Work Text:
Three Ways to Survive Hanahaki
I. Surgical Removal
The affected tissue is excised.
All associated feelings and memories are lost. Permanently.
Han Sooyoung found him exactly where she expected—leaning against the railing that overlooked the lower levels of the industrial complex, posture loose, gaze distant in the way that meant he was already three steps ahead of everyone else.
“You’re at fault,” she said without preamble.
Kim Dokja glanced at her once, then again—slower this time.
His gaze lifted, not to her face, but just above it.
“…Right,” he said mildly. “I’ll try not to be.”
“Don’t joke.” She stepped in closer. “You knew.”
“Knew what?”
“That I’d be cursed if I killed that werewolf.” She stepped closer, jabbing a finger toward him, the motion sharp with frustration. “You knew and you didn’t say anything.”
For a fraction of a second, something in his expression shifted—recognition, faint and unrepentant.
“Ah.”
He brought a hand to his mouth, a beat too late to pass as a cough. It didn’t quite hide the curve at the corner of his lips.
“We weren’t close then,” he said evenly. “Enemies, if you remember.”
Sooyoung rolled her eyes. “That’s your defense?”
“It’s a relevant detail.”
“It’s a convenient one.”
“They’re not mutually exclusive.”
She huffed, folding her arms tightly across her chest, irritation settling just beneath the surface. “I swear, if anyone asks, I’m still blaming you.”
“That seems consistent,” he said. “Blaming me for your… horns?”
She didn’t bother answering. Instead, she reached up, brushing her fingers against the small, sharp stubs pressing through her hairline. The skin there felt tight—tender in a way that hadn’t been there yesterday. Still there. Still solid.
“Do they look permanent?”
Dokja tilted his head, studying her properly now—not just looking, but assessing.
“Hard to say,” he said after a moment. “But if you’re aiming for intimidation, it’s working.”
“I look like a rejected anime villain.”
“That too.”
The corner of his mouth curved faintly, though it didn’t reach his eyes. He straightened from the railing, his gaze flicking once more to the horns before settling on her.
“When did this start?”
“This morning.”
“Any other symptoms?”
“No.”
“Location?”
She frowned. “What?”
“Where were you when it appeared?”
“…Here. The industrial complex.”
That answer stilled something in him.
He didn’t speak immediately. When he did, his voice had quieted.
“You were inside the complex.”
“So?”
“You were under my domain.”
Sooyoung stilled—just for a beat.
“…And?”
“You should’ve been safe from any other demon king’s curse,” he said.
There was no emphasis to it. No dramatics.
Just certainty.
He turned his gaze away, scanning the lower levels as if the answer might be written somewhere in the structure itself.
“So it’s not a curse?” she asked, more seriously now.
“I didn’t say that.”
The pause stretched.
“…I don’t remember anything like this in Three Ways to Survive the Apocalypse either,” he added, almost to himself.
That was worse.
Sooyoung exhaled slowly, irritation returning in place of something less comfortable. “Great. So I’ve got a mystery condition that doesn’t exist.”
“Possibly.”
“Very reassuring.”
He glanced back at her, his expression settling into something more controlled—softer, if only by a fraction.
“See Lee Seolhwa.”
She blinked. “That’s it?”
“For now.”
“You’re not even going to pretend to help?”
“I am helping.”
The answer came without hesitation.
Sooyoung studied him for a second longer than necessary, then huffed under her breath. “Fine. But if this does turn out as a curse, I’m haunting you.”
“That seems inefficient,” he said.
She rolled her eyes, but turned anyway.
He watched her leave.
Only after she disappeared down the corridor did his expression shift.
This shouldn’t have happened.
The clinic was quieter than usual.
Han Sooyoung sat stiffly across from Lee Seolhwa, her hands folded too neatly in her lap, as if composure alone could keep anything from unraveling. The faint scent of antiseptic and crushed herbs lingered in the air, clean and grounding in a way she didn’t quite trust.
Seolhwa didn’t speak immediately. She finished reviewing the results first—methodical, precise—before setting them aside. Only then did her gaze lift.
“…It’s not a curse.”
Sooyoung let out a quiet breath. “That would’ve been easier.”
“I’m sure it would have.”
The words settled between them before Sooyoung leaned back slightly, her gaze sharpening. “…Then what is it?”
“It’s called Hanahaki.”
She frowned. “That doesn’t sound familiar.”
“It wouldn’t,” Seolhwa said evenly. “It’s not common.”
“It typically manifests internally first. The symptoms progress outward as it worsens.”
Her gaze lingered on the horns at Sooyoung’s temple.
“Yours has already manifested externally.”
A pause.
“Which suggests it may be further along than expected.”
“Right and what exactly is it supposed to do? Besides this.” Sooyoung gestured vaguely toward her head, her fingers hovering for a second too long before dropping.
Seolhwa regarded her for a moment, as if measuring how much to say.
“It’s tied to the heart.”
“The growth forms there, then spreads to the lungs, irritating the airways and triggering a persistent cough that doesn’t resolve.”
Sooyoung stilled.
“Unresolved feelings,” Seolhwa continued. “Specifically—feelings that aren’t being acted on.”
A faint crease appeared between Sooyoung’s brows. “…You’re saying I’m growing horns because I’m avoiding something.”
