Archive of Our Own ^beta

When The Underground Killer was released, it took Korea by storm. It slipped into circulation quietly, from the cell of an inmate who had been condemned to a life sentence. There was no promotional tour. No radio interview. Just the grainy black-and-white photo on the final page of the hardcover copy—Lee Sookyung, weathered hands folded neatly in her lap. Still, it was widely praised for the unique perspective it provided on abuse, and many seemed to empathize with it.

They saw her story, and through it, they saw him.

The book spread faster than Dokja had dared to predict.

Within a day, half the school knew. It was all too easy to match the Kim Dokja in the story to the Kim Dokja they knew. Within those hours, people had learned snippets of his life—not from reading the book—of course not. It was a long and quiet story, written by a woman of no interest to them. But they did pass around screenshots to torment her son. Lines and paragraphs taken out of context. Blood-red highlights scrawled over ripped out sheets.

‘I held the knife above his chest. I knew I had to do it.’

Lee Sookyung was a psychopath.

And Kim Dokja was her son.

Wasn’t it the easiest excuse?

The first note Dokja found was slid into his locker.

By the end of the week it would be routine: Stare at the lazy, drawling script of another classmate and friend, take a breath, then carefully pocket it away. People would glance at him, nudge their friends, do a double take when he got a little too close. They whispered secrets of his life between discreet lips, then failed to conceal their laughter as he walked by.

It was within a month that he found thumbtacks taped into his indoor shoes. He pried them out silently, one by one, before slipping his blood-crusted socks in and limping through the hallways.

But perhaps the worst part was that Dokja was no longer invisible. People stopped pretending he didn’t exist. One shoved him shoulder-first into a row of lockers. Another kicked the back of his knee as he walked, sending him to the ground.

The first time someone poured milk on his head, Dokja was ready to cry. It was in the middle of Math class, and as the boy behind him tipped the strawberry-flavored liquid over, snickers and shocked whispers filled the room. But when the teacher glanced back to see what the commotion was, all he received was a sigh and an instruction to clean himself up. That day, Dokja peeled off his ruined uniform sweater, dripping and sour, and used it to blot his hair dry. Still soaked, he folded it into a tight square and tucked it into his backpack before continuing to take notes on the lesson.

Nobody told him to do otherwise. And nobody would care if he said nothing at all.

His hair dried in sticky clumps, the hardened strands itching his ears. Each scratchy touch felt like a whisper, the most sweetly sick voice spelling out one simple fact:

Lee Sookyung did not love him.

She’d written that book before she’d written to him—not even a single letter. She’d revealed their shared history without his consent. His mother never left behind an apology for him, an explanation, an ‘I miss you’.

That was okay.

To her, this story wasn’t about him. It was about a strong woman who killed her husband as she drowned in adversity. Who tried to overcome abuse while balancing the heavy weight of responsibility at the same time, only to crack one fateful night. It was the story of a woman independent of ‘Kim Dokja’, and yet, hopelessly tied to him.

Weight…burden.

Dokja was that kind of son.

That night, two months after The Underground Killer was published, Dokja tilted his head back and coughed once into the dusty air of his room.

Something scratched the back of his throat.

It could’ve been dust. Or a cold. But he swallowed, tried again.

There was a smell in the air, clean and faint and sweet—too sweet—like flowers stuffed into a damp cupboard and left to rot.

When he pressed two fingers to his lips and exhaled, his breath came back warm, tinged with something acidic as blood and bitter as soap. And with a violent, singular cough, the itch was expelled.

He sat up slowly. Opened his mouth.

A lone white petal drifted down onto the blanket.

***

Dokja first noticed Yoo Joonghyuk when the teachers moved him into the seat beside his.

Mostly, it was because of the flocks of girls squealing over his looks. Constantly being reminded of how ridiculously handsome Yoo Joonghyuk was ticked Dokja off.

Aside from the underlying chunni aura, maybe the most notable thing about Yoo Joonghyuk was that he didn’t move away from him—unlike everyone else.

Dokja's last desk partner had taken one look at him before inching his desk away in one long, grating sweep. But Yoo Joonghyuk didn't so much as glance in his direction. He just sat there, tapping a pencil mindlessly against his binder. Unbelievably close.

Dokja didn't think too much of it. Just lowered his head until it rested against the cool wood of the desk top.

It could've meant nothing. Dokja assumed some people just didn't care enough to hate him. That wasn't the same thing as kindness.

At lunch, a large group of classmates were crowded at their joined desks, talking over each other in an attempt to reach Yoo Joonghyuk.

“Joonghyuk-ssi! You should come sit with us!” A girl with voluminous curls exclaimed, bouncing on the balls of her feet.

“Yeah, I would probably move away from him,” a boy added. “Did you hear…? He's not normal. There's no way he could be, after the freaky stuff his mom wrote.”

“Look at him even now! I hate the way he just stares at us. Creepy,” another leaned in to whisper, too loud.

Yoo Joonghyuk looked up, a thinly veiled irritation on his face as he set down his chopsticks. Then, with deliberately exaggerated movements, he removed the two black earbuds stuffing his ears.

“What.”

“Just saying. You don’t have to sit there, man. You could—”

Yoo Joonghyuk took a drink from his water bottle. A long one. Long enough to be uncomfortable.

Then he stood and walked away.

But when Dokja glanced at Yoo Joonghyuk’s phone screen, left open on the table—

There was no music playing at all.

***

The next day, someone threw an eraser.

Dokja didn't duck. There was no point. That's why he was startled when the hand beside him rose, lightning fast, caught it mid-air, and dropped it on the desk without a word.

Yoo Joonghyuk didn't even glance over. Just kept working through homework questions.

Later, when that person passed through the aisle, they seemed to trip over the leg of Yoo Joonghyuk's desk, spilling their pencil case all over the floor.

