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Chapter Text

소리를 잃은 작은 파랑새야 / The little bluebird that lost its voice

속삭임이 들려오는구나 / I can hear the whispers

시작되는 깊은 울림 / The beginnings of a deep echo

세상을 뒤집을 목소리 / The voice that will overturn the world

– HALAZIA –

When Seonghwa was small, he’d stare up at his father as if he created the sun and the moon and sprinkled the stars across the sky just for him. Late at night, when Seonghwa couldn’t sleep, that’s what he told him—each and every star your mother and I hand-picked for you. They said he was their favorite out of all the ones in the sky.

His mother would laugh and nudge his father, but her eyes were bright and she never let go of Seonghwa’s hand. That’s when he’d notice the strings. They were tangled together, a mess of greens and yellows and an extra red and orange and silver. They shone and glittered like the stars.

Back then, Seonghwa thought the strings were made of stardust. He thought his parents crushed those stars down into strings so that he’d never lose them. It didn’t quite explain the strings he saw on everyone else’s hands, but that didn’t matter. Those strings didn’t shine like his did.

Then his parents’ string started to lose color. It grew thinner and thinner and thinner until it snapped. Seonghwa tried to hold onto it, but his hands were too small, and he could only watch as it crumbled into dust. It was not made out of stars after all.

Now, he can only stare at his hands as he sits before his father in his office. The string on Seonghwa’s pinky is silver like the moon, bright and glittery like the stars. The string on his index finger is green like rotting leaves, so thin that he’s taken to tying it into a bow to secure it. He used to have more strings—yellow ones. Not anymore.

“Seonghwa.” His father’s voice pulls him out of his thoughts. “How’s your magic coming along?”

Swallowing, Seonghwa straightens his back and flattens his palms against his thighs. He licks his lips once, reminds himself not to do it again even though his lips are dry. His whole mouth is. His skin prickles. His chest tightens.

“Slowly, sir,” he says. He wills his voice not to shake.

“As ever, I see.”

At the end of the day, his father is also the director of his school. And the director of Eunpyeong University for the Gifted does not take kindly to stragglers, not when everyone in the world has abilities and only some of them are worth honing.

Director Park is a stoic man with wrinkles around his mouth and nose and more patience than most students give him credit for. With his age came solemnity, a certain resignation that young Seonghwa rarely saw. Now, there are more streaks of gray in his father’s hair and his eyes are dark. His office boasts certificates of achievements with his name all over them, but he has no pictures of family; the only things on his desk are paperwork and fountain pens emblazoned with his name.

Seonghwa isn’t surprised. It’s one more reason why he hates coming here.

He looks at the fingers of his father. The only string that remains connects to Seonghwa’s index finger. He quickly looks away.

“I’m sorry, sir,” he says. “I’ll work harder. I’ll ask for more practice and-”

His father sighs long and low. He hasn’t looked at Seonghwa since he came in, too busy flipping through files and papers. He takes another moment to write something.

“Do you really think that will do anything? You’ve been enrolled here three years. Most students would be graduating next year. They’d only need to work out the kinks and tighten their control.”

Seonghwa’s jaw tenses as he grits his teeth. He takes a deep breath, ignores how his heart pounds.

“You know this, don’t you?” His father finally looks at him. He smiles, but it’s cold, empty, a husk of what it once was.

Seonghwa struggles to meet his eyes. “Yes, sir.”

His father leans back in his chair. “We need to do something different, more hands-on. If that doesn’t work, either, then…”

Seonghwa’s heart drops. His stomach churns. He looks back down at his hands, tries not to clench them, tries to breathe.

“I’ve been trying my best to help you,” his father says. “You’re the lowest tier here, Seonghwa. Your magic may not be useful at all. But I wanted to take a chance on you because no one can do what you can.”

It’s almost a compliment. It’s so close. But Seonghwa can read between the lines. The only reason you’re here is because your magic is interesting. It’s not because you’re my son.

His teeth rip through his bottom lip.

“Tell me,” his father says, leaning forward. “You can cut the strings yourself, can’t you? You’ve done it before.”

Seonghwa’s heart stutters. He looks up, eyes wide.

“Yes, but- but once a string is cut, the connection is-”

“-severed, I know.” His father frowns. “Do you think I’m stupid? Did you think I forgot?”

“No! No, of course not, sir,” Seonghwa says, waving his hands frantically. “I was just- it’s a very serious thing to do, I wouldn’t- I don’t know why I would-”

His father’s jaw clenches. “Would you shut up and listen to me?”

“I apologize, sir,” Seonghwa whispers as he bows his head.

Silence meets his words. It’s only interrupted by the squeak of his father’s chair as he leans back into it. Papers rustle.

“Playing with strings as you are now doesn’t do anything for you. We need to do something drastic.” He stamps a manilla envelope then moves it to the side. “And if you do well, you’ll be able to stay. I’ll support your housing as I have been.”

He folds his hands on top of the desk and leans forward. Seonghwa’s eyes flick up just in time to meet his. His father slides the stamped envelope towards him.

MISSION STATEMENT NO. S1117

Seonghwa’s heart pounds. He blinks, mouth opening and closing.

Missions aren’t for undergraduates. They’re for heroes, alumni who have already proven themselves. Seonghwa has no business being so close to one of these envelopes.

“A mission? For me?”

“All for you. If you can’t do this-” His father taps the file. “-then you’re not fit to be here.”

Seonghwa’s fingers shake as they wrap around the folder. It feels unbearably heavy in his hand.

“I’ll- I’ll try my best, sir.”

“Sometimes your best isn’t enough. I’m sure you know that by now.”

Seonghwa digs his nail into the envelope.

“Right. I will- I will do well, sir.”

“I hope so. This is your last chance, Seonghwa. I can’t keep defending you.”

Seonghwa nods.

“You see where I’m coming from, right? I have all these kids to watch over and yet you’re the only one who struggles so much. I have to draw a line somewhere.”

Seonghwa digs his nail in deeper. He steadies his breaths, swallows past the lump in his throat. “Of course, sir.”

“Ah, Seonghwa-yah, you always say that.” His father scoffs and shakes his head. “But you keep making the same mistakes.” He leans in close. “Tell me, do you hear what I’m saying?”

Seonghwa’s breaths falter. “Of- yes. Yes, sir.”

“Repeat it back to me.”

Seonghwa wants to cry. But he can’t. He shouldn’t.

“I need to- I need to prove that I’m useful in order to stay here.”

“And?”

“And I’m the only one who struggles, so- so-” His voice wobbles too much for him to continue.

Before he can correct himself, his father bangs on the desk. Seonghwa jumps, shoulders hunching around his head, eyes falling to the floor.

“Seonghwa, do you not know how to fucking talk?” His father’s voice is low, but it simmers with anger, just about to boil over. “Are you going to cry? Like a baby? Right here in my office?”

“No, sir,” Seonghwa murmurs, barely audible.

“Speak up!”

“No, sir!” Seonghwa’s breath catches in his throat. The envelope crinkles in his hands.

“I need you to understand what I’m saying.” His father looms over him, his shadow blocking out the ceiling lights. “If you don’t prove yourself here, I will have to dispose of you.”

Seonghwa stifles a sob, pushes past how it feels like his throat is closing up, blinks his eyes to hold back tears. He tastes blood.

“I understand, sir,” he says.

“Good.”

Seonghwa flinches when a hand lands on the shoulder, muscles pulled taut under his skin. He keeps his gaze on the floor even as he feels his father’s eyes burning into the side of his face.

“Don’t read your mission until you get to your room.”

He returns to his office chair, one leg crossing over the other. He folds his hands. “And don’t show your roommate. This is classified information—a special case just for you.”

Seonghwa looks up, confused. He doesn’t have a roommate.

His father is smiling that empty smile again. “He moved in today. I heard he’s unruly.”

Seonghwa looks back down, dipping his head. “I will teach him what is expected, sir.”

“Of course you will.” The chair creaks as his father rolls it forward. He starts to go through his papers again. “Now go. Do what I’ve asked of you and nothing less.” He levels his eyes with Seonghwa. “You know the consequences.”

His roommate is interesting. Unruly is certainly one way to describe him, but Seonghwa can’t help but be endeared by his nervous smile when he sees him walk through the door.

The boy is surrounded by cardboard boxes and ash. Above him, the ceiling is dark with soot, and when he swipes away a strand of hair, he smears more soot along the top of his cheek and the side of his nose. His eyes are dark but warm, and they curl with his smile as he dips his head in greeting.

Coiled around him are his strings—one green, six yellow, one black. Their vibrance is hard to miss in the dull monotony of the room.

“Sorry, sunbaenim,” he says. “I just got all my stuff in here. There’s a lot, and I have class tomorrow at eight, so I was…” He trails off, bites his lip, scratches his cheek. “This is my first year. I don’t have great control of my magic yet.”

Seonghwa hasn’t moved from the door. He keeps seeing more stains of soot—on the couch, the floor, the counter, a table leg in the center room. The blanket he threw over the couch is singed, the embroidered face of a dragon burned black and brown.

“I can replace it!” the boy says, eyes wide. “Just- uh- do you remember where you got it?”

Seonghwa’s eyes return to him. He tries to smile gently, tries to assure the boy that accidents happen all the time here, even if his father likes to ignore them.

“It’s all right,” he says. He bows his head and slips off his shoes. There are four more pairs now, cluttering the entryway. For some reason, he doesn’t mind.

“Are you sure? My grandma used to work at a fiber arts shop near downtown. She still knows the owners. I’m sure I could ask-”

“It’s really okay.” Seonghwa chuckles as he tosses his bag onto the couch. “You don’t need to bother them. Just put in a report with the Accidents and Damages Department.”

The boy’s face drops. “Do I have to pay for them to clean it up?”

Seonghwa stares at him. “Do you know how to clean it?”

The sparkle returns to the boy’s eyes. “I do! I’ve had to do it, like, all my life. We just need a specific kind of detergent. Uh- what was it called? Al- alka-”

“Alkaline?”

“Yes! It has to be a high-alkaline detergent or cleaner. My mom explained it to me once. She said it means it’s really acidic so they’re a lot stronger.”

Seonghwa can only keep staring at him. He smiles something small, amused, as the boy keeps talking about all the cleaners his family has tried out to get rid of the soot at their apartment.

Finally, Seonghwa interrupts him. “I’m sure I can get something from the clinic or dining hall.”

He throws his shoes back on, checks his pockets for his phone and keys, takes a few steps back to return to the door.

“Wait, sunbaenim!”

Seonghwa looks behind him to see the boy frowning in confusion.

“What are you doing?”

Seonghwa tilts his head. “Going to the clinic and dining hall?”

The boy waves his hands in a panic and shakes his head, hurrying over to him. “No, no, no! This is my mess, I’ll clean it up.”

Seonghwa looks at him curiously. “You don’t know where anything is. You’re new.”

“But you don’t even know my name! Why should you be the one to clean?”

“Then what’s your name?”

“Jung Wooyoung.” He narrows his eyes. “That doesn’t-”

Seonghwa grins. “Perfect. Now I know.”

When he twists the doorknob open, it’s at the same time Wooyoung reaches for it. Their hands touch, sending a bolt of energy zipping up through Seonghwa’s arm. His hand tingles then goes numb.

He looks down and sees Wooyoung’s strings again. One green, six yellow, one black, all wrapped around fingers stained by soot. He tears his eyes away, fights against the jealousy and grief that tightens his throat.

As he pulls his hand back, he sees his own strings. One green, one silver, one yellow.

Wait.

That’s not right.

“Sunbaenim?” Wooyoung waves his hand in front of Seonghwa’s face, proving Seonghwa’s theory—his new string connects to Wooyoung, wrapped snug around his thumb. It glows brighter than the rest.

“Hello? Sunbae? You there?”

Seonghwa blinks. He looks back up at Wooyoung.

He frowns, concern knitting his brow. “Are you okay? You looked really scared for a second.” He looks down at his hand. “Is it because of the soot? I swear it’s not that bad to clean, especially on bare skin! You just need soap and-”

“No, I-” Seonghwa struggles for breath. Why do his lungs hurt? “I’m sorry. I thought I- it was just- just my magic acting up.” He squeezes his eyes shut and opens them again, but the yellow string is still there.

Wooyoung has propped the door open so that it doesn’t slam in Seonghwa’s face—which he’s very grateful for—but it allows him to see students walking by outside. He winces at the onslaught of strings. Wooyoung’s frown deepens.

“Oh! Wooyoung, right?” a voice calls, unfamiliar and loud.

Seonghwa shrinks away as Wooyoung turns to face whoever called to him.

“Hey, Muyeol-ah,” he says, his smile strained.

Seonghwa hears footsteps approaching, but from where he’s crouched by the wall, he’s out of sight of the doorway. He wants this person to leave. He wants to crawl under his dragon blanket and shove his headphones on and cry. Maybe then his lungs will work correctly and this awful feeling will go away.

“You move in okay?” Muyeol asks.

“Yeah, I just have to do some cleaning.”

“Already? Make sure your roommate doesn’t see.” Muyeol snickers. “I’ll bet the director’s son won’t like you making a mess. I can’t believe you got so unlucky.”

Seonghwa curls in on himself. He tucks his head into his chest and presses his arms against his ears, tangling his fingers together in his hair. His lungs feel as though they’ve been filled with smoke. His scalp itches. He feels hot. Why can’t people leave him alone?

“He’s been nice so far,” Wooyoung says.

“Really? He probably wants a favor, then.” Muyeol laughs. “Try and stay away from him, yeah? Apparently, he’s only a silver tier. Isn’t that crazy? We all know he’s just here ‘cause his daddy got him in. Nepotism, man, it’s real.”

“Didn’t you say you got a spot here because your aunt’s an alumnus?”

An awkward moment of silence passes. “Well, I mean, that’s different! It’s not like she’s a part of the staff here.”

“It’s still nepotism. What’s your point?”

“Aw, come on, man, don’t be so serious! I’m just trying to help you out, you know? We all poke fun at the director’s son. He’s the lowest tier here! It’s kind of funny if you think about it.”

“I’ll be sure to think about it when I get the chance,” Wooyoung says wryly. “But hey, my schedule’s full right now. Sorry.”

He slams the door shut. “Fuck me, what an asshole,” he mumbles. “I’m sorry you had to hear all that, sunbae.”

Seonghwa is quiet for a moment. “Seonghwa.”

“What?”

“My name is Seonghwa.” He finally peeks out from between his knees and lowers his arms.

Wooyoung’s face softens. His shoulders relax as he plops down beside Seonghwa to lean against the wall.

From here, the sun shines through the window just right, casting golden light without shining in their eyes. It’s warm and quiet. Dust motes dance around each other, lazy and serene.

“You shouldn’t have slammed the door in his face,” Seonghwa says, breaking the silence.

Wooyoung snorts. “Why not? He deserved it.”

“Still.”

Seonghwa’s father has always taught him to be polite, poised, and prepared for any situation. He should always smile kindly. He should always straighten his back and relax his shoulders. He should be flexible and proactive no matter the circumstance; he should never react based on his emotions.

His father would’ve wanted him to stand there and take it with a smile. His father would’ve wanted him to offer Muyeol tea, ask him how his day was and say, Oh, is that so?

But anger has always burned low in Seonghwa’s gut. It reminds him of his father, so he pushes it down. These days, it bubbles up higher than he would like.

“If you’re not going to get people to shut up, then I will.” Wooyoung turns to him with a sharp smile. “Besides, slamming that door in his face was funny. You should’ve seen his face!”

Seonghwa turns to Wooyoung with the intent of disagreeing, but he laughs as soon as he sees his smug smile. Seonghwa clears his throat and looks away, covering his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Yah! I heard that!” Wooyoung laughs, high-pitched and free. “I told you it was funny!”

Seonghwa smiles as he looks down at his hands. He fiddles with the yellow string—Wooyoung’s string. It hums at his touch as if it were alive. It’s as warm as the sun in his hands. He wraps it and unwraps it around his other fingers. Like this, they don’t look so bare.

“What are you doing?”

Seonghwa pauses and looks up. Wooyoung is staring at his hands, curiosity sparkling in his eyes.

“Nothing.” Seonghwa drops the string.

“No, you were definitely doing something with your fingers!” Wooyoung reaches out to grab Seonghwa’s hands, unabashed in how he leans against Seonghwa’s shoulder with his entire body weight.

Pins and needles radiate from his touch, tingling all across Seonghwa’s back and arm. It’s almost uncomfortable, but not enough for him to pull away. Instead, he watches in amusement as Wooyoung looks over his hands, his fingers passing through the strings with no effect.

“There isn’t anything here.” Wooyoung frowns as he pulls back.

“Of course there isn’t.” Seonghwa laughs. “You can’t see them.”

Wooyoung’s eyes light up. He leans towards Seonghwa once more. “That means there is something! Does it have to do with your magic?”

Seonghwa looks down then back up, unsure.

“Aw, come on, sunbae! You already know what my magic is! Why can’t I know yours?”

“Well,” Seonghwa starts slowly, “technically, you never told me your magic.”

“Are you serious? You’re pulling this again?” Wooyoung huffs. “Fine. My magic is fire. Ooh, what a big reveal! Are you happy now?”

Seonghwa giggles, hiding his smile behind his hand again. “Yes, thank you, Wooyoung-ah.”

Wooyoung rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling, too. “Now you have to show me your magic. No excuses!”

Seonghwa’s smile falls. He looks down. “Uh- it’s not- I can’t really-” He bites the inside of his cheek. “I can’t really show you.”

“Eh? What do you mean?”

Seonghwa has never done this before. Sure, he explained his ability to his parents when he was a kid, but that’s different from explaining it to a stranger whose magic is clearly much stronger than his. Back then, it was expected that Seonghwa couldn’t articulate it well, and it was okay. Now that he’s an adult, he finds that there is still no combination of words that can make his magic clear and concise.

“It’s weird,” he mumbles. “And kind of useless. But apparently, there hasn’t been any record of it before, so there could be something we don’t know yet-”

“Sunbaenim,” Wooyoung says. “You’re stalling. Just tell me.”

Seonghwa bites the tip of his thumbnail. He looks up to see Wooyoung watching him, curiosity lighting up his eyes with warmth. There’s a pinch in his brow that suggests concern, but there is no judgment. Not yet.

“We call them life strings,” Seonghwa says. “Because they’re strings that show the connections between people—the kinds that span over lifetimes. And uh- I can see them.” He looks down. “That’s all.”

He’s not sure what he’s expecting; he doesn’t know Wooyoung well enough to predict what he’ll do. Perhaps he’ll smile awkwardly and distance himself, or maybe he’ll laugh in Seonghwa’s face. After all, his magic sounds ridiculous and convoluted, like something out of a fairytale.

Out of all the outcomes he imagines, however, Wooyoung’s eyes lighting up is not one of them. The smile that blooms across his face doesn’t seem real. It can’t be.

“You have soulmate powers?” Wooyoung shouts, grabbing Seonghwa by the shoulders. “Oh, my god, you’re basically Cupid!”

Seonghwa remembers suggesting the same thing to his father. He remembers his mother calling him their little Cupid, the child with a heart so big that he’s able to see love all around him.

After she left, Seonghwa’s father didn’t entertain such fantasies anymore. He scolded him for hanging onto naïve ideas, because there is no such thing as soulmates, Seonghwa, are you a child? The strings are merely personal connections, a guide on human networks—

But Wooyoung’s eyes shine with excitement as though it were Christmas Day. He stares at his fingers as if he could see the strings, too, turning them over and bending them at odd angles.

“I have strings, too, right? You can see them?” he asks.

Seonghwa opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it again. “I- yeah. You- you have a lot. You have eight strings.”

Wooyoung’s eyes nearly bulge out of his head. “What? How will I meet all of them? And date them? Holy shit, I’m going to have so many partners-”

Seonghwa laughs until he leans forward, wheezing as tears spring to his eyes. As he wipes them away, he coughs, still smiling.

“No, no-” He struggles to take a breath. “They’re not- they don’t have to be romantic.”

Wooyoung pouts. “They don’t?”

Seonghwa shakes his head and takes Wooyoung’s left hand.

“This one,” he says, pointing to Wooyoung’s ring finger, “is green, so it’s a familial bond. Your other ones are yellow, which means they’re platonic.” He taps the tip of Wooyoung’s pinky. “But this one is black. It’s on your pinky, which means it’s the longest connection you’ve had throughout your lifetimes.”

“Black?” Wooyoung perks up. “That’s my favorite color!”

“Really?” Seonghwa looks down at his own pinky. “Mine’s silver.”

Wooyoung hums, interested. “Do you think it’s meant to be like your favorite color for your favorite person?”

In the back of Seonghwa’s head, he can hear his father’s voice: Here you go again with your childish ideas. How can you expect us to take your magic seriously when you don’t?

