I

Yi Sang must sport the most impressive set of eyebags in the City. 

No rest for the wicked, as they say.  But, well. You hardly think Yi Sang is cut from the same cloth of such unscrupulous scoundrels! Your quiet coworker and those wretched rascals hardly belong in the same sentence; truly, it is difficult to imagine the sleepy sinner defying your righteous creed. You occupy the same seat, after all — such wickedness would never escape your watchful eyes!

Once, he had caught your glimmering gaze. Your pleading eyes had locked onto his nearly-untouched skewer, and his dark eyebrows lifted — before he offered the whole thing to you, free of charge. Loath as you were to admit it… temptation had seized you for a brief, breathless moment, its thrall sweet as a siren’s silver-tongued song. Surely its seasoning would bring to your taste buds a veritable symphony of flavors, just as the one you’d consumed several minutes prior. 

And yet…! His appetite was already reminiscent of a bird’s! As an aspiring Fixer, you could hardly let the man’s health decline further for your sake. 

For all that Yi Sang sleeps, dozing off at odd intervals — drifting off to dreamland in the haze of golden afternoons, slipping away in shining patches of sunlight — he always carries that same bone-deep exhaustion with him when he wakes. 

At times, it is difficult for you to rouse him — as does Sinclair, judging by the way he winds a brassy curl around his finger: round and round. He drums up an anxious rhythm on the floor, a stressed staccato: one and two and three and four. 

Yi Sang was hardly a heavy sleeper. Rather — he simply looked so peaceful whenever he slept. When he slept, the lingering shadow of solemnity would lift from his ever-fatigued features — granting his visage the softness of youth. Waking him was akin to disturbing a stray cat you’d so carefully coaxed into accepting your scraps from dozing, plush paws peacefully kneading in its sleep.

Denying him those brief, blissful moments and dragging him into the waking world… feels a bit like a crime, truth be told. It’s the source of several (silent, to avoid disturbing the sinner in question) skirmishes between you and Sinclair. 

Luckily, you’ve maintained a winning streak in your myriad matches of Rock-Paper-Scissors as of late, so Sinclair’s been appointed in your stead. And yet — abandoning him chafes like a set of ill-fitting armor, pauldrons scraping against your skin. It doesn’t help that his countenance, akin to a kicked puppy’s, feels like taking a fatal blow to the heart. So — compelled by your code of chivalry, you’ve joined him in undertaking such a thankless task. 

(Sinclair, on occasion, couldn’t help but wonder how he could acquire some of that serenity for himself. To the youngest sinner, Yi Sang carried an enviable, unflappable sort of calm, likely borne from experience. Although it was rather amusing, to think: had Yi Sang simply sprung from the womb like this, solemn and serene?)

INTERLUDE

The moon’s once-watchful gaze sweeps over the fragile calm with half-lidded eyes. 

It casts a silvery spotlight over Rodya’s cheeky grin as she surveys her work. With little else to do, she’d crept across the aisle to Gregor’s seat. Begged him to let her braid his hair, just this once, Greg ~ it’ll just be a jiffy, yeah? I’ll even loan you my favorite ribbon to sweeten the deal~ Fuhu. 

It didn’t take much for him to cave — and now that she was done, here she was: slinging an arm over Gregor’s shoulders with a satisfied smile. 

Drowsy as its stare may be, the moon scoffs at the tempting call of slumber — no matter how sweetly it croons in its ears. All that it dreams of these days are clumsily-crafted cocktails of unpleasant memories; whenever it wakes, it feels scraped raw from the flood of bittersweet emotions. Drowning in one simple fact: there is no going back.

So it surveys the sinners, instead — always the observer, hanging on the outskirts of more heated conversations. Easily overwhelmed from the onslaught of sights and sounds, it waits for a spell of calm to interject.

The moon illuminates Gregor’s brief sputter of surprise, too. That is, before he presses a hand over his mouth: shrouding his startled smile, for a moment. 

His gaze catches on the burgundy ribbon, done up in a charming little bow — keeping his hair suspended in its lopsided little plait. Just this once, he doesn’t have the heart to complain. Ah, well. Starstruck wonder paints his voice in brilliant colors, instead. Even so, he tries to downplay the faint tremor in his voice. …Huh. Would you look at that, Rodya. We match.

Sounds like Ryōshū is polishing her sword — not the one sheathed at her back, no matter the identity, but the blade she wields as a member of the Kurokumo. 

The sound of her unsheathing her blade’s sure to ring in its ears like clockwork once the clock strikes eleven, once the careless hand of some distant deity starts scattering stars across that ink-dark expanse: far beyond the window panes, and far beyond the moon’s feeble grasp. Dark clouds are beginning to gather on the horizon — looks like they’re in for a spell of rain.

(Ryōshū carries that blade with her everywhere. Even in death, her hands fly to that tasseled sheath. Whenever she’s on the verge of corrosion, she clutches at the blade sheathed at her back. To Dante’s surprise, her depleted sanity ticks upward several points — which is enough for Ryōshū to impale the unwitting pair of Peccatula in front of her… narrowly avoiding the harrowing fate of being burned alive.

The moon doubts there’s a single creature that can tear the sword away from her white-knuckled grasp. Pawnbrokers have tried pitching a good price for her beloved blade before. 

The tamest response she’d offered so far is exhaling a great cloud of smoke into their faces, snarling: BOSS. (According to Sinclair, the designated Ryōshū interpreter, it meant: buzz off, shitty shopkeep.) The more extreme answers were enough to mentally and physically scar them for life. 

Ryōshū claims the littered streets as her canvas. Relishes watching the blood of her fallen foes spill across sidewalks, subway signs, and coworkers unfortunate enough to have remained in what they call the “splash radius,” whenever she’s sketching out another of her macabre masterpieces. Claims all the other hues are bland and banal, preferring a far more brutal palette. Wields a set of butcher knives like a rather cutthroat set of calligrapher’s brushes. Dips them in the warm ink of still-cooling corpses, grinning all the while. 

And yet — she cradles her blade in her arms like some tender thing. Like some brittle creature she would bare her fangs to protect.)

Perhaps you’ve figured it out by now, dear reader, that the so-called moon I’ve been describing… is actually a sinner boldly meeting its gaze head-on, in spite of the long-held belief that doing so could drive a person mad. 

He’s playing pretend, see, just for a little while. If he was the moon, then he could escape the constant exhaustion that’s always threatening to drag him beneath the surface, and into the depths of dreaming forever. 

(The soothing cadence of rain only augments that lethargy, even though its arrival is far from gentle — it’s a sudden, furious onslaught against the roof of the Mephistopheles, violently slamming against the window panes with a vengeance.)

If he was the moon, then he wouldn’t have to deal with the flickers of possibility in his peripheral view at critical moments, drowning in a deluge of what-ifs — aching to sate his blade’s hunger for blood, he was a swordsman leisurely stalking the streets for prey. 

He’s ruffling the new recruit’s hair with his ungloved hand, tossing the boy a handkerchief to scrub away the bloodstains. A bit of a mess, really, but as long as it wasn’t the kid’s… then it was fine. The boy’s hair was gold — like a newly minted coin, perhaps, or a duckling’s fluffy down. 

“Hm. Your sword becomes sharper by the day, ki…Sinclair.  I can see that you’ve been practicing the bladework I taught you. That stance… I can recognize hints of my style, incorporated with every clash of your blade.”

“... You were about to call me kid, weren’t you. Yi Sang. I told you, I’m twenty! Years! Old! …But, umm… yes, I have. Been practicing early in the mornings, that is. You’re welcome to join me… if you want…?”

(As long as Yi Sang kept up that forward momentum — carelessly swinging his blade at whatever enemy crossed his path — then he wouldn’t have to think about the heavy sins of his past. Even if the bloodstains never seem to wash away, and the ghosts that haunt his cat-quiet footfalls grow by the day… he’ll handle it, same as always, and wash it away with a crimson tide. Rinse and repeat. 

The shadow of tomorrow’s consequences hangs over him like a haunting — one of these days, its ominous specter will strangle him for his recklessness, icy fingers curling around his neck — constricting minute by merciless minute, hour by agonizing hour. A slow and silent death. Drowning him in waves of sanguine seawater, starving him of breath. 

… That is — if their leader, for once, fails to drag him from the depths: voice cutting as the sword sheathed at her back. Scathing to hide the concern that cleaves her in two, far stronger than the capabilities of any blade. 

Sometimes, Yi Sang would stumble back to the dusty doorstep of their temporary base with the grace of a drunkard, clutching at his side. Blinded by bloodlust, he’d carelessly left himself wide open. In a haze, he’d leave a series of knocks, growing weaker and weaker with every impact of scarred knuckles against splintered wood. He’d laugh, a little delirious. What a strange rhythm it was, this little code they’d devised. 

As always, Outis’s expression would be as warm as ice — frigid fury to hide the frantic note to her voice. That flashfire fear, crackling through her veins like lightning. Urgency igniting her voice, she’d order Sinclair to fetch the sewing kit, stat — hurry and grab the gauze. It was only then that Yi Sang would let down his guard, knowing that he was finally safe, and crumple to the ground like a house of cards.

… Ah, well. He gave up thinking about the future a long time ago… but there’s probably still some hope for Sinclair. 

He and Outis are trying to steer Sinclair from turning out like them, but the swordsman’s already seen the hunger in the boy’s eyes. How long do they have, really, until he’s baying for blood like the lackadaisical swordsman — slashing through enemies without a second to spare for remorse, cutthroat as their steely-eyed captain?)

At the surprisingly wholesome sight, their leader’s stern features softened, just this once. Beneath the moonlight, the slowly-cooling corpses were strewn across the alleyway in a macabre display; Outis had to mind her step to avoid the sea of blood pooling at her feet. 

Once she reached the duo, she sheathed her blade. She gave the swordsman a nod of acknowledgment, and the new recruit a swift head pat — congratulating their youngest member for a job well done. 

Maybe they’d drop by that one Kartoffelpuffer stall Sinclair’s so fond of on the way home to stave off the winter chill, even though she’s sure their hearts are still racing from the thrill of combat. By now, the crispy potato pancakes are starting to grow on her, after Sinclair’s sung their praises so much. He prefers them with sweet applesauce, while Yi Sang and Outis prefer theirs with a serving of savory sour cream and smoked salmon. 

(… If Sinclair savors every bite, bittersweet nostalgia painting his features in all the hues of heartache, then neither of them say anything.)

Since Outis had been on a steady winning streak in their sparring matches, she got to decide what they had for lunch tomorrow. Bakaliaros — battered, salt fried cod — with fresh skordalia. Really, the stronger the garlic flavor, the better it tasted — and she couldn’t forget to add a side of horiatiki salad to accompany the delectable dish.

Ah, she thought, a weight off her shoulders suddenly lifting. …How strange. To think she had once cut off her past, leaving her adrift in an endless sea of possibility — sailing without a destination in sight for the future. How should she say it? It's just… it’s been such a long time since she looked forward to tomorrow. 

No — he was chasing down a new lead for a cold case: mint-laced coffee slowly melting on his tongue, the thrill of unraveling its secrets putting a skip in his step. Although he and Ryōshū frequent the same café, as it’s conveniently situated across the Seven Section 6’s base of operations, it’s rare that they drop by at the same time. 

Ryōshū had been sketching by a sunlit window as she waited for her order: her regular order of an iced mocha and a steaming black tea. Pages of Ryōshū’s sketchbook were slowly filling with Outis’s stern features. 

(And yet — the stiffness of Outis’s professional facade never failed to unwind in her presence. A sly smile would unfurl across Ryōshū’s face, while exasperated fondness would flicker across Outis’s — even as she sighed at Ryōshū’s flippant disregard of LAP (long-ass protocol), she listened intently as the artist recounted the riveting tale of her most recent case. The more macabre the murders, the more fervent her tone grew — she even rated their artistry out of ten.)

Ryōshū hadn’t been expecting Yi Sang. Her previously pensive expression now threatened punishment — the cold gleam of an executioner’s blade. She threatened DIP (deadly incineration, pronto) if he breathed a word about her myriad portraits — her countless sketches of her dear director: softly inscribed in graphite, and tenderly engraved in ink. 

(And — of course, it wouldn’t be Ryōshū without fresh bloodstains across the cover. In her words, nothing like FUNGI (fresh, unmoving, nigh-eviscerated, gravely injured) victims to get her blood pumping in the morning.)

Not to mention... lately, Ryōshū keeps dropping by Outis’s office to “exchange intel,” but the other day he could’ve sworn he saw Outis leaning close to light Ryōshū’s cigarette with one of her own. For once, her sharp eyes are half-lidded behind those gleaming lenses. Huh, hadn’t the director sworn to quit smoking several years ago?  Looks like Ryōshū’s become the sole exception to the strict no-smoking policy inside the director's office — an addiction Outis can’t help but chase. 