Dokja didn't quite smile. That wasn't the kind of story this was.

But he did look, briefly, at the boy beside him.

Yoo Joonghyuk's pencil hadn't paused.

Dokja didn't know what to make of it.

Yoo Joonghyuk wasn't the friendly type. He wasn't warm. He didn't offer encouragement or conversation. But when the classroom got a little too loud, the laughter too sharp, he was always just there—spine straight, unmoved.

It wasn't friendship. Dokja wasn't an idiot.

But sometimes, when the ache in his chest flared, when the phantom sensation of flowers crawled up his throat—

He’d glance sideways.

And Yoo Joonghyuk’s shadow would still be there, beside his own.

And just for a moment, he could forget that his chest hurt so much.

***

The rooftop wasn’t exactly a secret, but Dokja had claimed it as his own.

Too hot in the summer. Too cold in the winter. Too windy and sun-bleached, dust coating every surface. Anyone who came up didn’t stay long—and after a while, no one came at all.

Which made it perfect.

Maybe it was the “No Trespassing” sign he’d taped to the door. Or the general lack of safety of the old, rusted railings. Either way, it didn’t really matter. The rooftop was the safest haven when the classrooms felt too lonely or the hallways too loud. Dokja liked the silence of being completely, utterly alone, with nothing but the wind and his webnovels for company.

So when he opened the door to find Yoo Joonghyuk already seated on the only bench, a familiar, stabbing irritation ran down his spine. The tension in his neck coiled tighter, sharpening the headache that had been, until then, dull and bearable all morning.

His footsteps dragged as he crossed the roof, the stairs having left his lungs aching. He was still wheezing faintly. The flowers…they made his body so weak. Although Dokja had never been exactly athletic, every step felt heavier than the last, his breaths too shallow.

Yoo Joonghyuk glanced up when Dokja stopped in front of him. His chopsticks froze mid-air, held tensely before his mouth. For a moment, they just looked at each other, the other peering up at him from behind his bangs.

“Oi. Scoot over.”

The boy stared for a long, flat second. Then, with infuriating deliberation, he bit into his kimbap and chewed, loud and slow.

“This spot’s taken. Find your own.”

Dokja ran a hand down his face, turning his face towards the sky in exasperation. “Either move, or I’m sitting on you. Your choice.”

“You wouldn’t—”

Without another word, Dokja snatched the tupperware out of his hands and dropped himself onto Yoo Joonghyuk’s lap. It was done with a theatrical grace, enough so that when he angled his face towards the boy, he could see every motion as Dokja took a large, unhurried bite of the kimbap.

He sputtered, face twisting into something mildly horrified. Dokja took another bite, then a third. On the fourth, Yoo Joonghyuk seemed to recover, swiping his lunch back and shoving him off.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, let out a long-suffering sigh, then grudgingly shifted aside to make space on the bench.

They sat in silence after that, save for the occasional gust of wind and the shallow rise and fall of Dokja’s chest, each breath oddly thin, as if he had forgotten how to draw a full breath.

***

The second time it happened, Dokja was already there when Yoo Joonghyuk arrived.

Yoo Joonghyuk paused in the doorway, scowling. “Why are you here again?”

“This is my spot,” Dokja replied, not looking up from his phone.

Yoo Joonghyuk sat down anyway. “You’ve made that abundantly clear.”

This time, Dokja noticed the Gameboy. Old and a little scuffed, clutched one-handed, glowing a deadened green in the sunlight. Yoo Joonghyuk mashed the keys expertly as the chiptune tunes trilled, boss music filling the space between them.

Dokja watched him play out of the corner of his eye.

“Aren’t those ancient?”

Yoo Joonghyuk didn’t look up. “Finished all the games on my other consoles already.”

“Right. Wouldn’t want to spend time with your loving family, or exercising, or studying—”

“Shut up.”

“Sure know your priorities.”

Yoo Joonghyuk’s character died. The Gameboy beeped, resurrecting him at the checkpoint.

“I take care of everyone I’m entrusted with,” he said quietly. “Including myself. Don’t think I haven’t seen you reading webnovels all day. You're worse than I am.”

Dokja sniffed. “Games rot your brain. At least reading builds some kind of critical thinking.”

“Not when you're reading—” he plucked Dokja's phone from his hands, earning him an indignant squawk, “SSSSS-grade Infinite Regressor.”

“Hey—give that back. And it's surprisingly well written.”

Yoo Joonghyuk didn’t respond. He just leaned over and bumped their shoulders together in retaliation, plopped Dokja's phone back in his lap, and returned to his game.

He unwrapped his own lunch slowly—convenience store kimbap, crushed a little in his bag, and a small boxed milk that had gone lukewarm. He stared at Yoo Joonghyuk’s lunch: gleaming rice, tamagoyaki, pork cutlet still steaming.

The contrast was, frankly, rude.

He ignored the way his stomach twisted in the same unpleasant way it had been all week—insatiable, yet queasily disinterested. Didn't think about the heavenly smell wafting over. Instead, he took a large bite out of his own lunch.

“Do you want heart disease?” Yoo Joonghyuk muttered, eying his meal. “Because you're going to get it if you keep eating that.”

Dokja flicked his thumb over the screen, deadpan. “Then I hope to die in my prime.”

But Yoo Joonghyuk didn’t stop him from reaching over and stealing a bite.

The taste was genuinely incredible—rich, perfectly seasoned, still warm in the middle. It crumbled between his teeth in the best of ways.

“Damn,” Dokja said, mouth half-full. “Your mom must be a godsend.”

Yoo Joonghyuk didn’t even blink. “I made it.”

Dokja was embarrassed to say his jaw dropped. Right into the ground.

“My sister…she deserves good food.”