Seonghwa clutches his fingers and meets Wooyoung’s eyes. “Actually, I- I thought so, too. Because why is that color your favorite, you know? Maybe your soul resonates with it because of all the history you have with this person, so maybe there was stuff that was associated with them that just happened to be black, so now- now, uh-”

Suddenly aware of his rambling, Seonghwa bites his lip, reopening the cut from his earlier meeting. His eyes fall back down. His shoulders tense. His father’s voice sounds louder.

Wooyoung cuts through it. “Now what? You can’t leave me hanging here, sunbae!”

Seonghwa brightens. “Now you forever see them and the color black as innately tied together! And you love the person so much that you love that color, too.” He holds his silver string tight. “That’s how I see it, anyway.”

Wooyoung’s eyes are so bright that they remind Seonghwa of those stars he used to stare at, the ones that shine down on him when the nights go on too long. Wooyoung, he realizes, burns with his own kind of light, so bright that the sun dims in comparison.

He encourages Seonghwa to continue, and he can’t possibly deny him.

Eventually, when the sun has disappeared from the window, their words taper off. Seonghwa assures Wooyoung they’ll take care of the soot tomorrow, and after helping him unpack his things, Seonghwa retires to his room.

When he dumps his bag onto his desk, the manilla envelope tumbles out.

The warmth that filled his chest is gone in an instant, a candle blown out by a breeze. He stares at the envelope as he sits frozen in his chair. He looks towards his closed door, chewing his lip. He feels oddly guilty about hiding this.

He sighs and shakes his head. It’s probably better that Wooyoung doesn’t know; Seonghwa doesn’t want to admit just how far behind he is compared to his peers. The envelope is merely an accommodation, albeit a very flashy one.

Carefully, Seonghwa unfolds the envelope and, with a deep breath, takes out the files.

Mission Statement: PARK SEONGHWA

Objective: Sever [Life String] between SONG CHOHWI and SONG SIWOO.

His heart skips a beat.

He reads over the lines again and again, like maybe he’s misreading it, or maybe there’s some sort of error that he’s missing. But the words are clear and concise, leaving no room for misunderstanding. They’re simple words for a simple mission, but his stomach still churns as if he were at sea.

His father is blunt. Seonghwa should have known from today’s meeting exactly what this mission would entail, but he’s still shocked. The last time Seonghwa did something like this, it was to sever all the connections his father had. The last one—Seonghwa’s string—he left intact without telling him.

It’s a painful process. For Seonghwa, it’s so mentally taxing that it saps all of his energy until he collapses. When he holds those strings so tightly, so intimately, he swears he can hear heartbeats. When he yanks them apart, they tear apart so brutally that he feels as though he’s ripping through muscle. It’s nauseating. It makes him feel dirty.

For his father, a man who rarely expresses his emotions in any way, shape, or form, it was torture. He was reduced to tears as he put trembling hands over his chest as if his heart was breaking. He wheezed and coughed and spat blood, but when Seonghwa tried to stop the severing, his father yelled at him to continue.

On one hand, Seonghwa is surprised because of the hell the whole process put them through. Surely his father would never want to put someone else through that?

On the other hand, he knows that that’s not how his father thinks. He is Director Park, a cold and calculating man who never does anything without a reason. Seonghwa severed his connections because his father thought it was strategic, a worthwhile sacrifice in a world where supervillains crawl in the dark and the light of the city.

Connections, his father had said, are targets.

So of course he would make Seonghwa do this, would force his hand like this, when he knows Seonghwa can’t refuse. He is a means to an end. He has never been useful, but he is obedient. Complacent.

Seonghwa’s hands curl into fists, crumpling the paper.

His father is terrible. Seonghwa knows it. But deep in his heart, despite everything, he still loves him.

He still remembers warm nights under the stars as his father read him bedtime stories, as he used silly voices for all the characters to make Seonghwa laugh. The strings on his father’s fingers were vibrant, then, pretty little things that Seonghwa loved to tie and untie into clumsy knots.

He hoped that it wouldn’t come to this—where he’d become another weapon in his father’s arsenal. Seonghwa already knows quite well that that’s how he sees all the students here: little pistols growing closer and closer to turning the safety off, ready to be fired.

Severing a life string. Severing a connection that has persisted through lifetimes. A shot to these people’s heads would be easier, less permanent. At least then they would see each other in their next life.

Seonghwa pulls his knees to his chest, ignoring how the edge of the desk digs into his legs. He reminds himself to breathe, that taking deep breaths will give him more air, that he’s not dying, he’s not dying, you’re not dying, Park Seonghwa, get a grip—

And he cries. He weeps into his sleeves, hiding under his arms, stifling every sob and every pathetic whine. He feels like a kid again, watching helplessly as his parents’ string crumbles, as his own hands tear apart strings.

“I don’t want to do this,” he murmurs to himself, a reminder that he is not a monster. “I don’t want to.”

But he has to.

The realization is crushing; it is a landslide that takes the floor out from under him and dumps the ceiling on his head. He suffocates underneath it and falls at the same time, the dark swallowing him whole, and the dark looks like the dark of his father’s eyes, and he hears him yelling, hears him say, Park Seonghwa, are you a child? Do you hear what I’m saying?

Seonghwa never had a choice. Part of him wants to march his way to his father’s office, slam his fists down and yell at him for once, but that part is small and flighty, easily overtaken by the fear that swallows him whole at the thought of disobeying.

If he disobeys, he will be estranged. He will lose the only thing he has left; his father’s string will finally snap. He can’t do that. He can’t.

In the end, he is nothing but a coward.

⬷⤐

Wooyoung is a boisterous presence that warms the dorm room with the light and energy of a sparkler. He’s kind and talks with Seonghwa often, but he can never sit still for long, as if his innate fire urges him forward. As a result, he makes friends quickly over the next few days, and with the impending mission hanging over Seonghwa’s head, it’s easy to evade him.

When Thursday rolls around, Seonghwa hardly notices. Stress has taken away his sleep and his appetite, leaving him weak and drowsy throughout the week, blurring the days together. Assignments are merely routine after three years of monotony.

Thursdays, though—Thursdays are always different.

They’re the weekday dedicated to one-on-one practice led by a specialized mentor. Most students only have one, since this teacher is meant to be experienced and capable in the student’s magic. Seonghwa isn’t so lucky.

Wooyoung had been in awe that Seonghwa was capable of such rare magic. He’d called it legendary. Seonghwa can only call it a hassle, because how can he learn more about something that no one knows about?

Due to the lack of specialization, his mentors always change. They try to teach him discipline, patience, the things that all magic users should know. They aren’t bad lessons, but they also aren’t anything new for a student in his third year. After all, one-on-one practice is meant to tackle an individual’s magic, to embrace it as a niche and answer any questions on how to hone it.

Today, his mentor is someone he’s never seen before. She’s lithe, with a small face and long hair pulled into two braids. She has clothes fit for training—a cropped shirt, leggings, tennis shoes. Her face brightens when he walks in.

“Seonghwa-yah, hello!” She bows her head.

He dips his head as he drops off his bag in one of the chairs along the wall. Hopefully, the soup Wooyoung made for breakfast will hold him over. If Seonghwa has to do any physical training, the two hours of sleep he got may get the better of him.

“I’m Song Chohwi! But you can just call me Miss Chohwi,” the woman says with a smile. “I’ll be your mentor for today.”

Seonghwa stops tightening his shoelaces. His heart pounds like an alarm.

“Seonghwa-yah?”

He whips his head up, quickly nodding. “Ah, y-yes. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Are you nervous?” She crouches down to be level with him. Her eyes are kind. “Honestly, me, too,” she whispers, like it’s a secret. “Director Park told me what you’ll be doing.”

Seonghwa swallows, digging his nails into his palms. He can’t look her in the eyes anymore.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, because what else can he say?

She’s quiet for a moment, watching him with a sad smile. “It’s all right. It’s to help you.”

He doesn’t want her help if this is what it costs. He doesn’t want to cut her string because he would be a monster for tearing apart people who are fated to connect, for tearing apart soulmates, because even though he’s an adult, he still believes in silly fairytales. He doesn’t want to hurt anyone.

But as he looks up at her, sees the determination in her face, hears the beating of his heart in his ears, he knows he has no choice in the matter. He never has. Maybe she knows that, too.

“Have you eaten?” Miss Chohwi asks, standing up. Seonghwa follows.

“I have.” He clears his throat. “Have you?”

“No, I’m planning to after this.” She laughs. “Don’t be like me, okay? Eat well before practice.”

Seonghwa smiles, but it feels mechanical. “I will.”

“Okay, now, it’s time to start!” She rolls her shoulders and shakes out her arms, exaggerated, obviously trying to cheer him up. She hasn’t stopped smiling. “How many strings do I have, Seonghwa-yah?”

She puts her hands forward and spreads out her fingers like she’s at a nail salon.

“You have five, but you used to have eight,” he says, carefully counting the ones that remain and the indents that show the ones she lost. “Two familial-” he goes to touch her finger but he stops himself, eyes wide as he looks at her. “Sorry, may I touch you?”

“Oh, so polite.” She laughs. “Yes, you may. It’s part of your magic, isn’t it?” She wiggles her fingers.

“I guess so,” he says, sheepish as he laughs. “Um, these two are familial.” He touches her index finger and middle finger on her left hand. “And then these are platonic.” He taps her right ring finger and left ring finger. “And then this is- this is the strongest connection, I think.” He nudges her right pinky, making the string shake.

“They’re different colors, right?”

“Familial is green, platonic is yellow.” Seonghwa pauses. “The pinky string always changes color. I don’t know why. It’s different per person.”

“Really? What color is mine?”

“Pale blue. Like the sky.”

Her eyes shine. “Oh! That’s my favorite color!”

Seonghwa smiles softly. “Yeah, they usually are.”

“Favorite color for your favorite person! I think it fits.” She beams, eyes crinkling.

Seonghwa’s breath stutters in his lungs. He looks away, unable to mention how he thought the same thing.

“Now!” Miss Chohwi wiggles her fingers again. “Let’s see if any of my strings react to my husband’s name!”

Seonghwa’s tongue turns sour as cold dread freezes his bones. He keeps his eyes on the strings and away from her face.

“Lee Siwoo,” she says. They both ignore how her voice shakes.

Immediately, the string on her pinky twinkles, glowing so brightly that Seonghwa winces. Like this, it’s easy to understand why he used to think the strings were made of stardust. No, now that he looks at it closer, it looks as though stars are embedded between the threads, alive and sparkling.

“I’m guessing one of them did.” Miss Chohwi laughs, but it’s strained.

“Yeah,” he mumbles. He holds her pinky. “This one.”

“It really does fit.” Her voice is distant now, her eyes hollow despite the smile on her face. “That confirms it, then. Go ahead, Seonghwa-yah. Do you know how to cut it?”

Oh, Seonghwa has. He’s cut them himself as if he was cutting through sinew, tearing muscle from bone as if he were a butcher.

He’s also seen strings stretch impossibly thin as the relationship wavers until it’s nothing more than a single thread. He’s seen it snap in two, color draining from both ends like paint sucked out of a canvas. At least that would be kinder to her—at least that would be fated, an assurance that a broken relationship would lead to later happiness and fulfillment.

This is taking away that fate. It’s taking away the connection she holds most dear. What is Seonghwa if not a monster?

He looks at her, sees how she’s biting her lip, feels how her hand shakes.

“Are you sure?” he asks.

And she smiles, so sad, so defeated, acceptance written across her face.

“I’m sure, Seonghwa-yah,” she says.

Slowly, he moves his hand up from hers to trace the shape of the string. It’s loose, showing there’s quite a bit of distance between her and her husband. There’s no hint of his color that Seonghwa can see; it is only pale blue, as endless as the sky.

He grips the string with both hands. He tries to ignore how his heart slams against his ribs and his lungs, protesting so loudly that it seems to echo in this too small room. As always, there is a heartbeat in the string itself, a calm ba-bump ba-bump ba-bump.

He squeezes his eyes shut. In his head, he apologizes to Miss Chohwi, to her husband, to their family, to Wooyoung for fooling him into thinking Seonghwa is a nice person. He begs any divinity that will listen to forgive him.

He pulls the string apart.

Almost too easily, it snaps, so loud that his ears ring. As if lightning had just snapped down between his hands, a tingle zips up his arms, spreading goosebumps across his skin. The breath is ripped from his lungs.

He opens his eyes to see the color bleed out from where he snapped it, pale blue sky overcome by gray twilight and then nothing at all, dissipating in his hands. His hands hover in the air as he tries to grab the dust that remains. It only falls through his fingers.

A few seconds after it snaps, Miss Chohwi gasps, her other hand clutching her chest.

“Miss Chohwi?” Seonghwa’s eyes widen. “Are you okay? I’m so sorry, fuck, oh, my god, I shouldn’t-”

“Watch your mouth, Seonghwa-yah,” she says, teasing, but pain turns the corners of her mouth down. “I’m- I’m all right. It’s okay. You did- you did well.”

Seonghwa can only watch as she bends over, breaths coming out in sharp gasps, still clutching her chest. It’s as if she lost her heart, like it tumbled out of her through the string and splattered onto the floor before it dissipated into dust, too.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Seonghwa murmurs like a prayer, bowing his head as he half-collapses to the ground. He wants to cry, wants to sob, wants to rip off his strings because he doesn’t deserve them—

“Seonghwa-yah,” Miss Chohwi gasps out, reaching for his wrists. She’s still breathing heavily, but she smiles at him. “It’s okay, it’s okay. You have nothing to- to apologize for. You did what you were assigned.”

“But I- but Miss Chohwi-” He sobs, unable to wipe away his tears. “I didn’t- I didn’t want to do that-”

“Park Seonghwa.” Her eyes bore into his. “Don’t say that. Don’t ever say that. You want what your father wants.” Her face softens. “Even if you don’t think so. It’s the only way to survive here.”

“But he’s going to tell me to do this again,” Seonghwa says, tears still dripping. Desperately, he tries to reach for the anger that sparks in his gut instead of the wave that threatens to overcome him. “I can’t- I won’t do this again.”

He stumbles to his feet, Miss Chohwi’s hands falling from his wrists. “I- I’ll convince him- I’ll tell him to-”

“Seonghwa,” she pleads. “Don’t. You’re being naïve. You’ve known him longer than any of us. Surely you know the consequences by now.”

Seonghwa’s body locks up as his father’s words reverberate through his head, ricocheting like gunshots, the recoil leaving him gasping for breath. His chest heaves, his lungs ache, his hands shake, fuck, he can’t stop shaking—

What is all of this for? It’s not for him, despite what his father says. It’s not for Miss Chohwi, who just had her heart ripped out of her.

Her skin has paled, and her breaths are shallow. She looks so small on the floor, so lost, so defeated. Directionless. He took away her sky.

He cowers away, suddenly feeling like the walls are closing in on him, like the floor is about to drop out from under him. He swears the snap of the string is still echoing, that he can still hear that ba-bump ba-bump ba-bump—

He grabs his bag and runs.

As the school director’s son, Seonghwa should hold his head high. He should stand tall and proud, be polite, poised, prepared, just as he was taught. He should carry himself with a confidence borne out of birthright. Power should’ve been given to him with the name he holds above his head like a crown. Instead, there is only a dreadful weight that pulls his head down, down, down, crashing down onto his shoulders until he is as small as he feels.

Never strong. Never useful. Never enough. How can a boy wear a crown when it’s twice the circumference of his head? It only falls around his neck and presses down against his collarbones until he fears they will shatter.

So he runs.

At first, he relies on adrenaline, on how the blood rushes in his ears and throughout his veins to keep moving. In the midday sun, however, he quickly loses energy.

Once he realizes his legs are shaking with his own weight, he stumbles onto a bus without reading any of the signs. It doesn’t matter where it takes him as long as it’s away.

There is hardly anyone else on the bus. In the quiet, the ache in his head becomes as sharp as a knife, and the burn of his hands could rival Wooyoung’s fire. His chest stings, too, right where his heart is. He can’t tell if it’s from his lungs struggling for air or if it’s a residual effect from severing a connection.

He dozes in and out throughout the ride before the driver presses so hard on the brakes that Seonghwa rocks forward and smacks his shoulder against the button to let him off.

Still drowsy from waking up, he blinks as the doors open. It isn’t until the driver sends him a look that he bows his head and hurries off.

He doesn’t know how long he rode the bus for, but it must have been for at least an hour because when he looks around, he sees he’s on the opposite side of the Han River. The water flows lazily as sunlight glints off of its waves.

Suddenly, something falls onto his head. He startles, hands reaching for it—he prays it isn’t a bug—before he realizes it’s only a petal.

When he looks up, the boughs of cherry blossoms greet him, as endless as Miss Chohwi’s sky. But from here, the pink and white of the blossoms block out the sky as they tremble and fall in the passing breeze. They hide him away from the burning sun, and in their shade, his shoulders relax and his hands stop burning.

He takes the last bench, eyes still glued to the cherry blossoms. Despite the dozens of couples that walk by with their strings tangled around each other’s fingers, Seonghwa can only stare at the petals as they continue to dance. They pirouette their way down like tiny ballerinas, fluttering and twirling to the ground.

Lost in the mesmerizing performance, he doesn’t notice the commotion a little ways away. A small crowd murmurs, displeased, as a boy runs through them. It’s only when he gets closer that Seonghwa sees him.

He’s short but fast, his mussed hair bouncing with every step as he weaves in between people. When he turns his head to look behind him, Seonghwa notices a collection of ear piercings, black and silver and gold, glinting in the sunlight just like the river had. He tries to get a read on his strings, but they’re only a blur of yellow and maybe one white before the boy is too close to—

Oh, shit, why is he coming towards him?

The boy vaults over the bench Seonghwa is sitting on, making it shake underneath him. Seonghwa’s eyes widen as he leans away, but when he goes to stand, he’s yanked back down by a hand on his arm.

“Please, can you just sit there for a second? Please?” the boy whispers from behind the bench.

When Seonghwa turns towards him, he sees the boy crouched down with his knees to his chest. He has a finger to his lips and a hand wrapped around that hand, shaking it, practically begging.

Seonghwa’s brow furrows. Before he can say anything, though, a voice booms from the direction the boy had come from.

“Kim Hongjoong-ssi! Kim Hongjoong-ssi, come back this instant! Where are you?” a man calls, hands cupped around his mouth as he looks around.

His hair is graying and his brow is carved with wrinkles, making him appear permanently concerned. He’s frowning in between shouts, turning to people to ask them something. He shakes his head in disappointment and continues walking down the street.

The boy shrinks down even further.

Seonghwa looks between them. He sighs, wonders how he got himself into whatever this is, and settles back into the bench as if the boy isn’t there at all.

“Excuse me,” the man says, approaching Seonghwa because of course he is. “Have you seen a boy about this tall?” He flattens his hand and brings it up to his shoulder. “He’s got a lot of piercings, should be wearing the Dongjak University uniform, but he always draws on it. He’s one of my students.”

Hearing this, Seonghwa should be quick to expose the boy as soon as possible. After all, Dongjak University is his rival school—his father’s rival in all ways imaginable. He’d want Seonghwa to exaggerate a bit, perhaps claim that the boy’s elbow slammed into Seonghwa’s face when he scrambled to hide behind him.

But Seonghwa is tired. And he’s curious.

“I’m sorry,” he says, painting on an apologetic smile as he bows his head. “I haven’t seen him.”

The man sighs but gives Seonghwa a strained smile and a thank-you before he leaves. After he continues down another street and disappears from view, the boy pops up from behind the bench.

“Thank you so much,” he says. He gives Seonghwa a toothy grin that’s a twinge too sharp. “That was pretty close, huh?”

Seonghwa studies him, caught by how familiar his eyes are. His features are sharp, angular, much like his smile, entirely new to him, but his eyes…

“I’m Hongjoong, in case you couldn’t tell from all the yelling,” the boy says. He reaches out his hand for Seonghwa to shake.

Six yellow strings, one white. The last one is shining, as if made out of glistening pearls. Seonghwa’s stomach flips. Surely that doesn’t mean what he thinks it means?

But as he reaches out to shake Hongjoong’s hand, his silver string starts glowing, too, as if it were glistening in the sun. It’s shorter now, allowing him to follow it all the way to the other side as metallic silver blends into perfect white.

At the same time, a tingle shoots up Seonghwa’s arm, followed by a few more as if he were shocked by friction. He bites his tongue to stifle a gasp, watching as five yellow strings materialize around his fingers.

Seonghwa feels like he’ll pass out all over again.

“Uh, aren’t you going to say your name?” Hongjoong asks, cocking his head. His lips pout slightly, subconsciously, as his brow twitches. All of his mannerisms are so achingly familiar.

“Sorry,” Seonghwa mumbles, unable to meet his eyes. “I’m Seonghwa.”

Hongjoong smiles again, teeth poking through his lips. “Nice to meet you. It’s good to put a name to the face that saved me from writing ten pages of apologies.”

Seonghwa is sure he looks like a mess after the day he’s had. He’d hastily thrown his hair into something of a bun slash ponytail—it’s getting too long again—when he was on the bus and now, he’s sure several petals are sticking out of it. After running through Seoul, he also sweat through his dress shirt, so he tied his jacket around his waist and pulled off his tie to shove it into a pocket.

