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They say people in comas can hear you.
I don't know if that's true.
I keep talking anyway.
I talk about everything and nothing really. What I didn't finish reading. What I ate that day. The mundane and the ordinary. After all, you're bound to run out of things to talk about after a year or two, right? Sometimes stories and details blur together in an unintelligible mess. If you can hear me, I'm sure you don't mind. If you don't…
Well, finishing that thought never does much good anyway.
I'm in the middle of reciting a story about Gotak and Baku fighting over a banana milk when my voice grows hoarse. My hand instinctively reaches out for a glass of water on the table. Empty. I don't remember finishing it.
Guess that happens a lot now.
I pause the story there. It's not particularly interesting anyway. I only tell you these things in a vain attempt to entertain you. And to fill the silence. The unbearable silence, so uncharacteristic of you. You who shouted at me that day from your small delivery motorcycle. You who taught me to fight. You who scoffed at the notion of me bringing you food and slurped it all down when I actually did.
The beeping brings me back to the present. The present without you. The machines fill the space where your voice should be, steady and indifferent, like they don’t know what they’re replacing.
The door opens with a light thud before I can remember more. A nurse comes in and throws me a sympathetic glance. I recognise her, I think. She must recognise me. I’m at least three hours past visiting hours.
She tinkers with some machines, adjusting things I don’t understand.
The window in this room is tiny, letting in only the smallest bit of light. The smallest bit of hope. But that light is long gone now, retreating deep into the night.
The nurse leaves again, but not without a pointed glance to the clock that keeps ticking, ticking, ticking past visiting hours. I nod in acknowledgement. I always do.
I adjust the blanket when it slips, careful not to disturb the wires.
"You always hated hospitals," I tell you, quietly, like the saying that might wake him up on its own.
With that, I make for the door marked 17 with promises and untold stories on my lips and guilt in my heart.
The hallway’s lights are blinding. Artificial hope in physical form. I shuffle between corridors, pass by patients and empty hospital beds and wailing families. I try not to think of this as the imminent future. Rather a possible one. Possible. Probable? My head hurts.
The bus back is cold. Unbearably so. I stare out of the window at the phantom you, shouting at me from your motorcycle.
I move seats.
My apartment is also cold. I don’t bother to turn on the lights as I enter, kicking my shoes to some undisclosed corner. The kitchen is exactly how I left it this morning. A cup in the sink. A chair slightly pulled out. Evidence that someone lives here, technically.
My stomach grumbles and a sudden urge for samgyeopsal overwhelms me. I push it down. I would rather not relive those memories tonight. Besides, the mental and physical toil of attempting to obtain any type of food feel much too arduous tonight.
My phone buzzes once in my pocket. I already know what it isn’t.
Are you home right now?
My mother. Messaging once again to scold me for my regular lateness, my slipping grades. I can’t summon up the energy to care.
Eventually, I move towards my bedroom. The day to come already exhausts me.
As I turn off the light I never turned on, one thought settles quietly in my chest, familiar and heavy:
At least one of us is still awake.
Waking up used to be easy.
Of course it was when I barely even fell asleep to begin with.
My consciousness returns with inevitability, pulling me from a dream world that is infinitely preferable to reality.
For a second, I just lie there on my back, mind fading between realities. Maybe if I don't get up, the day won't notice me. It'll pass, leaving me behind. That I can linger here, suspended between sleep and waking, where the harsh truth can't reach me.
The dream is already slipping away from me, a whisper of warmth and loving caresses. It always does.
The bed creaks silently as I pull myself out of bed to the washbasin. Dark circles are painted other my eyes in a vibrant colour and my skin is painfully pale.
Whatever. Who cares what I look like?
I really need to hurry if I want to catch the bus and get to school. Lately, I wake up later and later. Maybe it's me being lazy.
Maybe it's just the uselessness of it all.
The classroom is far from empty when I arrive. Far from the memory of me and you alone in the classroom every morning. Gotak and Baku appear to be strangling each other while Juntae attempts to appear reproachful but is actually hiding a laugh.
“Call me a monkey one more time and I swear this banana milk will end up in your hair,” Baku shrieked.
“It's not my fault you have an IQ of 99. It's a valid description!” Gotak shot back.
I sidle up between them which effectively defuses the situation. All three of them turn towards me simultaneously and I see something akin to…pity in their eyes?
“Why are you guys looking at me like that?”
“I have no idea what you're talking about.”
“Ah yes definitely. You have no idea why you're looking at me like I'm a lost puppy.”
“Is that a joke I hear from our dear ice princess?”
That last comment obviously came from Baku. I wish he would drop the whole ‘ice princess’ thing. I am neither icy nor a princess.