Dokja let out a slow whistle. “Then pretend I'm your starving brother. Let me have another bite, Oh Great and Talented Joonghyuk-ah.”

He received a smack to the back of the head for that one.

***

The third time, Dokja barely made it through the rooftop door before collapsing against the wall, his lungs seizing. The first cough hit hard—wet, hoarse, dragging something soft and sweetly sour up with it.

He barely registered the door creaking open again, or Yoo Joonghyuk’s footsteps crossing the rooftop.

The flowers clawed their way up his throat. Layered petals stuck behind his teeth, the roof of his mouth, sliding past his lips—thin, beautifully bright, but soaked in blood. He slapped his hands around his mouth in a pathetic, aborted effort to hide the petals, coughing until the world spun. The taste of iron coated his tongue. And when he dragged his arm across his face, his sleeve came away smeared in red.

Each cough grated against the tender tissue of his trachea, scraping his throat raw. The blood pooled behind his teeth—thick, metallic, warm—too warm. He swallowed it down, again and again, even as the petals came up soft and white, clinging wetly to his tongue like tissue soaked in dark wine.

There had been a new rumor today. And Song Minwoo had read The Underground Killer to him in a singsong voice, again and again, holding the book high enough over his head that Dokja couldn't reach it.

And so Dokja coughed blood.

When he finally realized that Yoo Joonghyuk was making his way towards him, he shoved the petals into the sleeve of his shirt.

“Dokja?” The other muttered, kneeling before him. His hands hovered around Dokja's shoulders, as if he was uncertain where to put them. He ended up awkwardly patting him through the fit.

Yoo Joonghyuk stared at his blood-splattered lips. “Are you sick?”

Dokja blinked. His vision swam for a second before sharpening on Yoo Joonghyuk’s worried face. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve again, hoping to smear away the worst of the blood.

“I'm fine,” he croaked, massaging his neck.

Yoo Joonghyuk didn’t look convinced. He shook his head, helped him sit more steadily, then reached into his bag.

A moment later, a warm thermos slid across the rooftop between them.

Dokja blinked at it.

“…What’s this?”

“Soup,” Yoo Joonghyuk said shortly.

Dokja squinted. “Are you trying to poison me?”

“If I was, I wouldn’t waste perfectly good soup.”

After a long moment, Dokja cracked the lid open. Steam curled up, sharp with spice and garlic. His stomach growled immediately, loud and traitorous. He took a long sip. Then another.

Honestly, it was…heavenly. The liquid was thick and smooth, rich with earthy flavour, overpowering the lingering taste of blood in his mouth. The thermos was hot against his numb fingers, and as he took another sip, steam curled into his lashes, warming his wind-cold nose. The heat eased down his torn throat, slow and steady, like a soothing medicine.

It tasted like home.

“Thanks,” he muttered.

Yoo Joonghyuk didn’t respond. He just stared into the cement, brow furrowed slightly.

After a moment, Dokja fished around in his pocket and pulled out a grape-flavoured Chupa Chups lollipop. He held it out.

Yoo Joonghyuk gave him a look.

“You want me to eat that?”

Dokja nodded solemnly.

“It’s pure sugar.”

Dokja kept holding it out.

Yoo Joonghyuk stared at the lollipop like it had personally offended him. Then, slowly, he took it, wrinkling his nose.

“…I hate grape.”

But he put it in his mouth anyway.

Dokja leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes, the thermos warm in his lap.

It was just a dumb lollipop, but the action sent an inexplicable thrill through him.

And just for this moment, he could forget that his body was falling apart.

***

When Dokja opened the classroom door, Yoo Joonghyuk was already there.

It was early—too early for anyone to be in class. Sickly pale morning light bled through the gaps in the shuttered blinds, lining the floor in faint, uneven stripes. They washed over Yoo Joonghuk’s figure, painting his silhouette dimly against the backdrop.

Yoo Joonghyuk stood over Dokja's desk, back to the door. A rag was in one hand. The other pressed firm against the scratched wood, bracing him as he worked the cloth back and forth, halfway through scrubbing something off. The faint sound of friction, of cloth against grime and soft puffs of air, were the only things Dokja could hear.

Dokja didn’t speak right away. He just stood in the doorway, watching.

He took a breath, full of settled chalkdust and old paint, before taking a step inside.

When Yoo Joonghyuk registered the sound of footsteps, he visibly tensed, shoulders hiking up around his ears. He waited. His hands slowed their movements.

“You know,” Dokja started softly, “they'll just write it again.”

Yoo Joonghyuk didn’t look up. “I know.”

Dokja stepped closer, the soft tap of his shoes a heavy click against the floor. “So why do you keep cleaning it?”

The cloth was pressed harshly over one particularly stubborn mark. There was an array of diluted splotches over the rag, tainted with a mixture of half-lifted red and black ink.

Once it was gone, Yoo Joonghyuk’s spine straightened. His hand hesitated at the desk’s edge before he slowly rolled down the sleeves of his school uniform, hiding his exposed forearms, the faint smears of ink staining the veins of his pale wrists. He didn’t answer.

“How long?” Dokja asked instead.

His voice was smooth. Carefully controlled.

“A few weeks,” Yoo Joonghyuk admitted, low.

“You know I noticed.”

“I didn’t do it to be noticed.”

“No,” Dokja murmured, stopping just in front of him. “You did it because it made you feel better.”

Yoo Joonghyuk stilled.

“You scrub it off, then walk away before anyone sees. That way, it’s like the words were never said. Do you think that makes you some sort of hero, Joonghyuk-ah?”

From this close, Dokja could see the liquid black hurt swimming in his eyes. He leaned forward slightly, just enough to flick his gaze away, onto the surface of the desk behind him.

It was spotless. The lacquer gleamed faintly in the morning light, polished raw. Dokja could almost see his own distorted reflection warped across its surface.