… Yi Sang, who was only there to turn in a set of case files, awkwardly set them on the corner of Outis’s desk. He then promptly excused himself, citing a need for another cup of breakroom coffee (never mind the fact that he was rapidly nearing his fourth.) 

Good for them, honestly. It’s good to see his boss grinning more often, nowadays. There’s a spark in her tired eyes, and it’s from more than the caffeine — life, kindled from plumes of smoke. Dimming embers stoked with an old flame. 

And yet… sometimes, Ryōshū looks like she wants to shatter that picture-perfect facade Outis keeps, and drag the sinister smirk that sometimes flashes across her ever-courteous director’s features to light. Ever the instigator, Ryōshū coaxes it to linger. Perhaps she thinks such an expression would be the pinnacle of art. Her magnum opus: an Outis grinning widely, wildly, and without restraint. 

Ah, but Ryōshū already drags those brilliant hues from Outis. Vibrant, they bubble to the surface in a thousand shades — day by day, hour by hour. Smoke-grey exasperation, honey-gold fondness. Heartfelt joy, the color of halcyon skies. No doubt — Ryōshū will one day fill that grand canvas with all the hidden colors of her lover’s heart. 

No — wasn’t he slowly making his way through a pork bun, idly watching the red paper lanterns above sway in a gentle breeze? Beside him, a beaming Hong Lu had already finished three.

Yi Sang had been distracted by the raucous game of mahjong taking place at the back of Hong Lu’s favorite teahouse — he’d never heard the clacking of mahjong tiles sound so aggressive before. Hong Lu pushes a cup of tea at him, one eye sparkling with expectation. Literally, in this instance. 

(The warmth of the teacup cradled in his palms drags him from drifting. The scalding-hot liquid startles him awake; its fragrant steam swiftly scatters any waking dreams of cutthroat swordsmen and caffeine-addicted detectives. Strange, isn’t it. It’s been such a long time since he’d felt so sharply aware of himself. How disconcerting, to be suddenly thrown back into the reality he’d been so desperately trying to escape.)

Yi Sang’s tea had cooled by the time he tried obtaining the bill for himself, wanting to take advantage of their chatter. Yi Sang thought Hong Lu’s full attention had been focused on trying (and failing) to convert Faust into a tea connoisseur, but Hong Lu had given him a knowing smile. 

… Yi Sang looked away for five seconds, and suddenly Hong Lu was waving the bill before his eyes. Hong Lu really did have the audacity to snatch the receipt from the Liu’s Section 5’s most lethargic member right in front of him — and with frightening ease. What can Yi Sang do but concede?

On the other hand… Faust seizes the bill with the same swiftness Yi Sang has seen her use to take down street thugs — that is, with a frightening, lightning-swift efficiency. She doesn’t like owing people — least of all Hong Lu. She pays before Hong Lu returns from the restroom, a small, victorious smile brightening her features. It’s the same smile she makes when she soundly bests Yi Sang in their afternoon sparring sessions.

(In the aftermath, Hong Lu excitedly asks him for another round. … Why him, and not the victor? Ah. Faust already sparred with Hong Lu regularly, so they already knew each other’s fighting patterns — no challenge there, Yi Sang supposes. 

In lieu of responding, Yi Sang melts to the ground: a puddle of exhaustion, personified. Hong Lu, pouting, peels him off the training mats. He bounds over to the side benches. With his head spinning, Yi Sang wonders where he gets the energy. 

When parched, these benches are where spectators can rehydrate; when drained, it’s where they can recharge their depleted energy reserves. But, most of all — when starved for entertainment, that’s where spectators could watch others get their “sorry arses kicked six ways to Sunday,” as a coworker once aptly described.

Here, Hong Lu gently deposits a drooping Yi Sang. He then turns his puppy-eyed pleading on his next unsuspecting coworker — Gregor, who nearly chokes on his cigarette at the sudden request. There Hong Lu goes again, blindsiding people with his blazing enthusiasm. Ah, well. Working at Liu Section 5, you get used to having a second sun personified leisurely strolling around — or, worse, running at you full speed.)

Really, Faust reminds Yi Sang of a contented cat, preening in a patch of sunlight. … Yi Sang values his life, however, so he’ll keep this observation to himself. 

(Conversations come easy, with Faust. Neither of them are fond of strict social conventions; what a relief it is, that Faust doesn’t expect him to strain himself — after all, they both find maintaining consistent eye contact rather exhausting.

Instead, they’ll diligently fill out their respective mission reports, bathed in the warm light of lazy, golden afternoons. They might lose track of time pondering through thought experiments aloud, or after a spell of comfortable silence, Yi Sang might be lulled into a sleepy haze.

Hong Lu’s usually the one to remind the two of them to eat, dragging the two of them from their respective offices with a knock and an easygoing smile. He keeps nagging Yi Sang to eat more, as if possessed with the spirit of the quintessential Asian grandmother. Faust, catching sight of the scene, only gives him a smug smile — she’d already been telling him to do the same.

At this point, Yi Sang doesn’t have the energy (or heart) to protest, now that the two of them have combined forces. Instead, he slowly chips away at the precarious tower of custard tarts (courtesy of Hong Lu) piled high on his plate… by sliding them over to Faust. 

This scheme is facilitated further by the dim sum restaurant’s convenient turntables; all Yi Sang has to do is spin the rotating tray around, and Hong Lu is none the wiser. … Then again, little escaped that man’s glittering gaze; Hong Lu was probably humoring their antics with an all-too-innocent grin. 

(If that’s what it takes to banish the emptiness that haunts Hong Lu’s gaze when he thinks no one’s looking, then Yi Sang supposes he doesn’t mind this little custom of theirs — even if the waiters of this humble dim sum establishment are starting to greet them like old friends.)

Yi Sang learns not to press about Hong Lu’s family, even as questions seethe beneath his skin — a howling creature starved for answers, desperately craving for more. Whenever the topic’s brought up, Hong Lu’s whimsical, feather-light steps are weighed down with a dreadful gravity. He always turns that heavy gaze to the starry sky for answers — as if he’s been starved of that infinite expanse for half his life. As if he can’t get enough of those glittering constellations, their steady glow.

(Hong Lu’s heavy gaze brings back a flood of bittersweet memories, soaked in sunless shadows — so bereft of the blaze of colors they brought into his life.

… Yi Sang remembers now. His portion of the room was starved of light, filled with suffocating shadows. So he would chase the bright sunbeams glittering across her perfume bottles, instead. Really, what else was there to do? They were lined up neatly, like miniature soldiers saluting at him from her make-up chest. He inhaled their sensual scents with half-lidded eyes, noxious as nostalgia. 

He could only sate his hunger with the meals she left at his dismal doorstep. His portion of cold rice was always tasteless; and yet, the aroma wafting from her room was rich with a thousand flavors. He felt the hunger pangs strike at the strangest hours, resonant as a churchyard’s booming bells. They carved up the barren territory of his hollow body into sharp lines — into aching angles.  

Strange, to think — that he was once content with confinement: complacent to lie for hours unthinking — unmoving. Such was the life of a stuffed genius — or perhaps a still-twitching butterfly, iridescent wings fluttering ineffectually. Slowly, it succumbs to the sedatives; even the piercing pain of the myriad specimen pins, cutting off any hopes of escape, fades into the endless fog of exhaustion — the infinite grey of dreams.

She smiled, radiant, as she fed him empty consolation: serpentine whispers from a silver tongue. She beamed, brilliant, as she fed him adalines in the guise of aspirins, coaxing him to dreamless sleep with paper-white poison. As bitter ink bled across the pages of his heart, he couldn’t help but wonder — had his beloved truly wished for him to sleep forever, killing him little by little?)

Yi Sang studies Hong Lu when he isn’t looking, on the rare occasions that his ever-smiling facade flickers and fades. The shining sun, obscured by somber clouds. The sight reminds Yi Sang of a rare bird he had once seen at an auction house, chirping quietly from the claustrophobic confines of its gilded cage. How brilliant its plumage was; how sweetly it sang! 

And yet… its clarion voice was always clouded with despair, drawn dark as ink: a desperate, hastily-scrawled portrait of a prisoner behind golden bars. The surrounding bidders raked their eyes over its quivering plumage, covetously calculating potential profits. How much ahn would they receive, were it slaughtered for its sumptuous meat? If they plucked each and every shining feather to line the highest bidder’s coat, heedless of its shuddering shrieks, would they strike a glimmering vein of gold? 

In their eyes, it was no longer a living being. It was their prized possession — treasured for the price its jewel-toned feathers would fetch, rather than its mellifluous, mournful voice. Who cared if it never sang again? Who would listen to the desperate cry of a golden goose, when they could easily glean a hearty sum for its eggs?

(Ah, how it longed to soar in that swatch of infinite blue beyond the windows — and how Yi Sang longed to set it free.)

… Oh. How long has Yi Sang been ruminating on the past, exactly? At the moment, Hong Lu probably doesn’t understand half of what Faust is saying when it comes to quantum physics, but he’s smiling fondly, nonetheless. Hong Lu once said he was charmed by the sound of their voices — their lyrical cadence. 

Faust looked away to hide the crescent curve of her lips, quietly threatening to seize the bill once more; meanwhile, Yi Sang just barely stifled the urge to bury his face in his hands.

When Hong Lu’s warm gaze falls on Yi Sang, it lingers. It feels like the sun’s distant warmth, drawing impossibly close. Even if his eyes are burning with some strange feeling, he can’t seem to tear his eyes away. 

… Ah. How unideal. How much time has escaped him as he was drifting, caught in the barrage of reflections within those infinite mirrors — of flickering futures that never came to fruition? The consequences of volunteering himself for research continue to haunt him, even now. 

Did you know, dear reader? There was a time when Yi Sang avoided looking at mirrors for quite a while. An impressive feat, given that his research was centered around mirror technology. 

Within that near-infinite pool of alternate realities, he caught a painful glimpse of possibility: of a Yi Sang so bright-eyed and so unburdened, without pill bottles rattling in his pockets — without a thousand kilograms of fatigue to carry on his back. 

Yi Sang had forgotten what sheer, unbridled happiness looked on his features — the curved shape his mouth took whenever he felt that euphoric, giddy feeling. To be reminded of what he had lost, so suddenly — to have that incandescent joy dangled before his eyes when he was at his lowest, unable to seize it for himself…  deep within the chambers of his heart, he could feel something fracturing.  

How fragile the human heart is, he thought distantly, for it to shatter — just like that. 

When he came back to himself, he was surrounded by so many shards of glass, glittering under the fluorescent lighting. The other researchers were frantic, but all Yi Sang felt was a hollow sort of happiness. A vindictive sort of joy, even as his hands stung with every swipe of antiseptic — even as he had to tune out Gubo’s sharp-tongued scolding for being so reckless, which was his strange, snappish way of showing concern. 

In the aftermath, Yi Sang covered his bathroom mirror — afraid that if he lingered, he’d get the urge to shatter that infuriatingly smooth surface, shining and pristine. The longer he looked, the louder the voice got: taunting him with his imperfections. It made him feel like a specimen pinned under a microscope, his flaws magnified under the light and lens.

As a result, Yi Sang kept coming to the lab with a crooked tie… but Gubo wouldn’t stand for it. He’d scowl at Yi Sang’s eyebags, the hypocrite, but he kept on insisting that they couldn’t have their youngest chief researcher walking around like he’d just crawled out of bed. … Even if that statement was more fact than fiction.

That’s all in the past, Yi Sang supposes. Now, Gubo’s name tastes like ashes in his mouth. 

Behind those crimson lenses of his, Gubo was always calculating, ever-present; unlike Yi Sang, who had a tendency to drift off in thought — although not as frequently as he did now. Gubo was never afraid of getting his hands dirty: painting his hands the same color of his rose-colored lenses, even if he was the antithesis of an optimist. He’d chatter endlessly to fill awkward silences, know-it-all that he was, while Yi Sang preferred discussions of substance over idle small talk. 

He wonders if you could call this grief. Mourning someone that’s still alive — grieving the days they shared when things were far simpler. The crispiness of the pajeon they’d share after a breakthrough in their research, the sizzling of the stove echoing the relentless rhythm of the rain. The clink of their bowls as they savored the sweet, tangy flavor of makgeolli, cold and refreshing. 

Yi Sang hasn’t had makgeolli in such a long time, so he’s not sure why he’s reminiscing about old times, all of a sudden. … Ah, well. It's probably just the rain that’s making him sentimental, that’s all. 

It’s just — for some reason, listening to the endless rhythm of rain’s a harsh reminder of the ever-expanding chasm of emptiness in his chest. Like a bird with a broken wing, longing to take to the halcyon skies.

He doesn’t wish to think on the subject further. Even so, there is no escape — not even in dreams. 

The sun is warm on his back. Below is the littered street, sluggish pedestrians dragging themselves through the midday traffic. That’s when the sirens began to scream. His armpits itch, and he spreads wings of glass — a pale imitation of the glimmering pinions he once possessed, held together with a heart filled with hope — augmented with eager ambition. 