Ok well maybe I am a little icy.
I sigh. “Don’t start.”
Class starts like it always does.
I copy notes without thinking, my hand moving faster than my mind. When someone asks me for help, I give it to them. When the teacher calls on me, I answer.
If I stop moving, I might start thinking.
The seconds tick on endlessly as I count down the time until the bell rings. The number barely changes but I look anyway.
My notebook has been open on the same page for at least ten minutes when Baku turns around and asks, “Are you ok Sieun?”
I nod, like I always do and point at the board.
“You really should pay attention if you want to go to college.”
He huffs and turns.
I’m not really sure why I’m like this today. Restless. Anxious. You have been gone for a long time now, the time since I last saw your eyes open growing longer and longer. I have friends again, appearances to keep. I can’t be seen like this, distraught over nothing.
But all I want is to go to you.
Because something feels wrong.
And the last time something felt wrong, you went into a coma.
So when the bell rings for lunch, I make up some excuse. I don’t even know what I said but it probably wasn’t believable considering Juntae’s narrowed eyes and Gotak’s unsure voice as he assures me that of course I should go home. He adds to be careful of Union people, what with their vendetta against Eunjang.
I don’t take the bus.
I don’t remember actively choosing not to.
But it feels wrong to, the same kind of wrong that this whole visit exudes.
My legs ache terribly by the time I make it to the hospital but the sight of the looming white building almost reassures me that I made the right decision. My phone buzzes again, startling me out of my musings on the stupidity of missing school and coming to see you in the middle of the day.
“Sieun.”
I know that voice. I turn slowly
Seongje stands a few metres away, hands in the pocket of his garishly hideous orange windbreaker. His face looks annoyingly composed, as if he regularly ambushes people outside of hospitals.
Well, knowing him, he probably does.
“Lovely day to be out for a stroll, huh?”
I get the sudden impulse to stab him with his glasses again.
“Come to visit your boyfriend?”
My face shifts after that, I can feel it. It must be sufficiently unnerving to trouble Seongje as he steps back a little.
“Move,” I say.
He smiles.
“Didn’t anyone tell you?” he asks. “Hospitals are bad luck.”
I step around him.
He lets me.
That’s somehow worse.
The lift screeches as I reach the familiar floor. The nurse behind the desk is the same one from yesterday and her eyes widen in recognition.
“Visiting hours are—”
She stops.
“You’re here early today.”
The weight in my chest grows heavier.
“Is he awake?” I ask.
She hesitates, the smile on her face growing taut.
“I’ll go get the doctor.”
She glances back at me as she walks away.
“Please stay here.”
I feel suffocated - like a paper bag has been put on my head.
I walk down the corridor to Room 17 before any opposing thoughts can crowd my head. The corridor feels too long, the walls too close, the lights too harsh. I reach the door to your room and enter without caution.
My chair has been pushed to the side.
The machines are still there, their presence invasive as ever. The rhythm is wrong. Faster. Uneven. Rushed.
And you—
You look the same. You look different.
Your body has shifted out of your regular position, curling into itself. You look small now, your longer hair tousled and brow furrowed.
But then I hear the breathing.
Ragged. Ugly. Like every breath is a Sisyphean task.
“Suho,” I breathe.
For a second, terror flares so sharply it hurts.
The monitor spikes dangerously high.
Footsteps rush in behind me. Voices. Orders. Hands guiding me back, away, even though I never even moved to begin with.
I just look at you.
“Please,” I say, and I don’t recognise my own voice.
“Help him.”
An eternity, or what feels like it, passes.
The nurses begin to file out the room, sighing with relief as they wipe the sweat off their brow.
I can see you again.
Unprotected. Vulnerable.
Weak.
My phone buzzes again. This time I look.
You should have listened, the message reads.
No name. Coward.
I don’t need one anyway.
Move carefully if you ever want him to wake up.
My hands shake violently as I lock the screen. Conflicting emotions pass through me, of resentment, of fear.
No, I tell myself, this will not happen again.
I turn back toward the room, heart pounding, already planning what I’ll say, what I’ll do, how I’ll fix this—
And then I notice the nurse watching me.
The same one from before.
I notice her hands tighten around her clipboard as she turns back to follow everyone else.
I push past her, my feet moving without reason. Only the instinct of getting far, far away from you. My phone buzzes again.
I don’t want to open it. I really don’t. But I can feel Seongje’s presence around me, his calculating stare piercing me, seeing me and using that. So I open it anyway.
You really don’t listen, the message says.
That’s why people get hurt.
There’s a third bubble, typing.
It stops.
Starts again.
You should go home
My fingers curl around the phone so tightly it hurts.
Go home.
Like this is concern. Like this is advice.