“You think I can’t handle it?” he asked.

“No.” Yoo Joonghyuk took a breath. “I know you can.”

“Then why?”

A pause.

“Because you shouldn’t have to.”

Dokja laughed. Not loudly. A dry, airless sound. “You don’t get to decide that.”

Yoo Joonghyuk didn’t move.

“You’re not fixing anything,” Dokja said. “You’re just making it easier for you to look at.”

“No. That’s not—”

“It is.” His voice stayed quiet, but it sharpened at the edges. “You wipe it down, and you feel like you’ve done something. Then you leave. And I sit here. And it happens again. And again.”

“I know that.”

“Then stop pretending the rumors mean nothing. Tell me first—do you enjoy reading them?”

Yoo Joonghyuk faced him, eyes darkening dangerously.

Dokja’s chest burned. Something shifted inside—sharp, bitter. He swallowed hard, but it didn’t go down.

“You don’t have to clean up after my messes. Everything you read—everything you see—it’s all true. Save yourself the trouble.”

The silence stretched.

Then Dokja coughed.

It came out of nowhere, a choked burst from the deepest parts of his lungs. He twisted away, hand clamped over his mouth.

One petal. Then another. Thin, red-edged petals curled gently into his palm, as if they were wilting. He crushed them in his fist and shoved them into his pocket before Yoo Joonghyuk could move.

But he did. A single step forward, shoes scuffing the floor.

“Don’t,” Dokja snapped, breath snagging over petals and blood.

The cold sweat down his spine turned uncomfortably clammy, causing a violent shiver to run through him.

“I don’t need your charity,” Dokja said, quieter. “And I don’t want your guilt.”

“I’m not—”

“I said stop.”

Yoo Joonghyuk froze. His fists curled, blunt nails digging into the skin of his palms.

“Go,” Dokja muttered, eyes lowered.

For a long moment, neither of them moved.

Then Joonghyuk placed the cloth down beside the desk, turned, and walked out.

The door clicked shut behind him.

Dokja stood very still. The light from the blinds carved stripes into his figure, slicing over his arms, his torso, his cheeks.

His hands curled over the edge of the desk, knuckles bone-white. The desk was smooth. Cold. Slightly damp with cleaning spray hadn’t quite dried. Clean.

He hated it.

Dokja’s body folded forward before he could stop it, knees buckling without his permission.

A wet cough tore out of him, then another.

Drops of blood hit the tile. Then petals—five, six, seven—crushed under trembling hands.

He sank lower, bracing his weight on his forearms, his sweat-damp hair sticking to his forehead and poking his eyes.

He didn’t know the shaking in his shoulders was from the strain of coughing, or from the sobs that Dokja refused to let out.

Dokja didn’t know why it hurt so much to drive this person away.

But it did.

The others could never know. They could never find out that Yoo Joonghyuk was the one scrubbing away slurs and inked graffiti. Who shared lunches with him on lonely rooftops and listened so attentively as he rambled about shitty webnovels. That he was taking care of and protecting Dokja in the little ways he could.

Because they would target Yoo Joonghyuk next. That much, Dokja was sure of. And he could never wish that for his only friend.

As he hacked out petals and spit them to the floor, splatters of them—no, clumps of them—landed at his feet. They were globs of mucus and clot and blood, held together by the ever-beautiful white of thin petals. They erupted from him in bursts of bitter truth and dried black against his knuckles. The faint smell of iron and bleach made him want to throw up.

Blood hit the floor. And the desk stayed clean.

Trembling, he sank to his knees again and began wiping it away.

The next morning, Dokja would walk into the same classroom. Just as empty. Just as early. Alone.

On his desk, he would find thick, angry ink, carelessly scribbled onto polished wood. And this time, covering it—a single red spider lily.

Dokja had never wanted to cry more.

***

The bathroom smelled like bleach and piss.

Dokja stood hunched over the sink, rinsing cold water over his mouth. He spat twice. Pink-tinged bubbles of spit swirled down the drain. He had needed to excuse himself from class to get through the last bout of coughing, and his chest still ached from it, throat painfully swollen. He could almost still feel the papery edges of petals plastered there.

It had been a while since the lunch bell rang.

The door slammed open behind him, a chorus of footsteps shuffling inside.

He didn't turn.

“Hey, freak.”

Dokja caught Song Minwoo’s reflection in the mirror—school blazer unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up. The picture of delinquency. Four other boys flanked him, with similarly gleeful looks plastered onto their faces.

Song Minwoo just looked amused.

“I heard you liked seeing your father get murdered,” he started, stepping closer.

Dokja dried his hands slowly. “That rumor’s old.”

“Yeah? This one’s new.” Song Minwoo grinned. “Says you begged your mom to kill him. Got on your knees and pleaded at her feet and everything.”

Without warning, he lunged.

A fist caught Dokja's collar and slammed him against the tile wall. His skull landed against it with a sick crack, blinding white overtaking his vision for a moment. Dokja hissed through the pain, prying his eyes open.

The other boys moved fast. One kicked his knees out, two others yanked him into one of the stalls. The last boy was sent outside to guard the bathroom, preventing entry.

“Let's see if you like this, too.”

Dokja tried to twist free, but he was still recovering from his coughing fit, and his limbs remained slow, clumsy. All his flailing achieved was Song Minwoo's attention, and he shoved a heavy hand over the back of Dokja's head, grinding his cheek against the cold porcelain of the toilet bowl.

“Ji-Yeong! Get this on record!”

“On it!”

Dokja stared into the water, rippling slightly with every one of his breaths.

Then—the bathroom door swung open.

Yoo Joonghyuk stepped inside, Gameboy still clutched in hand backpack slung over one shoulder. The guard boy had a hand on Yoo Joonghyuk’s shoulder as if he had attempted to drag him back and failed.