Now, the bloodstained shards glitter in the golden sunlight. A thousand distorted colors, a thousand fractured dreams. He whispers, possessed with a sudden ferocity — as he doesn’t even have the strength to scream.

Let me fly, just once more. 

… What a hopeless fool he was. Did he really think he could soar with such shattered wings?

/ / 

When Don Quixote asks him for a story, the moon is creeping upwards through ink-dark skies. Yi Sang’s eyebrows do the same. 

Perhaps there are far better storytellers than Yi Sang. After all, many have complained that his prose was flowery to the point of being incomprehensible: smooth glass panes deflecting clarity and common sense, rather than light. 

A dear compatriot once told him that, if nothing else, his voice was pleasant enough to listen to. (Yi Sang, in a rare act of pettiness, refused to deliver that so-called compatriot of his breakroom coffee for a week.)

“I must warn you…. I do not have the energy for theatrics. I cannot bring the characters to life with various voices, as if they were to dance before your eyes — be it mirthful or mourning… I have been told that I focus excessively on trivial details, to the point of purple prose —” 

“Yi Sang, my friend! Thou art ruminating overmuch, I daresay! Have faith in thy prose. Be it purpled or pinked, I’ll accept any tale thou desirest to tell!”

… The longer Yi Sang remains in the proximity of this force of nature (also known as Don Quixote) the more he realizes — it’s far easier to comply with her demands. Ah, well. It doesn’t hurt that she’s staring at him with stars in her eyes, chin cradled in her palms — practically vibrating with anticipation. Yi Sang fears that if he tarries any longer, she will ascend straight into orbit. 

He sighs: half-exasperated, half-amused. If he feeds her a tale tailor-made to her tastes, just this once, he wonders if he can get her to give him a promise: to stop trying to sneak her portion of potatoes onto his and Sinclair’s plates. 

/ /

“The Sun Knight hailed from the Summerlands, where the blue sky blazed bright with warmth year-round… It was a place that had never seen snow, nor true winter. She left her home and traveled north in search of the fiendish dragon that had ravaged their farmlands… and clawed through half their cash crop. As it was, the neighboring Winterlands were heavily reliant on their imported crops for survival. Meanwhile, the Summerlands depended on them for fuel products.”

“And what of the knight herself?” Beside him, Don Quixote leaned closer, fists clenched with a fervor that reminded him of a burning bonfire, ever-blazing. “Did her righteousness burn as brightly as her moniker? Pray tell, hath she undertaken such a journey in pursuit of justice — and hath many a villain succumbed to the sweep of her blade?!”

Yi Sang blinked slowly, unfazed by her electric enthusiasm. If you knew him well enough, though, you could hear a faint spark of fondness warm his typically-listless voice. “Mm. I was getting to that.”

“...” 

“...” 

“Yi Sang. Yi Sang?? Hast thou succumbed to slumber, not even halfway through the tale thou hast sworn to tell? ‘Twas a knight’s oath, was it not?” Were it anyone else, Don Quixote would’ve promptly shaken them to consciousness — but she knew not to overwhelm Yi Sang, who had a tendency to skitter away from sudden, excessive touch. 

Don Quixote thought he bore a remarkable resemblance to the stray cats she used to feed — I had to approach them slowly, lest they startle from my thunderous approach — and in order to allow yon soft, skittish creatures to grow accustomed to my chin scratches. 

See, he’s already starting to tolerate the occasions where she flings herself at him like a golden projectile, too — when she’s desperately craving the comfort of a heartfelt hug. 

(On mornings where Sinclair scrubs the still-drying tear tracks on his face with a vengeance, having surfaced from unsettling dreams, Don Quixote would offer him the same deal — a warm, crushing hug to squeeze all thy despondent thoughts away! ‘Tis guaranteed to be effective immediately! … Wait, young Sinclair, my friend! Where art thou heading, at such a staggering speed?!

The other day, Sinclair had seen a champagne glass shatter from Don Quixote’s… rather impassioned… grasp. After all, a guest had the audacity to slander the Purple Tear before her eyes — which confirmed Sinclair’s suspicions that yes, the one Fixer capable of dimension travel was, in fact, Don Quixote’s little celebrity crush. Of course Don Quixote would leap to her defense. 

Ishmael, in a moment of desperation, pulled at Quixote’s cheeks like they were salt water taffy. … Hey, wait. Didn’t that make them look even more conspicuous?! 

… Well, I guess I don’t have to keep her quiet with the pouch of star candies I stuffed in my suit pocket, Ishmael idly mused, tuning out Quixote’s furious squeaks of protest as white noise. Unexpectedly, they brought the image of an outraged golden hamster to mind. … Though they’re probably half-melted by now.

During her seafaring days, she’d done the same to maintain her sanity — shutting out the cacophony of those godforsaken seagulls, who for some reason fancied screaming at ungodly hours. Besides, it's not like she’d ever be able to slack off and sleep in for once, seeing as the captain would give her shit for it later. Five more minutes wasn’t worth the flogging. 

Ishmael’s ironclad grip, despite Don Quixote’s frenzied flailing, was unrelenting. A sailor’s got to be prepared for all possible contingencies, after all. ….Huh, hold on. I’m surprised they’re this soft, actually? A bit like the mochi I heard Ryōshū mention once or twice. I could get used to th… ahem. Anyway, things should be smooth sailing from here.

… Thanks to Ishmael’s quick thinking, all that escaped Don Quixote’s mouth were a stream of muffled shrieks. They got a few strange looks, sure, but at least their cover hadn’t been blown.

So! Yeah. Sinclair was touched by the offer, truly. He didn’t have the heart to refute Don Quixote’s wide puppy eyes, even though his ribs still felt a phantom ache from being slapped around by a set of sentient chickens. So he took off in the opposite direction, hastily blurting a half-baked excuse. 

Even though he’d gathered his courage to speak his mind more often, nowadays, there were still more than a few moments where he grew faint of heart. Um. The manager, uh. They wanted to give some additional feedback on yesterday’s infiltration mission, so! Sorry, maybe later…?

Dazedly watching Sinclair’s frenzied dash to their seat at the front of the bus, Dante was equal parts sleepy and confused. Why did Sinclair want to strike up a conversation this early, and all of a sudden…? 

Oh well. Too bad they didn’t have a camera on hand — the sight was actually kind of precious? Rodya would be the first to coo over Sinclair’s mess of fluffy bed hair — a real bird’s nest, that’s for sure. She’d ruffle Sinclair’s hair relentlessly, while Sinclair would sputter, embarrassed. Gregor, watching it all unfold, would disguise his chuckles as a set of coughs.)

“...I was merely thinking.” Yi Sang finally mumbled, voice mild as ever. 

“With thine eyes closed?!” Don Quixote’s incredulous cry startled Sinclair, who had somehow been able to sleep through the entire spectacle. 

(Truly an impressive feat, given Don Quixote’s rather… explosive volume. He’d fallen asleep on Don Quixote’s shoulder not too long ago, so Yi Sang and Don Quixote had been communicating in furtive whispers this whole time. 

After reassuring Sinclair that they were not, in fact, under siege, he was out like a light in seconds. That was the effect of fighting a flock of well-seasoned fowl — veterans of both salt and assault — for several hours, Yi Sang supposed. 

... Especially when they had the tendency to claw out chunks of one’s sanity with their gleeful cries. Their comical appearances belied the pack of poultry’s proficiency for combat, captivating Don Quixote with their strange cuteness. In fact… one could even say those clucking headchickens engaged in chicanery. 

He told a neighboring Ryōshū this, and she threatened to make him her next piece of art.

More intrigued than afraid, he proceeded to ask how she chose her subjects — were her muses selected with careful deliberation, or were they picked from a spur-of-the-moment sort of passion? How long did she study her subjects before she declared them her objets d’art? 

“You…You’re an odd one, poetaster. FWATA… (From one artist to another…) I’ll indulge you, just this once,” she sighed, crushing her used cigarette beneath her heel. A silent, simmering threat: he could easily be next. “Not sure if you can fully understand my genius. Guess you can give it a try.”)

“... Miss Faust does the same. Thinking with one’s eyes closed, that is. Does she not?” 

“Thou art dodging the question!” 

“... Anyway. Yes. The knight was just as you described, blazing a trail of justice wherever her armored footsteps fell… Hapless villagers would tearfully embellish tales of their savior: vanquishing an irritating infestation of imps, or clearing the less-traveled paths of brutish bandits with a swing of her shining sword.” Yi Sang put a hand to his chin, briefly studying the scenery outside: rivulets of rain running to meet each other, two drops becoming one. 

They trailed down the windowpane beside him in a thousand unending journeys. A thousand reunions, a thousand partings. 

“One of these encounters led to a fateful meeting. It was a bright and cloudless day when the knight encountered a fair maiden, hailing from snow-capped woodlands. 

“The Sun Knight chased off the roguish ruffians that held the maiden captive… and the knight knelt down on one knee. She kissed the maiden’s hand, uncaring of the cold snow seeping into her breeches. She ignored the fact that she would have to oil her chausses later to ward off rust setting in. (… It was her mother’s prized set of armor, after all, and she had sworn to return it — and herself — in one piece.)

“Presented with such a dazzling spectacle, the maiden’s heart skipped a beat when the Sun Knight beamed, asking for the pleasure of knowing her name.”  Yi Sang spoke faster whenever he touched on the subject of their courtship. 

See, he was fascinated by the picture-perfect romance that he never had the chance to grasp for himself. All he can remember is relentless rain. Wandering the streets in his shabby, soot-colored corduroy suit without an umbrella to his name. Soaked to the bone and shivering, sighing with every squelch of his shoes.

(He didn’t see the need for a closet. After all, it was the only article of clothing he had — a stark contrast to her brilliant skirts, her brightly-dyed scarves: the only splash of color he had to paint the dismal shades of his sunless room.)

… He could wait out here no longer. Shivering from fever, he prayed she wasn’t receiving any guests. Prayed that she would forgive him for the intrusion, if she was entertaining strangers. If he looked pitiful enough — dripping rainwater like a faucet in the doorway like some sodden creature, trembling from the cold— then she would forgive him, surely. Surely then, the thunder of her wrath wouldn’t strike like damnation from the divine— the sacred judgment of an unsmiling god.

(… It was easier if he approached it with a researcher’s curiosity, but… he’d always had a poet’s heart. A hopeless romantic, one could say. He was already in too deep: wanting to watch it all unfold from a bird’s eye view. Perhaps in the same way some authors deem their characters as their children, he wanted to watch the Sun Knight and her maiden grow to their full potential. Just like his little listener, Don Quixote, he wanted to see their story to the end.)

“Oho!! Was it love at first sight??” Don Quixote tilted her head, curious. There were stars glimmering in her eyes. At this point, she would’ve flung her arms around, flailing with excitement — but she restrained herself. 

(She didn’t want to disturb her softly snoring friend, after all. Who knew Sinclair looked this peaceful when he was asleep?) 

Without an outlet for her overflowing enthusiasm, Don Quixote vibrated in place like a boiling kettle — even though she’d never been one for tea. “I daresay, this knight sounds quite dashing, indeed! A shining example of a Fixer — ahem. R-rather — the medieval equivalent of one, I should say.”

“...Yes. In fact, the maiden was already planning for a June wedding.” Yi Sang said it in the same way one would declare the sky blue, or water wet. 

“... V-verily? ‘Twas their first encounter, was it not?!” Don Quixote sputtered. She was used to being the unpredictable one, but Yi Sang was probably ranked the highest on the list of Sinners who could throw her for a loop. 

(Oh, that reminded her! Faust, who quietly claimed that she could see all outcomes, had a tendency to seek out games of chance. They were the one area where her self-proclaimed omniscience faltered, more often than not. As a result… Nowadays, Faust keeps getting dragged into impromptu games of blackjack with Rodya. 

The taller woman had slung an arm around the soft-spoken genius, undeterred by Faust’s lofty retorts. She even gave Faust a cute little nickname, which was a sign she was already attached — soon enough, she’d be demanding hugs at every opportunity; whenever she got drunk, she’d easily become another candidate for her to cling to, captured in her warm embrace.

Don Quixote thought omniscience sounded rather dull — she was always seeking new avenues of justice to pursue. 

So she could somewhat understand Faust’s hunger for the unpredictable — favoring wild cards like Don Quixote, who’d willingly uproot stop signs and street lamps alike in order to strike down evildoers. Yes, in broad daylight. … But only if she was deprived of her trusty lance! Oh, woe was she!! Why did Sir Vergilius have to deck her pay that day… ‘‘twas for a righteous cause!! 

Come to think of it… sometimes, Don Quixote could feel Faust silently studying her, too, chasing the flickering futures that escaped being reflected by the mirror tech. 

Don Quixote just… didn’t know how to approach Faust, even with their shared love for stars. She wondered if they were taught the same constellations, and favored the same fables behind those glittering gems, tossed high into the sky’s infinite expanse. But, most of all, Don Quixote was curious. 

