me, if Mr Choi did this to you, which I’m assuming he did, it’s not even remotely okay.”

It’s still a one way conversation. Jeongin presses his teeth together, remaining mute, but Chan can read the answers in his silence. Mr Choi, the bloody red stain in Chan’s dreams, the rotten apple of his eye. Perhaps he should trust his instincts more often. But anyway, now is no time for vendettas, and he focuses his attention on Jeongin again.

"Can I check again? They look bad. If you could come to the bathroom with me, please."

By gentle cajoling, he finally gets his way. He leads Jeongin to the bathroom by the hand and sits him down on the toilet. It’s not like cooperation comes easy, but Chan didn't expect that. There’s silent resistance to every move he tries to make, until he can drag the sweatshirt over Jeongin's head with his mumbled permission. Chan is the one with the medical knowledge and a first aid kit extensive enough to treat this, so for now, no matter how anxious he is, Jeongin has to come to terms with being a patient in his care.

The abused skin is a little warm and swollen to the touch, but not too bad. He pokes his fingers lightly here and there, vigilantly scanning for a fracture.

“Does it hurt when I press here?”

Jeongin grimaces, his hands gripping onto the edges of the seat. But the officer is careful with him, which is a wholly new experience.

"Not that much, it’s just uncomfortable."

“It doesn't seem like you have any broken ribs, at least,” Chan hums. “You'd be in a lot of pain. It probably hurts more because you’ve been coughing a lot. Hold on, I have a lotion to help with the swelling." 

He rummages through the cabinet with a little too much force, uncaring of the bottles that fall over. Jeongin shouldn't look like that, not covered in welts, and not beaten down and miserable. There can't possibly be any justification for this, there's just no way, and the worst thing is he feels partly responsible. He should have known.

Sighing, he dollops some ointment into his palm and hunches down again.

"Did this happen more than once?”

Jeongin stays quiet and hangs his head, shivering in the open air as the product makes contact with his skin. Chan’s gut gets another point. When it knows, he knows. He feels the anger creep into his fingers, into his veins and every inch of his body, leaving a charred hole in his soul.

“Well. It's not happening again.”

He continues the ministrations, making sure not to leave a single welt unattended. Jeongin seems to appreciate what Chan is doing for him, even if he doesn’t vocalize it. At least it vaguely appears that way. He remains cooperative up until the point that Chan tells him to stay put, because he’s getting his camera. They need a few snapshots of the evidence.

“I don’t want to,” Jeongin protests finally. He makes furious attempts to slither away, but it’s absolutely pivotal that they do this.

“Yes. I know you’re scared, but this will help you. You’ll be alright. I have to, trust me. ”

Chan starts playing cop, which leaves no room for arguments. His hand presses down on Jeongin’s shoulder, lightly, but firmly enough to make a point. Jeongin looks like he wants to argue, but his jaw clamps shut, and they can proceed. It’s all done quickly, and Jeongin changes into the new, fresh sweatshirt handed to him as fast as he can. Maybe he feels exposed, or embarrassed, and Chan wants to ask him more questions, but he doesn't want to press him. But the worst thing is that he wonders if Jeongin thinks it's his fault.

The crime scene is concealed again, but it won’t undo anything. All Chan really wants is to drive to the hospital, and then the station, but he can’t. Because Jeongin is a runaway and the entire police force is on the hunt for him.

“I’m sorry about yesterday,” he says instead, since it’s all he can say. The cabinet door closes with an eerie clink after he returns the cream to its designated place.

“About what?”

Their eyes collide. Jeongin pulls the cuffs of his sweatshirt down to cover his marred hands, and waits. When there’s no continuation, he just shrugs and repeats himself. 

“What do you have to be sorry for, you didn’t have to help me. You didn’t have to do anything. I don’t even know why you did it.”

Chan reads his face, and doesn’t find a sliver of emotion there. He thinks about the confiscated gun, locked away in a high cupboard in the kitchen. Jeongin could have made his skull combust with a press of his finger yesterday. Minho would be busy planning his funeral right now, even though Chan specifically requested cremation. Minho does what Minho wants. He probably would have chosen an open casket, just to mess with him, and recited some god awful poem and then tossed about two dozen roses into his grave. But he doesn’t have to, because Chan is still here, intact. Because Jeongin didn’t pull the trigger. 

Why?

Because a tiny part of him still wants to trust people? 

He trusted Chan, and then Chan had to go and tear his dreams apart again, before they could even begin to properly form. How fucking awesome.

“Yes I did,” he says with an urgency that has Jeongin tensing up again. “Yes I did. I’m just sorry for having to spill all that on you, about your friends, and...I’m so sorry.”

“It’s the truth,” Jeongin says with chilling apathy. "Sometimes the truth hurts." 

He doesn't like being in here, under the stark glow of the lamp. It reminds him too much of the interrogation room at the station. He's much more partial to the shadows, where he can close his ears to all the shouting and his eyes to the spilled wine on the floor, and where he can escape into fictional worlds on a whim, like on the TV.

Chan ushers him out of the bathroom again and onto the couch. Jeongin observes him. His lips are puckered and his nose makes little puffing noises, and his cleaning turns more and more erratic. It's obvious he's...stressed. Under normal circumstances, such body language would make Jeongin a nervous wreck. But somehow, he senses that the frustration isn’t directed at him, and anyways, he doesn’t have the energy to feel frightened. Not right now. He doesn’t know where his place is in all this mess, or if there's a place for him anywhere.

"What's that?"

Something has caught his eye. The something is small and brown, with beady eyes, and looks a little out of place next to a stack of books. It’s a stuffed animal, a Bear, on the shelf in the very corner of the living room. Chan follows Jeongin's pointed finger and clears his throat.

"Oh, that's…um…Bear."

Bear wears a red bow, and he is old, scruffy and falling apart at the seams, but he’s a good sport. He’s been through one too-many rounds in the washing machine, way too many. But Chan absolutely refuses to throw him away.

"My grandma gave him to me when I was just a toddler,” he informs Jeongin. “I kept him cause…you know. Sentimental value. He just kind of doesn't have a home anymore. My grandma had a house far away, by a lake, but she passed and her house was demolished, so...that’s why he’s sitting on that shelf. No forests around here, well. Not unless you drive for miles and miles."

Jeongin snuggles up in his designated corner and studies the interaction that follows. Chan as he picks up the toy, his finger that strokes down its tummy. The ghost of a smile on his lips. The way his eyes smile, too, and the faintest chuckle he gives, as if he’s recalling a fond memory. Someone dear. And Jeongin finds himself wishing that someone would look at him like that, with affection, like they would miss him if he disappeared. But he doesn’t say it. And he thinks that he knows Bear’s conundrum, what with being forest-less and all, and having to settle for concrete. 

But he doesn’t say that either.

Jeongin guards himself like someone who is full of secrets. Chan nudges him awake on Sunday afternoon, to a bit less mayhem this time. And Jeongin mostly just does as he’s told. He eats, he showers, and he gives half-assed responses to questions. Not all the time, but at least some of the time. Chan wishes that he could relax more in his presence, that he wouldn't act like a nervous fox on the prowl all the time. It feels as if he's constantly trying to figure out Chan's true intentions, and whether or not he succeeds is a mystery. But he doesn’t try to run away again, at least. 

On Monday morning, Chan makes his little cunning plan a reality. He’s about to shamelessly lie and call in sick, and he doesn't feel one bit of remorse. So what? There’s no way he’s clocking in to work. Fuck work. Fuck all of them, all the casino owners, greedy CEO's and drug kingpins. The city could be falling to its knees for all he cares, or go up in flames. Today, Officer Bang is unavailable for service. 

“I'm just going to make a call,” he tells Jeongin, whose attention is plastered on the TV screen. It’s the only time he seems to forget reality and allow himself to travel somewhere else, whenever he's in front of the screen. Chan considers the morning reruns mostly depressing and repetitive, but Jeongin seems very fascinated.

"You like Bear, hm?"

They look pretty adorable together. Jeongin turns to him at last, and then at the plush toy in his grasp. Oh. It seems he forgot to put it back after he snuck up to Chan’s shelf to have a closer look. 

"I just thought he looked…lonely,” he explains, somewhat sheepishly. Pink roses bloom on his cheeks, and Chan feels something bloom in his chest, too. It’s warm and feels a bit like early spring. And then, he retreats into the kitchen just to be safe, before he dials work.

The signals pass until the same old yapping pug of a boss picks up. Yes, Bang? Chan just states his business flatly, but of course he runs into obstacles right away.

“You are…ill." 

Deputy chief Beom sounds like he’s just been told something completely unfathomable. Chan leans against the counter, making sure not to accidentally say something he may regret. Deep breath in. He pinches his nose for added nasality. Grandma Bang didn’t compliment his excellent acting skills for nothing.

"Yup. Been coughing, and I have a fever, the works. You know I was on patrol last Friday in that hellish blizzard? Out risking my life in subzero degrees, I was an icicle when I got home, and it might be serious and long-lasting. You wouldn't want a dead officer on your hands, would you?”

"Certainly not," the deputy chief drawls. “Generation Q, they make them weaker every year, I swear. When I was young, we had a total of three sick days to take out. Three, I’m telling you. But no one actually used them, because you know what, Bang? Real men don't get sick. We suck it up and soldier on, what exactly are you made of this days, cotton candy? It was different back in my day, mark my words…” 

The deputy chief has an unfortunate tendency to go on absolutely insufferable and long-winded rants, and now is one of those times. One would think he'd have other things to do, what with the raging crime and all, but alas. Chan lets the phone rest limply in his hand and just disconnects mentally. And breathe out. Officer Bang, savior of all beings, big and small, rich and poor. Oh, they don't know what's coming for them. The scum of this city will get what they deserve, any day now.

“...Choi wants to have a chat with you regarding the missing clone."

The last few words yank him back, more specifically the last mention. Clone. What? No, wait, that wasn't part of the plan? He can practically hear the man at the other end stomp his foot in irritation.

“Sorry, come again?” 

"The missing clone, Bang, the clone that stole a gun and disappeared. You’ve paid Mr Choi and his wife more visits than anyone, so he wants to know if you have any information at all. Well? Do you?"

A vein in Chan’s neck pulsates faster and faster. No, no, wait, not yet. He didn’t have time to decide on a course of action, and Beom's voice holds a clear undertone of suspicion. There’s no reason to suspect anything — yet. 

“I don’t,” he croaks, and repeats his lie. He had to go home last Friday, and he absolutely didn’t see any missing clones anywhere. It was an emergency, and he's as clueless as the rest of them, really. Deputy chief Beom settles for that with one last hrrmph, but this isn't good. It’s not good at all.

Chan slams the phone down and rests his palm on the cool marble counter, feeling like shattering the screen. It can’t all be falling to pieces already. They can’t be pressing him for information now, nor ever, really, because all the information would lead them straight here. 

The dishwasher beeps, alerting its owner that it’s ready to be unloaded. They need breakfast, but it's only one of many requirements. Jeongin needs routine, he needs to be nursed back to health again. They need a plan. While Chan rummages around the kitchen and mutters garbage to himself, he notices that he has company. Jeongin hovers in the doorway, light on his feet as usual.

“What’s that smell?”

Chan wrinkles his nose and stops dead in his tracks. After a few sniffs here and there, he detects it too, that telltale sticky, herbal scent that seeps through every crack it possibly can. Damn potheads.

“That’s the neighbors. Bunch of high schoolers, they like to smoke weed now and then when their parents are out…sorry about that.”

He reminds himself to slip them another angry note when he leaves the building. They could at least go outside, which he'll have to do soon too. The reason is food. The cupboards are nearly barren, and Chan has two individuals to feed. Moreover Jeongin’s bones look worryingly emaciated. 

“I can do that,” Jeongin says suddenly, and makes a move to take over emptying the dishwasher. But he’s promptly stopped by Chan’s hand.

“No, no.“

“I should, I feel better already, you don’t have to —”

“You’re not here to be a servant,” Chan blasts out, making the younger instantly back away from him. “You’re here as a guest, and that’s it. I need to go out, I’ll put on a movie for you, alright? Please stay here. Don’t move.”

He kneads his forehead with his knuckles, and feels this whole situation slip out of his control. Damn it. Jeongin picks up on every single change in demeanor, every single twitch of his eyelashes, but Chan isn't good at realizing it yet. Not right away, he’s too busy collecting his wallet, and cursing deputy chief Beom to the fucking fiery pits of hell. Too busy to notice, until he does. Jeongin appears to have shrunk several sizes, and he’s chewing on his lower lip until the skin becomes even more cracked. Chan's face crumples in concern.

“What? What’s wrong?”

“I’m just worried about…what will happen to me if they…find me.” Jeongin shifts to stare at the floor, before he adds the rest in a whisper. “When they find me.”

“Don't worry about that now, cause they’re not going to find you. Not here.”

“But Mr Choi said they’ll terminate —”

“No one is being terminated.” 

Chan’s voice rises at least two octaves, and Jeongin flinches at the increase in volume, because of course he does. They need to rewind, and then Chan needs to speak the words again, but gentler. Not act so much like the intimidating beast he knows he can be sometimes, but he's just not good at this yet, caring for the lone flower with its frail petals. The frustration at the outside world seems to pour all over the one person he’s supposed to be protecting.

“I’m sorry,” he says with genuine regret. He reaches to place his hand on Jeongin’s shoulders, squeezing the tensed muscles until they soften. "I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to shout. But it’s not going to happen, I’m not letting it happen, I promise. Do you understand me?”

“Yes,” Jeongin says stiffly, but with a little hint of sweet relief. 

As the storm eases and sweeps north, the citizens return to the streets, like hedgehogs crawling out of their leaf piles to nose around. But Chan kind of wishes they didn't. The corner shop has been close to empty each time that he’s visited, and now it changes. The atmosphere grows uneasy again after its temporary break. Keeping Jeongin off everyone’s radar has been easy during the time they’ve been snowed in, but now is a whole other ballgame.

Chan has turned his apartment into a safe haven for him, right in the middle of the city he despises. And by this time Jeongin is almost convinced he’s untouchable here, no matter if the walls are make belief and prone to crumbling at the lightest touch. He can sit on the couch, undisturbed, and watch TV, replay the old movies he likes so much. Sleep in the guestroom bed, and take long, warm showers. His cough is tamed, and soon he isn’t sniffling so much anymore. He crawls out of his shell to have the occasional look around, and he even dares open his mouth without shaking like a leaf. 

They’re nice, the little things he asks Chan. Jeongin is thirsty for knowledge, because he feels so isolated, sometimes. There’s a reason that the old library in Mr Choi’s mansion used to be his favorite place to hang out.

He asks Chan things. Does he have a partner, and does he like plants, and is he perhaps partial to cats? (No, yes, and sure). What jeongin doesn’t ask is more burning questions. Such as; what will happen now? It lingers on his tongue more than once, but sometimes ignorance is bliss, and he isn’t so sure he even wants to know. The answer might puncture the illusion way too quickly.

It feels like the neighbors are rousing from their slumber, too. Chan can hear footstep and doors that close and open, and of course, the smell of pot that gets even stronger. But he doesn’t care about that. All he cares about is to make sure that no one discovers the refugee he’s been harboring.

The thing is, he becomes used to seeing Jeongin by his kitchen table. And it’s nice to cook for someone. His ex didn't want kids, even though she seems to consider it with her new love interest, aka the greasy business class snob. Whatever. Chan just settled for a solitary life after that, wrapping himself up in his own cynicism, and in work, and the sappy k-dramas on TV. Sometimes he imagines that he is the main character in a sunny utopia that seems unattainable. But now, that there's life around him in this reality, it feels...nice.

On Friday morning, one week after he rescued the runaway, he finds Bear in Jeongin's bed. Tucked snugly under his arm, the comforter draped over both of them. He doesn't say anything about it, just smiles to himself, and thinks that it’s nice to smile, too, without really meaning to. The moment is so precious, but so fleeting, because wicked forces threaten to tear it apart. Chan needs to get back to work soon. 

Fucking work. This is all borrowed time.

Friday evening falls, and Jeongin is stationed on the couch in front of the TV. Interstellar is playing. Chan occupies himself with whatever he can, picking up mugs of tea and folding the laundry, while the wires in his brain work overtime to come up with a solution. Something. Call off the search for Jeongin, take the next train out of town, anything. It would only be suitable that it’s at that moment, at the peak of desperation, that his worst fears would manifest. 

They do so in the form of a knock. And then, a long jingle that fades into an ominous wail. The doorbell.

Jeongin’s hand brushes a stray lock of black hair behind his ear, but it stops right in the middle of the action. His head zaps to the left. Chan’s head turns too. It was definitely the doorbell, cause they both heard it.

“Don’t move,” he tells the paralyzed boy. A hundred different scenarios scurry through his mind on the way to the front door. It could be Beom, or the neighbor. Mr Choi himself. Hell no, not today. He’s half tempted to get the baseball bat from the closet, but he forces himself to be reasonable. When he finally slides the door open with his breath catching in his throat, it's the person he least expected it to be. He wears a thick padded coat and an even thicker woolly scarf and hat that only leaves his nose visible, but Chan recognizes him anyway based on his huge, squinty doe eyes.

It’s Minho.

It’s Minho, and he’s accompanied by Changbin, and a bottle of liquor. Changbin is Chan’s and Minho’s mutual friend. A fitness trainer with a short and compact frame, hysterical sense of humor, and complete disregard for personal boundaries. Chan makes a startled sound, but Changbin shoulders past him before they've even said hello.

“Minho said you’ve been sick for a week, and you know, there’s not a single cold that whisky can’t fix. So in other words, we invited ourselves over.”

Minho follows suit, dragging a whole tub’s worth of snow onto the rug. It seems to be on purpose, too, since he makes a thing out of shoving it around thoroughly. Chan's brain goes into overdrive. Oh shit, oh no. They’re already busy kicking off their shoes and taking off their coats, and they can’t just waltz into the living room and stumble upon Jeongin. They just can’t. 

“Um — hold on a second, okay.”

“No excuses, you haven’t answered my messages,” Minho hisses at Chan, causing him to jerk back in pure horror. “Did you turn your phone off? You don’t seem to be plagued by any horrible coughs or runny noses at all. Are you bullshitting me, Christopher?”

His eyes narrow to slits, ready to x-ray every single inch of Chan in search of clues. He takes note of the greasy bedhead, and the fact that he's in dire need of a shower and a shave. He looks quite hideous, honestly, for a guy who usually puts way too much product in his hair. But his attention shifts elsewhere, fast. He forgets all about the lecture, and Chan whirls around at once, only to see what Minho and Changbin see. 

Jeongin. 

He stands at the end of the hallway, in his white sweatshirt and the few-sizes-too-big shorts, his eyes blown so wide that it gives him a slightly demonic expression. They look at Jeongin, Jeongin looks at them. Reality buffers for a while, and all Minho can produce is a little gurgling noise in surprise. Changbin is the first to reconnect. 

“Hey there…buddy,” he says gently, addressing the fourth, unexpected presence. Jeongin’s face remains perfectly blank, but his twitching fingers suggest he’s about to escape through the window.

"It's okay, they won't do anything to you," Chan hurries to ensure him. Thankfully both of them give off quite an unimposing aura, or so he would hope, despite what their exterior might suggest. Minho’s coat is hallway off, both his limbs and his face frozen in place, and Changbin flips the bottle of alcohol in his hand. That kid looks familiar, and it dawns on him who it might be, since Minho filled him in a little.

“I feel like…there might be something you guys possibly have to hash out?”

Chan’s wires spark to life again. Hash out, yes. He might have seconds left to live, so it’s time to act.

“Jeongin, stay with Changbin for a moment, while I talk to Minho, okay? He’s a good guy, you don’t have to worry. You can watch TV.“

“The best guy,” Changbin says humbly. He approaches with cautious steps, but they don't have to worry. It seems like the newfound foundation of trust isn’t as unstable as Chan thought it to be. Jeongin doesn’t look entirely convinced, but he returns the shy smile and follows Changbin to the living room without question.

Chan has Minho’s fingers in a firm grasp within seconds. The bedroom seems like a good place to have a chat, so that's where he takes them, pressing himself flat against the wood the moment the door closes behind them. 

"Listen."

“I knew it,” Minho says with a rasp, having finally awoken from his coma. “I knew it, I mean I wasn’t sure, but then I was like, this is totally something Chan would do, and you haven’t called about updates on the kid, and your phone has been off, and you've acted so shady, and I just knew it — ”

His voice climbs into falsetto. If looks could kill, bless Chan's soul. This isn’t good. Minho looks quite haggard, to be honest, since it’s clearly been a stressful week at work. He stares at Chan for a few seconds, and then he grabs a pillow and throws himself onto the bed, using it to muffle his screams.

The buzz of the TV carry through the walls. Chan stretches out his arm to have a look at his watch. Time is of the essence, and he wonders how long Minho plans on being angry at him, exactly. He's stopped the screaming now at least and gone flat as a pancake on the bed.

“Are you…okay? You didn’t breathe for like three minutes. You get why I did it though, right?” 

It takes a few tries, and some more wheedling, but Minho bounces up again at last. The pillow comes flying through the air the second after, and Chan barely manages to duck in time.

"Minho?!"

“Of course I get why, that's why I'm upset! Can’t you see I'm upset?”

He laps up a violent breath. This reminds Chan of the time that Minho pushed him into the river after they’d been out drinking, because he lost a round of poker. Scorned Minho equals wild and unpredictable Minho, and also, he’s still wearing his scarf. Funny ideas of using it as a strangulation device may occur.

“I definitely can," Chan says hastily. He's backed up almost unintentionally, just to be safe, but he can't really back up much further without dislocating one or two bones. It’s at that point Minho’s anger morphs into melancholy. 

"You could have told me. I could have helped."

The miserable pout he wears looks pretty authentic, and Chan feels himself become teeny tiny under the scrutinizing gaze. Oh, he should have. To be honest, he knew that all along, but he just brushed it off, and it's not like this situation was handled with much finesse anyway.

"I'm sorry, I am, I just…this was kind of a spontaneous thing. I was going to tell you but I've been trying to figure out what to do, and I just don't know, but I had to get Jeongin healthy first."

Minho makes a disgruntled noise deep in his throat and starts pacing again. Chan watches him with caution, wondering what exactly he needs to do to earn forgiveness. Get down on his knees and promise to make the coffee rounds for the rest of their lives, or what? 