I suddenly realise that I have stopped in a corridor, a passerby concernedly watching my mindless pacing. His eyes track my every movement and I stop pacing, feeling awkward. His gaze immediately fixes on to the beige wall in front of him and I get a good look at him.
Ganghak jacket. Shifty look to him.
Union.
I can tell.
I feel sick.
The light is flickering aggressively. On and off. On, off, on and then off again. My head thrums in tandem, pain ebbing and flowing. The beige wall in front of me distorts, turning into a rainbow of colours all mixing together in this strange way until the wall in front of me is strangely unrecognisable. Decorations, unnervingly familiar ones, cover it in annoyingly cheerful enthusiasm.
“Sieun, what are you doing? Come here already,”
I become stupidly aware of the fact I am staring at a wall. Yeongi shuffles up to me and bats her pink and black hair in my face.
“Sieun! Suho will be here soon and we’re nowhere near close to finishing this. I thought you said you wanted this to be special?”
I blink the confusion out of my eyes and suddenly-
“Oh, uh, yes. Has the pizza come yet?”
“No you idiot. You said you were gonna order ‘cause you know what flavour he likes.”
She returns to putting up ridiculously sparkly decorations labelled ‘Happy Birthday!’ before stopping with an abrupt
“Where’s Beomseok? I thought that little nerd said he was coming.”
Beomseok? But I swear they-
Oh well. I guess not.
I check my phone and am thankfully rewarded with a message from Beomseok that he is a mere five minutes away. I feel a warmth in my chest at that, a sense of relief maybe? I don’t really know what.
Six minutes later and the pizza is ordered, the decorations are set and we’re only missing two people.
This is quickly rectified when Beomseok ducks his head and enters our small rented room with a ridiculously large package marked with Suho’s name and a sheepish grin on his face.
“Hi guys. Hope I’m not too late.”
Yeongi gives him an appraising look.
“Who cares? Just come here and get into position so we can all shout ‘BOO’ at Suho when he walks in.”
“Not happy birthday?”
“Overdone.”
We all huddle in this small group near the door with stupid bright pink hats strapped on to our heads. I can feel a small (big) grin on my face that’s mirrored on the others’ faces.
Then he walks in.
He looks nice, with his normal jacket slumped on his shoulders and his small fringe pushed up slightly. His deep brown eyes are sparkling with unconcealed laughter that’s probably about to be audibly expressed. It’s probably because we’re all standing like lost little puppies staring at him. There’s sweat on his brow and he’s panting slightly. It suddenly occurs to me that he must have ran all the way here considering that his scooter’s broken. Or is it?
Yeongi suddenly exclaims “BOO!” while Beomseok looks at her with incredulity and I look at him.
He looks at me first, his smile betraying his happiness. Then he points at Yeongi and audibly whispers, “Psycho.”
She stares at him in exaggerated horror before shoving him out of the way and pretending to go out the door.
“Well obviously no one cares about all the lovely effort I put into this so I guess I’ll leave now,” she screeches in mock offence.
Suho grabs her by her shoulders and gives her a hug - albeit a small one.
“Thank you,” he whispers.
She breaks the hug with a smile.
“Come on guys. Let’s get this party started!” she shouts. Suho whoops and Beomseok awkwardly pumps his fists with a large grin still evident on his face.
Somehow, Suho ends up right next to me, his shoulder brushing mine.
“I’m excited to see what you got me.”
A smile, and then he’s gone.
My gift. I had almost forgotten about it. I look over to where it is sitting on the table next to Beomseok’s (significantly bigger) present. I’m sure he will like it. Right?
The moment slips away without asking.
The three of them are already camped out on the sofa, turning on some video game I don’t know how to play. The words ‘MarioKart 8’ flash on the screen with some grating music in the background. I’m already regretting this.
The sofa is tiny, this rattly little thing that can barely fit those three, let alone me as well. But Suho somehow makes space, shoving Yeongi to the side and gesturing to his side. I oblige and instantly want to retract my decision. Our shoulders are pressed painfully close to each other, our thighs too. But he is quite warm. And I guess it’s not that awkward. Suho looks comfortable enough. So I try and relax.
Yeongi absolutely trounces the two of them, her Toadette character celebrating heavily while Mario and Waluigi cry in defeat. The cycle repeats and I find myself a little bored and maybe a little sleepy. I unconsciously put my head on Suho’s shoulder and he freezes. Oh, should I get up? He immediately relaxes though and turns his head a little to shoot me a goofy grin. He offers me the controller.
“Wanna play?”
Every atom in my body does not want to play this frustrating and pointless game but Suho is looking at me with such imploring eyes so it would be a crime to say anything but yes right?
