Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Till knew Ivan since they were kids.

He still remembers the day Ivan arrived two doors down from his house—clutching a worn duffel bag and trailing behind Unsha, their neighbor since Till had even seen the slant road outside their living room window. 

He remembers his mother whispering about the raven-haired boy’s pitiful past, using words Till didn’t understand back then: rescue, abandonment, paperwork… But what Till saw was a boy with a pretty face and a detached look that fascinated him as a young artist.

Till didn’t have many friends growing up. Too loud, too sensitive, too strange. The other kids thought his taste in music was weird. They laughed when he brought action figures to school long after everyone else had outgrown them.

Except for Ivan, the only kid who got to look and to ask.

When he invited Ivan over for the first time and showed him his countless crumpled guitar tabs, he expected a laugh. But Ivan bombarded Till with interesting questions, from how many instruments can Till play to actually discussing unanswered mysteries about his action figure’s movies.

Ivan just sat there comfortable on his covered teal bed and listened to his endless yapping, like he actually cared.

Unfortunately for Till, that one friendship would grow too unchecked. Not when Ivan started looking at him a little longer than usual, or asking sharp questions whenever Till talked to anyone besides Io. 

Since he has no friends aside from Ivan, there were no healthy examples to tell him when a thing is too much. When Ivan did things that made him uneasy, Till would always brush it off. That’s just his personality, he told himself. Ivan was a pitiful survivor from the slums, after all.

Now, don’t get him wrong— Till wasn’t stupid. He’d been almost below average since preschool, sure, but he knew right from wrong. He knew stealing was wrong, that lying was wrong…

… killing was wrong.

Of course it did. Till knew that. And he still knows that. Whatever Ivan was displaying, it’s tolerable. Offending, but not harmful at all.

All of that held true, until Ivan proved otherwise.

It was around when they were around 12 or 13, Till had been grieving for a week. Clem, his rabbit, the one Io gave him on his birthday, had been missing for days. He’d looked everywhere. Every bush, every alley, even under his bed twice.

“Don’t be sad, Till,” Ivan said softly, twisting a lock of his gray-streaked hair between his fingers. “Wanna pick flowers in my garden? It might help to cheer you up.”

Till followed without question. Because although Ivan had questionable behaviors, he always knew how to make things feel less heavy for Till. He had that calm voice, that soft smile—like nothing could ever really go wrong when he was around. 

After picking random flowers from Unsha’s greenhouse, Ivan led him toward the lone tree at the edge of the garden. 

“Put the flowers here,” Ivan said, crouching down and patting the dirt.

Till stares at it. It was darker than the rest of the soil around it. Too fresh. 

“Why?” Till said, confused.

Ivan didn’t answer.

His brain started to connect things in a way he doesn’t want it to. The timeline. The way Ivan had been too calm this whole week. How he never seemed worried when Clem disappeared. How he always knew things, even when no one told him.

“Ivan,” Till called when he realized Ivan didn’t answer him. “What is this?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

Ivan looked up and smiled. “Just a spot I’ve been taking care of.”

“Really,” Till said, his voice tight now, almost shaking. “Can I see?”

Ivan’s smile disappeared quickly. 

“Oh, it’s a time capsule, Till. It will be meaningless if—”

“I want to put this flower in it then,” Till cut in, stepping closer. He held up the three anemone between his fingers. “It’s still fresh. Just adjust the timeline.”

For a heartbeat, Ivan didn’t move, but something shifted in his expression. Not annoyance, not an alarm, but a glint of something... 

Hesitation.

Ivan smiled again, smaller this time. 

“You’re not going to like what you find.”

And that was it. That was the crack.

Till’s fist moved before he could stop it. It landed right across Ivan’s cheek.

The sound was heavy. A dull thud of skin against skin, followed by the rustle of dirt as Ivan stumbled sideways, catching himself with one hand against the ground.

Till stood over him. Breath shallow, chest heaving.

Ivan didn’t get up right away. He touched his face with his fingertips, blinked once. Then he looked up, not angry. Just... empty. That same quiet expression that somehow made everything worse.

“I deserved that,” he said.

Trembling with something far deeper than anger, betrayal, confusion, grief all packed into a single moment. Till pointed at Ivan.

“Don’t come near me again.”

Ivan’s lips parted slightly but Till didn’t let him speak. “Don’t talk to me. Don’t look at me. Don’t even breathe the same air if you see me walking down the street.” 

Ivan didn’t move. Till stepped back once, twice, then turned and walked away.

The next few days weren’t easy.

As angry as he’d been and as right as he felt. Ivan had always been his person. Till couldn’t pretend it didn’t hurt. He hated how quiet things became without the other. How the absence wasn't clean. It stuck to everything. Meals were quieter. Walks home dragged. Even his room felt colder, like Ivan had taken something invisible with him and left the air uneven.

They still saw each other at school. Every day, in fact, but they barely talked. Sometimes their eyes met across the hallway. Sometimes in class, Till would catch himself looking in Ivan’s direction before turning back to his notes. 

What stung him was how easily Ivan moved on.

By the end of the week, he’d found a new circle. A few upperclassmen who laughed too loudly and always had a seat ready for him during lunch. Ivan fit into them with the same softness he used to offer Till. Effortless. Like he’d never needed Till at all.

And Till? He had his songs and his guitar.

The tabs grew messier. The toys felt a little too childish in his hands now, but he still kept them. Because letting go of them meant admitting how alone he really was.

He tried. Really, he did.

He approached some classmates during break time, joined conversations mid-laugh, even offered gum once to someone who never remembered his name. But nothing stuck. He couldn’t hold a conversation for more than three minutes. He either talked too fast, or not at all. Said the wrong things. Asked the wrong questions.

People were polite. But no one stayed.

It’s fine. He was fifteen now. That meant he should be used to things falling apart. He just needs to grab his pencil, flip his notebook, and start writing.

And just like that, the ache in his chest softened. His hand moved faster than his thoughts, sketching chords, half-formed verses, a line that rhymed burn with return. It didn’t even matter if it made sense yet.

The words didn’t ask him to be charming. The page didn’t flinch when he paused too long or forgot what he was trying to say. His guitar didn’t care if he hadn’t spoken to anyone all day.

“Hey Till!”

Till had barely stepped out of the music room when a tap landed on his shoulder.

He jumped and spun around so fast his guitar bag swung sideways and bumped the wall with a harsh thud. “Shit!”

“Oh, sorry!”

Standing in front of him was a girl with cotton-candy pink hair, her expression bright and apologetic. Till blinked, trying to match the face with a name.

It took him a moment.

Mizi.

He was pretty sure she was in his class. Couldn’t remember if she was the class president or vice, but she was definitely the one always seen with that bob-haired girl who only speaks during announcements.

She smiled when she saw the recognition dawn on his face. 

“Practicing with your guitar again?” Mizi said, glancing down.

Confused, Till followed her gaze. She was looking at his fingers. 

“Ah— yeah…” he instinctively pulled it behind his back, heat crawling up his neck. But his other hand was still gripping the strap of his guitar bag, clearly giving him away.

“Hey, don’t hide it!” she chirped. And before Till could react, she reached behind him and snatched his hand.

He flinched, not from pain, but from the surprise of being touched.

Mizi held his hand up to the light like it was a specimen.

“You’re seriously good,” she said, pressing her thumb against one of the more irritated calluses. “I’ve seen you carry this thing around all year. I don’t get why you haven’t joined any of the school bands yet.”

Till didn’t have an answer. It’s not like he had some suave response ready.

“But anyway—” she rummaged through her side bag with one hand and pulled out a small, floral printed box that Till, for the life of him, can’t read the texts. “Lucky for you, I have these.”

She peeled off a few colorful bandages, one with yellow, blue, and one with tiny strawberries and started wrapping them around his fingertips. Till stood frozen the entire time, heart thudding so loud his ears hurt. 

“There,” Mizi said, smoothing the last one into place. “You should really let your hands rest sometimes.”

When he blinked, Mizi was already turning to leave, waving over her shoulder and saying something Till didn’t catch.

The rest of the day passed easily, but Mizi’s words lingered. No one had said that before. Not like that.

The next day at school, they passed each other in the hallway. Mizi didn’t say anything, but she offered him a small wave that made his ears turn red and his footsteps go uneven.

She had that bob-haired girl with her again, staring daggers at him for reasons Till couldn’t quite guess, but he barely noticed. Because for the first time in weeks, he didn’t feel invisible.

Till started carrying his guitar differently after that. Still shy, still quiet, but straighter. Like he wasn’t hiding it anymore. He wrote more, stayed longer in the music room, even rewrote an old melody that had been gathering dust for months. Somehow, even the sad songs didn’t feel as heavy now. 

Was he in love? He doesn’t know. Happy crush felt like the perfect word. For now. 

One night, Till sat on the edge of his bed, guitar across his lap, and notebook open. The pages were already cluttered with verses and abandoned lines, half-melodies scrawled in frustration. Normally, he’d spend an hour rewriting the same chorus. But this time, the words came easier. Not because he suddenly knew what to say, but because he wanted to write something good.

He didn’t write Mizi’s name. Of course not. But she was there. In the tempo, in the chorus, in the lyrics bandaid hands and cotton-candy hair like metaphors… The song is hers.

By the time Till finally put his pencil down, it was nearing 2 a.m. He curled up on his side, too tired to change out of his shirt, guitar bag slouched at the foot of his bed like a pet waiting to be fed again. 

The night was cold. The kind of cold that creeps under your shirt. His blanket helped, barely. The window let in a thread of pale light from the streetlamp, cutting the room in two. The rest of it remained drowned in soft darkness.

It was quiet. The kind that it presses against your ears, makes your own breath sound loud. The kind of silence that turns every creak in the walls into something intentional. 

He closed his eyes. Phosphenes danced in the dark, shifting, blooming, collapsing like stars behind his eyelids. His brain, still drunk on lyrics and chords, spun pieces of unfinished songs. The same chorus repeated itself in fragments, like a lullaby tangled in his ribs.

But somehow, he couldn’t sleep.

His eyes opened again, adjusting to the dark. 

They landed on a corner of the room. Nothing was there. Just a shelf, his old hoodie hanging limp from the side, and a few stacked notebooks.

Beside it was his closet, its door left slightly ajar like always. Hints of shadow layered over shadows, where his jackets and old bags hung still.

He stared at it for a good minute, until his eyes caught something.

Till blinked slowly to make sure.

No, he wasn’t imagining it. Oh no. This wasn’t the product of sleep deprivation or an overactive mind…

He could see the sliver of an outline tucked into the darkness, just one shoulder, maybe a bit of the arm. A shape folded into coats and quiet like it had been there for hours. Watching. Waiting.

And Till didn’t doubt it. Not for a second. He knew someone was there, and only one person knew that spot. That blind angle in the room, where the closet frame and wall met in perfect alignment, invisible from the bed unless you were looking exactly where he was now.

Only one person had memorized this room’s corners

Ivan.

Till wanted to scream.

He wanted to sit up, stare straight into the dark, and throw every question he’d kept buried. He wanted to make Ivan flinch the way he had when he first realized he was no longer alone.

But instead… he moved.

Just barely. A small shift in the bed like he was uncomfortable. Like maybe he was adjusting his blanket. He didn’t turn to face the closet. Didn’t speak. Didn’t even look that way again.

He simply rolled to his other side, back now facing the dark slit where Ivan is.

His body was tense, wired with the kind of fear that buzzed under the skin. Every minute dragged like a rope pulled too tight, and he could hear his own heartbeat between the breaths he tried to even out.

But he didn’t move again.

He didn’t blink.

He didn’t give Ivan anything.

The hours crawled. The wind rustled dry leaves against the window. A car passed sometime around 4 a.m. The moon shifted position across the wall, replaced slowly by the gentle blue of early dawn.

Till never closed his eyes.

And when the sun finally began to reach into his room, soft and slow, he let it wash over his face.

Still silent. Still breathing.

And Ivan? Gone. But Till didn’t check.

He just pulled the blanket over his shoulder, eyes burning from a night without sleep, and let the morning settle. Thanking Anakt that it’s Friday.

It didn’t happen just once.

It happened again. And again.

Weeks passed, then months—and still, Till did nothing.

Every few nights, Ivan returned. He never heard the door. Never caught movement. Never saw the moment Ivan arrived. But Till knew. The same way you know when someone’s standing behind you before they speak.  

Till never looked too long.

He never said a word.

He simply went on with his life inside that room, he played his guitar, did his homeworks,  scrolled through his phone, watched videos on mute, or sat completely still for long stretches of time, pretending to be immersed in something else.

He gave nothing. 

Because if Ivan was waiting for a reaction, he wouldn’t get it. Not after everything, not after Clem, not after being watched like a ghost, like Till is someone he owned.

Maybe he was vengeful, after all.

Years passed. Quietly, then all at once.

The shadows in his room stopped appearing, at least in the way they used to. Whether Ivan had grown tired of being ignored or had finally understood that silence was Till’s answer, the visits stopped.

And now, it was time for college.

Till stood by his mother’s room one morning, still in his pajamas, holding a folded brochure with charcoal-streaked fingers. It was from an art school two cities over, not a prestigious one, not the kind you bragged about, but it was real. It had a studio, a small dorm, and a town with a music café that let students play on Fridays. It wasn’t the same university Mizi was planning to attend, but it was nearby. And that was enough.

He’d been preparing quietly for months. Gathering his best pieces, fixing old sketches, recording songs that had once lived only in torn notebooks. Songs he used to write in the dark, when someone else was in the room.

“I’ll work part-time,” Till said. “I’ve already sent my portfolio. They replied. I just need to sort out housing. Maybe get a job nearby to cover the rest.”

Io didn’t speak right away. She stared at her son for a long moment, as if trying to fit the details of him together, the charcoal-smudged hands, the steadier voice, the eyes that mirrored hers. Like she was looking at both the child who used to hide behind her skirt and the young man now asking to leave.

He still looked like her boy. But something in his eyes had changed. He wasn’t just asking for permission, he was telling her who he was becoming.

Slowly, she touched his cheek, her fingers gentle and warm. 

“Alright,” she said and pulled her hand back, blinking quickly.

 “Go chase whatever you need to chase. Just... come back when it hurts. Okay?”

The night was humid. The breeze carried the scent of petrichor and leftover campus food, swirling gently around the dimly lit parking lot tucked behind the school dorms. A soft buzz came from the vending machines nearby, and light spilled from a few second-floor windows, emitting pale rectangles onto the pavement.

Till leaned against the rusting bike rack near the smoking spot, cigarette pinched loosely between his fingers. The glowing end trembled just slightly. He hadn’t had a chance to eat much after practice, and his hands were still twitching from the bass line they'd tried to tighten for over an hour.

“Still can’t believe you waited this long to join a band,” Hyuna— his senior bandmate, said beside him, exhaling smoke after a long drag. “We could’ve used you last year, you know.”

Till gave a faint smile, eyes following the glow of her ember. “Yeah, well… I was trying to be normal. Do solo stuff. Then I remembered that normal makes me miserable.”

Hyuna snorted. “Misery doesn’t sell tickets.”

He took a drag. The smoke stung a little, his lungs hadn’t adjusted yet. “Mizi kept telling me I’d never grow if I kept playing alone. Took me a while to listen.”

“Mizi? That girl from your high school?”

Till nodded.

“Is she your girlfriend?”

“I wished,” Till chuckled, flicking ash onto the pavement. “She’s not interested in men though.”

Hyuna chortled and pointed at him accusingly. “You fell in love with a lesbian?!”

“Hey! It’s not something I can control!” 

Hyuna wheezed with laughter, almost dropping her cigarette. “God, that’s so poetic.”

Till smirked, but his eyes softened. “Yeah, well. She saw parts of me that I didn't even know how to look at.”

Hyuna leaned against the pole beside him, her laughter dying into something quieter. “Was it tragic for you?”

He shrugged, exhaling slowly. “Maybe it was. Or maybe I just needed someone like her back then.”

They both went quiet for a moment, the silence only broken by a scooter passing in the distance and the crickets claiming the edges of the dorm lot.

“I just need a source,” Till murmured. “For writing. For staying in it. You know?”

Hyuna smirked without turning. “So cigarettes and repressed feelings, huh? Real artist shit.”

He laughed under his breath. “Yeah. Just don’t tell my mom.”

“Io, right? The one who sends you those care packages?”

Till grinned softly, flicking the last of the ash. “Yeah. She still thinks I’m allergic to smoke. I always make sure I don’t reek whenever I get home.”

“How noble.”

He shrugged. “Can’t disappoint her. Not yet.”

Their conversation turned into petty complaints about amp feedback, a professor who didn’t believe in deadlines, the awful coffee from the third-floor vending machine that somehow made Hyuna crave it more.

They stayed like that until headlights cut across the lot.

A small, beat-up van pulled up beside the sidewalk, its engine roaring low. The driver’s side window rolled down with a creaky groan.

“Speak of the devil,” Hyuna flicked what was left of her cigarette to the ground and grind it under her heel. 

Till smiled as the passenger door swung open and Isaac leaned across the front seat. He was wearing a worn leather jacket and the same ironic grin he always had after practice.

“You coming tonight, Till?” he asked. “We’ve got that café thing downtown. Not much, but tips are decent.”

Till shook his head, adjusting the strap of his guitar case where it rested at his side. “Not this time. Got midterms creeping up, and I already skipped too many study sessions.”

Isaac gave him a mock pout. “Shame. You’re the only one who makes us sound like we know what we’re doing.”

Hyuna slapped Isaac’s shoulder as she climbed into the van. “Let the sophomore breathe, genius. He’s allowed to be smart.”

Dewey gasped and peeked from the back of the van. “Till is smart?”

“Oh, fuck off.”

He stepped back from the curb as the van door slid shut, waving lazily as it rolled off into the night. The music gig would last until midnight, maybe longer. He usually joined when they needed an extra set or when the rent was tight, but tonight, he chose peace.

Till lingered in the parking lot a bit longer, the concrete still warm beneath his shoes, the breeze now cooler against his neck. He lit another cigarette, exhaling smoke into the air. He found comfort in moments like this, when he could exist quietly on the edges of the world without completely stepping out of it. 

He glanced around the parking lot, taking in the usual things. The scooters, the vending machines, the flickering light.

That’s when he noticed it.

A car and a plate he didn’t recognize sat at the far end of the lot, slightly angled in his direction as if on purpose. No headlights. Dead engines. Just an unmoving figure in the driver’s seat. Watching.

Till stiffened, the cigarette between his fingers forgotten for a moment.

Fuck.

Before Till could fully register the danger screaming in his chest, he dropped the cigarette without thought, letting it burn out on the pavement as he roughly slung his guitar bag over his shoulder. His movements were clumsy and rushed, almost panicked as he turned and headed straight for the dorm entrance.

Then he heard it. The sharp click of a car door opening behind him.

He didn’t wait.

He bolted.

His shoes slammed against the floor. Patches of some uneven ground throwing off his balance. The strap of his guitar bag bounces wildly on his shoulder, threatening to slip, but he didn’t dare stop to fix it.

The bright hallway lights hit his eyes like a slap, too harsh after the dark. He paused only for a second, chest heaving, the sweat on his back sticking his shirt to his spine. His steps echoed as he hurried up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

Till didn’t stop until he finally reached his floor, he didn’t look around. He went straight to his door, keys shaking in his grip as he forced them into the lock.

He stepped inside, slammed it shut, and turned the lock again. 

Then the deadbolt. Only then did he breathe.

He stayed there, facing the door, hand still resting on the knob like it might turn on its own. His eyes dropped to the narrow strip of light under the doorframe and waited, waited to see if a shadow would pass through.