“Not just that.”
Seolhwa’s gaze didn’t waver.
“This condition doesn’t respond to what is true. It responds to what you believe.”
Sooyoung’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Meaning.”
“If you believe your feelings are unreturned,” Seolhwa said, “your body will treat them that way.”
Silence followed, thin but steady.
“…That’s ridiculous.”
“It is.”
Sooyoung looked away first, her jaw tightening just slightly. “That’s not how anything works.”
Seolhwa didn’t argue. She only added, more quietly, “It’s not the first time I’ve seen it.”
That brought Sooyoung’s gaze back.
“Who?”
“Yoo Joonghyuk.”
The name landed—and something shifted, subtle but unmistakable.
Seolhwa’s gaze lowered a fraction, a trace of warmth touching her expression before it disappeared.
“He had it once.”
Sooyoung caught it immediately. “…And?”
A small pause.
“He didn’t leave it unresolved.”
That was enough.
Something in Sooyoung’s expression tightened—uncertain, but not dismissing it. “…I see.”
Seolhwa continued as if nothing had shifted. “You can confirm it.”
Sooyoung frowned faintly. “Confirm what?”
“Whether the feeling is returned.”
A beat.
“Confession,” Seolhwa said. “If it is, the condition stops.”
Silence stretched, heavier this time.
Sooyoung didn’t respond immediately. When she did, her voice had flattened. “…Anything else you can offer?”
Seolhwa studied her for a moment. “…There is removal.”
“I’ll take that.”
The answer came clean and immediate, without hesitation.
Seolhwa didn’t move.
“It’s irreversible,” she said.
“Even better.”
That gave her pause—not visible, not overt, but enough to register.
“You don’t understand.”
“Then explain.”
Sooyoung met her gaze evenly now, impatience settling back into place like armor. “Because if this is just about removing the symptoms, I don’t see the issue.”
“It won’t just remove the horns.”
The silence that followed was brief, but sharper.
“It removes the feeling,” Seolhwa said. “The response tied to it.”
Sooyoung frowned. “That’s exactly the point.”
“It removes everything tied to it.”
A beat.
“…Meaning?”
Seolhwa didn’t look away.
“The memories. The emotional imprint. Anything connected to the person this condition formed around.”
Sooyoung didn’t move.
“For good.”
The words settled slowly.
“That doesn’t make sense,” she said, quieter now. “You can’t just remove—”
“And it doesn’t return,” Seolhwa said. “Even if you try. Even if you rebuild it.”
The silence that followed stretched longer this time.
Something in Sooyoung’s expression shifted—subtle, controlled, but there.
Not fear.
Something more complicated.
Seolhwa let it sit before adding, almost as an afterthought, “…There is another option.”
Sooyoung glanced up.
“You can wait.”
“For what?”
“For the feeling to become mutual.”
A pause.
“And if it doesn’t.”
Seolhwa didn’t soften. “Then it progresses.”
“…And I die.”
“Eventually.”
Sooyoung let out a quiet breath, leaning back again, her fingers tapping once against her arm before stilling. “So I either confess, erase it, or wait around hoping the other person figures it out before I choke to death.”
“That’s one way to put it.”
Silence returned, quieter now.
“Waiting it out sounds like a complete waste,” Sooyoung muttered, more to herself than anything.
Seolhwa didn’t respond.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then, as Sooyoung pushed herself to her feet—
“…What did Joonghyuk do.”
Seolhwa stilled.
It was subtle, but there—the faint widening of her eyes, the first crack in her composure since the conversation began.
“That would fall under doctor–patient confidentiality,” she said.
But the faint curve at the corner of her lips gave her away, as did the warmth that lingered, just barely, in her expression.
Sooyoung saw it.
Of course she did.
A small, knowing smile tugged at her mouth as she turned toward the door.
“Didn’t think the bastard had it in him.”
II. Confession
A direct admission may resolve the condition.
If the feeling is perceived to be returned, recovery is immediate.
If not, progression accelerates.
Shin Yoosung and Lee Gilyeong slipped inside, immediately aware they weren’t supposed to be there.
That much was obvious in the way they moved—steps too careful, shoulders drawn in as they kept glancing back toward the entrance, like they expected to be caught at any moment. The corridor stretched ahead in clean, polished lines—empty enough that even their breathing felt too loud.
“I told you we should’ve just stayed where Jihye left us,” Yoosung whispered, tugging lightly at Gilyeong’s sleeve.
“And get caught immediately?” Gilyeong shot back under his breath. “No thanks. She said ‘don’t move.’ That’s exactly why we moved.”
“That’s not how instructions work.”
“It is if the instruction’s bad.”
Yoosung frowned, but didn’t argue further. The clinic had seemed like a safe place—quiet, out of the way, somewhere no one would think to look.
Until—
They both stopped.
“…Noona?”
Han Sooyoung sat inside one of the rooms, her back partially turned, the overhead light catching on something that shouldn’t have been there—something sharp.
Horns.
Small, but unmistakable.
Yoosung’s grip tightened. “Why does she have—”
Gilyeong’s hand clamped over her mouth before she could finish, dragging her back against the wall.
“Don’t just say it out loud!”
“That’s not normal,” Yoosung hissed, prying his hand off. “That’s definitely not normal.”