The controller is in my hand now, warm and reassuring. I close my eyes and just pick. Luigi.
“You know he’s not the main character, right?”
“He still finishes,” I say, a little (very) defensive.
Suho laughs, soft and surprised, like he didn’t expect that.
However, my bravado disappears when we actually begin playing. I do not understand this nefarious game. When do I press what? How do you jump? Why are there massive cows everywhere? I obviously do not ask for help because I would like to believe that I can best a game made for children.
Suho intervenes after I finish twelfth for the umpteenth time.
“Give the controller here. This is painful to watch”
I pretend to watch as he plays an example round. To be honest, I am staring at him ever so slightly. The concentrated look on his face. It’s kind of endearing.
“Ok, you got it?”
I nod even though I wasn’t even watching.
The round begins and I actually manage to get to tenth place (an impressive feat, I’m aware.) The track twists and turns suddenly and then another cow comes hurtling at me.
He reaches over without asking and nudges my thumb slightly to the left.
“There,” he says. “Now.”
I mercifully avoid it.
The game ends with me in eleventh. The others are somewhere ahead of me. I don’t care. Yeongi shoots me a conspiratorial look. I miss whatever I’m supposed to understand. She winks.
“Time for pizza. Sieun picked so don’t blame me if you hate it.”
We all huddle at the small wooden table crowded with multiple pepperoni and sausage pizzas.
“My favourite! Sieun, you’re my best friend now,” he jokes.
I smile despite myself.
For a while, there’s only the sound of eating echoing. Suho devours it, probably inhaling at least two whole pizzas. I can feel his gaze on me as I gather the paper plates and to be frank, I wish he would just spit out what he’s thinking. I shoot him a deadpan look.
“You’re staring.”
He smirks back at me.
“You’re blocking my view.”
“Of what?”
“…Exactly.”
Yeongi swivels her head back at forth at our exchange, a devious look coming over her face. She suddenly stands up, a feigned look of alarm on her face.
“I’m so sorry Suho but I totally forgot that I was supposed to help my grandma with her…Facebook page and I asked-”
She elbows Beomseok with unnecessary force .
“-Beomseok to help me. Right?”
He nods with unwarranted fervour.
“Yes! I am very good friends with Yeongi’s grandma! She absolutely needs me— I mean us!”
Suho glares unimpressively at the both of them.
“Didn’t your grandma die two years ago or something?”
Alarm flashes over her face for a split-second.
“It’s my other grandma. Duh. Don’t be stupid Suho. Anyway, you’ll keep him company right? Sieun? Are you listening?”
Suho’s looking at me expectantly, worry flickering across his face. I turn and address Yeongi.
“Of course. It’s no problem.”
Suho’s shoulders visibly sag in relief.
The door closes loudly behind the back of Yeongi and Beomseok as they go God knows where (certainly not anyone’s grandma’s house). Silence falls over the two of us like a blanket. Not awkward, definitely not. Comfortable.
The two of us work in sync, an unspoken agreement to begin cleaning working between us. I get to the table where our gifts are before abruptly realising that he hasn’t opened any of them. I reach my hand out to the one simply marked Suho in my unremarkable handwriting. Suho almost immediately turns back, his eyes tracing my hand to the present. He cracks a small smile.
“For me?” he mouths.
I nod dumbly because yes, it is for him. From me. Unfortunately.
He hurries over, his cheeks already beginning to lift up in delight and his eyes bright. The present is practically snatched from my hands, his warm fingers lightly brushing mine. He runs his hand over the peculiar shaped package. Round, hard and bumpy. He wastes no time ripping the paper to shreds like a rabid animal and the present is soon unveiled.
A motorcycle helmet.
A blue one to be precise.
I can feel Suho’s eyes on me, full of wonderment. I should say something, shouldn’t I? I clear my throat awkwardly.
“I saw this one had good reviews. Your helmet has been looking a little rough lately and well, it’s better to be safe rather than sorry.”
I don’t state the obviously unspoken words.
He’s still looking at me.
“Well, I got blue because all that dirt you get all over your bike won’t show up. And it’s good for visibility at night. There’s also some red stitching on the inside because I’m sure you mentioned that you like it. Oh, and it matches most of your clothes. You wear the same stuff all the time anyway,” I blurt defensively.
Suho looks down at his shirt. Perfect colour match. Somehow.
He raises his head again, eyes crinkling.
“Thank you Sieun.”
He moves closer.
“It’s perfect.”
We stand there, close enough that I can feel the warmth coming off him. Not touching, not quite. If I shift even a little, we will be. His jacket smells faintly like detergent and the street. His sleeve brushes my wrist when he moves, and that’s enough to make my breath catch. His eyes soften when they meet mine, like he’s decided something and isn’t saying it out loud.
