Work Text:
Suhwan has painted the tree outside his bedroom window five hundred times. He doesn’t even need to look at it anymore to trace the curve of each branch, to mark each indentation in the wood, each hole. It’s like the image has been etched into his mind, planted within him as deep as the roots themselves.
He could paint that tree blindfolded. He did paint that tree blindfolded, once, after his instructor had already left for the day, although he still doesn’t know why. The painting came out wrong, all mangled lines and overlapping foliage, though he supposed he should have expected as much. He burned that canvas that same evening, before his parents could see it and feel ashamed, or worse – concerned.
“What does the tree represent?” his instructor enunciates at the start of yet another lesson.
“Nature and purity,” he recites, “The tree is a symbol of life as it should be: well-maintained and untouched.”
The instructor’s head bows in curt affirmation. “That is correct.”
His five-hundred-and-first painting is reportedly better than the one before it. Suhwan agrees, though personally, he cannot see the difference.
“A few years from now, it’ll all be digitized,” Suhwan’s father informs him over breakfast, not for the first time. “AI will have all the data it needs to generate everything – efficient and optimized. Art is a dying field.”
Suhwan knows it’s just a metaphor but nonetheless imagines acres full of rotted grass, caked in pasty yellows and browns. Wordlessly, he reaches across the kitchen table to tug the newspaper out from under his father’s coffee mug.
“Oh, honey,” his mother chides, “you know we’re supportive of Suhwan’s painting! He can do whatever he wants, as long as it makes him happy. Painting makes you happy, right, dear?”
“Yes,” Suhwan mumbles, extracting the puzzle pages before making for the stairway.
His mother intercepts him halfway there, all warm smiles and soapy hands as she sets down the dish she was scrubbing to give Suhwan’s shoulders a fond squeeze.
“Don’t worry about it, Suhwanie. I’m sure your art will prove very useful for the computers, very informative for generations to come.”
Suhwan mirrors her hollow smile. “I’d like that.”
After planting a quick peck on his forehead, she turns back to the sink, permitting Suhwan to finally retreat to the comfort of his room.
The daily crossword already has the words ‘ato’ and ‘perigree’ penned in, but he makes short work of the rest of it. Outside, the wind rustles the leaves of his familiar tree. Maybe one day, a branch will snap and all of Suhwan’s previous works will be rendered useless, inaccurate.
As he flips the sheet to check yesterday’s answers, he realizes that he’d accidentally grabbed an extra page, an article from the crime news section. A greyscale picture greets him: a smudged image of body outlines attributed to a man with a round face and rounder glasses, staring at Suhwan from the confines of his mugshot with a crooked smile.
The article is not what he expects. Apparently, the man in the photo is suspected of sketching these outlines onto the sidewalk in front of the Media Center. The article speculates that it was an act of protest, arranged such that the advertising executives would need to trample the splayed-out bodies as they go to and from work.
The newsworthy part is that the outlines were painted in purple.
It’s been years since Suhwan has seen the color purple– it’s reserved only for special occasions, for electronic signboards displaying breaking news or celebrating military victory. Advertisements are strictly forbidden from employing the color to ensure that it’s all the more eye-catching when it is used, a vibrant pop amidst the regulated beige of the city. Using such hues in a public space without obtaining proper permission was… well, illegal. Unethical. Wrong.
Suhwan stares at the outlines and tries to envision their shade. He doesn’t understand. If these outlines were purple – if someone broke the law, risking their safety for the sake of this display - then surely, it must indicate something important. Who were these outlines, and what message were they so desperate to convey?
He neatly folds the article such that only the image is displayed, then cautiously designates it to his bedside table. He would ask his instructor about this later.
Suhwan knows what art is. He’s been taught in his classrooms, instructed by his private tutors about what aspects give a piece value, what gives it worth.
He knows what these vandals are doing to the city isn’t art, yet he can’t help but feel drawn in all the same.
Suhwan likes his neighborhood. He thinks it suits him, or maybe he suits it. Either way, they seem to match each other, with the way each step of his pristine white tennis shoes falls squarely between the evenly-spaced cracks of the suburban sidewalk.
It’s not a gated community, but there are no shortage of gates around, anyway: when the metro stop got added a few blocks away, the nearby houses invested in increased security measures in case of visitors from the wrong side of the tracks. The implementation of that stop had been a controversial one, considering most everyone in the neighborhood wouldn’t be caught dead on public transit, but someone had wanted it there and put in the money to prove it. As usual, that was enough to settle matters.
He knows he’s rich because he lives next door to politicians and department heads, not quite the big wig CEOs who commute from well outside the city, but well-respected individuals - or at least well-paid. Suhwan’s never wanted for anything in his life. He also feels like he’s never wanted anything in his life. He wonders if that’s a problem, and decides to keep walking.
As he rounds the corner, he finds a boy standing beside one of the houses, roughly his age, maybe a few years older. The boy does not belong in the neighborhood. That much is obvious from a single glance, from the fringe-riddled shreds of his torn-up t-shirt and the dark-colored bandana covering his face.
At first, Suhwan thinks he must be working on the house. Then he notices that the “work” involves a can of spray paint and a decorated duffle bag splayed open on the ground beside him.
The boy glances over at him, and Suhwan freezes as if he’s the one who’s been caught. They lock eyes for a moment, then the boy sort of shrugs and shakes his spray can, turning away to add another line to his canvas with a loose, looping motion.
Suhwan approaches slowly. This house belongs to Mrs. Kang, the head of the homeowner’s association. She baked cookies for Suhwan last month. He wonders if the boy knows that. He wonders if he should tell him.
Then Suhwan sees the wall and all other thoughts leave his mind.
Because the painting isn’t anything. There’s no form to make out – it’s all random, swirling loops and senseless spirals. It works. Suhwan doesn’t know how. The colors melt together into something smooth and warm, and weird, because where were these feelings coming from-
The painting isn’t anything, but it’s certainly not nothing, either.
Suhwan opens his mouth to speak, to scream, but before he gets the chance the boy extends a paint can in his direction.
“Wanna try?” he offers, his voice a low and playful rumble through Suhwan’s ears.
He stares at the can blankly. “Me?”
“Sure. Go for it.”
The boy releases the can with a little toss, and Suhwan catches it, gripping the cold metal too tightly and continuing to stare. The label calls it green, but the shade is nothing like nature. It’s shiny, limey, artificial and bright.
“Shake it first,” the boy orders, and Suhwan hesitantly obeys.
“What should I paint?”
The boy shrugs. “Anything.”
Anything. The word is so liberating, yet he feels so caged, the pressure of possibility rendering his mind completely blank. He doesn’t even know where to start.