One of these days, she’d gather the courage to ask: dost thou like what thou seest, stargazer? Señorita Faust, have I captured thine attentions fully: seizing the grand stage, flinging the crimson curtains open wide, descending with all the radiance of a star? )

“Perhaps to the Sun Knight, it was. Although her aim rang true, and her strength was striking to many of the people — the ladies, in particular – that she encountered, the Sun Knight was rather airheaded at times,” Yi Sang continued spinning his tale, oblivious to Don Quixote’s wandering thoughts, “For now, only the maiden remembered — the adventures recounted by her childhood friend matched the famed Sun Knight with startling accuracy. Who else could this handsome girl be, but her guiding star?

“They had become pen pals after the Sun Knight had chased down a pickpocket for the maiden, and even their messenger pigeons were fond of preening each other’s feathers. Although they had lost contact in their youth, the maiden would keep the knight’s words in her heart forever. In the years that followed, those stories would be her salvation. A light to guide her home through the unending night.

“Her cruel parents had condemned her to a loveless marriage. She’d been sold off to some arrogant duke on a stormy day, and she was silently furious — sick of his cold-hearted callousness. Her mother told her that his icy demeanor would thaw soon enough; and besides, such an alliance would prove beneficial for the family name — without this connection, her mother hissed, we would fall into obscurity, and worse — financial instability.

“The maiden didn’t quite have the courage to curse her mother then and there. Instead, she took off with one of the duke’s horses, partly out of spite. It would serve him right. The duke had no right to protest, anyhow — he’d gifted the mellow mare to her as part of her family’s dowry. 

“Once she was greeted with the cathedral gates, breathless from the breakneck pace of her journey, she’d pleaded with a good friend to oversee their divorce. He’d always been a pushover, anyway — the priest caved at once; after a few days of paperwork and fielding the duke’s written complaints (tossing them in the fireplace) she was free from that diabolical duke forever — she’d even filed a restraining order, just in case. 

“The sizable sum she’d received after selling off her wedding ring felt like satisfaction made manifest; the coins sang in her pockets as she strolled through the city gates, a spring in her step.

“Oh… I wonder if that would be anachronistic?” Yi Sang rested a hand on his chin, idly pondering. Distracting himself from his own story, apparently. (Well. Don Quixote couldn’t deny that she’d often done the same…) “Did they have restraining orders back then? I suppose it doesn’t detract from the immersion, so… does that truly matter?”

“Ahem. If I acquired five ahn for every time you uttered the word “maiden,” I think I would swiftly rise to the height of affluence!” Don Quixote puffed up, every word aflame with righteous indignation. Sparking, smoking, sizzling… until she let her flashfire temper dim to ash and embers. She let out a dramatic gust of air — one so grand in scale, Yi Sang wasn’t even sure if he could categorize it as a sigh anymore. 

(Don Quixote escaped being defined by normal human terms at every opportunity — Yi Sang thought they’d simply have to adapt to Don Quixote’s whims and call that “sigh” a category 4 gale.)

“Yi Sang, my friend, I care not for historical accuracy, but could you at least enlighten me to this maiden’s name! And… truly. I am unsure if I can withstand another paragraph’s worth of trifling flashbacks —  pray tell, how much longer will it take for thee to advance to the budding romance of the present?!” Don Quixote continued rambling, heedless of the endless confusion she caused him. … Did she ever run out of breath?

“Mm. I must concede… you do present several salient points. I suppose… plotwise, the pacing should be adjusted to your preferences.” Yi Sang glanced to the side, the way he always did when he had been caught in the act. (For example, when reclaiming his beloved sprouted potato.) Perhaps that’s the closest thing to pouting you’d get from Yi Sang. A faint note of petulance: ripples forming on the typically placid waters of his voice. “Although… I would appreciate a little more patience from your end. Nonetheless, I shan’t delay any longer; I’ll cut to the heart of it, then.

“The maiden was called the Crescent Conjurer. She’d saved a young villager — no more than a clueless child — who had approached a griffin’s hatchlings, cooing at their fluffy down. She’d levitated the child to safety with a wave of her wooden staff, narrowly avoiding getting snapped at by a growling mother griffin. 

“When the child had asked for her title, all she could come up with was the name she had invented as a youth. It had sounded charming, back then, but now… it was beyond pretentious. Ah, well. Looks like the title was there to stay — as she’d just introduced herself to the Sun Knight with the very same name.”

“And then? And then?? What transpired next, pray tell? Do not be so cruel as to leave me in suspense, my friend!!” 

“And then nothing, Don Quixote. …Do not look at me with such eyes,” Yi Sang sighed, rubbing at his ever-present eyebags. “I shall have to save the rest of this tale for another day; the hour is late, and a long day awaits us. Call it motivation to come back to the bus in one piece, if that is to your preference.”

“Alas…. My compatriot has been swayed by the call of sleep once more. Very well, then, my friend. Good night! And rest assured!” Don Quixote offered him an ancient knight’s oath, hand clasped over her heart. “On the morrow, I shall hasten home and gladly hearken to thy riveting tale. T’would be following my mission’s swift and successful completion, mark my words. Ishmael never fails to be a reliable partner, and I would gladly place my heart in her hands!!”

There’s a faint smile on Yi Sang’s face when he speaks. The sight’s such a rarity that Don Quixote squints at him through the darkened bus, trying to capture that infrequent phenomenon — carving the mirth brightening the typically-solemn features of her friend to memory. 

The perpetual shadow of exhaustion lifting from his features, however briefly, feels like a weight off her shoulders — the kind she didn’t even realize she was carrying. Like she can breathe again — like relief. 

(She didn’t have Yi Sang’s capacity for flowery prose, but lately she’d been crafting a set of stanzas with Ishmael in mind. One of these days, she was thinking of asking Yi Sang, the master poet, for his feedback — without mentioning her muse, of course. Although Yi Sang would probably see right through her, as always. Nonetheless! Here they are, penned with a careful hand.

When I cast my gaze upon thy radiant visage, Lady Ishmael, it is… reminiscent of a tale a dear friend once told me about the stars.

Golden sunlight’s burning away heaven’s tears, cutting through the hazy mourning shrouds veiling the brilliant moon. At last, my favorite constellations ascend to their rightful places in the sky: feathery Cygnus and the shining Summer Triangle, bright Delphinus and beaming Deneb. Somewhere in that infinite expanse, a flock of magpies have been moved by a princess’s tears. Their feathers will bridge the Milky Way’s relentless rapids once a year — but only if they’re blessed with clear skies. 

Wipe your tears, Altair. Now is not the time for weeping. Savor every fleeting second you’ve been allowed to share with your weaving princess, and fall into her embrace. Feels like a missing puzzle piece slotting into place — the yawning chasm in your heart slowly closing, like a wound left to weep for so, so long.

Vega’s waiting. Her arms are open wide, the same way the horizon embraces the golden kiss of the sun. Can you see it, unfurling like dawn against the dark? Can you hear her voice, ringing sweeter than any song against the silence, clear as the chime of a bell? 

Listen up, loverboy. Vega says, Welcome home.

… Well! There’s no way she’s ever gathering the courage to spill her heart like that to Lady Ishmael anytime soon, that’s for sure. Maybe if she were heavily inebriated, perhaps, or feeling particularly impulsive in the aftermath of a particularly painful death. Buuut that shall be a tale for another time.)

Anyway! … Come to think of it, it’s been quite a while since she’d heard Yi Sang speak so much in one sitting. Had his mid-afternoon nap been of such stellar caliber?

“For tonight, my tale has reached its conclusion. May your dreams be filled with dashing knights — and of June weddings, where the two brides stride down the aisle beaming from ear to ear.” Yi Sang ruffled her hair. How fiendish; how unexpectedly devious! He’d ambushed her with that little surprise attack of his. He continued, faintly amused at her squawk of surprise. “You can rest now. The dragon is slain, and all the villains you are so insistent on vanquishing have been… for lack of a better word… vanquished. So — I shall say it, just one more time. 

“Good night, Don Quixote.”

(Even if reality would never allow such fairytale endings, spun from sugar and twice as sweet, at least he can try to ensure her dreams grant her peace — however fleeting it may be. It’s enough for him — it has to be.

Even if he may never be granted that same reprieve.)

II

Doomsday Calendar - Observation Log

Yi Sang 

Dante —

I must apologize in advance. That is… for the myriad digressions within this log. I know myself well enough to say this: they are inevitable. Yes, I may take a researcher’s notes, but I have a poet’s heart — I bleed stanzas onto the page as easily as breathing, and sing praises to the absurd … when I should be unsheathing my blade.

Nonetheless. I had been captivated by the strange spatial extensions between the rattling bricks, pondering their purpose. And yet… fascinated by this curious creature’s mannerisms, I had carelessly neglected to monitor any external factors.

… I had been too caught up in my observation to notice the clay doll valiantly attempting to relieve me of my arm. 

Hong Lu’s lightning-swift reaction time never ceases to amaze me — he’d pierced through the creature in the time it took for me to register the identity of my savior, and was already dashing off to incapacitate two others. Once the curtain falls on this bout of combat, I must offer him my thanks. 

Manager. If you could have seen it — the way the blood-stained bricks rotated to the sound of an invisible, ticking clock, counting down to what it must have thought was our impending doom — I am sure you would have been filled with that same mounting dread. The knowledge of the inevitable on the horizon — the bitter taste of cinders, burning at the back of my throat. Smoke seared my sinuses, scorching away my screams. 

Ah. Thanks to Gregor, I have yet to suffer a rather unfortunate fate. Judging from the heat radiating from this abnormality… I was seconds away from being reduced to ashes. He’d yanked me back by the collar in a fit of desperation, in a similar fashion to a cat seizing a kitten by the scruff, just as the Doomsday Calendar expelled a sizable gout of flame.

… It seems that I have encountered an unexpected variable: my coworker’s concern. 

It is far from the first time I have offered myself up as a test subject, and yet it appears that Gregor would prefer it to be the last. I reassured him that I was sound of mind, and I had little to fear — our manager was fully capable of dragging  our bodies back from the grave, after all. 

If the creature shattered each and every one of my bones, you could mend them in a heartbeat. Although … I must admit, suffering such a fate would be far from ideal; I would rather you not even endure a fraction of that pain. 

With great reluctance, Gregor let go of my sleeve. If he holds any guilt for whatever damage I am about to take, Dante, he should rest assured. I knew the consequences, after all. The choice was mine alone. 

I laid myself at the altar. Like a lamb walking to the slaughterhouse — a hapless mouse walking straight into a serpent’s snapping jaws. My soul was seized from my body — if it still remains where I left it, it’s naught but an empty vessel. I was whisked away before I could feel it hit the floor — snatched to a plane not meant to be perceived by the mortal gaze. 

Do you know what it feels like, Dante, to be made whole? To become a part of something so breathtakingly brutal — so wretchedly beautiful? To be void of body and deprived of voice, and yet have every sensory nerve set alight? It’s being doused in gasoline and having someone hover over your shoulder, lighter in hand: rolling the sparkwheel back and forth and back and forth and back and forth and — ah, Dante. Dante, Dante. 

I spend so much of my life disconnected from the waking world, memory scattered from the ever-present haze of exhaustion that clouds my senses. Always filling my mind with fog. But this — this, I remember. Scorched into my every synapse, seared into every nerve.

I was burning alive, but it was beautiful. It was the kind of macabre masterpiece I’m sure Ryōshū would have appreciated — my blood boiling in my veins, tears evaporating from my eyes, every nerve sparking and sizzling and smoking and — ah, the world was ending, Dante. The sky shattered before my eyes. It pierced me with a thousand glimmering shards. I wish you were there to see it. 

No. What am I saying? What am I — Dante. I am losing sight of myself again. Hah. Now half of this report is nonsensical poetry, borne from the corruption I endured. And yet — even now, it lingers. Even the slightest touch makes me remember those wretched flames — I’ll have to notify Don Quixote to hold off on her surprise hug attacks for a few days longer. 

Miss Faust keeps hovering over my shoulder as I’m writing this, a furrow in her brow. The other day, Gregor sank into my bedside chair and dragged a hand down his face. He opened his mouth once, closed it, and then opened it again.

“Yi Sang, bud, I’m going to need you to stop shaving years off my life with shit like this.”

“... If you still hold a sense of misplaced guilt, then rest assured. The fault was my own.”

“No, that’s not… Well, okay. I kind of… really needed that, thanks. But, you know… the way you died was pretty awful, alright? Watching my coworker spiral into a mental breakdown is, uh. Pretty low on the list of things I want to see.”

“I… My apologies. I had not intended for you to witness me in such a sorry state. Did I… say something under the abnormality’s influence? I don’t… quite recall.” 

“Yeah. Yeah, you… kept screa – er, saying — one word in particular, actually. Or — was it a name? Over and over, like it was keeping you tethered to this world.”

I knew, then, that I must have whispered her name with heartfelt affection. I must have snarled it with utmost loathing. Who else could it be, but —

“Yon-sim.” 