A faint shadow passed. Barely there. Like someone had walked by, or maybe just stood a few steps away. He blinked, unsure if he imagined it.

But it came again. Slow, steady, and darker this time. It moved like someone approaching, blocking more of the light with each second until the space under the door dimmed completely. 

Till didn’t move. His back straightened, and he pressed his lips together to keep from making a sound.

The footsteps stopped right outside his door and stood still. Not moving. Not knocking.

Till’s heart was pounding so hard he swore it echoed in the room. His eyes didn’t blink. Couldn’t. 

He waited.

Seconds stretched, long and heavy, like time itself was holding its breath with him. Every part of him was tense, his legs stiff, barely holding him up. He didn’t dare move. Didn’t dare breathe too loud.

And just as his throat tightened from holding in every sound, there was movement. A soft step. And then another. Fading.

The shadow pulled back, letting the light return, little by little, until only the familiar glow of the hallway remained.

Till stayed unmoving for a few more seconds, just to be sure. Then finally, he blinked.

The hallway was quiet again, but the silence didn’t comfort him this time. Not when he knew someone had been there. Not when he has an idea who it was.

He lay in bed with his eyes open, watching the door. He didn’t sleep that night. 

Not really. 

Just like that one night he noticed that disturbing boy inside his closet.

Chapter Text

There’s a part of Till’s brain that says he’s jumping into conclusion.

And no, he’s not talking about the stalking. Hell no, that part is very much real. But the fact that his brain immediately thought of that guy first? It’s kind of… off-putting.  

It’s perfectly reasonable to think the stalker was Ivan, given his history of secretly creeping into Till’s closet whenever he thought Till wasn’t looking. It’s not impossible. But then again, Till isn’t even sure Ivan’s strange admiration for him ever ran that deep. It was borderline obsessive, yes, but maybe only in the way a bored person clings to the nearest fixation. 

Now that he thinks about it, Till didn’t approach the strange behaviour well back then. Well, he can understand why. He was too young to know how to deal with it, and besides, he doubts Ivan ever realized Till knew he’d been creeping in his closet for years. The ignoring helped because he stopped long before Till even moved into his dorm. Which means the habit probably wore off.

Besides, it’s not like there aren’t other possible suspects. Till might not be the best-looking guy around, but being part of the university band does make you somewhat famous. He’s had his fair share of gifts— which gutted him the first time he received one, and the occasional love letter from girls who liked the mix of his harsh voice and thick eyeliner. 

Still, the stare felt familiar. If that makes sense. It was so intense that Till recognized it without being touched. It reminded him, strangely, of the force that haunted his childhood room. 

But that night’s case was different. 

Unlike in his childhood room, Till was caught staring . The creep definitely saw the way he dropped his cigarette too quickly and clumsily yanked his guitar bag over his shoulder in a rush to escape. He had no plan. No defense. No darkness to hide in while he tried to make sense of what he had just seen.

And there was a chase, the cherry on top.

Till wanted to slam his head against the wall at the late realization of his stupidity. Running straight to his door had been a death giveaway. Now whoever it was knew exactly where he lived. But in his defense, how could he have known the person could get inside the premises? You needed a resident ID to pass through the front gate, plus a fingerprint scan at the lobby door after 10 p.m.

Unless, of course, you knew about the fire exit behind the dorms. But to know that, you’d have to be someone who lived there, someone who knew the building’s layout well.

That thought made Till feel worse.

That incident left him paranoid. Till had gotten into the habit of double-checking his door, sometimes even three times before bed just to be sure. He started locking his windows earlier even if the weather was warm, unplugged the lamp by the sill, and scanned the closet before crawling into bed. 

He started watching other dorm people as well. The ones in the hallway, those shoulders brushing past him in the stairwell. He’d glance a little longer than necessary, just to see if anyone would meet his eyes and hold it. Some offered polite smiles. Others turned away quickly. Not suspiciously, just awkwardly, like how strangers do when eye contact lasts a beat too long. 

He tried to trace the car too. He asked the guard if there was a registered plate number matching it, anything that might tie it to a student or staff. But there was none. No listing under dorm residents, no record among vehicles without stickers, not even on the visitor log. Till checked twice. 

Still nothing. It was like that creep was nothing more than an illusion

“Till?”

Till snapped back and turned to find his mother sitting next to him at the kitchen table, a concerned look softening her face. Her hand hovered just above his arm.

That’s when he remembered he was home for the semester break. The table between them was still scratched from old school projects, but the curtains were new. The hum of the fridge seemed louder, and there was a different clock ticking on the wall. The air smelled like ginger tea and dish soap, and the floor under his socks was just as cold as he remembered. 

Till blinked, disoriented for a second. “Yeah?”

“You were miles away.”

He shifted in his seat, eyes dropping to the faint steam curling from his untouched black tea. “Just tired, I guess. The bus ride was long.”

It wasn’t a lie. But it wasn’t the whole truth either.

Still, it was easier to say that than explain how his thoughts kept looping back to cigarette ashes and the sound of a car door opening when it shouldn’t.

Io gave a small hum, not fully convinced but letting it go. “Well, I’m glad you made it safe. You’ve lost weight, Till. Are you eating properly over there?”

He scratched the back of his head. “I eat. Mostly noodles and vending machine stuff during crunch weeks, but yeah, I eat.”

Io frowned immediately. “Noodles are not food, Till. They’re cardboard with seasoning.”

Till pouted. “They’re fast and cheap.”

“So is illness,” she said, clearly unimpressed. “I should’ve sent you with frozen meals.”

He smiled at the thought, a bit more warmed than he wanted to admit. “I’ll survive.”

“And school? How’s everything going? Still playing with your band?”

He nodded. “Yeah. We just wrapped up a gig before the break. Trying to write more too.” He paused, then added with a small smile, “It’s been good.”

Io raised an eyebrow, a teasing glint in her eyes. 

“Good, huh? I bet there’s a girl in there somewhere. You’ve got that look.”

Till blinked. “What look?”

“The kind that says someone’s been hounding you day and night.” She leaned back in her chair, smirking. “You know? Love letters, surprise lunches, heartfelt mixtapes.”

“Mom.” He groaned. “No one does mixtapes anymore.”

Io narrowed her eyes playfully. “Says the boy who made a mixtape for Mizi back then.”

Till nearly choked on his tea. “What?! How do you even— Mom!”

She just grinned, sipping from her own cup like she hadn’t just set off a small emotional explosion.

“Were you snooping through my stuff?” he asked, half-scandalized.

“Your room was a mess. I was cleaning, not snooping.”

He buried his face in his hands. “You’re never letting that go, are you?”

“Not a chance,” Io said, with a smirk that only mothers who’ve seen their sons through every awkward phase can pull off. “It was cute.”

“Mortifying,” he mumbled.

“Still cute.”

They talked for a little while longer. Nothing heavy, just light back-and-forth about a new grocery store that opened down the street, and a cousin who got engaged without telling anyone. 

Io refilled his tea twice, and though her eyes still scanned him like she was waiting for cracks to show, she didn’t press. She never really needed to. Till had always been the kind of kid who talked when he was ready.

Eventually, he stretched and rubbed the back of his neck. “I should head up, I need to enroll before all the good schedules are gone.”

“Go,” Io said, waving him off with a gentle flick of the towel. “I already cleared your desk.”

Till gave her a quick peck on the cheek before heading up the creaky stairs. 

When he entered his room, he noticed a few changes. His bedsheets were darker now, gray with a faint geometric pattern, more mature than the old faded plaid he used to curl up in. Probably Io’s doing. The shelves looked neater, the windowsill cleaner than he ever remembered leaving it.

But some things were still unmistakably his. Stickers from bands he loved were still scattered across the side of his desk and the edge of his mirror, ones he’d brought home from concerts or tucked into his bag after rehearsals. His old guitar sat in the same corner it always had, case slightly unzipped, like it had been waiting to be picked up again.

Till sat at his desk and opened his laptop, logging into the enrollment site. He had a list in his notes, professors don't do chair arrangements, time blocks that wouldn’t ruin his sleep schedule further, and days that left room for part-time gigs. 

After securing his slot for next semester, Till leaned back in his chair and stretched his arms overhead, joints cracking faintly. The stiffness in his shoulders reminded him of the long hours cramped on the bus, head against the window, legs folded awkwardly, mind drifting in and out of sleep. His body still felt the hum of the road, like it hadn’t quite settled into being home yet.

He sat there for a moment until his gaze drifted. His head turned to the window, almost unconsciously, like a muscle memory. 

From his second-floor window, Till had a clear view over the two one-story houses beside theirs. And just beyond them was Unsha’s garden, still carefully maintained after all these years. The tree was still there too, tall and as strangely shaped as ever, its twisted branches reaching out like they hadn’t aged a day.

Till’s eyes lingered on it longer than they should have. It brought something back. Something cold and buried.

His gaze shifted, almost involuntarily, to his closet.

Another unwelcomed memory crept in.

He stood up slowly and crossed the room, stopping just in front of the closed door. It was just wood and hinges right now, but his heart still paused a beat, like it always did whenever he got too close.

With an exhale, he opened it, stepped inside, and gently pulled the door until it was just slightly ajar, just enough so that only the outline of his bed was visible from where he crouched.

It wasn’t the same, of course. Ivan had been smaller back then. But being in that space now gave Till a strange new perspective. 

He tucked his knees close, resting his chin on them. This is what it looked like from the inside. The angle. The waiting .

For once, Till didn’t feel like the one being watched.

He felt like the one watching.

“The hell am I doing?” he hissed to himself before pushing the closet door open and stepping out.

Frustrated, he crossed the room, grabbed his untouched guitar from its usual corner, and dropped onto his bunk with a soft bounce. Without thinking, Till began flicking out a few random notes. Loud enough to shut the noise in his head.

His eyes drifted back to the open closet. It stood harmless. But the sight of it stirred something deeper than the usual discomfort.

He had never really looked at it directly before. Not like this.

Maybe it was pettiness. Maybe because that person wasn’t there. But looking at it now, without fear, felt like victory. Like he just successfully reclaimed a space that had always been his but never truly felt like it.

Till leaned back against the wall, guitar resting on his lap and torso, and resumed plucking out a few soft, wandering notes. 

Not noticing the figure standing just beyond the reach of the porch light.

Didn’t see the pair of eyes fixed on him through the window, unblinking. Tilting his head slightly at the play of memory he just saw. Watching…

…Realizing.

The bus hummed steadily beneath Till’s feet, its worn seat vibrating against his back as he leaned against the window. Outside, the city shifted in colors, fading storefronts, flickering signs, people wrapped in scarves and jackets that blurred past. His guitar case was propped up beside him, wedged awkwardly between his leg and the aisle.

Hyuna’s voice crackled through the phone pressed to his ear.

“So you’re coming back today? ” 

“Yeah,” Till answered, rubbing the sleep from his eye with the back of his hand. “Bus is a little late, though. I’ll probably get there around three. Maybe earlier if traffic clears.”

“Great. That gives you time to actually warm up for once.”

He scoffed. “Rude.”

“Accurate,” she teased. “We’re going to do the first Friday set, okay? In Magnolia bar. Next week. You and me on the opening song.”

“I remember,” he said, staring blankly out the window. “You’re still doing vocals for the second half, right?”

“Obviously. I’m not letting Dewey sing lead again unless we want the crowd to leave during intermission.”

“He wasn’t that bad.”

“He sounded like a dying pos lost in the desert that never saw the oasis of life, Till.”

“So poetic, let me add that to my lyrics.”

Hyuna laughed on the other end. “God, we deserved to be wasted. Let’s drink after we perform.”

“Sure,” he said after a beat. “Break was boring.”

“Hey, at least your mom’s tea was good?”

“The best.”

“What a mama’s boy.”

“Wish your mama cared enough to serve you good tea too.”

“Wish Mizi cared enough to love you too.”

“Dieeee,” Till groaned dramatically. “That’s a low blow, low blow.”

“I don’t care. You started it,” Hyuna chuckled.

There was a pause as Till adjusted his seat.

“Oh yeah, I got my schedule locked in yesterday,” he said. “Online. Took me like ten minutes. How about you?”

“You lucky bastard,” Hyuna groaned. “I had to enroll on-site and it was chaos.”

“Why didn’t you just do it online?”

“Because my jurassic laptop decided to explode that morning and I thought it would be faster in person. Spoiler: it wasn’t.”

Till snickered. “Sounds fun.”

“Oh, it gets better. A new student showed up—I heard he’s a finance graduate. And, dude, the hallway turned into a zoo. You know how people get when someone attractive breathes nearby. Suddenly everyone’s ‘heading to the admin office’ like it’s a group pilgrimage.”

Till hummed. “Was it Dewey-level attractive or cafeteria-poster attractive?”

“Neither,” Hyuna huffed. “More like mysterious-backstory-in-an-indie-film attractive. Everyone was gawking. Even the admin lady forgot to stamp my form because she was staring.”

“Tragic.”

“Beyond tragic. I almost threw a pen at someone.”

“You should’ve made your presence known, noona.”

Hyuna sighed. “Tempting, but I’m trying to graduate, remember? Can’t risk getting flagged just because some junior decided to be hot in public.”

“Wow, what a commendable self restraint.” 

“Tell me about it. I’m practically a saint at this point.”

There was a pause, comfortable enough to not need filling.

“Well, get home safe,” Hyuna said. “Try not to spiral in your room on the first night back.”

Till huffed a laugh. “No promises.”

“I better not see another one of your ‘2 a.m. song dump’ texts.”

“You love them.”

“Unfortunately.”

Another pause. Longer this time.

“Alright, I’ll leave you to your brooding,” she said. “See you when I see you?”

“Yeah. Later, Hyuna.”

“Later, freak.”

The line clicked off, and Till stared at the screen a second longer before letting it fall to his lap

The bus rumbled on for another hour and a half, weaving through the road that shifted from crowded intersections to quiet, tree-lined streets. The deeper they got into the college district, the more it started to look like the life he’d been living, the gray dorm rooftops, graffiti-tagged walls, convenience stores he knew too well.

It was past 4 pm when the bus finally hissed to a stop near the familiar corner of the dorm.  Till stepped off the bus and adjusted his guitar case and duffel bag on both shoulders, his feet slapping against the cracked sidewalk. 

There weren’t many people around, just a few students pulling wheeled suitcases or carrying paper bags of takeout. The new semester was still a week away anyway.

As he turned the corner into the dorm’s small parking lot, a few parked cars came into view, nothing out of place. A red hatchback, a dented white van, and—

He slowed.

A man stood behind one of the cars. Red jacket, hands full of something Till couldn’t quite see. 

The figure moved casually, rummaging through the open trunk of a black car. Nothing outwardly suspicious, just someone organizing their things. But something about him tugged at Till’s attention. Maybe it was the way the guy kept his head low, shoulders hunched just enough, like he was trying not to be noticed. Like he didn’t want anyone to see his face.

Till adjusted the strap of his duffel bag, taking a steady breath as he inched forward, steps crunched lightly against the gravel. He didn’t say anything. Just let the sound of his approaching footsteps do the talking.

The man didn’t flinch. Instead, he stood upright and shut the trunk in one smooth motion, pressing an earbud deeper into his ear like he hadn’t noticed Till at all.

But from the side profile alone, Till knew.

It was Ivan.

His hair was darker than he remembered, shoved back carelessly with a few strands falling loose across his forehead. He wore a white jersey tucked half-heartedly into loose jeans, collar loose, sleeves of his red varsity jacket rolled up to his forearms. 

What caught Till’s eye, though, was the box in Ivan’s hands, taped shut and clearly heavy.

Till didn’t know what compelled him. Maybe instinct, maybe paranoia, but the moment he heard the faint ring of Ivan’s phone, he ducked behind one of the parked cars nearby. 

His heart wasn’t racing, but his nerves were twitching like live wires, and he didn’t know why. It wasn’t like he had done something wrong. But something in his gut told him to listen.

He crouched low beside a sedan, peeking just enough to see Ivan answer the call.

“Yeah?” Ivan’s voice was calm, casual.

There was a pause, then a familiar tone hummed through the speaker. Unsha. Till couldn’t hear everything clearly, but he knew.

“...No, I’m still moving stuff,” Ivan replied. “Yeah, I already secured a slot.”

Another pause. “Yeah, I’ll call once I get everything in.”

It was nothing unusual. Just a regular check-in between a parent and their kid.  But standing there, hiding behind someone else’s bumper, Till realized how surreal it felt to eavesdrop on Ivan like this after everything.

Ivan had changed— tone, posture, even the way he moved.

And height too. A shallow addition, but somehow, that unsettled Till the most.

Till stayed crouched, barely breathing, as he watched Ivan lift the last box into a small trolley. The wheels squeaked under the weight, protesting with each push. 

Using the trolley’s squeals as cover, Till slipped quietly from behind the car. His steps were light, moving in time with the creaking wheels as he put distance between himself and Ivan. He didn’t dare glance back, just as he hoped Ivan wouldn’t look back.

Then, without warning, the creaking stopped. 

Ivan had halted. 

Till froze mid-step, foot hovering just inches above the pavement before slowly lowering it without a sound. The air felt arrested that he barely breathed. His shoulders stiffened as he stared at Ivan’s unmoving back from a safe distance, every part of him braced.

He’ll admit, he doesn't know what he’ll do if Ivan turns, what he’ll react, what he’ll say.

But Ivan didn’t move. Not for several long, stretching seconds. The silence grew thick— too thick, like something waiting to pounce. Not peaceful, not neutral. Just... wrong .

All the hairs on Till’s body stood on end. His pulse throbbing against his skin. Slow. Heavy. Like it had nowhere to go but against his bones.

The silence dragged out, long enough for Till to wonder if Ivan knew and was currently playing, long enough to wonder if Ivan was waiting …

… Long enough to drive Till mad.

But after a few more moments, Ivan started moving again. The trolley wheels screeched back to life, as if nothing happened.

Till didn’t move. Not a muscle.

He stayed frozen behind the parking, watching Ivan’s back grow smaller until it slipped into the dorm entrance and vanished. 

Only then did Till exhale and turn away. He wasn’t going back there. Not tonight.

He didn’t know where he’d go exactly, maybe crash in Isaac’s room, maybe kick Dewey out of his own space. He didn’t care.

Anywhere.

Anywhere but here.

For four days, Till stayed at Mizi’s place.

Her apartment was small but clean, filled with sunlight and the smell of herbal shampoo and fruity lotion. Of course, it meant enduring Sua’s death glares every time he crossed paths with her in the kitchen. They lived together, after all, and Till was technically an intruder.

But he kept his respectful distance. He stuck to the sofa bed in their living room, folded it neatly every morning, used his own toiletries, bought his own food, and barely touched anything that wasn’t his. Till had shame.

On the fifth morning, while he was brushing out his tangled hair with a borrowed comb, Sua leaned against the doorframe with her arms crossed.

“When are you going to head back?” 

Till tensed but didn’t look up. God, jealous women scares him so much. “Before the semester starts. Probably Sunday.”

“Good. Just making sure this place doesn’t turn into a halfway house.”

He shrugged, keeping his tone respectful. “I’m not here to freeload.”

Sua scoffed lightly, brushing her bangs out of her eyes. “You say that, but you’re drinking our oat milk.”

“Hey, I bought the new carton!”

She pointed at him once, as if to say exactly , then turned and walked off.

Till shook his head in amusement and tossed the blanket back onto the sofa-bed. He moved through his routine quickly— showered, brushed his teeth, threw on his usual get-up, before grabbing his guitar bag. There was a short band practice scheduled that afternoon, and with the gig only a week away, they still had a few rough edges to smooth out.