He froze at the scene.

Dokja didn't think he had ever seen Yoo Joonghyuk so angry.

“Let him go.”

Song Minwoo blinked up at him. “Oh. It's you.”

Then leered.

“Hey! Grab him!”

They shoved him into the corner, three-to-one, struggling as they pinned him against the tiles. The Gameboy clattered to the floor.

“Watch closely,” Song Minwoo sneered. “You like this guy, right?”

Dokja barely had time to process Yoo Joonghyuk's horrified expression before his arms were wrenched behind his back. Then a hand fisted his hair, forcing his head down.

The water reeked. Disinfectant and something worse.

The hand in his hair tightened.

And shoved him under.

His face plunged beneath the surface, icy water exploding up his nose, into his sinuses, clogging his ears. He tried to stay calm, but after an eternity of slow-ticking seconds, he realized they weren't letting him up.

Panic surged through his chest—bubbles rising to the surface as he let out water-muffled cries.

His legs thrashed. Fingers raked down Minwoo’s wrist.

And—holy shit—he needed air—

Then he was yanked up.

He barely had time to cough once, spluttering water and spit out of his lungs, before they shoved him down again.

This time, the shock of water made him inhale on reflex.

It was…agony. The water filled his chest, touching the edges of the flowers in his lungs. His chest spasmed. His back arched. His heels scraped uselessly against the floor tiles.

Something inside him was tearing apart.

Then Dokja was yanked up again.

He choked, gasped, before angling his head weakly to the side to vomit out water. Through bleary, red eyes and ringing ears, he barely registered Song Minwoo saying something to him, spitting into his face.

“Look at that,” one of the boys muttered from very, very far away. “What a stupid look.”

Dokja couldn’t even muster the strength to glare.

They shoved him down.

How many times were they going to do this?

On the third plunge, his body gave out, the intrusion of water too much for him to recover from, his muscles jerking in desperate spasms. His chest burned, vision darkened, and something deep inside him…

Popped.

No.

Ruptured.

He didn’t know where it came from. His throat? His lungs? But very suddenly, Dokja was suffocating, thick petals bursting from his trachea, blocking his airways. A stream of blood burst into the water.

The red curled like ink in the water, swirling slowly around Dokja’s face, drying in his hair. It tainted the toilet bowl a sickly tinge of pink, the colour camouflaging the bloated petals floating on the surface.

And very suddenly, Dokja was released, one of the boys letting loose a startled yelp.

“Christ—Minwoo, is he bleeding?”

Song Minwoo backed away fast. “I didn’t even fucking do anything. The wimp bit his tongue—”

Dokja collapsed sideways, curling into a ball as he hacked, trying to expel the clumps of petals and blood and water out, limbs twitching uncontrollably.

The door rattled.

“I’m not getting expelled because of you, man. Let’s go!”

As soon as they released Yoo Joonghyuk from their hold, he lunged, murderously furious.

Ji-Yeong’s camera slipped from his hands as he ran, and Yoo Joonghyuk went for that first, crushing the toy beneath his feet.

He didn’t chase all of them.

Just Song Minwoo.

Song Minwoo didn’t make it two feet before Yoo Joonghyuk caught him by the collar and slammed him into the wall face-first, a sickening crunch coming from his nose. He did it once. Again. Then punched him across the jaw, ignoring the weak spurts of blood flowing from his nose.

And the others ran.

Dokja didn’t think Yoo Joonghyuk stopped until the sound of Dokja coughing pulled him back.

Song Minwoo crumpled to the ground with a thud, holding his bleeding nose and scrambling away.

“Crazy fucking bastard—” the broken boy muttered.

And the bathroom door slammed shut, leaving the two of them alone.

When Yoo Joonghyuk whirled around to face him, his face was pale, mouth parted as if to speak. But he quickly closed it when he laid eyes on Dokja’s trembling form, gazing at him from where his cheek rested against the drenched, cool tiles.

Blood streamed sluggishly from every orifice—his ears, his nostrils, the ducts of his eyes—dripping over his temple and down his cheeks like tears. Dokja gagged, tongue a fat, useless mess as the flower pushing into the back of his mouth was ripped past his trachea, landing behind his teeth. Weakly, Dokja reached past his blue lips and plucked it from his mouth, slapping it onto the ground as a grotesque, rotted mess.

Dokja took a breath. A full breath.

Then stared at the stupid flower. He touched its blood-drenched petals with a water-wrinkled finger.

There it lay—a single white chrysanthemum.

Funeral flowers…

Dokja knew what they were. They didn’t mean love. Or sorrow. Or betrayal.

Lee Sookyung did not love Kim Dokja.

His mother’s flowers—they meant grief.

Dokja would die, every breath reminding him that he was a cursed, cursed child.

He didn’t even notice Yoo Joonghyuk on his knees beside him, body trembling and hunching into itself as he stared blankly at the expelled flower.

***

Yoo Joonghyuk didn’t speak on the train. It was as if even a single word would remind them of the sound of splashing water and choking gasps of breath. At their stop, all he did was wordlessly tug him along, and they walked the rest of the distance to Yoo Joonghyuk’s house in silence. Dokja didn’t really mind. But either way, he didn’t really want to be alone right now.

Dokja thumbed at the damp collar of his shirt as they walked, inspecting the diluted pink of drying blood. It was probably ruined—replacing it would be irritatingly expensive.

He couldn’t help the shiver every time the evening wind blew through the cooling material.

Yoo Joonghyuk beside him was unnaturally stiff, but he only huffed before removing his own blazer and throwing it over Dokja’s head. Dokja couldn’t tear his eyes away from the boy’s own blood-spattered shirt, dried with Song Minwoo’s blessing.

The walk home was long. Neither of them asked why they were going to Yoo Joonghyuk’s house.