It’s a poor way to introduce himself to the person who’s meant to be his longest-standing connection, the only one that wasn’t hanging on a thread until Wooyoung showed up.

He wants to sleep. He wants to stare at the cherry blossoms until the sun sets. He wants anything but this.

In spite of that, he laughs, looks up at Hongjoong as if it’s second nature, his heart pounding louder than his brain.

“You’ll probably be doing more than that once you go back,” he says.

Hongjoong laughs, too, then, and Seonghwa’s smile brightens. Hearing that laugh reminds him of his favorite childhood song, back when he danced around his room and used his mom’s hairbrush as a microphone to sing along.

He misses those days. God, he misses them.

Hongjoong shrugs as he stands. “I bought myself more time. Sometimes that’s all you need.”

“Wow, hyung, where’d you hear that?” someone asks, unfamiliar and unimpressed.

Three boys approach them, and based on their teasing smiles, they must be Hongjoong’s friends. The one who spoke has poorly dyed red hair, his black roots grown out. The other two seem to have taken less liberties with their hair, as one of them only has a silver streak and the other only has a blond streak. There must be a story there.

The one with the red hair is Seonghwa’s height, but the others are tall and broad, muscles visible through their uniforms. All of them bear the Dongjak University emblem, which is interesting considering class should still be in session.

Their strings tangle around their feet, making it hard for Seonghwa to pick them out. A lot of yellow, very little green, gold, and maybe two shades of blue?

“You know, I finally got him to watch some movies with me-”

“Shut up.” Hongjoong scowls, crossing his arms as he turns towards them. “Can’t you see I was talking to someone?”

When they look at Seonghwa, he awkwardly bows his head in greeting.

“Hello!” the one with red hair says, dimples appearing with his smile.

“Thank you for taking care of our Hongjoongie hyung,” the one with a silver streak says. His smile is cheeky but his eyes are kind.

The third one says nothing, instead smiling shyly as he nods and bows his head in thanks.

“We thought you were dead meat, hyung.” The one with a silver streak laughs. “Any time technology starts acting up, they blame you.”

“I know!” Hongjoong clenches his jaw. “It wasn’t even intentional this time. My magic was just being weird.”

“Then why’d you run away?”

Hongjoong gives him a look. “Do you really think they’d believe me if I told them that?”

The three boys share a glance.

“But how come Mr. Yoo didn’t find you? We thought you’d be dragged back,” the one with red hair says.

Hongjoong grins as he gestures towards Seonghwa, taking his attention away from the cherry blossoms. “This nice friend, of course!”

The one with red hair frowns. “Did he get in trouble for you?”

Hongjoong’s grin falls. “No! Is that what you think of me?” He huffs. “He just covered for me, that’s all. I hid behind him and when Mr. Yoo asked him if he saw me, he said no.”

His friend squints at Seonghwa. “Is this true? Did he bribe you?”

Seonghwa covers his mouth as he laughs. “No, he didn’t bribe me.”

Hongjoong smacks his arm. “Yah! Stop that! You’ll make him think I’m a weird type of person.”

The one with a silver streak laughs. “Hyung, you are a weird-”

Hongjoong smacks him, too. “No, I’m not!”

“Ow!” The boy holds his arm as if he was shot, but he’s smiling too much to pull it off.

Hongjoong ignores him. “You should be thanking Seonghwa-ssi for helping me, not badmouthing me in front of him! What’s wrong with you two?”

“Oh! His name is Seonghwa!” The one with a silver streak leans towards him. “It’s nice to meet you! I’m Yunho, that’s San”—he points at the one with red hair—“and that’s Mingi!” He points at the one with the blond streak. “He’s a bit shy, don’t mind him.”

“Do you go to Dongjak, too?” San asks.

Seonghwa’s skin prickles with anxiety. “Oh, I-”

“Ey, obviously not!” Yunho elbows San. “He’s not wearing the uniform!”

San wrinkles his nose at him. “He’s wearing some kind of uniform!” He turns back to Seonghwa. “What school do you go to, then?”

Seonghwa fidgets with his fingers, lets the texture of his strings calm him back down. “Uh- just, you know, some school-”

Yunho bends over as he tilts his head, looking at him upside down. “No fucking way! You’re an Eunpyeongie!”

“What?” San and Hongjoong ask at the same time.

“Yeah! The emblem’s on his jacket!” Yunho points to it. He must’ve bent over to see the emblem better.

“Damn, what are you doing on this side of the river?” Hongjoong asks, turning back to Seonghwa.

Seonghwa smiles nervously. “I just- I wanted to go for a run.”

Scarily synchronized, the others turn to Mingi.

He stares at Seonghwa for a long moment before he looks back at his friends. He shrugs and nods.

“He’s telling the truth,” he says, voice surprisingly deep. “Mostly, anyway.”

Hongjoong narrows his eyes at Seonghwa. “This run didn’t have anything to do with Dongjak, did it?”

“No! No, of course not!” Seonghwa waves his hands frantically. “I just- I ended up here. I met you by chance.”

The others turn to Mingi again.

“Huh,” he mumbles, tilting his head. His stare is unnerving, like he can see under Seonghwa’s skin.

“Is he lying?” Yunho asks.

“No,” Mingi says. “I’ve never felt this before. It’s like- it’s like what he said can’t possibly be wrong. It’s weird. I don’t know how to describe it.”

“Well, you feel all icky when someone lies, right?” Yunho says. “Is it the opposite now?”

Mingi hums, considering, before he nods. “It feels nice, like- like I’m reenergized? I guess?”

“Which part made you feel like that? The run?” Hongjoong asks.

Mingi pauses before he shakes his head. “I don’t think so, but that part was true, too. I think it was when he mentioned chance.”

Chance. Seonghwa’s skin buzzes at the word. He looks down at his strings.

They’re glowing. Each one shimmers as if it was made of sunlight. He might believe that’s all it was if the cherry blossoms didn’t block out the sky.

His breath shudders. He bites his lip, shuts his eyes to try and compose himself, because he’s meant to be polite, poised, and prepared for any situation. That includes seeing more strings appear and meeting most of those connections immediately after.

He’s not upset, exactly. He might be happy. He should be. But right now, he’s dizzy. His head aches.

Before, when Seonghwa severed his father’s connections, he was ordered to sever his own, too.

There were four of them, all yellow like dandelions. With shaking hands, he’d cut his own strings, drove his own blade into his own heart. Shivering on the floor, blood gushing from his nose, he stared at the indents on his fingers.

His father had shouted at him to continue, that he must have more than that, but Seonghwa couldn’t do it anymore. Even then, he couldn’t let go of his father, and the silver string shone like the moon, guiding him home. He hoped desperately that they would be enough, that they might fill the void the others left behind.

For years, they were, even as his father’s string deteriorated, growing thinner and thinner. His silver string, at least, remained the same.

(Sometimes, when Seonghwa couldn’t sleep, he’d pull back his curtains to let moonlight fall upon it. Like that, it appeared to glow, shining and sparkling with a light that was not its own. If only for a moment, he could believe it was real. He could believe it was enough.)

And then Wooyoung came.

He was a pleasant surprise. He was like a sign of forgiveness from the universe, a miracle inside a fiery boy’s body.

And then Seonghwa severed another connection, and it felt like he’d spat in the face of that miracle. He was not worthy of forgiveness; he was not worthy of strings at all.

And now- now what is he supposed to think?

A petal falls onto his hand, cool and delicate.

“-he okay?” San’s voice cuts through the haze in his head.

“Seonghwa-ssi?” Hongjoong sounds much closer now.

Seonghwa looks up to see him sitting beside him, his eyes scanning Seonghwa up and down. Instinctually, Seonghwa wants to lean towards him. He leans away instead.

“Yes?” Seonghwa asks, voice hoarse.

The others glance at each other.

“You zoned out there for a second,” Hongjoong says. “I almost thought you were having a panic attack or something.” He laughs, but it’s barely more than a forced breath.

“Are you all right?” Yunho asks, frowning.

Seonghwa blinks. He clears his throat, straightens his posture, clasps his hands together. Polite, poised, prepared. “I’m fine, thank you.”

“Lie,” Mingi says.

Seonghwa cringes.

“What happened? Did we say something that upset you?” San sits on Seonghwa’s other side.

Seonghwa chews his bottom lip. “No, I- no. It wasn’t you.”

Hongjoong’s eyes sharpen. “Was it your magic?”

Seonghwa freezes.

Hongjoong grins. “I knew it! It totally is, right?”

“It’s been acting strangely today, that’s all.”

Mingi hums, dissatisfied. “He keeps saying half-truths.”

Seonghwa grits his teeth. He’s never encountered a more annoying ability.

“It has nothing to do with y- with Dongjak. It has nothing to do with that,” he says. “So it doesn’t matter.”

“Maybe we can help!” Yunho smiles. “You saved our Hongjoongie hyung, after all.”

“Yeah!” San says. “What’s your magic?”

Seonghwa looks between all of them, his stomach churning with unease. He still doesn’t like the idea of revealing his magic, but Wooyoung had responded well. And these are supposed to be his soulmates, just like Wooyoung is.

“It’s kind of hard to explain,” Seonghwa says, looking down at his strings. “No one’s heard of it before, and there’s no record-”

“Oh! That sounds like hyung’s magic!” San nods at Hongjoong.

Seonghwa perks up. “Really?”

Hongjoong sends San a halfhearted glare before he smiles awkwardly at Seonghwa. “My magic has to do with radio waves. It’s weird. Almost didn’t get into Dongjak.”

“But it’s really cool! He even managed to upgrade his tier to silver because of all the improvement he made last year,” San says.

“I know that might seem low,” Hongjoong rushes to say. “But we don’t have as many high tiers as you do. Most of us are gold or silver.”

Seonghwa smiles, slightly forced. “No, that’s impressive. I’m silver, too.”

All four of them stare at him, surprised. The back of his neck burns with shame.

“I didn’t know Eunpyeong accepted silvers,” San mumbles.

Yunho nudges him. “That means Seonghwa-ssi’s magic must be really interesting!”

Seonghwa laughs, embarrassed. “It’s just- uh- it has to do with soulmates-”

All of them lean towards him, then, interested. Even Mingi takes a step closer.

“-or connections. They refer to them as connections, not soulmates, because-” Seonghwa shakes his head. “Whatever, it doesn’t matter. So the connections, they appear as strings to me. And- and we call them life strings because these connections span over lifetimes.”

He expects them to interrupt with questions, ask him if he’s serious, but they only stare. They’re not as eager as Wooyoung, but they hold the same pure wonder in their eyes.

“I can tell the nature of these connections based on the color and sometimes the placement.” Seonghwa looks down. “So, uh, yeah.”

They all ooh at him, impressed. His cheeks flush red.

San nudges his shoulder with his own. “You have such a cool ability! All I can do is gaslight people.”

“San-ah!” Hongjoong admonishes. “Don’t say that! Your magic is illusions. It’s a perfectly normal ability!”

“Seonghwa-ssi,” Yunho says, the tips of his ears pink. “Can you- can you tell me about my strings?”

Seonghwa laughs, endeared. He leans forward. “Sure I can, no need to be shy. Go ahead and show me your hands.”

Yunho holds out his hands. “How do they look?”

One green, six yellow, one bright cobalt blue. As Seonghwa follows them, he finds that his yellow strings connect to Hongjoong and San. The blue one connects to Mingi, its color turning into a much lighter blue from where it wraps around Mingi’s pinky.

Seonghwa pouts his lips and tilts his head. He’s never seen so many soulmates in the same place at the same time.

“Seonghwa-ssi?”

He looks up. “Sorry, I was just surprised.” He glances at the others. “It appears you’re all soulmates.”

“What?” Hongjoong asks, sitting up.

“All of us?” San looks between them.

Seonghwa nods. “Two platonic.” He uses two fingers to point at Hongjoong and San before he points his index finger at Mingi. “And then he’s your strongest connection. You’ve spent many lifetimes together.”

The strings all appear healthy, but their string is thick as a rope, casting a blue glow all around it.

“You also have four more platonic soulmates,” he says. “And a strong familial bond.”

The green string is thick, too. It emits a gentle glow even though it’s loose, indicating the person is far away. It’s a far cry from the wilted string on Seonghwa’s finger.

“How romantic!” San snickers. “Honestly, I’m not surprised. Yunho and Mingi have known each other since they were pooping their diapers.”

As Yunho and Mingi laugh, Seonghwa smiles. “Yes, that makes sense.”

“You mentioned chance before,” Hongjoong suddenly says. His eyes are piercing in their curiosity. “And then you- your magic acted up, right? What happened?”

Seonghwa’s smile falls. He looks back down. One green, six yellow, one silver. The same numbers as Yunho and Wooyoung.

“Strings aren’t supposed to change,” Seonghwa says quietly. “But I- I have more now. I don’t know why. I don’t know how.” His voice fades into a whisper. “It was a little overwhelming, sorry.”

“Hey, don’t be sorry for something like that.” San leans into Seonghwa’s side. Pins and needles spark from his touch, but he’s warm. Solid.

“They changed when you met us?” Yunho asks, surprised. “Does that mean-”

“Yes.” Seonghwa clutches his strings, tying and untying them. “I’m your soulmate, too. One of the platonic ones.”

It scares him. He wasn’t supposed to keep any of his strings, but now here he is with six more, all bright and warm like the sun. They’re soft in his hands, assuring in their weight, but his father’s voice persists: Connections are targets.

“Why didn’t you say that in the first place? Are we that bad?” Yunho asks, his tone lighthearted. He’s clearly joking, but Seonghwa still feels guilty.

“No! You all seem lovely, really, but-” He picks at his lip, unable to meet any of their eyes. “It’s a bit… complicated…”

“It seems simple enough to me,” Yunho says with a shrug. “You think we’re nice, and we think you’re nice. What’s the problem?”

Seonghwa looks at all of them, tries to memorize how Yunho’s eyes sparkle with an innate light, how Mingi always hovers behind Yunho, how warm San feels against his side, how Hongjoong pouts when he’s confused.

Now that they’re here, he doesn’t know if he can leave them, if their memory would be enough. He doesn’t know if he can do that again.

“I’ll figure it out,” Seonghwa says. His smile is small but soft. “You guys really don’t mind having an Eunpyeongie for a soulmate?”

“Ey, what are you saying?” Hongjoong raises his arm to smack him, but he hesitates and taps his shoulder with a curled fist instead. “We don’t care about that. Well, maybe at first we did, but you don’t seem insufferable.”

“And Mingi-yah already verified that you were telling the truth about all the Dongjak stuff,” San says. “So we know you’re not some spy or something.”

Seonghwa snorts. “No, I think I’d be pretty bad at something like that.”

They all share a glance that he doesn’t understand. Before he can ask, Yunho starts talking about a new game he started that he thinks they should all try. The others quickly ask him questions, interrupting each other then hitting each other then laughing.

Out of his depth, Seonghwa is content to watch. Hongjoong and San stay on either side of him, always returning after reaching up to smack one of the others. Hongjoong, in particular, gravitates towards him like a moon returning to orbit. He doesn’t seem to realize it.

On the other side of the Han River, surrounded by soulmates and cherry blossoms, Seonghwa’s voice is his own. There is no crown on his head that has fallen to crush his collarbones, and there is no void in his chest aching for warmth.

The petals continue to fall as the voices around him drone on, laughter tinkling like bells as the trees rustle around them. There is nowhere he’d rather be.

Chapter Text

난 모든 희생을 삼킨다 / I swallow all sacrifices

더, 더, 더 나를 버린다 / Abandon me more, more, more

– This World –

If it was up to Seonghwa, he would be perfectly happy forgetting the mission he carried out. In fact, he’d prefer it. He doesn’t quite like the weight it left on his shoulders, or how whenever he looks up at the midday sky, he can only see Miss Chohwi gasping for breath as she clutches her chest.

But it’s not up to him.

His father is pleased. He pats Seonghwa on the shoulder, says, That’s my Seonghwa-yah, as if he can mimic the days where there was no gray in his hair and there were more strings on his fingers.

All it does is send fire down Seonghwa’s arm, his touch too hot, too hard, against muscles pulled too taut. He swallows the bile that rises at the back of his throat when he sees his father’s proud smile.

Then he says, “I’ll assign you another mission next week,” and Seonghwa has to dig his nails into his palms to keep himself from throwing the chair he sits in into the window.

When he tries to protest, his father’s face darkens. He leans in, tightening his grip on Seonghwa’s shoulder.

“Do as you’re told,” he says, only an inch away from Seonghwa’s ear. “Or you’ll be thrown out onto the streets. Do you understand?”

Seonghwa shuts up after that.

To an extent, he’s grown accustomed to his father’s attitude towards him. The part that he never got used to was returning to a cold dorm with a cold bed. He’d stare up at his ceiling or open his curtains to stare at the moon. Sometimes he’d cry, and sometimes he’d float away, not quite asleep.

His soulmates—yes, his soulmates, he still can’t believe they’re real—bring a certain warmth to his chest, a light to his world that he can follow.

He never felt welcomed at Eunpyeong. When he walks down the halls, he smiles politely at his peers if they lock eyes, but they always look away without so much as a nod. Crowds go quiet when he enters a room and eyes burn into him when he isn’t looking. No one ever wants to work with him on assignments, and when they’re forced to, they’re curt, professional, as if they’re afraid of upsetting him.

Park Seonghwa, they say, is only here because of his dad.

Park Seonghwa, they say, won’t graduate for another ten years.

Park Seonghwa, they say, will never be a superhero.

Their whispers follow him like a shadow, always out of reach, never in direct view. He never sees the people that say such words, but he hears them. He feels them.

Wooyoung is a breath of fresh air. He’s bright and warm and fearless, following Seonghwa on campus with an arm around his shoulders. He waits for him outside of his classes, drags him away from the dining hall to cook him some “proper food,” and when he thinks Seonghwa isn’t looking, he glares at the students that linger around them too long.

His social life is much more active than Seonghwa’s is, apparent in how often Wooyoung talks about his friends. He goes to parties and club events, and he’s nice enough to invite Seonghwa, but he always declines. He doesn’t think the other attendees would appreciate him showing up, and he doesn’t want to ruin what Wooyoung has going for him.

He doesn’t say it, but Seonghwa knows Wooyoung has cut off friendships because of him. Certain names stop being mentioned. If reminded, Wooyoung pauses, his jaw tensing as he grits his teeth, before he quickly changes the subject.

Part of Seonghwa feels guilty for taking away his friends. The other part of him is grateful to have someone sticking up for him.

The boys from Dongjak fill Seonghwa’s phone with their ramblings in the group chat he was added to. They talk about games and dramas and work, and while it’s all inconsequential, reading their messages reminds him that they’re there, that meeting them in the park wasn’t just a dream.

Seonghwa rarely talks in the group chat because he often has nothing to say. Their dynamics with each other are cute and funny, and he doesn’t want to interrupt it. Despite that, they always drag him into their debates, calling him their tiebreaker even before anyone has voted. At the very least, he’s never bored.

All of it is new to him. He had friends when he was younger, but after Eunpyeong University gained more prestige, his peers started looking at him differently. Once he hit high school, he resigned himself to a quiet life of studying.

(He wanted to go to Seoul National. He studied every year, attended academies after school, aced all of his exams. He dreamed of becoming a dancer back then, but his father told him that it would be shameful for a son not to attend his father’s school. He claimed that he’d make something out of him.)

So when Yunho messages him asking if he can fill in for Mingi for dinner at his grandmother’s house, Seonghwa has to stare at the text for a full two minutes. Excitement bubbles under his skin, ripples out until his heart feels like it will explode into a kaleidoscope of butterflies.

Yunho wants to see him. Yunho wants to introduce his grandmother to him. Yunho wants to eat with him. Yunho wants to hang out!

Seonghwa and Wooyoung hang out, but they live together. They practically have to. This is different; this is a decision that Yunho made. Out of all the people he could’ve picked, he chose Seonghwa.

It’s easy to say yes, even if he has to ride the subway for three hours to get to Gwangju. Yunho apologizes for the distance, but Seonghwa insists that he’s honored to come.

He’s never had a reason to ride the subway for so long. Hopping from station to station feels a little like an adventure, a great journey to get to Yunho’s grandmother’s house. He stares at the blurry windows and imagines that the buzzing of the subway is the charging of power, building anticipation towards a magnificent climax.

When he boards a bus for the last leg of the trip, he stares out the windows with wide eyes. High above the setting sun, the sky fades from dark blue to purple then pink where it kisses the sun’s orange glow. Far off in the distance, Seonghwa can see the sea, the waves sparkling in the dwindling sunlight.

Birds chirp at one another as they dance in the sky, swooping and twirling without a care in the world. For a moment, Seonghwa thinks he could be like them.