Out of nowhere, a dog barks harshly, startling Suhwan into a jump. The can clatters to the ground, but when he bends down to pick it up, a burning grip takes his wrist.
“Run.”
Then he’s dragged along through the streets, tripping over his own feet as he stumbles on every crack in the sidewalk, struggling to keep up with the other boy's breakneck pace. The neighborhood that he knows so well blurs around him like a smearframe. Sirens cry out in the distance - or at least Suhwan hopes they’re in the distance. He’s already starting to lose his breath.
A few footfalls later, he remembers that he knows this area, that this is the place he’s lived his whole life, where he belongs. At the next intersection, he stops, causing the other boy to jerk to a halt as his grip slides loose.
“This way,” Suhwan commands, racing down a side street and frantically creaking open the gate around the centermost yard. The sirens are definitely close now, ringing in his ears as he bolts up to the porch and begins punching numbers into an electronic keypad.
The light flickers green and the boy wastes no time shoving open the door and bolting inside. Suhwan pauses for a moment in the entryway, looking around to ensure that no one witnessed their escape. He glances down, only to find that the side of one of his pure white shoes has been marked by a stray line of neon green, no doubt from when he dropped the can. Swallowing nervously, he follows the boy inside and slams the door.
The air conditioning feels amazing, chilling the sweat dripping down Suhwan’s face. He can’t remember the last time he ran – like fully, truly ran. Probably grade school gym class.
If the boy looked out of place standing out on the street, it’s even worse inside, his paint-stained garments clashing with the aggressively pristine countertops. He stands in the center of the room as if afraid of touching anything, duffle bag swinging limply from his gloved fingers as he turns to face Suhwan.
“This your place?”
Suhwan shakes his head. “It belongs to Mr. Choi. He has a vacation home down south. I feed his cat.”
On cue, the familiar thumps of Mina’s little paws hitting the floor come from the other room, then she’s ducking her round, fuzzy face around the corner, chirping curiously.
The boy seems to relax, “Cute,” as he tugs down his bandana to reveal the widest smile Suhwan’s ever seen. “Here, kitty kitty!”
Mina rubs up against the boy’s legs, purring as he crouches down to scritch behind her ears. Just like that, the boy doesn’t seem out of place at all. Suhwan clears his throat.
“I should probably go home now. My parents will worry if I’m out too long, especially with police in the area. You can stay as long as you need to, though.”
The boy rubs the side of his neck. “Thanks, kid. You really saved my ass.”
“Suhwan,” he corrects, “It’s Suhwan, not ‘kid’.”
“Suhwan, then. Thanks for the save.”
“What were you painting?” he asks, unable to contain his burning curiosity any longer.
The boy just gives him a strange look. “You saw it, didn’t you?”
“Yes, but what does it mean?”
That makes the boy laugh, a warm, breezy sound. “I’ll tell you what: they only bring out the machine after sundown, so my piece will be up for a few more hours. Why don’t you go back there, take another look? Then next time you see me, you can tell me what it means.”
So he does. That night after supper, Suhwan asks for permission to go on a walk, promising to return before it gets too late. His mother shoots him a look and a pointed comment about it getting dark soon, but Suhwan says “Please?” and it’s as easy as that.
There’s a line of yellow tape around the painting, so Suhwan keeps his distance, observing the mural from across the street with an inquisitive glare. It still doesn’t look like anything. The colors are bright and exciting, but as for anything that could constitute meaning…
The sun sets. As the yolky red dot slips over the horizon, it shines through the gap between the houses and illuminates the painting. Then, in an instant, everything makes sense.
The painting dances.
A thread of gold shimmers in the fading light, flying around the hectic world of color in loops and dives, frantic for escape. It sounds like a whistle, tastes like a fizzy water laced with sweet syrup. Suhwan follows it through its highs and lows, watches it dip and tangle with shades of varying intensity, until the sun finally sinks over the horizon and the thread is gone. He stares at the darkened canvas in awe, his stomach stirring amidst an emotion with no name or explanation.
He’s still standing there staring when the sound of the machine roars into proximity as its tank-like wheels churn through the suburban streets. Suhwan ducks around the corner to hide, to silently spectate as the vehicle launches its spray of chemicals, bombarding the house with a toxic hiss.
Just like that, the paint melts, colors smearing together nastily as they slide off the surface, pooling on the ground in a sad, grey puddle. The exterior of the house is left pristine, save for the faint acidic smell, and the machine rolls onward.
When Suhwan returns to the Choi house the next day, the boy is gone. Maybe he, too, was chased down by the machine and melted down into a grey sludge destined for the gutter. Suhwan hopes this isn’t the case, though. He wants to see the boy again.
He wants to thank him, for making him comprehend the incomprehensible.
“That shade of green is slightly off,” his instructor informs from over his shoulder. “It’s too yellow – you need to add two more drops of blue.”
Suhwan follows the instructions with a nod, twisting his brush with curious swishes. “Teacher,” he asks, “did you hear about the art piece in front of the Media Center yesterday?”
“Art? What art?”
“There were bodies painted on the sidewalk. They were… purple.”
His instructor pulls an irritated face. “Oh, you mean the vandalism. I saw the picture in the post. What of it?”
Suhwan angles his eyes down to the murky water as he clears his brush. “What does it mean? Whose bodies are they?”
“What does it mean?” the instructor echoes incredulously, “It’s just graffiti, Suhwan, it doesn’t mean anything. It’s nonsense, committed by people who don’t know how to use their gifts.”
Suhwan wants to ask more, to describe the painting done by the boy the other day, to explain what he thought he felt, but before he gets the chance, a voice calls from downstairs.
“Suhwanie? Someone’s here to see you.”
He lowers his brush with a frown. He’s never had any visitors before.
“Go on ahead,” his instructor encourages, “We can continue your lesson later.”
Suhwan’s heart pounds excitedly as he hastens down the stairs. Somehow, he thinks it might be the boy from the other day, greeting him with an extended hand and that glistening ear-to-ear smile. They still have so much to talk about.
He descends into the entryway to discover his mother standing beside a uniform-clad policeman.
“Suhwan, you remember Officer Hwang, right? He used to live right down the street.”
“It’s been a few years,” the policeman greets with an eerily friendly tone, “You must have grown ten inches since I last saw you.”
“Am I in trouble?” Suhwan deadpans, wanting to escape the suddenly suffocating atmosphere as soon as possible.
Hwang’s expression shifts. “Of course not. I just have a few questions to ask you. Why don’t we take a seat?”
