Chapter Text
You stare at the semi-transparent status window floating in front of your face with the expression of someone who has just been informed that taxes are now paid in blood.
[Status Abnormality: Kiss Your Enemy or Die!]
[You will die unless you kiss your enemy within the allotted time.]
[Days remaining: 365]
For a long moment, all you do is blink—once, then twice, then a third time, because apparently the universe has decided that visual hallucinations are now a perfectly acceptable method of communication.
“What kind of curse is this...?”
You keep staring at the status window as if glaring hard enough will make it burst into flames and spare you the degradation of whatever sadistic variety show writer trapped in the afterlife approved Kiss Your Enemy or Die! as a valid survival condition.
Your brain, meanwhile, does the exact opposite of helping.
It immediately opens a full-scale internal investigation. What have I done?
No, seriously. What have I done?
Because this cannot be random. There is no way some bastard up there wakes up one day, points at you specifically, and decides, You know what would be hilarious? Extortion by forced mouth contact. This is targeted. This is personal. This has the distinct energy of divine retaliation.
Your eyes narrow at the floating text.
“Is this because I made that burner account?” you mutter, voice growing hoarse with dawning horror. “The one where I spent three weeks liking anti–Park Moondae posts at two in the morning?”
“No, wait. Is it because I made my own anti–Park Moondae posts?”
The memory hits with the force of a truck.
A private account. Zero profile picture. Username so generic it practically screamed I have no crimes to hide. And on that account, you had committed what scholars would call petty acts of war. Nothing unforgivable, of course. Just a few harmless observations. Public service announcements, really.
Like the time Park Moondae trended for his airport photos and you quote-retweeted one with:
He looks like he'd remind the teacher there was homework.
Or the one where you posted:
If this man smiles at me one more time like he knows my GPA, I'm filing a restraining order.
And, in what was still your finest work to date:
Park Moondae has the face of a man who would survive the apocalypse through sheer judgment alone.
Your mouth falls open. “Oh shit,” you whisper. “Is this karmic defamation backlash?”
Beside you, Park Moondae of TeSTAR—who can apparently see other people's status windows too, because of course your life is horrifying in layers—goes equally still. His face, usually composed to the point of irritation, freezes in a way that would almost be satisfying if you weren't currently being threatened by supernatural mouth-to-mouth terrorism.
He slowly turns his head to look at you.
You turn to look at him.
The silence between you is so profound it feels holy.
“Haaah.” It is what it is, I guess.
With the solemn acceptance of a person whose spirit has already left their body, you inhale deeply, walk to the table, and sit down.
The chair scrapes against the floor.
You reach into your bag, take out a sheet of paper, uncap a pen, and begin writing.
Moondae watches you in silence for exactly three seconds before finally asking, flatly, “What are you doing?”
You don't answer. You keep writing with the grave concentration of a scholar drafting the final words of a fallen empire.
His brows knit together. “Are you ignoring me?”
Still nothing.
Your pen continues moving in sharp, determined strokes. The room is so quiet he can probably hear every single word of your resignation from life being formed in ink.
When you finally finish, you cap the pen, fold the paper neatly in half, stand up, and walk over to him. He stares at the folded sheet as you press it into his hand.
“What is this?”
You release the paper and say in the calm tone of someone announcing tomorrow's weather, “My last will and testament.” You turn around and head for the door.
For the first time since you've known him, he looks genuinely stupid.
“What?”
The door swings shut behind you with a dramatic bang that feels fitting for the occasion.
Inside, he remains rooted to the spot, still holding your folded letter. The paper rustles faintly in his grip.
A beat passes.
Another.
His expression shifts from disbelief to dawning horror. “No way.” He shoves the folded paper into his pocket so fast it nearly crumples and storms after you.
The rooftop door slams open.
Cold wind immediately rushes in, biting and sharp with the edge of approaching winter. The sky is washed in dull evening light, the city stretched beneath in glittering fragments, all glass and headlights and distant noise.
At the far end of the rooftop, you stand by the ledge with your hands gripping the railing behind you, coat and hair whipping around in the wind like you're filming the climax of a melodrama with a concerningly low budget.