Yunho’s grandmother lives on the outskirts of the city by the Yeongsan River. She still has a few neighbors, all of their houses blocked off by high stone walls. It’s clearly an older residential area; the walls are stained and weathered and the address signs are faded. But there are little signs of life throughout the neighborhood: a basket of persimmons, a sun hat draped over a gate, a bright pink umbrella leaning against a half-full recycling bin.

Yunho texted him that he doesn’t have to knock, so Seonghwa passes through the correct gate with light steps and a soft hello.

Her house is small and old, its tin roof chipped and its walls peeling. But the courtyard is flourishing with herbs and flowers, emitting a warmth that reminds Seonghwa of Yunho.

Upon the steps to the house, there is a small old lady. Her hair is white and streaked with gray, but when she turns her eyes to Seonghwa, they light up with an ageless joy. Her eyes curl with crow’s feet as she stumbles to stand, bowing her head as she approaches him.

“You must be Seonghwa! Come in, come in!” She waves her hand for him to come closer.

Three green strings, three yellow, one light pink. Only two of them hold any light.

Seonghwa bows ninety degrees. “Thank you for having me, halmeoni.”

The word is foreign on his tongue. His grandparents moved overseas when he was a child, so he has no relationship with either of them. It never bothered him, but now, he’s feeling vastly unprepared.

Yunho’s grandmother smiles. One of her teeth is missing, but she smiles the same exact way Yunho does—a little bashful with a squeeze of their eyes, the corners of their lips curling up.

“Oh, so polite! Come, leave your shoes over there. My Yunho-yah just went to grab something. He’ll be back soon.”

She guides him to a low table set out by a bush of pink azaleas. A lantern glows from the center of the table, casting shadows over the spread of banchan and bowls of jjigae.

“It looks delicious,” Seonghwa says as he rests on his knees on one of the mats.

She laughs, sharp and slightly hoarse, as she sets down two bottles of makgeolli. “Thank you, dear. Tell me, do you drink? Our Yunho just turned nineteen a couple weeks ago. I was thinking we should celebrate.”

“I don’t, but I think that’s a great idea.”

Her smile widens. “Yes, I thought so, too! It will be a nice surprise.” As she pours the alcohol into a ceramic bowl, she grins mischievously at him. “Just like you. I never would’ve expected such a handsome man to come all this way to eat dinner with an old lady like me.”

Seonghwa laughs behind his hand, surprised. “Ah, halmeoni, I’m honored to be here. Your home is lovely.”

“My husband and I have gardened together for almost thirty years now. We’ve almost perfected it, but there are still things we learn every year.”

She settles onto one of the mats and pulls a blanket over her lap. “Yunho-yah used to help us, before he graduated and left for Dongjak. The flowers loved him and his light.” She sighs. “Do you know Mingi, dear? He lived a few houses down. He’d always come by for dinner, and he’d help too, but he was not very good at it.”

She laughs again before it tapers off into another sigh. “Ah, that poor boy. He tried very hard, you know, but plants often have a mind of their own.”

Seonghwa is silent for a moment as he looks around. Some of them he recognizes, like the azaleas and tulips, but there are garden beds full of green plants he can’t identify. Chives, maybe, and rosemary? There are peppers, too, growing along stakes.

“My mom also liked to garden,” he says, still looking over the plants. “She’d grow all kinds of vegetables, like zucchini and squash. But she liked growing chrysanthemums the most. She’d use them to make tea.”

He looks down at the table. “It tasted the best when I was sick.”

Yunho’s grandmother hums. “It always does. Us mothers—we put our love in those things, no matter how cheesy that sounds. We cook it up, mix everything together, and the whole time we’re thinking, ‘Please help my baby get better.’”

She puts a hand over his and squeezes it once. “I’m sure she did, too. Maybe you could start growing your own chrysanthemums, dear, see how they turn out.”

Seonghwa looks up to see her smiling at him, a sad knowing in her eyes and the corners of her mouth.

“Halmeoni! I’m back!” Yunho calls.

The gate creaks open and closed, a plastic bag crinkling as he makes his way over to them.

“Oh! You’re already here, hyung,” he says as he sits down. He looks between them. “You haven’t been talking about me, have you?”

His grandmother pulls away from Seonghwa as she laughs. “Only a little, aegi. Nothing embarrassing.”

Seonghwa smiles at Yunho. “I was told Mingi is bad at gardening, though.”

Yunho barks out a laugh as he plops down the plastic bag. “Yeah, he was awful at it. And he always felt bad because he ended up killing so many flowers.”

His grandmother clicks her tongue. “They were worthy sacrifices, I’m sure they didn’t mind.” She smiles, though, amused. “Usually, I’d say to keep practicing, but he only seemed to get worse, the poor thing.”

She suddenly sits up. “Ah, Yunho-yah, this is for you.” She slides the bowl of makgeolli towards him. “Your friend doesn’t drink, but we wanted to celebrate your nineteenth birthday. It’s a shame Mingi couldn’t make it.”

She glances at Seonghwa with that same mischievous smile. “But Seonghwa-yah is lovely. You didn’t tell me how handsome he was! Polite, too.”

Yunho snorts, the tips of his ears flushing pink. “Halmeoni, please, don’t scare him away. We only met last week.”

She blinks. “Only last week? You should’ve met him sooner!”

“He goes to Eunpyeong! How would we have met?”

“Eunpyeong?” She turns back to Seonghwa. “Lucky you. Do you want to be a superhero, too?”

Seonghwa should say yes. He should talk about how much he looks up to the heroes of Seoul, or talk about how much he wants to help people. It’s what his classmates say. It’s what he should think.

But he never had a choice in that, either.

“I’m just trying to learn more about my magic,” he says. “Not much is known about it.”

Yunho stops sipping his makgeolli. “Oh, right, halmeoni, you don’t know!” He sets down the bowl. “Seonghwa hyung has soulmate magic! You know that one fable about the string of fate? It’s like that but with, like, a whole bunch of strings.”

“Oh?” She smiles. “How unique. All Yunho can do is summon light.”

“Hey!” Yunho pouts. “It helped the plants, didn’t it? And you’re an elemental, too!”

“You are?” Seonghwa asks.

She nods and points her finger at one of the peppers. It doubles in size and ripens into a brilliant red. “It comes in handy with the garden.”

“But she likes watching them grow naturally.” Yunho grins. “I think it’s because they taste better.”

“Yah, my magic doesn’t affect the taste!” She flicks his ear with a chopstick. “Go on and eat. I made sokkoritang just for you, and soegogi-muguk in case that isn’t enough. Lord knows you can eat.”

She places a piece of kimchi on Seonghwa’s bowl of rice. “Here, dear, you hurry and eat, too. You’re too thin.”

Seonghwa-yah, eomma made all this food for you. What will the other mothers think when they see how thin my child is? You’re still growing. Hurry and eat!

He bites his lip and blinks back the tears that tickle his waterline. Beside him, Yunho reaches out to swipe a piece of beef from his grandmother’s bowl. She glowers at him but gives him another.

Slowly, he chews the kimchi and rice. It’s different from his mom’s—not as sour, a little sweeter. But it’s nice. It’s warm. He spoons some of the sagol-gukmul, adds a piece of beef, pops it into his mouth and follows it up with more rice.

“Be careful, Seonghwa-yah, it’s hot,” Yunho’s grandmother says, watching him. “Is it okay?”

He swallows. His smile is shaky but real. “It’s delicious. Thank you, halmeoni.”

Neither she nor Yunho point out how his voice shakes. Instead, they smile the same gentle smile.

“Halmeoni’s cooking is the best,” Yunho says. “Mingi really loves it, too, especially since his parents are always busy.”

“Where is that brat, anyway? He was supposed to be here.”

Yunho’s chewing slows. “His dad’s in the hospital.”

The table goes silent. The crickets and cicadas buzz.

“What? Oh, goodness, is he all right?”

“Probably. The doctors said it was some freak accident.” Yunho moves his rice around with his spoon. “He thought he was having a heart attack, and he was having heart palpitations, but they just went away out of nowhere. They’re thinking magic was involved.”

His grandmother frowns. “That’s terrible. Siwoo-yah has always been a bit frail; I hope he takes a break off of work to recuperate. I’ve been telling him to take time off for years.”

Seonghwa’s heart thuds. Siwoo. Surely that can’t be Miss Chohwi’s husband? But when he thinks about it, thinks back to the text messages from the Dongjak boys, he remembers them calling Mingi by his full name.

Song Mingi.

Immediately, the food crumbles into ash in Seonghwa’s stomach. The voices around him fade out, and he can only hear the ba-bump ba-bump ba-bump of the string he cut. He never got to see the color of Siwoo’s string. Was it blue like his wife’s and his son’s? What shade was it? Dark, light?

Before, the plants brought him comfort, a certain familiarity that he missed. Now, they all feel like eyes burning into him, whispering, Monster, monster, monster.

He does not belong here.

⬷⤐

Seonghwa already knows he’s being lied to.

He doesn’t need Mingi’s magic to tell. The signs are all there.

The evening starts simply enough. Seonghwa follows Professor Oh as she rattles off all the tasks he has until the next class comes. Despite his peers’ distrust of him, most of the staff favors him and allows him to work as their assistant. He’s not sure how genuinely they like him—his father is their boss, after all—but he likes the work.

Once she gives him a stack of papers to grade, she turns back around and tells him to go, that he can drop the papers off here in her classroom even if the lights are off.

Before Seonghwa can ask about the door being locked, she throws him the keycard and waves her hand, bringing forth a gust of wind to shut the door in his face.

Needless to say, Professor Oh is not one of the ones that particularly likes him.

He settles in one of the benches set in the communal space a little ways away. It’s late, so there are no other students. He’s been hiding from Wooyoung and all of his other soulmates lately, so he appreciates the solitude.

By the time he’s done with the papers, his eyes hurt from staring at too many words and his wrist is cramped from correcting too many grammar mistakes with a pen that bleeds too easily. His hands are stained and he has to blink away the bleariness that creeps into his periphery.

When he approaches the classroom, he notices the lights are dim, but not off. Why would they be dim? Professor Oh should’ve left already.

He peeks further into the square window at the top of the door, standing at the tips of his toes to try and see if she’s inside.

The only things he sees are silhouettes of three people. It seems like they’re in a heated discussion since they keep gesturing with their hands and arms. Their strings are still visible to him, though, tangled together in muted hues of green and yellow. When one of the figures raises their hand, an orange string rises with it, swaying as they move.

He watches the silhouettes for a second longer before the colors start to give him a headache. But when he turns to leave, their voices change from muffled, indecipherable words to clear shouting.

“-can’t let them know! Are you crazy?”

“Director Park has it perfectly under control! We don’t need anyone knowing-”

“And we have Yeosang-ah to keep an eye out-”

“Is he really to be trusted? He’s just a student!”

“Yes, but Counselor Seo has convinced him to be on our side. Completely.”

“Completely?”

“Yah!”

Seonghwa flinches back, ducking under the window with a hand over his mouth. The sound of muffled chastising and approaching footsteps spur his feet forward before his brain can comprehend it.

Once he slips around the corner and out of view, he hears the door open. His heart pounds in his ears, his hand still over his mouth to stifle his breaths. He squeezes his eyes shut.

“There’s no one here, Junggil-ah, stop being paranoid.”

“I swear I saw-”

The door clicks shut and silence returns to the hall.

Seonghwa leans against the wall, frozen, as his chest heaves and his heart races. He definitely wasn’t supposed to hear any of that. He shouldn’t be here. He doesn’t know what any of it means but it sounds bad.

He dares a look around the corner and, upon seeing no one, hugs the papers and keycard to his chest and bolts.

His only thoughts are run, run, run and they don’t slow down until he’s in his dorm, the door slamming behind him as he kicks off his shoes. He throws his bag and the papers and the damn keycard to the side as he slides down to the floor. As he puts his head in his hands, he realizes how much he’s shaking.

He gulps down breath after breath and it doesn’t feel like enough, the adrenaline buzzing under his skin. He tells himself to calm down, get a grip, listen to me, Park Seonghwa, how do you think your behavior reflects—

He knocks his head back against the door, hushing his father’s voice. His breaths slow. He looks up at the ceiling, still shaking, unsure of what he heard.

It’s too late for there to be evening classes, and there were only three people. They all sounded like older adults, too, not like most students. And since they mentioned his father and Counselor Seo, they must be staff members. What were they doing talking in a dim room after hours?

It can’t have been anything good, not with how secretive they were being. They were talking about trust and sides and keeping things under control—what could any of it mean? Does it have to do with him?

“Hyung?” Wooyoung walks out from his room, rubbing his eyes. “What are you doing? It’s late.”

It’s been a few days since Seonghwa has seen him. His hair is ruffled from sleep, a mess of tangles atop his head that falls into eyes that are half-closed. There’s still soot on his fingers—he told Seonghwa that it never really goes away—and some soot stains on his shirt and sweatpants.

Seonghwa has drowned himself in assignments and assistant work for the professors, so he doesn’t return to the dorm until late at night. Wooyoung doesn’t deserve to come back to a cold dorm all alone, but Seonghwa is scared of what he’s become. He doesn’t want this to affect Wooyoung, too. He doesn’t want to cut any of his strings.

He completed his second mission two days ago. It was only cutting a yellow string, but it still made him so nauseous that he threw up in the bathroom. The man, Jang Haru, had cried silent tears. His fingers dug into his chest where his heart was, his knuckles white as he gripped his shirt.

Seonghwa wanted to forget about it, but then yesterday, his father assigned him another mission to be completed by the end of next week. Since then, his hands haven’t stopped burning.

He told himself he needs to be alone to do this. He’s stopped texting the Dongjak group chat. He’s stopped picking up coffee for him and Wooyoung every morning. He can’t let them go, but he can’t let them get too close, either.

And yet, here Wooyoung is, drowsy and sleep-soft. The only light in the room is the moon’s muffled glow from behind the curtains. It casts him in gray light, carving out his shoulders and his hair and the curves of his cheeks.

Seonghwa doesn’t know if he can keep his distance, not when his soulmates are so lovely, not when Wooyoung is one of them. Is it inevitable that he’ll ruin them?

At the thought, Seonghwa bursts into tears.

Immediately, Wooyoung is at his side. “Hyung! Hyung, hey, what’s the matter?”

Wooyoung is always the one to initiate skinship. He loves through touch, though pinches and hugs and squeezes. But now, Seonghwa is the one to reach out his arms to wrap himself around Wooyoung, pushing through all the pins and needles to hide in his neck.

“Hey.” Wooyoung’s voice softens, his hands coming up to hold the back of Seonghwa’s head. “It’s okay, it’s okay. I’m here.”

Seonghwa sobs as he digs his forehead into Wooyoung’s shoulder. He squeezes him tight, afraid he’ll crumble into dust like all of those strings.

“I’m sorry,” Seonghwa chokes out. He’s not sure which thing he’s apologizing for. “I’m- I’m so sorry.”

“Yah, what are you talking about?” Wooyoung runs his hand through Seonghwa’s hair, sending a shiver down his spine. “There’s nothing for you to be sorry for.”

“There’s so- there’s so much, Young-ah,” Seonghwa whispers. “I don’t- I don’t know how to stop being bad.”

He wants to stop severing connections. He wants it all to stop so much that it hurts. But his hands are tied with a thin green string that should’ve been cut years ago, and they won’t stop fucking burning.

“Now you’re really talking nonsense. How the hell are you bad?”

Seonghwa chokes on a sob, starts gasping for breath through all of his tears, but he can’t face Wooyoung. He can’t look him in the eye or tell him all that he’s done.

“I can’t tell you,” he whispers. His voice breaks on the last syllable. “I’m- I’m not allowed. But I- I don’t want to- I don’t want to be bad. I just want it all to stop-” He dissolves into sobs that rip through his throat and his lips.

“Hyung,” Wooyoung says, soft, concerned. “Calm down, okay? You have to breathe.”

Calm down, Park Seonghwa, get ahold of yourself—

Calm down, Park Seonghwa, remember who you are—

Calm down, Park Seonghwa, fucking listen to me—

“I’m trying! I’m trying so- so hard-” Seonghwa sobs so hard that his head pounds. He can’t get his father’s voice out of his head, can’t stop how much his entire body trembles or how air just won’t get into his fucking lungs—

“Seonghwa-”

“I’m trying, I swear I’m trying, I just- I can’t-” His breath stutters as it catches on a sob. “I’m- I’ll be calm- I- I’ll do it-”

Reluctantly, he pulls away from Wooyoung. Cold air enters his lungs, leaving him gasping. He digs his nails into his thighs to ground himself, to try and calm down, calm down, calm down—

“Hyung,” Wooyoung says again, far away like smoke.

Seonghwa’s head is hazy as black spots bloom in the corners of his vision. He knows what it means. It means he’s not trying hard enough.

“I’m- I’m sorry,” he says, bowing his head until it meets the ground. He can’t breathe, he can’t calm down, he can’t—

“It’s okay, it’s okay, come back to me, hyung, I’m here,” Wooyoung says, and desperately, Seonghwa tries to grab onto his voice, tries to find its source.

“You haven’t done anything wrong. Nothing. Just breathe in, then out, okay? Like this.” Wooyoung loudly inhales, holds it, and then exhales. He starts it all over again until Seonghwa is able to mimic him. “That’s right. Keep doing that. You’re doing well, hyung.”

Gradually, the black spots disappear and he stops choking on every breath. His lungs still ache. His head still pounds. But when he blinks away tears, he realizes Wooyoung is holding both of his hands, intertwining their fingers. Their string has somehow wrapped around his wrist.

“You with me?” Wooyoung asks, tilting Seonghwa’s head up until they lock eyes. Concern lights up his face, his brow furrowed and lips turned down.

Seonghwa nods. He drops his eyes back down.

Wooyoung sighs, relieved. “Good. You kinda scared me there.” He reaches up to Seonghwa’s face to wipe away tear tracks.

“Sorry,” Seonghwa whispers, nearly inaudible.

“Stop saying that,” Wooyoung tuts. “I was just worried. Do you need me to get your dad?”

Seonghwa’s head shoots up. “No! No, you don’t- no, he- don’t-”

Wooyoung’s eyes widen. “Wow, okay, I won’t. I was just checking.”

Seonghwa bites his lip. “He doesn’t- he won’t-” He shakes his head. “He won’t like it.”

Wooyoung studies him. “Of course he won’t, he’s your dad.”

Seonghwa looks at Wooyoung’s chin instead of his eyes. “Right.”

“Has he ever helped you with this?”

Seonghwa’s gaze drops to his hands. “Um- well- kind of?”

“Kind of?”

“He-” Seonghwa’s breath shakes. “He causes them a lot. And then he tells me to- to calm down.”

“That’s it? He just tells you that?”

Seonghwa nods. He rubs Wooyoung’s string between his thumb and index finger. “I always try to. But I can’t.”

Wooyoung is quiet for a second. “I don’t like your dad.”

Seonghwa laughs, surprised. He looks up to see Wooyoung’s jaw clenched, his eyes dark, the same expression he wears when Seonghwa asks about someone he isn’t friends with anymore.

“If that happens again, come to me, okay? I’ll actually help you calm down instead of just telling you,” he says.

“Are you sure? I know it’s a lot-”

“I don’t care. You’re my friend.” Wooyoung squeezes his hand. “And I don’t like seeing you like that. You should be obsessively cleaning the dorm or something.”

Seonghwa smiles without hiding behind his hand. He looks down. “Okay.”

“Aigoo, so cute.” Wooyoung pinches his cheek.

The night ends with Wooyoung at the stove and Seonghwa wrapped in the blanket he accidentally burned on his first day. When they dig into their bowls of ramyeon, Seonghwa realizes his hands aren’t burning anymore.

⬷⤐

His third mission was worse.

He was ordered to cut two strings—one green, one yellow. The man, Lee Junwoong, remained stoic and cold throughout his meeting with Seonghwa. There were no pleasantries, no fake smiles, only reluctant acceptance. Seonghwa doesn’t know if he prefers it.

When he cut the first string, Junwoong hissed through grit teeth and curled his hands into fists. Seonghwa quickly cut the second string, hoping the pain would be over faster, but it only seemed to grow worse.

Junwoong collapsed to the ground, crying and wailing as he held his chest, just like all the others. When the pain seemed to subside, Seonghwa offered his hand to help him up, but the man flinched away and stumbled to his feet himself.

Seonghwa has gotten better at composing himself during missions, but that nearly broke him. Once Junwoong had left, Seonghwa ran to the bathroom to throw up and cool his burning hands in the sink.

It hasn’t gotten any easier.

Despite Wooyoung’s comfort, the guilt still wraps itself around Seonghwa’s shoulders. It digs its claws into him, breathes down his neck, calls him a monster when it’s too quiet. He can’t bring himself to disagree.

It’s another night where Wooyoung is away at a party, leaving the dorm to Seonghwa. He opened the curtains to let the moonlight filter through. He can’t see the stars from here, but Hongjoong’s string is bright in the light. It soothes him, just as it always has.

His phone pings.

He ignores it.

It pings again. And again. And again.