Suhwan’s mother ushers them into the kitchen, where Hwang comfortably plops down at the head of the table while Suhwan apprehensively takes a chair of his own, crossing his right foot over his left. He feels as if the line of green paint on his shoe is glowing in the darkness under the table. He prays that he’s wrong.
“Now, Suhwan: your mother tells me that you left the house around two pm yesterday. Does that sound right to you?”
“I was going to Mr. Choi’s house,” he affirms, “to feed the cat.”
“Right, right. On your way there, did you happen to pass by the Kang residence?”
Suhwan tenses, involuntarily and much to his own annoyance: the interrogation topic does not come as a surprise, but its confirmation nonetheless forces a flinch.
Assessing the reaction, the officer continues in soft tone, “Do you know what happened to Mr. Kang’s house?”
“…Someone painted on it,” Suhwan all but whispers, “I saw the painting. It was beautiful.”
Both Officer Hwang and Suhwan’s mother are taken aback by his words, but not as much as Suhwan himself. He hadn’t intended to say as much. The words sort of just fell out.
“Do you know who painted the house?” the officer persists.
The image of the boy flashes into Suhwan’s mind. He bites his lip and says nothing.
“Suhwan,” his mother orders pointedly, but the officer stops her with a hand.
“Let me ask you something different: did you paint the Kangs’ house?”
“No!” he denies immediately, offendedly, quickly glancing over to his mother for support but only finding muted horror, “No, it wasn’t me.”
“We found a can of spray paint at the scene of the crime,” Hwang informs grimly. “Your fingerprints were on it, Suhwan.”
At this point, his mother looks like she might faint. Desperately, Suhwan pleads, “It wasn’t me, I swear. There was someone else, this boy – he painted the house. He left that can behind, and I was curious, so I walked over and picked it up. I just looked at it, that’s all. I didn’t do anything.”
“Did you talk to this ‘boy’ at all?”
“No. I just saw him, then he ran away.”
“Suhwan,” his mother starts again, more heartbroken this time, but once more Officer Hwang puts her worries to rest with a comforting hand.
“He’s telling the truth, Mrs. Kim. The color of paint in the can he touched wasn’t used anywhere on the wall. Our vandal was probably about to use it when Suhwan showed up, so he dropped it and fled. You did a good thing, son. Next time, just remember to call the police when you see something like that.”
Slowly, Suhwan nods. “Thank you. I’ll keep that in mind.”
The officer gives him an appreciative smile. “Just a few more questions, then I’ll be out of your hair. Did you get a good look at the vandal? What did he look like?”
“He was… short,” Suhwan lies, “with round-framed glasses and pale skin. Sort of a round face, too.”
Hwang’s eyes widen with recognition as he scribbles furiously on his notepad. “Got it. I think I know who we’re dealing with. Do you remember which way he ran after you scared him off?”
“South, I think. Back toward the metro stop.”
“Makes sense,” the officer notes, “Alright, that should be all. Thank you so much for your cooperation, Suhwan, Mrs. Kim. Hopefully, we’ll catch the culprit soon.”
“Thank you for your hard work, officer,” Suhwan’s mother soothes, escorting him to the door. As soon as he’s out of sight, she turns to her son with a firm glare. “Why didn’t you tell me about this?”
“Didn’t want to worry you,” he provides. It’s not a lie.
Sighing, she pulls him into a tight hug. “My poor baby. You must have been so scared.”
Suhwan thinks of the machine and its rumbling, of the efficient erasure of the image still dancing through his mind.
He hugs his mother back. “I was.”
One week later, the boy is sitting criss-cross applesauce in the middle of the Chois' kitchen, Mina curled up in his lap and purring fondly.
“Hey,” he greets, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Suhwan freezes wide-eyed in the entryway. “How did you get back inside?”
“I watched you input the code. Wasn’t that hard to memorize.”
Suhwan narrows his eyes suspiciously. “What do you want?”
The boy shrugs, removing the cat from his lap as he stands up with a smile. “Thought I’d pay my cool new friend a visit. I owe you one for the other day, so I thought I’d see what I could do to return the favor. Wanna hang out?”
When he says ‘hang out’, he’s almost certainly referring to the duffle bag of paint supplies resting on the countertop. The boy follows Suhwan’s concerned gaze, and only smiles wider.
“Come on, I know a spot. You can paint the walls there as much as you want - no danger, no risk of getting caught. You interested?”
Suhwan can’t deny it. He keeps thinking about the weight of the paint can in his hands, of the endless possibilities opened to him. “No danger,” he repeats firmly.
“None whatsoever.”
He shoots off a text to his parents about staying at the Chois' to spend time with a lonely Mina, then sets his phone on the countertop – location tracking on. This is a horrible idea.
“Let’s go.”
Suhwan has never been to the metro station before.
It reeks of the filth and garbage littered about, but surprisingly, it’s the most colorful place in the neighborhood, bright-screened advertisements flickering across monitors and illegible scribbles adorning the cement.
“I don’t have a metro pass,” Suhwan informs the boy nervously, and he only laughs in reply.
The next second, the boy is scaling the chain-link fence, leaping down the other side onto the platform beside the train tracks.
Suhwan immediately protests, “I’m not doing that."
“In those pants? I should hope not. Khakis aren’t made for climbing.”
He gestures for Suhwan to follow him over to the mechanical entryway and pushes back the metal turnstile so that Suhwan can slip through unticketed. A minute later, the train comes, and then they’re standing in the center of the car, hands gripping metal handrails.
“I just realized I don’t know your name,” Suhwan starts.
The boy glances out the window.
“Do you want to?”
“I guess so. I mean, we’re friends now, aren’t we?”
“We won’t be friends anymore if you sell me out.”
Suhwan tightens his grip on the metal pole. “I won’t.”
“I’m sure. Most people in the industry don’t use their real names, anyway. We all have personal titles instead.”
“What’s your title, then?”
The boy holds out a thumb and index finger just as the train escapes a tunnel, revealing the gleaming brightness of the city skyscrapers behind him, with the Bureau of Communications standing front and center.
“Lehends,” he announces, “but because I like you, Suhwanie, you can call me Siwoo.”
“Siwoo hyung,” he echoes, followed by a pensive, “Lehends?”
“It’s a weird one, I know.”
“It suits you.” Siwoo gives Suhwan a weak shove as he finishes, “What should my fake name be?”
“I dunno. Richie Rich? Golden Boy?”
Suhwan rolls his eyes. “Does it have to be about money?”
“Money is a good thing to have! Ooh, I know: Payroll!”
“That’s not-”
“Pays?”
“That’s… actually not so bad.”
The train screeches to a halt at the next station, and Siwoo readjusts his duffle bag, tipping his head toward the door.
