Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Swift footsteps. The jitter of bells. The huffs of breathing. Their sounds scramble together in the chaos of a chase.

In Agent Choi's focused eyes, the white of the hospital walls, the metal doors of the corridor, and the florescent lights of the ceiling, fly by in a blinding blur. His feet carry him forward in a sprint. Behind him, not far enough and too close for comfort, he hears the whirl of machinery and voices too robotic to belong to a human.

Agent Choi doesn't look back. One hand holds his Jakdu while the other hovers just over the pocket of his jacket where a pair of shoelaces rests. However, he makes no move to retrieve them. He can't leave just yet.

Agent Bronze is still in the building, having been separated from Agent Choi mere moments ago after the latter said he would be bait. Though, to be honest, there wasn't a discussion at all. One second, both of them were hiding, and the next, Agent Choi was lunging out of their hiding spot, hooking the machinery's attention, and running off without pause, undoubtedly missing the moment when Agent Bronze's startled expression turned into an indignant one.

Agent Choi can't help but smile just imagining it.

"DONATE NOW; SAVE A LIFE."

"DONATE NOW; SAVE A LIFE."

"DONATE NOW; SAVE A LIFE."

From over his shoulder, robotic voices rattle his eardrums, causing his core to tremble. He grits his teeth. Reaching the end of the hallway, he pushes off the ball of his foot, turns the sharp corner, and nearly stops in his tracks.

A dead-end.

What luck.

One of Agent Choi's hands drop down to join the other on the handle of his Jakdu, tightening to swing it back around in an instant, but for a split second, he falters.

Because at the end of the hallway, he sees it.

A dark wooden door.

Agent Choi's eyes widen, confusion evident on his expression. Normally, he wouldn't have paid it any mind, seeing it as just another door in this vast hospital—except this one looks completely out of place. Why, in this modern hospital with only metal doors, would there be one made out of wood?

An anomaly?

A trap?

Or…

Aware of the shoelaces in his pocket, the fact Agent Bronze is still alone in this Disaster, and how his intuition doesn't stir from danger and rather the opposite, Agent Choi makes a split-second decision.

He trusts his gut.

And he runs.

Launching himself forward, he lunges for the door handle, turns it, and pushes through, and it's only thanks to Agent Choi's experience and instinct that he doesn't end up crashing into the bookshelf that immediately greets him on the other side. His forward foot digs into the ground. His free hand flies up to catch himself on the shelf, and redirecting the momentum, he pushes off of it, whirls around, slams the door closed, and holds it shut in anticipation—

—but nothing happens.

It takes a second for Agent Choi to realize—for the high of the adrenaline in his body to ebb, for his apprehension to wane.

He waits, but nothing comes.

No sound.

No vibration.

No attempt to follow him in.

The only things he can sense in that moment are his pulse throbbing in his throat and the confusion floating in his mind. A quick glance downward tells him there isn't any sort of lock on the door. Slowly, his hands peel away from the flat surface, almost tentative as if expecting an ambush at any moment.

It doesn't arrive.

Catching his breath with an exasperated smile, Agent Choi takes his time to look around.

Cramped is his first impression. Dim is his second. He finds himself standing in a tiny, narrow aisle where the ceiling hovers low, the floor feels higher than it should be, and the walls are completely composed of dark wooden shelves that extend far into both directions. Agent Choi turns his head to stare down the left end. His gaze soars in search for the end of the aisle, but as a shiver shoots down his spine, he realizes that although the amount of content on the shelves—files, books, tapes—decreases the farther down they go, the shelves persist on emptily and eternally.

An eerie feeling emerges in his chest. He swallows.

Turning his head to the other side of the aisle, Agent Choi notes that it resembles the left end—the only difference being that there appears to be an illuminated gap. An intersection. A room.

Slowly, Agent Choi turns on his heel. He grips his Jakdu tightly, holding it in a way where the bells cease to jingle, silent just like his footsteps, as he treks forward.

One step.