He glances at it.

Hongjoongie: elp

Hongjoongie: osl

Hongjoongie: hel p

Hongjoongie: hwha

Eyes wide, Seonghwa scrambles to open his phone. He presses on Hongjoong’s contact to call him, picking at his lips as it rings once, tw-

“Hwa,” Hongjoong says, voice strained.

“Hongjoong-ah!” Seonghwa sits up. “Where are you? Are you hurt?”

There’s muffled breathing on the other line, then a groan of what must be pain. “I- I’m close by, I think.” His breath stutters. “There’s a- there’s a church. And a high school across the- the street. I don’t know where I am exactly-”

“It’s okay, I might know where you are. Keep talking to me, Joong-ah.” Seonghwa holds his phone between his cheek and his shoulder as he tosses a first aid kit into his backpack and throws it over his shoulder. “What else do you see? Do you hear anything?”

As Hongjoong talks to him, Seonghwa slips on his shoes and pockets his keys, hurrying through the door.

He follows Hongjoong’s string through the streets, its glow bright enough to allow him to see when the orange streetlights aren’t enough. Crickets sing all around him, but he can only focus on Hongjoong’s voice, how it fades out for a few seconds before coming back far more forced.

“I see the church. I’m almost there. Just a little more, okay?” Seonghwa says, slipping into another alley. Hongjoong’s string guides him through a few more before he finally sees him.

Hongjoong is slumped against a wall, one hand holding his leg and the other clutching his phone. He startles when Seonghwa turns down the alley, but his shoulders immediately relax.

“Seonghwa-yah,” he breathes, knocking his head against the wall behind him.

Seonghwa ends the phone call. “Hongjoong-ah.”

He’s out of radius from a streetlight, so most of his features are in shadow, but the way he holds his leg immediately catches Seonghwa’s attention.

“What happened? Is it your leg?” he asks as he kneels beside him, already pulling out the first aid kit.

Hongjoong squeezes his eyes shut, breathes slowly, then takes away his hand. Underneath, a splotch in his jeans is growing darker and darker. His entire leg is stained, and blood continues to drip beneath him, but the area of his shin is much worse. Seonghwa’s heart almost stops.

“I don’t know how bad it is,” Hongjoong says. “I don’t- I didn’t expect it-”

“You’ll be all right, Joong-ah. Can I take a look at it?”

When Hongjoong nods, Seonghwa pulls on gloves and reaches out to roll up his jeans. He bites his lip when he sees all the blood running down his leg, tries not to gag when it slides under his fingers as he tries to find the source.

Eventually, he does—it’s a puncture wound right under his knee on the side of his shin. He can’t tell how deep or how long it is because of all the blood. It’s a slow trickle, though, so an artery probably wasn’t hit. Nothing life-threatening. Hopefully.

“Why didn’t you call an ambulance?” he asks, ripping off his jacket to tie it around Hongjoong’s leg in hopes of stopping the blood. He’s relying on memories from when his mom worked as an EMT and told him all the first aid he should know.

“They’d ask questions.” Hongjoong grunts when Seonghwa twists too hard. “And I don’t have the- the money- fuck.” He bites his lip, takes slow breaths. Seonghwa tries to be gentler, but the wound needs pressure. “I can’t pay for it.”

“So you called me?”

Hongjoong shrugs with one shoulder. “You were the closest.”

Seonghwa huffs out a laugh, incredulous. “That doesn’t mean I’m qualified.”

“I’d say you’re doing pretty well.”

Seonghwa scoffs as he ties the sleeves of his jacket tighter together. “You’re lucky my mom was an EMT.”

“Was?”

Seonghwa pauses. “I don’t know how much I can help with this, Joong-ah. Did you call anyone else?”

“No. They’re all on the other side of the river.”

Seonghwa sighs. “Can you still call them? I can buy you some time, but-”

“Fine, I’ll do it.” With clumsy fingers, Hongjoong opens his phone. He squints at the screen. “Shit, I just got dizzy-”

“Idiot,” Seonghwa mutters. “Give me the phone. Who am I calling?”

Hongjoong grumbles as he passes him the phone. “Sannie. His brother works at a hospital.”

“You should’ve called him to begin with!” Seonghwa glares at him as he calls San.

“Well, sorry for not thinking straight! I was just fucking stabbed-”

“Hello?” San asks, voice groggy.

“Hey, San-ah, it’s Seonghwa.” Seonghwa keeps his eyes on Hongjoong.

“Eh? Why do you have hyung’s phone?”

“He got stabbed in the leg.”

“What?”

“Yeah, and he was stupid enough to call me, someone with no medical knowledge. Do you think you could get your brother to come over? We’re by Tongil-ro. It’s between a church and a high school.”

“I’m not stupid! It was in the heat of the moment-” Hongjoong protests.

“Ignore him,” Seonghwa says to San. “Just get here as soon as you can. He’s lost a lot of blood.”

Once San agrees, Seonghwa ends the call. He throws Hongjoong’s phone into his backpack and checks to see how his jacket is holding up.

“Hey! My phone!” Hongjoong whines.

“It made you dizzy when you looked at it. You don’t need it.” Seonghwa turns back to him. “Lying down will probably help.”

He zips up his backpack, intending to give it to Hongjoong for him to use as a pillow. Instead, Hongjoong drops his head in Seonghwa’s lap with a sigh.

Seonghwa stares at him. His eyes are closed, and his arms are crossed over his chest, his legs splayed out in front of him. He’s very, very pretty.

Seonghwa clears his throat. “I have to elevate your leg and apply pressure. The bleeding is slow, but you’ve lost a lot already, and it hasn’t stopped. This will hurt.”

He feels Hongjoong take a deep breath. “Okay. Go ahead.”

Hongjoong gasps when Seonghwa pushes down on his shin, his entire body tensing with pain. It reminds Seonghwa a little too much of his missions. He quickly forces that thought away.

Neither of them say anything for a long moment, Hongjoong in too much pain and Seonghwa feeling too much guilt.

When Seonghwa pulls away to check the bleeding, Hongjoong suddenly speaks up. “You haven’t said anything in the group chat for a while. I didn’t think you’d pick up.”

Seonghwa stops prodding at his jacket. “But you called me anyway.”

“Seonghwa-yah.” Hongjoong’s voice sounds small. “Do you not like us anymore?”

Seonghwa looks down at Hongjoong’s face. He looks back at him with those same piercing eyes.

“But that doesn’t sound right,” Hongjoong says. “If you didn’t like us, you wouldn’t be here. You wouldn’t have picked up my call. I don’t get it.”

“I do like you guys,” Seonghwa says softly. I like you too much. “But it’s complicated.”

Hongjoong’s brow furrows. “You said that before. You said you’d figure it out.”

Seonghwa looks away. “I still am.”

“You can’t even talk to us?”

He shrinks away, ducking his head. “I don’t know if I- if I should.”

“Why? Because you’re an Eunpyeongie? That doesn’t matter.”

“No, there’s more to it than that.”

“But you’re our soulmate.”

Yes, Seonghwa almost says, that’s the problem.

“You should really get a healer if you’re going out getting stabbed like this,” he says instead. “What were you doing over here, anyway?”

“Don’t change the- hey! Ow!” Hongjoong hisses when Seonghwa presses down on his wound again.

“Sorry, it’s still bleeding a little.”

Hongjoong snorts. “Okay, fine. I was over here investigating a… suspicious person. And then that person stabbed me and ran.”

A suspicious person? Near Eunpyeong University? It reminds Seonghwa of the conversation he overheard a few days ago, but he can’t make any connections. One suspicious person isn’t necessarily the same as another.

“Who?” he asks.

“If you’re not telling me anything, I’m not telling you anything, either!”

Seonghwa sighs. He forgot Hongjoong could be just as petty as his friends.

“Fine, keep it to yourself. Now that the bleeding has stopped, I can dress this.”

With careful fingers, Seonghwa wipes away some of the dried blood to make room for a bandage. The cut doesn’t look very long, but he still can’t tell how deep it is. It’s definitely not superficial.

“Seonghwa-yah?”

Seonghwa hums to show he’s listening as he concentrates on lining the bandage up correctly.

“Are you okay?”

He frowns as he looks at Hongjoong. “Me?”

Hongjoong laughs. “Yes, you. You seem different. More tired.”

“It’s three in the morning, Hongjoong-ah.”

“But you’re always awake at this time. That’s when you responded to our texts the most.”

Seonghwa returns his attention to the bandage. “I’ve just been dealing with stuff.”

“Does this stuff complicate things between us?”

Seonghwa hates how smart Hongjoong is.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Seonghwa says.

Hongjoong goes quiet. “The others miss you.”

Seonghwa bites the inside of his cheek, tells himself to remain poised, just as he was taught.

“Apparently, Yunho’s grandmother really loves you. She keeps asking about you.”

“Hongjoong, please,” Seonghwa whispers.

“What? I’m just saying.”

“You don’t understand. I’m trying to- to protect you-” Seonghwa cuts himself off, pursing his lips. “You’re making this harder than it has to be.”

“Protect us? From what?” When Seonghwa doesn’t answer, Hongjoong tries to sit up. “Hwa, from what?”

From me. From what I can do.

“Lie down,” Seonghwa says, gently pushing Hongjoong back down onto his lap. He freezes when Hongjoong raises his hand to wipe away a tear on Seonghwa’s cheek. When did that get there?

“I wish you’d talk to us,” Hongjoong says, frowning. “We want to help.”

Seonghwa hesitates before he reaches out to pat Hongjoong’s hand. “I appreciate that, but-”

“Our monthly evaluations are next week. You should be there.”

Seonghwa stares at him.

Hongjoong’s cheeks flush pink. “I- I mean- you should be there for all of us after we’re done. You can’t actually come and watch.”

“But they’re your evaluations. Why do I need to be there?”

“It’s a rough time for everyone. Stress and stuff, you know? And they miss you. It’d be a nice surprise.”

Seonghwa runs his fingers over his strings. “What about that?” he nods at Hongjoong’s leg. “It won’t affect your evaluation?”

Hongjoong scoffs. “No. I’d have to be in a coma to get out of it.” His hand wraps around Seonghwa’s fingers. “Please, Hwa?”

When he looks up, he sees Hongjoong’s big, sparkly eyes, his pout much more exaggerated. Lord, who taught this boy puppy eyes?

Seonghwa sighs and looks away. “I’ll be there-”

“Yes!”

“-if, and only if, you get your leg properly checked out.” Seonghwa frowns. “Seriously, you could’ve torn a tendon or a ligament or something. Get one of the others to take you.”

Hongjoong grins. “What? You can’t take me?”

Seonghwa sends him a halfhearted glare. “You wish.”

He continues tending to Hongjoong’s leg, wrapping it in gauze and his stained jacket. There’s not much else he can do while they wait.

When San texts him that he’s nearby, Seonghwa starts packing up his things.

“You’re leaving already?” Hongjoong asks.

“San-ah and his brother are almost here,” Seonghwa says as he pulls out a blanket.

“You don’t want to see them?”

“No.” His shoulders sag. “Can’t say I’m feeling great at the moment.”

Hongjoong hums. “Because of all this?”

“Partly. You did really scare me.” Seonghwa folds the blanket up to move it under Hongjoong’s head before he slides his legs out from under him. “But I wasn’t having a great night, anyway.”

“I’m sorry.”

Seonghwa looks at him, sees the way he’s twisting the rings around his fingers. “Don’t say that. Just try to not get stabbed next time, yeah?”

Hongjoong laughs. “Sure, I’ll try my best.”

When Seonghwa gets to his feet and throws his backpack over his shoulder, Hongjoong suddenly says, “Seonghwa-yah.”

Seonghwa turns to look at him.

Hongjoong smiles, surprisingly shy. “Thank you.”

Seonghwa’s ears flush. “Of course. I’ll see you next week, Joong-ah.”

He leaves the alley and turns around the corner. He stops and waits until he hears San’s voice—ah, there you are, hyung!—before he heads home.

⬷⤐

When Seonghwa makes his way to Dongjak University, he tries to ignore the anxiety thrumming under his skin. It makes him shake, makes his head ache, but he made a promise to Hongjoong and he’ll keep it. He just wishes the timing was better; he can’t help thinking about the mission he’s due to complete tomorrow.

The university is made up of towering buildings, their corners sharp and windows uniform across every floor. Shrubbery lines the streets, a perfect green across a perfect blue sky. Solar panels reflect the sun back into Seonghwa’s eyes as he passes a fountain. He blocks the light with a hand and sighs.

The streets are quiet with barely any passersby. The ones he does see have their eyes on the ground, their hair either stuffed under a hat or thrown into a half-bun or ponytail. Their clothes are rumpled and some of them are torn, their shoulders tense as they walk by him.

Seonghwa made sure to cover the Eunpyeong University emblem on his uniform this time, but it doesn’t seem to matter since no one looks at him.

Hongjoong and the others are easy to spot since they stay in one group. They’re spread out over a small courtyard, stretching out over a bench (Hongjoong, San) or laying face down on the ground (Yunho, Mingi). Much like their peers, their hair is a mess and their clothes look worse for wear.

In particular, Yunho has a band-aid over his cheek and his hands are wrapped in bandages. San’s lip is split, still slowly trickling blood, and he has two band-aids on the side of his neck.

Hongjoong notices him first. He tilts his head up, squints, then grins. He scrambles to sit up, knocking San off of the bench.

“Ow!” San holds his elbow as he sits up. “What was that for?”

Yunho turns over. When his eyes fall on Seonghwa, he brightens. “Seonghwa hyung!”

Immediately, San and Mingi rush to stand.

“Hyung is here?” Mingi asks, rubbing the dirt off of his cheek.

Seonghwa smiles at them. “I’m here.” He pats his bag. “And I brought snacks.”

Somehow, all of their faces light up even more, their strings shining brighter than the sun.

“It’s been so long!” Yunho says. “How have you been, hyung?”

“Hongjoongie hyung said you haven’t been doing well.” San frowns.

Seonghwa scratches the side of his cheek nervously. “Um- yeah, not too great. But let’s not talk about that. You just finished your evaluations, right? Here, this is for all of you.”

Seonghwa sits beside Hongjoong and dumps out his bag. Bottles of banana milk and bags of chips, gummies, pastries, and candy fall out. He shakes out a few more lollipops and snatches one for himself, popping it in his mouth.

They all cheer and dive for the pile, shouldering past one another and slapping each other’s hands to get to the best snack first. San and Mingi argue over what that best snack is as Yunho quietly takes both bags of potato chips.

“Thanks for coming, Hwa,” Hongjoong says while the others keep yelling. “This month was especially horrible.”

“Probably because you tore your LCL,” Yunho says through a mouthful of chips. “You’re lucky they gave you remote work.”

Now that Seonghwa is closer to them, he notices that Hongjoong has a knee brace. He’s also leaning against a black cane, the head of it carved into a bird skull. He looks like a supervillain in recovery.

Seonghwa clicks his tongue. “I’m glad you went to a hospital, at least.”

Hongjoong grins at him. “I held up my end of the deal, what can I say?”

Yunho looks between them. “What deal?”

“Nothing,” Seonghwa says. “How bad was the tear?”

“Bad-ish. They told him to use crutches,” Yunho says. “But he called them lame, so he uses a cane instead. He said he finally has an excuse to use it.”

“I’m right here.” Hongjoong huffs. “But hey, it looks cool, right? It matches my hair. And I drew a crow on my uniform to match, see?”

He flattens out a part of his dress shirt to show it off. Indeed, a crow in flight is drawn out over his abdomen. It must’ve been done with a black marker, its strokes quick and confident. One of the wings is a little too long, but it’s pretty.

“I’m glad you’re embracing your poor choices,” Seonghwa says wryly. At Hongjoong’s frown, he adds, “It does look nice, though. Is black your favorite color?”

Hongjoong hums, tilting his head. “One of them, I guess.”

Seonghwa stares at Hongjoong’s pinky. The white is nearly blinding in the sun. “Not white?”

“Whoa!” Yunho’s eyes widen as he gasps. “How’d you know that?”

Seonghwa bites the inside of his cheek as he looks away from the string. “Lucky guess.”

“Ey, hyung, why are you lying?” Mingi whines. “I’m trying to get shrimp crackers here, man.”

Seonghwa rubs his temples to stave off a migraine. San shouting at Mingi does not help.

“Yah, yah, quiet down,” Hongjoong says to Mingi and San, waving his cane at them. “Other students are still finishing their evals, you know!”

They both frown and go quiet. San pulls away from where he was reaching up to grab the shrimp crackers above Mingi’s head.

“Seonghwa hyung,” Mingi calls. When he looks over at him, Mingi asks, “Do you want these? They’re the best!”

Seeing Mingi’s smile as his eyes curl into crescents soothes some of Seonghwa’s headache.

He smiles softly. “No, it’s okay, Mingi-yah. Why don’t you share with Sannie?”

Mingi’s smile falls a little, but he nods and turns to San.

“Hyung,” Yunho says.

Seonghwa hums.

“Halmeoni wants to send you a care package. She said she’ll send you more jjigae ‘cause it’s getting colder.”

“What?” Hongjoong whips his head towards him. “Why haven’t I gotten a care package?”

“You’re not as handsome or polite as Hwa hyung.” Yunho sticks out his tongue before he stuffs more chips into his mouth.

“Him? Polite?” Hongjoong jerks a thumb towards him. “Are you kidding? I thought he was gonna bite my head off when I got stabbed.”

Seonghwa snorts. “I still can’t believe you called me and not Sannie.”

“Oh, my god, this again? I told you-”

“Yah, look,” San whispers, nodding towards a boy on the other side of the courtyard. “It’s Choi Jongho. He must’ve just finished.”

Jongho is leaning against a pillar with his arms crossed, his hair matted and tangled. There’s a bruise on the side of his jaw and dark circles under his eyes. His dress shirt is half-tucked into his pants and the jacket is missing. He closes his eyes and knocks his head back against the pillar.

From here, Seonghwa can’t see his hands, but the strings catch his attention anyway—one green, one yellow, six dark purple. As he follows them, he pauses.

Four of the strings turn from purple to yellow, the other ends wrapped around all of their fingers. Jongho’s yellow string connects to Seonghwa’s right thumb. They sparkle and shine like stars.

“How do you think evaluations go for healers?” San whispers. “He can’t have been doing remote work. Look at him.”

Seonghwa chews his lip as he stares at the strings. On one hand, he doesn’t want to drag someone else into this, but on the other…

Hongjoong’s words ring in his head: But you’re our soulmate.

Inevitably, Jongho will be dragged into this. But if Seonghwa can introduce him to the others, then maybe Seonghwa could leave him with them. He’s only a yellow string, anyway; he doesn’t have the same history with him that the others do.

“-no, Seonghwa hyung has the zoning out face again,” Yunho says.

“Get out of there!” San pokes at Seonghwa’s temple.

“Which snack do you think he’d like?” Seonghwa asks, looking up at them.

They pause. They look at each other then back at him.

“Who? Jongho-ssi?” Hongjoong asks.

Seonghwa nods.

“Uh, I have no clue-”

Seonghwa grabs a lollipop from the pile and starts towards Jongho, ignoring the questions the others fervently whisper behind him.

When he stops in front of Jongho, it takes a second before he opens his eyes.

Seonghwa holds out the lollipop.

Jongho looks at it then back at Seonghwa. “What?”

“It’s for you.” Seonghwa looks at the wrapper. “It’s strawberry, I think.”

Slowly, Jongho stands upright and takes the lollipop. He turns it from side to side, studying it, before he takes off the wrapper and puts it in his mouth.

“Thanks,” he says. He glances behind Seonghwa. “Are those your friends?”

Seonghwa looks back to see the others staring at them, all of them leaning forward over Hongjoong’s head. He elbows them when he sees Seonghwa, and they immediately look away. Mingi starts analyzing the bag of shrimp crackers, pointing at it, while San nods even though Mingi’s mouth hasn’t moved. Yunho keeps looking over and then back when he realizes Seonghwa hasn’t looked away. Hongjoong smacks him with his cane.

Seonghwa puts a hand over his mouth to hide his smile. “Yes, they are.”

“Did they put you up to this?”

Seonghwa turns back to Jongho. “No.”

Jongho holds his gaze. “Really?”

“Yeah. They seemed worried about you, but this was my idea.” Seonghwa frowns. “Is that okay?”

Jongho looks down. As he fiddles with the lollipop wrapper, he mumbles, “I prefer grape.”

Seonghwa laughs. “I have more lollipops over there if you want some.”

Jongho hesitates, biting his lip. “Do you have any chocolate?”

Seonghwa grins. “I do! Follow me.”

Jongho still seems apprehensive as he takes a step forward. He suddenly stumbles when he puts more weight on one of his legs.

“You okay?” Seonghwa asks. He reaches out to help, but he stops before he touches Jongho’s arm.

“‘M fine,” Jongho says, stepping out of his reach. “Just fucked up my ankle a little. You know how it goes.”