"I panicked,” he tries, and that part is true. “I really did. I was going to but I panicked cause everyone’s chasing him. And Minho, I was right. He’s more lucid than they usually are, he remembers things, his whole…" He hesitates, and Minho has halted himself again, his ears perking to listen. “...past. The other Jeongin’s memories, he remembers those things too. He has the same memories, the same experiences, the same…everything.”

Cars rush past outside, and someone screams in the distance. Several gunshots follow. Bang. That’s commonplace around here, and it’s not even the reason Minho has paled at least three shades. No, it’s because he understands, just like Chan, what it means to bear such memories. He takes a couple calming breaths, trying to wrap his mind around this. All he wanted was to stop by for a glass of whisky, that he deserved after the week he's had at work, god damn it.

“Okay, okay,” he says, back to level-headed and rational. “The kid is here, he’s safe, and he’s…a human with real memories and a full blown consciousness and all of it, so what now? What do we do with Mr Choi, and the search patrol? They’ve been out looking for him day and night.”

"I don't know yet, I don't know, okay? Just give me some time, but listen.” Chan jumps up to him, closing his fingers around Minho’s delicate arms, and stares deep into his soul. And sure, Chan's eyes are like ponds of melted chocolate and all, but it still becomes a little unsettling after a while.

“Minho.”

“Um…are we…having a moment? You know I love you, but in the friendly, platonic kind of way. We’ll see how it develops, alright?”

“What? Oh my god, listen. That guy, Mr Choi. He's an abusive ballsack, he must be."

The choice of words renders Minho inoperable again, so Chan is quick to fill him in. The evidence of abuse on Jeongin’s skin, his reserved nature, the odd interactions between the master and his servant. Minho's disgusted frown deepens along with every harrowing detail.

“He looks like someone tried to kick him in half,” Chan grits. “I don’t know the specifics, but something in that house is not right."

“Then…we need to bring Mr Choi down?”

“I know, but it’s not that simple.”

"Oh, you think I don't know it isn’t that simple, Chan?” Minho’s features darken again, like a storm that wells in and fills the entire bedroom. He jabs a finger into Chan’s chest, hard enough to make a point. "Representatives from Bioseed clones stopped by the station, you know. They're really eager to find Jeongin too, and they're angry. Malfunctioning clones that knock down their owner, that’s messing with their sales and they want him put down and the whole thing silenced and forgotten. They’ve been calling us daily, demanding that we find him, and they won’t stop until it happens."

Chan stares at him as the words die out, feeling tremors crawl up his spine. No. That can’t be. The stupid clone company, he should have realized they would stick their noses into this mess. 

"You can’t let them, not until I have more proof that Mr Choi caused this situation, but I can't just drag Jeongin to the station and show his bruises, they might —" He flops down on the bed, unable to describe the specific consequences. "They might…take him, and do something hasty. I can't risk it."

Minho stands guard above him, having fallen uncharacteristically silent. He looks at his distraught friend, and out of the window, at the pale string of stars visible above the skyline. This city. It’s hard to find empathy here, or anyone who will lift a hand for justice. In other words, he knows what he must do. 

“I’ll go to the Choi residence, alright. I’ll come up with some reason to maybe chat to Mrs Choi. See if she’ll talk, if she’ll reveal something else that could be used as evidence.”

“You will? Minho, fuck, you’re an angel.”

Chan actually leaps up and throws himself in Minho’s arms then. Minho just sighs and pats his back, and keeps his poker face, but it’s all a facade. He’s still royally pissed at all this secrecy, it's not that, but he’s terribly proud of Chan and his unshakable urge to protect and redeem. 

They find Changbin and Jeongin right where they left them, in front of the TV. They're still engaged in discussion, led by Changbin. He's chatting about this and that, his newest gold tier gym membership and about potentially getting into rapping, and Jeongin listens attentively, his hands knitted in his lap. It seems no major disasters have occurred in their absence. They get ready to take their leave, but Changbin absolutely insists on leaving the bottle of whisky behind.

“You might need it," is his reasoning, and to be fair, he's right. "Drink responsibly, though.”

Before they part, Minho promises to head to the Choi residence first thing on Monday. It’s not much, but it’s a plan, and now that Chan's head is out of his ass, he knows what he'll be spending the rest of the evening on.

Mr Choi.

The guy seems like the kind of guy to have a record, or at least a violent past. He plans on asking Jeongin about it eventually, but if there's anything else he's missed that occurred anytime before Jeongin, he’s adamant to dig it up.

He parks himself in the armchair opposite the couch, equipped with his laptop and a glass of Changbin's miracle whisky. All the right databases are at his disposal, it’s not that. It’s just that he’s checked them over and over again, but there has to be something he glossed over. His fingers work overtime, swiping, tapping, and maximizing documents, but after checking the records over and over, there’s nothing. There’s zilch. He’s sparkling clean, not even a DUI, not even a basic parking ticket, absolutely nothing. All he can find is articles covering all of Mr Choi's business endeavors, so after an hour or so, he just gives up.

He sits back and plucks the reading glasses from his nose, and it’s then he becomes aware he’s being watched. 

Jeongin is looking at him. 

He’s returned from his shower, wearing the fresh pajamas left out for him, his hair still damp and sticking to his forehead. His hands rest on his knees, back straight as a plank. Bear sits next to him. It's not unusual that Jeongin looks at him, but he usually averts his eyes the second he's caught. This time he doesn't. 

He looks plagued by thought, and Chan thinks that Jeongin certainly is very thoughtful. But what he doesn't know is that thought, however consuming, is sometimes Jeongin's only companion.

"What's up?"

“Your friends seemed nice.”

“Oh, yeah, they are. They’re very, very good guys. You can trust them.”

“Good guys,” Jeongin repeats, running a finger along Bear’s red bow. Good guys don't really exist within the realms of his reality, but he might even believe it. “Chan. Do you remember when you told me about…the other Jeongin?”

“Yeah?”

“You kind of sounded like…I don’t know. When you talked about him you had this look in your eyes like…like you knew him.”

Chan sobers up instantly, letting the laptop close while he wonders where this is going. He places it onto the coffee table, followed by the now empty glass, movements slow. Of course the vigilant fox would pick up on such a thing. 

“Did I?”

He’s met with a grave nod, and all of Jeongin’s senses fixed on him. This conversation is long overdue. To be honest, Chan is surprised it didn’t occur sooner, but then again they’ve been preoccupied.

“I knew him,” he says with honesty. “Well, a little. We went to the same high school. I wasn’t that great at math, and he did the best he could to help me out. He was the kind of person who...helped people.”

“But you’re old. So when was this?”

“I’m old? I’m twenty-nine.”

Embarrassment rises on Jeongin’s cheeks, but Chan just chuckles and finds humor in the unfiltered comments. He certainly feels ancient, but he’s jaded by circumstance more than anything. Surely, somewhere inside the dusty caves of his soul, he’s still young at heart.

“Well you’re not like, old old,” Jeongin clarifies without really needing to.“…but you’re…you said this was a long time ago, when he…when they passed.”

“It is. He was eighteen. It was only a few days after his birthday.”

He looks at Jeongin, picturing him at twenty-nine. What he'd look like. Handsome, for sure. For the first time maybe ever, Chan allows himself to really think about Jeongin — the original Jeongin.

Yang Jeongin.  

The interior loses some of its saturation, transforming into the hallways they used to wander. The times Jeongin said hi to him, and smiled and waved at him, which was every time. Every day. Hey there Chris, he said. He was the kind of kid who waved at everyone. Nerd and jock, art geek and science genius, popular and friendless.

It's strange. 

Jeongin shouldn't be that fresh-faced, because he's the same age as Chan, except he isn't. He has to remind himself of that.

And maybe Chan will get to witness what Jeongin will look like at twenty-nine, if he's allowed to live that long. 

He's remained oblivious to the change in ambience, until now. Jeongin is quiet, unusually quiet, even for Jeongin. The silence is fit for a funeral, and as Chan realizes why, all the color drains from his face, but it’s too late. Jeongin has done the math in his head, and mind you, he’s good at math. The only plausible truth fills his stomach like a solid block of ice. 

“But that means that…they stored his DNA and then…they made me?”

It’s not really a question. The hatred within him swirls like a maelstrom that his body can no longer contain, and Bear falls from his limp fingers and onto the floor. 

“How old am I?”

At once, he looks exactly like the soulless machine he was designed to be. Chan just wants to find the right words to redirect the conversation, the right lie to erase all the pain. But it doesn’t exist. He rests his palms on his knees and forces some authority into his voice, hoping it'll work this time, that he'll be able to beat that cursed curiosity into submission.

“Eighteen. We shouldn’t talk about this now, it’s getting late. Do you want some dinner?”

Jeongin sizes him up and down, a little cynical smirk forming on his lips. It feels like they’re stuck in combat, and Chan is losing. 

“No. Don’t give me that. It certainly feels like I'm eighteen, and like I've been working for Mr Choi forever, but that can't be. That doesn't add up, so how old am I, really? How long have I been alive?”

He makes sure to enunciate each letter, before his mouth draws a thin line. And there’s no lying to him. Not even any sugar coating, ever, he’s too smart. Never to him. Chan shouldn't have said anything. He sighs and leaves the chair, and picks up Bear from the floor. He sits next to Jeongin, and then he answers without theatrics.

“It’s been about two years since they created you to be sold to Mr Choi. You're just not...supposed to be aware of it. Well, you're not supposed to be aware of anything, really, you're not supposed to have any perception of time."

But he does. Two years. Jeongin sinks back into the cushions, coming to terms with that number. Two years. Two years. Twenty-four months, seven hundred and thirty days.

White noise fills his ears, and the surroundings become quieter, like a radio turned low. Two years. That's nothing, two years, what is that in the grand scale of everything? It feels longer. It feels like eons, but the artificial memories planted inside him were never his. Never his to experience, nurture, or treasure. Maybe it is fitting that he should find comfort in Bear, another lost soul doomed to search for a home without ever finding it.

“And who the fuck gave them the permission to do that, to collect DNA from some poor, deceased person?”

“His uncle,” Chan says plainly, feeling his throat dry out. "His parents, they...weren't in the picture. His uncle was his guardian, so he okayed it, and then he moved to the other side of the country. It pays well.

“How could he do that?”

Chan shakes his head. There's no answer, and he nudges Jeongin’s arm with his fingertips, his worry peaking. He calls his name, but Jeongin doesn’t hear it.

The living room fades to black, and darkness claims him, like at Mr Choi’s, where the curtains are draped heavily over the windows. They’re like bars in a jail cell, allowing no moonlight to seep through. Not even a sliver. His heartbeat pounds in his neck, in his ears, in his brain, until he’s certain his body will disintegrate. What is he, existing within a borrowed suit that belonged to someone else? 

What would he find if he slashed his flesh open? Metal?

“So I have no parents,” he says to himself, raising his hand to study the thin blue veins. They're like long rivers running through a pale winter landscape. “No past, no future, no family. I'm grown in a lab. I'm just…a thing.”

Jeongin contemplates his own limits sometimes, but sometimes he thinks that he’s already reached them. He did have hope, a little. Names he could recite and faces he could describe in his sleep, so vivid he could almost touch them. But he won't ever touch them, no matter how far he runs. Everyone who runs will fall sometime, and Jeongin hasn’t stopped running since the night he ran from Mr Choi’s. But at some point, they will catch him.

Like the gentlest rain, tears fall silently and quickly from his eyes and onto his t-shirt, absorbed into little circles by the fibers of the fabric. Heat floods his veins, but his heart stays so cold, and Chan watches it happen, unable to act right away.

Isn’t this the final proof, this? He remembers his own words at the office. If something has to breathe to stay alive, if it can cry, and maybe laugh, isn't it human, and he's still waiting for it. 

The laugh. 

There’s no tingly, charming laugh. Just quiet sobs, and Jeongin tries to keep himself in check when they start to consume him. He shrinks further into the corner, shielding his face from sight with his palms, and it's then Chan wakes up. No, no, he doesn’t have the words, nor the explanations, but maybe words aren’t needed now. Mindful of not poking at any of the still-healing bruises, he reaches out a hand, fingers curling around Jeongin's waist. It's slow, a slow push and pull, but eventually something dislodges within Jeongin. He falls heavily against Chan's chest and pushes his nose into his t-shirt, uncaring of wetting it with his tears.

“You're not a thing,” is all Chan says, keeping his voice soft. Out of everything that was said, it was by far the most haunting. He rests his chin on top of Jeongin's head and listens as their lungs move in tandem. Every quiver of his heart, his pulse as it races and stills along with every cry. His arms wrap around Chan like vines sprouting around a tree, almost as if he’s been waiting to curl up right here all this time.

Jeongin is blue, like frozen lakes, and white, like snow.

It's so late that they've reached the sacred hour of the day, the hour that everyone goes to rest for just a while until they get up to the usual mayhem again. There's no thumping footsteps from upstairs, or ear-piercing sirens from outside. Just stillness. They stay on the couch for the longest time, just savoring the moment, until Jeongin’s eyelids start sagging. He snuggles up onto his side, fast asleep within minutes. Chan leans his elbow against the headrest and studies him.

Features, smooth, no panic. If there was a way of waking him up tomorrow to a world of possibilities, he'd see it done in a heartbeat.

“What am I going to do with you?” 

No one answers. Careful not to wake him, Chan tucks him in with a blanket draped over his sleeping form, and Bear, laid to rest next to him.

Chapter Text

After all the year of solitude, Chan finds some unexpected relief in all the mornings in the kitchen with Jeongin.

Even though Jeongin is an unreliable conversational partner, it's nice. Minho says that Chan is a weirdo for still reading the newpaper, because that's an ancient practice. You can have AI read it for you, but Chan still insists on reading the only newspaper that's still being printed. He's not entirely sure why, since it's all terrible news and doomsday headlines about the ever-thinning ozone layer, but it's a habit. Mornings with Jeongin become a habit, too, and reading the paper in his presence.

Jeongin will sit in his designated seat, back straight and stiff, and watch him. Sometimes with fascination, sometimes caution. Always slightly facing away, eyelids at a downward tilt. He only looks at Chan when he thinks he can get away with it. It's a mystery how the Choi’s managed to miss all the signs of sentient life, because Jeongin's eyes are drawn to Chan like a moth to a flame, constantly observing. But maybe, Chan thinks, they just never paid enough attention.

Jeongin is someone who wishes to perceive, but does not wish to be perceived.

Occasionally he'll ask Chan something, and then look startled when it actually develops into a discussion. But they spend a lot of time there by the table. Two beings co-existing. Jeongin's troubles are now their shared troubles. And to be honest, Chan can't picture his mornings without Jeongin anymore. 

Jeongin, Jeongin. Clone 143 no more.

His elbows rest on the table, fingers breaking tiny pieces off his egg sandwich to nibble on. The visual reminds Chan of a bunny that slowly devours a carrot. It's quite endearing. He’s freshly showered and wears another one of Chan's sweaters. It's too big for him, just like everything else, and it occurs to Chan that they should probably shop for something that fits. His cough is gone, but there's answers hidden within him, answers that Chan wants, but whenever he thinks they're about to spill in flurries of words, Jeongin shuts himself like a clam again.

Chan hides behind his coffee cup, and thinks about their current predicament. Mostly how to solve it, and the crease in his brow deepens until he can't get away with it any longer. He should know better than to stare at Jeongin in silence, since it makes him all fidgety and begs the question; did I do something wrong? And that's the absolute opposite of what Chan wants, so he threads his fingers together and clears his throat.

“Jeongin. What do you like to do for fun? Other than watching movies.”

It's an important question as far as he's concerned. Jeongin's mouth twitches upward, the first trace of a smile today. So maybe asking him questions is the right thing to do. But it seems like the cogs in his brain have to work overtime to answer.

“For…fun,” he echoes. Chan wonders if he just went out on a limb again.

“Yeah, you know," he says and throws the useless newspaper to the side. "Do you have any interests, or…passions, hobbies, games, special things you really like?"

Special things. Fun. He tastes the word. Fun. Something you do for enjoyment or amusement. Chan actually cares to ask, and it makes him all excited, but it's just that his experiences with such things are limited. But he wants to answer. Anything, really, that will make Chan think that he's interesting and maybe even worth keeping around, so he won't be tossed out on the street.

Bear sits on the edge of the table, leaning against a vase of hideous plastic daisies. The plushie friend gives Jeongin an idea, a cute little snapshot poking at the linings of his brain.

“I like…animals. Dogs and cats, playing with them."

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Mr Choi got a puppy a few months back, but they gave him away eventually...I guess he chewed up all the couch cushions, and peed on the rug, and they didn't have the patience to keep him. I was pretty sad."

“Oh.”

“He was really cute,” Jeongin says longingly and leans his chin in his palm. Chan just sits there, unsure how to even begin to process this information. Well, at least he got to pet a puppy, even if it was heartlessly taken from him after. Jeongin's everyday life at Mr Chois seems bleaker than the future of this city, and that's saying a lot.

"Well, well," he mutters to no one in particular, leaning back to grind the sleep out of his eyes. It's Monday. The time is 11:10 AM. Minho should be heading out to the Choi's soon. They need a distraction (well, he does) and his attention roams left and right, finally lands on the deck of cards at the other end of the table, almost conveniently left there. Oh.  

“You like Uno?”

Jeongin quickly shoves the last piece of sandwich into his mouth. With cheeks full of bread, he looks a little like a hamster, struggling to form the words.

“What’s…Uno?”

That does it. It may not be the most captivating or stimulating of creations, according to others. No one plays it anymore, except Chan. Just like no one reads the newspaper anymore except Chan, and several other things he does that are outdated, but as far as he's concerned, Uno is the best game ever created. He pushes the plates and jug of juice out of the way, fingers already working overtime to mix the pack. Once the cards are laid out before them, he begins to explain the rules. Jeongin listens with all senses on high alert.

These cards are important. These cards used to belong to Grandma Bang. They're used to oblivion, some of them having been reassembled with tape multiple times. Jeongin handles them delicately, as if he senses that they have value. 

The two of them stay quiet, focusing on the task at hand. The game starts. Chan studies Jeongin's nimble fingers as they swap out card after colorful card with an ease he hadn't really expected. Oh no. Oh no, this was not part of the plan.

“Look at you. You know Uno like the back of your hand.”

“Seems like I do,” Jeongin says and places another winning card down. Double no with cream. His own talent both surprises and flusters him. Luck is obviously a plus, but a vigilant eye is required. 

By the time Chan’s hand balances a total of twenty cards, he begins to question if this was such a good idea after all. 

“And you beat me again.” He drops the stack with a grunt. “This is not okay, I'm not accepting this, this is abhorrent, I haven't lost a round of Uno since —" 

It nearly slips out. The laughter of adolescents fills his ears, a corridor painted in sepia.

Since he and Felix used to play Uno during recess.

Sometimes the rest joined in. And that’s why Jeongin knows Uno, too, it must be. Muscle memory, maybe he possesses all of Jeongin’s abilities, maybe he could do anything if he tried. Chan doesn't really know. He chases away the cobwebs, aware of the flickering eyes watching him, and that his face has fallen. None of that now.

"Good job.” The chair pushes back, and Chan lets his hand brush through Jeongin's hair as he passes him.

“I'll be right back, okay? I need to make a call.”

It's time to pester the heart of this operation.

The Choi’s live out in the countryside, a good thirty minute drive from the city center. 

Vast fields and snow-glazed mountains frame the road on both sides. Minho enjoys the view, even if he isn't out for a joyride. The occasional frozen pond and family of deers, and the rare chirrup of bird-song. It'll be spring soon, if they're lucky. But the landscape is completely devoid of trees. There are no trees anymore, but it’s peaceful. Sure, the unyielding stream of industrial gas follows him, because pollution is everywhere, but out here you can at least maintain the illusion of nature, pure, untouched and wild. And that's enough for Minho.

His phone starts whining for attention in the passenger seat. He grapples with the stupid handsfree until Chan's voice blasts through the speakers.

"Are you on your way?"

"Yes, I'm on my way, nearly there, calm your tits."

It's only the eleventh time he assures him. He could be on his way to a long lunch with Changbin instead, and listen to a lecture on why carbs are the devil, and how baby pink will be the trending color this spring. But there's a scared kid back at Chan's place, absolutely dependent on his help, so that means he'll skip lunch. 

A lot can be said about Lee Minho. Drama queen, ice king, crazy cat lady, by no means as funny as he thinks is. But if there's one thing he is, it’s loyal.

Two roaring golden lions welcome him at the final gate, guarding the entrance on each side. How kitschy. Thankfully, it’s open. Whoever designed the Choi's mansion didn’t skimp on the details. It’s a sleek thing with a black facade and windows facing the driveway. But no one seems to be home.

Minho parks the car, nearly falling out of the driver's seat as he trips on his own untied shoelace. Bad start, very bad. It's important to make sure he looks as unimposing as possible. Dark blue shirt tucked into his pants properly, dry croissant crumbs wiped off his collar. Gun safely in its holster, and absolutely not visible at any time. That would be bad.

"Protector of the people," he hums and starts to walk up the the Choi's neatly raked driveway.

Chan claims that Minho has been cursed with a face that radiates a constant aura of disgust. So maybe it’s true, but his flawless bone structure just happens to give him that look of regality. Now he has to come across as the polar opposite of that. Sympathetic, approachable. A friend. A neighbor. A friendly neighborhood cop, a shoulder to cry on after dark secrets are uncovered.

Mrs Choi’s darkest secrets. Origins of mysterious bruises, the true nature of her husband's character, if there is anything to remark on. There must be.

Minho inhales and practices his game smile. Encouraging conversation, a hint of teeth. No mean grimaces. Breathe. This is just a routine visit, nothing more.

"Okay," he mutters and straightens out the tie. "Okay, okay, you've got this, Lino. You’re the goddamn boss."

The lion theme continues. A hideous bronze lion head knocker decorates the giant oak doors. Minho bangs it against the wood, once, twice. There’s no traces of life anywhere. He’s ready to give up after the third knock. Scuttle off and call it a day, but no, he promised. And there’s a sinister creak. The door opens in the slowest of slow motions, one pixel at a time.

"Mrs…Choi?"

"Ye...s?"

Mrs Choi (presumably) blinks back at him in startled confusion. A pink dressing gown adorns her tall frame, black hair in a haphazard knot on top of her head. She looks almost laughably taken aback at first, as if it's unheard of to get visitors at this time of day.

"Can I help you…” She scans Minho’s dark blue ensemble for a second. “...officer?"