I realise I haven’t breathed properly in a while.
That seems dangerous.
I step back.
Suho seems to come out of our self-inflicted trance as I break it. He recovers quickly.
He instantly retreats to the other side of the room, shouting something about how this place won’t get cleaned up by itself. The absence of him, his warmth, feels like an intangible loss.
I hurry over to his side. He’s throwing away some of the paper plates slowly, as if he was waiting for me.
“I’m glad you like it. Truly.”
He looks back at me, a softness I don’t see often flickering in his gaze
“This is… a lot,” he says, glancing at the decorations like he’s afraid to touch them.
“You don’t like it?” I ask.
He shakes his head quickly. “No. I do. I just—”
He trails off, smiling again. Smaller, this time.
“It’s been a while. Since I’ve celebrated.”
He turns towards me again.
“I’m glad it was with you.”
He says that so casually, as if it’s nothing.
He’s still smiling, small and careful. I think, briefly, that I don’t want him to look like that alone.
My arms are around him before I realise what I’m doing.
He huffs in surprise, his arms slightly raised.
I feel them tighten around me.
The lights overhead begin to flicker ominously, bathing us in dark and light. I feel lighter, weightless as Suho clings to me, a child after a lost balloon. I can feel him slipping away from me. I can feel me slipping away from him.
“Please don’t go.”
My throat tightens.
“I don’t want to.”
A breath passes between us.
“You always do.”
My shoulder is being shaken. Aggressively so.
I open my eyes to the sight of a kindly doctor smiling cautiously at me.
“Yeon Sieun?”
I nod, my voice lost.
“I thought I recognised you.”
I barely register these words. My shoulders ache where the chair has been digging into it, apparently how I’ve been sleeping.
A dream.
That was all it was.
You, Yeongi, Beomseok.
All people I can only see in dreams.
The doctor is still looking at me, slight worry painted across his features.
“Do you want to see your friend?”
The word reverberates around me.
Friend. What a strange word. A special one, definitely, yet somehow not good enough to describe who you were to me.
Who you still are to me.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
Seongje. Again.
I can see you, it reads.
Get out before I do something I regret.
My fingers go numb around the phone.
The hospital suddenly feels too bright. Too open. The smell of antiseptic crawls up the back of my throat, sharp and suffocating. Somewhere down the hall, a monitor beeps. Steady. Unbothered.
The doctor is still talking. I think he’s asking me something. I don’t answer.
I stand up so fast the chair screeches across the floor. The sound is obscene in the quiet. Heads turn. I don’t look at them.
“Wait-”
I’m already moving.
Down the hallway, past white doors and white walls and people who don’t know me. My shoes skid against the floor. My heart is pounding so hard it hurts.
I don’t know where I’m going. I just know I can’t stay.
I don’t look back.
My apartment is still empty when I come back.
I shuffle around, actually putting the light on. My stomach rumbles with rarely expressed hunger and well, there’s no real reason to deny myself of food. My cupboards are empty of food acting only as a house for cobwebs. I scrounge for supplies, eventually finding a small packet of instant ramen.
I set it on the table in my bedroom. I barely use the other one anyway. It’s not as if I have company.
The familiar habit of putting on one of my mother’s videos tempts me. But all it does is remind me of her and all that guilt and longing. So I take my phone out, still open on Seongje’s message. I swipe past it, momentarily pausing on a message from my friends about the Union. Eunjang is still being targeted. Old news now and my mind is empty as I find my fingers reaching to an app I barely use. Instagram. I didn’t have it before, when I was with you, but I grew curious. About your life before me, your friends and family.
Your profile is now before me, a picture of you on my screen. My eyes dart down to your last post. It’s from your birthday, the day that everything started falling apart. I can see your stupid red and white jacket over a table with purple decorations covering the room. In the corner is a small package, brown and unassuming. I probably wouldn’t even had noticed it if I hadn’t seen it incredibly recently. Which I have.
In my dream.
That gift. It must be the same one. The one I never gave.
Did I?
No I didn’t.
I abandoned that gift in some rented room two years ago. I left it behind and stopped thinking about it, the way I stopped thinking about everything that hurt.
But I want to. I want to see it, to give it to you again.
I stand abruptly, my hands lightly shaking as I begin pacing, trying to think what to do. It’s been so long since then. There’s no way to get it back. It can only exist in my memory now, the same way you do.
Bang.
I’ve walked into my bookcase. Wow, that hurts.
It’s shifted slightly away from the wall. I go to push it back when something catches my eye. A note. No, not just a note. There’s a brown package under it. I reach towards the note marked Sieun in a familiar scrawl with openly trembling hands.