The rehearsal went by in a blur of chords, harmonies, and inside jokes. It was comforting, familiar, the kind of distraction that made Till forget what happened days ago.

By the time he got back to Mizi’s apartment, the sun was beginning to dip and the sky had gone soft with gold. He opened the door, only to see Mizi already home.

She was still dressed in her work clothes: a crisp blouse tucked into slacks, her pink hair still pinned back neatly. A pair of glasses perched low on her nose as she flipped through a thick binder, red pen twirling between her fingers. 

The living room smelled faintly of coffee and old paper, probably from whatever theology quiz she was grading for her weekend students.

Mizi glanced up and smiled. “Hey. How was practice?”

Till dropped his duffel gently by the door and rolled his shoulders. “Productive. Hyuna didn’t throw a tantrum, so I’d say successful.”

From the kitchen, Sua’s voice floated over, dry as ever. “Must’ve been a miracle.”

Till grinned. “You’d think we summoned a God.”

Mizi snorted softly, then returned her attention to the binder, but not before tossing him a glance over her glasses. “Dinner’s on the stove. Just reheat it and come back, I’ll show you something.”

Till blinked, caught off guard. “Show me what?”

“You’ll see,” she said without looking up again, the red pen already crawling across another page.

Till nodded slowly and made his way to the kitchen, the curiosity already tugging at his chest. The last time Mizi said something like that, he ended up watching a two-hour documentary on lunar conspiracy theories. He had no idea what was coming this time, but he knew better than to keep her waiting.

Till returned a few minutes later with a glass of stirred orange juice in each hand, one for Mizi and one— out of politeness, for Sua.

“You’re still in your teaching getup,” he said, handing Mizi her glass.

Mizi accepted it with a small, distracted hum. “Didn’t have the energy. I went straight into grading.”

He turned and offered the other glass to Sua, who sat curled on the couch, just behind Mizi with the remote in hand. She stared at the drink for a beat, expression unreadable, then silently accepted it.

Till settled across the table, his body sinking into the seat with his reheated dinner. He rested his elbows on the wood.

“So,” he drawled, eyeing the binder Mizi had just set aside. “What exactly are you going to show me?”

Mizi didn’t look up right away, too busy thumbing through the pages of something hidden beside her. 

“Remember how our batch never got an official high school yearbook?” she said, a little too sweetly.

Till blinked. “Yeah… because the council sucked and the printer bailed, right?”

Mizi’s lips stretched into a slow, knowing grin. “Guess what.”

“Oh no,” Till groaned, sitting up straighter with a sinking feeling in his stomach. Of course, she was teaching theology part-time at their old school now. That meant access. “Don’t tell me—”

But Mizi had already pulled it into view, a thick, full-colored, laminated yearbook with their school’s old crest in the middle. The cover was a little pixelated, clearly not professionally published.

Sua, who had been flicking through TV channels, turned her head with raised brows. “How the hell did you get that?”

Mizi giggled, practically glowing with pride. “One of the old student council heads found the digital files last month. Apparently they’d been backed up all this time. I helped clean it up, formatted a few missing pages, and paid a small printer to make copies. A few of us got one.”

Till leaned back and slapped both hands to his face, groaning into them dramatically. “That thing is probably a treasure trove of crimes against teenage fashion.”

“You have no idea,” Mizi said, biting back a laugh. “I have a question though, hold on, I believe it’s on page eighty-nine…”

Sua sat up straighter now, eyes locked on the book. “Oh, this I have to see.”

Oh, kill him now.

Till peeked at the cover like it might bite him. “If it’s about a quote from me about how I wanted to be a rockstar or marry a pink haired girl in my class, I’m walking out.”

Sua shot him a glare sharp enough to cut glass. “You wrote that?”

“I was sixteen?”

“And it’s only been four years! You’re twenty!”

While Till was defending his dignity against Sua, Mizi was flipping through the pages with laser focus. Her fingers danced across familiar faces and names, muttering under her breath as she searched.

“Here!” she suddenly exclaimed, tapping the page with enough force to make Sua flinch. Her brows furrowed as she read aloud. “ You were the one who stole my pencil at that time right? ” Mizi squinted and looked up. “I don’t get it. Is this from a book or did someone actually steal a pencil from you?”

Till froze.

He did write that. 

The council had asked them to submit several quotes that could be used for the yearbook, and after days of stress and ignored reminders, he finally caved and wrote a few down. Most were harmless, filler stuff. But that one? That one was real. A spite entry .

It was about someone. A specific someone who had this maddening habit of not only creeping in his closet, but also stealing his things. Small things. The kind no one would notice— erasers, notes, a guitar pick, even a candy.

The last straw had been the pencil. Not just any pencil, but the one he always used while writing down his roughest compositions. It had bite marks near the cap, a cracked clip, and it had been bandaged once with one of Mizi’s floral bandaids.

He knew who took it— of course he did. But no one took half-baked accusations seriously, and it was easier to maintain ignorance when it came to that person. So instead of confronting him, Till wrote that entry, hoping it would make the thief quake in his boots.

Apparently, the council found it mysterious enough to pick it.

“Why would they choose that?” He ran a hand through his hair and offered a weak grin. “Aren't high school quotes supposed to be what we want to be?”

Mizi tilted her head, still flipping through the page. “Well, I guess they choose what will stay iconic.” 

Till blinked. “Seriously?”

“Yeah,” she said, amused. “Yours actually had people in the faculty room trying to guess what it meant. Someone even thought it was a metaphor for betrayal or something. Like... childhood innocence lost.”

He let out a forced chuckle, reaching for the glass of juice for hydration. “Wow, I must’ve been in my cryptic era.”

Mizi pointed at him. “But seriously, what does this mean?”

A hush fell over the room.

Mizi tilted her head, clearly waiting. Sua glanced over too, one brow raised, her interest piqued now that things had turned oddly serious.

Till looked between them, then down at his half-empty glass. He set it back on the table with a soft clink, shoulders slumping just a little.

“You’ll laugh at me.”

“I’ll try not to,” Sua said. 

Till hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. “It was this pencil. I thought I lost it—misplaced it or something stupid like that. But not just any pencil, okay? It was the one I always used to write songs with.” He gave a sheepish glance at Mizi. “It even had one of your bandaids wrapped around it.”

Sua raised an eyebrow. “That’s weirdly sentimental.”

Till exhaled through his nose. “Yeah, well. I lost it. Thought someone stole it. And I was pissed. But then—” he shook his head, ready to spit the lie. “I found it. In my closet. Between a notebook and an old pair of used socks.”

There was a pause.

Mizi blinked once. Twice.

Then she threw her head back and burst into laughter, loud and genuine, the kind that echoed off the kitchen walls and made Sua roll her eyes from the couch.

“You are so gross,” Sua said.

“Oh my god,” Mizi wheezed, wiping her eye. “All that drama over a misplaced pencil?”

Till let out a groan. “I knew you’d laugh. And for the record, I wasn’t the one who turned it into drama. I just wrote a frustrated quote.” 

Mizi, still grinning, leaned forward with her elbow on the table. “Okay, okay, fine. But who did you think stole it? You sounded so sure.”

“Acorn,” Till answered, naming the first classmate that came to mind. “I hold a grudge against anyone who judged me for liking Optimus Prime.”

“Damn, you look like a megatron guy.”

“NEVER!”

The conversation drifted into something else eventually, something about Sua’s lab partner being allergic to hand sanitizer and Mizi ranting about how her students kept quoting K-dramas in theology discussions.

Till finally scooped a bite from his plate, only to pause mid-chew.

Cold.

He blinked down at the food, sighed through his nose, then kept eating anyway.

Sunday came, and Till didn’t have much of a choice but to go back to the dorm.

He packed light, most of his clothes were still at the laundry shop, so his duffel bag barely weighed anything. His guitar case swung lightly against his side as he moved.

When he got off near the campus, the streets weren’t as quiet as they were when he left, and the parking lot was packed—cars already lined up in preparation for the start of the semester. Some students were dragging boxes and others reuniting with roommates on the sidewalk.

Till took the fire exit to avoid the front hall. The door creaked like always, but he moved quickly, trying not to draw attention in case someone’s nearby. 

He still didn’t know why Ivan was here. But he was sure it wasn’t just a visit. Ivan had moved in. That wasn’t something Till was ready to deal with yet.

He adjusted the strap of his bag and kept walking, trying to ease the tight feeling building in his chest. The hallway smelled faintly like floor wax and someone’s microwave dinner. The usual dorm noise, the muffled music, the occasional laughter, however, were missing. 

Maybe everyone hadn’t returned yet.

Till walked down the hallway of his floor, each step echoing despite how soft he tried to make them. The corridor was quiet, too quiet. Just the low buzz of the overhead lights and the faint sound of someone’s TV murmuring behind a closed door a few units down. The air smelled like dust and the remnants of someone’s reheated lunch.

His shoulders relaxed a little as he passed familiar doors, counting them like he always did out of habit. Fifth door. Sixth. His own unit was just around the bend.

That’s when he noticed it.

Till stopped in his tracks.

It was small, about the size of a shoebox, but plain. No label. No note. Just a line of neat tape sealing it shut. It didn’t look like a package. No scribbled room number and no delivery sticker.

He stood there for a few seconds, just staring at it.

Did someone leave it here by mistake?

Till crouched slowly, fingers brushing the side of the box. It was light, but not empty. Something shifted inside when he nudged it. He looked up and down the hallway, just to make sure no one was watching.

He swallowed and picked at the tape. It peeled up cleanly, curling under his nail before coming off with a low rip. He carefully pulled at the rest, hands slower than usual, like the box might react if he moved too quickly.

Once the tape was gone, he lifted the top flaps.

His breath caught.

Right on top of the half-wrapped folded newspaper, was a pencil. And no, it’s not just any pencil— it was his pencil. The one he thought he’d lost. The one wrapped with Mizi’s bandaid near the grip, faded now but still distinct. 

Without realizing it, Till reached out, holding it closer to examine the details. His thumb ran over the bandaid instinctively, then shifted upward toward his teeth marks still faintly carved into the wood, shallow and uneven, always made when he chewed on it while stuck on a lyric.

But there was something new.

Just above his own marks, near the top, was a different bite. Not his. It sank more into the wood with the intention of claiming . The kind of bite that didn’t happen by accident. It was fresh enough to stand out, but old enough to have dulled around the edges. 

Till touched it, figuring something.

A soft creak of a door behind him. The one directly across his dorm.

That’s weird . He thought. That room had been empty for months.

Till didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. He waited for a voice, a greeting, footsteps, anything.

But nothing came, only the weight of a scorching stare, burning a hole straight through his skull.

… And the longer he stayed still, the louder it became.

A pull. A pressure.

Daring him to turn around .

It took everything in Till not to shake as he slowly rose to his feet, careful not to make it obvious how unsteady his legs had become. His mind was already screaming for safety. For the thin, locked line between him and the man behind him.

His fingers dove into his pocket, digging for his keys with a little too much urgency. The metal jingled, louder than it should’ve. He winced. Swallowed it down. Forced a slow, casual posture, like he wasn’t seconds away from bolting.

The key found the lock. He missed once. Twisted wrong. Almost swore under his breath.

Again.

Click.

He slipped inside quickly, but not fast enough to look like he was running. Just a normal return to his dorm. Just a guy going home. 

The door closed behind him with a soft, final thud.

He locked it.

Twice.

He didn’t dare look through the peephole either.

Till stepped forward, pencil still in hand, wondering how he’d survive whatever was coming next, now that Ivan knew he was aware.

Chapter Text

The pencil incident had made Till’s sleep shorter during the first week of the new semester.

He started waking up in the middle of the night without knowing why, heart thudding and skin damp, only to lie there and stare at the ceiling for hours. Sometimes he wouldn’t even bother trying to sleep at all. Other times, he’d sleep through his alarm, dragging his feet through morning rehearsals with barely enough strength to play his guitar.

He came home late, left early. Band practice, classes, errands… Any excuse to delay stepping back into his dorm. And when he did come home, it felt like a game he’s forced to participate in; Unlocking the door without making a sound, carefully turning the knob, and bracing for the wince-worthy creak of the hinges like he was setting off a bomb. 

Closing it behind him was worse though. He had to guide it gently into place, careful not to let the latch snap.

It was exhausting. Not just the routine of pretending everything was normal, but the pressure of not disturbing something… or someone … that might be listening from the other side of his door.

Although despite how much of a pain in the ass all of these were, Till still preferred it over running into Ivan.

It wasn’t just about time. It wasn’t the classic “oh, we haven’t talked in forever!” that could be patched up with a hey or a what’s up. This was worse. This was Till not knowing what face to make, what words to use, or how to even look his former best friend in the eye without giving away everything they both knew. He couldn’t act normal, because nothing about it felt normal.

Nothing ever did when it came to Ivan.

Perhaps it’s Till’s inability to handle things he can’t control. And no, he’s not one of those all talk, no bite types. Till bites, hard. Just not all the time. Not when he knows he can’t take it when it bites back .

Till knows how unreliable it all sounds. An old pencil, a stare, a gut feeling— none of it adds up to solid proof. There’s no photo, no message, no other witness but him to point and say this is what’s happening .

The solution? He could tell someone. He could go to Hyuna, to Mizi, even to his mother. Let someone outside the theory observe the situation. That would be the logical thing to do.

But part of him keeps insisting this isn’t anyone else’s business. Whatever this is, it’s between him and Ivan. And dragging someone else into it might only make things worse. Besides, it doesn’t even feel dangerous…

Yet.

Sure, creeping inside his closet was a violation of privacy. Unquestionably wrong. But not violent. Not harmful in the traditional sense.

Again. Yet.

Till pinched the bridge of his nose to cut off that thought. Now he just sounded like he was justifying whatever Ivan was doing.

“How the fuck will you handle this?” Till muttered under his breath. His arm slumped over his eyes as he lay sprawled across his bed, legs half-dangling off the edge.

He needed to do something. Anything. 

He’d already considered being the bigger person, initiating the conversation himself. They weren’t kids anymore. They’d both grown, changed, taken up big boy problems and responsibilities. It wasn’t like he still held a grudge against Ivan for moving on so fast after Till had broken whatever closeness they once had.

Okay maybe, unconsciously, it still stung. Just a little. But that sting wasn’t enough to justify letting all this spiral. Not enough to feed the madness creeping up. 

“I should talk to him,” Till said, convincing himself.

His eyes stayed shut, not out of rest but to keep the imaginary scene playing behind his lids. He pictured how it’d go, him standing there, hands probably in his pockets to keep them from fidgeting, trying to look calm. Normal. Like none of this ever got under his skin.

He imagined Ivan turning to him. He wonders what face he’ll make? Maybe confused, maybe unreadable, the way he always was. Till tried to settle on how to open. Keep it casual? Ask straight out? Demand something? 

And Ivan’s reaction… God, that was harder. Would he pretend not to know? Laugh it off? Act hurt? Till ran through the what-ifs, testing out different responses in his head, adjusting his own replies depending on the version of Ivan he got. But none of the conversation flowed well. It either looped back on itself or hit a wall.

He drifted off somewhere between mouthing the next line. 

The conversation, like everything else between them, stayed unfinished.

Till hated himself. 

He hated all the little things he couldn’t do, like never getting the song notes right on the first try, or failing to scratch the itch of the exact word he meant to say. It was always there, sitting in his open mouth, lingering— only for him to second guess everything before anything ever came out.

He also hated how hard it was for him to start anything. It wasn’t a mystery why people always seemed to approach him first, he wasn’t good at initiating. And when he did, it felt like he was walking a tightrope. Say too little, and it would be boring. Say too much, and it would be weird. Every word came with risk.

That was the worst part. He didn’t trust himself to be interesting. Because there wasn’t much to dig into. Till wore his personality on his sleeve, in full view. No hidden layers. No mystery. Just... Till. What you saw was what you got, and that wasn’t enough.

Especially not next to Ivan.

Ivan, who somehow managed to stand out in every room he entered. Who finished a whole finance degree ahead of schedule, then casually enrolled in their school like it was a pit stop. Who, within weeks of transferring, was voted house president. Who paid half the tuition because he was also a football athlete... 

Fucking Ivan, who even found time to be part of the theatre club. Not as an actor, though, he’d be a god of time management at that point, but as a scriptwriter, since he’s fond of classic literature.

Till didn’t dig for that information. He didn’t need to. It was everywhere. People talked. Online posts, hallway whispers, even anonymous confession pages on campus, Ivan’s name was all over them. 

There goes my confidence . Draining. Spiraling completely somewhere between his gut and the floor. Like he ever had any to begin with. 

You know what? Fuck this . Why should he be the one to fix this? It wasn't like he did anything. He didn’t ask for the pencil. He didn’t ask to be watched. He didn’t invite Ivan into his floor or leave the door open for nostalgia. He didn’t do any of it. So why the hell was he the one stuck with the emotional cleanup?

He didn’t owe anyone a conversation. Least of all Ivan.

Till didn’t need to start a fight or stage a dramatic confrontation. He didn’t even need to warn anyone. This was the safest route. No messy conversations, no tiptoeing around a topic that could spiral into something worse. No dragging anyone into it and carrying the guilt of what might happen to them just because he couldn’t keep it to himself. All he had to do was to play it smart .

He’d keep things clean. 

Controlled.

If Ivan was stalking him, if this was really happening the way it felt like it was, then that was on him. Sooner or later, someone else would notice. Slip-ups always happened. You can’t stalk someone in secret forever. People talk. Neighbors see things. And when it did catch up to him? Good. Let it. Till wouldn’t be responsible for that.

Till nodded to himself while sitting in the middle of class, half-listening to a lecture he’d already zoned out of ten minutes ago. His pen tapped idly against his notebook, the same sentence written three times in a row.

The classroom murmured with the professor’s voice and the occasional rustle of papers, until the sound of a chair scraping beside him snapped him back. 

Till glanced sideways.

Luka.

Of course it was Luka.

The owner of the café where Till worked part-time— also Hyuna’s ex. A walking migraine.

“No,” Till said flatly, not even waiting for Luka to speak. 

Luka blinked, slightly amused. “I didn’t even say anything.”

“You didn’t have to.” Till said, glancing away. “It’s always the same thing. And it’s still a no.”

Luka let out a dramatic sigh and leaned back in the creaky chair, arms crossed behind his head like he had all the time in the world. “Won’t you hear me out at least?”

“No.”

“I’ll cover your shift in my café for two days.”

Till’s pen stopped.

It was a good offer. Too good. Till hadn’t had a full weekend off in a month. The thought of waking up late and not having to pour overpriced cold brew for entitled customers… tempting. He almost folded.

But his friend’s voice echoed in the back of his mind like a ghost: “If I see Luka near our set again, you’re dead to me.” 

If Hyuna saw Luka standing in the crowd with those wounded, desperate eyes he is using to Till right now, hell would break loose. She’d murder. And Till would be an accessory.

“Three,” Luka added, spotting the hesitation. “Back-to-back.”

“Tempting, I’ll admit. But sorry, I value my life more.”

Till never knew the full story of what went down between them, but whatever it was, it had been bad. Bad enough that Luka held back a year, and Hyuna’s drinking habits took a turn for the worse. 

Till didn’t ask, didn’t dig. It wasn’t like he was there when it happened. But when Luka found out his younger classmate had joined the school band and was getting close to Hyuna, the blond practically waltzed his way into Till’s life like they’d been friends all along.

Things got worse when Luka learned Till was a working student. He offered him a job at one of his father’s cafés near campus like it was a favor with no strings attached. 

If anyone ever asked how far Luka went, that guy ditched a promising engineering course to switch to performing arts just to transfer into Hyuna’s school.

Till wouldn’t be surprised if that was one of the reasons they broke up.