“This is us.”
Unlike the suburban station, the downtown stop is crowded, packed well beyond capacity with sweaty bodies and bulky bags. Siwoo firmly takes Suhwan by the elbow, guiding him through the chaos with skillful navigation until they surface onto the residential streets.
Seven blocks, one right turn and one left later, they’re in an alley behind a string of brick houses. The streets are so narrow that Suhwan doubts the machine could ever get back here. This part of town probably isn’t affluent enough to access a machine, anyway.
“Here we are,” Siwoo declares, unzipping his bag and spreading it wide open to reveal the array of paints and stencils inside, “All yours, Suhwanie.”
Suhwan examines the spread of colors available to him – many of them remnants of the piece from the previous day, shining golds and milky oranges – and recalls Siwoo’s declaration from the first time they met: anything. Suhwan has the freedom to paint anything he wants.
He paints the tree outside his bedroom window.
“Cool,” remarks Siwoo, and Suhwan shakes his head, frustrated.
“It’s wrong. I can’t capture the textures I need with this spray. It’s not accurate.”
"So?" Siwoo tilts his head to the side. “I don’t think it looks so bad. Mind if I add to it?”
The question shocks Suhwan to the core. “What’s there to add?”
He shakes a can of black spray paint in response, then, cutely, draws a little smiley face on the branch of the tree, followed by a pair of ears and whiskers, then a little cat body and a tail.
“What are you doing?” Suhwan flounders, stupefied.
Siwoo gives him a pleased grin. “It’s Mina!”
“Mina is an indoor cat.”
“So? Don’t you think she should get to enjoy the outside sometime?”
Suhwan frowns. “The outside is dangerous.”
“Dangerous,” Siwoo scoffs, “You know, I think ‘dangerous’ is just another word for exciting.”
“It’s absolutely not,” Suhwan complains, brow furrowed at the wall. “You ruined the meaning of the art.”
“Oh? And what, pray tell, is the meaning of the art?”
“Nature and purity,” he urges, “The tree is a symbol of life as it should be: well-maintained and untouched!”
Siwoo mouths the words uncertainly, finally asking, “How can something be both well-maintained and untouched? Doesn’t maintenance involve, I dunno, touching?”
Suhwan doesn’t have an answer to that, so he grumbles, “That’s not the point.”
Seeming to understand that this is a sensitive subject, Siwoo weighs his next words carefully. “Maybe… there’s just a different meaning of the painting now?”
“Yeah? Like what?”
Breaking into a grin, Siwoo offers, “Maybe it’s about fun and freedom. Maybe it’s about Mina enjoying herself, for once in her life.”
Suhwan processes this analysis, examining the painting with a reflective eye. “Well, if that’s the meaning of the painting, I think we did a pretty bad job of conveying it. Poor Mina is trapped up in that tree. That doesn’t seem very fun or freeing.”
Siwoo clicks his tongue enthusiastically. “Well, we can change that, can’t we, Suhwanie?” He tosses Suhwan a can of reddish-brown spray paint without another word.
Then Suhwan is constructing something of his own design, taking the foundations of form and shape that he’d mastered over the years to formulate something entirely new: a ladder stretching up the side of the tree – an invitation to join the rest of the world.
Siwoo adds a dog at the base of the tree, nudging the ladder into position. "A friend," he insists, and although Suhwan protests that dogs and cats are notoriously enemies, he can’t deny that this dog looks quite polite.
Suhwan’s smiling by the end of it, feeling more accomplished, more satisfied than he ever has in his life. Their painting is silly. It’s ridiculous. It’s perfect.
“Hey, are you free tomorrow night?” Siwoo asks. “There’s someone I want you to meet. I think you’ll like him.”
Suhwan contemplates his answer. “Sure, I should be able to sneak out.”
“Perfect. I’ll meet you at the metro stop around ten, then.” Siwoo glances over the painting with a sigh. “We should probably get going. He’ll be home soon.”
“Who?” Suhwan wonders, before recalling that they were painting the back of a small house and going slack jawed. “You said there’d be no danger!”
“There isn’t! It’s not like he’s going to report us. Even if we did get caught, he’d probably just let you go. Me, on the other hand…”
“Just whose house is this?”
“My ex?” Siwoo answers sheepishly.
Suhwan groans, “Siwoo hyung…”
“Trust me, he’s going to love what we’ve done with the place,” Siwoo beams, “but just in case, we might want to skedaddle before he gets back.”
When Suhwan hears the shouting of politicians from his father’s television, he decides it’s safe to sneak out through the side door. After Siwoo's critical remark about yesterday's outfit, he opts for a more casual getup: a tee-shirt usually used for sleeping instead of his usual polo, a pair of sweatpants that fit well enough, his same white tennis shoes graced with the streak of green.
He arrives at the metro stop to find Siwoo waiting for him, already on the other side of the fence.
“Nice fit,” he chimes, pushing back the turnstile for Suhwan yet again, “It suits you.”
The train feels faster at night. Maybe it’s the way the lights blur as they ride through the tunnels, or the plummeting approach of the glass-riddled cityscape as the train pulls up to the downtown station.
“We’re getting off here,” Siwoo says, “I have a few errands to run before we hit the hideout.”
Their first stop is a small arts-and-crafts store on the central road. The sign on the door reads “CLOSED” and the lights are off, but the door is unlocked, so Siwoo pushes his way inside anyway.
“Boo-bear! I’m here!”
A large man in casual garb and a baseball cap emerges from the back of the store.
“Picking up for Chovy?”
“You know it.”
The man reaches behind the shelf with a slight grunt. “Who’s the kid?”
“This is Suh-”
“Peyz!” Suhwan interrupts, “Call me Peyz.”
Siwoo barks out a laugh as the man behind the counter breaks into a wry grin. “Peyz, huh? Well, take my advice, Peyz: find better a role model than this loser.”
“Rude,” Siwoo pouts, “also I’m literally bringing him to Chovy tonight.”
“Good. He’ll take care of you.” The man shoves a duffel bag not unlike the one that Siwoo usually carries across the countertop. “Be careful with those. They’re not stable yet.”
Siwoo gives a stiff salute. “Sir yessir. Thanks, Canyon.”
Canyon, Suhwan wonders – it’s another title, probably, along with this so-called ‘Chovy’.
“Stay safe,” Canyon dismisses, retreating back into the depths of his art shop, “Lock the door on your way out.”
Siwoo listens to his orders. Once they’re outside, he explains, “Canyon makes all our paints for us. He’s something of an alchemist, so if you want a color that’s not sold to the public or a paint with a special property, he’s your guy.”