Yeon Sieun, I can’t believe you actually bought a present for me. I’m so surprised that I guess I can forgive you for ditching me on my birthday. Anyway, I would rather you give it to me to make it special and whatnot. The curiosity was killing me and I’m being so serious. But I know you’re specific about these things so I can wait. You really need to hide your spare key better. I thought you’re supposed to be smart. Why would you keep it under the mat?? Actually, don’t answer that. You’ve never been good at self-preservation. You weren’t here when I snuck in (where are you?) so I’m writing this note from your ridiculously organised bedroom. Seriously it looks like a hospital in here. I’m thinking of hiding it somewhere in your room. Ha, you would literally freak out when you find out I was in your room. This is a problem for future Suho. Please don’t kill me (genuinely I’m being for real).
I think I’m getting just a little off topic. Even though my birthday didn’t really go as planned, I’m glad that you even tried at all. It’s been a while since anyone’s done that for me, you know?
I swear to God if you don’t pick up my phone one more time, I will literally steal all of your books. What are you even doing?? I expect answers when I see you tomorrow (hopefully).
Lots of love,
Suho
The paper trembles.
My hands are still shaking and I can hear the sound start, a faint, irregular rustle that feels too loud in the quiet of my room. I press the note flat against the table, then against my thigh, like pressure might fix it.
It doesn’t.
The words blur slightly. I blink, once, twice, forcing them back into focus. My chest feels tight in a way I don’t like, like something has been lodged there and forgotten. I inhale carefully. The air doesn’t go all the way in.
This is stupid.
It’s just a note. Just a helmet. Just something left behind. I’ve dealt with worse things than this. I’ve trained myself to function with grief, without you. I should be able to do this.
My fingers curl into the paper without meaning to. The crease bends where it shouldn’t.
I’m glad that you even tried at all.
Baekjin doesn’t look up when Seongje enters.
He’s seated by the window, jacket folded neatly beside him, city lights bleeding in through the glass like bruised skin.
“You’re late,” Baekjin says.
“I was having fun texting someone,” Seongje replies.
Baekjin hums, uninterested. “Is it dealt with?”
Seongje hesitates, a pause uncharacteristic of him.
“It’s progressing.”
That gets Baekjin’s attention. He finally looks up, eyes sharp and assessing. “Progress implies resistance.”
“It’s not him,” Seongje says.
Inwardly, Seongje cringes at the effect Baku seems to have on his ‘boss’. He supposes that we all have our weaknesses.
“It’s Sieun.”
Baekjin leans back slightly. “I wondered how long it would take before you said his name.”
Seongje’s eyebrows raise. “You’re acting as if the kid has eyes everywhere or something. Anyway, the kid is stupidly loyal. Easily exploited.”
“So is Baku,” Baekjin says lightly.
The name hangs between them.
“Baku is reckless,” Seongje says. “But predictable. Sieun is not.”
Baekjin smiles faintly. Not kindly. “You’re right. I underestimated that once. So did you.”
Seongje gives him an unimpressed look before moving on. “That’s why you’re watching him now. Our play for Eunjang will surely provoke all of those bastards.”
“I’m watching what he’s attached to,” Baekjin corrects. “People don’t break when you threaten them. They break when you touch what they love. And don’t call Baku a bastard.”
Seongje shoots him an exasperated look. “Really, you’re worse than those two lovebirds in the hospital. Sieun and- ” He stops.
Baekjin’s gaze sharpens disapprovingly. “Suho. His name is Suho. Sieun needs to understand consequences. He thinks intelligence makes him untouchable. Not when it comes to the Union.”
Seongje hesitates again. “If we touch Sieun directly, Baku will notice. He will come for us you know.”
At the name, Baekjin’s expression softens once again. Just a fraction.
“Baku always notices,” he says, not unkindly. “That’s what I like about him. He’s loyal. And loud. Annoyingly so.”
“You’re fond of him,” Seongje says.
Baekjin doesn’t deny it. “He reminds me of someone I used to be.”
Baekjin straightens, adjusting his jacket. “I want you to make sure Sieun learns. If you squeeze in the right place, he folds into himself. ”
“And if Suho doesn’t survive the lesson?”
“A memorable lesson it will be then.”
As Seongje heads for the door, Baekjin speaks again, mild as ever.
“Don’t be sloppy.”
Seongje laughs over his shoulder. “When am I ever?”
The door shuts.
Baekjin reaches for a pen, eyes distant.
“I’d hate,” he murmurs, “for Baku to be even more disappointed.”
It’s been two weeks since I last saw you.
Not that I’m counting. I just noticed.