“I know.”
They leaned forward again, more carefully this time, just enough to see past the edge of the doorway.
Sooyoung shifted slightly, and even from where they stood, the tension in her shoulders was visible—subtle, but there.
Something about that made them hesitate.
Concern settled in, quieter now, but harder to ignore.
“…We should check,” Yoosung said.
“How?”
“We—”
Gilyeong glanced toward the next ward, then back again, weighing it for a second before making up his mind.
“…We listen.”
Yoosung stared at him. “That’s eavesdropping.”
“That’s gathering information.”
“That’s still eavesdropping.”
“It’s for a good reason.”
“That doesn’t make it better.”
“It makes it necessary.”
Yoosung hesitated, the argument lingering just long enough to matter.
Then—
“…Just a little.”
They slipped into the next room, pressing close to the thin partition that separated the wards. The wall wasn’t meant to carry sound, but in the quiet, it didn’t need to.
The voices reached them in fragments.
Not clearly.
Not fully.
But enough.
“…tied to the heart…”
“…feelings…”
Yoosung’s eyes widened slightly.
Gilyeong leaned closer, as if proximity alone might make the meaning clearer.
“…Joonghyuk…”
That was enough.
They both stilled.
“…Sooyoung noona…” Yoosung whispered.
“…likes Joonghyuk hyung?” Gilyeong finished, quieter.
It made sense.
They had seen them together—fighting side by side, talking more than usual. Joonghyuk listening, actually listening, in a way he didn’t for most people.
They didn’t hear much after that.
The voices continued, but the meaning blurred—and it didn’t matter. The conclusion had already formed, simple and certain enough to hold.
By the time Sooyoung left, they had already made up their minds.
They waited until the door clicked shut.
Then another.
Seolhwa’s footsteps faded. The clinic lights dimmed slightly, the space settling into evening quiet.
Only then did they step out.
“…We should tell someone,” Yoosung said.
“Not Dokja hyung,” Gilyeong said immediately.
“…Why not.”
“He’ll overreact.”
“…He won’t.”
“He definitely will.”
Yoosung hesitated, then exhaled.
“…Then… Sangah noona?”
Gilyeong nodded. “Yeah. She’ll know what to do.”
As luck would have it who would they bump into immediately after they turn the corner.
Sangah stilled.
It was subtle—just a slight pause, the faint shift of her gaze as the pieces settled into place. Her attention dropped for a moment, thoughtful, the conclusion forming before she seemed to realize she had followed it at all.
So sooyoung's condition is linked to “…Unrequited—”
The word slipped out under her breath.
She stopped.
The realization came just as quickly.
Sooyoung would never—
Her expression smoothed over, the thought cut off before it could fully form, and when she looked back at them, her voice had returned to something steadier, more deliberate.
“She told you this herself?”
Yoosung and Gilyeong hesitated.
“…No,” Yoosung admitted. “But we were at the clinic—”
Sangah’s brows drew together slightly, not sharply enough to startle, but enough to interrupt.
“You shouldn’t have been there,” she said, quiet but firm. “And you shouldn’t be listening in on conversations that aren’t yours.”
Their shoulders dropped immediately.
“…Sorry,” Yoosung murmured.
“…We were just worried,” Gilyeong added, less certain now.
Sangah let out a soft breath, the edge leaving her tone as quickly as it had appeared.
“I know,” she said. “But if you’re concerned, you should ask her directly. When it’s appropriate.”
They nodded.
Not reassured.
But quieter.
They hadn’t gone far before—
“Aha!”
Lee Jihye turned the next corner, arms crossed, her expression sharpening the moment she spotted them. “There you are.”
Yoosung and Gilyeong froze.
“…We weren’t hiding,” Gilyeong said, too quickly.
“You absolutely were.”
Jihye’s gaze flicked between them, then to Sangah—and paused, just slightly, at their dropped shoulders.
“…What happened?”
Sangah didn’t answer immediately.
Then she smiled—easy, composed, as if nothing about the moment required explanation.
“Perfect timing,” she said lightly. “I’ll leave them with you.”
Jihye blinked. “Wait—”
But Sangah was already moving past her.
“Make sure they don’t wander,” she added, the warmth in her tone unchanged, before continuing down the corridor without looking back.
Jihye watched her go for a second, then turned back to the kids.
“…Okay. What did you do?”
Yoosung shifted, glancing at Gilyeong.
“We got scolded,” he admitted.
“For what?”
Gilyeong scratched the back of his neck. “…We were at the clinic.”
“And we heard something,” Yoosung added. “About Sooyoung noona’s condition.”
Jihye’s attention sharpened. “Condition?”
The two of them exchanged another look—hesitant now.
“We heard it has something to do with… feelings,”Gilyeong said carefully.
“But we should just ask noona,” Yoosung added, a little too quickly.
“Or Joonghyuk hyung,” he continued after a beat. “He had it too.”
Jihye stilled.
“…He does?”
“Yeah. Seolhwa noona said so,” Yoosung said, nodding.
A pause.
Then—
“Oh.” Gilyeong blinked. “Wait.”
He turned to Yoosung. “What’s unrequited?”
Yoosung shook her head “I don’t know but it sounds bad.”
Jihye frowned. “What?”