“So the art store’s just a front?” Suhwan wonders. Even in the dark, the storefront looked so friendly and inviting, like someplace he wouldn’t mind taking his parents if it weren’t on the wrong side of the city.
Siwoo shakes his head. “I’m pretty sure he considers that his ‘real job’. Even if he can only sell government-approved materials, he loves helping people find their passion, especially those who can’t afford something fancy like art school or tutoring.”
“The real money comes from what he makes in the back, though,” Suhwan deduces.
With a quizzical smile, Siwoo corrects him: “Canyon does this for free. We all do.”
Suhwan pauses. “Why?”
“I do it for fun,” Siwoo shrugs, “Boo would probably say something like he thinks it’s important. Chovy? Well... I suppose you can ask him yourself.”
Their traincar is empty for the next stretch, so Siwoo takes the opportunity to make a phone call.
“Pay attention, Suhwanie,” he winks, putting the call on speakerphone. “This is an important skill for developing your street art career.”
A professional sounding voice answers, “Hello-”
“Kiin-ah, it’s me~!” Siwoo singsongs in his most irritating voice. Suhwan flinches, and the man on the other side of the phone sighs.
“Siwoo, what did I tell you about calling outside of business hours?”
“Oh come on, it’s urgent!”
“Urgent as in somebody died, or…?”
“Urgent as in this is something you’re gonna wanna see.”
Kiin grumbles, “We just ran the article on ShowMaker’s piece last week. For this to stick, it needs to be something truly incredible.”
“It will be.”
The man pauses. “Chovy?”
“You know it.”
“Hmm.”
“Please?”
“Siwoo…”
Suddenly, Siwoo nudges Suhwan’s arm. “Suhwanie, say ‘please’!” He angles the phone in Suhwan’s direction.
“Um, please?” he tries weakly.
“Who’s that?!” Kiin demands, voice tainted with shock.
“Just Suhwan," Siwoo assures, "He’s my kid.” Before Suhwan can protest, he continues, “And he’ll be oh-so-disappointed if we don’t get an article about this in the post tomorrow…”
Kiin lets out another defeated sigh. “Fine, I’ll do it. Give me a time and location, and I’ll have cameras ready.”
Siwoo grins, “See, Suhwanie? That’s a fun little secret about Kiin: say ‘please’ enough times, and he’ll give you anything you want!”
“Only because you won't leave me alone otherwise,” he remarks, “Now, time and place?”
“Technofuse HQ, 1 A.M.," he reports, “and maybe this time, try not to capture faces?”
“Not my fault that ShowMaker has the stealth prowess of a disco ball,” he jabs before promptly ending the call.
“He works for the newspaper?” Suhwan guesses, and Siwoo affirms it.
“If you’re trying to get a message out, it’s always important to have media contacts. Networking, Suhwanie. It’s a vital skill of this day and age.”
“What message are you trying to get out?” Suhwan wonders aloud.
“Now that’s a question for Chovy,” Siwoo grins as the train jolts to a halt once more. “Come on. Time for you to meet him.”
As they exit the station, this time, rather than heading out to the streets, Siwoo loops them back through the tunnels, walking alongside the tracks until they veer off to the side and become rusted. A few dark minutes later, complete with night bugs chirping and the faint sound of Siwoo’s humming, they’re at a graveyard, not for people, but for machines – old train cars and locomotives left to dust in the midst of a concrete lot.
“Welcome to the hideout,” Siwoo announces.
Suhwan takes in his surroundings, the muted scent of paint fumes, the aching groans of the nearby metal. The space should be dead, but scattered all around it are signs of life – little doodles on the sides of boxcars, words scraped into the pavement, a single cabinet adorned with fairy lights.
With a thump, a masked man jumps out of a nearby car and draws a shriek from Suhwan’s lips.
Siwoo laughs as the other young man removes his face mask to reveal a toothy smile.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.” His words are genuine, yet playful. He wipes a hand on his bell-bottomed jeans before extending it Suhwan's way. “I’m Chovy. You must be Suhwan.”
Siwoo corrects, “Actually, he goes by ‘Peyz’ now.”
Suhwan just ignores him, extending a hand of his own. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he greets formally.
“I’m sure the pleasure is all mine. Tonight’s job is an important one, and I’m glad you’ll be there to see it.”
“Job?” Suhwan asks, turning to Siwoo uncertainly as Chovy does the same.
“What, you didn’t tell him?”
Siwoo dismisses the stares with an uncaring eye roll. “I brought you with us tonight because Chovy’s hitting the streets. It’s not like you have to do anything, Suhwanie – you can just watch.”
Suhwan’s mouth gapes a bit. “You mean you’re going to paint something?”
“I suppose I am,” Chovy grins. “I know it’s not the safest excursion, so if you aren’t comfortable accompanying us, you can always go home. However, if you do decide to come with us…”
He places a hand on Suhwan’s shoulder, offering his most reassuring gaze. “I promise we’ll keep you safe.”
Suhwan nods before even thinking about it. “I’ll go.”
“Excellent,” Chovy cheers, “Did you grab the paint from Canyon’s?”
“All here,” Siwoo assures, clutching the duffle bag, “we’re ready to go when you are.”
Chovy nods resolutely, turning to Suhwan once more with a radiant confidence.
“Let’s roll.”
Technofuse Headquarters is a particularly unique building in that it rotates every hour. The roof, front, and surrounding walls of the square structure consist of textureless ink-black screens, usually turned on during the day to blast advertisements for their latest tech products or words from their sponsors.
This made it an interesting target for street art – the pros include that if timed correctly, one could paint the back of the building in relative seclusion and within a few hours it would rotate to the streetfront for everyone to see. The cons include that it is one of the best surveyed buildings in the city, with both security cameras and guards watching the area.
“That’s why we’re painting the side of the building,” Jihoon informs, “No guards. I can deal with the cameras.”
Siwoo rubs the side of his neck. “We should probably take those out before Suhwanie gets anywhere near, just in case.” He’s already pulled his bandana back over his mouth and nose.
Chovy nods in agreement. “Wait here, Peyz. We’ll call you when we’re ready.”
Suhwan stands on the side of the city street, trying to act natural as he stares into the darkened window of a closed convenience store. In the reflection of the glass, he sees Chovy and Lehends hoisting each other up to take out cameras with cans of black spray paint. Suhwan sinks his hands into his pockets and thinks. He stares at his own reflection in the glass. It seems wrong somehow, like reality chose to paint him incorrectly, like he didn’t belong in this setting or light.
He jumps about a foot when Siwoo places a hand on his shoulder, “All done. I’ll stand guard. You go have fun with Chovy.”