Two.

Eight.

For every step he takes, his heart beats five times over. He draws closer to the room, his pupils contracting as the light emitting from it grows stronger and stronger. His breath stills inside his chest.

Emerging from the aisle, Agent Choi finds himself standing on the edge of a relatively larger room, one bordered by four walls made out of dark wooden bookshelves. They're filled to the brim with material. The ceiling is higher this time, its center decorated by orange-emitting light-bulbs hung upon metal chains, and despite their strong, stable glow, they don't seem to be connected to any kind of power source.

However, the room itself is not what captures Agent Choi's attention.

It's what sits in the middle of it.

Because there, on a small couch turned away from Agent Choi, with only their back to see, sits a motionless figure. They could pass as human, really. With their head of short dark hair, with their two arms, and with the black traditional robes that fall over their shoulders and whose collar is low enough to reveal the paleness of their nape.

They could be human—if not for the pair of antlers sprouting from their head like branches of black glass.

The sound of a page being turned meets Agent Choi's ears. With their back is turned to him, he can only sneak a peek over their shoulder to see exactly what they're looking at.

In the "person"'s hands is an open file. They seem to be engrossed in reading, not paying him any mind despite the ruckus he no doubt made by crashing into their bookshelves and slamming their door shut.

Agent Choi's thoughts race, attempting to put reason to his situation.

Although this hospital-themed Disaster isn't one he enters often, he has enough confidence in his memory to know for certain that this is an anomaly. He knew it the moment he entered.

This place isn't supposed to be here.

It's likely a different Disaster—one that is capable of intruding upon another, and one that he walked straight into. Yet, his instincts remain quiet. His intuition deems him safe. It is solely his mind that reels from the strange circumstances he's found himself in.

Contamination? The thought crosses Agent Choi's mind. Was I infected before I even opened the door?

Then, movement.

Agent Choi tenses underneath his skin as the "person" shifts, lifts their attention from the file, and turns their head just so in order to peer over their shoulder to meet Agent Choi's gaze, and it is this image that reflects in the latter's eyes:

A face of a young man.

A composed expression.

A pair of dark eyes.

They hold each other's stares for a long silent moment, as if waiting to see who will make the first move. Neither party does.

The "person"'s eyes drift downward to Agent Choi's neck scar, lingering, before sliding down to the Jakdu held in his right hand. Then, the gaze returns to his face.

The corner of Agent Choi's lip twitches for a moment before he commits his mouth to a full smile.

"Excuse me," Agent Choi smiles, letting a warm tone seep into his voice. "Sorry for intruding, but I'm a little lost." He lets his grip visibly relax around the Jakdu, a simple ploy to avoid provoking this entity because if need be, he's more than ready to use it.

And yet—

The "person" nods slightly and says,

"That's alright."

A composed masculine voice rings out quietly, sounding all too normal—too human.

"I'm the one who let you in. You can stay here until they're gone."

Agent Choi's smile freezes, stunned, as he watches the "person" turn forward to resume their reading, making no move to threaten him nor make him feel at home. He can't help but tense at the latter idea.

Even if they offered, I don't think it would've made any difference, Agent Choi thinks.

This is the thought that pops up inevitably when he sweeps his gaze over the area, because the room doesn't look lived in at all. There is no mess nor are there any personal belongings. There are no pillows nor blankets. There is not a single folder or book out of place save for the one in the "person"'s hands. The room is full yet empty.

With the "person" no longer looking at him, Agent Choi lets his smile strain. "I appreciate it," he replies.

The "person" doesn't give any indication that he acknowledges the gratitude.

Agent Choi leans back against the doorframe, shooting an idle glance at the two never-ending aisles on either side of him. As much as he would love to continue investigating this anomalous Disaster he's currently in, he decides that the one outside is of a much greater priority, and if the entity in this one seems friendly enough to let him stay, he'll accept the offer.

In the quiet atmosphere, filled only by the occasional sound of a turning page, Agent Choi sinks into deep thought.