Her gaze is suspiciously flimsy. Minho takes in the scene, including the sickly tint of her skin and rings of mascara beneath her eyes. So the visual raises some alarm, but he’s here to work, not judge. 

"Hello," he says swiftly and drags the cap off. "Sorry for the interruption. Is your husband home?"

“No, he's still at the office…do you want me to call him? Is it urgent? 

A faint cloud of alcohol hits Minho in the face as she leans forward. The alarm raises a few more levels. Alcohol? He's certainly not one to judge anyone's drinking habits, but it seems a bit too early in the day (and the wrong day of the week) to be cleaning out the booze cabinet.

"No need,” he assures. “It's actually you I want to have a chat with. Could I come inside?"

“Oh?”

That’s the million dollar question. But to everyone's relief, she willingly leads the way into the cave of mysteries.

The Choi’s spacious kitchen matches the exterior, but it's awfully dark in there. Classical music plays somewhere in the distance, Minho could swear it. Chopin, perhaps. A low-hanging art deco lamp illuminates the cabinets and their contents. The finest of bottles in neat rows, labels scream upper class. Sitting on the counter is a lone glass of red wine. Of course. 

“Does this concern Jeongin? Did you find any trace of him?”

Spindly fingers close around the glass again. Mrs Choi resembles an owl where she stares at Minho from across the marble kitchen island, eyes round, inquisitive. How handy that he didn't even have to explain himself.

“Yes, it does. The investigation is still ongoing. I wanted to know what exactly happened the evening he ran away?”

He digs around in his pocket, smile straining as the seconds pass. Got it. A little notebook and a pen, and it’s time to take notes old school. The wine disappears down Mrs Choi’s throat at an alarming rate, leaving her lips patchy.

“I thought my husband already provided all the details to the police?”

“I would like to hear your version.”

“Oh."

"If you don't mind," he adds. Nice and polite.

She hesitates. Aside from the questionable drinking habit, and the strange mannerisms, there’s not much to note here.

Except…

It's a bit hard to believe that anyone actually lives here. The interior is spotless, and there’s this eerie vibe he can't quite pinpoint. The faint classical piano notes in the background don't exactly help.

"I’m terribly sorry, but…"

Mrs Choi starts, and trails off. She speaks almost like a child, at negative decibels, even though she looks to be well past thirty. 

"The thing is, I didn’t catch all of the…altercation. They had a disagreement about something, and I heard shouting. When I arrived downstairs, I saw my husband on the floor, and Jeongin, he —" 

She comes to a quick stop, eyeballs darting to the hallway. Minho follows. Rug, rectangular, with tassels. Rustic chandelier. There's nothing there.

"...had left," she continues, as if this is the first time she has that insight. "According to my husband, Jeongin attacked him, and he had broken into his safe and taken his gun. It was unclear why he'd do such a thing, or how he was even capable of violence. Clones are supposed to be placid.”

She brushes a few runaway locks of hair behind her ear and takes another elephant-sized gulp of wine. Minho’s pen rests loosely between his fingertips, swinging back and forth like a pendulum. 

Gun. Well, one of them already knows why Jeongin took Mr Choi's gun, and that he's smarter than he lets on, but that information is classified. Disclosing this might lead to undesired follow-up questions, such as, how the hell he would know this, about a clone he supposedly has never met?

That complicates things, and he can't figure Mrs Choi out. Not for the life of him.

He presses the pen into the pages of the notebook. Possibly an alcoholic, definitely unhappy.

“So Jeongin threatened Mr Choi with the gun?”

“It seems so. Jeongin told Rian to let him go and not come after him. But it feels very out of character for him, he's such a…sweet boy, well, for a clone. Rian is just as puzzled and thinks that something must simply have flipped.” Mrs Choi grips the glass of wine so tightly that Minho is worried it’ll shatter. She looks mildly confused, but then the smile hikes up again. “But I’m sure he'll be found and then he can come home. Absolutely."

Either she’s completely out of it, or living in some alternate reality where Mr Choi is a nice guy who treats clones well, and defective clones can come home again. Minho has his theories, but he keeps at it, trying to figure out the specifics of Jeongin’s life here. But Mrs Choi has nothing but praise for him. Oh, he was so lovely. Yes, he liked living here, no reason he would run away. He helped with the housekeeping, with the cooking, and there were no troubles, really, she states. None at all.

Minho wishes he could read her better. Why would she protect her husband, if she's lying through her teeth right now? 

"And you? Do you work, or stay at home?”

“Oh, no, I don’t work. I just mind the house, it's all I can really manage, I’m not good for anything else.”

She reaches for a refill, some liquid spilling over the edges of the glass. The wine bottle is emptied, leaving the hairs in Minho's neck to stand in attention.

“I’m sure that’s not true,” he says. That doesn't sound good. It sounds all kinds of not-good, but Mrs Choi just gives a brittle smile, murmured words falling off her wine-stained lips.

“Rian works so much, he's so incredibly stressed. I try to take care of everything and keep the place tidy and welcoming, with the help of Jeongin, of course…but we've been…struggling." 

It appears that she’s about to continue. Minho waits, eager to hear about these struggles. It's going in the desired direction, but then the spell is broken. Mrs Choi looks shell-shocked. And then she doesn't. Her face is back to ocean-blank, and it's like witnessing a rapid weather change.

“Did you need anything else? I’m afraid I can’t recall any other details from the day of Jeongin's disappearance.”

Nervous glances at the door, and Minho loses his patience, along with his finesse. He takes a few steps toward her, leaving his end of the kitchen island, speaking quickly before she has a chance to back away.

“Mrs Choi, I'll be blunt. It’s very important that you answer this." He lowers his voice and octave. "Did your husband ever behave violently or threateningly towards you, or Jeongin? If something is wrong, you can tell me.”

“What...what are you suggesting?”

Her voice is whisper-quiet, but still, Minho can hear it reverberate through the kitchen, and through his skull. The song changes in the background, something slow featuring a wistful violin.

“You can be honest, it’s very important. Is there something I should know? “

“We have our disagreements, of course, we argue, like all couples,” she stammers. “And he can be —he can be so very —”

If only she could speak faster. He. Mr Choi. Minho keeps his breaths hostage, fearing that they will shatter this moment if he lets them loose.

“What ? What, Mrs Choi?”

"... controlling… "

The front door opens a second time. Mrs Choi and Minho flinch in unison. Leather shoes stride across the hardwood floors, the thud of a dropped briefcase, and by then she's vanished from Minho's side.

"Rian! You came home early!"

Mrs Choi hurries up to her husband with the silk gown flowing behind her. A reunion plays out before Minho's eyes, a scene taken straight out of a sappy romantic comedy. Husband and wife embracing each other. Mr Choi hasn't noticed the third presence in the room, yet.

"Hello darling."

They share a tender kiss. But right in the middle of it, one of Mr Choi's eyes open to scan the room. It skids around, finally landing on Minho. He stands in the same spot, glued to the floor, while Mr Choi slowly straightens out to full height.

“What are you doing here? Can I help you?”

"I'm terribly sorry, I'm just here to..."

Minho's organs tie a knot like a balloon animal. What is he doing here? Mr Choi looks like he could puncture the alibi. 

“I only stopped by to ask your wife a few questions regarding the clone investigation. Protocol, is all.”

He bows politely, and it takes a moment for Mrs Choi to compose herself. But then she nods furiously to back this claim up. 

"Yes, yes, that's correct."

"Oh. I see." Mr Choi's index finger traces the shape of his moustache. "Did you get a lead on Jeongin yet?"

"No, I'm sorry, there have been no sightings of him. We're keeping a lookout."

"I understand. I just want to ensure everyone's safety, including Jeongin's. Did you need anything else, officer?"

The classical music stops abruptly as the last track comes to a close. It's quiet. Mr Choi regards him with what could pass as sincerity, the wife clinging to his arm. Minho shoves the notebook into his pocket and finds his footing again. Mr Choi wants to ensure Jeongin's safety? Minho was under the impression that he just wanted him booted and replaced, but of course he has to put on a benevolent act.

"No," he says, blinking. "No, I got everything, thank you so much for your time."

Outside feels like a real godsend. Minho laps up mouthfuls of air as the door closes heavily behind him. One last glance at the windows. The curtains are tightly drawn now, and the black silhouette of the mansion towers like a gargantuan monster in the rear view mirror as he drives off. If only he could be a fly on the wall right now, eavesdropping on whatever conversation is happening inside right now.

What's up with this?

His foot comes down harder on the gas pedal, and he dials Chan.

“Something is so wrong, I know it," he says before anything else. “She almost told me. All I need is a confession."

Nothing lasts forever, unfortunately.

The crafty, warm little bubble that has surrounded Chan and Jeongin for over a week has finally cracked. The common cold doesn’t last forever either. Deputy chief Beom has started asking burning questions. The office is apparently short-staffed (why is that Chan’s problem?) and pushed to the limit. There’s no other choice but to clock in by Wednesday.

It’s 7:30 in the morning. Chan leans against the doorframe to the guest bedroom, and Jeongin sits perched on the bed. It’s unclear to him exactly when Chan got dressed. The last he recalled, he was scurrying around the place in his boxers, disoriented and groggy, but now, here he is, Officer Bang, pristine and alert.

“I’ll be back around six. There’s food in the fridge, and you can watch anything on the TV.” Rich brown pupils observe him under thick, furrowed brows. “Don’t go outside. Think you can handle yourself all day?”

“Of course,” Jeongin says obediently, fisting the comforter into his hands. His sensors pick up on tension. But where it would normally cause him discomfort, Chan's character puts him at ease. The small things, the hint of a smile after he finishes a sentence, he way that he reaches out and tousle Jeongin's hair, almost without noticing.

“I have a phone for you,” Chan notes. “Do you know how to use it?”

It turns out Jeongin isn’t well acquainted with smartphones, but he catches on quickly. Maybe it’s just another ingrained skill of his. Chan is content once he’s sure that Jeongin can operate the keyboard and the phone book in case of an emergency.

“Good. If anything comes up, or you need anything, anything at all. You text or call me. Understood?”

Jeongin looks at him with stars in his eyes and nods, pressing the device to his chest, as if it’s a pot of gold.

"Alright.” Chan doesn't want to return home to mayhem, if at all possible. He leaves to little fanfare, pulling out the cruiser that has collected dust in the garage all this time, and steers toward the station without looking back. If he does, he knows he’ll make a U-turn and race right back where he came.

The station is the opposite of calm this morning. It’s not calm, it’s all the things Chan hates. Fluorescent lighting, sour coffee beans, endless reports of crime flooding the massive translucent screens, and Inspector Chang. Chan is bombarded with a million questions the second he appears in the doorway. God, give him patience.

He successfully shakes off the inspector, but it’s only the first obstacle of the day. The road to his office meanders through a labyrinth of cubicles. With each step he takes, the strange sensation of walking towards impending doom grows. His gut works as intended. It knows when it’ll rain, and a lot of other things, such as when enemies lurk nearby.

Chan’s office isn’t empty. There is a smear there.

A blue smear. 

This day is ruined before it even had a chance to begin. The chair is turned to the window, but Chan sees the electric blue ponytail hanging off the edge. Why didn’t Minho throw his ass out, is what Chan wonders, until he realizes that Minhho isn’t at the office yet because he probably overslept. But someone let this guy in, or rather, he weaseled his way in. 

“What are you doing here?” 

The chair whirls around, revealing the man in his pinstripe suit.

“Bang Chan. Just the man I’ve been looking for.”

Hiruki Ren, representative from Bioseed Clones. No manners, and only sparkly dollar signs in his eyes. Chan is pretty sure they’re around the same age, and they could be colleagues, for all he knows. One of them dropped out, deciding to become the poster boy of greed. Where everything took a wrong turn, Chan isn't so sure, but it did.

Their second formal meeting was a few years ago, just a routine safety check. It was also the first time Chan stepped foot in that laboratory. He wishes he never did. The experience haunted him for weeks. Humans grown in petri dishes like no tomorrow, kept in water tanks until it's their turn to awaken. He distinctly remembers being sick in the trash can outside right afterwards. 

“I assure you, that there will never be an occasion that I am the man you are looking for,” he says as he walks inside and slams his briefcase on the desk. “You can probably find the exit yourself, I'm busy."

He motions to the door, but the unwelcome visitor doesn’t take a hint.

“You’ve been busy being ill, I hear,” he says nonchalantly. His polished ass remains firmly planted in the seat, and Chan’s pulse races out of the room.

“Yeah, and you’ve been busy hounding the police force for information they don’t have. We don’t have time for you, so bye, remember to grab a free coffee and bagel from the reception on your way out.”

He's about to lose his temper, but of course it isn’t that easy. What does he want?  

Ren rises finally, circling the desk much like a cobra. He doesn't really blink as often as he should, and doesn't exhale as often as he should, and that just makes this interaction that more insufferable.

“You know something about the runaway clone," he comments finally. Chan’s chin drops to the floor.

No. This isn’t good. It's terrible, and now it's pivotal that he stresses how absolutely ludicrous of an accusation it is.

“Really. Are you high? Inhaled too many toxic fumes at your stupid factory?”

“The rest may be clueless, but I know you,” the other man drawls. “You’re always there…nosing around in business that isn’t yours.” He sticks a toothpick between his lips, sucking thoughtfully. Chan just sweeps past him and into the chair, his chair, damn it, legs crossed on top of the desk. 

“I actually have to work now, trying to do something good. Contrary to you and your company, the poison of this city.”

“Poison of this city?” He receives a quizzical look. “Why do you care? What are we doing that's so morally reprehensible, they’re practically AI, they don’t think or feel anything real. Perks of modern science, we’ve come so far.”

Chan’s patience requires life support, and he starts rearranging the nearest stack of papers he can reach. Muscles occupied. Calm down, anything to avoid a fist fight, because that wouldn't look good on his resume. Ren has reason to consider him a nuisance, since Chan has been protesting their practices before, to varying degrees of success.

He can’t reveal the truth. Jeongin does feel a whole lot.

“I know nothing about any missing clones," he says with finality. "This is an ongoing investigation, and I can't divulge any information."

“We’re going to find the old clone, and when we do, we have jurisdiction to act," Ren remarks coolly. “I've heard that you plan to throw sticks in my wheels, and the thing is...I can't allow that. The clone is our property. We’re going to replace him with an unglitching one if Mr Choi so wishes, get another five star review, and forget about this whole ordeal. Customer service at its finest, everyone is happy, and you're going to stay in your lane and let me do business. Understand?"

The flippant words almost dismantle Chan's defenses. Those are bold statements, cruel, heinous. How can this guy wake up each morning, really, knowing that this is his job? Chan can’t even pretend to act blasé anymore.

“You’re fucking evil, you know that?"

Ren throws the tooth pick in the trash, eyeing the dusty horizon through the far window.

“The world is evil, honey. Get used to it." He prepares to leave (thank god). But then he doesn't. Of course not.

He lifts a thin eyebrow and hunches down, way too close. Always way too close. Fingers spread over the wood of the desk like the legs of a spider. 

"You know — Chan. I always wondered about that slight accent in your voice. Australian, right? Some distant ancestry?"

The last word barely has a chance to exit. Chan has the man's tie twisted in a death-grip around his knuckle, wiring his loose jaw shut. He allows for a small, theatrical pause.

"Don't antagonize me, honey. You'll be hearing a far thicker and scarier Australian accent, if you don’t leave my office within ten seconds.”

A scowl, a yank, and he’s grasping at air. The pinstripes are gone, disappearing down the corridor. Chan slumps back into the now-tainted chair and rubs his chin. He's forgotten to shave again.

Society struggles onward, develops, changes, comes up with new justifications, and assures the rebels that this is necessary and safe, and completely harmless. The unimaginable eventually becomes the status quo.

The rich and the influential may be evil, the money-grabbing companies might be evil. But the world?

Evil?

No it isn't. Chan won't just accept that.

He sits with his fingertips pressed together, staring into the void, when Minho stumbles into the office in a tangle of limbs.

“I’m here.”

“Guess who just left.” 

It would be both risky and unwise to discuss Operation Jeongin at the station, so Minho, Chan and Changbin meet for a top-secret briefing after work.

They're enthusiastic patrons of the bar they end up in. Minho claims that he needs to drown himself in alcohol, because the meeting with Mrs Choi made him so depressed. They’re such frequent visitors, in fact, that the bartender begins to pour their drinks before they're even fully seated. He's a short man with a sloth-like appearance, who looks like he'd rather be anywhere, even in the scorching crossfires of hell, than here. And who can really blame him.

Chan sends a message to Jeongin, letting him know he’ll be home soon, and Minho inhales his two first beers like they're orange juice. Really, it's an impressive feat. The three first buttons of his shirt have already come undone, and he burps without any remorse. One burp, two burps. And finally one very long, offensive burp, before he stretches out like a cat in the chair.

“Okay, so. What’s the game plan, boys?”

The acidic looks Changbin sends him don’t become him. Changbin is third-wheeling a bit. He was actually on his way to the gym, until he wasn't. Minho spotted him at a red light, and instantly started trying to convince him that a shot of vodka before a workout never hurt anyone.

“Don’t look at me,” Changbin says now and shakes the glass of vodka soda. One vodka soda never hurt anyone. “I'll gladly babysit the kid, but I can't just be dragged into any old criminal activities. I’m just a personal trainer.”

“You’re in it whether you want to or not,” Minho announces. “It’s us against the world, the three muchachos.”

“The three musketeers, you mean,” Changbin corrects him, but Minho just swats at him in dismissal. He takes the opportunity to beckon the bartender over again while he's at it.

“Whatever. And I'm telling you, Chan." 

His eyes flicker from side to side. A squint here, a squint there, to make sure no one is within earshot. They're the only ones here, and the bartender seems to be about to fall asleep.

"The Choi's marriage is cracking at the seams," he says once the coast is clear. "I didn't see any physical injury, but I saw enough to raise serious suspicion. We can bring him and his wife in for questioning, and if we can prove that he’s mentally and physically abusing her, he’s done for. I'll bet my shiny ass that he is. Clones may not have many rights, but humans do."

"We'll see how long that lasts," Chan mutters. "And that idiot Ren is unhinged, I'm worried he'll just bring Jeongin to be shut down instantly without asking any questions when he lays eyes on him. They want this whole thing swept under the rug and forgotten."

The revelations from today don't surprise him. The Choi's always raised his suspicions, but he wonders if it's enough. Minho’s fingers digs hard into his ribs, almost tipping him off the stool. 

"Enough with the cynicism. The poor wife speaks up, and then Mr Choi will be charged, and he won’t be allowed another clone. They'll stop chasing Jeongin, and he can come out of hiding. The wife just has to confess, and she was on the verge to, I know it. Jeongin's word isn’t enough.”

He finishes the dramatic monologue with an equally dramatic gulp of the new pint of beer. So he takes his new role as film-noir detective seriously, and that's admirable. And a bit touching, too. But Chan isn’t sure this plan is waterproof. 

“Even if it was, Jeongin hasn’t even given me any words yet," he points out. He thinks about Jeongin at home, his secretive ways. "He just goes mute whenever I ask about it.”

The three musketeers sit side by side, silent in their musings. Chan studies the interior, the bartender in the corner, cleaning the same old glasses with mechanical back and forth-motions. These counters remain sticky no matter how hard you scrub them, and the smoke clings to your clothes for days even after multiple rounds in the washing machine. It's just that kind of bar.

Chan gives a stricken sigh.

“Why do we always come here with our sorrows?”

“Cause it’s the place,” Minho says, making less and less sense by the minute. He’s turned into liquid, head resting in the pools of beer on the counter. “It's the place, the place. It's our heartache joint.”

Changbin isn't impressed with the heartache joint. There's a nice quaint diner down the street that sells bubble-tea and double choco pie, and he's unsure why they don't convene there instead.

“Could have chosen a nicer heartache joint. This one reeks of piss.”

“But we chose this one cause they serve both beer and pizza."

“Oh, true."

Chan grabs onto Minho’s shoulder, shaking back and forth to make sure his heartrate hasn’t flatlined.

“We spent a lot of time here when Nori broke up with you,” he remarks. He gets the evil eye. How dare he. She who shall not be mentioned . Stole Minho’s beloved home-grown monstera, and made him develop an unhealthy relationship with delivery pizza.

“Quiet,” Minho warns, but Changbin’s interest has piqued.

“Oh yeah. Nori was actually nice. You always mess it up whenever I set you up with nice people. You gained like fifty pounds in a month.” He makes a fist, biceps flexing under the elastic material of his shirt. Minho glances at his own arm, working the sleeve up. But after he’s pinched at the little pouch of fat a few times and sighed, he rolls it down again.

“Whatever. I don’t need partners now, cause I have cats. Cats are superior."

“How are Soonie, Doongie and Dori by the way?”

“They’re living their best lives."

"Funny how Dori and your ex have almost identical names."

"Pure coincidence. Binnie?”

Minho nearly knocks his forehead into Changbin’s on the way up, since his coordination has taken a hike. That boy has the worst tolerance. Chan slides an arm around him to keep him upright while he states his business.

“If you…if you every hook me up with a boy or girl again, it better be someone who loves me even when I’m three hundred pounds. And loves cats. Swear to god, because you know who will be the first one to go if it doesn’t work out.”

Changbin's chest puffs up like a balloon to shove him back, and the usual bickering starts. That's Chan's cue to leave. He pays the tab, but first he reminds everyone present not to let Minho anywhere near the tequila. As much as they don't want to, they have work tomorrow.

The elevator ride to the right floor is somewhat nerve-wracking. Not because the elevator is an old piece of trash that could break down any moment, but because Chan is used to an empty apartment. And now it can't be empty. Empty would be a catastrophe. 

He walks the winding corridors, finding them mostly bare. There's a milli second that his hand rests on the correct door handle, and he wonders if someone broke in. Wouldn't that be perfect? Or Jeongin, gone again. But the key turns in the keyhole, and Chan sees him. He’s there, the second the door swings open, waiting on the hallway rug, hands balled into fists.

“You came back,” is the first thing he says. Chan slides his coat off, somewhat amused.

“Well…yeah. I kind of live here.”

"Of course you do, yeah." Jeongin laughs, but it sounds more like a hiccup. His knuckles unfurl and fly up to smooth out his hair. "Cause that's what people do, obviously...they go to work, and stuff."

"Yes. That's how the hamster wheel works, unfortunately."

"And then they...come home. And then they leave again. You'll leave again."