Hesitantly, he approaches the alleyway where the artist has already started his work. Upon noting Suhwan’s presence, he fishes out a piece of paper from his bag, handing it over.
“Here’s the plan, in case you’re interested.”
Suhwan hums in surprise. “Siwoo hyung didn’t have a plan.”
“He never does. Also, code names when we’re out in the field.”
“Right. Sorry.”
Looking over the paper, Suhwan recognizes what he sees: the city scape, full of its tall structures and wide screens, all darkened and neutral save for a few bursts of glimmering light.
“The city represents technology,” Suhwan informs, “It’s advancement and future. It’s optimization and removal of human influence.”
Chovy sprays another line. “Is it? Personally, I think there’s something inherently human about a cityscape. We built that, Peyz. Humanity builds structure – structure doesn’t build us.”
Suhwan blinks at the other man uncertainly. His words may be nonsense, but something in them rings true. He wants to ask more about them, but Chovy speaks first:
“So, what made you want to be an artist?”
The question catches Suhwan off-guard. “I don’t know. I don’t think I ever wanted to be an artist. I just was one. I guess… I discovered that I liked painting when I was young, in school. I liked being able to capture reality in my own way. When I paint, I feel powerful.” Taking in a deep breath, he returns, “What about you?”
“It’s funny you say that,” Chovy notes quietly. “I’m an artist because I feel powerless, like this whole world is slowly slipping beyond my control.”
He reaches into his bag and brandishes a small brush, dipping it into golden paint to embellish his base line. Every stroke is perfectly measured, calculated to make use of every inch of space available, masterfully built to maximize its impact. It is a steady drumming of percussion amidst the chaos of the world, or perhaps something lighter: Chovy’s work is the consistent ringing of a chime in the wind.
Suhwan watches, wide-eyed. “I sometimes feel like that, too.”
It’s a few minutes before the hour strikes when Siwoo jogs over to them.
“Almost ready to go?”
“Not quite. Catch,” Chovy orders, tossing his friend a can of paint.
Lehends shakes the can eagerly, “Ah, I almost forgot.”
He proceeds to add his own personal flair to the image, adding small elements and graces not on the plan.
“I always let him finish my works,” Chovy explains. “He always seems to know exactly what they need.”
As a final flourish, Chovy and Lehends sign the image at the bottom – a cross for the former, an L for the latter.
“Someday soon, you’ll have a mark like this, too,” Siwoo promises.
Before the clock strikes, the trio scampers across the street to hide. As the chime hits, the gears of the building base churn, and just like that, the image is facing the public, streetlights illuminating the small paint squares representing building windows. Nearby onlookers gasp.
“Is it done?” whispers Suhwan, awestruck.
“Not yet.”
In the center city, it only takes a few minutes for the machine to arrive. The man directing it looks absolutely furious, yelling that he doesn’t care what the chemicals might do to the screen, just get that damn thing down right now.
The machine hisses to life, showering the surface with its usual spray, but this time, something is different. The colors don’t fully fade as the screen is hosed down, leaving behind a ghost of the image there before. The painted windows with lights on stay especially strong, and Suhwan imagines that there are painted people inside each one, looking outward curiously at the world on the other side.
As most of the pigmentation drips down the side, it doesn’t all mix together into a grey like it did before – the dark paints retain their darkness, their streaks of light dripping down the stairs of the headquarters, allowing the image to repaint itself as a mirrored reflection on the ground, just as above, so below.
Thus the city bleeds itself out.
“Canyon’s really outdone himself this time,” Siwoo comments appreciatively, “We weren’t sure this mixture was going to work.”
“I was sure,” Chovy declares, eyes gleaming fiercely from the nearby streetlights. Suhwan is inclined to believe him.
The painting makes the front page the next morning. Suhwan grabs the paper, dismissing his father’s curious glance with an explanatory grumble of “crossword puzzle” before rushing up to his room.
The photograph does no justice to the in-person event, but the thought of the image appearing on every doorstep gives Suhwan a rush of pride, knowing that he was there, that he witnessed it. He promises himself that next time Chovy’s artwork appears in the post, he will have played a direct part in it.
His painting instructor arrives shortly thereafter. Before readying his canvas, Suhwan asks, “Did you see the front page of the post this morning?”
His instructor appears exasperated. “Yes, Suhwan, I saw that there was more vandalism in the city. Is there a reason you’re so hung up on that?”
“It’s art, teacher,” he persists. “It’s interesting. I like it.”
“There’s nothing interesting about it,” his teacher counters. “You’re above them, Suhwan. Act like it.”
Suhwan purses his lips. “I don’t think I want lessons from you.”
“You want to cancel your lesson today? That's fine. I’ll be back tomorrow.”
“No,” he clarifies, “I mean I don’t need your lessons at all anymore.”
The instructor glares. “Are you sure? You still have a lot to learn.”
“Not from you,” Suhwan mutters, not even looking his teacher in the eye. He hears the sounds of footsteps storming down the stairs and the front door slamming, then comes the familiar click-clack of his mother’s heels and a knock at his bedroom door.
“Suhwanie? Can I come in?”
“Sure.”
She creeps inside cautiously and crouches beside her son.
“I heard you fired your art teacher.”
“I did.”
“...That’s okay!” she coos, “We’ll buy you a new one, okay?”
Suhwan shakes his head. “It’s okay, Mom. I’ve already found a new teacher.”
Three nights later, Suhwan is lying on his back with a paint can in hand, staring up at the underside of a bridge a short walk away from the hideout, Chovy on his left, Siwoo on his right.
“Hyung, do you remember the painting of the bodies in front of the Media Center?” he asks. “The purple ones?”
“ShowMaker’s work?" Chovy ponders, "Sure, I remember.”
“Whose bodies were they supposed to be?”
Chovy sprays a pink line onto the pavement slab above them. “I think it might be our bodies, Suhwan. Yours and mine.”
“Siwoo hyung’s, too?”
“Hell no,” Siwoo interjects, “none of those outlines were this sexy.”
Chovy snorts, and Siwoo paints the words “Fuck you” onto the cement.
Suhwan’s eyes go wide. “Hyung!”
“What is it, Suhwanie? Can’t process the meaning of that art?”
Suhwan bites his lower lip to keep from laughing. “Frustration," he deduces. "Aggression. Profanity.”
“Sounds about right,” Chovy acknowledges, “but there’s another meaning, too. It means ‘I was here.’”
He turns to face Suhwan pensively. “Our next job is gonna be something big, Suhwanie. Something they can’t erase with some dumb machine. I want you to be a part of that.”