Your face, however, is unnervingly peaceful.
That is what makes him furious.
“You...! Have you completely lost your mind?” he snaps, striding toward you. “Get away from there!”
You glance at him over your shoulder, and instead of fear or panic, you sigh. “What are you saying? I might as well get this over with.”
He stops dead. “Get what over with?”
You don't answer right away. You just stare out over the city with a detached expression. “Don't read the letter.”
Moondae's face goes blank. “What?”
“Give it directly to my manager.”
For a second, the wind is the only sound on the rooftop.
Then he says, very slowly, “You wrote a suicide note because you don't want to kiss someone?”
You turn to him, offended. “Excuse you. Not someone. My enemy.”
“That doesn't make it better.”
“It makes it significantly worse.”
“You're insane.”
“Haha, and yet I'm still the victim here. I hate you all.”
He stares at you like he's trying to decide whether to shake you or call an ambulance. “You think I have time to read your letter right now?” he says through gritted teeth, stalking closer until he's only a step away. “Come here.”
He grabs your elbow and tugs, clearly intending to drag you away from the ledge by force if necessary.
You wrench your arm back with a scandalized noise. “Don't touch me! I'm trying to die with dignity!”
“In what universe is this dignified? Are you fucking stupid?”
“In one where I don't have to lock lips with—”
Your heel slips.
It happens in a split second.
Your foot skids against the concrete. Your balance pitches backward. The railing digs into your lower back, and the startled sound that leaves you is less a scream and more a deeply undignified, “Ah—!”
His eyes widen. “Hey!”
Irritation, alarm, and what looks suspiciously like genuine panic flash across his face all at once. He lunges forward without thinking, both arms wrapping tightly around your waist, and yanks you toward him with enough force that your shoes scrape against the rooftop floor.
The world jerks.
One second you're teetering on the edge of a fatal headline, and the next you're hauled solidly back onto safe ground, half-collapsed against him.
You immediately begin struggling. “Put me down! Put me down right now!”
“Stop moving!”
“You touched my waist!”
“You were about to fall off a building!”
“That doesn't give you rights!”
“You are impossible!”
He finally sets you down, but only so he can grab your shoulders and hold you in place before you attempt another theatrical descent into the afterlife. Your hair is in your face, your breathing is uneven, and his own expression has gone from angry to absolutely exasperated in the way of a man who has just realized he's been assigned personal responsibility over a feral cat with a death wish.
“You cannot seriously be trying to kill yourself over this,” he says.
“I'm not trying to kill myself,” you shoot back. “That bastard (system) is trying to kill me. I'm just cooperating!”
His eye twitches. “That is not a sentence any sane person would say.”
“Well, sane people aren't being blackmailed by floating windows!”
“You still have three hundred and sixty-five days!”
“Yes, and I'd like to spend all of them preserving what little remains of my self-respect!”
“You're acting like a kiss is a death sentence.”
You stare at him in pure outrage. “It is when it's with you.”
The words leave your mouth with enough venom to wilt plant life.
Something in his expression changes.
Not softer, exactly. More like he has abruptly arrived at the end of his patience and decided violence—social, emotional, or otherwise—is now on the table.
“Fine,” he says.
You narrow your eyes. “Fine what?”
He steps closer.
You step back.
Unfortunately, there's nowhere to go because your survival instincts remain tragically underdeveloped and you're still too close to the railing.
“What are you doing?” you ask, suddenly suspicious.
He doesn't answer. Instead, he reaches up and cups your face in both hands. His palms are cold from the wind, fingers pressing into your cheeks hard enough to squish them together. The contact is so unexpected that your brain short-circuits on the spot.
You make an offended, garbled sound. “Mff—!”
He closes his eyes and kisses you.
It is not romantic.
There are no swelling violins. No cinematic sparks. No breathtaking revelation that changes the trajectory of your lives forever.
It is, in fact, one of the most appalling experiences of your existence.
Your eyes fly open so wide they nearly leave your skull.
For one glorious, horrifying second, your brain ceases all higher function.