Jeongin stands there, swallowing repeatedly, and the strange nature of this interaction starts to nag and pull on Chan’s heartstrings. 

What did he expect, exactly? That Chan would rat him out, or just never return? Or return with a firing squad? 

The worst thing is, that possibility can't really be excluded.

He touches Jeongin's arm lightly. Not enough to scare him, but enough to still the restlessness in his body.

"You're safe here, with me. I know it's an intimidating situation and you don't really trust anyone, but I'll always come back."

A shy smile. The irritation that has plagued Chan all day fades little by little. His entire arm loops around Jeongin’s shoulder, gently pulling them towards the kitchen.

“Have you been okay today? Did you find things to occupy yourself with?”

Jeongin gives a pretty convincing nod. He hasn't helped himself to anything he wanted from the fridge (Chan suspected as much) so dinner has to happen. Chan takes it upon himself to cook it, despite all the usual protests. They're weaker now. It's mainly just the repeated side-eye and conflicted grimace, quietly questioning if it's really okay to just sit there and watch.

Cleaning things, chopping things, folding things and fetching things. That was Jeongin's only purpose back at the Choi’s. It's no wonder he’s having an existential crisis, but that's precisely why a strict non-work policy must be enforced. Chan wants to instill new ideas in his head, maybe even the idea of fun. Eventually.

If one didn't know better, his and Jeongin's interactions could pass as normal. They relax in the living room after dinner. Chan on the couch, Jeongin cross-legged on the rug in front of the TV. Some late night talk show is on, some glamorous actress being interviewed. Jeongin’s fingers dig through a chip bag left on the floor. Chan only sees the back of his head and the knobs of his spine as they shift through the t-shirt, his shoulders that bob up and down as the host makes a pretty bad joke.

He laughs easily now, Jeongin. It's a short, rolling laugh — there's something very innocent about it.

It's good like this. Chan doesn't want to disturb the peace, not really. But the day’s conversations won’t leave him alone. The dark triad that won't leave Jeongin alone, the police force, Bioseed Clones, Mr Choi. Chan considers himself to be pragmatic, a problem-solver, but he feels himself being pulled into emotional peril with this kid. It's nice here inside the bubble, and the outdoors is much more treacherous.

"Jeongin."

The boy swings around at the call of his name. He waits breathlessly for whatever is coming, which makes this even harder. Chan pats the seat next to him.

"Come here, just want to talk a little."

Jeongin gets comfortable against the cushions opposite Chan, in his own corner. But first he remembers to get Bear. Bear is always with him, a creature of few words, but a trustworthy companion nonetheless.

Chan braces himself for the tone change. This is uncharted territory. He’s the ranger, navigating the harsh would-be forest with a flashlight. One wrong move and the fox will scatter, retreating into his den.

"Thing is, I really need to ask you some questions,” he explains once they face each other. “And it's very important that you answer. It'll help me help you, if you can."

"Okay. Of course."

"I wanted to ask you…when exactly did you start to realize that you could…remember things about your friends? Or, about...the other Jeongin’s life.”

Calling them his friends is intentional. Semantics are unimportant, and Jeongin appreciates the kind gesture. But his voice is hushed and unsteady.

"I can't really say for sure. It’s like they just trickled in, mixing in with the new memories. It's nothing clear, more like...a feeling, a name. I thought they were dreams at first, or things I had just imagined. I didn't understand them, just…that they were so strong that they wouldn't leave me alone. It felt like I became more aware of things, of...life...with each passing day. Like you're sleeping, and then everything around you eventually becomes sharper, including your thoughts."

“So it just happened gradually, and you didn’t really know what to do about it?"

“Yeah.”

"And did you tell Mr Choi about the new memories?”

Furious head shakes, as if such a thing is absolutely unimaginable. And maybe it is. Chan's brown eyes stray to waist-level. Bruises.

"And…those? What happened there?"

Jeongin's arm's reach around his torso. He feels like his clothing is transparent. He doesn’t care about the shallow welts, but inside his ribcage is a charred clump of coal, hardly a thing to it. Sometimes he isn't even sure it beats.

“Well…”

Chan gives him time. Jeongin wants to dress his life at the Choi’s in simple concepts, but he can’t. He can’t make sense of it. There was a time he would cry and panic at the purple flowers blooming over his skin, unaware that he would heal. That they would fade and then he'd be brand new again.

Chan’s head is tilted to the side. He’s at the brink of cutting this conversation short, but equally desperate for information.

"What happened? They can't have appeared out of thin air."

Jeongin bites his lip, hands trembling around Bear. He feels like he’s back in the interrogation room, that time he was arrested for running away. He wanted to say something then. Chan has never hurt him or tricked him, never given him any reason to, and yet this feels like walking into a trap.

They'll find him. For sure they'll find him, and then they'll destroy him, because…

Because he, he is no one. Disposable, a simple reskin. And they can make more of him.

He stares straight ahead, anywhere, really, and most certainly not to his left, where Chan sits.

“Nothing happened.”

“Don’t lie to me,” Chan requests gently. 

Jeongin appreciates all of the tender affection, especially that which lies richly in Chan’s voice, and his face. There's something in Chan’s face that feels foreign, and still familiar. He has begun to understand why, who that one vague background character was, visiting his memories. Whenever Chan would stop by, Jeongin would observe him from his vantage point. Officer Chan as he tapped his foot against the rug, listening to the Choi’s harp about burglars and stolen jewels. His face, somber, mouth, drawn in a thin line to signal; this is a waste of my time. But even then, when their eyes met, Jeongin would receive a quick smile and friendly nod.

Like he was someone to be acknowledged, greeted.

Jeongin wants to express himself, but the more he tries, the more his windpipe starts to constrict and scream at him to stop.

"I really just don't want to think about —" 

Bang, bang, bang, it seeps through the walls, and onto the floor, it consumes and it destroys. Jeongin, all wrong.

His hands clasp and tear at his face. Bear remains sitting in his lap as he sobs into the palm of his hand, beside himself with grief. 

It’s so unfair, so unfair, so unfair. 

Chan reacts with a slight delay, jarred by the hacked words that fade into cries. Everything has gone down the drain again. 

“Oh shit,” he mutters, panicking a little, because there’s a whole person here that he’s now responsible for. And yet, he's surprised at both of their reactions. How he reaches out, adamant to get to Jeongin as fast as possible. Jeongin, who keeps everyone at arms length. How light he is, how easily he tips forward by a nudge of Chan's fingers. How he huddles close, seeking another heart, two hearts thumping next to each other. Thumpthumpthump. Chan makes him recall the good memories, what humanity can feel like, by touch alone. Safe, and warm, like summer rays.

"It's okay," Chan soothes, tucking Jeongin’s head against his chest, palm cradling his neck. "It's okay, it's okay. Don't have to talk about it now."

It's a small, obscure cry, a slow-release of bottled pressure. A few degrees warmer than last time, evaporating faster.

Jeongin's breaths settle from gasps of air to small wheezing puffs. He’s snugly nestled into Chan’s arms, having wasted his voice. Eventually he can sit upright by himself. He stares at Bear, feeling useless. Look at me, friend, look at the state of me.

He can’t even speak.

Chan digs out a bottle of paracetamol, since the crying outburst has left Jeongin with a headache. What a mess. It seems to be near impossible to cajole anything out of him in a slow, controlled manner. The TV is on again, and it’s close to midnight by now. Chan is just about to order them to bed, but Jeongin’s head jerks up just then.

“Sorry. I was wondering…uh."

"Yeah?"

"Could we maybe…"

"Yeah?"

They regard each other in mutual misunderstanding. Jeongin clears the gravel out of his voice.

“I was just thinking, like...if we could, you know.”

"Kid, you'll have to be a little more specific, mind-reading is above my pay grade. It's okay, you can ask me anything."

"Could we go outside for a while?”

Chan’s upper lip curls in disbelief. Outside? Is he insane? But he looks serious, balancing on the edge of the seat with a fawnlike expression. It's unfortunate to have to disappoint him, but this is non-negotiable.

“No, sorry,” Chan says without further explanation, since he figures it’s redundant. “That's the one thing I can't do."

“Why not?”

“You know we can’t. You’re still a fugitive, so it's not safe to be outdoors, anyone could see you and call the authorities."

That should be a wrap, as far as he’s concerned. But it isn’t. Jeongin throws himself back into the cushions, visibly irked. It’s a state Chan hasn’t really seen him in before.

“They won’t, come on. Everyone's gone to bed, who will see me?"

Gone to bed? However optimistic, that's wishful thinking. No one ever sleeps around here, they spend their nights speeding down the highway, cleaning out the cash register in whatever shop they can break into, and knocking over trash cans. Anything to keep the police occupied. Somehow, Chan has a feeling that Jeongin wants to think the best of people, but they really do.

"No," he says with some more bite. That doesn't close the case. Jeongin’s head lolls back against the headrest, arms falling to his sides.

"It's pitch black outside, and I'm going insane. Even if they see me they won't know it's me, I just look like anyone else. I haven't been outside in over a week.”

A sigh. Another, more exaggerated sigh. He looks and sounds like a moody teenager, and it's good that he can argue instead of just meekly accept orders, but…not now. Not regarding this, and the thing is, Jeongin doesn't look like everyone else, he has a very distinct face. Maybe not distinct enough in the blanketing darkness, but still. 

"Please," Jeongin repeats, and Chan has to repeat that same cursed word. No . No, no, no. A ping-pong match of arguments, and his voice grows in pitch and intensity, more of the infamous Australian accent leaking into his speech. 

He wins (well, so he thinks.) Jeongin sits on his knees, peering out of the window as if it's his only love.

“Please, Chan. No one will see us.”

Chan pinches the bridge of his nose. Those tiny pleas are difficult to ignore. Damn it.

“Did Mr Choi let you go outside?”

“In the backyard, sometimes," Jeongin says minutely. "And I really liked it. He has a big garden, and I would watch the stars.” One hopeful eye peeks up at Chan. “I know all the star constellations by heart, you know."

“You do?”

“Yeah. Mr Choi had a book on astronomy. He has a lot of books, and I read many." His voice holds a hint of pride. "Hundreds of books, some of them are really old. He doesn’t really read them, they're just there, in his library. No one reads them but me."

Silence. Chan supposes someone does read books after all, and he's defeated, but his brain plays Jenga with the risks and the benefits. Back and forth. The wobbly tower of safety that they built could crumble. Most windows across the street are darkened, but going out there isn't sensible. Then again, neither is keeping Jeongin a prisoner in here, like an actual animal in a cage. Chan is not going to be that person.

So what does he do? He relents.

"Impressive, you're a scholar. Okay, but not for long.”

Jeongin lights up and rushes out into the hallway before he can even say hey. They need disguises before they can go anywhere. Chan trudges after him and starts to pull things from the closet and onto the rug. Jeongin’s disguise will be a thick black beanie, padded winter coat and a massive tube scarf. Once they’re dressed, the only recognizable features are his eyes.

Chan opens the door and sticks his head out, scanning for threats. So far, so good. There’s a next door lady whose favorite pastime is to complain about every single trivial thing imaginable, but even she seems to have taken the day off.

He keeps a light hold of Jeongin’s arm in the elevator down, and all the way out onto the sidewalk. They can’t linger there for long. The nighttime rush is in full swing, car headlights illuminating the busy street each time they pass. They must creep along the graffitied walls, keep to the shadows, swiftly and soundlessly. There’s a children's playground next to Chan’s building. Right now it feels like it could be conveniently abandoned. 

It is. The rusty gate creaks open, and Jeongin takes off once he gets the go-ahead. He runs in circles around the seesaws and merry-go-rounds, creating patterns in the newly fallen snow. Circles, hearts. It's a relief to run again.

Chan flops down on one of the swings, rubbing his gloved fingers together to maintain circulation. So they're safe for now, but he can’t really get too comfortable. The area is poorly lit by only a few street lamps. It's like a little oasis, hidden by the massive apartment blocks. He sits there, contemplating life, and delving so far into himself that he can't possibly foresee what happens next.

Something icy and wet makes contact with his chest. A gasp. Chan’s eyes drop to see the remnants of a snowball in his lap. Then, Jeongin. His arm is still frozen in the air.

"Oh. My hand slipped."

“Really.”

"Yeah, and I feel it slipping again, as if possessed by a strange force."

"Freeze right there. Hands up, and drop the snow at once."

His occupation is useless now. To be fair, there was no real momentum in the toss, and still Jeongin managed to hit the bullseye. Chan’s reflexes are honed to perfection. They have to be in his field of work, picking up on the tiniest threat. Except now. Another snowball comes flying as he jumps off the swing, sending a rain of snow catapulting into his face. Crushing, and Jeongin starts hopping backwards like a bunny, sensing that he's about to be chased down.

"Hell no." Chan gets onto his haunces to form the ball. He’s already had to admit defeat in Uno, and he’ll be damned if he’s losing a snowball fight too. By the time he's on his feet again, Jeongin has already taken off sprinting. He’s quick, too, extremely agile. The soft fistful flies across his back at an angle, barely grazing him.

“Your aim really sucks, are you sure you’re a cop?” Jeongin has taken cover behind the seesaw. His head plops up, grinning, only to disappear again. Oh hell no. That little remark just adds more intensity to the game of cat and mouse.

Jeongin is fast, but Chan has the endurance. It takes a few fervent laps around the playground, but the kid slips on a patch of ice, and Chan sees a window of opportunity. A tug, not hard. Only enough to send them both tumbling to the ground, and Chan cushions Jeognin’s fall with his arms, crawling over him to smile victoriously once he’s down.

"Got you, menace."

They’re not supposed to be drawing attention to themselves, so they have to laugh quietly. They sprawl out like snow angels on the ground, faces turned to the sky. Chan can almost hear his own rush of blood in the stillness. Stars above them. The few scattered clouds look like threads of fine silk, and Jeongin sounds hypnotized next to him.

"It's so pretty, isn't it?"

"What is?"

"The sky."

"Uh...Yeah. Yeah, I guess it is."

Chan will be the first to admit that he rarely looks up at the sky. He’ll be looking left and right, chasing robbers and kidnappers into smelly dead-ends, through shabby slums and past billboards urging him to call 666 for a good time. He looks everywhere. But rarely —

Up.  

The star-prickled, curved dome above them, with all its secrets, untouched by fumes and uncaring of anything that happens down here.  

Jeongin pushes himself up and onto his knees. Everything is so quiet, like they’ve taken a spaceship into zero gravity. Even the street next to them. It’s never this quiet. 

“What were they like?”

Jeongin's voice is like a little silvery jingle in the night, and Chan struggles to sit up. It’s difficult in the bulky clothing.

“Who?”

A blink. There’s more fragility in the question, as if it's a gift that Jeongin has waited to unwrap until now. His tongue touches the edges of their names with care, determined to get the letters just right.

“Them. Felix, and Jisung, and Hyunjin, and Seungmin and the other Jeongin. What were they like?”

Chan watches his own breaths sail into the air. They're like ghost ships, dissolving slowly. Them. He clears his throat, feeling faint.

Them. Them, them, them. Jeongin’s face becomes a canvas for his memories again. The little golden box he’s shoved away, locked away deep somewhere, and swore never to open again.

“Lighten up,” the other Jeongin would tell him, when he got an F on a math test, and Hyunjin would doodle all over the ugly red marks. And Felix would smile and invite Chan for a round of Uno in the hallway. And the rest would spectate, and they would play background music, everything for the suspense, and bet lunch money on the winner. They would sit there in a circle, leaning on one another, utterly fascinated by a deck of cards. 

“It’s not the end of the world, Channie-hyung.” That’s what Seungmin would say, always the wise one. And Jisung would offer Chan the other half of his sandwich as a consolation prize, and Felix would ask him about his day, and about his dreams. And he would ask Chan if he missed the beaches in Australia, too. 

“Why don't you tell me something, Chan? Tell me something good," he would say.

(It's not the end of the world. Everything ends, but it doesn’t mean it’s the end of everything.)

Chan’s eyes feel like frozen glaciers against his heated palm. He swallows, and laughs, little sporadic garbles of noise, since it’s the only way he really knows to handle anything.

“What were they like, well...they were the suns in each others lives." He smiles. The frost on his lashes melts slowly and runs in streaks down his face. "They were funny. They were funny and friendly to everyone around them, and they fought, obviously, like friends do. But they made each day a little better. They had a lot of talent in arts and music, and they always got into all kinds of shenanigans, like this once, when they made a booby trap with a bucket of paint over the classroom door, and my dumb ass walked right into it, and —” 

His voice fails him, and he breathes in through his nose, and into his woolen scarf. That one time he was drenched in paint, and he starts to remember that he wasn't so cynical, that it's not his true nature. This is no time for heartache, Bang Chan, and he looks at Jeongin. A fox with black fur and curious eyes. That scar that ran across his jawline after he tripped and fell during PE. This Jeongin has no scar. He’s unscathed on the surface, he has bruises instead, lesions on his heart, because bruises heal, but hearts…

They break differently, hearts. They’re not made of robust things like bone, but tissue and muscle and spongy, soft things. Chan looks at Jeongin, because the only right answer lies within Jeongin himself.

”They loved each other,” he says. And he sees the light that spills into the dusty hallway as if he's right there, and their backs, disappearing out the door and into the brightest of futures. “So much. They really loved you so much."

Jeongin is spellbound. He dips his bare hand into the snow, crunching the tiny snowflakes to dust between his fingers. Each one is so unique, shaped by forces so great that he can’t really grasp them. There's something reassuring in that. 

“And did they ever do this? Did they ever have a snowball fight, Chan?”

“I know for a fact they did.”

Jeongin’s smile reaches his eyes. It’s so contagious, it’s right there, lifted from the yellowing pages of an old forgotten story. Chan really believes then, that the trees can return.

Chapter Text

It’s no secret that police officers in this city are both overworked and run on perpetually miniscule amounts of sleep, and also, that no one cares about that. Not the criminals and not the drug kingpins, and certainly not the brothels and casinos. They stay open 24/7 in order to maximize profit and offer cheap thrills in the form of rivers of booze, drugs and synthetic love. Addictions are created, alleviating the sadness that slumbers in the city of mortals. 

This city doesn’t sleep. It just writhes and quivers around the clock like an ancient and stranded sea monster gasping for air.

But Jeongin sleeps, and when he sleeps Chan hopes he doesn’t dream of the sad excuse he used to call a home but of vast flower fields where he can roam endlessly without fearing what tomorrow will bring.

The coffee machine in the foyer at the station is a new and shiny thing, the only new and shiny thing in this ramshackle establishment. Chan spends at least ten minutes trying to figure out how to operate it.

He shoves the mug into the right position, pushes a few buttons that go beep and boop, but the coffee machine remains inert. The café au lait he ordered is nowhere to be found, it has a million different settings and what the hell is he doing wrong? Something apparently, and he coughs to clear the morning grime out of his throat and gives the ugly apparatus a bang with his knuckle. Nothing.

“Out of milk,” Mrs T, the receptionist, announces nasally after the second bang. But she doesn't seem to care much about Chan's manhandling of the machine.

“Already?”

Chan’s eyeballs rotate to the right. Unfathomable. The jowly woman bestows him a look through the protective glass framing her cubicle.

"Already."

“What’s the point of a fancy coffee machine if it’s constantly out of milk to make its fancy freakin’ coffee?”

“Asked myself the same thing earlier this morning.”

Mrs T spins her chair around after deciding that she isn't paid enough to restock and that Chan isn't worth another second of her life. Fair enough. The clicking of her nails against the keyboard resumes and Chan has to settle for an old black americano in his old chipped mug. At least it can prepare the basics. The machine whirrs to life and it's then the morning circus starts.

“Stop right there!”

The desperate voice belongs to Minho, and Chan recognizes the tangle of limbs running away from him within a second. It’s Miri, a small fry criminal with wild purple hair and a passion for hotwiring and stealing cars. She comes galloping across the floor in a hurry, obviously headed for the exit without any detours. But the sleepy officers who loiter in the reception kick themselves into gear at last. Minho grabs her by the waist and receives assistance from Officer Ming, and the girl goes down screaming mere seconds before she can make a lucky escape.

Chan observes the scene critically. Miri finds herself at the station so often that she could call it a second home, and it seems nothing has changed.

“I thought you were done with this life, what happened?”

He watches the girl wiggle about like a worm and hurl creative swear words at the poor captors. Even with her arms pinned back she has no flowery sentiments in store for Chan on this day (or any day).

“None of your stinking business."

“Noted.”

“And you owe me my car, got it impounded last time.”

“You owe me your life, ma’am," Chan fires back while he takes calm sips of his coffee. "That pile of trash would have gotten you killed sooner or later, and I gave you the scrap money.”

“Oh, please —“

“You’re so talented. You could have an amazing career as a mechanic, you know, if you just applied yourself.”

“How about you apply yourself to a pack of explosives,” she sneers back and starts screaming again when Minho tries to detain her. Chan wonders if everyone he meets plans on burning him to a crisp today.

“Stay still,” Minho commands. He apparently thinks that the polite request will be honored. Things are finally under control again, but Miri isn’t a big fan of taking orders and seconds after a pointy elbow shoots out to smack him square in the face.

“Ow. Come on, not my good cheekbone!”

These types of scenes are normal around here, even at the ripe time of nine in the morning.

Chan’s office is welcomingly quiet as he returns. A stack of documents have been deposited in the middle of the clutter on his desk, filled with brand new murder cases and break-ins and missing people reports. Brawl on Serpent Road, one cracked skull and two broken arms. Clocking out early for the weekend isn’t in the cards today.

He has just started rifling through the thick pile when the door to the office busts open and Minho stomps in like Godzilla himself. Even without looking up Chan knows that a blushing red parting gift must be decorating his cheek, courtesy of Miri.

“Hello, a most pleasant morning to you.”

“Great morning.”

“So what was the deal with the drama then?”

“We are dealing with the usual,” Minho reports flatly, as if he's about to announce the weather. “Grand theft auto. Miri stole some rich ex’s lamborghini and spent the entire night joyriding around town. And she sprayed Filthy Cheater on the windshield. Guy got his car back eventually, he was livid, but anyway, she’ll be out this afternoon and then do it all over again.”

Chan and Minho join in a brief and shared vigil of despair. That actually sounds deserved, but sadly she’s just another brick in the wall of outlaws that have frequented the station over the years. Some of them are on the inevitable road to ruin, others salvageable as long as they receive a helping hand, and sometimes they do. But not often enough. Just when Chan is at the peak of despair, Deputy Chief Beom enters his brain like an unwelcome trespasser to offer insights that he doesn’t want.