Seonghwa does not know how it goes, but he guesses this is run of the mill for monthly evaluations. It makes his skin itch.

When the others see them approaching, they immediately cheer and beckon them closer.

“Hello, Jongho-ssi!” San says.

“Welcome, welcome, take whatever you like! Seonghwa hyung is paying!” Yunho gestures to the pile of snacks while Mingi hugs the bag of shrimp crackers to his chest.

“Congratulations on finishing your evaluation, Jongho-ssi,” Hongjoong says, his hands clasped around the skull of his cane.

Jongho only nods. His eyes linger on the cane before he takes a piece of chocolate from the snack pile.

“Do you like Pangjoongie?” Hongjoong grins.

“You named your cane?” Seonghwa asks, his eyebrows raised.

“You named it Pangjoongie?” Yunho stops chewing his chips. “That’s literally just a combination of your name and the word cane-”

“It’s cute!” Hongjoong whacks Yunho in the thigh with the cane. “It’s fucking cute, guys, stop it.”

“Why do you always hit me?” Yunho whines.

“Because you give me reasons to hit you!”

“Take all the chocolates you want, Jongho-ssi, ignore them,” Seonghwa says, moving the snack pile closer to him.

The corners of Jongho’s mouth quirk up into a barely there smile. “Thank you, Seonghwa-ssi.” He pauses. “Er- sunbae?”

Seonghwa blinks, then laughs into his hand. “I don’t actually go here. I’m in my third year at Eunpyeong, though.”

“Oh. Eunpyeong.” That’s all Jongho says before he pockets approximately ten pieces of chocolate.

“Hey, Jongho-ssi,” San says, walking closer, “what do you think the best snack is? Shrimp crackers or corn chips?”

“I guess shrimp crackers-”

“Yes!” San shouts, pumping his fists. “I knew it! Suck on that, Joong hyung!”

Mingi cheers, jumping up and down with his hands on top of Yunho’s shoulders. Yunho snickers into his bag of chips.

Hongjoong grimaces as he sips from a bottle of banana milk. “I fucking hate it here.”

Jongho laughs—soft, quiet, short, but a laugh nonetheless. Immediately, the others’ faces brighten. Seonghwa smiles, pleased, and slides more chocolate towards him.

As Hongjoong starts showing off his uniform to Jongho, Seonghwa’s phone buzzes in his back pocket. Frowning, he pulls it out.

FATHER

His hand tightens around his phone, the edges digging into his fingers.

“Hyung?” San asks. “You okay?”

Seonghwa looks up to see all of them staring at him with varying expressions of concern and curiosity. He forces a smile at them.

“Sorry, I need to take this,” he says, bowing his head as he turns around.

He turns the corner and walks until he’s out of earshot from the others. With a deep breath, he accepts the call and puts his phone to his ear.

“Seonghwa,” his father says. “There’s been a change to your mission.”

He frowns. “What do you mean?”

“The target has changed. I believe it’s time we started expanding.”

His breath catches in his throat. “Out of Eunpyeong?”

“Obviously. This has all been practice for you. You need to do the real thing.”

Seonghwa leans his head against the wall. He tries to take deep breaths, tries to hold it like Wooyoung taught him.

“But I’m not a hero,” he mumbles.

“You want to be, don’t you?”

Seonghwa is quiet.

His father scoffs. “It doesn’t matter. You know what will happen if you don’t complete your missions.”

Seonghwa’s teeth rip through the inside of his cheek. He tastes blood.

“Just listen to me, hm?” His father’s voice softens, but it’s fake. Too sweet. Completely unlike when Seonghwa was a child. “Listen to your father. I know what I’m doing.”

“I don’t want to hurt anybody anymore,” Seonghwa whispers.

The line goes silent. Then, his father laughs, sharp and staccato. Seonghwa stops breathing.

“You’re too soft, Seonghwa. Don’t be naïve,” his father says. “This world is cruel. People are getting hurt everywhere every day. That’s why we have superheroes. Don’t you want to save people like they do?”

Seonghwa squeezes his eyes shut. “I do, but-”

“But nothing. Complete your mission tomorrow, nine o’clock, Heukseok-ro. Meet me in my office in an hour for further details.”

The call ends.

Seonghwa slides down the wall, trying not to cry, as his head pounds and pounds and pounds. He hides his face in his hands as his shoulders shake with stifled sobs. The guilt wraps around him tighter, digs into his skin, whispers into his ears, Monster, monster, monster.

⬷⤐

Ironically, Seonghwa has to carry out his mission across the street from Chung-Ang Hospital. Hopefully that means his target will get help quickly. Maybe he’ll call in the emergency himself.

It’s a moonless night with no stars. The streetlights flicker as moths dance underneath them, and distantly, there are cars honking and music thumping and cicadas singing. Seoul is never silent, but tonight, it all feels too loud and too quiet at the same time.

Seonghwa’s target, Cha Youngmi, works at the hospital. While his father implied that he should go inside to complete his mission, Seonghwa decided he could do it across the street. She seems to be on break, anyway, since she’s lingering outside smoking a cigarette.

Fortunately, darkness doesn’t affect the visibility of the strings since they glow with their own light. He can see all six of her strings from here—two green, three yellow, one pale orange.

She’s alone, too, so it’s easier to pick out her strings. It’s the perfect time to cut them.

But he has to do three. He has to cut all of her platonic connections. Every time he reaches out for them, he can only see his friends’ faces. He hears their laughter. He smells Wooyoung’s ramyeon and tastes Yunho’s grandmother’s sokkoritang.

It’s already been an hour. Seonghwa doesn’t know if he can do this.

He takes a deep breath. He raises his hands to his mouth, kisses each of his strings, and holds them to his chest right over his heart. He runs his fingers over them, tells himself everything will be okay even though he doesn’t believe it.

Youngmi brings the cigarette to her lips as she looks at her phone. Slowly, a puff of smoke drifts from her mouth into the sky.

Seonghwa keeps his eyes on it as he grabs her strings, tries to follow the trail until it dissipates so that he doesn’t focus on the heartbeats in his hands.

Maybe all at once would be better. Maybe her pain would be over sooner. One big burst instead of three separate attacks.

He swallows. He shuts his eyes, counts one, two, three—

His hands ignite with pain as he rips the strings apart. His breath shudders as he jolts with the pull, and already, he can feel blood dripping from his nose and trickling over his lips and chin.

Youngmi screams.

When she drops to her knees, her cigarette rolls away into a puddle, glowing red before going out. She chokes on smoke as she claws at her chest, her acrylic nails tearing through her scrubs as she sobs and sobs and sobs. Her entire body shakes with her cries as she curls in on herself.

Seonghwa doesn’t realize he’s on the ground too until the damp grass soaks his pants. He can only stare as medical personnel rush out to help her, their mouths forming words Seonghwa can’t hear. He can only stare as Youngmi scratches at her own skin where her heart is, where it should be. She cries out when the medical staff restrain her.

“I’m sorry,” Seonghwa whispers to the sky, to the cicadas, to the moths, to whatever will hear him.

Tears blur his vision. He hears Youngmi’s cries fade out before the quiet of the night returns. His chest heaves with each breath. His hands burn red hot. No amount of cold water or ice will cool them.

When he stumbles to his feet and turns away, he freezes.

Hongjoong stares back at him, eyes wide, and Seonghwa’s entire world falls apart.

Chapter Text

영혼의 소리를 들어, 커다란 이 울림 / Listen to the sound of the soul, the great echo

– New World –

Seonghwa stares at Hongjoong, hoping to say anything, to provide some sort of explanation, but the words don’t form. They can’t. His throat feels swollen and raw.

“Seonghwa-yah,” Hongjoong whispers. “What did you do?”

Seonghwa chokes on a sob that scorches his throat. He bows his head, unable to look Hongjoong in the eyes. Shame prickles his skin and burns the lining of his stomach. The guilt presses down, down, down on him until he falls to his knees once again.

“I didn’t want to,” he whispers. He hides his face in his hands. “I didn’t- I-”

“Hwa, look at me,” Hongjoong says as he touches Seonghwa’s wrist. “Please look at me.”

Seonghwa shakes his head. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

He knew this would happen—the inevitable reveal of an inevitable truth. He hoped that he could hold onto these strings, the ones the universe thought he deserved. He didn’t want to lose them this time. He’s always struggled to let go.

Hongjoong’s hands wrap around his wrists to gently pull them away. Seonghwa lets him.

“You’re bleeding,” Hongjoong says.

Seonghwa only sobs. It’s a price too small to pay for something like this.

As Hongjoong wipes at his nose with the sleeve of his jacket, Seonghwa mumbles, “How did you find me?”

Hongjoong hesitates. “Yesterday, when you got that call, you looked scared.”

No. He can’t have-

“I was worried, so I- I used my magic to listen,” he says. “I heard everything.”

Seonghwa looks up. Hongjoong doesn’t meet his eyes.

Seonghwa should be angry. Part of him is. Listening in on a private phone call is a blatant sign of distrust and disrespect, a breach of his privacy and boundaries. Hongjoong should have never done it.

But the fear that there will be a target put on Hongjoong’s back is stronger than the hurt.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Seonghwa says. “If he finds out-”

“Seonghwa-yah.” Hongjoong looks at him. “What did you do?”

Seonghwa closes his mouth, opens it, then closes it again. He looks away. “I- I severed three of her connections.”

Admitting it doesn’t lessen the guilt. It only makes it more real. It only makes his stomach churn. It only makes his hands burn hotter.

Hongjoong curses. Seonghwa shrinks away from him.

This is probably where he leaves, where he tells the others that Seonghwa is even worse than the other Eunpyeong students, that they should’ve left him in that park where they found him. What use is a connection if Seonghwa can just sever it?

Instead, Hongjoong asks, “What does that do to you?”

Seonghwa whips his head up. “What?”

“Severing connections can’t be good for you, either.”

Seonghwa stares at him. Hongjoong only looks worried, his brow furrowed as he scans Seonghwa’s face. One of his hands hovers in the air as if he wants to touch him.

“That doesn’t matter.” Seonghwa scoffs. “How could you- how can you ask that? That- that poor woman just- I tore out her heart three times at- at once, and-”

“She’ll be okay,” Hongjoong says, reaching for his hand. “She has a whole medical team to look after her. But what about you?”

Seonghwa laughs breathlessly. “That doesn’t matter, Hongjoong-ah. Can’t you see? It’s never fucking mattered!” He rips his hand out of Hongjoong’s grip. “I’m not like you. I can’t- I can’t have friends, or- or soulmates, I-”

“Why not?”

“I don’t have a choice!” Seonghwa wipes away a tear. “I have to- I have to do this.”

“Do you want to?”

Seonghwa’s heart thuds. He breathes in a shaky breath, breathes out an even shakier one.

“No,” he whispers, his shoulders dropping. “I hate it. I really, really hate it.”

Silence wraps around them, thick and stuffy like cotton. A streetlight buzzes. A dog howls.

“Monthly evaluations aren’t just evaluations,” Hongjoong says quietly. “They’re a little like your missions.”

Seonghwa looks at him.

Hongjoong stares at the streetlight. “It’s all just doing their dirty work for them, like transcribing phone calls between Eunpyeong staff and keeping tabs on their achievements, you know? I have it easy. I don’t do field work like the others.”

His jaw tenses. “Yunho has to blind people. San sets traps. And Mingi—he goes with them because he has to verify whatever the targets say. He interrogates them when they’re screaming in pain.”

He meets Seonghwa’s eyes. “None of us want to do these things. Some of us die. A lot of the time, we end up killing someone even though we try so hard not to. And the university does nothing.” He scoffs. “They blame it on supervillains. They say it’s all the more reason to train more superheroes.”

“It’s a cycle,” he says. “Dongjak wants to be better than Eunpyeong, and Eunpyeong wants to stay the best.”

“That’s what this is all for?” Seonghwa asks. “A school pissing contest?”

Hongjoong grins, his canines peeking through his lips. “You’re starting to get it.”

“Unbelievable,” Seonghwa mumbles, but it really isn’t. He’s always known he and his peers were weapons in training. He just hoped the safety was still on.

“That man you spoke to,” Hongjoong says. “Who is he?”

Seonghwa digs his nails into his palms. He liked not having his family name hanging over his head when he’d talk to the Dongjak boys. He liked that there was no expectation of him beyond being from Eunpyeong. He doesn’t want to admit the truth, least of all to Hongjoong.

But what use is hiding it? Hongjoong heard the call already. He probably already has a hunch.

“Director Park himself,” Seonghwa says, smiling ruefully.

Hongjoong sucks air in through his teeth. “Damn.”

“Yeah. Damn.”

“Seems like a shitty dad.”

Seonghwa snorts. “Not great.”

“How did you come from him?”

“What?”

“You’re the nicest person I’ve ever met. He…” Hongjoong taps his cane against his chin. “He’s on the opposite side of that spectrum, I’ll say.”

Seonghwa should rush to defend him. He should tell Hongjoong not to say things like that, that Director Park is still his father, but no fire rises up in Seonghwa’s stomach. There is only a pile of ash that went cold long ago.

“He used to be nice,” he says instead. “He used to be the best.” Softer, he adds, “Not anymore.”

Hongjoong hums. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

Surprisingly, it’s not sarcastic or passive-aggressive. It’s quiet, genuine, real.

Seonghwa gives him a sad smile. “Thanks.”

Hongjoong nods. “I have a lot riding on this, too. Not like you, exactly, but I don’t have anywhere else to go. This is it.”

A bird chirps from the trees.

Seonghwa sighs as he stares up at it. “I wish we didn’t have to hurt people.”

Hongjoong suddenly grins. He leans onto his cane, tilting forward until there’s only a few inches of distance between their faces.

“How would you feel about joining a project we’re working on?”

⬷⤐

The Sector 1 Project only has four steps: collect testimonies, verify testimonies, compile proof, and broadcast proof. It aims to do just one thing: expose the schools.

Hongjoong tells him he and the others started it last year after Mingi nearly died during field work. Originally, the goal was to expose Dongjak University, but after doing a little more digging, they realized Eunpyeong University was also suspicious.

“With you on board,” Hongjoong tells Seonghwa, “we can get more verification about what Eunpyeong is up to.”

At first, Seonghwa is hesitant. If any of them get their cover blown, everything will crumble. Investigations will sprout from one person and continue onto the next, bringing everyone down in one swoop. Seonghwa and Hongjoong will be thrown to the streets and all the others will never become superheroes.

“If they don’t kill us, of course,” Hongjoong says. Seonghwa glares at him.

But the plan is ambitious enough that it could work. The others have been gathering testimonies and proof for months already, even if their progress has been slow.

“They’re already suspicious of me,” Hongjoong explains. “We have to keep quiet about it. We can’t just go around asking people questions. But now that graduation is coming up, we have to take more risks.”

With graduation comes awards for schools across the country. Among them is the award for Best Superhero Certification University, the very thing people are getting killed over.

Even though Seonghwa loves his father, he doesn’t agree with him. He doesn’t want to hurt people for him or play his game of which university is the best. He’s tired of the guilt and the pain and the anxiety that swallow him whole.

Lives are on the line, and they have been for a long time.

So Seonghwa shakes Hongjoong’s hand and agrees to be a part of the project. (Perhaps this is the first time he’s ever made a big decision himself. His shoulders feel a little lighter.)

Hongjoong is thrilled. He laughs, gives Seonghwa a hug, squeezes his arm, and says, “Man, I’ve been wanting to hear you say that for a while.”

As the only member enrolled at Eunpyeong, Seonghwa’s responsibility is to gather intel about suspicious incidents—things like missing students, sudden mass layoffs, or gaps in student and staff records.

With that in mind, Seonghwa takes on more assistant work for his professors. He asks them for the keycards to their offices so that he can drop off his work there—I have to meet my friend after, and your office is much closer, he tells them—and, believing the director’s son can do no wrong, they ruffle his hair or pinch his cheek and give him their keycards.

Long after evening classes have ended, Seonghwa slips into the main office building. All the lights are off, so he has to rely on his phone’s flashlight to find the right rooms.

All around him are cubicles with computer monitors and piles of paperwork. The room isn’t big; it’s likely only for temporary staff or students who need to use the computers. This becomes apparent when he checks through the file cabinets only to find them empty. He sighs and heads for the hallway.

The silence unnerves him. He has to walk slowly, softly, to reduce the sound of his footsteps in case someone overhears him. He doesn’t see any rooms with light creeping out from under their doors, but it’s better to be safe than sorry.

Once his flashlight flashes over the nameplate for Professor Kwang, he holds the keycard up to the card reader. As soon as it beeps, he sneaks in, shutting the door quietly behind him.

His heart pounds as he looks through drawers and cabinets, skimming over file names and dates until he sees something familiar.

SONG CHOHWI

He pauses, his fingers poised over the file tab. He remembers her gasping for breath, remembers her string dissolving into dust as his hands burn, burn, burn.

He shuts his eyes for a moment, breathes, and then takes out the file.

It appears to be a normal staff record detailing her personal information such as her address and emergency contacts. Seeing Mingi as number two, right under Siwoo, makes him want to throw up.

He’s about to put it back when he realizes there’s an asterisk next to Siwoo’s name. He looks down at the bottom of the page.

*COUNSELOR S. SONG at DJU

It takes everything Seonghwa has to not crumple the paper up. Of course Siwoo works at Dongjak. Of course. Why else would his father make him sever that connection?

“Practice, my ass,” Seonghwa mumbles as he takes a picture of the file, making sure to include the official Eunpyeong University emblem stamped across it.

After he looks through the next file cabinet, it’s easy to find a pattern.

*PROFESSOR M. JANG at DJU

*NURSE K. LEE at DJU

*PROFESSOR I. KIM at DJU

All of the mentors he hurt—Song Chohwi, Jang Haru, Lee Junwoong—had soulmates that worked at Dongjak. His father must have concluded who based on their emergency contacts. He must have investigated each person and then decided who Seonghwa should hurt.

He feels sick.

What if his father was wrong? What if Seonghwa cut a string and it ended up not connecting to the person at Dongjak? And even if his father was accurate each time, what right does he have to do that?

No one deserves that. It doesn’t matter what school they rally behind when the other one will put a pistol to their head and pull the trigger before they so much as breathe.

After Seonghwa takes more pictures—and records all of them in one frame—he tries to look for Cha Youngmi’s file but comes up empty. She must not be here because she’s not a part of Eunpyeong’s staff.

He leaves Professor Kwang’s office and slips into the others he has access to. Each time, he only finds the same staff records.

His shoulders sag in disappointment. He sighs and rubs his eyes. It was foolish of him to think he’d find everything so easily.

When he shuts the door of the last office behind him, the lights suddenly turn on. He blinks, taken aback as his eyes adjust.

“Who are you?”

Fuck.

Slowly, he turns around, smiling in a way he hopes isn’t guilty.

A boy meets his eyes, unimpressed. His hair is long, reaching right above his shoulders. His bangs fall on either side of his face, clipped back with silver hairpins. He has soft features and deep eyes, but under the fluorescent lights, the purple circles under his eyes look worse.

“Park Seonghwa sunbae?” He blinks. “What are you doing here so late?”

Seonghwa taps a keycard against his palm. “Oh, um, I was just bringing back some work. I like to help the professors.”

The boy’s gaze doesn’t let up. “It’s almost two in the morning.”

“Is it? Oh, my gosh!” Seonghwa laughs nervously as he checks his phone. “Man, time really flies! I just came over here to drop all that off. I should really get going.”

He takes a step forward, but he freezes when he hears footsteps.

“Yeosang-ah, who are you talking to?” someone asks. The voice sounds familiar, but Seonghwa can’t remember from where.

Yeosang’s eyebrow twitches as he glances towards the voice. Silently, he waves his hand in the direction of the room Seonghwa just exited.

Go, he mouths.

Eyes wide, Seonghwa backs up and stumbles into the room. Right as he shuts the door behind him, the voice comes back.

“Yeosang-ah?”

“Hm?”

The footsteps stop. The voice is clearer when the person asks, “Whose voice was that?”

“Oh, I was just playing a game on my phone, Counselor Seo.”

She tsks. “Stop that. It’ll rot your brain.”

Yeosang says nothing.

“I got my keys. Are you planning on staying here? I know your mom’s working late again.”

“I’ll just stay in her office.”

The footsteps start again. “Suit yourself. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

They fade out before a door creaks open and closed.

“She’s gone, sunbaenim.”

Seonghwa peeks his head out of the door. Sure enough, Yeosang is the only one standing there.

Seonghwa bows his head. “Thank you so much.”

Yeosang smiles a little. “You’re lucky I was the one on cameras. You looked suspicious as soon as I saw you outside.”

Seonghwa nervously looks around, but he only sees ceiling panels.

Yeosang laughs. “There aren’t any in here, but there’s a camera outside every building.”

“Ah, really?” Seonghwa scratches the back of his head.

He’s worse at this than he thought.

“Kang Yeosang,” Yeosang suddenly says, holding out his hand. “Second year. Gold tier.”