“That’s what Sangah unnie said,” Yoosung explained. “When we told her about noona’s condition.”
That was enough.
Jihye didn’t question it.
“…Right,” she said.
The pieces settled quickly—clean, easy to hold.
Gilyeong faced Jihye now and asked again. “Do you know what it means?”
She looked away, already half-distracted again.
“It just means you like someone who doesn’t like you back.”
Yoosung’s grip tightened slightly.
“…Oh.”
Gilyeong frowned.
“…That’s worse.”
Jihye didn’t respond.
The conclusion had already settled—simple, complete, and certain.
The knock came light, almost cautious.
Han Sooyoung was sitting on the edge of her bed when it sounded, one knee drawn up, fingers idly tracing the curve of one horn as if irritation alone might flatten it back into her skull. The room was dim except for the bedside lamp and the pale wash of light filtering in from outside. Quiet, if not for the faint scrape of branches against the window and the occasional tick in her throat she was trying very hard not to acknowledge.
“…Come in.”
The door opened, and Jung Heewon stepped inside.
“Hey. Are you okay—” She stopped herself almost immediately, one hand still on the doorknob. “Sangah told me.”
Sooyoung turned her head just enough to look at her. “What? She just got out of my room minutes ago.”
Heewon closed the door behind her. “News travels fast.”
“Unfortunately.”
Sooyoung let the word out with a roll of her eyes, but there was a crooked little smile on her face when she finally turned properly to face her.
That was when Heewon got a good look at her.
The horns weren’t just small protrusions anymore. They had lengthened, curving more cleanly around her head now, dark and elegant in a way that felt almost deliberate, as though they had grown there with intent. Thin branches had begun to wind between them, crossing her hairline like a thorn crown.
For a moment, Heewon just stared.
“…Wow,” she said before she could stop herself. “I wasn’t expecting that.”
Sooyoung snorted. “Yeah, neither was I.”
Before Heewon could say anything else, a translucent blue message window opened in front of her.
She blinked.
Then her mouth twitched.
“What?” Sooyoung asked, immediately suspicious.
Heewon lifted a hand as if to stall her, eyes moving across the message. A laugh nearly escaped before she bit it back, turning it into something halfway between a cough and a choke.
Sooyoung narrowed her eyes. “What's so funny.”
Heewon pressed her lips together, failed, and looked at her with poorly disguised disbelief. “Uriel is asking if you’re cosplaying the Prodigal Son.”
There was a beat of silence.
Then Sooyoung stared at her.
“…She what?”
“She says it’s blasphemous.”
That made Sooyoung’s whole face pinch.
“Oh, for—” She dragged a hand down her face and pointed vaguely upward, as if the constellations were hovering right there over her ceiling. “Tell her I’m an elven princess.”
Heewon’s shoulders shook.
“And also”—Sooyoung looked fully up now, glaring at nothing—“it’s not like I have a choice!”
The room fell briefly quiet after that, Heewon still fighting her smile, Sooyoung still glaring at the heavens like they had personally wronged her.
Then the moment passed.
A little.
Heewon lowered the message window and looked at her again, more carefully this time. At the horns. The branches. The way Sooyoung sat too still, too straight, as if relaxing might make the whole thing feel more real.
“…You went to see Seolhwa,” Heewon said.
Sooyoung’s expression flattened. “Obviously.”
“And?”
Sooyoung looked away first.
“It’s nothing I can’t deal with.”
Heewon didn’t answer right away.
That wasn’t an answer, and they both knew it.
For a moment, she said nothing. Then she stepped further into the room, the humor fading from her expression as concern settled back in.
“Are you going to tell me,” she asked quietly, “or do I have to drag it out of you?”
Sooyoung glanced at her then, expression unreadable for a moment before it flattened again. “Sangah told you about my options?”
“Yeah.”
A beat.
“So what do you think I should do.”
Heewon didn’t answer immediately.
Her hand came up to her chin, thumb resting just under it as she tilted her head slightly, gaze lifting toward the ceiling as if the answer might be written somewhere above them.
“It’s practical if you confess.”
Sooyoung grimaced.
“…Not my style.”
Heewon exhaled softly, something almost resigned slipping into it. She had expected that answer.
“So is not dying.”
The words landed without edge. No sarcasm. No teasing. Just plain.
Sooyoung didn’t respond.
Heewon moved then, crossing the rest of the space and sitting on the edge of the bed beside her. Their usual rhythm of banter falling away.
“Just do it. Get it over with.”
Sooyoung let out a small, humorless breath. “Easy for you to say.”
“Saying it out loud gives him something to reject,” she added, gaze fixed somewhere just past Heewon’s shoulder.
Heewon shrugged lightly. “You never know.”
Silence stretched between them.
Then Heewon spoke again.
“If it doesn’t work out… get the surgery.”
Sooyoung glanced at her.
“You’ll forget everything,” Heewon continued. “Including the rejection you’re so worried about.”
Sooyoung’s brows drew together slightly, but she didn’t interrupt.
“I’ll check on you again tomorrow,” Heewon added, already pushing herself to stand. “Now get some rest.”
She moved toward the door without waiting for a response, hand settling on the handle before pausing—like she might say something else.
She didn’t.
The door clicked shut behind her.
The room felt quieter after that.