The apartment was small. Not messy, but clearly lived-in. There was a pair of dumbbells by the television stand, an array of pictures along the shelf, a bucket of dried laundry sitting on the couch cushions.

It was also surprisingly…empty.

“Don’t mind the mess, I didn’t have time to clean up. My parents work late, and Mia’s sleeping over at Yoosung’s. Make yourself comfortable.”

Dokja lingered by the entrance awkwardly. His clothes were really beginning to itch now, dried blood scratching the skin under his collarbone and behind his ears. The fabric of his clothes rubbed unpleasantly against the scrapes on his palms and knees. But…he also didn't know what to do now that he was here.

Yoo Joonghyuk huffed, tossing his bag to the side and disappearing into one of the rooms. A moment later, a towel was flying at Dokja’s chest.

“Shower. The bathroom’s on the left.”

“Bossy,” Dokja muttered, but he was grateful regardless.

Dokja stripped off the layers of uncomfortable clothing, stepping into the tub and turning the water to its hottest setting. It stung where it hit the tender scrapes along his body, but it helped him forget the feeling of being plunged under. Helped him ignore the feeling of Song Minwoo grabbing his head and drowning him as Dokja reached up to shampoo his hair.

He stayed longer than he needed to, just taking in the fragrance of Yoo Joonghyuk’s shampoo, his body wash. Letting the water run over tense muscles and letting the rich, earthy smell clear his head.

The hoodie Yoo Joonghyuk had given him was too big by half a size. The sleeves fell over his fingers, the hem brushing his thighs. The sweatpants were loose around his legs. They were unbelievably soft, though, and Dokja found himself relishing the cloudy feel of the cloth enveloping and warming each limb.

He found Yoo Joonghyuk in the living room, sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the console. The television light threw pale blue light over his face, and when he turned to face Dokja, it cast his face in a halo of light and shadow. He simply held the second controller out towards him, waiting for him to take it.

Dokja dropped onto the floor beside him, joints clicking.

Within the minute, Yoo Joonghyuk had started a game, something two-dimensional, fast-paced, and obnoxiously colourful. Within ten minutes, they both had given up on trying to pass the level.

“Oi. Bastard. Why did you pick such a hard game?” Dokja muttered, watching his pixelated character get thrown offscreen by a basic enemy. Again.

Yoo Joonghyuk didn’t look up, reviving him with an item. “It’s not hard. You’re just unbelievably bad. I never even thought someone could die more times than the number of rounds played.”

“Tsk—I’d need to spend a third of my life to reach your level. It’s not my fault. What’s your screen time, anyway?”

“It doesn’t matter. You’re just lacking skill. Don’t try to redeem yourself.”

They both scoffed and restarted the level.

Yoo Joonghyuk was brutally efficient. Every jump was executed perfectly, each battle combo strategic and precise. After a while, Dokja got tired of his avatar exploding in fire, or being impaled suddenly by spikes, or being crushed by debris. He promised to become Yoo Joonghyuk’s biggest debuff instead, and did his best to handicap the boy throughout each level.

Occasionally, Yoo Joonghyuk would offer one-word instructions—“Left,” or “dodge,”—but after realizing Dokja would do the exact opposite on purpose, he just sighed and carried on, not even fazed.

They were on the seventh level when Dokja coughed.

It was just once. Dry, shallow. Enough to halt his character mid-jump, sending him straight into glowing lava.

The ‘Mission Failed’ sign popped up on screen, blinking lazily at them.

Dokja’s eyes stayed glued to the television.

He didn’t turn to see Yoo Joonghyuk’s face. The way he fiddled with the joystick.

“I know about the hanahaki. I…saw the flower.”

Then, dryly, “So perceptive, Joonghyuk-ah,”

Dokja started the level again.

For a long time, neither of them spoke, letting the peppy music fill the silence.

“So there’s someone that you love, huh?” Yoo Joonghyuk asked, casting a spell to send a fireball down the ogre boss’s throat.

Dokja nodded, once. “There is.”

He could tell Yoo Joonghyuk was studying him out of the corner of his eye. “Will you tell them?”

“I already have.”

The boy let out a single breath, eyes narrowing slightly.

“Who…is it?”

Dokja exhaled slowly through his nose, the air trembling slightly as it reached the ends of his breath.

“My mother.”

Yoo Joonghyuk’s mage took a critical hit to his health. He didn’t say anything for a long moment, probably working though layers of logic and various scenarios in his mind.

Dokja shifted the controller in his hands, the buttons faintly warm from his fingers.

“I know how it sounds,” he said slowly, “It’s…” Dokja pressed two fingers to his sternum, trying to locate the exact location of the ache, “not that kind of love. You get hanahaki when you love someone, and they don’t love you back. It’s as simple as that.”

He swallowed, his throat catching on the dryness there.

“I’m not sure whether she ever really wanted me,” Dokja whispered softly. “If she did—well. I don’t think she would have published that novel.”

“The Underground Killer.”

“Mm. Have you read it?”

“No,” Yoo Joonghyuk denied instantly. “Have you?”

“...No.”

They entered the next level, a victorious jingle cutting harshly through the space.

Yoo Joonghyuk’s eyes gleamed in the darkness, reflecting the colorfully flashing lights. His fingers flicked over the controller expertly, wiping out the mob in front of them. “Why won’t you ask her why she wrote it?”

Dokja let out a small, humorless laugh. It grated his throat on the way up.

“I'm a little scared…of the answer she'll give me.”

Something twisted sharply in his lungs.

It started small—a shallow rasp into his sleeve. Then another, deeper. Then—

He doubled over, a hand slapping the floor for balance as his chest seized. He gagged, shoulders locking up and hiking around his ears. A wet choking sound burst from him as he pressed the damp towel to his mouth. It bloomed red.