Seonghwa shakes it. “Park Seonghwa. Third year. Silver tier.” He smiles sheepishly. “But you already knew that.”

Yeosang shrugs. “It’s nice to officially meet you. You’re already better than what the rumors say.”

Seonghwa’s smile turns wry. “That’s not very hard to do.”

Yeosang hums. “Your father has started speaking more highly of you.”

Seonghwa scoffs and folds his arms. “Of course he has.” He studies Yeosang. “You know about the missions?”

“Somewhat. I help with behind the scenes work for a lot of missions, not just yours.” Yeosang smiles. “I know they’re usually bullshit.”

Other students get missions, too, then. It’s not as surprising as Seonghwa thought it would be.

He stares at Yeosang. “Why would you tell me that? I could out you to Director Park.”

“You’re Wooyoung’s best friend, aren’t you?”

Seonghwa falters. “I- yeah, I am.”

“I’m his friend, too. He talks about you a lot, says you’re really nice and that you don’t deserve all the shit people give you.” Yeosang hesitates. “But recently, he said you haven’t been around as much.”

Seonghwa looks down, biting the inside of his lip.

“He misses you. And he’s worried,” Yeosang says. “Honestly, I am, too. Those missions would be hard on anyone.”

Seonghwa is quiet before he says, “I’m trying to find a way to stop doing them.”

Yeosang tilts his head. “How? Director Park isn’t a man you can just refuse.”

“Yeosang-ssi,” Seonghwa says, looking up. “You probably know more about this stuff than I do. Tell me, Eunpyeong is hiding a lot of ugly things, aren’t they?”

Yeosang stares at him, eyes wide. Seonghwa starts to regret asking—it’s very possible Yeosang could turn his back on him—but then, a smile creeps over Yeosang’s face, sharp and mischievous.

As he takes out his phone, he says, “Oh, yes, sunbae, they are.”

He waves his hand towards one of the computer monitors. It flickers to life and asks for a password, but it immediately fills in, allowing access. Windows seem to open on their own, but when Seonghwa glances at Yeosang, he sees him pressing something on his phone.

“Take a look at this,” Yeosang says, scrolling up on his phone with one hand and flicking his finger at the monitor with his other.

A glimmer of his strings catches Seonghwa’s attention, but he’s quickly distracted by a file popping up on the computer screen. He has to squint to see it, but he recognizes the formatting.

Mission Statement: JANG YEONGSUK

Objective: Interrogate YOO HAJOON.

The first name looks familiar. He furrows his brow and thinks back to all the files he sifted through before he remembers—

“Jang Yeongsuk is Jang Haru’s daughter,” he says, eyes wide.

Yeosang nods. “At first, she didn’t want to do this mission. She gets bullied for her magic since it’s a social manipulation ability, so she hates taking advantage of it like this.”

“But then my father got me to sever one of her dad’s strings, and she got scared.” Seonghwa runs his hands over his face. “Shit, I helped him with his stupid blackmail-”

“You didn’t know.” Yeosang frowns. “If you didn’t, he was probably going to get someone else to do it.”

Another file pops up on the monitor. It looks like CCTV footage, the date set to two weeks ago at 2:27 A.M.

“Yeongsuk-ssi had to go to Dongjak for the mission. This was when she was making her way back and someone tailed her.”

The footage plays out, dark and blurry with orange streetlights as the only light source. A figure with long hair runs past them, looking behind her before she darts down a different street. Barely a second later, a shorter figure follows, but right as they start to turn down the same street, a bigger figure barrels into them.

As they both crash to the ground, something flashes when the third figure jerks their arm. Slowly, the shorter figure stops thrashing underneath them. When the bigger figure climbs off of them, the second figure scrambles up and limps away to the opposite side of the street behind a church.

“Wait,” Seonghwa breathes. “I know this place. This- this is Tongil-ro, isn’t it?”

Yeosang’s eyebrows raise. “How did you know? Did you recognize something?”

Seonghwa steps closer to the monitor. They’re barely more than a dozen pixels, but he can still see the strings.

Six yellow, one white.

This is a video of when Hongjoong got stabbed.

“How did you get this?” Seonghwa asks, whipping his head towards Yeosang.

“When her mission report said someone chased her, I got curious. It was easy to find the CCTV camera after that.” Yeosang nods towards the monitor. “Do you know either of them?”

Seonghwa stares at the frozen frame of Hongjoong limping away. “I know one of them.”

Yeosang hums, interested. “Friend or foe?”

“A very stupid friend.” Seonghwa sighs as he leans back. “He’s the reason I’m doing any of this.”

“He got away safely, then?”

“More or less. He was excited to use a fancy cane.”

Yeosang snorts. “Sounds like the kind of person who runs into trouble often.”

Seonghwa laughs. “You could say that.” He turns to Yeosang. “Thank you for showing me this. Is there any way you could send it to me?”

Yeosang smiles. “I’ve been waiting for a moment like this for a long time, sunbae. I think it’s more satisfying coming from you.”

Seonghwa furrows his brow. “What do you mean?”

“Since I got accepted, I’ve had to help Director Park do a lot of bad things,” Yeosang says. “I’ve always wanted to say or do something, but my mom works here. I don’t want her to become blackmail. We both know that’s exactly what your father would do.”

Seonghwa worries his lip between his teeth. “I’m sorry.”

Yeosang chuckles. “That’s exactly why it’s satisfying that you, out of all the students he’s fucked over, are the one doing something.”

“Um, I don’t think I understand.”

“Seonghwa sunbaenim.” Yeosang’s smile softens. “You have absolutely nothing to be sorry about. You never have, but here you are saying sorry anyway. I’m glad you’re finally standing up to him, that’s all. He’s never said sorry to anybody.”

When Yeosang waves his hand, the files disappear from the computer and it powers off. Without any more distractions, Seonghwa finally sees his strings.

One yellow, six ruby red.

This time, when Seonghwa sees how the yellow string sparkles and shines, he can’t even be surprised. He already has a feeling who the other strings connect to.

This time, there is no guilt or shame. He feels like he’s where he needs to be.

“What? Is there something on my hands?” Yeosang looks down at his palms.

Seonghwa laughs. “No, I’m just happy to meet another soulmate.”

Yeosang’s eyes widen, his mouth forming a small ‘O’ as he blinks at him. He points to himself. “Me?”

Seonghwa nods. Slowly, his smile falls. “Is that okay?”

Yeosang brightens, the apples of his cheeks flushing pink. “I’m- I’m fine with it, I think.”

Seonghwa’s smile returns in full force. Yes, he’s exactly where he needs to be.

Yeosang proves to be a valuable asset. He’s a part of Director Park’s investigation team, which means he has a lot of experience in research and knows more insider information than Seonghwa could ever hope to achieve.

Yeosang’s magic is perfectly suited to investigation, which is likely why he was recruited despite being a student. He describes it as hacking but without all the technicalities of code and complex network systems. If he has a device to start from, he can connect to another device and gain access to its data and bypass all of its protections.

“I can also trace IPs if I’m tracking someone,” he tells Seonghwa as he gnaws on a chicken thigh.

After their first meeting, Yeosang invited him to his favorite fried chicken joint to talk. Seonghwa has never seen someone eat two whole birds in an hour. Somehow, Yeosang still looks pristine.

“But if I do that,” he continues, “then I open myself up to being tracked, too. My magic relies on an anchor.” He tilts his head towards his phone. “So I can still be traced.”

Seonghwa nods even though he only half understands it. “And every time you’ve had to track someone, it’s been someone from Dongjak, right?”

Yeosang’s chewing slows. “What are you trying to do?”

Seonghwa fiddles with his strings, looping and unlooping them around his fingers. He’s not sure how much he should say; he hasn’t told Hongjoong or the others about Yeosang yet. Seonghwa doesn’t think he has any authority to invite him to join the Sector 1 Project, but…

“The reason why my father is doing all of these things,” Seonghwa says. “It leads back to Dongjak, no?”

Yeosang puts down the chicken thigh. “You know more than I thought you did.”

He sucks the grease off one of his fingers and leans back. “Whenever I do my work, they know I can access whatever’s on that computer. There are suspicious correlations to Dongjak, sure, and you could probably line up student withdrawals with supervillain attacks, but if you want to get to the meat of it, our best bet is the Director’s Office.”

Yeosang looks far too proud of his meat pun. He’s trying to hide his smile behind his hand but it’s not working.

“You think he’d hide all the incriminating stuff in there?” Seonghwa asks.

Yeosang shrugs. “Maybe. You tell me. You’ve been in there the most.”

Seonghwa frowns. His father’s office is small; it only has a big mahogany desk and a couple of bookshelves. He’s never gotten a proper look at the drawers of the desk, though. There could be sensitive files there, but is it worth the risk?

“Do you have access to his schedule?” Seonghwa asks. “He might have something, but we’d need time to figure it out. There’s no way he’d leave that kind of information unguarded.”

“I have access to his official schedule, but he’s deviated from it before.” Yeosang scrolls on his phone with a clean finger. “He has a conference in Goyang in three days, says he’ll be there all day.”

“You think we should try looking?”

Yeosang hums, long and low. “Don’t know. Assistant Principal Go and Head Advisor Kim will still be here.”

Seonghwa sighs. “You’re right. And with graduation coming, everyone will be on high alert.”

He slumps across the table, cushioning his head on his arms. He taps at his glass of cola and watches as the fizz jumps and scatters.

“I could still try and take a peek. As long as he has a computer-”

“No,” Seonghwa says. “You just said you can be traced. We shouldn’t risk it.”

He knows his father. He wouldn’t have everything in one place where someone could find it, least of all a student he knows has hacking magic. No matter how much he appears to trust someone, he will always protect himself first.

If Yeosang can be traced, then he will be. And once that happens, his mom will be put in danger. Seonghwa can’t be responsible for more hurt.

They both go quiet. A pop song drones on from the tinny speakers as glasses clink from the kitchen.

“You know,” Yeosang says, “considering how much these schools hate each other, I’d bet all this chicken that Dongjak has some interesting files of their own.”

Seonghwa looks up. “Seriously? You think Dongjak is safer than my father’s office?”

“I didn’t say that. I just think the risks would be different.”

While going to Dongjak still sounds like a tremendously stupid idea, he’s not wrong. No Eunpyeong staff would have their eyes on them there. And if the staff don’t know what they’re doing, then they can’t hold Yeosang’s mom over his head.

But Seonghwa has only gone to Dongjak once. He has no concept of where everything is, where he should stay away and where he should go. Even if he did, he doesn’t know any of the professors; he can’t get keycards or passwords or information from them.

He glances at his phone as it lights up with a message from Yunho. His lockscreen stares back at him—a blurry picture of Wooyoung laughing into the camera, his hood flying off his head as his hands block out a corner of the frame.

He misses him. But once this is all over, they can play all the games Wooyoung wants.

A message from San pops up.

Yu-yah: who up playing ranked kkkk

San-ah: kk loser

Suddenly, Seonghwa smiles. Of course. What is a team project without collaboration?

Me: you guys interested in espionage?

⬷⤐

Even though Seonghwa and Yeosang agree to go to Dongjak, they decide on holding their investigation when Director Park is out of Seoul. That way, on the off chance he does hear about something suspicious, it will give them time to escape.

Unfortunately, the date they agree on is when Yunho and San plan to follow their own lead.

Jongho had told them about a classmate who stopped coming to class despite being the best performing student. When he’d asked the professor about it, she only said that the school wasn’t suited for them.

Hongjoong managed to find the student’s name in a newspaper as an online feature. Apparently, they had been gravely injured by the supervillain Dune and were now staying at a hospital—Chung-Ang Hospital, Cha Youngmi’s workplace.

While Yunho and San investigate that lead, Mingi apologized and said he doesn’t go on in-person investigations because he hates going out at night. Seonghwa suspects there’s more to it than that, but he didn’t press.

Hongjoong, despite his initial suspicions about bringing in an Eunpyeong student, agreed to help as long as he could bring Jongho so that he’d “get a taste of Sector 1,” whatever that’s supposed to mean.

They agree to meet at what Hongjoong calls the Treasure Chest, an abandoned van that he and the others renovated into a home base. Hongjoong clarifies that it’s too fucked up to run and he doesn’t trust Yunho, the only one with a driver’s license, to drive it around anyway.

The van is kept in an alley behind an old noodle shop that went out of business years ago. A gate blocks off the alley, but the lock is rusted over and broken. There are no streetlights behind the storefronts on this block, masking everything in the alley in shadow, including the van.

As Hongjoong waves Seonghwa and Yeosang over to the gate, Seonghwa tries to ignore the unease that prickles his skin. The entire walk here, he’s felt like there was someone watching him, but each time he looked around, there was no one.

“You’re Yeosang, hm?” Hongjoong asks when they meet him at the gate. “I heard we have similar magic.”

Yeosang tilts his head. “Really?”

Hongjoong nods. “Technology stuff, right? I’m curious to see how yours works.”

The prickling unease comes back. Seonghwa chances a look in an adjacent alleyway. He sees something move before a loud thump echoes out from around the corner.

They all look at each other.

Hongjoong nods at them and leans towards where the sounds came from. He holds out his cane to push Seonghwa and Yeosang behind him.

“Yah!” Hongjoong shouts. “Come out! We heard you!”

“Why would you yell?” Seonghwa mutters as Yeosang hides behind him.

A head pokes out of the alleyway. They have black hair, a smear of soot on their chin—

“Wooyoung-ah?” Seonghwa and Yeosang ask at the same time.

Wooyoung giggles nervously. “Sorry.”

Hongjoong puts down his cane, but he keeps his eyes on Wooyoung. “You know him?”

“We both do,” Seonghwa says. He narrows his eyes. “Yah, what are you doing here, punk? Did you follow us all the way here?”

Wooyoung walks out of the alleyway to meet them at the gate. He’s in an old hoodie and jeans—the same thing he was wearing when Seonghwa said goodbye to him half an hour ago.

“I wanted to see where you were going!” Wooyoung whines. “It’s been so long, hyung, can you blame me? I was worried you were going somewhere dangerous!”

He glares at Yeosang and points at him. “And you! How do you know Hwa hyung? Why would he take you to this creepy place and not me?”

Seonghwa and Yeosang share a look.

“Yah!” Wooyoung yells, his voice echoing down the street. “What is that? What did you just do? What does that mean?”

“Young-ah, keep your voice down,” Seonghwa whispers. “We’ll talk about this later-”

“No! I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what’s going on!” Wooyoung crosses his arms. “I only ever see you at night! The last time we had a real conversation was when you had that panic attack-”

“Wooyoung-”

“-and that was, like, three weeks ago!” Embers shoot from his fingers before he curls them into fists. “I’ve been waiting because I know how fucked up our school is. I know how everyone treats you. I wanted you to come to me.” His lip wobbles. “Were you ever going to come to me?”

Seonghwa feels like the world is tilting. His feet aren’t quite balanced, his breathing isn’t quite even, nothing is right.

His Wooyoung, his best friend, his soulmate, has been waiting. All this time, he extended his patience to him, even though Wooyoung has never been patient with anything else. He rage quits every game, orders takeout when his cooking doesn’t work out, runs around campus when an assignment gives him trouble, but for Seonghwa, he waited. Quietly, kindly, patiently, his Wooyoung waited.

Seonghwa should’ve noticed. He should’ve paid more attention to the furrow in his brow after leaving the dorm again. He should’ve seen the way Wooyoung’s shoulders slump when he says nothing more than a quick hello in the hallways.

Wooyoung has always been his miracle, the first sign of hope that Seonghwa could fix things. But above everything, Wooyoung was the first friend Seonghwa made in a long time.

“I’m sorry,” Seonghwa says, because no words will be enough.

“Yah, hyung, don’t cry!” Wooyoung sniffles, rubbing his eye. “If you cry, I’ll cry!”

“I’m not crying!” Seonghwa says as he feels a tickle on his cheek. He quickly wipes it away.

Hongjoong clears his throat. “Um, well, Wooyoung-ssi can stay in the Treasure Chest while we-”

“What? Treasure?” Wooyoung turns towards Hongjoong. “Wait, no, don’t distract me! I’m staying with Hwa hyung.”

Wooyoung locks arms with Seonghwa and glares at Hongjoong as if he’ll take him away.

“Young-ah, he’s right. You could get hurt if you go with us,” Seonghwa says, brushing some of the hair out of Wooyoung’s face.

“That means you could get hurt, too! I’ll go so I can protect everyone.”

Seonghwa doesn’t love the idea, but he’s sort of right: Wooyoung is the only one with offensive magic. Technically, Seonghwa could cut strings, but they’d have to be in a life-or-death situation for something like that. He doesn’t want to do it if he doesn’t have to.

Hongjoong seems to realize this, too, because he asks, “What tier are you?”

“Diamond! I’m an elemental.” When Wooyoung holds out his hand, a burst of flame envelops it before disappearing. “Cool, right?”

“You’ve done better,” Yeosang says.

“That’s the first thing you say to me?”

“Fine, whatever, we’ll tell you what’s going on.” Hongjoong sighs. “Just follow us, and be quiet, okay?”

The Treasure Chest appears innocuous, every bit the abandoned van Hongjoong said it was. There are only dents and scratches across the outside, and all the windows are completely blacked out. But when Hongjoong knocks on the door, Seonghwa realizes why it’s his pride and joy.

As soon as Jongho lets them in, Seonghwa sees a white and black flag hanging from the ceiling. Running along the perimeter are orange and purple LEDs, and across the walls are maps of Seoul. Dozens of areas are circled with red marker—Eunpyeong University, Dongjak University, Tongil-ro, and Chung-Ang Hospital among them. All of them are labeled with names and dates.

The seats of the van have been gutted and replaced with bean bag chairs, blankets, and pillows. A low table has been set at the back beneath a projection of a laptop screen. Following the stream of light, Seonghwa spots the screen projector hanging by a cord from the ceiling.

Notebooks, pens, markers, and loose leaves of paper are scattered across the table. Jongho sets a laptop onto it after he sits back down.

“I heard all the yelling. I thought someone found you, hyung,” he says, glancing at Yeosang and Wooyoung before he looks back at the laptop.

Seonghwa ducks into the van, minding the screen projector as he settles into a nest of blankets. Wooyoung follows close behind, dragging Yeosang with him.

“Only Seonghwa’s Eunpyeongie friend,” Hongjoong replies with a sigh.

“Another one?”

“Yes! I’m his best friend, Jung Wooyoung. It’s nice to meet you!” Wooyoung bows his head towards Jongho.

Slowly, he bows back. “Choi Jongho.”

“And I’m Kim Hongjoong, glad we’re getting all the introductions out of the way.” Hongjoong drops down into a bean bag chair. “Tell me, Wooyoung-ssi, what do you think when you see all this?”

Wooyoung looks around the van. “Uh- I think it looks cool? Like we’re in a spy movie or something.”

Hongjoong looks a little too happy about that comparison, but he quickly stifles his smile.

“Well, if you look a little closer, you’ll see our focus is two places.” He points his cane to Eunpyeong University and Dongjak University on the map closest to him. “Eunpyeong and Dongjak. Both of them exploit and abuse students and staff. We want them not to do that.”

Wooyoung lights up. “We’re trying to take down Seonghwa’s dad?” He looks at Seonghwa with a sheepish smile. “Sorry, hyung.”

Seonghwa waves him off.

“Wait, who’s hyung’s dad?” Jongho asks, looking up from the laptop again.

“Director Park! You know, the big guy with scary eyes?” Wooyoung pauses. “Oh. You don’t go to Eunpyeong, do you?”

“Hongjoong hyung and I go to Dongjak.”

Wooyoung bites his nail as he looks at Seonghwa. “Was I supposed to keep that a secret?”

Seonghwa chuckles. “No, Young-ah, it’s fine. Hongjoong-ah already knew.”

Wooyoung turns back to Jongho. “All you need to know is that he’s bad. Bad at teaching, bad at being a father-”

“Young-ah-”

“He’s a bad man,” Yeosang agrees. “He blackmails students and staff with their family and friends.”

Hongjoong leans towards him. “Do you have proof?”

Yeosang grins. He pulls out his phone, presses something, then waves his hand towards the laptop. Immediately, files pop up on the screen projection.

“Here are mission statements and their reports. I’ve correlated student records and their emergency contacts with them already, and I saved some CCTV footage of these students coming back on campus to verify timelines. I managed to find a few where the student makes a phone call to ask if someone is okay.”

As he talks, more windows open—blurry videos, mostly, but there are also pictures of students crying and returning with bloody or ripped clothes.

The magnitude of it is what churns Seonghwa’s stomach the most. There has to be at least a hundred different faces that appear, all of them with haunted eyes and tear tracks down their cheeks. None of them will be the same. None of them will know what it’s like to have shoulders that don’t carry the guilt of the world.

All because of one man.

“Am I in there?” Seonghwa asks.

Yeosang blinks. “What?”