Crazy . Rich people are just… crazy.

“You’ll survive, trust me.”

He sighed, sinking deeper into his seat. “You don’t get it. If Hyuna finds out you’re there, I’m done.”

“Come on, I’ll wear a hoodie.”

“She’ll smell you.”

Luka laughed, but Till wasn’t joking. “Seriously, she’ll tear off her bass strap to end your and my bloodline.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

“And you’re so heartbroken. Move on, dude.”

The guy stayed glued to Till’s side for the rest of Music Theory, whispering nonsense, nudging his elbow, and tapping the end of his pen against Till’s desk like it was some kind of Morse code for please say yes . At one point, Luka even scribbled on the corner of Till’s notebook: Two weeks, no shifts. Think about it.

By the end of the hour, Till had rewritten the same sentence on his notes three times, and not on purpose.

“Fine,” he muttered as the bell rang, stuffing his notebook into his bag. “I’ll think about it, okay?”

Luka gave a smug little grin like he’d just scored a medal, then wandered off.

Till didn’t even look back. He had a ten-minute walk to his next class, which is blessedly Luka-free, but that didn’t make it any better. 

By the time he reached the other side of the building, his steps had slowed, shoulders dragging like he was heading toward punishment. 

Figure Drawing II.

It wasn’t that he hated drawing. He loved it, on his own terms. But this class? Long sessions, the pressure to get the model’s anatomy right, and yes, another day with a fully nude model standing in the center of the room under bright, scandalizing lights. It sucked the joy out of it. He always felt like his drawings ended up too stiff or too messy, too free to fit the standard.

Till stepped into the classroom, most of the decent seats in the circle around the model platform had already been claimed. A low murmur of paper shuffling and casual chatter filled the space. His eyes landed on the professor’s glass bowl, just two folded slips of paper left inside.

“What would it be?” the professor said with a teasing grin, tapping the side of the bowl with a pen. Till didn’t have a problem with him, really. The guy was easygoing enough, liked art history tangents too much maybe, but fair. 

Still, that bowl? A menace.

Sighing, he walked over and dipped his hand in, fingers brushing one slip, then the other, like there was a strategy to it. Please be the back perspective, please be the back , he chanted silently, jaw tight as he plucked one out.

He unfolded it slowly.

Front.

Till sighed through his nose, already resigning himself to the next hour of polite eye contact avoidance and awkward shading angles. Of course he got the front. Of couuuurse.

He dragged his feet toward the open supply shelf near the windows, an old rack stacked with charcoal sticks, paper rolls, kneadable eraser, and battered sketch boards. It was self-serve, first come, first cursed. Most of the better materials were gone, as expected, but he managed to grab decent pencils, and a chunk of soft charcoal that hadn’t snapped in half yet.

With a deeper sigh, he turned and walked toward the front easel, adjusted its height with one hand, and dropped his materials onto the small tray beneath it, eyes already flicking up to the still-empty stool where the model would sit.

“Nice one, Till,” Luna said, a classmate to his right

Till scratched his head out of embarrassment. “I’m living the dream.”

“Front row’s character building.”

Till hates character building.

Till’s thumb smudged a corner of the page as he glanced toward the door. This part was always the same. The pause before the model walked in. The unpredictability of who it would be.

It could be anyone, literally. The professor had a knack for pulling models from anywhere. One week it was a retired ballerina, the next a tattooed barista with sleeve art that took most of the class to sketch alone. There’d been a stripper once. A drag performer. And some guy from the campus construction team who posed with a hard hat still on.

Didn’t matter the shape, the size, the gender, the vibe. All bodies were welcome here. That was one thing Till respected about this class, even if it wasn’t his favorite.

He leaned back slightly, eyeing his setup. Whoever was about to walk through that door was going to be standing in front of him for the next two hours.

He just hoped it wasn’t someone distracting.

You see, there’s a reason why the front seat was considered the worst. Sure, you got the best view, the symmetry, the light, the fine details of muscle and skin... But along with that came the expression. 

Till had been in this spot twice before. This would be the third. And if there’s one thing he learned, it’s that some models took full advantage of the one freedom they had…

Eye contact.

He remembered one time too well. Some effortlessly confident woman must’ve noticed how uncomfortable he looked. Her eyes were half-lidded, lazy even, but they locked on him with a knowing stare. 

He shouldn't have been embarrassed. It was anatomy. It was art. But it did embarrass him.

That sketch turned out weak. Complete, but not fully detailed because he kept looking around but her.

The click of the professor’s leather shoes cut through the quiet room, snapping Till out of his head.

“Alright, you know the drill. No outlines for the first ten minutes. Eyes on the model, not your paper. Block in the details, not the nonexistent flaws. We’re looking for improvement, not expertise.”

A few students, excluding Till nodded.

“Thirty-minute poses with short breaks in between,” the professor said, pacing a slow half-circle in front of them. “The model’s probably someone you’ve seen around. Focus on what’s in front of you, not what you’ve heard. Got it?”

After the speech and a few scattered nods of agreement from the students, the professor gave a small wave toward the door.

“Alright. Let’s begin.”

The model stepped in.

Burgundy robe tied loosely at the waist, pushed-back hair slightly tousled, barefoot and a charming aura.

Till didn’t blink, didn’t breathe, just sat there frozen as his brain tried to short-circuit into denial.

He wanted to die. 

Ivan walked to the center of the room, exchanged a few words with the professor that Till couldn’t hear much from his seat except for the vague “Thanks again for agreeing on such short notice.” 

A couple of students whispered wildly to each other, and one in the back even clutched their chest like it’s a dream come true.

Till felt a tug on his sleeve.

He turned and blinked when a classmate leaned close, eyes wide with manic glee. “Change seats with me.”

“What—”

“Hey! No changing of seats!” the professor barked before Till could even think of answering.

Ivan’s head turned.

Till immediately ducked, peeling his classmate’s hand off and slipping back behind his easel. It wasn’t big enough to hide his entire body, but it was enough to block most of his face.

Fuck, fuck, fuck! Till did his best to control his breathing, quietly through his nose, held it for a beat, and let it out slowly. Calm down.

He kept his gaze locked on the blank paper in front of him, fingers tight around his pencil. This wasn’t the first time they’d shared a room. Back in high school, there were plenty of times they were in the same hallway, the same event, even the same damn photo frame, and nothing happened.

This could be the same . Yeah. Maybe this would be just like that. 

Even if this is all intentional, like one of Till’s surging theories, Ivan couldn’t do anything right now. Not here. Not with all these people around. The classroom was full and the professor was right there. 

He doubted Ivan would even look at him. He’d probably just ignore him entirely.

After a few moments, the professor gave a short nod and turned away, leaving Ivan at the center.

Till kept his blank face intact when Ivan reached for the tie of his robe and began to undo it.

There was nothing vulgar about the way Ivan moved, if anything, it was casual. Calm. Like this was just another favor he has to fulfill. He slid the robe off his shoulders in one tug, revealing bare fair skin underneath, lean and toned and effortless. 

The fabric pooled around his ankles as he stood with his back straight, black eyes fixed on a point in the room that wasn’t Till.

He hit the pose. Nothing dramatic, just enough to carry himself for the first thirty minutes. One leg slightly ahead of the other, bringing out the natural curves of his V line. His back had a soft curve, his chest relaxed but open. One arm rested behind him while the other dropped lazily by his side. His head tilted, chin up just enough, not too high, not too humble. 

His gaze drifted somewhere past them all, not locking with anyone.

Good. That was one less thing for Till to worry about.

Till could already feel it, that tight knot pulling in his chest. Not because Ivan looked good (he’d give him that), but because he made it look effortless. Like he was meant to be seen. Like he belonged in the light.

That’s right. Till picked up a piece of darker charcoal and spun it between his fingers. Because Ivan was different in the dark.

And only he knows that.

After ten minutes of observation, the scratch of pencils started to fill the room.

Till began with the shapes that would pull the whole curve together, a faint outline of the precise tilt where most of Ivan’s muscle weight rested. He kept the lines light in the uncertain parts and darkened the shadowed side.

Everything’s fine. Till’s grip loosened. The tightness in his chest eased as his hand moved across the paper. Maybe this wasn’t as terrifying as he thought.

Another ten minutes passed. The professor’s voice cut through the room, giving the cue for them to glance back at the model.

Till peeked, intending nothing more than to check proportions, maybe catch the curve of the collarbone he couldn’t quite remember.

His throat went dry.

Ivan was already looking at him.

Everything around Till dimmed. The scratching, the shuffle of stools, even the low hum of the air conditioning faded into the background. For a second, it felt like the room shrank, like the air between them had turned thick, stretched too tight to his liking.

Till was the first to break eye contact, letting his gaze fall lower, straight to Ivan’s torso. It was extended torture, but still better than staring into those all-knowing red irises. 

His eyes dragged reluctantly down, landing on Ivan’s cock. Yeah, it’s big. Bigger than mine. Who’s surprised? Fuck, so what? Will that erase how creepy he was?

“That’s a fine detailed cock you got there.”

Till’s neck snapped toward his professor behind him, arms crossed and looking at his work in progress. 

A few heads turned. A few snickers followed.

Till kept his cool, but he could feel the heat crawling up his neck, settling right into his ears. Burning. Glowing, probably. 

He didn’t turn to check who was laughing. Didn’t defend himself. He just nodded like that cursed compliment was part of some academic critique and went back to sketching.

But the moment he looked up again, Till nearly snapped his charcoal in half.

Ivan had shifted, barely but he did. A slight spread of the legs, exposing himself more to Till,  like the comment had somehow given him permission to brag.

Rage surged up, hot and stiff in his throat. It pulsed against his temples and probably showed on his face no matter how hard he tried to stay cool. He could feel it, his hand sketching with less grace and more bite.

But he couldn’t stop now. Couldn’t give Ivan the satisfaction of knowing he got to him. 

Don’t feed the demon more dignity to maul.

The professor called for another short break after another unbearable thirty minutes. The students stood to stretch, a few shared their work, some even dared to approach and joke around with Ivan.

Till stayed in his seat, knuckles white. As expected, the sketch wasn’t his best. His strokes were tight, uneven. Lines overlapped where they shouldn’t. 

He blamed the model.

When the final timer went off, the professor clapped his hands and thanked Ivan for his time. Chairs scraped. Portfolios snapped shut. People started filing out, laughter and casual chatter filling the room like no monumental tension just happened. 

Till didn’t wait for formal dismissal. He stood, grabbed his things and bolted. Didn’t pack properly. Didn’t return the unused materials to the side shelf. 

Because staying a second longer in that room meant risking something. 

What? Another look? An ambush? Both possible.

He shoved the door open and didn’t look back.

He’s not having it. 

At least not today.

Tucked between a BBQ place and a vape lounge, was a place called " Alien Stage ." 

The neon sign buzzed in electric green, shaped like a cracked planet orbiting a mic stand. Rumor had it the place used to be an old theater before it turned into a music bar.

The walls were painted black, scuffed with gear dents, sticker-bombed from floor to ceiling with band names, tour dates, and inside jokes only the regulars would get. The smell was mixed: beer foam, lemony cleaning fluid, and the ever-present musk of worn-out leather jackets.

The stage in the corner was a single step up, pointed by pulsing purple and green lights that never seemed to be hit in the right direction. Behind it was a graffiti mural of hideous aliens floating in a sea of stars and broken amps to add some kind of cosmic rebellion vibe.

The club wasn’t fancy. The monitors crackled sometimes, and the mic had to be coaxed into working. Still, it was filled up with regulars, college students, tired office workers, and lost tourists who always seemed to stay longer than they intended.

Till entered through the back door with his guitar case slung over one shoulder and half-zipped hoodie. It was a Friday night, and the crowd was starting to trickle in, anticipating some kind of performance before getting drunk.

“Till!” 

Hyuna’s voice echoed from behind one of the velvet curtains, sharp over the muffled thump of bass vibrating through the floor. She ducked into the cramped backstage area, the dim overhead bulb catching the glint of her earrings and the two plastic cups in her hand.

She shoved one toward him. Till looked at it dumbly, he had a café shift the next afternoon (he’d refused to help Luka to the end), and he couldn’t risk waking up late again. One more strike, and Luka might actually start docking his hours.

Till accepted it regardless. “Isn’t it too early for this?”

“Baby shot,” Hyuna grinned. “Just something to shoot your nerves up before we go on.”

Till shook his head and drank it in one go. It was mild, burned for a second, then bloomed with warmth in his chest. 

He handed the empty cup back and followed her to the back of the stage where the rest of the band was already scattered around, tuning instruments and going through their pre-set rituals.

Dewey looked up when they approached. “Here comes Jesus,” he grinned and held something out to Till between two fingers.

Till stared at the pill. He wasn’t new to it. It wasn’t anything hardcore, just a performance booster, something to keep the nerves from messing with his timing.

“Is it okay with alcohol? I just took a shot.”

Hyuna gave him a thumbs up. “You’re fine. Just don’t double up. You’ll be singing in a different dimension.”

That earned a laugh from Till as he took the pill from Dewey. Yeah, he needed it. He was the frontman tonight, after all.

The bar lights dipped low, then pulsed back in rhythm once to hush the chatter. The host’s voice poured through the speakers like clockwork, riling the crowd up with easy charm. 

Till barely heard a word of it. Just his heartbeat, the quick drag of air through his lungs. The pill had started to effect, overwhelming him with a soft current down his spine. His fingers flexed by instinct, blood already humming with that pre-show rush.

“Nice eyeliner,” Hyuna said, sidling up next to him.

Till turned, already too high to be modest. He threw her a rock-and-roll pose, fingers spread, nails painted black.

She scoffed a laugh. “Shut up?!”

He just grinned, shoulders loose now, body ready. The host’s voice boomed louder out front, cueing their entrance.

Showtime.

The curtains drew back, letting the noise spill in like a floodlight. The beat kicked loudly, steady and hyped like a pulse ready to snap, sending the crowd high. 

Till stepped forward, his guitar strapped snug against his torso, fingers brushing over the strings. Lights flashed. The heat hit him, thick and blinding. He waited, just a breath more…

“Come on!” he screamed into the mic, letting it all rip.

Hyuna stood close behind him, mic in hand, catching the rhythm as his second voice. She didn’t overpower, grounding him while he chased the higher notes. 

The drums rolled into a sharp, claiming their spotlight. It thumped through the stage floor, rattling in Till’s chest like a countdown.

Then—

The instruments halted in unison.

Till leaned into the mic, his voice cutting clean through the silence.

“ Nothing was my everything. The melody that filled the empty me.”

“It's you, alright. My feelings are…”

“ERROR : NO BETTER OPTIONS!”

Till stepped back from the mic enough for Hyuna to lean in and take over a small line in the first verse. Her tone was sharp, enough grit that matched his.

He caught the end of her line, picked it up right where she left off, and carried them toward the pre-chorus.

The sound grew tight and electric as Till sang the chorus, strong and raw. 

“Don't even think this time’s enough”

“Cause you baby still it's not enough”

The crowd erupted as the beat kicked in, jumped while hands were thrown up. Some shouting the lyrics like they’d waited all week for this one moment. 

The lights flickered with the pulse of the bass, and for the first time that day, Till felt the knot in his chest loosen.

And with it, his voice soared. Louder. Rawer. Like he had nothing to lose and everything to scream. The kind of rasp that made his throat burn but made the room erupt harder, riding the wave of chaos.

“Cause I like it better.”

Hyuna picked up the second to last verse. Till glanced at her just as she turned his way, and without needing a cue, they both leaned into the last lines together.

The guitars roared, drums pounding, driving the song into its explosive end. Till and Hyuna stood centerstage, feeding off the high. 

Hyuna leaned in and threw a fist up. Till met it midair with a smirk, and just as he was pulling back, she planted a quick kiss on his cheek.

The crowd went wild. Screams, whistles, cheers that practically shook the walls.

He shot her an annoyed glare like really? 

Hyuna only grinned wider, then saluted him with a middle finger.

They played a few more songs after that, nothing as explosive as the first one, but still full of energy.

After an hour, they wrapped up and passed the stage to the next band. The owner waved them over at the side, handed Hyuna the envelope of cash with a grateful handshake, and gave Till a friendly slap on the back. All in all, a good night.

The moment they left the stage, Hyuna made a beeline for the bar.

"Three rum and cokes!" she yelled, already digging for her wallet.

Isaac groaned behind her. "You’re gonna burn half your pay in one night again."

Hyuna waved him off. “It’s tradition.”

Till sat back in the booth they always claimed after their gigs, towel around his neck, shirt clinging to his back. Dewey slid into the seat next to him with two bottles in hand and passed one over.

“You’ve got fans tonight,” Dewey said, nodding toward a table across the room.

Till followed his gaze. A group of girls from the crowd were stealing glances, half-laughing among themselves.

He looked away almost immediately, ears burning. 

“What fans?” he muttered, pretending to focus on the label like it had the answers to life. “They probably liked Hyuna.”

Dewey gave him a slow, side-eyed glance, then clicked his tongue.

“God, you’re insufferable,” he said, scoffing like Till had just said the dumbest thing imaginable. “Hyuna wasn’t the one wailing her lungs out front and center with eyeliner sharp enough to kill a woman.”

Till tried not to grin, but the corner of his mouth twitched anyway. He shrugged, still staring at the bottle. 

“It’s true, though.”

Dewey groaned. “Yeah, and I’m the Pope.”

After that jab, Till laughed under his breath and finally loosened up.

He nursed his drink, slow sips, nothing too heavy, while Dewey kept the conversation going. Just the usual post-gig talk, with the music from the next band carrying the vibe.

Till was on his nth drink when he felt a presence.

He glanced up.

A girl, a cute one, stood just beside their table, clutching her own drink like it gave her courage.

“Hey,” she said, just loud enough to cut through the bass.

Dewey didn’t even hide the way he leaned back in his chair, grinning into his bottle.

The girl glanced over her shoulder, clearly flustered. Till followed her gaze, there’s a group of people a few tables away, all of them grinning like maniacs and throwing exaggerated thumbs-ups and winks on the girl’s way.

She turned back to him, cheeks red, her fingers tightening around her drink. “Okay, uh, full disclosure,” she said, voice a little rushed. “This was a dare.”

Till blinked.

“I mean, uhm, you look cute, bu—” she added quickly, then offered a nervous smile. “But also… I mean, if you’re up for it. Haha. Do you wanna dance?”

Dewey immediately grabbed Till by the shoulders, shaking him with glee. “You better say yes, rockstar,” he whispered with a wicked grin.

Across the table, Hyuna burst out laughing, nearly choking on her drink. “Oh my god— his ears!” she cackled, pointing like it was the funniest thing she’d seen all night. 

Till groaned under his breath, but the warmth on his cheeks betrayed him. Still, he managed a small smile, standing up and glancing at the girl.

“Yeah,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sure.”

Till barely had time to register what was happening before the girl took his hand and tugged him toward the dance floor. Her grip was firm, nervous maybe, but determined.

The moment they stepped into the swirl of bodies and pulsing lights, Till expected something awkward, maybe a little distance, the kind of shuffle-dance people do during dares.

But no, her hands slid up to wrap around his neck, her body pressing in a little too close. Her face tilted up, lips parted slightly, breath warm against his chin. There was a smile there too, playful.

Too playful.

Till instinctively looked away and focused somewhere past her shoulder, scanning the crowd, pretending he didn’t just feel his own heart stutter.

A loud whistle cut through. He rolled his eyes. That’s definitely Hyuna.

As the bass thrummed, the girl leaned in just enough to be heard.

“You sounded so good up there,” she said, a little breathless. “Like, seriously! I thought my drink was laced or something.”