To be far is the price of keeping you safe. Seongje is not a bluffer in any sense of the word and he will harm you. I’ve been busy anyway, trying to come up with ways to dismantle the Union. I’ve got one that will work. A lynchpin, if you will. Documents. Masses of them. Union ledgers disguised as tutoring expenses. Shell accounts routed through alumni donations. Names that repeat too often to be coincidence.
And one name that shouldn’t be there at all.
Baekjin’s name repeated again and again, tying him to the scene of the crime. All the money flowing to him. He won’t survive this being exposed. The Union is a pack of wolves, loyal only to the most powerful. Which Baekjin won’t be after this gets out. He’ll be disgraced. Ruined. Gone forever.
But if this is what it takes to keep Eunjang safe…
I’ll do it.
I pull out my phone, preparing to message Seongje. I need to get to Baekjin, to stop this escalating. All out war is not the goal here.
Sieun: Let me talk to your boss.
The reply comes almost instantly.
Seongje: Why? What’s in it for me?
Of course.
Sieun: This doesn’t need to escalate.
Seongje: Everything needs to escalate. Otherwise it’s boring.
I clench my jaw.
Sieun: I need to speak to Baekjin. I don’t have his number. Give it to me.
Three dots appear and then disappear again.
Seongje: You’re not really in a position to be demanding things, are you?
Sieun: This involves Eunjang.
Seongje: Ohhh, there it is.
Thought we were pretending this was about principle.
My grip tightens around the phone.
Sieun: If he pushes this, it won’t end cleanly.
Seongje: Nothing ever does.
Another pause. Then:
Seongje: Fine. If you think talking to him will solve anything then have his number.
I’m warning you though…
Sieun: Just give it to me.
After a minute, the number comes through. I go to message Baekjin before being interrupted by the man himself messaging me.
Unknown: Come to the bowling alley in an hour.
I let out a sigh.
Unknown: Nobody else comes. Just you. Whatever you think you have, you don't.
Well. That's concerning. Baekjin couldn't possibly know I found the files, could he? No of course not. Baekjin is not infallible. He is human after all.
I'm standing outside the bowling alley in exactly an hour. The separated groups of Union members begin to congregate around me, discussing me. No matter, they are unimportant. I brace myself as I push open the dirty doors and make my way down the numerous flights of stairs, each step echoing awkwardly. I reach the bowling alley.
Baekjin is already there.
He is in his school uniform (despite the fact that it's a Saturday). His legs are tucked and his arms crossed, the picture of restrain and calmness. Does he not understand what I'm here to do?
Or does he already know?
I meet his steely gaze as I move closer. Up close, he looks identical to how he normally looks, as if he's heading a student council instead of discussing the fate of his life
“You wanted to talk,” he says. “So talk.”
“I have the documents. The ones that link you to the Union. The ones that show where all the money are going. The ones that have the potential to ruin your future.”
He just continues to look at me, expression icy, so I press on.
“I have not shown them to anyone. All I ask is for you to spare Eunjang. You can keep the Union. Just keep Eunjang out of it.”
Baekjin tilts his head. Studying me.
“You’re asking me to trust you.”
“I’m asking you to be practical.”
A pause.
Then he smiles, small and almost fond.
“You really believe you’re protecting them,” he says softly.
“I am.”
“That's your problem Sieun. You have too many things to protect.”
He gets up and makes for his office.
“I unfortunately have to reject your offer.”
My stomach clenches.
“I have a feeling this problem will sort itself out soon enough.”
And then he's gone.
‘Sort itself out’. What does that even mean?
I’m walking back when I receive yet another message. My phone buzzes and for a second, I consider leaving it. I can't deal with another taunting message from Seongje today. My fingers reach into my coat and pluck my phone out anyway. I see messages, rapidly incoming.
Unknown: Come to the hospital right now. I think that boy has come to hurt your friend.
Unknown: It's me, that nurse from the hospital. You need to come quickly because Seongje is waiting to go into Suho’s room. I'm stalling him as long as I can.
How does she know who Seongje is? How does she know he's dangerous?
Well at the very least, I have an incredibly vivid picture of how dangerous Seongje is.
Dread courses through my whole body as I run and run and run. My legs are aching from exertion yet I still feel strangely weightless, as if I am the air itself blowing towards the hospital. My jacket weighs me down so I chuck it on to the ground without looking back. I'll get it back later.
I reach the hospital as a sweating mess, arms flailing uselessly. The hospital looms ahead of me, too bright, too clean, like it hasn’t earned the right to be this calm. My lungs burn as I take the steps two at a time, security doors blurring past, the smell of antiseptic clawing its way up my throat. Somewhere, a monitor beeps. Somewhere else, someone laughs. The world is deeply, offensively intact.