He dragged in a single, wheezing breath, and in the next, coughed hard enough for black spots to swim across his teary eyes.

“Dokja?”

Yoo Joonghyuk sounded so scared. He was frozen beside him, the game completely abandoned.

Dokja tried to breathe again. The next cough knocked his head back. He sucked in air too fast and gagged again, harder this time, like something was caught in his throat. His fingers clawed at the collar of his hoodie, then dipped into his mouth, desperate.

“Wait, don’t—” Joonghyuk reached forward. Dokja slapped his hand away with surprising strength.

His two fingers were in his mouth up to the knuckles now, trying to pull something out—gagging, retching, tears leaking down his face from the effort. His body heaved again. Something fell into the towel with a slick, wet sound.

A crushed white petal. Then another. Then a whole torn stem, glistening with spit and blood.

Dokja was shaking like he had a fever, hand still jammed in his mouth, knuckles bleeding from being bit by his own teeth. And although he could breathe again, his eyes were wild. Trying to grab phantom petals from deep inside his throat.

Joonghyuk knelt in front of him and grabbed his wrist again. This time, Dokja didn’t fight.

“You’re going to hurt yourself,” Joonghyuk said quietly.

Dokja spit the last petal into the towel. His whole chest rose and fell heavily with exertion. His lips were raw and wet with red. His jaw hung open a little, like he wasn’t sure if it was quite over.

“Ah. Always so reliable,” he muttered. Then, quieter, “Thank you.”

They sat there in silence. Even the game had turned off, forgotten on stand-by mode. Dokja slumped against the edge of the couch, taking slow, unsteady breaths, and Yoo Joonghyuk crouched beside him, fingers still circling one wrist lightly.

“...Will you get the surgery?”

Dokja glanced at him, but Yoo Joonghyuk's eyes were glued to the floor in front of him.

“Joonghyuk-ah,” he started softly. “Are you asking me to forget my mother?”

He said nothing.

The surgery was a good option, but the side effects were a little controversial. On one hand, the person with hanahaki would be cured. On the other hand, they would forget the person they had hanahaki for. Everything would be lost, including the love that caused the disease in the first place.

And Dokja…wasn’t quite ready to do that.

Despite what anyone said, Kim Dokja did not want to forget Lee Sookyung.

“You’ll die.”

“I know.”

Yoo Joonghyuk let out a soft breath through his nose. He leaned back on his hands, thoughtful.

“Then go talk to her.”

Dokja’s mouth went dry.

“What?”

“Just once,” Yoo Joonghyuk pressed gently. “Talk to her. Either that, or you won’t get the chance to ever know the truth. Are you really willing to die without knowing?”

Dokja blinked slowly, his fingers twitching around the towel. The petals were ever-present, folded neatly somewhere between his ribs. Waiting.

They didn’t speak for the rest of the night.

***

When Dokja lay on the futon to sleep that night, the petals didn't come back.

But the dreams did.

They started simple.

Violent, flashing images of Song Minwoo. Of jeering voices and toilet bowls. Then, they morphed into passages from a book. Lines from the one novel he’d never wanted to read. They whispered into his ears and screamed at him from somewhere far away.

Then, the lines shifted.

The words piled over one another in chunks, smothering him—until they blurred into a cloudy vision of his childhood home.

There was cool, solid metal in his grasp. The weighted grip trembled uneasily in his inexperienced hands.

Dokja saw a kitchen. A lone figure stalking heavily towards a collapsed, frail one.

The grating sound of his mother’s pleas blurred with his father’s slurred, drunken shouting—merging into a single cacophony.

A movement.

Then—nothing.

Black.

Dokja woke that night with his pulse hammering behind his eyes, the blanket twisted tight around his legs. His fingers were clenched into fists, as if he were still holding something in them.

He woke to Yoo Joonghyuk’s watchful gaze, peeking down from the bed beside him.

The dream slipped away instantly, as they always did, but tonight, Dokja remembered a knife.

He remembered his mother crying his name. Afraid.

“Joonghyuk-ah?” he whispered into the dark, staring at the void of a ceiling, eaten up by the night.

After a moment, Dokja heard the quiet, sleep-slurred answer.

“Mm?”

“Sometimes,” Dokja started slowly, “I get these dreams. I think…they might be memories.”

Yoo Joonghyuk stirred, shifting his arm away from where he had thrown it over his eyes.

“What have you forgotten?”

Dokja stayed quiet for a long moment. Long enough that Yoo Joonghyuk's breaths evened out, back into the lull of sleep.

“I’m not sure. But…I think my mother might know.”

***

The prison was cold.

A draft circulated around concrete walls and metal confines, chilling Dokja’s fingers and cheeks. It was sterile. Still. And Dokja found that the cold settled under his skin uncomfortably.

Dokja sat on one side of the bulletproof glass, his hands clenched in his lap, thumbs pressing lightly into the meat of his thighs.

Across from him, Lee Sookyung picked up the phone, lifting it to her ear slowly.

She looked…different than he remembered.

Her face was thinner, cheekbones sharp, dark circles pooling beneath her eyes. Her hair had grown longer, scraped back into a neat, yet simple bun, framing the new lines etched across her face beautifully.

But her expression was as unreadable as always.

He lifted the receiver slowly.

“Dokja-yah. It’s been a while since you came to visit me. Getting tired of this old woman already?”

Her voice was rough around the edges, but still so…warm. There was something tired, yet comfortingly familiar in the way she spoke to him. Something too soft to be real.

“It’s been busy,” he replied awkwardly.

She hummed. “Then tell me what’s been keeping you.”

Dokja stared into his lap, avoiding those coffee-warm eyes as he spoke.

“School, mostly. It's been good. My grades have been good as well. Also…” he cut himself off. “I made a friend.”

“I'm glad.”