Till huffed a laugh, unsure where to look. “Uh… thanks. I try not to suck.”

The girl tilted her head, eyes narrowing playfully as she kept her arms loosely around Till’s neck.

“You’re not good at this, huh?” she said, grinning when his brows pulled together.

“At what?”

“This,” she said, giving a little tug to the space between them. “Flirting. Talking. Receiving compliments without looking like you’re about to pass out.”

Till let out a dry laugh, eyes darting anywhere but her face. “Yeah, well. I usually just sing and walk off stage. That’s my whole thing.”

She smirked. “Cute. Keep going though.”

“Huh?” Till said, dumbly.

“I said if we can kiss?”

Panic surged through him like cold water.

His hands, which had been resting lightly at her waist, twitched back as if burned. His whole body stiffened. His brain, completely blank. Then overheating.

“Kiss? Like, now?” he stammered, voice cracking halfway through.

The girl laughed, not unkindly, but clearly amused by his reaction. “Would I be your first?”

Till’s eyes widened like she’d just asked for his social security number. “What—no! I—”

Till didn’t have time to finish the sentence, because the girl leaned in.

It wasn’t rushed, but it wasn’t slow either. Just bold enough to knock the wind out of him. His brain stalled, mouth half-open with a word still hanging on his tongue.

Her hand slid up, fingers grazing the back of his neck, and she deepened the kiss.

He felt the flicker of her tongue part his lips gently, testing the waters. The touch made him shiver. It wasn’t aggressive, just enough to push past his daze and make him respond awkwardly.

Till closed his eyes and let his mouth take over. His hand found her waist, pulling her closer without thinking, while her arms wrapped around his head tighter. The music faded, the crowd became distant, and all that mattered was the warmth he was feeling.

But then, a memory played.

A garden, two blocks from his childhood home. Dry leaves crunching under their feet, the smell of sun-warmed soil.

"Can we try that thing too?” Ivan pointed his lips.”Touching our lips together."

"Ewww!!! Why would we do that?! No way, it’s gross!" he remembered saying, his face probably scrunched in disgust, half from nerves, half from not knowing what that meant yet.

The memory crashed into the present like a slap. 

His lips froze. His chest tightened.

Suddenly, the lights in the club seemed unbearable, too bright and too harsh for his eyes.

The girl leaned back a little, her brows knitting together. “Hey… everything alright?”

“But I wanted to try ittt~~~”

“Are you whining?” Till looked at him ridiculously. “Are you seriously whining?”

“Can’t we do it?” Ivan, who was still smaller than him, blinked repetitively. “Please?”

Till looked away. Damn, he really knows when to use that.

“I’ll think about when it’s your birthday.”

Till suddenly felt breathless. His chest tightened, and before he could stop himself, his hands pressed against the girl’s shoulders, gently pushing her back.

The girl blinked, startled. “Wha—”

“I—” he muttered, stepping away. His voice came out hoarse, unsure. “Sorry!”

Till turned, reached for his guitar where it leaned against the booth, and slung the strap over his shoulder in one rushed motion. His heart pounded, mind in too many places all at once.

“Till! Wha—” Hyuna’s voice rang behind him, sharp with concern. But he didn’t stop.

He pushed past the crowd, past the pulsing lights and rising music, out the door, and into the open air.

A small hand gripped the fabric of Till’s shirt from behind, stopping him in his tracks. . 

He turned around, annoyed but vanished completely when met with wide and blown red irises staring up at him.

“But today is my birthday,” Ivan whispered.

At one dimly lit corner of the club, Ivan finished the last of his grape juice. 

He set the glass down, slipped a folded bill into the jar by the bar, and gave a nod to the staff who served him.

“Thank you.”

With unhurried steps, he moved through the crowd, weaving past swaying bodies and flashing lights, heading out the same way Till had gone.

Chapter Text

Till tugged his jacket tighter around himself as he walked. Shoes scraping against the uneven sidewalk, streetlights casting soft amber patches against the rough pavement, flickering once in a while like they, too, couldn’t commit to staying on. 

He kept walking. Head down. Hands stuffed in his pockets.

The taste of that kiss still clung to his lips, foreign and immature, like the syrupy aftertaste of some growth vitamins. He winced. God, that had been a mess. Not the kiss itself, but the way his mind bailed out of the moment and pulled him backward to a memory that had no business surfacing.

He groaned under his breath and kicked a loose rock into the gutter.

What the hell am I supposed to say on the next rehearsal? He probably looked spooked, like he’d seen a ghost. And knowing Hyuna, she definitely noticed. Isaac and Dewey too. 

As for the girl... she must’ve thought he was insane.

Should I joke about it? Say it was the booze? Pretend he just got dizzy?

Till dragged a hand through his hair. "Shit." 

The street ahead stretched. Just a few rows of dark apartments, some windows glowing faintly. A banner for some old ramen shop fluttered in the breeze, half-torn from its nails. A couple of cats darted across the alley, slipping into shadows like chasing cars. 

Till exhaled through his nose and kept walking. A puddle reflected the warped shape of a broken streetlight as he passed. The scent of chicken soup and cheap flour drifted faintly from a closed bakery around the corner. There was a vending machine humming near the convenience store, its light whirring a little too bright.

His fingers flexed in his pockets, longing for a cigarette, but he’d left his pack in the dorm. 

Great . That left him to his thoughts again, hearing that girl’s chuckle, the feel of her moisted lips against his chapped ones, and then the snap of his brain pulling him back to that damn garden.

He was a kid with sunburned shoulders and scabbed knees back then, dragging a stick through the dirt as Ivan sat beside him under the guava tree behind Unsha’s house. The summer air was thick, humming with cicadas. Legs stretched out, not saying much, until Ivan suggested and insisted on doing it.

He hadn’t meant for it to happen. But it was one of those moments where saying no felt like walking away from something he didn’t yet understand. Ivan had been his only friend back then— if Till refused a third time, he’d lose him.

And at the time, Till couldn’t bear to lose Ivan.

So he had leaned in. Slowly. Thoughtlessly.

The kiss was brief. Their lips touched, soft and dry, not at all like he’d imagined a kiss would feel. It felt different from anything else. Different from a hug, which was easy. Different from a forehead kiss, not even a cheek peck.

That kiss… was another level. It wasn’t cinematic or breathless or heated. Just… close.   Too close that he thought he was breathing for the other person instead of himself.

After Till granted Ivan’s wish, he pulled back almost instantly. His face didn’t burn, his breath didn’t catch, he didn’t let it. He swallowed down the strange knot forming in his chest and rolled his shoulders, like he’d just crossed something off his to do list.

He remembered how he stuffed his hands in his pockets after, rocking slightly on his heels, eyes looking everywhere but Ivan’s. He might’ve even joked about it. He couldn’t remember now, only that he’d tried hard to make it seem like the kiss hadn’t done anything.

He shook his head once. Hard.

Stop thinking about it . He told himself. He tried to stay optimistic, convincing himself no one would bring it up. That maybe… just maybe, Hyuna would spare him, just this once.

He sighed at the wishful thinking and kept moving, not even realizing how fast he’d been walking until his legs started to ache. The dorm wasn’t far now, he could already see the entryway peeking between two narrow shops.

When he finally slowed his pace, a sound stirred behind him.

Till’s eyes narrowed, breath halting for a moment as his ears focused. The sound came again. Footsteps . Definitely. Not echoing like his, not from across the street, matched his pace a beat too late, like someone trying not to be noticed.

He slowed but didn’t stop walking, his lips pressed into a tighter line, brows pulled low. The fog brought by the amphetamine and alcohol in his head cleared just enough for his senses to wake-up.

Till’s eyes flicked to the side, not full turn yet,  but he could already picture it without looking… Ivan with that same unreadable face a few steps back, hooded eyes locked on his frame unblinking, trailing him home.

Ah, for fuck’s sake. Till’s feet stopped almost immediately, silently informing the man behind him that he was aware.  

Silence…

…

Now what? Till thought, already tasting the bitter consequence. Maybe it was the drink. Or the drugs still lingering in his system. Or maybe that sickly childhood kiss had scrambled his mood more than he realized.

He didn’t turn around. Didn’t speak. Just stood there, shoulders squared, letting the world gnaw at him for a good minute.

It was definitely the bad combination of drugs and alcohol . Till let out a breath, slow and calculated. Swearing to himself to never confuse his body between stimulant and depressant ever again.

Hilarious. Because he knows that he’ll do it again anyway. 

Slowly, Till turned around.

The street behind him was dim, the lamplight flickering harsh rays over the pavement. 

For a second, it seemed empty. 

But then, he saw him.

Ivan stood just outside the pool of light, half-consumed by shadow, the faint orange glow licking the edges of his silhouette. He wore a black turtleneck and a denim jacket thrown over it, sleeves pushed up just enough to show his veiny lower arm. Dark pants, and black and blue sneakers that are probably expensive.

Just like Till, he hadn’t moved. His hands tucked into his pockets, and his eyes… those empty eyes locked with Till’s. Focused. Watching him like he hadn’t just been caught.

Till stood his ground, his expression neutral, almost bored— like his pulse wasn’t painfully drumming in his temples.

With the lack of creativity, Till removed one of his hands out of the safety of his pocket.

“Yo.”

Till didn’t know why he did it. The word just left his mouth before his brain could catch up, or maybe just a desperate attempt to fill the silence that was quickly growing too loud in his head.

He shifted his weight, gaze flicking away briefly before returning to Ivan’s still figure. 

“I heard you transferred. Got some late night business or something?” he asked, almost lazily like he hadn’t been two seconds away from spiraling.

The silence stretched again, thick and uneven, as if the night itself was holding its breath between them. A car passed somewhere behind, its headlights sweeping briefly across them, but neither of them acknowledged it.

Ivan smiled.

It was small, practiced curved of lips and a tilt of his head that looked almost amused. 

“Yeah,” he said easily, like the conversation had been casual from the start. “I had to discuss the upcoming off-campus indie competition with the Theatre Club president.”

Till’s brows shot up. 

Luka was the Theatre Club president. And he‘d been on shift all day at the café.

Till didn’t call out the lie. He just hummed, stuffing his hands deeper into his jacket pockets. “I see,” he said, with a faint nod. “I mean, yeah, I also heard you’re a scriptwriter.”

He let the words hang there, pretending he didn’t notice the way Ivan’s smile lingered a little too long.

“How are you, Till?” 

Till almost shivered, not from the cold, but from the way Ivan said his name. The tone was slow, glutinous, sweet, and wrong . 

It stuck to his ears longer than it should.

“I’m good,” Till answered casually. He cleared his throat and shifted his weight, as if that could scrub off the discomfort crawling up his spine. “Just letting off some steam.”

Ivan didn’t nod. He didn’t need to. His eyes were doing all the talking anyway— calm and fixed, the kind of stare that made you feel like you were already answering questions you hadn’t been asked yet.

Till couldn’t bear his stare longer. So, dumbly, he thumbed over his shoulder, gesturing to the path behind him. 

“That's your way too?”

Ivan blinked once, like he hadn’t expected Till to speak at all— at least not that. 

There was a small pause, barely noticeable, before his mouth curved up. “Yeah.”

Till turned after a small nod. 

“Cool. Let’s walk together then.”

Till didn’t move right away. He stood there for a beat, watching Ivan from the corner of his eye, waiting. And when Ivan finally took a step forward, Till followed. Not ahead, not behind, just enough to match his pace.

They walked side by side. Neither spoke. Their footsteps were the only sound for a while, muffled against the damp pavement, almost too in sync. 

“You reside in this dormitory too?” Ivan asked as they stepped through the gate.

Till bit down a scoff. The question was harmless on the surface, but coming from Ivan, it reeked of theater. 

Well, two can play that game.

“Been staying here since freshman year,” he replied, eyes fixed ahead, not even glancing back at Ivan. The sidewalk curved gently under their feet, dappled with shadow from the row of acacia trees lining the outer courtyard. 

Till kept his pace even, trying not to let the itch behind his ribs spread. He hated how familiar this felt, walking beside Ivan, pretending the silence was their healthiest conversation.

Till never disliked the silence. Not with the man beside him in it, but if Ivan wanted to act like this was just some run-of-the-mill conversation, then fine. Till could fake it too.

The hallway greeted them with its usual dim overhead lighting and pale cream walls that always seemed like they were one shift away from crumbling. Their footsteps echoed faintly off the tiles as they ascended the stairwell in silence, tension pooling thick between each step. 

Till reached his floor first, boots clicking against the hallway as he made the familiar turn left. He stopped in front of his door, pulled out his key, and just as he was about to slide it into the lock, Ivan stopped at the door directly across.

Of course.

Till didn’t need to look to know the grin forming on Ivan’s face. 

“Oh,” Ivan said, as if this were all new to him, voice lilting with false wonder. “You’re the one across mine? What a coincidence.”

Till turned, his brows ticking upward, a dry smirk curling his lips.

“What a small world,” he responded, voice thick with sarcasm. If Ivan was waiting for him to crack, he wasn’t getting the pleasure tonight. 

They stood there for a second, facing each other with the locked doors on each side, both perfectly aware that this wasn’t a coincidence and that neither of them was playing a clean game.

“Well then,” Ivan said, sultry. “It’s… good to see you again, Till.”

Till only nodded. Not cold, but certainly not warm. Just a non-committal gesture, enough to pass for a goodbye.

He turned the knob and stepped halfway inside, hand still holding the door when Ivan called behind him.

“Till.”

The name was just enough to make him glance back.

“Do you… wanna hang out again?” Ivan tilted his head, a smile still lingering like a bruise. “I mean, in your room? You know… Just like the old times.”

Till looked at him. 

Really looked. Right in the eyes.

Ha … He’s Tired, maybe. Of the old tricks. The nudges. The feigned serendipity. 

Till could’ve smiled. Could’ve laughed it off, just like before. Could’ve said yes, even if he didn’t mean it.

But Ivan still seemed to know all his buttons… So, he didn’t.

“No, Ivan,” Till said with a head shake. “You will not enter my room.”

Till wasn’t thinking when he said it. It wasn’t a product of careful decision, or hesitation, or fear. It just came out, instinctual. The idea of Ivan inside his space, breathing the same air, standing where he rested, Till didn’t welcome it. 

Not anymore.

But the moment the words left his mouth, something shifted.

Ivan didn’t react right away. He didn’t flinch or smile it off. Instead, he stared, eyes steady, unblinking. Like Till had just revealed something...

… confessed something.

Till felt the corner of his mouth twitch, but kept his face unreadable. He cursed himself inwardly. Not for the words, but for the silence that followed. For the weight of Ivan’s gaze pressing onto him like he’d just cracked open the door to something bigger than rejection.

Ivan’s stare changed, slowly, disturbingly… The amusement drained first, leaving behind something colder. His eyes darkened in a way that wasn’t angry… 

He looks ravenous. Unhealthily starved .

Ivan wasn’t hurt by the rejection. He’s interested . More than before. Like the rejection didn’t push him back, but rather, pulled him further in.

Till stood his ground, jaw tense, fingers curled around the edge of his door like it was the only barrier between him and something he didn’t want to name.

He only breathed once, slowly, and began closing the door. Not too fast. Just enough to make sure the latch echoed louder than it needed to.

Click.

And still, he could feel Ivan’s eyes on the other side.

The late afternoon sun slanted through the windows, casting long bright rays across the polished wooden floors. 

Till regretted everything the second he stepped past the threshold. The door chimed above him as he dragged himself inside, his limbs heavy and throat dry from sleep he barely got. 

I shouldn’t have drank . He thought while sniffing the aroma of burnt espresso and lemon glaze. I shouldn’t have taken anything on top of the drinking.

But there he was, in a half-buttoned work shirt, apron folded under his arm. He gave a tired nod to the girl wiping the pastry display and ducked behind the counter, tying his apron with the kind of sluggishness that made the coffee grinder sound like a jet engine in his skull.

“Finally,” Luka muttered from behind the espresso machine without looking up.

Till didn’t answer. He didn’t have the energy. Instead, he washed his hands, grabbed a rag, and started wiping down the counter.

The café was decently busy, early dinner rush creeping in a mix of students, freelancers, and tired professors glued to their screens over half-eaten bagels. Indie music played overhead, something soft with too much reverb. It was the same playlist as always, it grated on Till’s nerves.

Luka being not subtle about his ‘betrayal ’ didn’t help. The passive-aggression practically radiated off him like steam. 

First, he had Till restock all the milk and syrups in the fridge, twice, because Luka claimed the order wasn’t in alphabetical alignment. Then, he asked him to deep clean the juicer. Then, he handed him a clipboard with a ten-minute deadline to complete the entire stocktake of the front bar… during peak customer hours.

And when that wasn’t enough, Luka asked him to sweep the entire front floor and mop it all within a twenty-minute stretch.

“What’s your problem today?”

Luka leaned back on the counter, arms crossed, smiling like someone who waited for the explosion. “Problem?”

“Yeah. You’ve assigned me six things in the last hour like this is military training.”

“I just think the place deserves a little more... sparkle. You know?”

Till huffed. “You want sparkle? Ask the new kid. I’m on the bar shift today.”

“You were at the bar. But since you forgot to bring the rest of the house blend from storage, now you’re on ‘everything else .’”

Till’s brows furrowed. “This isn’t about coffee, is it?”

Luka raised both brows. “Isn’t it?”

“No,” Till said with a ‘pft’. “This is about Hyuna.”

The silence that followed told him everything.

Till exhaled, chest tight with something close to guilt but too exhausted to feel full responsibility. “For godsake, I told you I can’t anger her.”

“No, but you’re the only one she listens to these days.” Luka looked away, faking casual, but the bitterness cut clean through. “One word from you and I would’ve known where and when she was performing. But no. Instead, I get to hear secondhand that she’s doing a new set at Alien stage, and I missed it!”

“What’s the point of being rich if you’ll not use it? I wasn’t the only option for infos, you should’ve used the secondhand in the first place!”

“It’s not exactly my money. If my father heard about this, he would force me to transfer.”

Till scoffed. “You want to watch your ex that your papa doesn't approve of and you thought guilt-tripping me was the way to go?”

“I thought you’d understand. You’re there for her rehearsals. You see how she changes when she’s on stage. Don’t you think someone like me would want to see that again?”

“Why?” Till asked, cold and flat. “So you could convince yourself she still sings for you?”

Luka’s smile dropped for the first time.

Till cursed himself. That was low, more personal than he had the right to be. His jaw tensed, throat tight with the burn of crossing a line he didn’t even know he was willing to toe. But he didn’t take it back.

“You’re a dick,” Luka muttered, brushing past him.

Till didn’t stop him. He just stood there for a beat longer than he meant to, hands sticky with syrup from the unopened bottles, heart pounding because of unplaced anger.

Calm down . He convinced himself and wiped his palms on his apron. 

The shift continued. Luka stopped tossing him impossible tasks. The guy kept a distance from him, working behind his laptop behind the counter in robotic silence, taking orders whenever the new cashier was pre-occupied by something and flashing the same tired grin to customers. 

The change of pace put Till at ease, at least externally.

But that small, anxious part of him, the one that overthinks, still burned. He wondered if he should’ve said less. Or more. Then again, he and Luka weren’t friends. Whatever complicated middle ground they were standing, it wasn’t exactly worth bleeding over.

Still, it left a weird film in his brain.

Before he knew it, the sun dipped completely, and the sky went from copper to charcoal in minutes. 

Then the rain started to whisper, then escalated fast. A full, wet downpour that clapped hard against the glass and sent customers inside in clusters. Umbrellas shook out near the doorway, jackets dripped onto the tile, and the café's once-steady pace ramped up to borderline chaotic.