Sooyoung stayed where she was, unmoving, gaze fixed somewhere ahead of her but not really seeing anything.
Confess.
The word sat there, heavier than it should.
She exhaled slowly, leaning back just enough to let her weight sink into the mattress, one hand coming up to rest lightly against the curve of her horns turned braided wood crown.
“…What do I even have to lose.”
The thought came uninvited.
And, annoyingly—
It didn’t have a good answer.
The office was quieter than the rest of the complex.
Kim Dokja sat at his desk, one hand braced against his temple as the other moved across a spread of notes—routes, timings, contingencies layered over contingencies. The kind of work that required precision.
He wasn’t giving it today.
He had been staring at the same section for longer than necessary, rereading without processing, the words slipping past without settling.
A knock came at the door.
“Come in.”
It opened without hesitation.
Lee Jihye stepped in, already mid-thought. “I need the updated plan for the next scenario—Heewon said you finalized the route?”
“Left side,” he said, not looking up.
She moved closer, flipping through the stack. Paper shifted. Silence settled again—brief.
Then—
“You know about Sooyoung unnie?”
Dokja didn’t look up.
But the movement of his hand stopped.
She had come to him before any of this, horns barely breaking through, irritation doing a poor job of hiding unease. He hadn’t seen her since. Not properly. And now Jihye, of all people, sounded like she knew more than he did.
“…Know what?”
Jihye glanced at him, faintly curious. “Her condition.”
No response.
She had his attention now.
“It’s hanahaki.”
He shook his head once. Small. Controlled.
“I don’t.”
“Really?” Jihye frowned. “I thought you'd be the first to know.”
He said nothing.
Jihye looked back down at the papers in her hand. “Sangah unnie mentioned it. I ran into her outside Lee Seolhwa’s clinic.”
Dokja’s expression didn’t change.
“She just said it was something about emotions,” Jihye continued, unguarded. “And… something about feelings for Master.”
Silence.
It didn’t sound like much.
That was the problem.
Dokja didn’t move.
“…I see.”
His voice stayed even. Flat enough to mean nothing.
Jihye nodded as if that settled it and flipped to the next page. “I guess that explains why she’s been weird lately.”
No answer.
The page beneath his hand remained still.
After a moment, he said, “You’re done.”
Jihye blinked. “What?”
“You have the plan.”
A pause.
“…Right.”
She gathered the papers, still puzzled, but didn’t push.
“Okay. I’ll run it by the others.”
She hesitated at the door, glancing back once.
“You might want to check on her.”
He didn’t answer.
The door closed.
Silence returned.
Dokja didn’t move.
Hanahaki.
Feelings.
For Master.
His fingers tightened slightly against the paper beneath them.
The wording was too vague to mean anything—too incomplete to justify the shape his thoughts immediately tried to take.
And yet—
it was enough.
He leaned back, gaze drifting toward the window without really seeing it.
He exhaled once, low and controlled, and forced his eyes back down to the documents spread across his desk.
The lines still refused to make sense.
For a different reason.
The words lingered where they had been left—Hanahaki, feelings, for Master—simple enough on their own, but his thoughts refused to settle around them cleanly. They kept circling back, catching on the same point, sharpening each time instead of resolving.
Yoo Joonghyuk.
Of all people.
The thought didn’t fully form, but it didn’t need to. It left something behind—uncomfortable, difficult to dismiss now that it had surfaced. He didn’t follow it to its conclusion. It pressed at the edges of his composure anyway, unwelcome in a way he couldn’t immediately justify.
He exhaled, slower this time, dragging a hand down his face as if the motion alone might interrupt it.
It didn’t.
The implication lingered.
He had no reason to think like this. No claim. No basis. Sooyoung could—of course she could. There was nothing unusual about that. Nothing that should have given him pause.
And yet.
He had been there.
Not in any way that could be measured cleanly, not in ways that could be pointed to, but consistently enough that the absence of it now felt… noticeable. Through the earlier scenarios, through the constant recalibration of allies and enemies, through moments that hadn’t demanded attention but accumulated anyway—conversations that stretched longer than necessary, decisions made without explanation but understood regardless, a familiarity that had settled between them without ever needing to be acknowledged.
He had been there.
More than most.
The thought held for a moment too long before he cut it off, pushing it aside before it could take shape into something he would have to confront.
It wasn’t relevant.
It shouldn’t have been.
His gaze dropped to the desk, unfocused, but the distraction didn’t hold. Another thought surfaced instead, quieter, heavier.
Time.
Because that assumption wasn’t entirely accurate either.
For him, it had been brief. Days, at most. A fragment of a worldline that had never fully stabilized before collapsing in on itself. Contained. Manageable.
But here—
His grip tightened slightly against the edge of the desk.
Five years had passed.
Five years where everything had continued without him—where they had adapted, survived, built something in his absence that he had stepped back into as if nothing had changed.
He had never accounted for that properly.
Never stopped to consider what those years had meant for anyone else.
The realization settled in with a quiet weight that made everything before it feel misplaced.
“…What did I think would happen?”
The word slipped out under his breath, low and controlled, edged with something that didn’t quite pass for irritation.
This wasn’t what he should have been focusing on.
Not when—
The door creaks.
He straightened slightly, the shift automatic but he doesn't look up. His expression settling back into something composed as he turned toward the sound.