Can’t save them all, Bang.

Yeah, right. He can try.

Minho tries to tame his hair after Miri spent at least three minutes trying to tear it out, but he only ends up with a chestnut brown and sticky clump in his palm. He regards it with disgust before he turns his hand upside down and drops it onto Chan’s floor. 

“What a day, huh?”

“I know, tell me about it.”

“Well, Soonie woke me up by throwing up a hairball all over me, I almost turned a horde of kindergarteners into pancakes when I drove to work, and then I had to start the day by engaging in a wrestling match and I need a deep hair mask treatment, or something —”

“Minho.” Chan presses the heels of his palms into his eye sockets, hard, until tiny galaxies spawn before him. ”It's just an expression.”

“Gotcha,” Minho says obediently. He stretches out like a cat in the chair opposite Chan, tilting it so far back that it’s a miracle that gravity doesn't knock him on his ass. By all logic he should return to work but he doesn’t. 

"Hey, Channie.”

“Yes.”

“You know when people ask you what three things you’d bring to a deserted island?"

“Yes…?”

“And then they’re like, air pods, a book, a pool.”

“Ya-huh.”

"Why doesn't anyone just bring a plane, so they can get out of there?"

Minho allows the poor chair to rock back again with a vicious slam. It seems that Chan will have to partake in this conversation against his expressed consent.

“Well?”

"Because it defeats the purpose of the thought experiment, Lee Minho. It's not about getting off the island, but the point is to find out what items people can’t live without.”

"A plane could save you the trouble of having to stay on some ratched island in the first place. I feel like refusing to participate in silly thought experiments is a sign of true intelligence.

"So you can fly a plane now?"

"Maybe,” Minho speculates, forming his hands into a steering wheel. "How hard can it be? Yank on the wheel and push the little buttons."

Chan’s lips purse pointedly. He takes two mouthfuls of coffee and returns to his files. Fight at Reaper’s End over hydrangea bushes, neighbor threatened at gunpoint. When he looks up again, Minho has left his seat. He’s vertical and has dragged his tie off and fastened it around his head like a bandana, and he seems to be practicing tai chi against Chan's furniture. A surprise kick makes the whole bookshelf rattle.

“Be careful. That vase over there belonged to Grandma Bang, what are you doing?”

“Listen,” Minho interrupts and sticks his finger up right in front of Chan's nose. “Let’s entertain the thought for a moment. If I were to be deposited on a deserted island, I would obviously have to bring the cats. Soonie, Doongie and Dori will starve without me." 

Before Chan can slink away, Minho’s phone screen is shoved in his face so furiously that he has to grip the armrests. 

"And then that’s already three things. Unless you count them as one unit.”

Chan zones in on the photo in front of him. The feline triplets lay side by side in a basket during a rare moment of compliance, captured by their doting father. He bets that there's at least a hundred more pics from various angles right where that came from.

"Adorable, but no, that’s three,” he says and rises to rearrange the items on the shelves. “And you can’t bring cat food, which means they'll eat you."

Minho’s mouth opens to produce strangled protests. The three balls of fluff, cannibalizing him? They're family, never would they betray him so.

"They wouldn't. Anyway, do you think I would look nice with pink hair?”

“What?”

“My roots are starting to show, I need to decide what to do, bleach or au naturale.”

He starts showing off his locks, swiping them left and then right while assuming various poses. Chan watches the show with increasing confusion.

"Minho.”

“Yes?”

His roots have indeed started to grow like weeds, but if Chan were to take a wild guess, the mental gymnastics and hair crisis are just a pretense for some other crisis. His arm slides around Minho’s shoulder securely, preventing any more martial arts. 

“You would, do hot pink. Did you per chance drink an energy drink again?”

“Perhaps.”

“You know you can't handle them.”

As if on cue, Minho’s artificial buzz starts to wear off. He’s left drained and fighting the flies that keep droning inside his tummy. So, that’s correct, but it's not even where the anxiety stems from. He was a human wreck before he came anywhere close to a can of Redbull. 

"I'm just…stalling.”

Minho slips out of Chan's grasp and stretches his neck out the door like an ostrich to scan for eavesdroppers. Coast clear. 

"I’m nervous,” he confesses as he closes the door. “I’m trying to gather enough courage to go into Beom’s office, and tell him I need permission to bring Mr Choi in for questioning."

Chan's processors finally hum to life. Oh. He had momentarily managed to forget about this whole disaster, just because he and Jeongin have been playing happy family. It’s so easy to just wrap themselves up in the comfort at home and pretend like one of them isn't currently being hunted like a dog.

"I really appreciate you taking care of it, Minho," he says with as much gratitude as he can muster. Minho nods duly and starts cracking his knuckles in preparation. There’s a lot at stake and he might go out on a limb on this one.

"I'm worried I don’t have enough proof. Well, I don’t have a sliver of proof that he’s abusive, actually, other than reasonable suspicion and Jeongin's bruises. I’ve done everything I can, Chan, research, background checks, the lot. On paper nothing looks out of the order. Mrs Choi was a daycare teacher but she quit work to be a housewife. She was just acting all kinds of weird when I talked to her, you know, it’s not right. I have my intuition, but it’s not enough.” 

He throws himself in the abused chair again with such force that it near topples over this time. The encounter with Mrs Choi hasn't left him, not since he shut the door to the eerie mansion out in the middle of nowhere. New questions spawn each time he recalls it. The alcohol bottles, the skittish behavior, a story brewing in those cloudy vacant eyes, but what story?

“I bet he keeps her there on purpose," Minho ponders out loud. "Doesn’t let her work, so he can keep tabs on her and keep her under control.” He shoots up again, raising his chin to the ceiling. Just thinking about it makes him nauseous. “Who knows what else he’s doing to her? I just need another chat with her. I need a confession, but she won’t, because I think she’s too loyal to her husband, she seems totally gaslighted. But if we bring him in, she will see the police are already on her side and maybe she has the courage to talk then, and then the Choi's can't own clones anymore and Jeongin is automatically protected. At least momentarily.”

Chan rises again to carefully crowd his friend. Things are getting heated and by the sounds of it, Minho is tangling himself further and further into this cobweb of a case. It’s important that he doesn’t become too emotionally invested.

“Minho.”

“Yeah.”

“It’s alright.”

“I just don’t know if I can show up there again, I really don’t know, Chan." 

No, he can’t, because Mrs Choi already gave her recollection of events from the night Jeongin ran away. They had a disagreement, she didn't catch it, she said, had no idea why Jeongin resorted to violence. Minho is right. She must be protecting her husband because the bruises on Jeongin's ribcage told a different story, but they can’t make additional visits without a formal reason, and it’s Mr Choi they need to reel in now. Chan nods mutely and drags the tie off Minho’s forehead to re-tie it neatly around his neck.

"I know, I know. I always knew there was something fishy about the Choi's, but I never knew the full scope. I really appreciate you doing this, Minho. You know Beom hates my guts and will just toss me out if I raise it."

“Oh, I know, he doesn’t waste a second reminding you of the fact.”

The cleanup is finished. Chan pats Minho on the cheek and turns to the dusty window. The sky has cracked open, sending tendrils of crystal tears down the glass. Snowstorms have turned into rainstorms, spring is some strangely familiar but still distant concept that makes itself known in the form of an alluring scent in the air. But the worst thing is that Jeongin can’t experience any of it.

"Anyway," Minho says gently as if reading Chan’s thoughts. "How's the kid?"

He and Changbin have been frequent visitors, but it's been a few days now since they last popped around. Chan peers over the rooftops and peeling facades, the casino all blinged out and boasting a giant billboard with a lady pouring a bucket of money down her top, the colossal shopping center with its shining pillars, endless floors and sliding doors. Somewhere beyond them is his building, so plain on the outside that you wouldn't look twice, but containing something of immeasurable value.

It’s Jeongin's home even though they have only shared a space for a little over two weeks. The precious boy is probably still cocooned in blankets with Bear, just like Chan left him this morning. Eventually he’ll lazily rise, walk into the living room without a care in the world to secure himself in front of the TV. No longer a servant for the Choi's or a test subject for Bioseed Clones, not if Chan has any say in the matter.

Last night they stayed up till two in the morning to finish a movie despite Chan’s best efforts to usher them to bed. He couldn’t resist Jeongin’s pleas, not say no when Jeongin was dying to discover if the estranged lovers would reunite in the end. They did, in a sickly-sweet cinematic moment that had him smiling ear to ear.

So who is Chan to deny Jeongin the stories he loves so much, really, when it's the only way he can make up for eighteen years of missed experiences?

“He’s good," he says, leaving the window and the weeping sky. "But I hate keeping him locked up like this. It’s not right.”

“I know, but it’s just temporary," Minho consoles him. "Okay, I’m going now, before I can chicken out." He starts leaping up and down, boxing the air until he stubs his toe against the desk. "Ow. Okay. Come on, help hype me up.”

“You’re a god, Minho.”

“Damn right. Pray for me, Channie.”

His exit is just as dramatic as usual. Chan settles into the chair again to resume the dreary paperwork, but a head appears again even though it should be ten steps down the corridor already.

“Are you praying?”

“Yes, Minho!”

Minho races down the hall. Chan laces his fingers together because it can't exactly hurt, can it?

“Please, grandma, make this work. Please make Mr Choi get what's coming for him, and please don’t let Bioseed Clones find Jeongin. Cause he deserves so much more than this, and you'd really like him, I know it.”

Somehow, due to some extravagant miracle, the tiny sentimental prayer works. 

Some thirty minutes later Minho bursts through the door again, rosy-faced, to announce that Deputy Chief Beom will open a case against Mr Choi. Chan is flabbergasted. Maybe, aside from just listening to his gut more, he should start putting his faith in Grandma Chan and the universe.

Shared breakfasts by the table isn't the only ritual that Jeongin and Chan have developed. There's also the Afternoon Ritual ™.

In accordance with the ritual, Jeongin will wait for Chan on the hallway rug when he comes home from work, each day without fail and on the dot no matter what time it is. It's safe to say that Chan enjoys it. It’s pretty much the highlight of his day.

He rushes home at 5PM once everything is a wrap. Criss-crossing the pools on the sidewalk, taking the stairs instead of the elevator since it's occupied just to reach the right door on the third floor as fast as possible.

Luckily, today is the first day that Jeongin is late to the front door. Something else waits for him. Chan picks up the mail and there's nothing special at first, just bills, an announcement regarding the parking hall downstairs, the lot. But at the end of the pile there's a flyer that sticks out like an eyesore.  

There's a face plastered in the front. Jeongin's face. Beneath it, an appeal to report any and every sighting to the police or Bioseed Clones. 

Have you seen this clone?

Jeongin's face stares back at him lifelessly in a 2D-rendition. Chan averts his eyes and scrunches the damned thing into his fist before Jeongin can notice that anything is amiss.

"Hey, Chan!"

He comes rushing in seconds later and Chan is already smiling by the time he hears the first letter of the greeting. Jeongin has been coddled back to health finally. His lungs have recouped from the nasty, rustling cough that he battled for so many days and his skin has healed the foul bruises. Changbin has also been nice enough to go on a shopping spree on their behalf. His taste is questionable and includes a lot of pink t-shirts and joggers, but it’s good enough and most importantly, it fits. Jeongin wears one of said tee’s now and joggers, and in the closet hangs a puffy winter coat that now belongs to him. It only took about fifteen minutes and just as many reassurances to convince him that it really was okay to accept the items.

It should be exactly like this, all the time. The new clothes, Jeongin, and the happy little fox-dance he does. Everything is just the way it's supposed to be. Chan loosens his tie and hangs his coat up while Jeongin offers to take his briefcase.

"Hey there, how are you?" 

He notices that the place looks suspiciously tidy. The clothes and dust piles have disappeared and that's not how he left it this morning. Chan absolutely won't allow Jeongin's stay here to be anything like his life at the Choi's. But it seems that the instinct to tidy up, fold away and dust off runs deep within him.

"Hold on a second. Did you clean?"

Jeongin hoped this fact would pass unnoticed, but no. He presses his arms behind his back and sways shyly on the spot.

"Just a little, cause you do everything for me. So I want to help out."

The questionable remarks make Chan’s eyebrow shoot into the sky. 

Everything?

Uhm, hello, he's barely even done anything yet, other than clothe and feed the kid, and lose horribly at Uno. All the dirty work just piles onto Minho, the poor soul. Chan has to remember to send him a basket of cat food and all the toys as a token of eternal gratitude.

"Okay, okay...I’ll let it slide this time, even though I must emphasize that you’re a guest in this house. The place looks great.”

Jeongin follows on his heels into the kitchen. But something is awry, because Chan notices a kind of restless energy radiating from him. He perches on a stool by the kitchen island, picks idly at the leaves of the monstera on the counter. Chan purchased the plant in a feeble attempt to liven up the place because it’s so dull and Jeongin has been caring for it like it's his own little offspring.

“So, did they…did they get any leads on me, yet?”

So that's what’s weighing on his mind. Chan has been intentionally taciturn regarding the investigation. It's impossible to ask Jeongin about the Choi's without risking a panic attack, he just goes mute. Chan just figures that it won't help him to be aware of all the gory details regarding his witch hunt, it would just frighten him, but lies aren’t required. Both the search patrol and Bioseed Clones are fumbling in the dark.

“No, they have no traces at all of your whereabouts,” he says and opens the fridge to critically scan the inside. “You’re safe here.”

He figures it's enough. In the corner of his eye he can see Jeongin’s head move up and down at snail speed. 

“Okay, but…if that changes, if they get a lead or come searching around these blocks…then, you’ll tell me right? So I can…”

He trails off again. Chan keeps digging through the fridge, but remains alert. But Jeongin just crosses an X over everything and reverses to the beginning.

“You’ll tell me, Chan?”

The strange vocal acrobatics almost pass unnoticed. Chan had an ass of a day, and his brain is a fuzzy void of nothingness, but not that fuzzy. It’s his job to notice the most miniscule of details like these.

The fridge door glides shut and he rotates his head to lock Jeongin into his field of vision.

“So you can what, exactly?"

"Well..."

"What will you do in that case?”

Jeongin’s fingers start to smooth down his tee, pawing at the print of the cartoon panda in the front. 

“Go on,” Chan presses.

But there's no real need to go on. The furtive avoidance is as telling as it is raising an armada of red flags.

“You can’t leave. We talked about that so many times. You're not running off to god knows where, chances of surviving then are close to zero. They’ll see you and they’ll catch you, understand?”

He thought it goes without saying, but a pair of dark slanted eyes stare at him beneath curly bangs. Narrowing and widening, silently questioning that statement. Chan leans his palms heavily on the counter.

“If you just stay put here, I can protect you, but you can't run off.”

End of. His tone is unusually hard, he knows it, shutting the door for arguments. This is beyond serious and of vital import. Bioseed Clones have all the authority in the world to simply whisk Jeongin off to their lab if they find him, to erase his mind and reboot him with the correct settings. He would have no memory of this, none, no personality, he'd be an empty husk just like intended. And Chan wishes he could say that ending up in Bioseed Clones' clutches again was the only bad outcome, and yet it isn't. 

Nothing ever ends well for stray kids, clones or runaways around here. Best case scenario they roam around and live off scraps, managing to dodge all the dangers, worst case, they're snatched off the street and taken advantage of in ways much too twisted to express in words. 

A nasty shiver creeps up Chan’s spine like an ice shard. That can't be Jeongin's fate. He's fought (well, damn tried) to improve the situation during all his years with the force and yet it never seems to be enough. There'll always be new trafficking victims and homeless people and clones being produced on an assembly line, so what is he to do?

“Promise me you won’t,” he says and takes a seat opposite Jeongin. It takes a while but eventually there's a soft sigh.

“I promise.”

He seems like a man of his word. The worst case scenarios leave Chan’s mind, and the static around them settles.

“Okay.”

“But then…can we at least go to the playground around the block? Like that one time.”

“Sorry, we can't. Not right now.”

“Why not?”

Oh. The passionate debater just won't relent. For someone so intelligent, he is surprisingly daft (or just refuses to accept reality, which is more likely.)

“Because there'll be kids playing there at this hour, Jeongin, with their parents and siblings. It’s prime time, it's too risky.”

“You're exaggerating the risks,” Jeongin says with a snort that suggests he has the life experience around here, as opposed to Chan. He rests his chin in his palms so his lips scrunch into a pout. “I'll stay out of sight, no one will care cause they're too busy being obsessed with themselves.”

His hand goes chop on the monstera again and Chan almost falls off his chair in pure shock. 

“I'm exaggerating? Young man —"

He stops himself again, because god, he sounds like Grandma Bang, and his Australian accent starts to bleed into his words when he’s entering Lecture Mode. Society is self-obsessed, Jeongin is right about that glum fact and also unusually perceptive. But it doesn't change that he's being way too cavalier about this.

“Let me tell you that I don't like your nonchalant attitude. It's a matter of life and death, we can't go outside in daylight under any circumstances, not even nuclear war or an alien invasion. That's final.”

He grabs the discarded mail from the counter to start flipping through it, and Jeongin doesn’t comment for another three minutes. But he remains on the war path.

“I didn't go out in forever.”

“I know. Leave the plant alone now, you'll strip it of leaves.”

“I'm losing my mind. Again."

“Yeah, I know, but listen for a sec —"

“No, I didn't ask for this,” comes the interruption, blistering this time, and the chair whines out in protest as it’s kicked back. “I didn't ask to lose my friends only to find out that I never had any to begin with, I didn't ask to be born a clone, I didn't ask for —"

Jeongin halts himself as if smacked in the face, hanging his head low. The anger fizzles out just as fast as it generated.

“I didn't.”

“Hey...Jeongin." 

Chan slides out of his seat with careful movements. What to say?

"I know, kid. You didn't ask for it."

He doesn't have words to console. Just constant no's and restrictions and letdowns. It's awful. If only Minho was here to placate Jeongin 2.0 with Soonie, Doongie and Dori, but even a lapful of kitties can’t patch up this wound.

“Please try to understand,” Chan cajoles, but he’s just met with resistance. So it's going to be like this. He stops and scrubs at his face to regroup, just focusing on the cushioning darkness behind his eyelids, but when he wrenches one eye open again he sees nothing but air. Bear is also gone from the kitchen. Jeongin has marched out and reached halfway across the living room rug already.

Chan lets out a sharp whistle, and the kid freezes mid-step, glaring over his shoulder.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“My room, if that's allowed.” Jeongin says morosely. “Making a blanket fort to hide from the evil forces that wish to undo me.”

Chan experiences a severe lip twitch. Jeongin is now comfortable enough to express new sides of himself, including the melodramatic and rebellious streak. And Chan can handle sass, he can handle snark, nothing could faze him in that department. But he cannot handle Jeongin’s undoing. 

“I know you're frustrated and it sucks,” he says and closes the distance between them with baby steps. “I know you're so sad and frustrated and I want to help in any way I can. But I'm not making rules just for the sake of making rules. I’m trying my hardest to make this right and proceed with caution, so that you can be free. Eventually.”

Second by second, Jeongin’s rigid stance loosens. Eventually there's lots of tooth in his smile and a glimmer instead of daggers in his eyes. A last sigh of defeat rumbles out of his chest.

“Sorry, Chan.”

Chan briefly lets his index finger brush against Jeongin’s lower jaw. Fighting is the last thing he wants them to do right now.

“Chin up. Are you hungry? I can order some dinner, what do you want?"

"I'm alright with anything." 

Jeongin takes a resigned seat on the couch, Bear in his hand. Bear, who understands. Bear, his friend. 

Look at me, friend. Getting somewhere. Look at me thriving, hoping.

Bear smiles back at him, Jeongin is sure of it. His little yarn mouth is curving upwards. One day Bear will be reunited with his beloved forest too.

Meanwhile Chan has picked up his phone to attack the takeaway menus. Indian food, Thai food, perhaps a burger, there's choices in abundance but he reads them with disinterest, mind elsewhere. His eyes drift over to the couch where Jeongin sits with the threadbare stuffed animal in his lap. The TV is on, and he happily watches the show with fascination. A gardening show. Massive sunflowers fill the whole screen, and some award-winning mega-sunflower has grown to be as tall as a two-storey house.

Jeongin claps spontaneously when the proud owner of the mega-sunflower receives a prize. Cute.

This is someone who never experienced anything, and yet settles for so little. Chan feels like he's keeping Jeongin here like a bird in a cage despite having his very best interest at heart. Well, minus the bars — but even though they're invisible, they're very much solid.

An idea starts to brew. Dumb, but also potentially genius, and once it’s birthed it's just impossible to kill. 

“Actually,” he says abruptly, the change in pitch making Jeongin's hands still. "Do you want to go outside?”

Outside?

Jeongin looks out the window and then, back to Chan with an expression that suggests he's concerned for his sanity. And perhaps he should be.

“You literally just said that we can’t go outside.”

“Yes.”

“Under any circumstances, not even nuclear war or alien invasion.”

“Glad you were paying attention,” Chan mutters. “But an unusual circumstance just presented itself. You can’t roam around the city, but we can pick something up and drive out into the countryside. Somewhere remote, maybe."

Jeongin’s hands grasp the edge of the couch as he scurries forward, latching onto the spark of hope with his entire being.

“Can we really?”

He looks like fireworks lighting up the darkest of skies. That fact alone is answer enough, and this was the right call, the only call. He's trying to reel in his reaction, but he’s never been very good at concealing anything, and thank god for it. They just have to take precautions since the risks have just increased tenfold.

They run through the same procedure as last time before they can go anywhere; thick coat, scarf and beanie for Jeongin. A disguise that leaves only his nose and eyes visible, but Chan wonders if it’s enough. Even though the police’s search has proven fruitless, he knows what kind of company Bioseed Clones are. They have eyes and connections all over the city, not to mention that Jeongin’s face is on the news every other day. Is it too risky to rendezvous, just the two of them?

Maybe reinforcements would be good. 

Chan anxiously calls Changbin. The call is picked up after about twenty stubborn signals.

“Hello, you have reached Casa Changbin.”

“Hey handsome, did it hurt when you fell from heaven?”

“Okay, what do you want, Chan?”

Changbin will not fall for flattery. But conveniently enough he's just finished work and he agrees to accompany them with delight, but there's just one miniscule condition. Chan has to buy him dinner too. Fair enough, and he humbly agrees.