“Mhm. His name is Yoo Joonghyuk. He's kind of an asshole.”

His mother laughed warmly. “Will you tell me about him?”

Dokja stared at the lint on his pants.

“I will. Next time. I promise.”

“There's something else you want to talk to me about, isn't there? It's okay. You can tell me.”

Dokja’s throat tightened. The plastic of the phone was too warm in his palm.

“Yeah. Okay.”

He took a breath.

“Things have been…kind of hard lately.” Dokja couldn't help the reflexive pooling of tears in his eyes, sudden and unwelcome. He wiped them away harshly, keeping his gaze down.

“The Underground Killer,” he began slowly. “Why did you write it?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Why won't you tell me?”

His mother paused for a long moment. Long enough for the security guard to shoot them a look from where he was sitting to the side.

“Dokja-yah, have you…even read the novel?” She asked, gently, as though she already knew the answer.

“No.”

She let out a long whistle of breath, thinking something over.

“I wrote The Underground Killer to tell a particular story. I wanted everyone to know why Lee Sookyung murdered her husband.”

“Did you even think of how publishing something like that would affect me?”

“All the time,” she replied quietly. The admission sent a flash of irritation down Dokja's spine, sharp and immediate.

But…there was something in that statement that made Dokja pause. Lee Sookyung was a woman of tact. She wasn't stupid. Everything she said was for a reason. And the way she was wording her statements…they were the most honest they could be in this monitored room.

Dokja listened closer.

“If you don't understand, that’s fine too. Sometimes, you're better off not knowing. But that novel—it’s proof of what we lived through.”

Dokja’s hands tightened around the receiver, trembling slightly.

“Dokja-yah. Look at me.”

After an eternity, he glanced up, tears swimming traitorously in his eyes.

Dokja didn't think his mother had ever looked so sad.

“If you're still confused, read it again, okay? Read it one last time. After all, people always discover new angles when they do. And you've always been a smart boy.”

He dragged his shirt sleeve across puffy eyes, scrubbing his tears into the dampening cloth.

Dokja hated reading.

His voice wavered as he spoke again, thick and watery.

“Okay, Mom.”

***

Later that night, Dokja would learn the truth, hunched over a hardcover copy of his mother's book.

The first time he read it, he got angry, hurling the book across the room after he had seen the last word.

The second time, he was confused, reading each line slower than the last.

The third time, he understood.

He'd remember something long buried when the words on the page didn't quite match up to his memories. When he realized there was just enough truth in a passage, and yet, not quite enough.

Over many hours swathed in soft, dim reading light, Dokja would finally remember he was a murderer.

And what Lee Sookyung had sacrificed to protect him.

***

Dokja was in his room, sitting next to The Underground Killer, when it happened.

His hand had started to ache from how tightly he was gripping the book, but he couldn't bring himself to let go.

And then—

It began again.

A sharp stabbing pain beneath his ribs, the unfurling of long stems and blooming chrysanthemum. The familiar pressure of them climbing up his throat.

He doubled over, hand gripping his mattress, the other clutching at his chest, as if that would make it any more bearable.

But this wasn't like the earlier fits.

Something about it seemed much more final.

Dokja barely made it off his bed before he was hacking—wet, wracking convulsions that rattled his lungs and bruised his diaphragm.

His knees hit the floor.

With every choking breath, a full bloom was expelled from his lungs.

Two.

Five.

Seven.

As the final petal fell from his lips, he stared at the mess in front of him—at the gorgeously plump, entangled flowers and stems heaped onto the ground.

And Dokja—

Took a deep breath.

Unobstructed.

Clear.

He didn't feel relieved. Not exactly.

Just…a strange kind of emptiness. A kind of finality.

With shaking hands, Dokja picked up one flower, holding it up. Its petals were still warm, the snow white petals glinting in the evening sun.

He laid it on a clean tissue and set it gently beside the book.

Tomorrow, maybe, he would decide what to do with it.

***

Dokja found Yoo Joonghyuk on the school rooftop.

He was leaning on the railing, arms crossed loosely over his chest, the cool wind ruffling his hair into a mess.

Dokja joined him silently.

Everything seemed quieter up here. In this enclosed space, the small ornaments of blossoming trees and brush beneath them almost seemed to be part of one tiny snow globe.

Dokja fished out the flower, before holding it out to Yoo Joonghyuk. It was just the single bloom of chrysanthemum, fit snugly into the dip of his palm, the stem cut away.

Yoo Joonghyuk glanced over in confusion.

“What…?”

Dokja rolled his eyes. “Anytime now, Joonghyuk-ah. My hands are getting tired.”

Clearly hesitant, Yoo Joonghyuk scooped the flower from his hand, holding it slightly away from him. His subtle fear was almost comedic.

“Why are you giving this to me?”

“I don't want it.”

Yoo Joonghyuk pursed his lips, before continuing to eye the flower suspiciously.

“It's not going to blow up, you know.”

“...Maybe.”

“It's for you. The last flower.”

A breath. Then, Yoo Joonghyuk’s eyes widened. His jaw slacked as he turned to look at him, understanding dawning behind his expression.

“You mean…you're finally—?”

Dokja nodded.

“Don't worry. It won't rot. I heard that the flowers from hanahaki are eternal.”

Dokja swallowed dryly, looking down. Then back up to face him. “Thank you.”

Yoo Joonghyuk smiled.

It was small—a barely formed curve at the corner of his mouth—but Dokja thought it was softer than anything he had seen on him. It crinkled his eyes slightly, one more so than the other, the look surprisingly gentle.

All Yoo Joonghyuk did was hum lightly in response.

Later, Dokja would find the same flower tucked into his locker, pressed flat and fixed into a beautifully made bookmark.

Dokja pressed his forehead against the cool metal of his locker and smiled.