I shove my way down the corridor toward you’re ward. Room 213.
I’m late. I know it in my bones.
Seongje is leaning against the wall outside the room when I see him, hands in his pockets, posture loose. Relaxed. Like he’s waiting for a bus instead of standing between me and the worst decision of his life.
“You run all this way?” he says, grinning when he spots me. “You’re really attached to this guy, huh.”
“Move,” I say. My voice sounds wrong. Thin. “This isn’t necessary.”
“Neither are half the things you’ve done,” Seongje replies pleasantly. “But here we are.”
I step closer. The door is right there. I can see the edge of the curtain through the window, the faint rise and fall of a chest I recognize too well.
“Baekjin doesn’t want this,” I say. It’s a gamble. Everything is a gamble now. “You escalate here, you lose control. You bring heat you can’t put out. You start a war you can't win.”
Seongje tilts his head, studying me. “You really believe that?”
“I know it.”
He laughs. Not loud. Almost fond. “You’re cute when you think you’re still negotiating.”
I reach out, grabbing his wrist before I can stop myself. It’s stupid. I know it’s stupid the second my fingers close around him.
For a moment, he just looks at where I’m touching him. Then his expression sharpens.
“Oh,” he says lightly. “You shouldn’t have done that.”
Everything happens too fast.
He shoves me back hard enough that my shoulder slams into the wall. Pain flares, white and immediate. I barely have time to recover before he’s moving again, pushing past me toward the door.
“No,” I choke out, scrambling forward. “Seongje…”
I get between him and the door without thinking. My arms spread, useless, instinctive. Like that could ever be enough.
He stops inches from me.
Up close, his grin is gone. There’s something colder underneath, something irritated.
“You really think he’s worth this?” he asks. “Worth you?”
“Yes,” I say, and for once, there’s no calculation in it. “He is.”
Seongje exhales through his nose. “That’s disappointing.”
He moves to step around me.
I shove him back.
It’s barely a shove. Desperate. Clumsy.
It’s still a mistake.
The impact is sharp and staggering. I don’t even register what he’s done until I’m on the floor, my vision swimming, breath knocked clean out of me. A knife? Uncharacteristic for the Union. There’s warmth spreading across my side, around my stomach, soaking through my clothes, and distantly, absurdly, I think of the gift. The one I never gave.
“Stay down,” Seongje says, irritation creeping back into his voice. “I don’t want to make this messy.”
I try to sit up anyway, fingers slipping, heart pounding so loud it drowns out everything else.
“Please,” I manage. I hate how broken it sounds. “He didn’t do anything.”
Seongje hesitates.
Just for a second.
It’s enough to give me hope.
But then his gaze turns the other way, towards the door marked 17 and I see a darkness come over his eyes, a smirk forming.
“Unfortunately I am in fact here for your boyfriend,” he callously whispers at me.
His teeth are out and bared, his hair is messy and sticking out everywhere, his glasses are stained with something red (my blood? his? Yours?). The only thought running through my head is that if I were to describe the devil, it would be Seongje.
Evil, evil Seongje.
He kicks me, hard, in the stomach.
“Sweet dreams,” he drawls.
The pain comes little by little, lapping at me like choppy waves at shore.
But I don't care about that.
You’re in there. With Seongje. I need to do something. I need to at least try.
But my stomach hurts so much. I just want to sleep.
But sleeping means dying.
And I don't want to do that.
I attempt to crawl, move in some way. But the pain is unbearable, debilitating. I can't. My eyes are heavy, so heavy. Darkness envelopes me in its loving embrace, welcoming me.
A voice, familiar, pierces my thoughts with shrill intensity. Is that…the nurse? She's coming closer and closer, I can hear it. Good. She needs to go to you.
I know the thoughts running in my head are my last. I should think of my friends, my family, my future.
But all I can think is that I never explained it to him. I never explained it to you Suho.
And now we'll both die without knowing.
My eyes open and all I can feel is pain. My first instinct is to try and move, but all of my limbs won't listen to me, stubborn things. It's probably just all of the machines in the way.
The beeping is incessant, almost like it’s filling space. I can feel the minutes tick past in unbearable silence.
A door slides almost silently and I try to move my head, but that doesn't work either. Strange. Maybe it'll go away soon. A woman comes into view, a nurse probably. Her face is funny to look at. Her eyes are all big and her mouth agape but her expression is somehow still solemn. Geez, what happened to her? A question has been on my lips since I woke up from this nap (nap? I'm not sure how long its been.) I tilt my head, signalling for her to come closer. She obliges.
“Do you know where Yeon Sieun is?”
I watch as her eyes well with tears. I hear her take in a deep inhale.
“I'm so sorry.”