“Are my missions in there? My reports and everything?” Seonghwa digs his nails into his palms. “Is there a camera outside his office? Did you get him telling me how fucking useless I am? Or how he’d throw me out onto the streets if I didn’t-”

He breathes in, shuts his eyes, and breathes out as he bows his head. Fire smolders low in his stomach and tickles the back of his throat with smoke. He pushes it down, down, down.

“Sorry,” he mutters. “Of course he wouldn’t have a camera outside his office.”

Wooyoung rubs his back. “I’ll kill him myself, hyung, then maybe they’ll put a camera-”

“No, we’ll do this in a way that won’t land any of us in prison,” Hongjoong says. His grip on his cane has tightened, his knuckles white. “Hopefully.”

“He doesn’t have any online copies of your missions, Seonghwa hyung,” Yeosang says quietly. “I checked yesterday. Your reports are gone, too.”

Seonghwa scoffs. “He already knows what he’s doing is fucked up. It’s only a matter of time before he gets rid of everything else.”

Hongjoong nods. “From what we’ve seen, Dongjak is doing the same. I managed to listen in on a call and heard our assistant principal ordering someone to clean up files.” He scowls. “Unfortunately, my magic doesn’t let me record anything.”

He turns to face Yeosang. “This is good evidence, but if we really want to pack a punch, we need something more definitive. Do you have any footage of the actual missions?”

Yeosang shakes his head. “No, sorry. The staff are pretty careful of all the cameras, and most missions are off campus.”

Hongjoong leans back, tapping the skull of his cane. “You mean at Dongjak?”

“Yes. That’s why we’re here.”

“This whole thing was Yeosang’s idea,” Seonghwa says. “If you and Jongho-yah can show us where there might be cameras, then he can hack into them and get the footage.”

“And I can be your bodyguard!” Wooyoung grins.

Hongjoong doesn’t look terribly impressed by that prospect, but he nods. “Sounds simple enough. I’ll go with you and Jongho can stay here to monitor our signal. That way-”

“What? I’m not going?” Jongho asks, his brow furrowed. “Why not?”

Hongjoong frowns. “You’re a healer. And it’s good to have someone stay in the Treasure Chest to monitor us in case something happens.”

“I can still be useful, hyung,” Jongho says, but his voice fades into a mumble.

Hongjoong laughs. “How about this? For tonight, you stay here, and then for our next investigation, you’ll come for sure.”

Jongho narrows his eyes, studying Hongjoong for a long moment before he sighs. “Okay, fine. You better not go back on that.”

“Ey, of course not! What kind of hyung would I be?”

After Hongjoong gives them all face masks, they set off.

At night, Dongjak University’s buildings loom over them like silent, hulking beasts. No light peeks out of their windows. Fountains splash in the silence, lit up by incandescent bulbs. Streetlights dot the walkways, white and unrelenting, stretching out the shadows of trees.

Hongjoong said that this shouldn’t take long, but Seonghwa notices his measured steps as he scans the buildings. As their guide, he takes the lead, the click of his cane against the concrete path a quiet rhythm as they make their way through campus.

“We should stay out of the light,” he whispers to them. “Your masks should hide your faces, but we should try not to attract attention.”

There isn’t anyone out so late at night, but Seonghwa agrees with the precaution. There could be cameras they don’t know about, and Hongjoong mentioned security guards making rounds, but he assured them he already memorized their shifts.

Suddenly, as they finish climbing up the stairs to the side of a library, Hongjoong puts a finger to his lips and stops them with his cane.

He takes out a walkie-talkie from the inside of his jacket. He turns the knob for a moment, furrowing his brow, before he pauses. His hand grabs the air and yanks it down towards the walkie-talkie.

“10-12. Repeat, 10-12,” a voice says from it, deep and gruff.

“What’s the issue?” another voice replies, softer.

“I heard something over by the library. I’m headed there now.”

“10-4.”

Hongjoong ushers all of them towards the back of the library. There, on the second story, is a balcony. He kneels down and waves his hand towards Yeosang to beckon him closer.

“Are we really doing what I think you’re doing?” Wooyoung whispers, staring at him incredulously.

Hongjoong grins at him.

Yeosang, to his credit, follows Hongjoong’s lead. Despite his height, he’s able to easily hoist Yeosang up to the balcony. Yeosang sends a thumbs-up down.

When Hongjoong gestures towards Wooyoung, he grumbles but acquiesces. He reaches up to the balcony as soon as Hongjoong pushes him up, grabbing onto the bars and disappearing from view.

“Come on, Hwa,” Hongjoong whispers, nodding at him as he kneels back down. “We have to hurry.”

Seonghwa hesitates for only a second before he steps onto Hongjoong’s hands. His stomach flips as he’s lifted up to the balcony. Wooyoung and Yeosang wave at him as he climbs over the railing.

As soon as he’s on level ground, he turns around and leans over the railing, his arm outstretched. Without a word, Hongjoong jumps up to grab it, grunting as his feet hit the wall. He wiggles around for a moment, unable to grab the bars since he still has his cane.

“Give me your cane,” Wooyoung whispers, peering down as he holds out his hand.

Hongjoong narrows his eyes. “Don’t drop it.”

When he throws it up, Wooyoung snatches it from the air. Immediately, Hongjoong wraps his hand around one of the bars of the railing and heaves himself over it. Seonghwa grabs him before he can fall.

As Wooyoung gives him his cane back, light flashes below them. They huddle away from the railing, keeping close to the floor.

Footsteps echo beneath them. Silence falls for a moment.

“10-22. Must have been those stray cats,” the walkie-talkie says.

All of their shoulders relax. Wooyoung sighs, rubbing his forehead.

“I almost threw up, genuinely,” he mumbles.

Hongjoons wipes sweat off of his face. “You guys are heavy.”

Wooyoung glares at him. He opens his mouth, but Seonghwa is quick to cover it, muffling his shout.

“Yah! It was your idea to-”

Hongjoong frowns. “I’m older than you!”

“Is that a camera?” Yeosang asks, pointing to the corner of the overhang above them.

Both Wooyoung and Hongjoong look up.

“Oh, yeah. It is,” Hongjoong says. “I didn’t know there was one over here.”

“Do you think it could’ve captured something useful, Yeosang-ah?” Seonghwa asks, turning to him.

Yeosang hums. “I don’t know. Guess we’ll find out.”

He takes out his phone and presses something. The red light of the security camera suddenly turns off.

“Can you tell right away?” Hongjoong asks.

Yeosang flicks through something on his phone. “No, there’s a lot of footage.”

Wooyoung huffs. “How are we supposed to know which ones are useful, then?”

Yeosang shrugs. “We don’t.”

“This was a stupid plan,” Wooyoung mutters.

“You’re the one that followed us.”

“Oh, come on, don’t pull that! I had to-”

“We can collect more footage and look over it later,” Hongjoong says, staring at them with an unimpressed frown. “There are a few spots I have in mind. Yeosang-ssi can grab them and we can go.”

Yeosang smiles and nods. Wooyoung is still scowling, but he doesn’t protest.

Needless to say, it’s a long night.

⬷⤐

As promised, Jongho joins them on their next investigation a few days later.

With graduation coming up in only one week, Hongjoong decided that they should all separate into pairs and explore Seoul to follow the leads that Yeosang found—four missions, all across Seoul, each one with the objective to “terminate.”

The mission statements show locations, target names, and dates. They all take place on the same day at around the same time and, interestingly, they’ve been the only missions assigned in over a week.

Print-outs of the mission statements are plastered all over the walls of the Treasure Chest, highlighted and color coded accordingly. Yeosang brings his own laptop to comb through all the CCTV footage they found at Dongjak while Hongjoong uses the busted up laptop that Mingi donated to help with the Sector 1 Project.

Jongho is a quiet presence beside them, taking notes and transcribing any calls that Hongjoong manages to catch with his magic.

Seonghwa and Mingi help where they can. Mingi uses his magic to verify videos Hongjoong finds online, while Seonghwa helps with research and prepares first aid with Jongho.

With only a few beads and string, Jongho is able to create healing charms. He warns Seonghwa that they’re only temporary, and they won’t work as well as direct healing, but they should be a good replacement for all the items Seonghwa’s first aid kit doesn’t have.

After returning from their own investigation, Yunho and San pore over one of the maps, talking in low tones and comparing notes.

Apparently, the Dongjak student was expelled after failing their monthly evaluation. They admitted that their target was an Eunpyeong librarian, Kang Haeun, but they couldn’t bear to kill her. After returning to campus, they were severely punished, landing them in the hospital. After that, the school must have pinned their injuries on Dune.

Fortunately, the student allowed Yunho and San to record their confession so long as they concealed their identity. Now, their testimony is kept safe with all the other evidence in some kind of encrypted flash drive that Yeosang made.

When Yunho and San returned to the Treasure Chest, Yunho added Kang Haeun’s name to the whiteboard of target names, color coded according to Dongjak and Eunpyeong.

At first, Seonghwa didn’t think anything of it; her name was another in the dozens listed. But then Yeosang arrived, and instead of heading straight to the table, he froze.

“Kang Haeun?”

Yunho and San shared a look.

“Do you know her?” San asked.

“That’s- that’s my mom.”

The Treasure Chest has been especially tense ever since.

It’s one thing to know the back-and-forth of Dongjak and Eunpyeong, the targeted monthly evaluations versus the targeted missions. It’s another thing to feel it so closely, to know that your school nearly killed your friend’s family.

In going against their school, they risk getting punished—getting expelled, beaten, killed. But they are still a part of either Dongjak or Eunpyeong, and that means a target is already on their back from the opposite side.

For the Sector 1 Project to work, they can’t afford any mistakes. To back up their claims, they need proof that has no loopholes. They need direct evidence.

Splitting up around Seoul to document the Eunpyeong missions may just provide that.

Mingi is the only one that stays behind, clearly uncomfortable at the idea of going around Seoul. Apparently, he’s usually the one that stays at the Treasure Chest to monitor them while they go out on investigations, anyway.

He’s in charge of directing them throughout Seoul through shitty earpieces that Hongjoong passes out to them. Mingi’s voice crackles through it, compressed and staticky, but it works.

Hongjoong pairs up Yunho with Yeosang and San with Wooyoung, claiming that having veterans with the newbies will allow for smoother sailing. Since he decides to go by himself—much to Seonghwa’s annoyance—that leaves Seonghwa with Jongho.

“Should you really be going alone?” Seonghwa asks. “Your knee is still healing.”

Hongjoong waves off his concern. “I’m the founder of this project, Seonghwa-yah. I can take care of myself!”

“Do I need to remind you how you tore your-”

Hongjoong quickly orders everyone to start heading out.

Seonghwa and Jongho’s investigation is in Boramae-ro, a street only about half an hour away from Dongjak University. Even so late at night, cars pass by along the main road. Their headlights cut through the alleyways and huddling buildings, spilling in between cracks before fading out.

It’s a quiet area made up of businesses. Brightly colored lettering decorates storefront windows, advertising freshly roasted coffee and deals off noodle combos. Flyers for grand openings litter the streets and whip up to dance in passing breezes. Navigating the alleyways is a bit like traveling through a maze.

While they walk, they’re silent. Seonghwa shouldn’t be surprised; Jongho isn’t a very talkative person.

Once the nerves get the better of him, Seonghwa says, “Have you always lived in Seoul?”

Jongho glances at him. “Yeah. My family’s lived here for a while.”

Seonghwa nods. His gaze drops down to Jongho’s hand, landing on the green string.

“Are you close with them?” he asks.

Jongho is quiet for several seconds too long. “Kind of.”

Seonghwa’s skin prickles. He shouldn’t have asked.

He doesn’t think Jongho will say anything else, but then: “Most of my family went to Eunpyeong, actually, to become superheroes. They’re all diamond tiers.”

Seonghwa looks at him, but Jongho’s eyes are focused on the buildings up ahead. “That’s- that’s good, isn’t it?”

Jongho laughs, but it rings hollow. “I guess.”

He doesn’t have to say what the cost of that is because Seonghwa already knows it—the burden of expectations. Eyes that watch you, waiting, waiting, waiting. Whispers that linger for too long, just loud enough to be heard, judging, judging, judging. The bars of a cage, the circlet of a crown, pressing down, down, down.

“They’re all elementals,” Jongho mumbles. “And I’m not. I don’t even want to be a superhero.”

Seonghwa pauses, surprised. “Then why are you here?”

It’s something he’s asked himself many times before, when the moon is blocked by clouds and can’t light up Hongjoong’s string.

Why am I here? Why isn’t she?

Jongho grumbles. “My little brother wanted me to go. You really can’t say no to that kid.”

Seonghwa hums, watching as Jongho’s green string lights up. “He’s your familial soulmate, you know. I’d imagine it’s grown harder and harder to refuse him anything throughout all your lives together.”

Jongho’s steps stutter but he doesn’t stop. He rubs his middle finger, somehow knowing that the green string is wrapped around it. Perhaps his soul sees it. Or maybe it’s just instinct.

“Of course he is,” he mutters, as if it’s a curse, but he can’t hide the smile that tugs on his lips.

“I know I don’t know him,” Seonghwa says, “but I think- I think he’d be proud of you. This whole thing we’re doing—it’s dangerous. But it’s what superheroes should be doing, right? Taking down the bad guys?”

Jongho’s smile grows wider, gums peeking through his lips. “Sometimes I think I’m older than you when you say stuff like that.”

Seonghwa flusters. “What- hey! I’m just saying! That’s basically what we’re doing!”

Jongho’s smile weakens. “Hyung, aren’t you starting to realize that maybe… maybe the superheroes aren’t as good as you want them to be?”

Seonghwa stops walking. Unease thrums under his skin like a colony of ants.

Jongho stops, too, his smile gone. “My brothers and- and my parents are all superheroes. Whirlwind, Blaze, Waterlily—good, well-respected ones. But I know them.” He shakes his head. “They’re different now. Colder. Meaner.”

Seonghwa’s ears start to ring. “Is that why you joined the project? Hongjoong said- he said that you were easy to convince.”

“It was an easy decision to make.” Jongho stares at him. “It’s hard to say who’s good or bad, hyung. We’re just here to find the truth, yeah? And expose it to the world.”

It’s true. Jongho is rarely ever wrong. Even if Seonghwa hadn’t cut all of his platonic connections, he doubts he’d be one of Jongho’s purple strings. Jongho’s soul feels older, wiser, patient and wistful, as if reminiscing all the lives he’s experienced.

Seonghwa still feels so young. He still watches cherry blossom petals and flyers dance in the wind. He still gapes at pretty sunsets and birds that chirp and twirl in the clouds. He finds it all so very new. Perhaps his father was right to call him a naïve child. Isn’t that exactly what he is?

“Get the fuck away from me!” someone yells, piercing the air.

Seonghwa and Jongho share a look and a nod before they run.

Jongho is shorter, but he’s more athletic; he’s easily able to lead the way through the maze of alleyways and dead-ends. Seonghwa thanks his long legs for helping him keep up.

“Commotion at our location,” he says into his earpiece, following Jongho into another alley.

“Received,” Mingi’s voice crackles. “Stay low, hyung. No interfering; Captain’s orders.”

Seonghwa almost scoffs. Hongjoong keeps insisting on being called the Captain, but everyone else only uses it to tease him. At the very least, it works well as a code name.

“Received,” he replies, and the line goes quiet.

As Seonghwa and Jongho race past a couple of closed storefronts, they stumble upon a complex of towering apartments. They rise high into the sky, blocking out the waning moon. Orange streetlights flicker around them, and fluorescent lights buzz from a parking garage, casting long shadows across the sidewalk.

Above the garage is a terrace that takes up the entire roof. A telephone pole stands adjacent to it, powerlines draping down towards the opposite side of the garage. On top of it is a person.

He’s wearing a black mask and hoodie, but the hood has been knocked back from his head. He has a small face and dark eyes, his hair short and choppy. Sparks shoot beneath him, white and hissing. The powerlines sway.

Jeon Yeongsik, the Eunpyeong student sent to terminate.

Another person is cowering away on the terrace, backed up against the door that leads into the building. She’s bigger and appears older than the other person, her hair tangled around her red face. She tries the door handle, but it only wiggles. She cries out and pounds on the door.

Yoon Hyemin, the target to be terminated.

(“Our Head Advisor,” San had mumbled.)

“Help! Someone, help me!” she yells, tears running down her cheeks as she throws herself at the door.

Silently, Seonghwa and Jongho creep behind a parked car. Seonghwa takes out his phone and presses the record button.

When Hyemin tries to throw herself at the door again, Yeongsik raises his hand. Sparks shoot out from his fingers, white lightning bolts fizzing out before he throws his hand forward as if he were throwing a baseball.

Hyemin yelps, jumping back two steps. Her body multiples into three, each one more translucent than the last. As her real body tumbles backward to the ground, a ball of lightning passes through one of her mimics, smashing into the door and splitting it open. Splinters of wood rain down to the floor.

“Help! Help, anyone, please!” she cries, stumbling to her feet as Yeongsik raises his hand again.

Right when he’s about to throw another ball, the door creaks open.

“What’s going on out here?” a man asks, stumbling out. His hair and clothes are disheveled as if he just got out of bed. His eyes widen when he sees Hyemin and Yeongsik.

“Sir! Sir, help!” Hyemin hurries over to him. “This- this person-”

She’s interrupted by another ball of lightning careening towards her. She gasps, her body starting to multiply, but the man suddenly steps in front of her to grab her shoulders. Her mimics dissipate, and as she’s shoved aside, the ball slams into the man’s back. It sears through his shirt, burning his skin as he drops to his knees.

Hyemin doesn’t turn to look behind her as she runs through the door. Yeongsik jumps down onto the terrace to follow her.

As they leave, the man wheezes. His body jolts with muscle spasms, so severe that he chokes on his breath. Blood drips from his mouth and his back. He keeps jolting, thrashing, convulsing, as if there’s something taking control of his limbs from the inside.

Seonghwa’s heart thuds. His phone shakes from the tremors passing through his hands. When he looks over at Jongho, he sees him staring wide-eyed. He’s not holding his phone anymore.

“Jongho-yah,” Seonghwa whispers to him, taking his hands.

Jongho flinches but doesn’t pull away. His eyes flick to Seonghwa.

Seonghwa squeezes his hands. “Go heal him. I’ll go- I’ll go after the others.”

“Hyung-”

“No, listen to me.” Seonghwa lowers his voice. “He wasn’t supposed to be here. He isn’t involved. This should’ve never happened.”

Slowly, Jongho nods. “I- I’ll try, but- but hyung, be careful. Seriously.”

Seonghwa tries a smile, but it only pulls uncomfortably at his cheeks. He ruffles Jongho’s hair and sends him off.

It’s not hard to find them when no one else is creeping around the apartment complex. Their strings—four green, nine yellow, one brown, one lime green—are like a trail, weaving between alleys and backways, hanging over roofs and fire escapes.

Eventually, when he sees them leading up to another roof, he rushes up the stairs to the apartment building across from it. He tries to be as quiet as possible as he opens and closes the door to the roof. There are giant metal pipes and generators all around him, whirring calmly.

“Get- get away from me!” Hyemin cries, panting between words.

Seonghwa crouches down behind one of the generators, peeking out to see her and Yeongsik on the other roof, just as he thought. He takes out his phone to record again.

“I have to do this, ma’am,” Yeongsik says. He’s cornered her once again, but this time, he’s blocking her only exit. The wind passes through the bars of the railing and through her hair.

“Like hell you do!” Hyemin spits. “I don’t see a gun pointed to your head!”

Yeongsik is quiet for a moment. “Just because you don’t see it doesn’t mean it’s not there.”

Hyemin narrows her eyes. “You’re another one of those Eunpyeong kids, aren’t you? Sent to take out the trash?”

“I’m sorry, ma’am.”

“I should’ve known one of you would come for me. If not you, then another.” She looks out over the streets below. “And if not them, then…”

Crickets and cicadas sing, cooing with the honks of cars and music in the distance. Never silent, never sympathetic Seoul.

“Then I suppose Dongjak would’ve taken me out, too, when I couldn’t take it anymore.” She sighs and looks back at Yeongsik. “Who are you doing this all for, child?”

He hesitates. “My- my baby sister, ma’am. I’d like- I’d like to be a superhero to keep her safe.”

“Your parents can’t do that?”

“No, they can’t.”

Hyemin hums. “I suppose you’d get a good pay out of the gig, too, right?”

Yeongsik says nothing.

She looks up at the sky. “It’s all the same. Brothers, sisters, daughters, sons. It is all for them. To keep loving them. A selfless act, over and over, to prove you can be a superhero.”

She steps up to the railing. “Somewhere in the process, it turned into a trade—take one daughter to protect your own. An eye for an eye, a life for a life.”

She heaves herself over the bars, balancing on the edge of the roof’s lip. She grins at Yeongsik.

“This time,” she says, “I’d like to be selfish.”

Yeongsik steps forward, reaching out. Seonghwa’s heart pounds, his ears ringing. Hyemin lets go of the railing.

She smiles the whole way down, her strings fluttering like ribbons.