III

Dante, Dante ~ 

Here's the report for today’s mission! Oh, I heard from Faust that you were worried sick about Yi Sang. Faust really does seem to know all, huh. Or maybe news simply travels fast in a small space like this?

Either way, don’t you worry, Dante! I patched Yi Sang right up — he tried to refuse, saying there’s no point. Something like — you would turn the clock back, so it’d just be a waste of time… but I really couldn’t leave him to bleed all over the place like that! 

Also, geez. He’s kinda lighter than I expected for someone around the same height as me? Don Quixote seems like she’s made it her goal to try every kebab stall in the City, though. Seems like after getting her first taste of them a few weeks ago, she’s gotten hooked… and she’s dead set on dragging Yi Sang and Sinclair along on her lunch breaks, in spite of Yi Sang’s mumbled protests.

Hmm.. Yi Sang does seem a little less sleepy after these excursions, though? You’d think it’d be the other way around, right? Don Quixote’s boundless energy never fails to astound me, while Yi Sang always looks dead on his feet. 

Don Quixote reminds me of the pint-sized puppy my younger sibling kept back home ~ always so full of energy, no matter the hour! That’s what I like about Don, you know — at least my calligraphy practice sheets don’t mysteriously go missing around her, unlike whenever my sibling decided to take a riverside stroll with Meng Meng~! 

… Haha. I spent hours on those, you know? Oh, and whenever my sibling’s precious puppy goes missing, I was the one who had to chase after him. What a strange coincidence, right ~ for all my quality ink sticks to vanish by the time I’ve returned. For all of them to be replaced by fresh horsetails, of all things! 

Ah, well. It’s far from a novelty, Dante — unlike the wondrous new sights this bus has taken me to see so far. The kaleidoscope of sights and sounds served to us at the casino, the towering facades of crystalline ice we bore witness to in the castle below. But, you know, even if I’m long accustomed to the hostility of my household… catching sight of so many sheets of my painstakingly crafted brushstrokes, drowned in a flood of cavalier cruelty, never fails to drag me down to those same miserable depths.

Aha. My family always loved to play such silly jokes on me! If only I wasn’t the punchline.

Oh dear. Silly me, I must’ve sneezed and spilled ink all over the past few lines! Good thing that they weren’t about anything important, huh ~ anyway, where was I? 

Right, that’s it! Yi Sang, Yi Sang. To be honest, I’m a lot more used to being paired with Meursault and Gregor. Meursault’s flaming punches do wonders to blaze a trail through a particularly resilient pack of abnormalities, so it’s always a breeze working with him — all I have to do is finish the job, once they’ve been staggered beyond belief.  What a reliable fellow~ even though he’s a bit too serious sometimes, I guess it’s a good contrast when it comes to working with me? 

And Gregor, well… he’s the sort of fellow that can get along with anyone, you know? That’s what I like about him. Though ~ he’s really too hard on himself, don’t you think? That’s why I can’t help but throw compliments at him whenever I get the chance.

He gets embarrassed so easily, though, so I’ve limited myself to a quota of twenty-five per mission ~ can’t have him getting too flustered on me, now, even if it is quite endearing! I still need him to watch my back mid-battle, and he can’t do that when he looks like he’s still rebooting. 

Oh dear… It’s a little confusing, to have to reconcile the memories of the mirror world with mine. Still, whenever I see Yi Sang, I get a strange urge to drag him out for dim sum, piling his plate high with crispy custard tarts and still-steaming xiaolongbao, in spite of his mumbled protests. 

I know he’d just pass at least half of the tarts along to Faust, but still. Faust always brightens up at the sight of sweets, even though she always denies it~! Hm, I don’t think I’ve ever seen her eyes sparkle like that before? 

Oh! And of course, I’d have to challenge Faust for the bill, same as always~! At first glance, she may appear aloof… but I’ve sat by her long enough to know her little habits. She can be strangely competitive sometimes, especially when Ryōshū leans close and tests the limits of her seemingly-infinite well of knowledge — smirking all the while.

Hmm… Is that a strange new courtship method, or something? Hey, Dante ~ are you caught up with the latest trends? What do you think?

(... I remember like it was yesterday. Crawling out the window of my gilded cage at the dead of night, having memorized the few creaky floorboards and entrances with unoiled hinges by heart. Creeping into the kitchens like a mouse scouring the cupboards for crumbs, I’d start praying some kind servant would take pity. Sometimes I would be lucky, and one of them would “accidentally” leave a tray of slightly-singed custard tarts on the counter. 

Wooow. Looks like they didn’t pass my younger sibling’s lofty standards, once again~ Let’s hope it’s not spiked with castor oil, this time~

So when I ask my fellow sinners, “Have you eaten yet?” It’s not just about the food. It’s the memory of emptiness —-of endless hunger, pacing the confines of my gilded prison and whispering: I could never call this place my home. Watching the warmth of happy families from a distance, and longing to call it my own. … Ahaha. Something like that, anyway~?)

Anyway, Yi Sang’s definitely different from what I’m used to ~ but, you know, that’s not necessarily a bad thing. He can’t take hits the way Meursault does — but when he moves in battle, it looks a little like he’s flying. 

(… Dante, it’s not just me, right? Whenever Yi Sang’s knife is about to piece an enemy, its color changes. It glimmers like glass, and sunlight reflects across its surface — bright enough to blind. Look closely, next time, and perhaps you’ll see what I mean~)

To compensate, he drags the weak points of his foes to light. He typically conveys this strategy to his teammates in cryptic stanzas. Usually, we have to stand around and designate a person to decipher his mysterious meter, parsing that peculiar pentameter of his. 

That’s why it’s always convenient to have Faust, the assigned Yi Sang interpreter, tag along. Hmm… This process probably takes precious moments we could’ve spent clashing against the enemy, but… most of the time, it’s worth it in the end~! 

(Do geniuses’ brains run on a different wavelength, or something? Sometimes, I feel like Yi Sang and Faust hold entire conversations with nods and glances, even though they haven’t spoken a single word.)

The impression I get from Yi Sang… is that maybe his previous profession didn’t involve much combat? His swordsmanship is pretty mesmerizing, but I get the feeling he hasn’t been trained since childhood, like I was. Then again, I’m sure that Blade Lineage identity of his allows him to compensate for his lack of experience…

Either way, it’s pretty impressive that he’s able to keep up ~ and he looks, I don’t know… softer, somehow? when he’s sleeping. I wish you could’ve seen it! He dozed off on my shoulder while I was patching him up. Probably from the blood loss? Or is he just like that all the time? That’s why I arrived a little later than expected, by the way. I didn’t have the heart to wake him, okay, not with a face like that. 

Hmm… I think that’s all for now? Signing off, then — ah, wait. Oh dear, I almost forgot to put my signature. 

… Alright, there we go~! Signing off, for real this time! 

— Hong Lu

IV

Hey, manager bud.

Heard you wanted my report on my little excursion with Yi Sang. You seem pretty curious about that guy, now that I think of it? Don’t get me wrong, though — guess I can say I feel the same. Man’s shrouded in mystery, isn’t he? Half of the time, I can’t really understand what he’s saying… I was never one for poetry, I guess. 

Guess I spent too much of my life crawling from piles of charred corpses… drowning in an ocean of death. It was all I could do to keep myself afloat. You know… I used to try dissuading those bright-eyed boys who signed up for glory — really, what glory is there in suffocating with every breath, and condemning  bright kids like Tomah to unmarked graves?

Damn it. What good was I, when I couldn’t even keep a single comrade alive. Tell me, Dante. What poetry is there in that? … Gah, I thought I told myself I’d quit throwing pity parties for myself, and here I am. Can’t say there’s much in my life for me to wax poetic about, anyway.

Oh. D’you remember those buskers outside that one bakery we stopped by the other day? Charon wanted to try their mochi donuts, and you know that kid’s word is good as law around here. One pleading look at Vergilius, and his defenses were already crumbling. Didn’t need to be a fortune teller to see a whole lotta pastries in our future. 

….Uh. Hey, manager bud, Vergilius doesn’t look at these reports, right. If he does, then it was nice knowing you can you keep that last bit a secret? Thanks. I’ll owe ya one, big time.

Anyway, I think the guy playing the violin used too much rosin — his sound was a little raspy. A beginner’s mistake, I’ll say — my sister, Grete, used to do the same. 

On golden afternoons, you could hear the sound of arias and arpeggios alike, drifting from her room. Whenever a concert was coming up, she could be found marking her sheet music with fervent reminders. Had to drag that silly girl from secluding herself for hours sometimes, whenever she got a solo — but damn if I wasn’t bursting with pride whenever I saw her shining onstage. 

That’s my little sister, I wanted to tell the guy sitting next to me, but he looked like he’d dozed off halfway through the second movement. See that? That’s my Grete. 

Even if she were to, say, shun me for what I’ve become… I’ll never truly be able to kindle hatred in my heart for that bright-eyed girl. How can I forget the days she’d follow me around like a little duckling, giggling as I pushed her on the swings? 

The one time she tried to bake a babka for my birthday, she set the kitchen on fire. … no sweet, braided bread for me, huh… Instead, the house reeked of smoke for weeks. I never stopped teasing her about it — it was a little running joke of ours, see.

… Okay, enough of that. Seriously. I’ve, uh, embarrassed myself enough. But, y’know, as an older brother… I really can’t help it sometimes, okay. 

… It feels a little strange, you know. I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to this fragile sense of freedom: to be free to trade stories over drinks with Rodya in the evenings, or idly play card games with some of the other sinners on my lunch breaks — did you know, manager bud, that Meursault is surprisingly good at Old Maid? 

Gah, Rodya kept teasing me about it, slinging an arm over my shoulder with a smile — Greg, honey, I haven’t seen a losing streak this bad in qui~te a while! Pfhahaha! Ten to two, really~? 

Y’know, it was pretty hard to coax Faust into a game of BS… ‘til Ryōshū convinced her with a smirk and a gleam of interest burning in her eyes— finally, her expression seemed to say, a challenge. What, are you scared of losing? Even with your SCSI? So-called superior intellect, that is. It really lit a fire under her, that’s for sure — I never saw a game of cards get that intense. 

(Meanwhile, Sinclair… well. Let’s just say the poor kid can’t lie to save his life. Rodya keeps resisting the urge to ruffle his hair whenever she sees it, but I think one of these days she won’t be able to contain herself.)

But… just when I start to catch a break, I can’t help but wonder: what’s the catch? 

(You know, I thought I could save Yuri. I really did. She’d just barely escaped death before, right — I got Aya’s mask to her, right on time, and I sagged to the ground, so damn relieved. … Or maybe that was the blood loss? 

Ah, well. I should've known she’d want to make herself useful — so desperate to make up for the deaths of her old coworkers, not wanting their sacrifices to be in vain. The hollow ache of survivor’s guilt is an old friend of mine, after all — it’s easy enough to see that grief echoed so plainly in Yuri’s sunken features: the solid, sinking weight of shame haunting her every step like a hound from hell.

Or… maybe she wanted to make it up to Aya. For Yuri, Aya’s kindness must’ve glimmered brighter than any star, blinding in the face of ink-dark despair — it’s rare, after all, for someone to offer a hand to the feather of a fallen Wing so openly. Little gestures like that may not seem much, y’know, but stuff like that’s a lifeline when you’re in freefall — sometimes a warm embrace’s just the thing you need to haul you back from the brink. 

… Maybe if she’d lived, we could’ve banded together to teach Charon to stop trying to read maps upside down, and Rodya would’ve braided her hair with the brightest ribbon in her collection. Maybe if she’d lived, she’d learn to stop carrying those coffins on her back. G-d. When you get to my age, young people are all kids in your eyes. She was just a kid, you know — my little sister’s age.

You know, manager bud. When she died that day, I think a part of me died with her. A part of me is rotting alongside her still. Whenever I catch the sickeningly sweet aroma of apples… a glimpse of her exhausted features — that timid smile —flashes before my eyes. I hope she’s having a good, long dream now — I hope she’s chatting with Aya with a bright, big smile on her face.)

Like a puppet on strings, I used to dance to that woman’s whims. Strings commanding my strained, screaming muscles to sway to the humiliating motions of a waltz, even when I was half-dead from exhaustion. I gave up trying to make her love me a long time ago, you know — I gave up trying to make her see me as her son. In her eyes, I would never be more than a weapon in her hands — guess that’s all I was ever worth, huh.

Her shadow still hangs over me, no matter where I go — no matter how far I run. 

Ah. I’m so tired of running, Dante. All I want is a safe place to rest.

… Sorry, manager bud. I’m sure you’ve had your fill of my moping, by now.  Oh boy… Several pages in, and I’ve barely made any mention of my mission partner. I know you’re always eager to listen to anecdotes about our pasts, seeing as you have no stories of your own to tell, but still. 

Anyway… ‘bout Yi Sang, huh. Not gonna lie, things were a bit awkward at first. That was, until I asked him what he was doing with that thick tome of his— the one he’s always carrying around. 