Morning light makes it worse than it should.
Last night, it had looked violent—sharp, intrusive, something forced into place. A crown of thorns, uneven and cruel, cutting into her hairline like it didn’t belong there.
Now—
it’s changed.
The thorns haven’t disappeared, but they’ve softened at the edges, dark stems threading through her hair with an almost deliberate shape. Between them, small leaves have unfurled overnight—fresh, green, too alive for something that’s supposed to be a symptom.
And the buds—
just a few.
Tucked along the curve, like they’re waiting.
They’re pale, tightly closed, the kind that haven’t decided what they’ll become.
It doesn’t hurt the same way anymore.
That’s what bothers her.
The weight is still there—resting against her head, woven into her hair like something ornamental, not invasive. If she ignored how it started, she could almost—
No.
Her fingers hover near it, then still.
Don’t touch it.
It’ll make it real.
In the mirror, it looks almost intentional.
Like something she chose.
Like it belonged to her.
Her lips press into a thin line.
“…Ridiculous,” she mutters, turning away too quickly.
Because it’s not supposed to bloom like this.
The closer she gets, the quieter the corridor feels. Or maybe she’s just noticing it now—the way her footsteps sound too loud, the way her pulse sits too high in her throat.
She presses her lips together.
Say it properly this time.
No half-answers. No deflecting.
Her fingers curl briefly at her sides.
Even if he already knows.
Even if this is just… confirming it.
It’s still better than leaving it.
Unsaid.
Misunderstood.
She stops in front of his door.
The weight presses in—not the crown, not the symptoms—
—the conversation.
Her hand lifts.
Hovers.
Drops.
Then lifts again, this time without hesitation.
She knocks.
Once.
Clean.
Controlled.
Like nothing about this is difficult.
When she reached his office, with the door already slightly ajar she pushed it and let herself in like usual.
She watches him for a moment before saying anything.
He hasn’t noticed her yet—too still, too focused on whatever storm is running through his head. His expression is tight, distant, like he’s somewhere else entirely. For a second, she almost turns back.
Then his eyes flick up.
“Sooyoung,” he says, voice strained, already halfway into an argument.
“How could this even happen?”
It lands wrong.
Not confusion—something sharper than it needs to be.
Her breath catches.
He knows.
Of course he does. With everything going around—the petals, the whispers—there’s no way it stayed quiet. Someone must’ve said something. Someone must’ve connected it.
Her fingers curl into her sleeves.
For a moment, she doesn’t move.
Then—slowly—she inhales.
Even if he knows… it’s better this way.
Better to say it properly. Better than letting it sit half-formed between rumors, symptoms, and everything she’s been trying to ignore.
Her gaze lifts, steadier now, even if her pulse isn’t.
“Dokja, I—”
The words stall anyway.
She presses her lips together. Careful. Not too much. Not too obvious. Just enough—
“I didn’t—” she starts again, quieter this time. “It’s not like I meant for it to—”
Her throat tightens.
This is ridiculous.
She’s faced worse than this. Fought worse than this. And yet—
Her mouth opens—
“What are your options?”
He cuts across her before she can finish.
Clean. Direct. Like the conversation had already moved on.
She blinks.
“…What?”
“The treatments,” he says, sharper now. “What are your options?”
Oh.
Right.
Her fingers tighten briefly, then loosen.
She answers quickly, almost on reflex—like if she doesn’t, the moment she was about to take will come back and demand something she’s not ready to give.
“There’s no medicine,” she says. “But… there is surgery. If I—if I decide to do it.”
He doesn’t hesitate.
“Get it.”
Just that.
Flat. Final.
Like the answer had already been decided the moment she said it.
For a second, she just looks at him.
The fight drains out of her all at once.
Not dramatically. Not visibly.
Just—gone.
“…Right,” she says, quieter now. “Of course.”
Her shoulders square a second later, the motion small but deliberate, like she’s putting something back where it belongs.
“It’s not a big deal,” she adds, sharper than she feels. “I’ll handle it.”
He nods, already moving past it.
And just like that—
Whatever she was about to say dissolves before it reaches the surface
Kim Dokja stayed where he was, gaze fixed on the space she had just vacated—as if it might give something back if he waited. It didn’t. The silence settled instead, thick and intrusive, pressing at the edges of his thoughts and making them difficult to hold in place.
He exhaled slowly and forced his attention back to the desk, to the documents laid out in precise order—routes, timings, contingencies layered over contingencies. Familiar work. Work that required clarity. He read the same line twice, then a third time, but the words refused to settle.
The first cough came without warning. It caught in his throat, sharp enough to pull him forward, one hand bracing against the desk as the other came up to cover his mouth. He held it there, waiting for it to pass, but it didn’t. Another followed, rougher this time, dragging something deeper up from his chest. He turned slightly, containing it, forcing the sound down as his breath hitched before evening out.
The room stilled, but something had shifted—subtle, wrong, impossible to ignore now that it had surfaced.
When he lowered his hand, his gaze followed.
A single petal rested against his palm, pale and weightless, completely out of place.
He looked at it without moving, as if recognition might come if he gave it time. It didn’t. The quiet stretched, uninterrupted, until something at the edge of the room moved.
He hadn’t heard the door open.