Till cursed under his breath. The changing weather’s insane lately . He thought, squinting at the window. 

Then it hit him. Because, of course… Of courseee, he forgot to bring an umbrella.

He was halfway through mixing a red tea latte and profanities under his breath when he heard a familiar voice behind him. 

“Hello,” the voice greeted smoothly, directed at the cashier. “I’m looking for Luka.”

Till’s hand froze mid-pour.

He didn’t have to turn around. The back of his skull already knew. 

Ivan.

The cashier stammered, clearly startled by his sparkly presence. “Oh, It’s you! I— uh… he’s here. One moment.”

Till tilted his head slightly, enough to catch a reflection in the brass of the espresso machine.

Ivan stood calmly by the counter. His gaze was leisurely, taking in the wood grain of the menu boards, then drifting across the café like he was cataloging every layout of the bar, the small indoor plants by the windows, even the half-wiped chalk art on the specials board.

Till continued to watch him through the panel. From that warped reflection, Ivan looked just the same as last night: collected and unbothered, like he didn’t give Till a strange, inhuman look.

You know… Just like the old times.

Till’s eyes squinted. He could grant that wish. Maybe even play along, if only in the name of pretending…

But even the idea left a sour taste in his mouth.

Because truthfully, Till wasn’t sure he could take it. Not with the way Ivan’s behavior twisted at the seams, how it slipped into something too disturbing. Something strange. Something abnormal.

They hadn’t spoken in years. Not since their friendship split like a snapped branch, jagged and unresolved. And now, suddenly, Ivan was here, transferred schools, chose the same dormitory, orbiting closer again all just for him .

Till’s brows furrowed.

What the hell exactly did he want from me?

As if hearing the thought, Ivan’s eyes suddenly flicked to the panel— straight to the brass, landing right where Till’s gaze was.

Almost immediately, Till turned his eyes down and busied his hands with the syrup bottles. Thanking Anakt that he was wearing headwrap that tucked his ash-colored hair.

He exhaled slowly. 

Not now. Not here.

As if on cue, Luka’s head popped out from behind the divider, expression shifting the second he saw who it was.

“Ivan,” he called out, drying his hands on a towel. “Give me a minute. I’ll be with you in a bit.”

Till peeked again. He saw Ivan nodded once, then glanced at his direction, just a flicker not a stare.

Till’s eyes averted again, still refusing to look back. He made sure to keep Ivan in his blindsight, just enough to know where not to look. 

He set the finished latte on the pickup tray and wiped the rim clean. No need to call it out. Whoever it was for would grab it.

He turned back to the sink, rinsing out syrup pumps that weren’t dirty, rearranging clean cloths just to keep his hands moving. Anything but standing still. 

Anything but glancing left.

He wasn’t going to check if Ivan was still there. Even if the weight of his stare still clung to the back of his neck.

Till was halfway through prepping a matcha oat latte when their voices started drifting over from the staff counter.

He hadn’t meant to listen (he really didn’t) but Luka had that naturally sharp tone that cut through café noise like steam hissing from a broken wand. Paired with Ivan’s low, steady responses that was impossible not to notice.

“No, that schedule works,” Ivan said, sounding bored. “If we do the script reading midweek, around Wednesday or Thursday, it won’t clash with practice. We’re light on drills this week.”

Till tamped the matcha powder harder than necessary into the shaker, forcing the lid down a bit too rough. His ears pricked up at the mention of script reading. 

“Fair enough,” Luka muttered. “We’re finalizing the cast this Tuesday. Most of the roles are taken, though that girl from Fashion Design submitted her name just after we talked yesterday.”

Till’s hand faltered just slightly as he poured the milk. Not enough to ruin the foam, but enough for him to feel it.

So they did have a meeting yesterday . He thought, blinking down at the green-and-white swirl forming in the cup. Ivan wasn’t lying. He really did come from the meeting…

He glanced up toward the counter, not at them, just vaguely in their direction, but the angle of the espresso machine showed nothing but his own faint reflection in the copper surface.

Did that mean Ivan wasn’t following him last night?

No— wait . His thoughts stumbled. No one said he came straight after. The meeting could’ve ended early. Ivan could’ve doubled back. Could’ve just—

The foamed milk nearly spilled over the rim. He hissed under his breath and wiped the edge clean, trying to exhale the tension out of his chest.

It was too much. He was thinking way too much. And yet his brain kept looping through the same damn question. 

Like, why did it even matter if it’s true or not?

Till placed the matcha oat latte on the tray, pulled back, and moved on to the next drink.

The rest of the shift passed. Till worked like a cog in the system, rotating through drink orders and syrup bottles, dodging the occasional spill and ignoring the weight in his stomach that had nothing to do with food. 

Evening bled into night, and the rain refused to let up. By the time they wiped down the counters and flipped the chairs on tables, it was nearly midnight. Till had changed out into his black skull shirt and dark navy blue hoodie again, the one with the faded print and fraying neckline. 

He stood at the front of the café, just under the narrow overhang where the rain couldn’t touch him yet. Enough cover to smoke.

The downpour hissed against the sidewalk, the sound filling in the spaces where his thoughts normally were. He lit a cigarette, dragged in the smoke, and stared out at the distorted lights of nearby premises.

His head was buzzing, probably from the lack of sleep. He remembered his early class tomorrow and did the math: if he braved the storm now, he could get home at twenty. Thirty if the road was bad. Shower. Crash. Wake up in five hours, if he was lucky.

Another drag.

He leaned against the wall behind him, the taste of tobacco coated his tongue, letting the smoke curl into the night air like steam from a boiling pot. The cold from the wet ground crept into the soles of his sneakers.

Then the café door creaked open a few feet to his left. A soft jingle of the bell followed, almost drowned by the sound of running shoes meeting damp concrete. A large figure stepped out, shoulders catching the glow of the streetlight.

Till didn’t bother to look to know who it was. He kept his eyes trained on the streetlight’s reflection in the puddle across the road, pretending it was more interesting than the man now standing a few feet from him. Praying that maybe if he stood still enough, Ivan would not notice him. That for once, maybe the guy could just choose peace and walk away.

But that would be out of character, wouldn’t it?

“Stranded?” Ivan’s voice came low, close enough to be heard over the rain.

Till didn’t respond immediately. He inhaled from his cigarette, letting the smoke buy him time.

“Obviously, I’m not swimming into that,” he said flatly, nodding at the downpour ahead of them.

He still didn’t turn his head. Just stared forward, stubborn, even when he could feel Ivan’s gaze crawling over his profile like a client checking out how shiny a car was.

“You look like…” Ivan paused. “One of those people waiting for a miracle.”

Till clicked his tongue and let out a dry exhale. “I’m calculating how much sleep I’ll get if I run for it in five minutes.”

“You won’t make it dry.”

“No shit.”

He finally turned his head slightly, just enough to glance at Ivan through the fringe of his bangs. Ivan was still in his varsity jacket from earlier, his broad shoulders relaxed, his hands shoved into his pockets.

That pissed Till off a little more than it should.

“What, you waiting too?” he asked, flicking ash to the side.

Ivan didn’t answer right away. Instead, he looked up at the sky, letting the rain hit the tips of his shoes. “Nah, I just like the sound of the rain.”

“Must be nice, having no classes to get wrecked for in the morning.”

“Actually, I do,” Ivan said while pulling a small, compact umbrella from the side of his duffel, unopened. “Wanna share?”

Till didn’t even hesitate. “No.”

Ivan’s snaggletooth pressed on his lower lip harder. “I can drive you. It's parked close.”

“The dorms are literally just a few minutes away.” 

“But the rain’s not going to stop,” Ivan said, gesturing toward the wall of water just beyond the awning. “Besides, we’re staying in the same dormitory. A ride with an old friend would be more than convenient, don’t you think?”

There was something in the way Ivan said “an old friend” that sat wrong with Till. Too cunning— like it wasn’t meant to be comforting or even nostalgic. Not a gesture offered out of warmth, but one laced with a hook .

Till had known Ivan long enough to recognize all the drips and flavors in his tone...

...and scheming was one of the hundreds he hated the most.

Till looked back out at the street. The rain hadn’t slowed down in the slightest. His shoes would be soaked the moment he stepped off the curb, and the wind had started pushing the cold spray beneath the overhang. He imagined the way his hoodie would cling to his skin, how uncomfortable it’d be sitting in wet jeans, and how little sleep he’d get.

Still, he’d rather get the flu than share the air with Ivan inside a car.

Till reached out for the umbrella. Ivan handed it over without a fuss, the corner of his mouth twitching like he was holding back another tease.

He opened it with a click and stepped into the downpour. 

“I’ll walk,” Till’s tone didn’t leave room for discussion. Ivan blinked dumbly, like the words hadn’t quite registered yet. “I’ll give the umbrella back to you in the dorms. See you.”

He didn’t wait for a reply. His steps were fast, shoulders hunched as he splashed through the wet road. The umbrella was small but reliable, keeping him mostly dry as the heavy rainfall. 

The streets were washed clean and dim under the glow of passing headlights. Till kept his eyes forward, locking his jaw as he walked past puddles. Every part of him pretending that the top down black car rolling behind him didn’t exist. 

It didn’t honk to insist on the offer, nor the headlights flicker to get his attention. Just followed close enough.

By the time the dormitory came into view, his pace had built into a near march. He turned into the walkway, wet shoes squeaking on the tile under the building’s entrance. The door opened, the warm light from the foyer welcomed him with a sigh of heat.

Once inside, Till shook the umbrella and folded it. The stairwell was quiet. His footsteps echoed as he climbed up to his floor.

He stopped between his door and Ivan’s, the umbrella dangled from his hand, dripping at the hem.

Ivan appeared not long after, hair dampened, his red jacket now draped over one arm. He probably used it on the way back since Till had taken the umbrella. 

Till stepped forward and held out the umbrella without a word, eager to get this over so he could get rid of Ivan and close the night behind him.

“Thanks,” Till said when Ivan accepted it.

Till turned to his door, key already in hand.

Before he could twist it, a pair of possessive arms suddenly wrapped around him from behind. 

Till almost slipped a short squeak, but his instincts overrode it. Leaving him frozen, eyes wide, and trapped. A solid chest followed, pressing flush against his spine and radiating heat that fought the wet chill clinging to his clothes.

A nose then brushed the half damp skin at the base of his nape, followed by a sensual breath and slow press of a mouth. It wasn’t a kiss. It was a nuzzle, grazing as though the skin there held warmth Ivan wanted to drink from.

Till’s shoulders locked up. “What the fuck are you doin—”

A wet lick of a tongue landed just below his jaw that made his words unfinished and mouth parted slightly. 

His eyes shut, tight and hard. Teeth clenched until they clicked. Then came the sound, a slurp, loud and obscene— rainwater and sweat drawn from the slope of his neck like it was something worth savoring. 

Hands gripped him firm, pinning him between his locked door and the damn guy assaulting his neck from behind.

“Ivan, let fucking go of m—”

“I miss you, Till.”

The words dropped against the back of his neck, barely louder than a breath. But there was no longing in them…

Like it wasn’t a confession. More of a claim .

Till didn’t even have time to fully process the weight of it before Ivan pressed in harder from behind, closing whatever space had remained between their bodies. His arm snaked upward, the palm of his hand cupping Till’s jaw, fingers coaxing his head to tilt further to the right so his tongue could reach the hidden spots that he has yet to taste. 

A low murmur hummed against the shell of Till’s ear. “Hmm… I miss you so much, baby. It’s driving me crazy.”

The endearment curled around Till’s stomach like smoke, cloying…

… disgusting.

Till swung his elbow backward. It hit a hollow part of Ivan’s cheek, earning him a soft grunt as the contact was made. 

Ivan didn’t stumble, but the weight pressing into Till’s back lifted, warmth peeling away just enough to feel the cold creeping again.

Till turned, angry and flushed, eyes wide with a threat that hadn’t yet taken full form. 

“Don’t call me that!”

Ivan just stood there.

Blinking.

His head was slightly tilted, as if he hadn’t even registered the strike. A thin line of blood started to bloom along the split of his lower lip, but he didn’t wipe it. Instead, his gaze drifted upward, staring at some point above Till’s head like he was lost in thought.

The silence stretched. Till's anger shifted to something more confused, more unnerved. 

What the hell was he thinking?

Ivan’s eyes lowered again, finally landing on him.

“You should get inside, baby.”

Till’s mouth parted, ready to snap at him for repeating that filthy endearment when his eyes dropped out of reflex.

Revulsion hit him in a wave when he saw the tent straining against the front of Ivan’s pants.

"You don't want me pulling you inside my place and dicking you down until you miss all your morning classes tomorrow, won’t you?”

The words were said cruelly and shamelessly, like Ivan was offering Till a choice, one that wasn’t really a choice at all.

Till didn’t wait for another word. His breath caught sharp in his chest as he turned with a forceful pivot, key jamming into the lock. 

The moment the door gave, he stepped inside and slammed it behind him, hard.

Till dreamed of a memory.

He was seven.

That night, he'd drifted off early, worn out from a full day spent playing in his room with Ivan. The kind of day that left his body pleasantly sore and his head light. He remembered the hum of the ceiling fan, the softness of his sheets, and the muffled sound of someone’s television a floor below. 

But sometime deep into the night, something stirred him.

There was a faint glow flickering behind the curtains. Not the sterile blue of streetlights, but something warmer, moving. Ember-colored.

Groggy, he rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand and pushed himself up. The fan still hummed, but silent somehow. He shuffled toward the window and peeked through the slats.

Two blocks away, at the edge of Unsha’s backyard, he saw it: a small figure in white. Alone. 

Ivan.

The fire in front of him wasn’t small. It licked the air in sharp, orange tongues, not wild, but too tall for a casual bonfire. For a moment, Till didn’t think much of it. He’d assumed Ivan was having a pretend campout, maybe playing some game by himself after dinner. He even waited, expecting Ivan to reach into a plastic bag and pull out marshmallows.

But the moment never came. The boy just stood there, still. Watching the flames.

Till’s brows furrowed. Something about the scene didn’t sit right. He was about to whisper Ivan’s name through the pane when, suddenly, the boy below snapped his head toward him.

It was too sharp, too fast. Like a deer catching the break of a branch in the woods.

The sudden movement made Till flinch.

Those eyes… Wide. Unblinking. Till didn’t know what red irises looked like back then, not exactly, but even now in the dream, he could see it clearly: blown wide, unnatural, like a camera flash caught in a predator’s stare.

Still, his seven-year-old self tilted his head, curious. Innocent.

Then, with the soft logic of childhood, he smiled. Just a little one, just enough to show he wasn’t scared. 

After a yawn, he lifted his hand and gave his friend a small wave.

Ivan didn’t wave back.

But he smiled.

Wide. Too wide. Stretched across his face like it didn’t belong there, teeth too bright in the firelight. Not cruel. Not even happy. Just… off. 

Till watched for another minute or two before sleep began tugging at him again. His lids drooped, and with one last glance at Ivan’s eerie, unmoving figure, he crawled back into bed.

He didn’t remember dreaming of anything after that.

But somewhere outside, long after Till had shut his eyes and turned away, Ivan stayed unmoved. Staring up and still smiling. 

Like he’d seen the most beautiful meteor fall from the sky.

Chapter Text

Till couldn’t ignore it anymore.

It was stupid— beyond foolish even, that he let it escalate this far. That he waited to be touched before scramming for safety solutions. As if he needed more proof pressed hard into his bonobo brain before acting, as if the discomfort of Ivan’s long term stalking hadn’t been enough.

He was under the illusion that if he just let everything flow, everything would be under control. Like if he stayed obtuse and vague, it would all fizzle out on its own. That Ivan would get bored and move on. 

But of course, he hadn’t. 

Till should’ve known. God, their childhood alone should’ve been enough warning. The way Ivan hovered close, the way he insisted on things, the way he could twist light moments into something disturbing… 

But Till, young and dense, had mistaken it for attachment, had convinced himself that Ivan was just lonely, intense, and afraid to lose something, given his still unknown origins. 

He downplayed his own unbecomings by reminding himself that Ivan had come from something far more unstable. That before Unsha adopted him, Ivan had lived a different kind of childhood— cruel, violent, full of things Till couldn’t imagine happening to him. 

Till cared, if that wasn’t obvious or told enough. Even if he had been harsh to Ivan. That was something he couldn’t deny to himself.

That’s why that moment in Unsha’s garden, was both his most painful and the best decision he’d ever made. Sure, it tore a rib on him, Ivan stayed beside him when no one else did. But even at that age, he knew that endurance wasn’t the same thing as affection.

Till had enough, and his desire in keeping the only person who endured his imperfect ass to himself wasn’t enough to keep their strange relationship going. 

Now, years later, he was repeating the same mistake in a new costume.

Wait, repeating? Till blinked. No, wait wait wait… Am I at that point yet? 

Till’s thoughts were still in shambles when a finger tapped the center of his forehead, right where his brows had knitted tight.

“Dude,” Hyuna said with curiosity and a chuckle. “You’re gonna give yourself a wrinkle.”

Till turned his head and realized they were in Jacob’s garage. 

The place looked the same as always. Half chaotic, half lived-in. A couch made from the backseats of an old camper van sat slouched in the corner, its leather faded and cracked, like it had absorbed years of noise and cigarette smoke. Amp wires sprawled across the cement floor, tangled like no one ever really tried to organize them. Tools were scattered on a workbench nearby too, untouched for weeks but the owner was too sentimental to throw it away.

The air smelled faintly of oil and dust, with a lingering scent of something citrusy—probably the cheap air freshener Isaac kept taped to the breaker box. The light above them flickered once, then steadied, casting a warm, tired glow over the space.

It wasn’t a proper rehearsal room, but it worked. Besides, it’s free.

Hyuna slouched beside him. “You good, or do you need to go sit in a church for a second?”

They were rehearsing for their next gig on Saturday. Normally, he wouldn’t take weekend shows because of his café shift, but one of his co-workers had asked to switch due to personal reasons.

Till gave a short exhale through his nose. “I’m fine.”

Hyuna hummed and leaned forward, elbows resting on her knees as her thumbs moved across her phone screen. The low strum of a bass echoed from the corner of the garage, along with the rustle of someone rummaging through cables. They were on break, waiting for Isaac to come back with the snacks. 

Till leaned back. He hadn’t meant to look, really, he hadn’t. But from this angle, the glow of Hyuna’s screen was hard to miss. 

She wasn’t replying to any texts yet, just skimming. Till caught flashes of her inbox, and he could tell that most of it were gig offers, group chats, and scheduling updates… 

… But one thread sat at the top. Unopened. 

Luka’s.

He didn’t see the messages themselves, just the very noticeable boldness of the font and number beside it. It had clearly been going on longer than he’d realized.

Hyuna replied to a venue’s message, flicked through her calendar (probably checking to check availability), then paused. Her thumb hovered to her lock screen a second too long. 

After a moment, she pulled down the notification bar at the top. Till watched as her eyes skimmed the previews. 

Luka’s name popped up again. One of them read: “I’m not asking you to answer, I just—”

Hyuna swiped the preview right away.

Till looked away, swallowing whatever questions had started to form. 

Hyuna sighed, low and long like she'd been holding it in for a while. Then her hand reached up and scratched the back of her nape, fingers brushing her tied-up hair. The skin there was flushed a little, either from heat or tension. Maybe both.

Till figured she’d go back to her phone. But then she tilted her head slightly toward him and said. “So… was that girl in the bar not your type, or was she too forward?”

Till blinked.

Hyuna didn’t look at him. Her voice was even, almost lazy, like she was just making conversation with whoever happened to be nearby to distract herself.