It has almost stopped raining by the time the three of them pull up in a parking lot outside of a nearby burger joint. So far, so good. The windshield wipers on Chan’s car work overtime to control the downpour, but by the time that orders are placed the conditions of Changbin’s participation become truly unacceptable.

"Get me a lettuce wrapped burger, thanks," he says nonchalantly and reclines to take a nap. So he thinks. 

Chan’s exaggerated grimace sends out a wordless message that screams yuck, his fingers still clutching the wheel.

"You mean a no-fun-burger for No-fun-Binnie? I'm not paying for that with my hard-earned money."

"What do you mean? It's a low-carb burger!"

"It has salad instead of bread!"

"It's a lettuce burger!"

"That monstrosity will not enter this car, so you can eat it out in the parking lot."

A fight instantly ensues. Jeongin finds it best to try to melt into the back seat while he spectates. The volume inside the vehicle raises by the second, and that’s probably not great considering they’re supposed to stay incognito and all. But Chan isn't about to lose this battle. It's the weekend, and he's not paying for half a burger and some wilted leaves.

"Why do you hate bread? What did bread ever do to you?"

"I don't, but it's no-carb-Friday!"

"No carb my ass, you might as well eat a napkin," Chan shoots back. "I command you to enjoy a proper burger today, Bin-Bin. It's a special occasion."

That shuts Changbin up momentarily. He grunts and sees an obnoxious burger-shaped sign across the dashboard. Bountiful Burgers, it says. His ass will grow to be very bountiful if he stuffs his face. And suddenly there's burgers everywhere, wrapped in bread and dripping sauce in abundance, and calling his name, eat us, Binnie. Oh, evil enchantress.

"Okay." He has to steel himself for this difficult decision. "Okay, okay, hell, get me a double cheeseburger then, and cheesy jalapeno fries."

"Now we're talking."

Chan is satisfied with his win and can’t hide it. He cranes his head back, locking eyes with the slightly startled youngling in the back. 

"Sorry about that, Jeongin. I'll get you the same, is that alright?"

"That would be amazing."

"And wait here, okay. The door is locked, and don't open it for anyone, not even Changbin's mom." His finger alternates between the pair of them. "Do not move."

"I promise," Jeongin chirps and squishes his small form even further down into the seat. "I'm not even here, I'm part of the interior."

"I'll protect us with my life," Changbin announces and closes his fingers around his bicep to demonstrate how they don’t even reach. That should be sufficient. They can't possibly take any more safety measures, so that will be all. 

Chan slips inside the restaurant as quickly and discreetly as he can. He's sweating profusely under the thick puffy coat while he orders at the self-service machine. So far so good. An equally sleepy employee drops the bags at the counter and Chan walks out of the grease-smelling establishment in no time. 

If they hadn't yet, all thoughts of lettuce-wrapped-anything leave Changbin's mind when the bags enter the car. They’re unceremoniously dumped in his lap and he doesn’t even mind. Chan shoves the key in the ignition and drives off as fast as possible, joining the rows of cars that stretch around the street corners like centipedes. Away from the chaos, just a momentary retreat.

When they've made it out onto the highway Chan can finally pump the gas and relax a little. Munching and slurping fills the car. Changbin is fully absorbed in bread and the messiest eater the world has ever witnessed.

"Oh my god,” he exclaims, uncaring of the sauce that runs down the side of his chin. “I want to make love to this burger.”

"Changbin.” 

Changbin's head swerves to the left to see Chan's eyes spell out are you kidding. Oh. It managed to slip him that they have company and that he must be mindful of how he speaks.

"I mean, no," he corrects himself and starts digging around the paper bag for napkins. "I just simply love how it feels in my mouth."

"And you just made it worse," Chan concludes. How could he forget that trying to put a filter on Changbin never works out well? The backseat passenger is awfully quiet, but that’s not unusual. Chan throws a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure everyone is still on board.

"How's your burger, Jeongin?"

"It's good,” Jeongin says quickly and burps, pressing a surprised hand to his lips. His table manners are much neater than Changbin’s, but that much could be expected. 

“Thanks so much,” he adds needlessly. “I never had a burger.”

And silence.

Chan’s and Changbin’s shared brain cell unites to think.

Jeongin never had a burger?

Did he ever do anything? 

Then Chan is thankful that he can introduce him to a few of his first times, even something as trivial as a first time cheeseburger.

The rain has melted the snow. Not a single little snowflake has survived the purge, but at least that makes the roads easy to navigate. Jeongin asks Chan and Changbin everything under the sun as usual. When their birthdays are, where burgers originate from and if Changbin likes hamsters (yes). Apparently Jeongin has watched a program called The secret lives of hamsters on TV. Chan briefly wonders if a hamster is next on the list of purchases after the plant-addition. Thirty minutes later they have reached their destination.

It isn't postcard-pretty, by any means, but it's a beach. And beaches are still kind of nice even when they're plain just for the simple fact they have sand and waves. The sky and the horizon bleed into one another until you can’t tell where one ends and the other one starts, but it has its own charm, or that’s what Grandma Bang used to say. She found beauty where others didn’t and she liked this beach. 

The serenity, the silence. 

She used to say that no matter external changes, nature always remains the same, well,except the trees. But the possibility of trees, of life, will always remain until the Earth is depleted of oxygen.

Moreover, Chan thinks, the beach is deserted on a day like this when the threat of more freezing rain is ever present, and that’s pivotal to what they’re here to do.

They park the car in the designated parking area nearby. Jeongin’s senses are occupied from the moment he hops out and onto solid ground. He spots an interesting flower by the side of the road and crouches down for an examination, his eyes quickly blowing into teacups.

“Oh.”

“What?”

“That's incredible.”

“Hm?”

Chan and Changbin don't immediately grasp what’s so incredible about the plant. It looks rather skinny and modest with faint white petals and like the smallest gust of wind would be enough to break it. But Jeongin is mesmerized. He studies the exquisite specimen from every angle possible until he's almost horizontal on the ground, like an archeologist studying a rare fossil.

“Stardrop, it doesn’t usually grow in this climate. It’s exceptionally rare that it does.”

“Oh. How do you —”

“Mr Choi has an extensive collection of books on flora and fauna,” Jeongin reports. He steadies his phone camera to photograph the tiny find. 

"Of course he does."

Jeongin’s basic knowledge is severely lacking, but his supply of random trivia appears to be endless. He knows all star constellations and apparently all plants in the world, but that means he at least seems to have had something to occupy himself with during his brief time with the Choi’s.

After he’s done Jeongin finally stands up to examine their location. Swaying grass and long stretches of sand, and — the sea. The sea, he never saw the sea.

“Oh. Wow.”

“Okay — wait!”

Too late. Chan yells after him to be careful, but it falls on deaf ears. He’s already taken off like lightning down the trail. He's fast, Jeongin, like a fox, and he has a fully charged battery after all the time spent indoors.

"So I guess this was a good idea,” Changbin comments as he watches the descent. “He hasn't been outside for some time, has he?"

"Nope," Chan says. Guilt attacks him again, not personal guilt exactly, more like collective guilt on behalf of a society that let this happen. Damn it. 

He wonders how often Mr Choi let the kid outside. A whopping ten minutes a day like an inmate, or free access? Confined to the garden perhaps, but even garden outings would allow him some fresh air and sunshine. All Chan can do is speculate because he doesn’t dare ask. Not a single more question about the circumstances surrounding Jeongin’s life at the mansion, because he fears the answers (and also another panic attack). They can’t have that, not now when Jeongin finally feels at ease for the first time in his short life.

Jeongin sprints down the beach like he's grown wings. He pauses occasionally to pick up a seashell or rock and roll it between his fingers. It’s pretty endearing, and it doesn’t take long for Changbin's legs to start performing a foxtrot because he’s just the kind of person who wants to join in on the funsies. Chan watches his bright blue winter coat as it chases after Jeongin. His own food has gone cold by now, but that's fine. The other two start playing tag and the undying kid hidden within Changbin is unleashed, resulting in squeals and giggles. How utterly adorable with a bow on top.

Chan tosses the empty wrappers into the front seat when he's done and walks down to join the pair with his coke in hand. The sun even graces them with a surprise appearance now and then, and Jeongin runs. He runs and runs, and then he runs some more with never-emptying energy deposits. Nothing can stop him, well, except a tiny jagged rock, it turns out. He trips over his own feet at last and takes a nasty fall just by the shore, mittened fingers digging into the sand to cushion the fall.

"Woah, careful there," Chan shouts at him from a distance. But Changbin is by his side in no time, helping him onto his feet again.

Jeongin is thankful for the help, but somewhat embarrassed while Changbin brushes patches of sand off his knees. Still, he's beginning to feel comfortable around Changbin and Minho now, so much so that there's no fear of being reprimanded. Changbin wouldn't scold him for every little mistake he makes like certain others.

“Uff."

"Did you hurt yourself?"

"No, but I got too excited.”

“It happens,” Changbin chuckles. 

That it does. The three of them walk along the coastline, eventually taking a seat on a bench up on the hill with the best view over the sea. The clouds have finally journeyed on and the sun peeks out shyly to cast glittering streaks of gold across the waves. And there's life around them. Swallows fly in circles somewhere above and the wind makes the tall grass around them dance.

It’s nice resting their legs after (what Chan considers) the strenuous exercise. Jeongin sits in the middle flanked by his two chaperones. He dangles his legs off the edge of the bench, satisfied for now, but it doesn’t take long until the questions start rolling out again.

“Have you two been friends for long?"

Changbin and Chan face each other over his head. Yes, no, maybe, and their brain cell unites again to share the story.

"A while," Changbin says and Chan hums his approval. That seems about right. Five years, seven years, eight years, how long has it been?

"Me and Minho met at the police academy, and we got this funny idea that we wanted to start working out," he recalls. “Well, that idea didn't last long.”

Jeongin absorbs every word they say. Chan would absolutely love to tell the story, if he was allowed to. He isn’t. Changbin takes over and doesn't skimp on the saucy details.

"They came to my gym," he explains, leaning his elbow against the headrest. "Minho dropped out after like a week, the lazy bum. First he pretended to have a cold, and somehow that cold always mysteriously worsened before an appointment, then there were more excuses. Such as, he had to build a king-size bed for his cats or take a three hour nap cause his shoulder ached a little. Chan was more persistent, though, he wanted to get buff.”

Changbin's arm shoots out, curling inward to display the bulging biceps that are currently concealed by his coat. 

“But I'm still buffer.”

"Cause you work at a gym, yeah," Chan interjects. His own physical prowess is very much up to par, thank you very much. Full capability of putting someone in a chokehold and other things, such as rescuing Soonie, Doongie and Dori from a tree, which he also points out. Changbin's tongue sticks out crudely and the ping pong match of bickering is a fact.

Jeongin chews on his nail and listens to the exchange. The little insults they toss at each other that aren’t insults at all, how Chan's expression switches so fast between annoyance and amusement and how they finish each other’s sentences and cut each other off.

"You're really fond of each other."

“Hm?”

Changbin’s eyes shoot downward. Jeongin bites his lip and hides in his scarf. Perhaps he hadn't meant to vocalize the observation, but Chan isn't surprised. He's become accustomed to the small observations by now.

"I just noticed, when you, Chan and Minho talk to each other…even when you're arguing, it's like, not scary at all, and just friendly and funny. Like you all know that no matter what happens you won’t get mad at each other, like you would do anything for each other. Like you're family.”

They’re allowed a moment to process said observation. Jeongin looks to sea. Half his face is covered by the checkered scarf and the rest by his hat, so they can’t discern any facial expressions. But Chan hears the many shades of sorrow in his voice. Longing. Loss. What could have been.

"It must be great to have a friend like that," Jeongin says.

Chan has never seen Changbin so taken aback. For once he’s stumped for replies, a very rare occurrence. He quietly gets up and crouches down right in front of Jeongin. The seconds briefly tick away, and then, he envelops Jeongin's gloved hands and cradles them close to his chest.

"We are your friends."

A glossy layer covers over the whites of Jeongin’s eyes like waves rolling over the water. But a shrill bark makes them all jolt. Another, and the source is unknown until they do a 180. 

A little white bichon frisé comes dashing out of nowhere, heading straight towards them — and freeze. 

Chan’s breath hitches in his throat, but Jeongin reacts with heart-eyes. His love for animals overrides the warnings from earlier, and he leaves his spot on the bench to run down to welcome the dog with open arms.

"Hey! Hey pupper!"

"Hold on, whose dog is…"

Chan doesn't have to finish the sentence. The walker joins them shortly, a lady that reminds him of Grandma Bang. Short, chubby, smelling of baked goods and a cloud of perfume, but still, it’s a person.

Shit.

The lady smiles down at the boy as he showers the pooch with scratches and attention. The tiny dog absolutely can’t contain itself. It races in circles and peppers kisses wherever it can reach while Jeongin laughs, his eyes turning into smiling half moons.

"Seems that he likes you,” the lady muses. “He's picky with who he greets.”

Chan and Changbin join them with timid steps. Maybe she's an undercover cop, even.

“Ma’am.”

“Hello there, is this lovely gentleman with you?”

"Uh, yeah,” Chan confirms, while his brain does its brain thing. “We’re…just taking a walk down the beach...with my…” 

And he draws a blank. Come on, do it, do the thinking thing, fast. He and Jeongin look distantly alike, they could definitely pass as relatives if anyone asks, couldn’t they, even though Jeongin’s hair is wavy and his bone structure is something else, there's definitely some similarities, and —

“…cousin."

"That's absolutely lovely,” the pudgy lady says. She doesn't seem to find anything odd about it. “Be careful, the waves can get quite strong when the tide rushes in."

The return to the present is gradual. Jeongin — also known as Chan's long lost cousin — stares at the long yellow scarf that flaps in the wind like a kite as she walks away. When she’s just a dot in the distance the magic finally wears off and his rose-colored glasses fall to the ground. 

"Uh….that was unexpected. But it didn't seem like she recognized me. Right?”

Chan short-circuited and can’t produce an answer yet. He has an alibi now, at least. If anyone asks, Bang Christopher Chan was just taking a stroll down the seaside today with his beloved younger cousin and good friend Seo Changbin, nothing suspicious going on here.

Oh dear.

There’s another interruption, another jerk. It’s just his phone, letting out a plaintive squeak in his pocket.

“Sorry, one moment.”

He steps aside and unlocks the device out with wind-bitten fingers. It’s a message. The sender is unknown, but after the first word every letter he absorbs feels like a shot of twisted blue poison into his veins.

Hello there, Mr Bang. Allow me to inform you that I haven’t forgotten our little meeting. And I shall also remind you that any and every sign of Clone 143 must be reported to us immediately, anything else is a crime. And it wouldn’t be very becoming for a police officer to commit crimes, now, would it? The clone is our property. I know that you’re up to something, you little wretch. Not on my watch and if you try to interfere with my company, there'll be hell to pay. Good day. Hiruki Ren. [sent 8:48 PM]

Clone 143.

Chan stares at the message while the waves thrash against the rocks behind him. A mental image forms, Ren in a white lab coat over his pinstripe suit on his daily rounds at the dump that he calls work. Bioseed Clones headquarters. Scrawling notes onto his little whiteboard while tanks upon tanks filled with bodies surround him, all of them about to be injected with artificial brain activity and repurposed into slaves.

He thinks he can send Chan threats and escape with his life intact? 

Funny.

The pile of hot garbage etched into the screen exacerbates every vile buried grudge Chan harbors. Sends flickers of white stars into his vision, bile up his throat as he pictures the tanks. The poor naked shells suspended in saltwater, powerless and oblivious to the intrusion. All he wants to do is call the devil up and demand that he stops referring to Jeongin as Clone 143, because he has a name, he has a name, he has a name, he’s someone, not a product with a serial number to be owned, and they must stop referring to him like —

But no. 

But no he can’t, because that would raise questions about his involvement, so all he can do is stand there and feel his temper kick up a storm within his body. The phone wakes up and starts buzzing again, ringing in his open hand. 

Minho - Savior of The People is calling. He must have changed the display name incognito.

“Yes?”

The aggressive greeting nearly pops Lee Minho’s eardrum. Chan kicks up a trail in the sand, aware of the questioning glances from afar. He moves a little further away, using his hand as a shield. Jeongin mustn’t hear this. Minho says hmm and makes placating noises wherever he can while Chan explains the culprit of his anger.

“I swear, if he lays as much as a finger on Jeongin I'll kick his ass so hard he has to go on a side quest to locate all the pieces.”

“Chan. Breathe.”

“No.”

“Yes. You must, else I fear that you will have a stroke.”

“Okay.”

Minho knows all about the tension between Chan and the representative of Bioseed Clones. The roles have reversed now and it's his turn to calm the beast because he needs Chan focused and collected. There’s something he can’t wait to reveal.

“Count to ten.”

“One, two, ten,” Chan counts with his teeth gritted, and Minho doesn't push his luck.

“Eh, it'll do. Listen. Ignore that stupid clown, I’ve got some news.”

“Yeah?”

The Savior of the People sounds like an old untuned guitar after the day he had, but he feels ecstatic. The day was long, tiring, full of dead-ends and way too many questions from the higher-ups. But his efforts weren't in vain and the words he’s about to speak feel like holy gospel.

“Chan. Beom considers my conversation with Mrs Choi to be grounds for concern.”

“What?”

“He’s put out a warrant for Mr Choi and he's letting you take care of the interrogation.”

The fire within Chan dulls to a harmless flame.

He can’t believe it, and neither can he handle going from one emotional extreme to another, he really can’t, it'll make his poor heart flatline. The announcement couldn't arrive a moment too soon. Finally something is working out, the investigation can advance and whatever incriminating offenses lurk in Mr Choi’s past will see the light of day. 

Right?

Chan walks back to Changbin and Jeongin in a trance. He’s already methodically rehearsing what questions he will ask Mr Choi when he’s arrested. Gotta play it safe, gotta be smart, even though Chan can’t wait to hold him accountable for the bruises littered all over Jeongin’s body and, more importantly, on his mind.  

“Sorry, I had to take a work call,” he says and beckons them both to follow him back to the car. Dusk is falling and they need to get a move on, but Jeongin lets his feet drag behind. Slower, and slower, and when the distance between the trio grows Chan turns around to call his name. 

But Jeongin has stopped fully and when his lips fall open there's an odd strain on his vocal cords.

"I'm sorry if this was a bad idea, coming here. If I'll get you in trouble."

Chan saunters back with a little smirk that deepens his dimples. There's really no need to panic (so he hopes) but it’s good that Jeongin finally understands that they must keep a low profile.

“No, it wasn't. It’s alright.”

“But that lady with the dog saw me.” 

“She didn’t think anything of it, you’re my cousin, remember?” Chan fires off one of his famous winks and gives Jeongin’s sleeve a tug. ”It's fine, and it was a great idea. It's even nicer here in the summer, we can come back then."

He flicks his chin as a cue to follow. The mention of summer brings some color back into Jeongin's face. But the wind howls around them, and within those howls he swears that he's starting to hear phantom notes of classical music. Louder, sharper, mingling with a scream, and he closes his eyes, drowning it out, make it go away, stop —

Summer. He removes the hands from his ears and tastes the word. 

Sun, warmth, flowers. How far away. A brittle smile sits weakly on his lips, wants to reach higher. But he’s so burdened by uncertainty that it could crack in a heartbeat, and the realization lures unfiltered thoughts out of him to meet the gray evening light.

"I don't think I’ll live that long."

Chan catches it with one ear. He turns around again, the dimples vanishing from his cheeks slowly, the world slowing down with him. 

He has been on the receiving end of a gun a few times in his life. Most of them whilst wearing a bulletproof vest, and once, escaping unscathed while a bullet just grazed his hip. Close call. Almost punctured an organ. The impact was enough to knock him onto his back but even then, it's nothing compared to this bone-shattering blow.

He wavers, and Changbin’s movements become jerky like a car running out of fuel until he stops too. They both stop. 

“Don't say that.”

Chan’s voice is weak and stripped of its warmth as the life trickles out of his body, so it feels. He imagines the same for Jeongin in just a tiny flashing vision. Even that's enough. No, no, no. 

He rubs the terror out of his face and walks the short distance back, fingers latching onto Jeongin's shoulders tightly.

“Don't say things like that.”

“Sorry.”

“Of course you’ll live that long.” 

He will not allow them to think about worst case scenarios. Thinking is an evil menace, he has learned, and best left to the bare minimum.

Jeongin looks up at him at a slight angle. Tears prick his eyes and he looks small wrapped up in thick fabrics under the celestial dome, small and frail like the flower from earlier. But he forces himself to smile anyway. They will see another summer.

“Come here,” Chan tells him. His fingers cradle Jeongin's neck, rubbing comfortingly in little back and forth motions. Eventually they start pulling him in and away from the wind, from grasping claws in the night. Jeongin is so unused to sporadic displays of affection that he resists Chan's hands at first. But his body remembers hugs. It stops resisting for him. 

His arms wrap around Chan’s waist like steel bands, his face nuzzling into his tube scarf in search of shelter. Something quiet and offhanded arrives in a whisper.

"Thanks for bringing me here, hyung."

Chan blinks. It's the first time Jeongin called him that. 

The longer they hug, the tighter the grip, as if he trusts Chan with the pieces of himself that he keeps in a little box and doesn’t let anyone touch. No one. He offers them up, sprinkles them into his palm, says, I have these. Maybe we could build something out of them. Chan closes his fist, holds them up toward the light and sees bright colors, intricate patterns, hand-painted glass. Something good.

Chapter Text

Chan and Jeongin are stuck in limbo, and something has to give soon.

An artificial sense of peace reigns in Chan’s apartment. He would love to take Jeongin on a shopping spree, to the movie theater, for another road trip. But he can’t — not yet. It’s Sunday, and on Monday he’ll crack on with things for real.

Jeongin isn’t dumb. It’s obvious that he suspects that Bioseed Clones are breathing down Chan’s neck 24/7, but he doesn’t ask about it. Maybe he wants to stay blissfully unaware as long as he can, because it’s easier. Easier to pretend that he’s a regular 18 year old and not a runaway clone hunted by the masses...and Chan can’t blame him.

He does everything he can to give Jeongin some semblance of normalcy. He cooks them dinner in the evening and they position themselves in front of the TV with their desserts like normal people, like a kid and his uncle or something along those lines. Chan wishes that was the case. It's as heartwarming as it is sad to witness how happy something as simple as ice cream with chocolate drizzle makes Jeongin. 