Jung Heewon stood in the doorway, stilled mid-step, her gaze fixed not on his face, but on his hand.
“…Wait,” she said, slower than usual. “How do you have it?”
Dokja’s fingers closed around the petal without thinking. He straightened slightly, the motion controlled, his expression settling into something more familiar.
“Have what?”
Heewon didn’t answer right away. Her eyes flicked between his face and his hand, something sharp settling in as the pieces aligned faster for her than him.
“…Didn’t Sooyoung come by?”
He nodded once. “She did.”
“What did she say?”
His gaze shifted—just briefly—before returning to her.
The conversation replayed with a clarity it hadn’t had then. The pauses he hadn’t followed. The openings he had redirected.
He hadn’t asked.
Not once.
“…I don’t know,” he said, quieter.
The answer held.
Heewon’s expression tightened.
Dokja swallowed, the motion unsteady in a way he didn’t bother to hide. “I told her to get the surgery,” he said.
The words came out smaller than he intended.
The silence that followed was immediate.
“You what???”
Dokja looked up, thrown. “What?”
“Why did you do that?”
“Because—it removes the condition.”
“Do you even know what it actually does?” she demanded.
He didn’t answer.
Her voice dropped—not softer, but heavier. “It won’t just stop the symptoms. It takes you out of it. Completely. Whatever she feels—felt—for you, it’s gone. And it stays gone.”
For a moment, the words didn’t settle.
“…That doesn’t make sense,” he said, slower now.
“It doesn’t need to. It still happens.”
He exhaled, searching for something stable to land on. “If it’s unreturned,” he said, the argument thinning even as he spoke, “then removing it prevents further complications. It resolves the issue without—”
“Without what?”
Her voice cut through him.
“…Without complications,” he finished, but it lacked conviction. “We all know Joonghyuk and Seolhwa—”
“Joonghyuk?”
Heewon’s expression darkened.
“What do you even mean Joonghyuk?”
Dokja frowned, the certainty slipping. “Her feelings—” He paused, recalibrating. “—they’re for him. That’s why this is happening.”
The words felt unstable the moment they left him.
Heewon stared at him, something like disbelief settling in.
“No.”
A beat.
“She’s in love with you.”
Han Sooyoung didn’t slow down.
The corridor stretched ahead in a long, familiar line—the path to Lee Seolhwa’s clinic, one she had already walked once today, and now again, as if repetition alone might make the second time easier. It didn’t. Her steps stayed even anyway, measured and deliberate, each one placed with the kind of control she used when she refused to think too much about what she was doing.
She had already decided. That was the only reason she could keep walking.
Her hand lifted briefly, brushing against the curve of her horn. It had grown again—she could feel it without looking, the weight more pronounced, the shape more defined. It didn’t hurt.
That would have been easier.
She exhaled quietly through her nose and let her hand fall. She didn’t want to forget. That was the only part that didn’t sit clean—not the condition, not the outcome.
It was this.
Because for the first time, something had stayed.
Han Sooyoung had never needed love to make sense. It had never been something she lacked in a way that mattered—just something absent, like a language she had never been taught and never had reason to learn. People talked about it, wrote about it, built entire lives around it, and she had moved past it without stopping to wonder what that felt like.
She had never been loved. Not in a way that held. And she had never learned how to return it.
Until him.
Her steps didn’t stop, but something in her chest tightened just enough to register.
What she felt now refused to sit neatly anywhere. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t comforting. It didn’t make things easier. If anything, it made everything more complicated, more fragile in ways she couldn’t control—but it was real.
That was the problem.
Even if she couldn’t have him, she could have kept it—something quiet and intact, something that didn’t need to be returned to exist. Even if it hurt. Especially if it hurt.
Because at least it meant something had.
Her mouth curved faintly, something bitter settling in.
She wouldn’t have minded dying with it.
The thought came without resistance, without fear, like a conclusion she had already accepted. There was something almost appealing in it—this being the last thing she held onto, the only thing that had ever felt complete, unfiltered by necessity or compromise. To end with it still hers, unchanged, unshared, unlost.
But she couldn’t.
Not yet.
Because her death wouldn’t stay hers. It never did.
It would ripple—through the party, through the scenarios, through the careful balance they had been holding together for far too long. It would create gaps that couldn’t be cleanly filled, force adjustments where none should be needed.
And Dokja—
Her gaze lowered slightly, unfocused for just a second.
He would compensate. He always did. He would rework the plan, restructure, account for her absence like he accounted for everything else. It wouldn’t be clean. It would cost him.
And worse—
He would accept that cost.
That was the part she couldn’t allow.
Sooyoung let out a quiet breath, something heavier. “…What a pain.”
The words came softer than usual, stripped of their usual edge.
She already knew what she had to do. She just didn’t want to do it.
For a moment, something stubborn pushed back—a small, selfish part of her that refused to let it go. Just this once.
Let her keep it.
It passed.
Of course it did.
Her steps never faltered.
Even if it meant forgetting, even if she never felt anything like it again, it didn’t matter.
If it made things easier for him—
That was enough.
Her hand reached the door. It paused—just for a second.
Then she pushed it open.