Bronze is likely still in the hospital.

Typically, this Disaster isn't one to give Bureau Agents any trouble. There's quite a simple straightforward method one can use to escape, and it's not even something that has long-lasting impacts on the physical body. An iron-rich diet for a few weeks is sufficient treatment.

However, something went wrong. The civilians that they were sent in to rescue triggered an unknown event—an unprecedented anomaly, rendering the standard escape method useless and their survival chances slim.

The shoelaces in his pocket weigh heavily.

The Bureau has hammered in that Agents should prioritize their own life, because only through that way can they continue surviving to rescue more people.

But Agent Choi has to try. Even more so when he doesn't know if Agent Bronze is out there alone or has already left. He can't leave without knowing he's alright.

As Agent Choi pushes away from the doorframe, lifts his Jakdu off of the floor, and waits to bid farewell to this strange entity, something that the latter said rings clearly in his mind.

Agent Choi stops.

A door that appeared out of nowhere.

A door that appeared just when he needed it.

"I'm the one who let you in."

Lifting his gaze to the back of the "person"'s head, Agent Choi takes a breath and steadies his smile. "Can I ask you a question?"

The "person" looks up and back, his dark eyes blinking slowly.

"How did you know that I was outside?" Agent Choi starts with a thoughtful expression.

Because despite his claim that he was the one that let him in, the "person" doesn't appear to have left his place on the couch at all, and seemingly, the door had also locked automatically once Agent Choi was through.

Does this entity have an ability that allows him to perceive the world outside the library?

"…"

A pause.

"…I saw you."

Bingo! Agent Choi lets a little smugness bleed into his expression as he follows up with a hum. "By any chance, have you seen anyone else? I'm looking for three college students and also my friend. He has the same jacket. He's tall, buff, handsome but not as much as me?"

The "person" takes a moment to nod, but when he does, relief rushes into Agent Choi's chest. "He's safe," he says. "The college students are being held in an observation room, but they can't move right now."

Can't move right now? Agent Choi blinks at the extra information. However, before he can question it—

The "person" glances briefly at the file in his hands before returning his gaze. "They're no longer outside. You can go back in."

"Ah." Agent Choi hesitates with his next words, his tongue feeling heavy in his mouth. Although his time with this entity has been short, barely breaching five minutes, there's a certain familiarity that thrums in his bones—a feeling that reminds him of something back home, and uncontrollably, he can't help but think about the dokkaebi back at the Bureau.

Contamination again? Agent Choi almost laughs. However, unlike last time he thought this, it carries a strange spirit of ease.

"I'll get out of your hair then," he says with a sigh of exasperation, and when he smiles and winks at the "person", he doesn't have to fake it. "Thanks for the help!" He turns on his heel to walk back to where he entered from.

"Wait."

When Agent Choi stops to peer over his shoulder, it's then that he realizes that it was never just the two of them in this room.

As the "person" rises from the couch, he takes something else with him. Cradled in his arms, within an embrace softened by the fabric of his robes, is a small sleeping orange fox—only that it isn't ordinary. Nothing that originates from a Disaster could be. Tucked into the "person"'s elbow in a deep slumber, the fox's form is transparent yet tangible, resembling a jelly-fish more than a mammal.

A fox spirit? The words come to mind.

As the "person" rounds the couch and approaches Agent Choi, the latter conceals the jump of tension in his muscles and the grit of his teeth under a calm expression, his hand remaining wrapped around the grip of his Jakdu.

Fortunately, he doesn't have to use it.

The "person" walks straight past Agent Choi and into the aisle of shelves. "This way," is all he says.

Without a reply, Agent Choi's gaze trails after the distancing back of the "person" for a brief moment before he decides to follow.

Two sets of footsteps echo, their sounds melding together. Agent Choi maintains a reasonable distance away from the "person", not far enough to be obvious but not close enough either. Helplessly, his eyes inch upward to observe the "person"'s antlers. They branch out in a pattern similar to that of a lightning strike, a force of nature, stopping at a height where they just clear the ceiling, but what makes Agent Choi the most curious is how they appear to be made out of black glass—

"Here."