Till exhaled through his nose, leaned his head back and stared up at the ceiling with peeled paint. He already expected that she’ll bring it up, so it’s not really a surprise.

“I mean…” he started, dragging the words out. “She said it was a dare. The dance, I mean. That’s all she mentioned. She didn’t say anything about a kiss.”

“It’s a nightclub, Till. There’s no such thing as just dancing,” Hyuna cracked a laugh. “What, you felt ambushed?”

Till made a face. “Who wouldn’t?”

“I know, I know.” She held her hands up like she meant to surrender but couldn’t stop laughing. “It’s just… I don’t know, your face? You looked like someone tried to stab you with a toothpick and your soul just left your body.”

Till groaned. “Please don’t describe it like that.”

Hyuna smirked. “Come on. Are you telling me the only reason you froze like a deer in headlights is because you weren’t warned she was gonna kiss you?”

“Yes.”

She squinted at him, obviously not buying it.

“What?” he shot back, defensive now.

Hyuna leaned forward slightly, grinning wildly. “Are you sure it’s not because you’re embarrassed to admit you don’t know how to kiss a girl?”

Till stammered. “Wha… No! What the hell, Hyuna?”

She burst into another fit of laughter, slapping her thigh. “I knew it!”

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered under his breath, heat crawling up his neck. “I’m never telling you anything again.”

“No, no, too late. That’s in my pocket forever.” She beamed, clearly enjoying herself. “I should ask Dewey to make a badge for you. 'Victim of Spontaneous Kissing.'”

Till grumbled something unintelligible and slouched further into his seat, trying not to laugh despite himself. Maybe if he stayed quiet long enough, the floor would swallow him whole. Or at least until Isaac came back to save him from the gremlin beside him.

For a while, neither of them said anything.

They didn’t speak for a good minute. Instead, they both stared out at the street in silence. Cars passed now and then. A kid yelled across the road, a dog barked in response, and then everything quieted again.

Till leaned forward, arms resting on his knees. He exhaled quietly through his nose, not quite sighing, just letting it out. His gaze followed a passing bicycle until it disappeared behind a fence. Then, like testing the waters, he called.

“Hyuna.”

She turned to him almost immediately. “Yeah?”

Till hesitated. He looked down at his hands. They weren’t shaking, but he kept rubbing a thumb along the edge of his palm. 

“Actually…” There was a war in his chest and words queued at the back of his throat. He wanted to talk. He needed to. But how much was safe? How much would sound insane? How much of it would make him look weak?

Till’s mouth felt dry, tongue heavy behind his teeth. He inhaled through his nose for the nth time and let a long pause pass again.

“Damn it, fine. I had a stalker.”

Hyuna didn’t react, didn’t shoot back a question, or make a joke to cut the tension. She just stayed still, eyes forward, shoulders relaxed, and arms crossed, like she’s digesting those four words slowly.

The silence that followed was patient. Like she knew better than to crowd him, and maybe even knew this was the kind of thing that only came out when someone wasn’t being pushed forcefully.

He swallowed and rubbed his thumb again. “It was a childhood friend. Someone I trusted for too long. At first, I kept thinking it was just attachment, like a kid being clingy. But it wasn’t just that. It twisted somewhere along the way.”

He flexed his hands, fingers twitching like they wanted to do something… clench, hold, push away. 

“Since we were kids, I didn’t draw the line early. That’s on me. I didn’t know how to, back then. I didn’t want to lose that person. So I let a lot of things slide,” there was a bitter pause before he added. “Too much, actually.”

Another moment of silence. He wasn’t sure if Hyuna was waiting for more or giving him space to unravel it at his own pace.

“I thought cutting that person off alone would fix everything,” he said, voice low. “That if I just moved forward and never talked to that person again, the impact would go away. But… it didn’t. Not really. It bled into everything I do. It made me paranoid. It still follows me around.”

He risked a glance at Hyuna.

She was still watching him, not with pity. Just… understanding. 

Hyuna’s voice broke the silence gently.

“Is that why… I mean. With that girl in the club—”

Till nodded. 

Hyuna hummed. 

“Did this person... ever cross the line? I mean… harass you in any way?” 

Till didn’t respond right away. His eyes stayed fixed on the ridged bone of his knuckle, thumb circling slowly like it was the most interesting thing in the world.

“There was a kiss,” he admitted. “Just once. It was mutual. Out of curiosity. And at the time, it didn’t feel wrong. But looking back… I think that’s when things started to change.”

“Hmm, can you elaborate on the change?”

“That person started getting weird after that. Looking at me longer, getting so possessive… I didn’t even realize how messed up that was until way later.”

“Ahuh?” Hyuna looked up, trying to mend everything together. “What made you realize though?”

That caught Till off guard.

“I—” the image of Clem flashed. 

“Oh, if it’s too sensitive I won’t push it.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t disclose that…”

Hyuna panicked a little. “Hey, it’s fine. Why the heck are you apologizing?” 

Till stared at the floor between his shoes. There was an answer to that question, of course. But what he just shared was the outermost ring of a story he hadn’t even finished telling himself.

Anything beyond that kiss was too much to touch. And maybe, deep down, he feared that once he started explaining it, it'd complicate things further in a way that wouldn’t let him compartmentalize it anymore.

Ugh. He hated that he knew full well it’d probably help to tell Hyuna everything. That she'd understand. That she might even help him make sense of it. But he also knew the possible outcomes if he dragged her into it. 

Hyuna shifted beside him. “So…” she paused to press her lips together. “Do you want advice? Or like…err, hmm. Can you tell me what part of this is making your struggle?”

Till licked his lower lip, his fingers rubbing slow circles into his palms. The question wasn’t even complicated, but answering it felt like trying to find footing on loose gravel.

“I don’t want advice,” he said finally, voice low. “Maybe I just… want to hear what I could’ve done differently. Like, an alternate scenario where I didn’t let it drag out as long as I did.”

Till knew how convoluted it sounded. That he wanted something that couldn’t exist anymore, a second chance at being a version of himself that cut the thread clean when it started to tangle. One that didn’t keep giving the benefit of the doubt. 

He was watering it all down. Reducing the weight of the story to a problem that happened in the past, not something that is still creeping its way into the present.

Why? Because it sounded easier that way. At least for him.

Hyuna blinked once. Then again. 

Slowly, her brows furrowed.

“So basically, you’re asking for a delusion?”

Till cringed, but realized that it fits. “I— Kind of? Yeah.”

There was a pause. And then she let out a dry scoff, pushing her bangs away from her face as she turned to fully face him. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I know.”

“No, seriously. Out of all the things you could ask for… like closure, a slap in the face, or even therapy. You’re out here fishing for fake scenarios?”

He shrugged with a wince. “Sometimes I think delusions are just… softer truths. They don't fix anything, but they help you sleep.”

Hyuna stared at him for a beat longer, like she was trying to find the line between concern and disbelief. Then she sat back and exhaled through her nose. “You don’t get to complain about how messed up your brain feels when you’re actively choosing to mess it up more.”

“I’m not messing it up,” Till said mildly. “I’m just… editing the narrative a little.”

“Oh my god.”

Till looked over at her, deadpan. “What?”

“Do you hear yourself?” She waved a hand. “That’s literally the definition of denial. You are coping through denial!”

“Semantics.”

“No, it’s not! You’re playing mental dress-up with your trauma, Till.”

That made him chuckle, almost against his will. “Mental dress-up is generous.”

Hyuna groaned and dropped her head back. “You are the most emotionally exhausting person I’ve ever met.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It’s not.”

“Still taking it.”

They both went quiet for a moment, the kind of silence that only came from long friendship and longer tolerances. 

The faint whir of a fan filled the garage, mixing with the occasional stir of wind against the tree leaves outside.

Finally, Hyuna let out another sigh.

“I don’t know if I have the right to say this,” she glanced sideways at him. “You see, I’m not exactly good at dealing with someone’s attachment issues myself.”

Till hummed, letting her know he understood exactly what she meant.

“But the difference between us is that I loved that person romantically,” Hyuna said, like she was touching a memory she hadn’t dusted off in a while. “And I hate to admit that I still do.”

Till didn’t push. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know more. Whatever it was, it sat heavy on her chest, and he respected that.

“But,” he added. “That person was important to me too.”

She glanced at him again, one brow lifted. “Romantically?”

Till didn’t answer. 

“Anyway, if I were you and have the ability to turn back time, I would’ve filed a restraining order,” Hyuna said, followed by a duh. “So that stalker wouldn’t have had the chance to get close.”

Till let out a quiet laugh, more breath than sound. “I was young when it happened.”

“Your mom could’ve filed it for you. The first report’s the most important, it gives you something to stand on if it happens again, especially if you’re a minor.”

“What if the stalker was a minor too?” 

“Then it gets trickier, but not impossible. It still goes on record. The process is a bit different, but the concern is just as valid.”

Hyuna looked over at him. “And it helps establish that you weren’t just making it up. If something worse happens down the line, it wouldn’t be difficult.”

Till nodded slowly, chewing the inside of his cheek. He had never really thought of it that way, and he probably never would. Law was never his lane. He didn’t dig through rules or memorize policies for fun. That was more Hyuna’s thing. Or rather, her late brother’s.

Hyuna doesn't talk about her twin often, but Till remembered that he was a legal prodigy, someone who could’ve gone on to reshape entire courtrooms if he hadn’t died in such strange circumstances. It made sense now, how Hyuna always had that edge of knowing things that most people wouldn’t bother with. 

And honestly, it sometimes concerned Till. Dewey once mentioned, in one of his drunk slips, that Hyunwoo’s death might’ve been the main reason Hyuna drank the way she did. Like she was punishing herself for something she had no control over…

… Like she thought she should’ve gone down with him.

Still, he knew better than to pry. If Hyuna wasn’t comfortable sharing it with him, then he wouldn’t force her.

“You think…” Till lingered, chewing the corner of his lip. “It’s too late to file now?”

Hyuna looked at him, head tilting slightly like she was gauging just how serious the question was. “Depends.”

“Depends? Depends on what?” 

Hyuna leaned back, fingers lacing together on her lap as she considered the best way to explain it. 

“Continuity.”

Till's brows drew together.

“I mean if there’s no recent contact, no threats, no pattern that affects your current life, then yeah, technically, the case could be considered closed or expired depending on the statute of limitations.”

She paused, letting that information sit before continuing, “But if that person’s shown up again, made contact, watched you, whatever… Then that changes everything.”

Till rubbed his thumb against the edge of his jeans, silent.

“Repeated behavior is serious, especially if it escalates or shows signs of obsession.”

“And if there’s no physical harm?” he asked, low. 

“Doesn’t have to be. Harassment and stalking don’t need bruises to be real.” She glanced at him sideways. “Why? Did you see that person again?”

“No, I’m just staging another scenario where… you know, in case that person comes back,” Till tried to sound natural, hoping Hyuna wouldn’t pick up the nervousness in his tone. “Like you said, repeated behavior is serious. What if that person shows up again? I need to know how to deal with it better.”

Hyuna studied him for a moment longer, eyes narrowing slightly. But instead of digging, she nodded, leaning her head to his shoulder with a thoughtful hum. 

“That makes sense,” she said. “Preparing for a repeat scenario is smart.”

Till felt his shoulders ease, the knot in his chest loosening just a little. 

Suddenly, Hyuna enclosed her hand to Till’s twitching ones. 

“If ever that person comes back,” Hyuna whispered. “You can always go to me, yeah?”

Till offered a small smile as a sign of appreciation.

Isaac and Dewey arrived not long after, swinging the garage door open with a triumphant grin and a crumpled brown bag in one hand. 

“Alright, losers. Saved the best for last,” Isaac announced, tossing the bag onto the nearby table.

Hyuna perked up. “You got the cheese bread?”

“Cheese bread, egg tart, and those ugly cookies you like,” Dewey shot her a look before cracking open a can of soda for himself. “Eat fast, break’s almost up.”

Till didn’t say much, just reached for one of the tarts and offered a “thanks” before sitting back and nibbling around the flaky texture. 

As soon as the last crumbs were gone and Isaac’s done clearing the table, Hyuna stood up, brushing her hands together. 

“Back to the grind,” she muttered before stretching out her arms and rolling her shoulders.

Till followed, pushing himself upright and letting out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. 

He ran a hand through his hair then trailed after the others behind the safety of their instruments.

Till jogged, skipping two to three tiles of the rough sidewalk with your order has been delivered flashing across his lock screen. 

Damn it. He hadn’t expected it to arrive this early. His class had barely wrapped up when the notification came in, and he hadn't even bothered to put his jacket on right. One strap of his backpack dangled loose behind him as he took the steps to the dorm building.

It was too early for any class dismissal, so it didn’t surprise him to see a decent number of people around heading for lunches, or just loitering to make up for long vacants.

By the time he reached his floor, he was already out of breath. Sneakers thudding against the stairwell like a high schooler surviving an apocalypse. He turned left down the corridor, heart already half in his throat, and cursed under his breath when his door came into view.

“Shit,” he muttered, when he saw a box lying in front of his door. 

He picked it up quickly, scanned the corners for any signs of tampering, then nudged his door open with his foot, slipped inside, and kicked it shut behind him with a loud thunk.

Without bothering to take off his shoes, he dropped the box onto his bed, then tossed his bag and hoodie carelessly onto the floor. A few notebooks slid off and hit the floor, but he was already crouching by his desk to pull open a drawer where he always left the cutter to care.

He found it wedged between a half–empty pouch of gum and cigarettes, along with a pair of broken headphones. His thumb clicked the blade into place, and without wasting another minute, he brought it to the tape.

The box flaps gave way with a soft cardboard creak, and inside nestled in a bit of wrinkled bubble wrap, was the camera… If it could even be called that. 

Till blinked at the size of it. Way smaller than he expected. It looked more like a USB charger than a surveillance device.

He picked it up, turning it over in his hand. Lightweight. Matte black. A pinhole lens and a tiny slot for the memory card.

“A…huh?”

It wasn’t great, but it was purse friendly. And honestly, for what he needed, this was fine. In a way, the size was a blessing. Harder to notice if you want to catch someone without it being noticed.

He figured he could probably mount it just above the door, maybe tucked into the molding or somewhere discreet near the ceiling where no one would think to look. Somewhere the lens could get a clear 180–degree view of the hallway. Just enough to catch someone lingering too close.

Repeated behavior is serious, especially if it escalates or shows signs of obsession.

After what happened last time, Till can’t deny it any longer.

Ivan hates him.

Not in a traditional way where you want to fly fists and curses. No, it’s deeper than that. It’s that kind of loathing that keeps Ivan circling him like a shadow with a grudge and false smiles.

Was it because of their differences? Could be. Insecurities can labor many vile things. Obsession is not an exemption for that.

The first report’s the most important.

Obviously, it’s a little too late for him to report what happened back then. He had all the time in the world to tell his mother when he was younger, when Ivan was at the peak of his questionable behavior. But Till had been too deep in denial, too stupid and acted oblivious to all of it. So now he has to compensate the hard way.

Till doesn’t even know who he could hand this to, even if he manages to capture a piece of what’s happening. Still, any evidence is the bare minimum he can hold onto right now.

Preparing for a repeat scenario is smart.

Till whistles at the lack of modern setup. No Wi-Fi, no app pairing, no push notifications. He spent a solid ten minutes fiddling with it anyway just to be sure. Hoping, maybe, that there was some hidden way to hook it up to his phone. But of course, it’s all manual. 

He exhaled through his nose, amused. 

Well, Till didn’t come to art school to be uncreative.

He stepped in front of his door and gave it a once over. His eyes moved from the scuffed edges of the frame to the chipped paint near the bottom, then up to the peephole.

Technically, it was against dorm policy to remove or tamper with any fixture. But catching a stalker wasn’t exactly covered by dorm policy either. If he had to bend a rule or two for his own safety, so be it.

Till crouched a little to peeled back the old, dusty layers of electrical tape that had long dulled the peephole from the inside. He moved quietly, not wanting the scraping to make a sound loudly. 

When the tape gave way, he grabbed the small screwdriver and began unscrewing the metal ring. It resisted at first, probably because of years of moisture and neglect, but with a few rounds of firm twists, it finally came loose. 

He wiped his hand on the inside of his shirt and held the camera up to the hole and gently pressed. The lens didn’t fit.

He clicked his tongue, pulling back and squinting at the frame. The peephole’s diameter was just a few millimeters too tight, and forcing the camera in would only risk damage. 

Till could only invest in one device once, so he grabbed the tip of his cutter and began scraping the inner edges, one careful stroke at a time, flaking away the old wood. It was tedious, and every scratch made him flinch, worried someone from the other rooms might get intrigued.

He stopped every few shavings to test the camera again. Still too tight. A few more. Then again. He crouched lower, angling his shoulders away from the door, muttering under his breath as he carved in slowly, trying not to overdo it.

Finally, on the fourth test, the camera slid in halfway. The lens now poked just enough through to see the hallway on the other side. He adjusted it slightly, letting it settle at the right angle.

Till slid the tiny memory card into the slot at the base of the camera. It wasn’t high capacity, just enough for a few hours’ loop.

He then carefully lifted the long, flexible plug attached to the camera and guided it. His fingers worked methodically, taping it to the unmoving part of the door hinge so that the wire wouldn't strain or snag every time the door opened or closed. 

Once satisfied, he crouched and began collecting the remnants of the installation. He also shoved the box of the camera into the bottom of his closet just in case he needed the model number later. 

The camera stayed on. Watching his door for him.

Minutes turned into hours, and he barely moved from his chair. His ears strained at every soft thud in the hallway, but none matched the pattern he knew.

Not yet.

He kept the lights off, letting the soft blue glow of his laptop screen fill the room as the sun dipped below the horizon. Nothing that would suggest he was home.

It was almost 7 p.m. when he heard them. Familiar light steps, with a too specific rhythm. 

Till sat up straighter. His gut told him to turn off the sole light so he shut the laptop monitor, not all the way though, just enough to kill the glow to avoid making a sound. 

He pulled his feet up onto the chair, tucking them out of sight in case anyone peered under the door. His breath slowed as the footsteps outside came to a stop.

He didn’t dare move. He let the silence wrap around him for seconds, for minutes that felt like hours. His eyes never left the camera capturing what was outside.

Till wanted to see it badly, but he needed to wait.

After what felt like forever, the door across the hall opened. Then closed.

Till let out a shallow breath, waited for a few more seconds to be sure before standing. He approached the door slowly and unplugged the wire from the camera’s back, careful not to dislodge it from its slot. The memory card popped free with a soft click.

He crossed to his desk, slotted it into the card reader, and inserted it into his laptop’s port.

The video loaded.

He clicked the latest and only file and pressed play.

The video loaded. At first, the footage showed nothing, just a static view of the hallway, still littered by the sun with a timestamp blinking in the corner.

He squinted and dragged the progress bar near the end to skip. 

Instant regret pooled in his stomach the moment the image of Ivan’s fucking eyes were peeping directly at the camera.

Till froze. Fear crept in slowly, slithering up his spine like he didn’t expect that this would happen. His lungs worked slower, tighter, to the point he couldn’t tell if the room was cold or if it was just his own nerves pressing from the inside out.

He didn’t know where he got the strength to drag the progress bar backward, trembling slightly as he aimed for the moment Ivan had first entered the hallway.

Ivan wore a plain charcoal sweater, sleeves pushed up, and… are those fucking glasses? 

Till leaned closer to the screen. Round, slightly oversized frames. He doubted there was any prescription in those lenses. Ivan wasn’t exactly known for needing to correct anything.

He also had a backpack slung over one shoulder, his other hand tugging keys from his pocket. Probably just got out of class.