The realization did not arrive all at once. It settled slowly, heavily, as if something had finally found the place it had always been meant to occupy—too late to be useful. Kim Dokja stood there in silence, the edges of the room blurring just slightly as the pieces aligned, everything she had not said, everything he had not allowed her to say, everything he had dismissed before it could reach him. She had not been withholding. He had closed the door before she could even try.
“—You idiot!”
Jung Heewon’s voice cut cleanly through his thoughts, sharp enough to break whatever fragile composure he had left. She stepped closer, eyes blazing with something caught between anger and urgency. “She did—does—like you!”
The words hit harder than they should have. The world did not spin, but it might as well have; something in his chest lurched, sharp and disorienting, his breath catching as the weight pressed inward.
“Where is she now?”
The question cut through everything else with brutal clarity. Dokja’s gaze flickered downward, searching for something to anchor the moment to, some measure of time that could still be undone. “An hour ago,” he said, and the moment the words left him, he knew exactly what they meant.
Heewon did not need to say anything. Their expressions shifted in unison, understanding settling with quiet finality. The hospital wing was on the other side of the industrial complex. An hour was enough.
For a fraction of a second, they stood there, neither moving, the realization too complete to process. Then they ran.
There was no signal, no exchanged look, no agreement spoken aloud. Dokja moved first, his body already in motion before the thought could fully form, and Heewon followed immediately, matching his pace without hesitation. The corridors stretched and warped around them as they cut through the complex at full speed, footsteps striking hard against metal and concrete, echoing in sharp, relentless rhythm. Corners blurred into one another, pathways collapsing into instinct, his mind narrowing to a single point.
His lungs burned almost immediately, each breath too fast, too shallow, but he did not slow. He could not. The distance between where he was and where she might be felt immeasurable, but he forced himself forward as if effort alone could close it.
Beside him, Heewon moved with the same urgency, adjusting on instinct, her stride never breaking even when someone crossed too close to their path. She shifted, planted briefly against the wall to redirect her momentum, and surged forward again without losing pace, but Dokja barely registered it. His focus had narrowed too far, the same thought repeating with steady insistence, keeping time with the pounding in his chest.
Not too late.
By the time they reached the hospital wing, the strain had caught up to him. His breathing had turned uneven, each inhale scraping against his lungs, but the pain there was secondary to something deeper, something lodged in his chest that refused to settle.
The red light above the operating room doors was already on.
He stopped too abruptly, momentum carrying him forward half a step before his body gave out under it. His knees hit the floor, one hand catching against it a second too late as his breath broke, sharp and uneven, refusing to settle.
Heewon slowed behind him, her own breathing uneven, but her gaze had already shifted—to the light, to the doors, to him. “She’s inside,” she said, her voice tight despite her control. “And there’s nothing we can do until it’s done.”
Dokja did not answer. He could not. His fingers tightened against the cold floor, the thought pressing in from all sides at once.
Not like this.
Not after—
“Why are you on your knees like in a drama—”
The voice cut through everything.
Light. Casual. Familiar.
Both of them froze.
Slowly, almost reluctantly, they turned.
Han Sooyoung stood a few steps behind them, arms filled with an uneven stack of snacks, her expression caught somewhere between confusion and mild concern as she took in the sight of Dokja on the floor. For a second, nothing else existed—not the hospital, not the light.
His gaze locked onto her.
Her horns had grown, curving cleanly around her temples now instead of pushing awkwardly through her hair, the shape deliberate, almost intentional. Thin vines threaded between them, weaving through dark strands, and between those winding lines, small flowers had begun to bloom—soft, pale petals unfolding against the harshness of everything around them.
He could not speak.
“…You—”
The word faltered, unfinished.
Heewon stepped forward first, disbelief breaking through her composure. “You didn’t go through with it.”
III. Deferred Resolution
The condition may stabilize if mutuality is achieved over time.
Survival rate: lowest.
“Oh. Seolhwa said she got it wrong. It’s not as advanced as she thought. I can still make it to the last scenarios.”
Dokja wasn’t listening.
His gaze stayed fixed on her—on the fragile bloom at her crown, on the petals brushing faintly against her collarbone.
Proof. It hadn’t happened. She was still—
Relief hit all at once, sharp enough to pull a breath from him before he realized he’d been holding it.
“Thank God,” he said quietly.
Sooyoung frowned, looking between them. “Okay, seriously, what is going on?”
Dokja shook his head once, the motion almost unsteady, though his voice wasn’t. “Nothing,” he said.
But it wasn’t nothing. It was everything he almost lost.
He didn’t realize he was moving until he was already in front of her.
It came sharp and overwhelming, leaving him a second too slow to hide it. It softened something in his expression—something that didn’t belong there—
He reached for her.
His hand closed around hers before he could stop himself.
Sooyoung stilled.
The snacks shifted against her chest as she pulled them slightly away, like that was what mattered.
“…These are mine.”
A beat.
Her fingers tensed in his grip—an instinctive pull, small but real.
It didn’t follow through.
“…What are you doing?”
Dokja didn’t answer.
He didn’t let go.
For a moment, neither of them moved. The air stretched thin between them—everything that had almost happened, everything that hadn’t been said.
Then he stepped forward.
Not a pull—just movement.
His grip tightened slightly—enough that letting go would take effort.
Sooyoung clicked her tongue under her breath.
“…You’re weird.”
But she moved with him.
Away from the hospital wing—into something quieter.