Agent Choi stops.

Standing before a particular shelf, the "person" reaches one hand out to pull a file free. He doesn't check its contents before extending it toward Agent Choi, his eyes dark and expectant under the dim lighting.

Agent Choi hums. He doesn't reach out to take it. "What is it?"

The "person" pauses, seemingly weighing what answer to give, before he decides to not speak at all. He opens the file himself and shows it to him.

Against Agent Choi's rational mind, it is his intuition that tells him to look.

"Take it with you," the "person" says simply, shutting the file again to hold it out. "It'll only last a short while outside, but if you don't trust me which I'm sure you don't, only read it if you absolutely can't figure out another way to escape."

"…"

Was he that obvious?

Because when Agent Choi's eyes had initially been skimming the first page, the first emotion he felt wasn't awe—nor was it disbelief or confusion.

It was suspicion.

Does this file have any credibility?

Could this just be fabricated data?

A honey trap?

Does it make sense for me to trust this information blindly and risk endangering the lives of the civilians and Agent Bronze?

Agent Choi has managed to get by this long by not believing in pipe dreams. When he looks up to meet the gaze of the "person" before him, the "person" who predicted the extent of his caution, the "person" who predicted what needed to be said to persuade him, Agent Choi can't help but notice the steady red glint peeking out from within their dark eyes, and after all of the questions, only one remains in his mind:

Why does it feel like you know me?

With his free hand, Agent Choi reaches out to take the file. "A clear method, huh? How do you have this? It even has the Bureau's registration number." And even that despicable company's.

The "person" doesn't react, but Agent Choi can see the gears turning in his eyes. It's… oddly human.

Before the answer comes, Agent Choi laughs and says, "Just kidding. You don't have to answer that. I'll take a look once I'm out, Mister—ah, right. I didn't catch your name?"

The "person" pauses as if he has to think about it, and for a brief moment, his eyes dart away before returning. "…Roe Deer is fine." Clearly a codename. He doesn't push. "You are?"

"Just call me Agent," he replies with a smile, reciprocating the caution.

The "person" nods. Without another word, he leads him to the same door he came from, opens it toward himself, and steps away so Agent Choi has a full view of the deserted hallway of the hospital, void of any medical machinery.

Yet, before he can step out—

"If something goes wrong, you can bring them back here."

Glancing at Roe Deer, Agent Choi studies the former's face, finding not a single crack in that smooth façade. His lips spread in a smile. "I'll keep that in mind," Agent Choi replies, stepping out of the door, letting his feet transfer from wood to vinyl, and turns to peer over his shoulder.

As he looks back, an odd feeling settles in between his ribs.

"See you around, Roe Deer."

And, in the middle of the door, within the confines of a separate Disaster and not an inch outside of it, Roe Deer stands quietly, looking all too small under his robes and looking all too human for something that isn't.

Roe Deer opens his mouth to say one last thing.

"Stay safe, Agent."

Agent Choi doesn't return to the records room.

Time passes in uncertainty with no clock to tell it.

In the main room of the library, Roe Deer sits with a small slumbering fox spirit in his lap within a silence only broken by the sounds of soft snoring. In his hands, he holds open a file. In his eyes, the text of a story reflects.

Then, the air shifts.

Roe Deer lifts his gaze from the file and turns toward one of the aisles, and although he may not see it, he feels it: Where the shelves have begun to run out of material, a small folder materializes into being—as if it's always been there.

Roe Deer's expression doesn't change. He stands, sweeping the fox into his arms but making sure not to disturb its rest, and walks into the aisle with a steady focus to his eyes. Like he's in a trance, his footsteps carry him to exactly where he needs to go.

He finds the new file, pulls it from the shelf, and opens it.

Roe Deer's eyes trail downward, reflecting the last section of the report.