The only coherent thought left in your head is: What kind of catastrophic bullshit is this?!
And because the universe is cruel, because destiny has apparently chosen you as its favorite punching bag, and because your life is apparently written by a sadist with a sense of humor, the status window flickers cheerfully in front of your face.
A successful kiss!
You have, against all reason and dignity, officially kissed your enemy!
Time limit: Extremely Satisfied (A Huge Success)
Status Abnormality: “Kiss Your Enemy or Die” removed
When Moondae pulls away, the silence that follows is monstrous.
He still doesn't look at you.
His hands drop from your face almost immediately, like even he has just realized what he's done and would rather sever both arms than acknowledge it. A faint flush creeps up the tips of his ears, which would be useful blackmail material in literally any other circumstance.
You, meanwhile, remain frozen in place. Your expression goes from blank horror to dawning realization. Then realization to outrage.
Then outrage to something so viscerally offended it almost circles back into violence.
Slowly, very slowly, you lift a trembling hand and touch your mouth like you've just been shot there.
He takes one step back.
Wise decision.
Your stare lifts to his face.
It is the stare of someone who has seen the face of evil and unfortunately knows his stage name.
“How dare you,” you say in a voice so deathly calm it makes him tense, “press your lips to me, you piece of shit—”
“Would you rather be dead?”
“Yes!”
“That was rhetorical!”
“I'd rather be cremated with dignity than kissed against my will by a man with the emotional warmth of an expired yogurt!”
Moondae's face twists in disbelief. “What... Expired yogurt?”
“You heard me!”
“You were about to jump!”
“And now I wish I had committed harder!”
“Can you hear yourself right now?”
“Can you? You kissed me like you were submitting a tax form!”
He recoils. “What does that even mean?”
“It means there was no humanity in it! No soul! No remorse! You kissed me with the efficiency of a government employee processing paperwork!”
For the first time in his life, he appears utterly unable to defend himself.
He just stares at you, deeply insulted.
You point at him with a shaking finger, scandalized down to your molecular structure. “This is assault, psychological warfare, and the single greatest humiliation I've suffered since debut!”
“You were trying to throw yourself off a rooftop!”
“And somehow this is still worse!”
His mouth opens, then closes.
Opens again.
Closes.
“You know what?” he says at last, voice clipped. “Fine. Go ahead and be dramatic. But if another status window appears telling you to throw yourself into traffic or marry a serial killer, I'm not helping you.”
You gasp. “You think I'd marry a serial killer?”
“I think your standards are clearly nonexistent.”
“Coming from the man who kisses people like he's trying to extinguish a candle?”
His face goes completely blank.
You don't even wait for a response. You spin on your heel, point a finger at him like a prosecutor delivering a death sentence, and declare, “Give me back my will.”
“No.”
“That letter contains my skincare passwords.”
He blinks. “Your what?”
“My skincare passwords. My emergency folder. My photo cards. The distribution list for my funeral flowers. Hand it over.”
“You planned your funeral before trying to jump?”
“Of course I did. I'm not irresponsible.”
He stares at you for a long, hollow second, then drags a hand down his face. “You're a lunatic.”
“Congratulations! You just kissed one.”
The wind howls between you.
Somewhere in the distance, a siren wails.
He pulls your folded “last will and testament” from his pocket, stares at it, and mutters, “I should've let you write a second draft.”
You snatch it from his hand with a glare. “I hope your pillow is warm on both sides.”
“I hope your next status abnormality requires silence.”
“Shut up, Park Moondae.”
He turns and starts walking back toward the rooftop door, rubbing his temple. “If you're done trying to die, we have photoshoot in twenty minutes.”
You stand there in the freezing wind, hair in disarray, dignity in ruins, mouth contaminated, and after five full seconds of stunned silence, you shout after him—
“You still kiss like an administrative error!”
His shoulders go rigid so violently it looks like his entire skeleton has been issued a cease-and-desist, and he freezes mid-step like a man who has just been personally accused by the laws of nature.
“And I felt like kissing a brick.”
“HOW DARE YOU—!”