All is well until the movie ends and the commercials start. A man clad in a pristine suit appears on the screen to say something they don't immediately pay attention to. Not until a familiar brand name appears. Bioseed Clones.

Queue a montage showing stiff-looking people — clones — in various domestic situations. Acting as chauffeurs, folding laundry, setting a table.

“Bioseed Clones offer a wide range of clones for all purposes…housework, cleaning, butler duties, catering, you name it. Prices start from 14,0000 won and upwards…”

Chan can’t grab the remote fast enough. One manic press of his finger, and the TV screen goes dark.

“Jesus christ,” he mutters, observing Jeongin’s pale complexion in the corner of his eye.

There are activists who are campaigning to have the commercials removed. Individuals who, just like Chan, have some common sense and know that aside from being unethical, the whole clone industry is a ticking time bomb. But not fast enough. Chan can practically see the gears turn in Jeongin’s head, how his pale fingers have stopped mid-air, grasping the spoon. Maybe he recalls himself in those same situations, because that was his job at the Choi's. Clean, cook, serve. Obey.

Chan reaches out to curl his fingers around the boy's slender shoulder.

“Hey. Hey, don’t even think about it, kid. You’re not going back to that life, not ever.”

He’ll repeat that sentiment until it sticks. Never again will Jeongin be a slave, a commodity to be used by the rich and famous. They sit in the stifling silence for a while until there's a soft, raspy request.

“Chan?”

“Yeah, kiddo?”

“Can you tell me about Hyunjin and Felix and Seungmin and Jisung?”

It’s Jeongin’s favorite pastime, aside from watching movies. Hearing little stories and anecdotes from back in the day, from ten years ago when his friends, or well...the real Jeongin's friends, were alive and kicking. 

Chan has been planning to offer to take Jeongin to the graveyard so he can visit their graves. But not yet. The scars are too fresh even though they're technically ten years old.

“Yeah,” he says as he feels a hard lump form in his throat. “Yeah, of course I can, kid.”

It just rains and rains, and the city's citizens have even more reason to escape into brothels and casinos. The sky cries for everyone, even the rain laments the pathetic state of humankind. That's what Chan tells himself.

Monday certainly starts promising, but it all goes down the drain fast. The time is 9:45 and Chan clenches his phone in a death grip as he skims over the vile message he just received.

Hiruki Ren: Tick tock, Mr Bang. Now would be a good opportunity for you to spill your information about the clone, because I know you’re sitting on something. You don’t want to know what will happen otherwise. [received 9:44 AM]

What will happen otherwise? Is the guy going to strangle him with his ugly pinstripe tie, or what?

Chan wanders to the window to peer through the cluster of water droplets covering the glass. He can see Bioseed Clones factory from here, a pale white, massive and ugly garbage dump in the distance. He can practically picture Ren in his office, how smug he looked when typing out another little ridiculous message. The viper is clearly out for blood and his company can’t stop corrupting the world for the love of them. How long before Bioseed Clones show up at Chan’s door with a search warrant?

“Slimy ass bastard,” he mutters into the silence of his office. The rain picks up outside as if it agrees.

If Jeongin is found, then he’ll be taken back to the factory. And at the factory he’ll be dismantled again, his internal organs and arteries will be repurposed and his brain stored in a saltwater tank until they have use for it again. He’ll be gone, finito, a mere typo in the pages of history books.

No.

He can't. Jeongin is safely tucked at home under his cozy blankets with Bear, where he belongs.

Chan has kept him safe thus far and he'll be damned if he'll stumble on the finish line, not now when he’s so close. Not now when he’s got a warrant for Mr Choi. It just has to work. Mrs Choi has to talk because Mrs Choi holds the key to everything. Mr Choi has to be banned from purchasing any more clones, and Jeongin...what will happen to Jeongin then?

Truly, Chan doesn’t know. He can't guarantee that Bioseed Clones won't take Jeongin away the second they get their claws on him even if Mr Choi is exposed as a wife-beater, and it makes the hairs rise in his neck.

He stands in the middle of his office forever. Twenty minutes at least, just gripping the edge of the table and fighting the waves of nausea until Minho finds him in the same position. Hunched over, struggling to hold onto the threads of his sanity while the contents of the coffee cup spill onto the rug. Minho hurries forward, placing a subtle, gloved hand between his shoulder blades.

“Hey, what now? Are you in a crisis?"

"No...maybe."

"You look like you’re on the verge of either screaming or throwing up, or both. I’m undecided yet as to whether or not I will enjoy that display.”

“Ren,” Chan grinds out, knowing Minho will get the reference. “He’s sending me more messages to try to threaten me into submission.”

It's Minho's turn to calm the beast. He plucks the coffee cup from the floor and tosses down a tissue to soak up the spillage before he slips between Chan and the desk, carefully assuming a protective hold of the man.

“It’s alright, he can do that all he wants cause he’s not going to win this, you hear?”

Minho's eyes sparkle like rubies. He has a good hair day, too, and everything is simply marvelous and going according to plan. The cats didn’t throw up any hairballs and he found a parking spot within a minute of arriving at work. He could burst into a happy dance and throw rose petals around unless Beom would scream at him for littering.

“Channie,” he says. His fingers move in soothing motions, trying to untwist the knots in Chan’s shoulders. “Are you good? Eyes on me, buddy. Look at this god-tier face, these cheekbones, this striking gaze.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m good.” 

Chan exhales a whole lifetime’s worth of air and grunts. Every single limb in his body feels like it’s itching to jump into the nearest wall. Minho isn’t all that convinced.

“I’m about to head out to arrest Mr Choi now. We need you sharp cause you have to do that whole scary hardass-thing you do so he shits himself and sings like a canary, okay?”

He gives Chan’s shoulders a sobering shake, but that’s no good. It just whips the contents of his tummy into mush again and he slaps a palm over his mouth to halt it.

“Okay, stop, Minho, I’ll literally barf on you.”

“Sorry. Just had to snap you out of it.”

Chan grabs his water bottle and empties half of it in one go. God. He just has to brush Ren’s threats and any imagery of body parts in water tanks away for the time being. The kid needs him.

“So…you are, really?” He focuses on Minho and the things he said. “Right now, you’re bringing Mr Choi in?”

There’s a couple enthusiastic nods. Chan would be lying if he said he isn’t going to thoroughly enjoy this.

Mr Choi’s company building is one of extravagance. Its reflective facade exudes an aura of luxury, the skyscraper towering over the other buildings like a king over pawns. Minho has despised the business district for as long as he can remember. The city's elite pool in and out of the sliding doors in their designer suits and ray-bans, rich boys and girls with fake smiles and fake personalities. But today Minho has enough ammunition in his gun to wipe at least one of those shit-eating grins off.

He and Officer Ming handle the takedown. Mr Choi is brusquely intercepted at work, and he isn't particularly happy about it and Minho couldn’t give two shits about that. It’s very satisfying to listen to his barrage of creative curse words when he handcuffs the guy and inserts him into a cop car.

“Unhand me at once, you oaf, I demand a lawyer!” is the last thing Mr Choi shrieks before Minho presses his head down and shuts the door in his wake.

Back at the station, Chan idles in the hallway with his files. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows and his gun tucked in its shoulder strap where Mr Choi will be able to see it. Just for intimidation purposes and all, remind Choi that Chan is perfectly capable of blowing holes in skulls. He’s just about to enter the interrogation room when a meaty hand closes around his upper arm like a wire.

The hand belongs to none other than Deputy Chief Beom. Of course it does. The first thing Chan sees are the donut crumbs on his thin lips and the first thing he thinks is that he might be sick for the second time this morning. God help him.

“Now, Bang.”

“Yes?"

“You will listen carefully to every word I’m about to say,” Beom tells him. Chan just nods again and tries to ignore the smell of glazed jelly.

“I really hope you know what you're doing, because I’m only letting your sorry ass take care of this interrogation because it’s related to the case with the missing clone. And I trust you won’t fuck it up.”

The chances of Beom ever kicking that patronizing undertone (or the crusty ass lips) are close to zero. So Chan just flutters his lashes and sucks up to him instead.

“Why of course not, sir. You can trust me.”

"Can I really?"

"Have I ever given you reason to think otherwise?"

“Daily. No funny business, keep it short and concise, and don’t get hot-headed...”

Chan tries to look anywhere but around chin-level while the head honcho starts a mind-numbing monologue. Him, hot-headed? Never happened, ever.

“...we can keep him overnight, no longer than that, and then based on your interrogation we’ll contact the wife for further questioning. I'm trusting you to pull something worthwhile out of the man if there are any grounds for Minho's suspicions.”

“Aye, aye, cap’n.”

Chan gives a lazy salute. The things he has to do to stay in the good graces of his superior makes him gag. But it works. Beom strides down the corridor with his jowls jiggling and Chan can finally get more closely acquainted with the fabled Mr Choi.

Mr Choi looks livid and just like Chan remembered. Thin-lipped, dressed in the finest of navy blue suits, born and raised with one foot inside the ivory tower. The tension is there instantly, thick and electric. Chan enters and the second he sees the man, he thinks about Jeongin’s bruises. Those hands caused them. But he lets the anger simmer down minutely. 

Nice and easy.

He’s going to wring information out of this cretin like he’s a dirty, wet rag.

“Mr Choi,” he says as the door closes ominously, locking them inside. ”Absolute pleasure.”

He circles the table slowly and with the appropriate amount of theatrics. It has some effect. Mr Choi looks nothing short of furious, the twitch in his eyelid giving him away, and Chan intends to double those eyelid-twitches and crawl under his skin as fast as possible. 

"Beautiful afternoon, isn't it?"

"No, it isn't," Mr Choi barks then, the sound echoing sharply in the small space. "It’s raining, my suit is ruined, and I demand to know on what grounds I am here!”

Chan doesn’t care about Mr Choi’s expensive suit, but the rest is of interest to him. He reaches out his hand to give the tray of baked goods on the table a shake.

"Want a donut? They're kind of stale, but a donut is a donut. Always good even if it's kind of bad."

He sits down and bites into the fattest one, the crumbs falling into his lap. The man on the other side of the metal table looks at him like he's insane, which he might be, but at least he's on the right side of the law.

"No, I do not want a donut," Mr Choi spits, some of the beads landing on the table. "I want to know why I'm here!"

He looks three seconds from going feral. Chan makes sure to chew audibly just to grate on some frazzled nerve. Mr Choi’s facial tics suggest it’s working.

"You will. For now just answer my questions. You own the investment company ‘Profitable Futures Ltd’ right?”

"Yes.”

“Terribly sorry for interrupting the meeting.”

“Stop engaging me in useless small talk and let me know what I'm charged with!"

“All in due time, buddy boy. I just want to ask you some questions.”

“Not answering any questions.”

Chan slings his legs up on the table just to be obnoxious and regards the man in all his slicked-back glory. Time to play bad cop.

"That’s not how the law works,” he says nonchalantly and knits his hands behind his neck. “But well, I guess we can always sit here until there's moss growing on you. I'm not in a rush. They promised more rain later so I might as well clock some overtime."

Mr Choi cracks sooner than expected. It’s pathetic, really. The twitch in his eye turns into a violent spasm and an animalistic shriek echoes in the interrogation room.

“Go on then!”

Finally some cooperation. Chan grabs the paper-cup coffee from the table to wash down the donut crumbs. He’s keeping his cool well so far.

"How's your relationship with your wife?"

"My relationship with my wife?”

Mr Choi looks downright appalled at the question. But his voice becomes a little rickety as he answers;

“It's great."

"I'm sure it is. And you own a clone. Jeongin. He ran away, been missing for quite some time?”

“Yes, now what does this concern?”

Chan grills him for another ten minutes. Smug bastard. He runs through the basics and scrawls down notes and information he already knows. It’s all for show, a tedious and (hopefully) tortuous process until Mr Choi is ripe for the picking. 

“So, if I understand correctly…your wife stays at home,” he says and readjusts on the chair while he flips the pages of the files. “Which means it’s just you, your wife and Jeongin, all alone in that big house in the middle of nowhere. Hidden from sight, from society?” He leans forward, grabbing the ballpoint pen from the table. “How convenient…I bet it would be easy to get away with…”

A theatrical pause. Chan’s pen drums a lazy beat against the metal table, the repetitive sound unbearable in the stillness of the room.  

“...things…there. Wouldn't it?"

Mr Choi looks baffled and then furious again. The air in the room is so tense that it’s crackling. The tension rises, rises, rises, until he finally erupts.

"What the hell are you implying — have you found Jeongin?"

“Negative.”

"Listen here,” Mr Choi barks. He's turned into an even more shocking shade of red now. “I got Jeongin to keep my wife company, and help with the housework. I don't know why he attacked me and ran off, I suppose there’s something off in his manufacturing, but this is outrageous.”

The words toss a spanner in the works. Doesn't know. Something in the man’s tone sounds sincere, but that contradicts everything Chan knows.

"We have reasonable doubt to believe that everything isn’t right in your household,” Chan counters. Surely the guy must fold soon, but he sounds like a rabid dog, spit practically flying from his dusty lips.

“This is appalling! You have no reason to suspect me of anything.”

Chan feels his jaw tense until it hurts. Mr Choi’s face has no right to look that punchable. How can this snake sit there in denial when the bruises on Jeongin's body tell a whole other story? The taut rubber band within him finally snaps and his palms slam onto the table, knocking the rest of the coffee over.

“You’re mistreating your wife and Jeongin, aren't you?”

Well, fuck. A direct allegation, definitely not planned, and Mr Choi looks like he’s going to burst into flames. He sags in the chair, his wide eyes blinking repeatedly.

"What in the heavens? I'm not the perfect husband, but I have not done the things you accuse me of. So me and my wife fight, I'm too busy, I'm distant, I'm never home, I know."

He rubs his forehead in frustration, nervous laughter beginning to trickle out of him in waves. Chan’s eyes narrow imperceptibly. People who lose it are usually close to breaking, so he presses, and pushes, and prods, pinning the man with his molten stare.

“Then why is your wife so nervous and skittish, like a damn alley cat?"

"She isn't!"

"Yes she is, why is she scared of you?”

“Did you talk to her? When?”

“Answer the damn question.”

"I'm trying to look out for her, but she's unwell!”

“Unwell how?”

Chan's mouth is like a machine gun, unloading bullets without mercy, and it hits its target. People lose control under duress.

"She miscarried and won't agree to get help for her depression," Mr Choi spits, to chilling, harrowing silence.

The dust settles around them and Chan reclines heavily into the chair. He's stunned for once. It doesn't happen very often.

"She what now?"

"I’m not saying another word before getting legal counsel,” Mr Choi says then. He’s deathly pale now, his skin matching the shade of Chan’s thoughts. And of course he won’t. 

They’ve stalemated. The realization that Chan tanked this interrogation curdles in his gut like old rotten milk and so do the new bombshell revelations.

Mrs Chan had a miscarriage? She's depressed? The woman is struggling mentally?

He should end it here, but the rage spreads like a wildfire in his veins. He thinks about himself and his inability to help, the inability to sense that something was wrong in that damn mansion. All those months that he spent sitting on his ass while Jeongin suffered at the hands of this cockroach.

Alone, helpless. And no one listened.

"You know, I'm so sick of people like you,” Chan says, his voice like a metallic clang in the interrogation room. “You think you can hold the world in the palm of your hand, go anywhere, do anything, ruler of the city. You think you can treat people however the fuck you want because they can't fight back?”

There's enough acid to burn a hole in the table between them. Chan is fully aware that he’s letting his own affection color his judgment, spitting accusations this early in the investigation. And still, he can't put a cork on himself now that he's found his Achilles heel.

It’s Jeongin.

Mr Choi’s face is gray as the sludge out on the sidewalks, but he's unable to speak. Chan’s knuckles tighten around the edge of the table as he towers over the man.

"You're hiding something. And I'm going to get to the bottom of it, even if I have to force it out of you at gunpoint.”

He definitely shouldn’t have said that. Beom would throttle him if he was here to witness this, and Mr Choi’s jaw falls all the way to the floor.

“You can't threaten me —”

“Just did.”

Chan rises and grabs the door handle so viciously that he can feel the metal deform in his hand. He marches out into the corridor and kicks a trash can in the process, just because he can and it’s in his way.

“God — fucking — damn it!”

He's so angry, a blind rage that consumes every cell. He begins to stride down the corridor, looking for other things to kick but a gentle voice hollers at him to stop.

"Woah, woah, woah!"

Minho appears behind a watercooler, his brows rising at the chorus of expletives.

"Chan, what's going on?”

“Nothing.”

“No destruction of property even if you feel like going berserk, we’ve talked about this," Minho says sternly. "Collect yourself before you find yourself stuffed full of benzos and locked in a padded room.”

A game of cat and mouse ensues. Minho catches up with Chan and manages to somehow wrangle him into calming down. He guides the man to lean against a corner by the vending machine, arching his brows at the man's twisted grimace. It’s pretty obvious that the interrogation didn’t go exactly according to plan.

"Min, try to get the wife in for questioning tomorrow," Chan cuts in before Minho can say anything, his voice taking on a pleading note. “Make sure she knows this is a safe space, and we’re here to help protect her from Mr Choi.”

Minho nods without hesitation. His presence by Chan’s side helps marginally. It’s one of the few things keeping him afloat right now.

Chan is relieved when the day's work is finally done, but the sky is steel-gray and uneasy, as if it's holding its breath. Like a bad omen.

Jeongin waits for him by the door as usual, a little ray of domestic sunshine in his soft oversized t-shirt. He asks Chan how work was, if he’s tired, if he wants Jeongin to cook dinner (fine, a bit, no, that’s alright buddy). It’s heartwarming to notice that he feels so at home here. All memories of Mr Choi are wiped from his mind and replaced by safety, warmth, structure. It pains Chan that he has to lure them to the surface again, even momentarily.

They retreat to the living room and Chan takes a seat next to Jeongin, his fingers working overtime to loosen the tie around his neck.

The TV is on and airing one of those shows where brides-to-be are hunting their dream dress. Jeongin sits cross-legged and looks spellbound as he watches the parade of sparkly, pearly, lacy and puffy wedding dresses on the screen. But Chan doesn’t pay attention to what’s happening there. He observes the boy, unsure if he even should breach this topic. But he has to, right? Jeongin isn’t safe yet and he can't be kept in the dark forever. Chan has the finesse of a rampaging moose right now, but he needs information because else nothing can be solved.

“Listen, Jeongin...”

Jeongin's gaze snaps over to Chan, his bright smile curving upward. Damn it. He looks so adorable and so innocent, his raven hair curling down his pale forehead.

"Yeah?" he hums in response, his eyebrows raised in curiosity.

“I interrogated Mr Choi today,” Chan reveals, to silence. 

The easy smile peels off Jeongin’s face one inch at a time. His fingers curl into anxious fists around Bear. The reaction has Chan worried so he scoots closer, his fingers settling on the notches of Jeongin’s spine.

"Jeongin? You don't have to worry anymore. He's almost certainly being charged or at least suspected of domestic violence. And suspects of domestic violence can't own clones, so you’re not going back there."

The words don’t cause the desired reaction. Chan expected anything else, a sigh of relief, happy tears, the macarena. Hell , anything other than this …this slightly shell-shocked expression.

"What?"

The remote falls from Jeongin’s hand, hitting the floor with a thud and sending the batteries rolling under the couch. He’s vertical in seconds, nearly tripping over the rug in his hurry to back off.

"Why did you do that?"

Chan remains seated. This didn't go like he planned, at all, but what he’s currently thinking is this:  

Jeongin must just be scared of Mr Choi. 

That must be it.

"Because we had to, kid,” he explains, unease beginning to rise in his throat. “I need Mrs Choi to testify and this whole ordeal looked into. I need her to back up what you’re saying, what I already know, that you're not a threat and that you ran away from Mr Choi for a reason. Because he was violent towards you, yeah? Else Bioseed Clones can just end you like this when they find you." He snaps his fingers to demonstrate. The sound causes Jeongin to take a step backwards and bump into the coffee table. 

“You understand?" Chan presses.

It’s the harsh reality. But Jeongin circles the table and still looks like he wants to leap out the window and Chan begins to wake up to reality too. The announcement didn't instill within the boy the sense of security and relief that he had hoped, but why?

“Jeongin…”

“Why? No.”

“Because Mr Choi needs to be held accountable — Jeongin?"

The bridezillas fight over some elaborate hairpiece and Jeongin cradles his face in his palms, his nails scratching at his cheeks. He starts pacing back and forth on the rug as panic starts to rear its ugly head within him.

"No, you can't do that, why can't we just forget about it? I don't want any of it."

Chan unfreezes finally and launches up. He can’t fathom exactly what Jeongin doesn’t want but there’s fear in his dilated fox eyes and his pulse hammers so violently in his temples that Chan’s sure he can hear it. He takes another step towards the kid, making sure to appear as non-threatening as possible.

"Hey, Jeongin…he hurt you, he has to be charged, okay?”

“No.”

“Yes, it's only a matter of time till his next victim is his wife, if it hasn't already happened —”

"It wasn't him."

All the light and color seems to drain from the room. 

Chan’s thoughts filter in and out and his stomach is bottoming out like a sinking ship. All he can do is stutter dumbly.

"What?"

"It wasn't Mr Choi who hit me," Jeongin says then, tears welling up behind his lashes. 

"Then who…“

Chan is stunlocked.

What? 

He just always automatically assumed that it was Mr Choi who beat Jeongin black and blue. Even the living room walls seem to gasp and quake in shock, and the sound from the TV warps into something unknown. Jeongin doesn't know what to think, or feel.

He ruined this. Ruined it with his silence.

"She — Mrs Choi…”

It's taking all his willpower to remain standing. The words feel so heavy in his mouth that they could be made of lead.

“She drinks and she gets upset, and she cries a lot, she cries and cries and cries. She cried so much, and she would cry and scream and become violent. But it's my fault, I got in her way, I made her angry."

Chan approaches the trembling kid, but even so, the distance between them just seems to grow. He thinks about the gentle but fidgety woman that Minho interrogated. Allegedly depressed, but she always seemed so kind-hearted, a victim in her own right. She hurt Jeongin?

"What? What are you talking about — what did she do?"

Jeongin’s eyes are bottomless depths as the memories swirl within them. He rambles faster in a thin, strangled voice.

"She didn’t want me there, she thought I was too clumsy, I always dropped things and broke them and I didn’t wipe the counters properly or make the bed right…she didn’t want me. She never wanted me there, she wanted a baby and I just made her upset, it's my fault."