Suhwan nods enthusiastically, grateful to be included. Then, he watches as Chovy shuts his eyes and freehands a middle-finger as the train rumbles by over their heads.
“Alright. Let’s head back.”
From a few yards away, they can identify that something is wrong with the hideout. Paint is spilled out across the pavement like blood, all deep violets and royal blues, but a closer look reveals this is no accident. There’s no one in sight, but at the edge of the lot lies a crest featuring a small crown.
“Christ, Siwoo,” Chovy groans disappointedly, “I thought you were going to leave that poor man alone! Did you two hook up again?”
“No,” Siwoo protests, “but Suhwanie and I might have paid him a visit.”
The painting has the precision of Chovy’s work with the emotion of Siwoo’s, a stunning use of negative space accentuated by the rich darkness of the colors. It is the swelling of violins, orchestrated around a strewn-out mess of intestines, all culminating in the silhouette of one familiar man.
It is a portrait of a heart exploded.
“What did you do to him?” Suhwan asks, full of horrified awe.
“What didn’t I do to him,” Siwoo jokes, before meeting Suhwan’s continued silence with concern. “What’s up?”
“It’s beautiful,” he states breathlessly, “You’re beautiful.” Brain catching up with his mouth, he blushes, “I didn’t say that - the painting did.”
“Uh-huh, sure, Suhwanie,” he mumbles, face a cross of disgust and concern as he faux-whispers to Chovy, “I think he inhaled too many paint fumes.”
“We’ll get you a mask soon,” Chovy follows, giving Suhwan a comforting pat on the back. “In the meantime, looks like we need to find a new hideout.”
Suhwan can hardly wait for the next time he sees Chovy.
In his increased downtime, he paints new things, like bodies and cityscapes. He experiments with different signs to represent “Peyz” – he has a couple that he’d like to run by Siwoo the next time they cross paths.
Then, the paper arrives.
Chovy and Lehends are on the front page. Not their art. Them.
Two young men accused of vandalizing the city on numerous occasions have been detained by the state and are currently awaiting trial.
The first man, Jeong Jihoon, appears serious in his mugshot, slightly scared, but eyes as calm and resolute as ever.
Son Siwoo, on the other hand, is smiling for the camera, but that’s to be expected. His bandana is removed for once, revealing a tattoo on the side of his neck: a tiny image of a crown.
Suhwan is stunned. He looks up at his father, completely lost.
“Can we bail them out?”
His father furrows his brow. “Why would we do that? Do you know these boys?”
Hesitantly, Suhwan nods. “They’re good artists, Dad. I admire them a lot.”
“They’re criminals,” his father corrects harshly, “and you should get better role models.”
Tears swell in Suhwan's eyes. He bolts up to his room before he can no longer contain them.
He doesn’t know what to do anymore.
For the first time in weeks, he paints the tree.
It’s a perfect recreation, the most accurate he’s ever drawn. Every line and curve is exactly in the right place, each shade identical to the outdoor image.
Suhwan hates the painting with every fiber of his being.
The next day, he goes to the Chois' house to feed Mina. She complains more than usual, even after she’s fed. Maybe she’s lonely. Maybe she’s bored. Suhwan scoops her up in his arms, petting her silky fur and walking her to the window.
“We’re both indoor cats, Mina,” Suhwan laments. “It’s safer for us to stay inside.”
Mina mews in acknowledgement before weaseling her way out of his grasp, landing on the couch with a plop and a crinkle.
The crinkling noise catches Suhwan’s attention, and he looks down to discover a piece of paper – a sketch, not unlike the one he’d been handed during the Technofuse job.
It’s a plan from Chovy.
Siwoo must have left it in the house at some point, though whether intentionally or not is beyond Suhwan. It details a scheme for a whole new scale of painting, something only the greatest strategic mind of the modern art world could dream up, and now it sits in Suhwan’s hands. His throat catches as he reads the print at the bottom:
By Chovy, Lehends, and Peyz
His heart sinks resolutely. A sudden wave of reassurance guides his racing mind: he knows what he must do next, and it starts with leaving the house.
It starts with finally scaling the chainlink fence at the suburban metro stop.
“Canyon?” he calls as he pushes into the art shop, “It’s Peyz. I need your help.”
His voice answers from the shadows, “You shouldn’t have come here.”
Canyon emerges from the back, expression grim. “You saw what happened to Chovy and Lehends, right?”
“Yes,” he responds, “which is why-“
“You should consider yourself lucky that you weren’t caught with them. Take my advice, and don’t come back here again. Get out while you still can.”
Suhwan clears his throat, further steeling his resolve. “I need your help,” he repeats more firmly, sliding the sketch across the counter.
Canyon eyes the paper with surprise. “You’re not honestly thinking about going through with the plan, right? That’s a death wish, Peyz.”
“Please,” Suhwan begs, but Canyon shakes his head.
“I can’t send you out there alone. I’ve lost too many friends to dumb shit like this. That’s a three-person job, minimum, and three skilled artists at that.”
“What if I’m not alone?” Suhwan tries, “What if I can find more people?”
“Even then, I wouldn’t risk it.”
“Oh come on, Geonbie,” a different, new voice beckons from the shadows, “why not let the kid have a little fun?”
A young man with short stature in an oversized nightshirt appears behind Canyon, wrapping his arms around the larger man in an affectionate hug before ducking his head around to look at the paper. Suhwan instantly recognizes the man: his pale skin, round face, round glasses.
“You painted the bodies in front of the Media Center!” Suhwan accuses.
The man flashes him an appreciative smile. “Glad to see they made an impression. Now what’s this job that’s far too dangerous?”
Canyon tilts the paper back to give the shorter man a better view, causing him to whistle in awe. “Well, that’s certainly something.”
“It’s Chovy’s,” Suhwan elaborates, “I was supposed to do it with him and Si… him and Lehends.”
The man hums. “It certainly looks like a Chovy plan. Alright. I’m in.”
Both Suhwan and Canyon shoot him matching looks of disbelief. “What?”
“I said I’ll do it. I’ll help you with the painting. I’ve been meaning to get out again, anyway. What better way than this?”
“Absolutely not,” Canyon orders, “It’s way too risky, Su. I won’t let you.”
The man – Su, apparently – gives his partner a poignant smile. “You can’t keep me shacked up here forever, Geonbie. I can’t live like that. You know I can’t.”
Canyon’s eyes shift desperately. “I know, but you promised me a month. Just one month of lying low. Can’t you wait a bit longer? Start with something smaller?”
“‘Small’ doesn’t suit me,” he huffs, looking over the plan once more. “I want to do this. I can fill Chovy’s shoes. And I know you already have the paints ready, because you’ve been talking about the Bureau job for days.”