“Calculating the exact velocity I’d need to throw this at in order to incapacitate the enemy.”

You know… sometimes he says things like that with such a deadpan expression, I can’t tell if he’s joking or not. He makes puns with that same toneless inflection, too — at times, the punchline nearly escapes me. Still. Now and then I listen to the low rumble of his voice, somehow charmed by that strange sense of humor, and I can’t help but laugh. 

I can’t help but worry about that guy. Whenever he uses that Blade Lineage identity of his, he’s twice as reckless — he dashes past where I can watch his back, a flash of silver cutting through the dark. 

Seems like the thrill of combat drags him from his daydreaming — guess there’s little time for him to get lost in thought when there’s enemies to cut through, and little time to hesitate when his sword hungers to slake its thirst. But — adrenaline can’t chase the exhaustion from falling across his features for long. Easy, thoughtless violence can’t fill that emptiness forever.

I know that all too well. 

Maybe I’m overstepping my bounds as a coworker, or whatever. But I’d like to think in the short time we’ve known each other, we’ve grown on each other — at least a little. So. Hey, manager bud, can you tell this guy to stop taking hits for people who are perfectly capable of defending themselves… I mean, might’ve gotten a little staggered there, but I could probably take the damage a little better than the guy swaying on his feet. Probably. 

What, Yi Sang told you beforehand that I’d downplay my condition? How on earth did he write that fast?! Didn’t we just get back… Geez. Nothing escapes him, huh. 

Well, whatever. Call it a selfish wish, but I’m sick of seeing good people die in front of me. Even if they can be revived, in this case — it still doesn’t feel any better to have that blood on your hands. I had to haul Yi Sang over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes, since he was fading pretty fast. Except — how did Hong Lu describe it? He was probably as heavy as a bag of grapes. I mean, at this point, I’m running on cigarettes and caffeine trying to finish this mission report, so I’m not really one to talk. But still. 

I listened to the rattling of… was that pills? In his pockets, and strained to check for his shallow breathing every few seconds. I dragged the two of us back to the bus, limping all the while. Wondering why the hell he had so many on his person. 

A pill bottle — adalines, I think — rolled out of his pocket, then. Did you know about this, manager bud? The receipt, taped to the front of it, said it was purchased a week ago. … So why was it already almost empty? 

(Don’t tell me… that’s right, I remember. We took on that Doomsday Clock? Calendar? thing last week, and I remember him stumbling back into his seat looking like — how do I say this? Like all the hope had been dragged out of him, leaving nothing but an empty husk. Not a single light flickering in those dark eyes of his — twice as bleak as usual. Wouldn’t even respond to Don Quixote’s worried exclamations, or Sinclair’s shaky tears. 

I didn’t have the heart to tell the kid that Yi Sang was hoarse from screaming — that surely, he’d snap out of it soon and write them a note in the heavy tome of his. Surely, he’d crack another pun with his name in a low, deadpan voice, and smile secretly to himself. 

I told him to head over to the infirmary as soon as we got back, but it looked like he didn’t have the energy to even drag himself to his feet. Gah, I thought, Gregor, you dumbass. You should’ve dragged that stubborn poet there yourself. 

Maybe I… was trying to convince myself that he’d wake up from whatever spell that thing had put on him, too. Didn’t want to think I’d just… sat on my ass as my coworker was driven to madness, even if he was the one to offer himself at the altar. …Still not over that, by the way. I crushed that hope beneath my heel, soon enough, because I wasn’t gonna put my comfort over my co…okay, fine, my friend’s health, be it mental or physical. 

I called Frau Faust over in a panic, surprised she hadn’t noticed the commotion — turns out she’d been in a heated discussion with Ryōshū in front of Mephistopheles; Ryōshū had tsked at being interrupted, sending up a great plume of smoke into the air — the same way a dragon would breathe fire, I’d imagine. Meanwhile, Faust stared right into my face with the closest thing to petulance I’d seen from our resident genius. 

Well, we had two of them, but I was sweating bullets thinking we’d be left with half that number if we didn’t get that guy to the infirmary, and stat.

In the aftermath, if Don Quixote clung a little tighter whenever Yi Sang’s gaze became particularly distant, and Sinclair hovered like an anxious hen whenever Yi Sang glanced at a new abnormality with that dangerous gleam of curiosity in his eyes, well. Who could blame them? Certainly not me.)

… Hate to say it, but one of these days… whatever’s haunting him enough that he wants to escape thinking ‘bout it so badly’s gonna catch up with him. But, you know. I’m relieved — that at least he won’t be alone whenever that happens. 

Don Quixote’ll make sure of that, at the very least — she always drags him back by launching surprise hug attacks when he least expects it. Or at least, whenever he looks like he’s drifting beyond our reach — she latches onto him like a golden koala, except with twice the volume. Yi Sang never tries to shake her off, which is as good as his approval, really. 

The other day, Sinclair tapped out a frantic rhythm — wake up! — on Yi Sang’s arm, silently trying to dissuade Don from repeatedly poking Yi Sang’s cheek. He waved his hands in a near-comical game of charades, while Don playfully ruffled Sinclair’s hair in response. 

Sinclair, my compatriot! she cried for half the bus to hear. Dost thou have no sense of fun!  

In the midst of Sinclair’s spluttering, Rodya popped up from behind — mischief brightening her features, and black marker readying to wreak havoc in hand. It wasn’t the first time Yi Sang’s been victim to her mischief, and it’s far from the last. 

… Hey, Manager Bud, do you still have those pictures? Don’t tell Yi Sang I said this, but cat whiskers are a good look on him.

Phew. Well, that’s all I got for now. I’m spent. Signing off for now before Rodya says I’m flaking out on paying for drinks tonight — I’m a man of my word, after all.

— Gregor 

V

Good morning, Manager! 

Um. By the time you read this, it… probably won’t be morning anymore, but that’s besides the point. Anyway, I found this star-shaped sticky note stuck to the window the other day — oh, this must be Don Quixote’s. I’d, um. Recognize those little sketches of stars and flowers anywhere, really… 

33,451.00 ahn — ⋆｡°✩ Star Sunglasses ⋆｡°✩ 

6,690.20 ahn —  Succulent named Señor Poquito 

Oh, so that’s… where Meursault’s, uh… rather uncharacteristic pair of sunglasses came from. He was wearing them the other day, and. Well. Gregor choked on his coffee when he caught sight of Meursault wearing those star-shaped shades. I have to admit, I was stunned silent myself. Heathcliff slapped Meursault on the back, asking where he could get himself a pair… but from where I was sitting, I couldn’t tell if he was joking or not.

… He came back an hour later with a matching pair. Oh. It was partly because… Ishmael bet he wouldn’t last a day wearing them, and now he’s strutting around with a pair out of pure spite? And then there’s Don Quixote, who’s just… wearing them out of her genuine love of all things star-shaped. Now she can be literally starry-eyed with delight, I guess. 

Vergilius walked into the bus, caught sight of the three sunglasses-clad sinners, and walked right back out. … Um, I can’t say that I blame him, really. It’s not even sunny today.

(“... I did not think my discomfort was so evident. However, walking beneath the midday sun is an assault to my senses. As my preferred hat has been shredded by a passing Peccatulum, I had intended to proceed without my customary source of shade. This… was not mandated by company rules. I thank you, Don Quixote. Is there anything you want me to acquire as compensation?”

“Salutations, Señor Meursault!! Thou art quite welcome. After all, how could I leave mine own companion to wallow in such dire straits!!"

“... I was not wallowing.”

“Nonetheless!! I would be most grateful if you would notify me posthaste, if thine eyes catch even a glimpse of Purple Tear merchandise!! Ehe… I would be most delighted if I could acquire her limited edition omanjuu… although I remain unsure on this matter — why doth Sir Vergilius always affix me with a more searing gaze than usual, whenever I cart her merchandise around??”

According to Don Quixote, the exchange went something like this. She was chatting up a storm last night about it, after all. I couldn’t sleep either, so I… Well, I’m ashamed to admit it, but I was only half-listening. That’s all I can remember her saying before drifting off to a dreamless sleep.

When I woke up, I stammered an apology for dozing off on Yi Sang’s shoulder, but he waved it off with a faint smile. 

He must’ve gotten back late after his mission, and quietly crept into the middle seat. Don Quixote, on the other side, was taking full advantage of her new pillow — she was shamelessly conked out on his shoulder, snoozing away. Curled up on her seat in the golden sunlight, content as a cat that’s gotten the cream.)

/ /

You are sixteen, and the world is shrouded in silence. 

The sounds of the city — the gleeful shrieks of children pelting each other with snowballs across the street, descending through the dusk like delicate flowers; the sweet, slightly-out-of-tune songs of street-side buskers, rising through the air like brittle birds in flight — are muffled by a fresh cloak of crystalline snow. 

You’re in the world’s puffiest coat, the one you always complained about wearing to school. Your mother was soft-spoken, but had a spine of steel — the other day, she’d zipped up the abomination to fashion, tuning out your token protests. Immune to your puppy-eyed pouting, she’d wound a fluffy scarf up to your chin without a word. 

(“Haven’t I outgrown your pampering?” You huffed, breath clouding in the crisp morning air, and yet… you couldn’t help but preen under the sunlit warmth of her praise, each and every time.) 

Sure, the coat was soft and made of some water-loving bird’s down — were those fluffy feathers from a goose or a swan? — but your sister always teased you for looking like a golden marshmallow: so heavily armed against the ruthless cold, swaddled against the elements. Sheltered, as some might say, in more ways than one.

As for Demian? Well. As always, he had smiled cryptically, head tilted to the side, and said: “A rather endearing set of attire. Sinclair. It suits you well.”

Um. You’re not sure whether to feel insulted or charmed. On one hand, these words are coming from a boy who always walked with such quiet steps, feather-light— a boy wreathed in such an otherworldly, ethereal aura, you can’t help but be swayed by his magnetism. You’re a star drawn into his orbit, chasing the crescent-moon curve of his cat-like smile. … On the other hand, how can he say things like that with such a straight face? 

(… And, well. The less said about Kromer’s reaction, the better. 

She’d guffawed so loud, half the class turned to stare at the spectacle. She’d even slapped her knee several times in the process, wiping a tear from her eye — giddy with girlish glee. You didn’t have the guts to slap a hand over her mouth. Instead, you sank into your desk, melting into a puddle of mortification — burying your face in your hands, praying for the bell to shift your classmates’ attention to the start of class.)

You are sixteen, and your sister is dragging you out of the bastion of soft, woolen blankets and steady warmth to see the first snow of the year. 

(You tried sneaking a spoonful of her coffee once, curious about how it’d taste. She always added copious amounts of sugar and cream when Mother wasn’t looking — having a sweet tooth runs in the family, it seems. It was an adult’s drink, right? 

That’s what you thought at the time, anyway — you wondered if it was the sort of beverage that could imbue you with the same level-headed maturity your sister possessed. You craved that charisma — yearned to have your share of the glimmering spotlight. You wondered how she could charm a crowd so easily. A silver-tongued, certified smooth talker: immune to the wildfire whispers, the searing stares. 

But your sister snatched the cat-patterned mug away from you so quickly — you’d only gotten the chance to try a tiny sip! “Tsk, tsk. It’ll stunt your growth, Emil,” She’d ruffled your hair relentlessly, and the brazen sound of her laughter filled the kitchen — so wild and unrestrained, like a wolf howling at the moon.)

Coaxed with the promise of a fresh, crispy Kartoffelpuffer — desperately craving a bite of those piping-hot potato pancakes to stave off the snap and snarl of the wind at your back — you sighed and let her tow you along. After all, your sister always loved stargazing; you’d always thought that if she was left to her own devices, she’d stay there: staring at the night sky, spellbound by that infinite, shimmering canvas for hours. 

Constellations are starting to crown the sky, shimmering jewels shining in the dark velvet of a jeweler’s box. She’s standing with her back to you when she lets go of your mitten-clad hand. She’s wearing her favorite cream-colored parka, winding a strand of her short-cropped hair round and round her finger — the way she always does, on the few occasions where she can’t find the words. 

What is it this time, you wondered: half-anxious and half-amused. The last time they’d gone through this same song and dance, she’d confessed that she had eaten your slice of lebkuchen… but in her defense, your name hadn’t been printed plainly across the surface of the cake in powdered sugar, or anything. … This girl, really…

You’re standing in her flickering shadow, same as always. She’s bathing in the golden light of so many street lamps, illuminating her meandering path through the sheer white snow. And yet… as you trace her path, you realize that snow doesn’t crunch beneath her soles. She doesn’t leave a single footprint behind in the sheer white snowdrifts. In fact, she wouldn’t leave a single trace if she vanished at that very moment, even if you’d felt the warmth of her hands just a few minutes ago. 

It hits you, then. Like a searing slap to the face. Like a sucker punch to the gut. A bright and brutal pain. A glimpse into the looking-glass of the past, a thousand shimmering shards piercing your heart. You can’t remember. 