The world is cold and dark, as if the mother of all thunderstorms is looming over them. Jeongin starts pacing blindly again and dodges Chan’s careful hands, and he just stutters out words, whatever comes to mind.

"She said sorry, she said sorry every time, it’s not her fault, I don't want to make this worse so can't we just drop it? She told me not to tell anyone, please don't tell anyone."

He repeats it like a mantra, shrill and desperate, don’t tell anyone. They’re stuck in opposite ends of the room and Chan can’t reach him.

"It's not okay, this isn't right, Jeongin,” he tries, desperate at this point. “Even if she’s unwell, she can't do that to you, that's abuse ."

“I'm sorry for not saying anything,” Jeongin hacks out then, breaking completely. “I'm sorry!"

“Listen, kid, we just have to sort this out and then it'll be alright.”

“I didn't know how to talk about it, and I messed up, didn't I, you’ll turn me in now?"

The mere thought shatters the last skeletal bar of the frail cage that holds all the painful memories within Jeongin. Chan has only ever shown him hospitality, but all this time he’s waited, waited for the moment that it will end. He’ll lose this, the feeling of belonging somewhere. It’s warm and sizzling like a cozy fire, the feeling, but it’s burning out and allowing the cold night to claim him again.

Silly, silly him, always in the way. The stench of alcohol, the piano notes that start as a beautiful melody until the fingers punch the keys and turn it into something sinister. The petal-soft voice that warps and twists and screams at him, out of my way, cursed thing, get out, get out, you aren't real, I don't want you!

Mrs Choi’s manic preaching is like a siren in his ears and he does the only thing he can think of. He runs.  

Chan jolts in surprise when Jeongin makes a mad dash for it.

No.  

It only takes a split second and then he’s barreling out and Chan sprints after him, but it’s too late. The distance between them fades away in a flash. Chan reaches the hallway and sees the door wide open, hears the sound of sneakers running through the corridor.

God damn it.

But it doesn’t stop there. A horrifying realization hits him like a ton of bricks and he stops in his tracks.

His firearm, it’s missing. The gun is missing from the table by the door where he placed it after arriving home.

No, no, no, Jeongin, what did you do?

Why didn’t Chan remember to lock the door? Oh, he’s so utterly and monumentally stupid.

The cool evening air hits him in the face like a ton of bricks when he reaches the streets. There’s cars and pedestrians on their way home and he weaves past them, screaming Jeongin’s name until he’s hoarse. But no. Nothing. He’s swallowed by the ground already, out here, alone in the winter night dressed in nothing but a thin t-shirt. Right back where he started.

Chan races inside again and calls the only person who can help. His rock, his lighthouse in a storm, the words pouring out of him in a disarray the second the call is picked up. 

"Minho, it's not him, it's the wife, it was Mrs Choi who made Jeongin's life hell, and she caused those bruises on Jeongin and…and I don't even think Mr Choi knows anything about it. Jeongin told me, but he panicked and then he took my damn gun and ran off and I don’t know what to do —”

"Woah, Chan, slow down,” Minho urges him, and the sound of porcelain shattering follows immediately after. By all conclusion he’s just dropped a plate of whatever food he was holding and given the cats a feast.

“Channie, slow down, first things first. So Jeongin ran away?” 

Chan takes a seat in the armchair by the front door, forcing himself to take a few calming breaths. He's never been this scared, this worried for anyone and he grips the phone so tightly that his bones nearly splinter.

“Yeah, I asked him about Mr Choi again and then he dropped a bombshell and told me it wasn’t Mr Choi who hurts him, it was Mrs Choi. But then he got so worked up he beelined out again, and I don’t know why...I thought I had it, I thought we were getting somewhere, I thought he knew he can trust me, Minho. What do I do now?”

The last snippets of Chan's composure crumble then. Jeongin is out there, alone in the freezing night, frightened, panicked. Anything could happen. The urgency of the situation isn’t lost on Minho but his voice is deep and soothing against the frantic thrum of Chan's heartbeat.

"We'll find him, don't panic, I’ll be right over,” he implores while he stumbles through his apartment, already pulling his coat on. That’s just an impossible request if you ask Chan. iIt’s hard to breathe and it feels like he's trying to lift the ocean with each exhale, and everything is just peachy.

No, shit just got a whole lot worse.

The Monday evening is dim, a ghostly fog settling over the wasted city.

Chan is verging on tears. They’re waiting in line behind his eyelids for the tiniest cue to release even though he doesn’t cry, ever. He’s famous for keeping his composure, it's like his thing. Cold, stoic, indifferent. But not now.

Chan is fucking going insane over Jeongin.

The massive piles of snow have melted finally but right now it works against them, the darkness making it even harder to discern the facial features of people they see. Minho’s jaw is clenched in concentration as he drives down the perilous streets as fast as the speed limit will allow. 

"Where the hell could that kid have gone?"

His voice is barely loud enough to carry over the sound of the revving engine. The tormented sounds falling from Chan’s lips concern him.

“Hey, Channie, you have to breathe okay? Are you doing the breathing thing, little munchkin?”

“Barely.”

It's a wild goose chase and they might very well fail. He keeps scanning every street corner and darkened alley, but Jeongin has been swallowed by the ground.

"He took the gun with him...he's not a threat though, he's just…terrified, but this isn’t ideal."

Minho glances over the console. It’s starting to snow faintly again and the streets are restless as ever, but Chan is even more restless. He keeps wringing his gloved hands in his lap until Minho is sure they’re about to fall off.

"I feel like a goddamn failure," Chan murmurs into the silence between them. "I had everything under control and then I don’t even remember to lock the door. I was going to be careful about this, I promised him I would, I promised him that I’d take care of him, and now..."

“Stop right there, Channie,” Minho cuts him off before the rant can even start. “No time for self-pity, my prickly friend. It’s not your fault, but you have to put a cork on yourself so we can find the kid.”

It’s true. Without Minho, Chan would lie in a pool of melted human extremities and skin on the sidewalk. He forces himself to do the breathing thing and keeps his eyes peeled on the surroundings. But they're fumbling in the dark. The city is a maze of flashing billboards and skyscrapers and easy to get lost in. 

It seems like they’ve roamed around forever when Chan sees a slender figure with untamed purple hair bobbing down the street. He squints into the distance. It’s Miri, the cheeky repeat offender who is partial to grand theft auto. Right now he’s beyond thankful to encounter her out in the wilderness.

“Pull over here,” he pleads with Minho, already waving down the window to beckon the girl closer. “Miri? Hey —”

She’s already spotted him. To everyone’s surprise she practically crashes against the door, her breath coming out in short puffs as she speaks with urgency.

“Are you looking for the clone?”

“Uh, what?”

“The clone, the runaway clone?”

“How did you —”

“I saw him,” she interrupts, pointing resolutely down the road. “A few blocks away in a motel parking lot, there’s some kind of commotion over there, they…they’ve got him cornered. A bunch of cops and then some of those fuckers from Bioseed Clones.”

Chan’s eyes blow into teacups. His mouth opens and closes a few times before he catches his bearings, and Minho is already abusing the gas pedal and jerking the car into motion again. Damn, Miri is a godsend. Apparently there’s something resembling a heart beneath that snarky exterior. He waves his thanks as they drive off with the wheels on fire.

“I owe you, Miri!”

The observations were correct. There’s activity ahead, a gathering outside a motel a few blocks away. Cop cars, a lot of them, their rotating lights casting a kaleidoscope of colors over the parking lot. In the far corner there’s a white van with an ugly and way too familiar red logo on the side. Bioseed Clones.

God damn it, why did those guys have to show up too?

“Over there,” Chan exclaims and leans over the console so that he almost ends up in Minho’s lap. Minho screeches like a startled cat and takes a hard left, and the car skids over the curb as he pulls it to a quick halt.

“Chan, wait!”

Chan does no such thing. He’s outside in seconds, his eyes flickering over the parking lot. The scene has the blood freezing in his veins. A flash of metal in the night, the lights that spin faster. Nothing in his wildest dreams could have prepared him for this.

Jeongin stands in the middle of the parking lot, shivering in the open air, his eyes wide and terrified. His fingers clench around Chan’s gun like blue-tinted spider legs and he’s surrounded, cornered like an animal by several officers. Officer Ming is there, and Deputy Chief Beom, and Hiruki Ren. Officer Ming is speaking in a low tone, demanding that the kid drops the gun. Drop it, he says, but it doesn’t happen. Jeongin doesn’t drop the gun and the officer’s firearm raises in warning, fingers tensing around the trigger. 

Chan enters the scene, but it’s too late. Officer Ming fires the bullet.

Minho lets out a horrified gasp behind him and everything around them comes to a standstill like a freeze-frame. One single thought runs through Chan’s mind; they’re firing at him, at the kid, they’re going to kill him, no-

Jeongin - Jeongin, Jeongin, no, not the sweet, precious kid —

The bullet misses by an inch. It whizzes over Jeongin’s shoulder and hits the motel wall behind, and he jerks in terror, his pupils dilated, muscles coiled tightly. Chan launches forward like a marionetted puppet, a desperate scream ripping out of his throat.

"No, don't shoot him, stop!"

His feet skid over the gravel as he barrels in, placing himself between Jeongin and the line of officers. The action causes a cacophony of voices to erupt.

“Bang, out of my way, he’s got a gun!”

“Cause you're threatening him,” Chan bites Officer Ming off, his hands raising in the air. “He's just scared, he doesn't want to hurt anyone!”

Beom pushes in with his pale jowls swinging in the night. His beady eyes are bulging out of their sockets, pinned on insolent officer. Of course he should have known that his most rebellious employee would barge in and cause trouble.

"What the hell are you doing? Step aside, I mean it, the clone is faulty and unreliable!”

Like hell he will. Chan is a mix of words, sobs and hysterics, the unholy panic about to rip him in half. He doesn't move an inch.

"How the hell would you act if you were chased by everyone and about to be terminated? God damn it, you absolute imbeciles, he’s a person, don't shoot him!"

Grandma Bang must be watching from the skies above, because the final plea works. It dislodges something within Beom. He blinks repeatedly and curses under breath, his hand flying up to signal to the officers to hold their fire.

"Then you better get that damn clone to drop the weapon, Bang, right now."

It’s money time. Chan can hear it, practically feel everyone’s gazes bore into him. It’s all up to him now. One last chance before they annihilate Jeongin. He nods numbly and turns to face the kid, slowly, slowly. The tears on Jeongin's cold cheeks are frozen solid and his fingers tremble so badly that the rattle of his bones seem to echo across the parking lot.

Minho holds his breath, the suspense killing him. Christ, the kid...he's never heard Chan sound so hoarse with worry and terror, and he almost got himself shot.

"Jeongin, listen,” Chan tries. “I need you to do as I say."

"No."

"Please, kid, listen to me. Drop the gun, okay?"

Jeongin cowers in front of them, his eyes flitting between the officers. They look like ruthless executioners in the spinning lights, poised to make a move. End him. They’ll end him and he can’t let go, he doesn’t know what will happen, he can’t - 

“No…no, I…I can’t, I —”

"Now,” Chan commands. He forces some authority into his voice even though he’s seconds from crying. “I mean it, Jeongin, I need you to trust me, now."

He points a stern finger in the air, trying once last time.

"Drop it."

The command is like a gunshot in itself, like steel bands wrapping around Jeongin’s soul. He’s never had it in himself to defy Chan. Somehow, in the middle of the sheer panic he recalls that this is the only person, the only man in the whole entire universe who has ever cared about him. Channie-hyung. And everything that is good, and warm and pure in the world.

He does as he's told with a small whimper of capitulation. The gun leaves his hand and hits the ground with an ominous clatter, and Chan releases an elephant’s worth of fear and anxiety.

"Just take it easy, okay," he urges, trying to soothe the frightened soul. He takes a step forward, and another. But a chilling sentence stops him in his tracks.

"I have a tranquilizer dart ready, permission to fire?"

"Granted," Chan hears Hiruki Ren say just as he swings around.

"Wait — no!"

Everything around him becomes a blur. The worker from Bioseed Clones takes his aim with the tranquilizer gun and Chan's furious voice fills the air.

"NO, don’t do it, don’t you dare!"

It happens so fast. The dart flies out of the barrel, followed by a soft thump as it buries itself in Jeongin's shoulder. He flinches, a yelp bursting from his lips. His fingers fly up to paw and scratch at the dart in confusion, but no use. His knees buckle and he trips over a small rock but Chan is there within seconds, lunging forward to catch him by the waist before he can go down.

“Fucking great.”

What a disaster. Jeongin slumps against him, his body turning to quicksand fast. He mutters incoherent crap, clinging onto the last snippets of lucidity while the sedative floods his system.

“Chan…Channie…”

“Yeah, I’m here,” Chan assures him, supporting the kid’s slackening body. “I’m here with you, it's okay.”

He’s like an ice shard. Chan shimmies out of his coat and drapes it over Jeongin as he pulls the kid’s head into his lap, his fingers gently moving coal strands of hair out of his half-lidded eyes.

"God, buddy…what did they do to you…shh. I’ll be here when you wake. Go to sleep.” 

It’s unfortunate and traumatic and a lot of other disastrous adjectives, but at least it's not a bullet. The officers watch the duo on the ground, their expressions ranging from distaste and disbelief and sympathy. Chan doesn’t care about them. He cradles Jeongin in his arms until he’s out cold and it isn’t until then that he looks up. The person who’s been haunting him as of late is right there. Hiruki Ren, towering over him in his pinstripe suit and dumb water-combed hair. 

He examines Jeongin’s prone form with skeptical eyes as if he’s a specimen under a magnifying glass. Chan loses it. 

"Was that necessary, he's not a rabid animal!”

Ren takes the outburst in stride, the mask of detachment not faltering once.

"Protocol. He’s an incredibly expensive piece of property and he's behaved violently, we can’t take any risks. It'll wear off in a few hours."

"He's behaved violently because people are behaving violently towards him, don’t you get it?!”

Ren has the gall to roll his eyes at that, as if Chan is the dense idiot in this equation. Minho rushes in but even he can’t calm the beast this time. Chan surrenders Jeongin to him and then he struggles to his feet, seething and aware that Beom is Barking orders at him from the sidelines. But that’s irrelevant. All he wants is to engage in warfare with Ren. 

“I’m not going to let you take him!”

He’s face to face with the man in seconds, every word like a torrent of hellfire. Ren just stares at him with his eyelids twitching in irritation until it looks like they're performing some kind of contemporary dance.

"I knew you'd show up and cause a scene, we have permission to transport the clone to our headquarters for shutdown!"

"Over my dead body, I work for the police and I'm overruling that.”

“Oh, you’re overruling that?!"

“I'm not letting you do this, he's not dangerous and he's sentient, you can't kill a kid!"

"He's not sentient," Ren sneers then. Chan is pretty sure he’s swallowed a mouthful of the man’s spit by now, and yet he couldn’t care less. Ren is a damn insect that is about to be squashed if he dares bend a hair on Jeongin’s head.

"He is. Don't do this."

"Bang, I swear to god, step aside —"

The opposite happens. Chan’s palm collides with Ren’s chest, shoving the man so he stumbles back and crashes against the car door behind with a shocking thud.

"No, you listen, for once in your dumb life,” Chan all but growls at him. “So he's a clone, but he’s human and he’s my kid now. You’re not taking him. Have a damn conversation with him when he wakes, and you’ll see." He raises a finger and points at the unconscious clone on the ground. "That’s a human, with thoughts, feelings, memories, a sentient, emotional being like you and me. Do you want his blood on your hands? I will have you arrested for unethical conduct, I swear I will, if you lay one —”

His finger shoots out to jab Ren in the chest before he can retaliate. Again and again, punctuating each word until the man’s face has assumed the shade of a beetroot.

“...fucking — finger on him, I guarantee I will have you jailed for life without chance of parole.”

Beom enters at last, and he’s ready to smack Chan to China with his jowls. He opens his mouth to bellow something, but Minho is faster. He elbows his way in and throws his arms around Chan’s chest, hauling him back before he can do anything rash. It’s a shame, because he wouldn’t mind seeing Chan sock the weasel across in the jaw but they can't get charged with assault now.

“Cool it,” he demands, his fingers fisting Chan’s winter coat to hold him back. “I mean it, Chan, calm down."

Minho’s voice diffuses the rage, but Ren isn’t going batshit on them as expected. He looks oddly conflicted. His fingers rub the spot where his back made unmerciful contact with the vehicle and his attention is trained on Jeongin’s limp body. He looks...unsure, for the first time in his life.

"Are you…are you certain about this?”

Chan and Minho both freeze, their limbs entangled like vines. A tiny spark of hope ignites in Chan’s chest.

"Positive."

The air seems to freeze over just as quickly as it did mere seconds ago. Ren looks genuinely concerned, which is a very odd look for him.

"God...what the hell..."

He cranes his neck to address his staff who are lingering next to them, his words terse enough to let Chan know that he is finally understanding the gravity of the situation. Even if it's due to selfish reasons, it doesn't matter. 

"Put all manufacturing on hold. We need to launch an investigation into this.”

"You need to shut down the damn factory is what you need to do," Chan mutters unhelpfully. Minho's guarding arms tighten around him (why can't the man ever just shut up?). 

The flippant comment makes Ren's eyelid spasm again. Hopefully the sod is stuck with them for life. He sidles up to Chan and luckily Minho is holding him captive, else this would get ugly.

"Listen here, Bang Chan, do not breathe a word about this, do not leak this information to anyone until we’re done. Understood? We're taking care of the investigation internally and I don't want your filthy paws all over it."

Ren spits out his name like it's an abomination, but he promptly marches off before Chan can tear him a new one. Lucky for him. There’s no time to breathe just because one mofo is taken care of, no, because Beom appears minutely. His cap is lopsided and he’s instantly suspicious.

"How did you know the clone is sentient?"

"Because I pay attention,” Chan shoots back without missing a beat. “I said it from the beginning, a robot is a robot, but this is a person, not a body with an operating system. It was only a matter of time until this clone business went to shit. I stopped a bloody massacre from occurring and saved Bioseed Clones from becoming child killers.”

Minho stands guard anxiously, still maintaining a loose hold of Chan’s arm. He’s worried that the man is seconds away from being thrown into the back of a police cruiser like a damn circus animal. But Beom reacts favorably - well, kind of. He looks like a frozen computer screen. While his mouth opens and closes Chan takes the opportunity to continue.

“Listen, Mrs Choi is a liability, she's a danger to herself and she’s abusive and volatile. Mr Choi is protecting her, you need to bring her in. Do not let the Choi’s buy another clone."

Beom looks absolutely stumped again, his brows creasing like a plowed field. But this time it’s actually justified. His eyes flit about, darting from Chan to Minho and finally, resting on Jeongin’s unconscious form on the ground.

"Okay, okay,  god damn it, you better be right about this Bang…” He wipes the sweat off his forehead and motions to Officer Ming to step forth. “Take the clone into holding."

"No. I'm taking him home," Chan argues instantly. He’s already backing up, shielding Jeongin with his own body like an overprotective parent and the civil war is a fact again.

“Don’t be daft, Bang!”

The rest of the officers spectate like frightened mice. They’re well familiar with Chan’s explosive persona as well as his insolence and refusal to surrender. Beom wastes no time trying to talk sense into him - emphasis on trying. 

"The clone needs to be taken into holding and questioned!"

"We don't even have any space at the station!”

“We’ll make space, now move your dumb ass.”

“He’s scared and traumatized and he trusts me, alright?! I’m taking him home.”

“Bang Chan, you’re grating on my last nerve!”

“No, cause I called it,” Chan spits out. “I said it all along and you didn’t believe me. There's something not right with these supposedly-inanimate clones, and look.” He gestures at Jeongin, fast asleep in the dirt. Betrayed by the people who were supposed to protect him.

“Look where it got us."

The tension simmers down around them with a hiss like the flame of a candle being squashed. Beom looks at Jeongin. Really looks at him, his lips pursed in a thin line, and then he relents. Apparently he has something resembling a heart under all the layers of fat.

“Alright, alright, god damn it. Take the kid then. I give up! I need a drink, or fifty.”

He makes a dramatic exit, ripping the passenger door to his cruiser open and inserting his bulbous self inside. The officers gape at him, stunned by the developments. Minho and Chan react similarly. They stare at each other for a stupidly long time, unable to fathom that they just…won?

There's a whole ass circus going on inside of Minho. His mind is an entire amusement park, the kind with bumper cars and cotton candy and terrifying roller coasters that send you into the seventh universe of horror. Only this one isn't as fun. They’ve been worried sick for weeks and now they’re here, and Jeongin is safe and no one is going to take him away or at least not immediately.

"We need more vacation days," Minho says. His face is still experiencing whiplash and Chan can only nod and agree.

It’s…insane. It feels surreal and dreamlike, more like some cheesy movie where everything wraps up in a nicely tied bow. But the kid is on the ground, out cold and he’s Chan’s whole world right now. 

He crouches down and gently scoops the boy into his arms, lifting Jeongin with ease and cradling him to his chest. Jeongin's face is the same shade of white as the thin layer of frost on the asphalt.

"God, the absolute state of him,” Chan mutters. “He’ll feel so sick when he wakes.”

Minho races ahead to open the back door to the car, and Chan deposits Jeongin gingerly into the backseat. The pair of them stand and listen to the tiny signals that lets them know that Jeongin is alive. The small wheezing breaths, the rise and fall of his ribcage. The other cruisers have cleared out and left nothing but tire tracks behind.

"You…you did it, Channie,” Minho says then. He breaks into a grin of relief and pride. "You crazy bastard. You convinced Bioseed Clones to listen to you. They won’t chase Jeongin anymore, they’re investigating the other clones and he’s…he’s not a fugitive anymore.“

He could leap with joy. Chan is looking at Jeongin like he’s made of glass, his eyes rimmed with the glimmer of tears.

"I couldn’t have done it without you. And god help my ass if they lay one finger on him again."

The silence stretches on, a yawning void filled with uncertainty, but also hope. Shards of moonlight outline the contours of Jeongin’s face like a pale shroud, his features so fragile and beautiful that it makes Chan’s chest ache. The kid looks so very young in his sleep. He is so very young. His hair sticks up ridiculously and his fingers are curled over his stomach like a sleeping feline.

"Will you be alright with him?"

Minho’s careful question breaks Chan’s train of thought. 

Will he?

Chan nods resolutely. He isn’t really sure what will be left of Jeongin when he wakes, but he’ll pick up the pieces, every last brilliant one of them.