Canyon shrugs meekly, and Su insists, “I’m sure your paints are gorgeous. Give me the chance to show them off.”
With a surrendering sigh, Canyon rests a hand on Su’s back, then turns to Suhwan. “You’ll still need one more person.”
Suhwan’s initial relief at his successful persuasion – or rather, Su’s – is instantly shattered by confusion. “We already have three people, though – the three of us, right?”
“Oh no, I’m not painting,” Canyon clarifies. “You’d need a skilled artist to get this done in the amount of time you'll have. I’ll stand guard for you. I’ll get you your paints, but that’s the extent of what I can offer.”
Su nods in agreement, giving Suhwan a curious look. “Don’t you have somebody else you could ask?”
“You know,” Suhwan states, “I think I have someone in mind.”
Seven blocks, one right turn and one left from the downtown metro stop, Suhwan knocks on the front door. After a moment, an unfamiliar man answers, one with glasses and an arm adorned with tattoos.
“Are you Siwoo’s ex?” Suhwan tries.
The man scoffs. “Yeah, I don’t answer to that, actually.” He begins to shut the door.
Suhwan shoves his foot in the gap. “He’s in trouble. I need your help.”
“Whatever he’s gotten himself into, I’m sure he’s more than capable weaseling his way back out.”
“It’s your tag on his neck, right?” The man freezes. “It’s still there, you know.”
“I should think so. It’d hurt like a bitch to get it removed.” He says the words with a hint of pride, before adding, “Not like that would stop him, anyway.”
“He touches it whenever he’s nervous,” Suhwan informs, “I’m sure he did it when they took him in, too.”
The man winces. “Arrested?”
Suhwan nods.
After a moment’s hesitation, he resolves, “Good. That’s one less menace on the streets.”
Persistently, Suhwan pleads, “Look, I know he hurt you. I saw it in your art. But I know you still care about him, too. It was right there in the colors.” He knows he’s making progress because he sees the way the man’s face folds into resignation. “I’m sure Siwoo saw it, too.”
The man sighs, finally cracking open his door a bit further. “You’re the kid who did the tree on the back of my house, right?”
Blushing, Suhwan mumbles an affirmation.
Narrowing his eyes, he declares, “I’ll help you, but not for Siwoo. I’ll help you because I admire your resolve, and you’ve got a good eye, clearly.” At long last, he smiles.
“So, what have I gotten myself into this time?
Suhwan gets the number from the back of the paper that morning, but waits until he’s on the train to make the call.
“Hello?” the voice answers.
“Kim Giin?” Suhwan greets, “There’s an art piece that’s going up tonight. It’s a big one, and it should be covered by the paper.”
Kiin’s breath stills on the other side of the line. “Look, I don’t know what you've heard, but I-”
“We’ve spoken before,” he reminds, “I’m Suhwan, I’m Siwoo’s… Siwoo’s kid.”
Kiin grumbles in informal recognition. “Listen to me, Suhwan: it’s over. Jihoon and Siwoo are behind bars. They’re the movement I was following, and if they’re no longer in the game, then I’m out. I don’t want anything to do with covering future pieces. Too dangerous.”
“’Dangerous’ is just another word for exciting,” Suhwan echoes half-heartedly. “Anyway, it’s Chovy’s last piece, the one he was planning when they took him in. I’m going to finish it, and I want it to be shared in the post. I need you to state that ones responsible for this painting are Chovy and Lehends. If they’re proven to be at large while Jihoon and Siwoo are being detained…”
“Okay,” Kiin understands, “okay, I see what you’re going for here. But if we’re doing this, this replica needs to be flawless. It needs to be perfectly on-brand. There can be no doubt that this piece was the work of Chovy and Lehends. If I try to pass it off as theirs and it's later revealed to be a fraud, then I'm done for.”
“Don’t worry,” Suhwan assures. “Accuracy is what I do best.”
“Are we ready?” Suhwan asks his accomplices as they gather outside the Bureau of Communications. He's met with a pair of nods. “Okay, let’s roll.”
The Bureau is a fifty-three story building on the outer edge of center city with an open service elevator on the front side. It’s surprisingly easy to gain access to the outward facing side of the building, so much so that Suhwan is surprised that no one’s thought of this sooner. Maybe it just takes a specific type of crazy to attempt to paint a mural two hundred feet in the air, but no machine will ever be able to reach it.
Suhwan doesn’t look down at the darkness of the city beneath his feet as he ascends to heights previously unattainable. He simply focuses on his own reflection in the glass in front of him, and covering it up with the paint in his hands.
He puts everything he has into his painting – his fear, his joy, his loss – and layers the colors into exactly what he needs. If Chovy would follow the plan and Lehends wouldn’t, Suhwan is perfectly between the two – using the structure of the original outline as a guide and then shaping it into something distinctly new, something all his own.
Finally, while suspended far above everything he’s ever known, Suhwan feels free.
As they finish the painting, they add a cross and an L to the corner, accurately depicting both the former’s precision and the latter’s looseness. In addition, Suhwan adds an isosceles triangle between the two - well-balanced, yet markedly imperfect all the same.
This is the sign of Peyz.
The next morning, the sun rises on the city. Commuters taking the train to work, as well as those caught in an unusual fit of morning traffic, all have a perfect view. Their painting shines even brighter than the electronic screens, blares louder than the mechanical words, and reads in large, golden print, sprawled out in front of the building:
“WE ARE THE NEW GENERATION.”
Suhwan smiles a lot more now.
His parents think it’s because of his new art instructor, and they aren’t fully wrong. Once a week, Suhwan receives a visit from none other than Jeong Jihoon. After being wrongfully accused of vandalism, the acclaimed art school graduate was released due to lack of evidence and the state’s desire to allocate full resources toward revealing the true identity of ‘Chovy’.
For his first lesson, they paint the bottom of Suhwan’s shoes a shimmering golden. It’s concealed enough that he can still wear them with his parents, but vibrant enough that he will always know it’s there.
That’s the best part: for once in his life, Suhwan feels like he doesn’t need to hide. He tells his parents about how his teacher introduced him to a fellow art student, Siwoo, and they're thrilled that their son has finally found a friend. Together, the two of them are permitted to go out as much as they want.
Somedays, they go to the Chois' house to feed Mina. Others, they walk right past the house to the metro station. Suhwan never knows which it will be until they’re already on their way. He's come to love that uncertainty.
“Suhwan?”
“Coming!”
The paint on his soles has long since dried, but as he crosses the soft white carpet of his room, he feels as though he’s leaving golden footprints in his wake.