Your sister smiles, a knowing look in her eyes. Um, well. She always saw straight through you, anyways, so it’s not too much of a conjecture. Just this once, it’s… soft and a little sheepish, but a bit like the sun breaking through the clouds. Ah. How could you forget? 

The exact shade of your sister’s eyes, the sharp edges of her smile. The warm fondness that softened your father’s stern features, smoothing the constant furrow in his brow. The low murmur of your mother’s voice, soothing you as you’d sobbed your eyes out over a scraped knee. But all you can see is —

— fragmented, flickering static. It's all my fault. Snapped wires sparking, spilled across the floor. The vivisected veins of machinery, mirroring the tangled topography of your heart. Because of me… Terror paints your father’s fractured voice in technicolor. I’m sorry…! Defiance dances in your sister’s crackling tone, but she’s dimming fast. In their final moments, they tell you to run. 

Ah.   … Even now, they haunt each and every corner of your heart.

You stumble forward like a sleepwalker, not wanting to wake. 

Because you are sixteen, you can still come home to your sister’s lighthearted teasing, sun dappling her distant silhouette. Because you are sixteen, you can revel in the quiet haven of conversations at the kitchen table — indulging in blissful ignorance, basking in that brilliant light. Because you are sixteen, you don’t know the sweet taste of stolen apples — still cradled in the comfort of Eden, you’ve yet to be tempted by the white-haired snake knocking, knocking, knocking at your door. 

(The coin burning in your pocket. The secret falling from your lips, lingering on your tongue like lightning. Your classmates’ starstruck gazes simmering on your skin, a pleasant buzz — there and gone. The basement key, freezing to the touch. The scream, sparkling and sizzling in your throat, takes the shape of your sister’s name. In turn, your mother’s shattered voice echoes the staticky syllables of Si-Si-Sinclair — but you’re spellbound, silent, sobbing. Can’t even muster the courage to beg for forgiveness. Can’t even gather the strength to say goodbye. 

This — the harrowing specter of your guilt: a shapeless, sinister shade, haunting you day by day, night after night — is a ghost you’ll have to learn to live with. Shadowed by your sin, no matter how long you chase the light.)

Memories flicker before your mind’s eye, falling from the silvery sky — fleeting like flower petals, feather-soft and fragrant. They’re cool to the touch, and yet they melt into nothingness as soon as they’re cradled in your palms. 

(Your father had been the most opposed to adopting a puppy, largely unphased against your sister’s fifteen-slide PowerPoint presentation in favor of a family dog. And yet — months later, he was probably the one most attached. After the day your robot dog, Bea, snuck out the door while Mother was gardening, she nearly short-circuited in the rain. Frantic, he bought the little mechanical mutt a customized, canary-colored raincoat — and bright yellow rain boots, a perfect set of eye-searing colors.  

“Look, Emil,” your sister had teased, finger guns poised at the puppy pacing by your side. You startle at the snap and shutter of the camera slung around her neck. Too late — she’s captured the image forever. “You match!”)

Your sister’s striding forward through the snow-dusted streets, probably expecting you to trail behind her like a little duckling. She’d always hold your hand through the darkened streets when you were a kid — how can you forget, when she brings those embarrassing anecdotes up at every opportunity?

Don’t leave me behind, you whisper, because you’re scared speaking any louder would shatter this bittersweet illusion — this blissful dream. Memories swirl through the air like crystalline snowflakes, glittering with the same threat of a knife. They’re burdens as much as they’re blessings. Double-edged blades, carrying a tenderness that threatens to tear you apart. 

(Your sister reveled in the thrill of victory — you’d sorely lost the bet. Your sister pinned your bangs back with a set of her favorite strawberry hair clips. Each click of her camera felt like further condemnation. Fresh mockery at your miserable fate. Even if you were to deny that you’d been pouting, you can’t deny the evidence in the form of Polaroids across the kitchen table; what a relief, that your parents weren’t home to bear witness to your shame. What did she even need so many photos of this for?!

… And yet. After the instinctive flare of embarrassment died down, you realized… actually, those hair clips were pretty cute. You wondered, breathless: What if I took it further, with an outfit to match? What if, what if, what if—half the time you wanted to show off in soft skirts and colorful blouses, and half the time you preferred your familiar slacks? 

But if you’re the portrait of a good son, then your father holds the brush with unyielding precision. If you clawed your way out of that gilded frame, like a brittle butterfly on display escaping its glass confines, how would he react? Could you really withstand the brutal sting of rejection without shattering — like a star collapsing inward, the way supernovas do when they can no longer support their own weight? It leaves you pacing in the proverbial chrysalis, longing to spread your wings. 

Your sister sees through you in seconds, linking arms with a laugh. Says she’ll be taking you on a shopping trip to her favorite boutiques, pronto — and that she won’t be taking no for an answer. She’ll hide your set of clothes at the back of her closet for you, of course. 

“A secret between siblings is sacred, after all,” she smiled, ruffling your hair. At the sound of her easy acceptance, you felt like you were walking on air. Feathers unfurling, taking flight. “If you don’t want me to call you Emil anymore… then how about Sinclair, ‘til you figure something out? Don’t you worry, kiddo. My lips are sealed.”)

And yet — you can’t stay sixteen forever, drowning in a flood of bittersweet memories. After all, you promised to eat Don Quixote’s potatoes for her, if she’d tag along with you for your little weekend shopping trips — because you feel too awkward perusing the shelves on your own.

(And besides, you have an excuse for why you’re shopping for feminine clothes on days you present as masculine; at this point, you’re sick of answering the question of, “Are you shopping for your sister?” at the register.

You tried keeping those trips of yours a secret, but there’s only one exit on the Mephistopheles — and word spreads fast in such a small space. The day Rodya invites herself is hardly a surprise, albeit a pleasant one; her easy acceptance is another. In the end, you end up trying on a bunch of silly hats and colorful sunglasses, while Don Quixote immediately zooms over to the shelf advertising Fixer merch.)

… Ah. Someone’s got their sweaty hand tightly clasped in yours — and its warmth is blazing brighter than any star. A careless hand that could shatter glass with ease.  A bright beacon through the brume, cutting through the endless fog; a careful hand that always drags you back from drowning in a sea of self-doubt, no matter how far you drift beyond her reach. And… although it’s dragged you into countless troublesome situations, it’s kind of admirable how she never hesitates — guided by the quicksilver compass of her heart.  

You’ll never regret calling her your friend… until she makes a scene right when a recon mission’s starting to go smoothly, and you feel a little like melting into the ground. But… even so, she’s never afraid to throw down the gauntlet for her companions, no matter how daunting the odds. She’ll set herself alight if it can guide the defenseless through the dark — righteous and unrepentant, rising from the flames like a phoenix. Battered, bruised, and beaming brighter than anything, if it means her friends are safe.

… Oh. Someone’s resting the back of their icy palm on your forehead, quietly checking for a fever. 

He’s a strange one — Mr. Yi Sang, that is. His unending stream of name puns is one thing. His tendency to speak in flowery prose is another.  And, most of all… his ability to stomach spoiled milk seriously concerns you. Not to mention Don Quixote’s insatiable hunger for uncooked chicken. … Are you the only one here with a normal palate?! And yet…

The steady current of calm his presence provides feels like an anchor, even if you wish he’d quit ruffling your hair at every opportunity. Something to hold onto in the midst of howling winds and dark, churning depths. In the midst of those tempestuous tides, he’ll quietly call your name. As many times as it takes for you to remember yourself — until you’re clear-headed enough to accept his outstretched hand. 

On sleepless nights like these, when you’re drowning on dry land — sinking into a swirling sea of self-doubt — that brilliant beacon cutting through the dark feels a little like salvation, cutting through the fog to guide you home. That steady anchor feels a little like absolution, steadying you through the surge of saltwater spilling from your eyes. Even as a high tide’s worth of tears soak his coat, he’ll keep your crying a secret if you ask him to. Never shames you for it, either.

(Because Dante’s open kindness, so easily offered, reminds you far too much of your mother. And you just know that echo of bygone days would be enough to make you burst into tears all over again. So… not today. Although their frantic ticking and endless fretting really does warm your heart — you can practically feel the sincere worry radiating off of their scarlet coat in waves.

 … The last time you asked them for a hug in the aftermath of a particularly haunting nightmare, though, you were rendered speechless. You really doubted your eyes, because… well. Let’s just say you’d never seen the minute and hour hand spin in opposite directions before.) 

There’s power in the quiet reassurances Yi Sang offers, even if he thinks he can never find the right words to say. Those softly-spoken stanzas have the strength to freeze the flood of self-deprecating thoughts in their tracks, even if it’s only for a while. And — to see that unassuming kindness extended to you so easily, just like that… makes you wonder. Makes you think. 

(Even if there’s a crick in your neck from sleeping at an awkward angle. Even if your treacherous heart trembles, just this once, it flutters with a fragile, fledgling hope.)

Maybe one day, I’ll find the courage to forgive myself. 

/ / 

Mr. Yi Sang went missing this morning. 

You were the one to bring him back: rain dripping from his waterlogged coat, puddles pooling at your feet. Your socks were soaked straight through, and it was overall pretty miserable. But you couldn’t stand the look on his face, so you kept calling his name through the downpour until your voice went hoarse, if that’s what it took to drag him from the hazy depths of memory. He’s done the same for you plenty of times, after all.

(That awful emptiness reminded you of the moment that shattered your comfortable, closed-off  reality. It’s carved itself into your memory — that is, the realization that you no longer had a home to return to. Because a home is just a lonely building made of brick and mortar, when you don’t have someone to welcome you back.)

… Maybe you should’ve expected this. His eyes always have such a distant quality to them on rainy days, after all. Right now, his body’s a warm presence next to you, as always, but you can’t help but wonder where his mind goes. Sometimes it feels like he’ll drift a thousand miles away if untethered. … It's a good thing, then, that Don Quixote has such a tight grip on his hand. 

A strange cross between a foghorn and a train whistle cuts through the air — Dante’s been fretting up a storm over the bus’s sleepiest sinner, and you’re starting to feel that same undercurrent of fear. 

Ever since that rainy day, Yi Sang hasn’t been able to revert from his fox-eared form. His uniform’s been replaced with a white, ragged, rain-soaked coat that’s impossible to dry. 

Um. It was…actually kind of fun, for the first few days. Dante was desperately trying to conceal their excitement, but they pumped their fist into the air when Yi Sang said they could pet his ears. Yi Sang closed his eyes, remaining silent, but his fluffy tail whipped back and forth, thumping steadily across the bus’s floor.

Don Quixote does the same at every opportunity, eyes sparkling with delight. You felt too awkward to ask, but Don Quixote dragged you forward with a knowing look — and you sighed, secretly overjoyed, joining in with a flurry of pats. You couldn’t resist, okay. Those fox ears of his are so fluffy… and more often than not, you and Don Quixote wake up to his soft tail wrapped protectively around the two of you every morning, like the world’s warmest scarf.

But Yi Sang’s words seem to have washed away in the unending downpour. He never spoke all that much in the first place, but now he hardly responds at all. You never thought you’d miss his puns, or the man waxing poetic on the mundane. 

(This ranged from sprouted potatoes to the awe-inspiring power of the Alley Watchdog abnormality, even when he had been deeply wounded by its claws. The rapidfire commentary — a product of overthinking as much as you breathed — that had a tendency to flicker across your mind condensed into one exasperated phrase. Why are you spouting stanzas at a time like this, Yi Sang!!)

Through it all, the rain pounds relentlessly at the windows with a vengeance, rattling the shuttered frames. You’re starting to get sick of seeing the same dreary clouds, gloomy mourning veils stealing away the sun from your grasp. Yi Sang’s silences stretch longer and longer, and it’s getting harder and harder to drag him back. 

… You wonder when this ceaseless spell of rain will end. 

The sun’s dying rays flash across the sheen of fresh puddles, glittering like glass in the light. There’s warmth at your back, honey-gold and wine-red. 

Yi Sang would probably call it by some fancy name — something with an s. Um… sanguine, maybe. He’d dress the sorry scene up with stanzas and symbolism — something about blood-red sunsets and bittersweet endings, fleeting sunshowers and fox weddings. 

But you’re not Yi Sang. Poetry doesn’t sing in your mouth, and you’ve never been one for speaking in pentameter. You can’t see any beauty in the strangest situations, the same way Yi Sang does. You can’t paint the corpses piling up at your feet as villains, either, just like Don Quixote. It’d be so much easier to sleep at night if you could — you’re not sure you’ll ever get used to the sound of bodies hitting the ground. Watching the light leave their eyes, knowing you’re the cause.

A memory flickers at the forefront of your mind, a glimmering shard that’ll bite into your palms if you’re not careful. Still, you grab it with both hands, bracing for impact. You’re running out of options — running out of time. 

Dante… they can restore a Sinner’s physical state, which is a miracle in itself. But there’s always scars left behind. For example, the memory of severed limbs can linger for weeks. And — well. The phantom sting of acid eating at your skin’s not something you’ll forget anytime soon, to say the least. 

So. Is that what this is? You’re nowhere near qualified for Seven Section 6, that’s for sure, but it doesn’t take a detective to see that the Doomsday Calendar mission last week affected Yi Sang deeply. Enough for him to retreat into the comfort of his mind, in the aftermath. You and Don Quixote saw him sleeping more hours than he spent awake — but what could you do? You’re hardly equipped to handle things when your own mental health spirals, never mind another person’s!!

Mr. Gregor still won’t tell you the specifics — to protect you, probably. You’d say you could handle it, but the memory of Yi Sang's haunted, hollow eyes still makes you go cold. (In the process, you found out Gregor was immune to Don Quixote’s wide puppy eyes — an impressive feat. He must’ve gained immunity to that same brand of pleading… from his younger sister, you’re guessing? You remember him mentioning her a while back.) 

You think Gregor… probably blames himself for what happened. He’s always too hard on himself. You tell him this, even though you’re a hypocrite for saying it. It’s worth the self-conscious smile that spreads across his face, anyway — but you fail to duck and evade the hair-ruffling that ensues. Half-exasperated, half-amused, you can’t help but sigh. Um. Can someone arrest the Sinners surrounding me for serial headpatting, please. 

So that’s why you’re standing in this steady, sunlit drizzle, extending a hand to a friend before you lose him forever. He’s hardly a meter away, just barely out of reach… but he’s never felt farther from your grasp. … After all, there’s only so much time you can spend running from your problems before you either collapse from exhaustion, or they catch up with you. You’re speaking from experience, here.

(Sometimes all a person needs is for someone to listen. Spill your heart out over a set of drinks, alcoholic or otherwise, and the world feels just a little less bleak — even if the embarrassment of bawling your heart out is starting to hit, several hours later, with the force of a bag of bricks. That’s what Rodya does with Gregor, anyway — her drunken ramblings are… uh… pretty hard to tune out, given their volume. 

Still, you’re glad she has someone to chase away the dark clouds of deep-seated loneliness that flicker across her face when she thinks no one’s looking, and the grim shadows of guilt that still linger from being the only one to make it out alive. 

Try and tear your gaze away all you want, but the weight of all those ghosts still shadow your footsteps. Even if daylight keeps them at bay, they crawl from their crypts when the stars ascend to their rightful places. The silhouette of your sister, flickering in your periphery. Shadows of her fellow fallen revolutionaries, rising from their graves on sleepless nights. 

… She’s always been kind to you, so you really hope that isn’t the case. She calls you kiddo like you haven’t had your childhood snatched from you in a flurry of so-called sacred flames. Wrenched-out wires thrown carelessly across the living room floor like gutted veins. She’ll never… She's not a replacement. Never will be. But she’s like an older sister who bottles up her grief and self-loathing around her younger siblings, not wanting them to see her at her lowest. 

So you invite her on shopping trips every weekend, sometimes with Don Quixote; it’s always a delight having her around. After Rodya received memories of her Kurokumo identity, she’d started dragging Outis out to her favorite restaurants, and Faust into round after round of games of chance, chasing the thrill of victory. Rodya savors Faust’s quiet petulance at her steadily growing losing streak, no matter how much she denies it — calls the genius’s pouting the cutest thing she’s ever seen. She’ll use the prize money for another round of drinks with Gregor, giggling all the while. 

It’s easier to forget among friends. Laughter exorcises even the most stubborn of ghosts, so — you’re glad Rodya is, more often than not, the farthest thing from alone.) 

… Oh god. Why isn’t Don Quixote out here, or Gregor? At least they’d probably be able to string together proper sentences to comfort Yi Sang. But all you have is this umbrella — a gift from Don Quixote, patterned with fluffy yellow chicks. Still. In spite of all your shortcomings, Yi Sang’s fluffy ears perk up at the sound of your footsteps, splashing through puddles dyed crimson with the setting sun.

SINCLAIR 

Mr. Yi Sang. Um… Last week, you… wouldn’t let the two of us out of your sight. Pleaded to be paired up with me or Don Quixote, more than once. Can I, er… ask you what that was all about?

YI SANG 

… I saw the world ending. What a whirling, wondrous image — it left me weeping, at the wretched beauty of it all. 

SINCLAIR 

… H-huh? What does that have to do with…

YI SANG 

I stopped defining the world as a place long ago, after I confined myself to this bus. Now and then, I feel as if time no longer has any hold on me — each day is just as exhausting as the next. 

… Until I met you and Don Quixote. Two spots of light in the dim, bright as embers among the ashes — twin stars cutting through the endless dark.

At first, Don Quixote’s energy was the farthest thing from ideal. Even though I only possessed a fraction of her fire, I saw my bright-eyed younger self reflected in her impromptu speeches, thrilled at the thought my research could be used to herald a better, brighter world. … What a fool I was. I reaped the fruit of my arrogance, and thus, that fiery passion of mine burned out long ago. 

I am therefore willing to entertain her pipe dreams of knighthood, and her outdated gestures of gallantry. … If only to keep that idealism of hers burning for a good while longer.

And you, Sinclair, do not give yourself enough credit. … Do not look so surprised. I have told you this before, have I not? The world is shrouded in gloom, and the sky weeps without pause. Even so, you waded through such a wretched downpour in order to offer me a few warm words of comfort. 

SINCLAIR 

… 

YI SANG

So when I — when that Doomsday Calendar showed me the world’s end, you were… well. You must understand. I do not think I would survive the death of my close companions, for the two of you have somehow crept into my heart like thieves in the night, and carved out your places. 

More damning than any apocalypse was the event of yours and Don Quixote’s irreversible deaths — and knowing that my corroded self, having led two golden lambs to the slaughter, was the cause. Even though I knew the event was illusory, I could not stop trying to wash away the blood that stained my hands.

… I could not tell Dante that I had been shown your… “deaths” in my report, for I know their heart is far too kind — no doubt, they would fret without cease. I reasoned that the pain they endured for our sakes was enough of a burden; how could I add to their already overflowing plate? 

… I can see that you are struggling to find a way to put your placations into words, and yet — rest assured. You do not have to force yourself, for my sake. Having someone willing to lend an ear to my sorry tale… is more than enough. 

SINCLAIR 

Still, Yi Sang, I… I just. I want to say I’m willing to listen, any time. Okay? And, um. You know, even if you omitted that fact, Dante — er, Manager — still keeps asking the others for extra details on their mission reports. But only the sinners paired up with you, I noticed. 

You… really can’t stop them from fretting for your sake. They’d do the same for all of us, I’d imagine. That’s just… the way they are, I guess — kind to a fault, bleeding heart and all. But… you can probably drop by once this whole thing is over, I think. I’m sure that’ll help put their worries to rest.

And, um. Thank you. For telling me all this, I mean. It must’ve been so hard, bearing that pain all on your own. Even if it’s inevitable… and it can happen at any time, it still… still hurts, more than any mortal wound. Having to strike down a friend you laughed with yesterday, having to carry back their corpse. It’s just. An ache we have to learn to live with, I guess.

But you don’t have to bear it all alone. You… shouldn’t, really. Don Quixote will scold you for it when we get back, and facing those disappointed, watery eyes… really is the worst feeling in the world. … And, umm. Please. Don’t… Don’t ever say that you’re a burden. 

I’m… really glad, you know. That in this hellish world, I could meet you. Yi Sang, I — I’m so, so happy I can call you a friend.

When Yi Sang smiles in response, it feels like the sun breaking through the clouds in all its golden glory. Daybreak after a thousand nights. 

Even though you’re drenched to the bone, shivering up a storm, and dreading Vergilius’s thousand-watt stare burning a hole into your back for the puddles you’re about to bring to Charon’s beloved Mephi… you feel a little like soaring — like the path beneath your feet’s been transformed from slippery cobblestones to the softest clouds in all the world. 

EPILOGUE 

Faint slivers of dawn glimmer through the saffron clouds. 

There’s a golden ribbon of light winding through the cotton candy sky. He tells Don Quixote this analogy, and she wonders if he could A) pull it out of the clouds for her, so she could thread it through her fair Lady Ishmael’s hair or B) if that gilded ribbon would, when condensed into solid form, taste like caramel, perhaps, or salt water taffy. … As always, she remains beyond his comprehension. 

Below is the littered street, brisk businessmen cutting across the streets to the station. Sleepy college students dragging themselves from the comfort of their covers. Babies wailing and weeping for their mothers, soothed with sweet lullabies. Birds stirring and starting to sing a cawing chorus to an audience of unwitting listeners — padding their protesting ears with their pillows, they're desperately trying to dream for just a little longer. 

Now, there is no itch for him to scratch. No glass wings for him to spread, because they’ve long shattered into a thousand bloodstained shards; they’ll remain like this forever. Some wounds never heal. What did Sinclair tell him, that one rainy day? Ah, that’s right. It’s just… “an ache we have to learn to live with.” But each day, it gets just a little easier with the knowledge that he’s not alone. 

(He doesn’t feel the need to fly. Not anymore. Besides, he has friends who’d drag him back in seconds, chewing him out all the while.

Dante, whose minute and hour hands would revolve at a dizzying pace, frantically spinning like a hamster on a wheel. They’d practically pace a hole through the carpet, restless with the worry that races through their heart — all for his sake. Faust, who would first scan him for any traces of injury, then give him a stern look that would communicate the sheer force of her disapproval in a thousand silent words. 

Gregor, who would drag him into an awkward, one-armed hug, grumbling that he couldn’t bear to watch another good person die before his eyes. Hong Lu, who’d stare at him for a good, long while with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, before piling his plate high with fresh, piping-hot pastries. 

Worst of all, he’d have to deal with Don Quixote’s bawling as she launches at him full speed, soaking his coat with a flood of tears. And — how could he face a watery-eyed Sinclair clinging to his coattails, fretting like a mother hen? He wouldn't put it past the two of them to anxiously follow him around like a pair of golden ducklings for the next few days, never letting him out of their sight.)

Today, he’s carrying a leather-bound notebook. 

Constant sleep deprivation and his erratic insomnia’s taken a toll on his once crystal-clear memory, not to mention the side effects of the mirror technology experiments he’s inflicted on himself. He’s taken up a habit of recording what’s important to him within these well-loved, yellowed pages — tenderly inscribing the silhouettes of all he holds dear in both dull, grey shades of graphite and bright blue hues of ink. 

The pages feature a bright flower growing from the sidewalk preserved forever, a photo of a rather charming snail he found by the side of the road. A sketch of Faust’s faintly smiling side profile as he sits across from him, gathering intel in a tavern whose name he can’t quite recall. A portrait of one of Hong Lu’s rare, serious expressions — oh, that must’ve been when he was explaining the importance of timing when it came to steeping high-quality tea leaves, perhaps. 

(Ah. Wait. That particular shade of robin’s egg blue… is that Faust’s favorite pen? So that’s where it went — she lent it to him the other day, and he must’ve…dozed off at the precise hour she told him to bring it back.

… He’ll have to return it to her as soon as possible, offering his awkward apologies over fresh cups of caffeine: loaded with more sugar than cream, and more cream than coffee — oh, she’ll never admit it, but it’s her favorite drink.)

A whimsical wind dances its way across the rooftop, and the notebook falls open to the final page. It’s a dog-eared polaroid, haphazardly taped in place courtesy of Don Quixote — of course even her washi tape was patterned with glittering, golden stars. 

[In the photo, golden sunlight falls across the blissful faces of three sleeping figures. Yi Sang looks more at peace than he’s been in years. 

His arms are folded across his chest as he dozes in the middle, while Don Quixote’s curled up at his side with a dopey grin, probably dreaming about delivering justice — and snoring up a storm. On his right is a softly smiling Sinclair. Yi Sang’s coat is draped around his shoulders, because it was particularly chilly that morning — and Yi Sang didn’t want to run the risk of him catching a cold.]

No, Don Quixote, what do you mean “thou art blatantly showing thy favoritism.” You always run warmer than both of us, so you would run the risk of overheating if I wrapped you up in my coat —- akin to what you are fond of calling a “blanket burrito.”

He tears his gaze from his notebook, then, having finished penning the perfect caption, and looks to the skies. It’s the first time he’s watched the sunrise with someone, since he was always too tired to fully appreciate the sight of it all unfolding: bright colors painted with a careless hand — staining the dreary sky with a thousand shades, unfurling like a fresh bouquet of flowers in full bloom.

At last… our dreary days of rain are coming to an end. Clear skies are coming: heralding bright new beginnings, and scattering those tear-stained clouds for good.

Now, all we have to do to see that shade of halcyon blue is turn our faces to the sky — and wait just a little longer for dawn to break. 

… Thank you for staying here with me in this wretched world, even if it’s easier to keep on dreaming. A sunrise is all the sweeter with someone to watch it with — don’t you think?