Till reached the part when Ivan reached for the knob of his own door. Then, stopped midway to turn at Till’s door.

Till paused the video, his stomach tensed. Even though this was only a recording it felt like real time.

Play it. His curiosity whispered. 

He hit play again.

Ivan’s stare held for a full minute, his head occasionally tilting before slowly turning and stepping closer. 

No, no, no, no! Till knew it was stupid. He already knew what Ivan did in the later parts, but he still wished the whole scene would give him some kind of justification.

But as always, Ivan proved him otherwise.

Till watched as the next footage played out frame by frame.

Ivan stood in front of Till’s door for a while, maybe a minute, maybe less, and tilted his head like he was contemplating what caught his attention.

Then, without warning, he leaned closer. His face filled the lens, red irises clear even through the slightly grainy footage. They shifted just a little, his pupils dilating as if the darkness on the other side was something he could see. 

Like he’d done it before.

Till’s skin crawled. He knew the peephole was covered. Had made sure to tape it shut from the inside just in case. But knowing that someone was actually peeking? 

He wanted to throw up.

It lasted only a few seconds more before Ivan pulled back with a smile.

It was not a wide grin. Just a small, slow curl of his mouth.

To Till, it was horrifying.

Because he knows Ivan caught something, barely, but he did. It was the kind of smile that didn’t need all teeth to feel predatory.

Till's chest tightened.

Ivan had figured it out.

Till watched through the footage as Ivan finally turned, that small, satisfied smile still ghosting his lips, and disappeared into his own dorm, like he’d gotten his fill of entertainment for the day.

Till’s fist clenched on reflex. Heat simmered in his chest, anger pushing against his ribs like it was trying to get out. 

He wanted to hurt Ivan. So badly he could imagine wringing his neck with his hands, gouging those sneering eyes with his calloused fingers, and—

The sound of his phone buzzing on the desk shattered the silence, cutting clean through the tension in the room.

He flinched, eyes darting to the screen. 

For a second, he braced for an unknown number, but when he saw his Mom’s name in the preview, it calmed him down. 

He reached for it and tapped the notification with his thumb. 

Don’t skip dinner. Real food. Not noodles again, please!

Somehow, that grounded him more than anything. 

Till stared at his phone screen for a few more seconds, then slowly, turned back to his laptop. The video was still paused. A part of him wanted to delete it, pretending it never happened. 

But he didn’t. 

Instead, he hovered the cursor over the window, exhaled through his nose, and closed the video player. He opened his file manager, created a new folder, and renamed it with today’s date. 

If Ivan wanted to play. He thought, dragging the video file inside. Fine.

Till would play along.

The air was muggy in a way that rain might fall later, but the street was alive, music, passing cars, and family laughter curling around every corner. 

Till was about to reply to Mizi’s text when he spotted the two women in the convenience store. Mizi was the first to notice him and lifted her hand in greeting. Sua trailed beside her, holding a half–finished slushie in one hand and tugging her periwinkle jacket collar higher with the other.

“You actually came,” Till called out, jogging the last few steps to meet them.

Mizi smiled, nudging Sua with her elbow. “I told you he’d be excited.”

Sua rolled her eyes but offered a nod. “Don’t get used to it. I came because Mizi insisted.”

“That’s fair,” Till laughed, then turned, gesturing toward the glowing signage down the street. “Club’s just a couple minutes from here. You both okay walking?”

Mizi looped her arms through his. To which Till tried so hard not to flinch from.

“Lead the way, rockstar!” 

They started down the sidewalk, the neon lights from shops and streetlamps splashing colors on their skin. The smell of fried food and cigarette smoke lingered from nearby kiosks.

“So what kind of crowd are we looking at tonight?” Sua asked, eyeing the street with hidden disgust.

Till shrugged. “Not huge. Mostly college students who think anything under a 1000 dollars door fee is a hidden gem.”

“Hey, that’s us.”

“You say that like I didn’t pay for the two of you,” Till teased.

Sua gave a slow blink. “You should be paying us for moral support.”

“And I’m bringing charm. That counts!” Mizi giggled.

They reached the club entrance, this time tucked behind a piercing studio, where Till became a regular. But that’s a story for another day.

From outside, the deep thud of the pre–set playlist boomed under the door. Purple and blue lights flickered behind the frosted windows, giving the place enough mystery to lure any passerby inside.

“You sure this place won’t collapse?” Mizi said, squinting up at the signage with a broken ‘P’ in Love & Peace barely hanging on.

“I mean,” Till started, opening the door for them. “If it does, it’ll collapse with us performing. That’s the most artistic way to die, right?”

“Speak for yourself,” Sua muttered as she stepped in, fingers twirling on Mizi’s.

Mizi grinned, squeezing his arm before letting go. “Don’t worry. I’ll mourn you for like… a week.”

“I’m honored,” Till deadpanned, and followed them inside.

The club from the inside was so much better in comparison. The space was dim but not dingy, lit mostly by low–hanging amber bulbs and LED strips that traced the edges of the stage and bar counter. Despite being still relatively small, it was so much larger than Alien Stage. 

The ceiling was low except for the dancefloor and mini stage, where you can spot the VIP booths from above. A few mismatched tables and stools were scattered around the dancefloor, clustered closer to the bar. The soundcheck hadn’t started yet, but one of the house crew was already fiddling with the mic stands and running cables along the side.

Sua gave the place a once-over. 

“Looks decent,” she said. “Better than I expected.”

Till raised a brow. “Wow. High praise from someone who once called my music ‘musical masochism.’”

“I stand by that. Besides, you’re not the owner.”

He gestured toward their temporary booth at the far end, where a woman in a denim jacket waved without getting up. 

“That’s Durian, the girl who runs the bookings. You can get a talkie walkie from her so you don’t have to go down to order drinks at the bar once your VIP booth is ready.”

“We are going to get a VIP treatment?” Mizi giggled excitedly when Till nodded. “By the way, where are your bandmates? Hyuna?”

Till chuckled at Mizi’s enthusiasm to meet Hyuna. He had told them stories about each other, but the two women had never actually gotten the chance to meet.

“We’re too early.”

“We were thirty minutes late.”

“Yeah, but we’re still too early by Hyuna’s definition of before ‘11 p.m.’”

Mizi gave a quiet laugh, tucking her pink hair behind her ear as she glanced around the club. It wasn’t that loud yet, just the sporadic burst of laughter from the bar, and staff still setting up cables and lights. 

With nothing to do but wait, the three slipped into conversation.

“So, our department dean finally caved and extended our deadline. I think he realized we were actually going to stage a rally if he didn't.”

“Rally?” Sua teased her girlfriend. “What’s your weapon of choice, a strongly worded letter?”

“No, my passive aggression,” Mizi said. “Followed by an even more aggressively formatted email.”

Till smiled, leaning on the table with his chin in his hand. “Remind me never to cross you.”

“You already did,” Mizi deadpanned, then smirked. “Back in sophomore year. You don’t remember?”

“No?” Till said immediately, squinting at her. “What did I do?”

“You took my last slice of pizza.”

Both Sua and Till gave Mizi a look, flat and ridiculous disbelief plastered all over their faces. 

The pink–haired menace just threw her head up dramatically, like she’d just delivered the punchline of the century. “What? It was pepperoni.”

“Babe,” Sua said, deadpan. “Pepperoni wasn’t even the best flavor.”

Mizi gasped like she’d been shot. 

“Take that back!”

Before Sua could blink, Mizi lunged forward with one hand capturing her girlfriend’s cheek, squishing it with exaggerated offense.

“Take that back or I will kiss your cheek right now,” Mizi threatened.

Sua laughed, squirming in her hold. “We’re in public—”

Mizi leaned in with a dramatic mwah sound before pulling back with a wicked grin. “Disrespect pepperoni again and see what happens.”

Till groaned at his friends’ public affection, watching the sweet chaos unfold with fondness in his chest. “I’m not getting in the middle of this. But for the record. Hawaiian is better.”

Both women snapped their attention to him like he just declared war.

“I give up,” Sua exclaimed with her hands raised. “Please exclude me with your mid-off.”

“Why, what do you think is better than Hawaiian?”

“I think fries are a better snack,” Sua added with a teasing tilt of her head, arms now crossed like she was laying down the law. “But if we are talking about pizzas, I guess anything without pineapple?”

“You are really against my palate, huh?”

Mizi snorted, still leaning comfortably against Sua. “You brought it on yourself. Pineapple on pizza is war.”

“It’s balance,” Till argued, gesturing as if he were lecturing a classroom. “Sweet and salty. It’s culinary genius.”

“It’s a crime,” Mizi cut in, dead serious for half a second. “Next thing I know, you’ll be dipping fries in a milkshake.”

“I… do dip fries in milkshake?” Till said, unsure if he should’ve said that.

Sua looked at her girlfriend. 

“Men need to be put down.”

The three of them were mid–laugh when the nightclub door opened. 

Till looked up and saw Hyuna enter, bass case slung over her shoulder, hair tied up, and jacket falling off one shoulder in that effortlessly charming way she always had.

She stopped a few steps in and scanned the room before locking eyes with Till. 

“Well, well. You do have real friends,” she teased, crossing the room.

“I thought you’re finally going to skip a drink night.” 

“You wish,” she shot back, then stopped in front of the girls. “I just know that one of you is Mizi.”

Mizi got to her feet with a smirk. “And you must be the infamous Hyuna.”

“Infamous? That’s so sweet. Usually, people just call me loud,” Hyuna said with a wink, sliding her hands into her pockets. Her eyes flicked toward Sua, taking a moment to size her up with amused curiosity.

She pointed a finger lightly toward her. “And you must be her girlfriend. Sua, right?”

Sua raised a brow but smiled. “Wow, I never thought Till would actually talk about me.”

“He’s not that deluded to introduce Mizi as his girlfriend behind your back,” Till saluted his finger on her. “Well not anymore.” 

Mizi giggled, adapting to Hyuna’s humor fast. “I like your boots. So rebellious.”

Hyuna looked down at her scuffed leather boots, then back up with a pleased grin. “Thanks. I stole them from an ex who said I wouldn’t survive in them.”

“Oh?” Mizi’s eyes sparkled. “Did you?”

“Threw them out of my car the next week. These are the replacements,” Hyuna said with a shrug.

Mizi laughed, already smitten by the attitude. “I like you.”

“And I like your hair,” Hyuna replied, twirling a pink strand between her fingers. “We’ll get along just fine.”

Hyuna noticed Sua’s deadly gaze. “I mean it as platonic.”

Till sighed. “I knew letting you two meet was a bad idea.”

“You are doing God's work.”

Before Till could roll his eyes any harder, the door opened again, this time followed by louder footsteps and the unmistakable clatter of gear cases.

“Squad’s all here,” Hyuna called over her shoulder as Isaac and Dewey trailed behind her, both carrying parts of a drum set and amp cables.

Till stood, waving them over. 

Isaac gave a nod while Dewey lifted his chin in greeting. “You reserved them a VIP booth?”

“This is a rare occasion, so yeah,” Till thanked Durian for handing him the VIP tickets, he then handed it to Sua. “This is Mizi and Sua. Mizi, Sua— Isaac and Dewey. My band’s favorite chaos facilitators.”

“Weekend invite?” Dewey asked, setting his case down.

“Yeah. Figured it’s Saturday, we’re playing a short set, and these two needed to see me in my natural habitat.”

“Yeah, we need to see him sweating under neon lights,” Sua exclaimed, which earned a laugh from Mizi.  

“Could you two stop bullying me?” 

“Maybe when the hell freezes, guitar boy.”

Till just shook his head in surrender.

Hyuna and the others headed backstage first, while Till stayed behind until the crowd began to trickle onto the dance floor.

“I should head backstage. Soundcheck’s about to start,” Till said, turning back to Mizi and Sua. “You guys good? Just take the staircase to reach your booth.”

The two women just nodded.

Till was about to excuse himself but then walk backwardly. “Feel free to raid the fries when they bring them out. It’s good.”

“With your horrible taste? I doubt,” Sua joked.

Till shrugged. “Your call.”

Mizi gave a two-finger salute. “Good luck, Till!”

Till chuckled, then turned and walked toward the hallway, where the green room is.

As he pushed the door open, the familiar clatter of gears being set up filled his ears. 

He walked over Dewey, who was slouched on one of the couches, legs kicked up, a bottle of water in one hand and something small pinched between his fingers.

“Yo,” Dewey called out to him. “You want one? I still have saved for you.”

Till looked at it for a moment then simply shook his head. “Nah.”

“Come on,” Dewey nudged, though not really pushing. “Didn’t it work for you last time?”

“I’m hyped enough,” Till chuckled as he dropped his bag near the amp rack. “It’s enough.”

Dewey shrugged and tossed the pill into his own mouth. Till grabbed his guitar case and began loosening the latches, fingers crawling and strumming to test.

He’d let the natural rush of his blood carry the music tonight.

Moments later, the stage lights flickered to life. The bass thrummed underfoot, and the DJ’s voice rang through the speakers, hyping the crowd like it was already midnight. 

Dead air wasn’t an option.

Till stepped into the light, guitar slung low, mic already warm under his breath. 

He gave a quick nod to Isaac on drums, Hyuna adjusting her mic with a cocked grin beside him.

They opened with Unknown Till the End again. The beat dropped like second nature, fingers finding strings, lyrics spilling clean from memory. 

Between riffs and verses, Till stole glances at Mizi, who was headbanging with her drink like she hadn’t heard the song a hundred times already. Beside her, Sua nursed her glass, unimpressed but not unkind, her expression somewhere between bored and entertained.

Till grinned mid line and sent a wink toward their booth just to be annoying.

Sua rolled her eyes in response, then leaned sideways to mutter something in Mizi’s ear. Whatever it was, it made the pink haired girl snort before she threw one arm around her girlfriend, pulling her close in a loose side hug.

Till mentally shook his head, dragging his gaze elsewhere into the crowd. It was fine. It had always been fine. He’d long accepted that Mizi would never look at him the way she looked at Sua. And really, what right did he ever have to want that? She was happy. He wasn’t about to pull her out of that just because he couldn’t write about anyone else the same way.

Still, she was the muse.

She always had been.

So no, maybe they didn’t end up in some movie–script romance. But that didn’t mean her name, her laugh, her bandaids, and her pink hair didn’t live in the chords he strummed and the verses he spilled. She’d made her way into the spine of every song, and he wasn’t about to erase that just because she loved someone else.

The band kept playing track after track. Sweat slicked the back of Till’s neck as they reached the end of their setlist, his fingers slightly sore, his throat warm and raw from singing. The last chords of the second-to-last song rang out, and Hyuna stepped forward, hair bouncing and raising the mic with her signature grin.

“Thank you, everyone,” she said, her voice full of charm and rasp. “We had fun tonight. Shoutout to the art students who either have an art block or didn’t care about their tomorrow’s deadlines! Make some noise, dang heroes!”

Laughter, applause, and whistles rippled through the place like a second wind. A few hoots came from the back, someone clanged their glass against the metal railing, and Hyuna soaked it in with a grin.

She leaned back from the mic briefly, tossing Till a glance over her shoulder, then returned with a smirk.

“That would be all. If you want to listen more to our music, you can—”

“Wait,” Till said, stepping toward her mic.

Hyuna blinked at him, startled. “Huh?”

Till tilted his head slightly toward the crowd. 

“Can I do one more?” he asked into the mic. “I mean, one more song.”

Silence hovered, people exchanging confused looks. Even his bandmates, Dewey and Isaac— glanced at each other like they missed a cue. 

Hyuna raised an eyebrow, already turning toward him with suspicion, but didn't stop him.

Till shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “It’s not on the setlist,” he admitted. “Took me forever to finish this one. Months actually. Every time I tried to write the last verse, I’d just… stop.”

He scratched the edge of his jaw, eyes flicking briefly toward Mizi and Sua before he looked back at the crowd.

“I think I was just trying too hard,” he said. “Trying to rhyme things that’s already rhymed but the truth was, I was just being dishonest. But a few weeks ago, when I was burnt out, like... really burnt out, I just sat down, and said screw it! and wrote what was left.”

A few voices whooped, then claps, and soon enough, the hype had them to the point that it’s too late to reel it back.

Hyuna looked at him a beat longer, then sighed. She amusedly removed Till’s electric guitar, and gave the synth to Till, which he gladly took.

“So… yeah,” Till said, half embarrassed before hitting the opening notes on, which are catchy enough to bring the dancefloor back to life. “Enjoy the crazy night, everyone.”

The synth hummed loudly beneath his fingertips. Till leaned into the mic, a small, lopsided smile tugging at his lips. His voice came out soft but still clear and raw.

"I feel so pathetic," he sang, voice warm and unsure. "Whenever I stand in front of you. Scenario: CRUSH..."

He chuckled quietly between the lyrics. It wasn’t the kind of song that tried to impress, it was the kind that made people remember the softness of romantic beginnings.

“I'll probably get it across to you for sure…”

“Close the distance between us…”

“...to be inside your heart.”

There was confusion in the delivery, but unnoticeable. It was whimsical. Like someone caught between believing something could happen and knowing they were probably wrong, but still wanting to believe anyway.

As the bridge approached, Till glanced out toward the crowd, eyes flicking toward a familiar face walking casually towards Mizi and Sua’s booth.

“I get scared again like an idiot…”

“...Widen the distance between us…”

“Mi Vida Loca…”

Till’s breath hitched.

He didn’t miss a note, but his voice stumbled a hair offbeat, almost imperceptible to anyone else. Still, he felt it. The ripple in his chest, the sudden drop in his stomach.

Because the man weaving through the crowd was Ivan.

Till almost stopped singing altogether. His throat tightened, fingers faltered on the synth keys before muscle memory saved him. His voice stayed playful, kept the airy, confused hopefulness the song demanded, but behind it was an internal panic slicing through every beat.

Till’s eyes locked on the man, disbelief clouding his focus, until Mizi turned into the menace’s direction, smiled, and greeted before hugging him.

Till’s brain scrambled to make sense of what he was seeing but didn’t have the luxury to freeze.

The bridge neared and he had to pull himself together, but all he could think about was how Ivan’s arm sat comfortably behind Mizi, and how Sua was obviously not welcoming the other raven but tolerating him anyway. 

Till’s heart pounded against his ribs, his throat dry despite the soft croon escaping it. He felt like screaming. Felt like storming off stage and grabbing Ivan by the collar to drag him away from his friends.

But he couldn’t. Not in front of everyone. Not with Hyuna humming along, unaware, Dewey bobbing to the beat, Isaac nodding from behind the speakers.

Not until Till had to finish the damn song.

His palms were sweating. His fingers itched. He blinked hard, pulling his gaze away from the trio, letting the lights blind him for a second so he wouldn’t have to watch Ivan faked his laugh.

Bastard.

Till forced out the final lines, a smile stitched tight on his lips. His voice echoed on the last word, then the final note dissolved into the reverb of applause.

“Thank you!” he rushed into the mic, one hand raised to the crowd as he stepped back. 

He gave the DJ a nod, barely waiting for the beat drop before handing off the stage. The crowd cheered, lights shifting into strobe pulses, the synth of a pop remix starting to flood the floor. 

Till was moving fast. He ducked past the speaker stack and hopped down the low stage steps, slipping behind the curtains. His boots hit the floor hard. Two steps into the hallway, Hyuna intercepted him with a teasing grin.

“YOU didn’t share THAT to me,” she accused, positively. “I guess bringing Mizi here was a charm? Oh, you loverboy! Let—”

“I’ll be back,” Till muttered, brushing past her.

Hyuna raised a brow but let him go, watching him bolt ahead. 

Till cut through the hallway, skipping steps on the crystalline staircase that led to VIP booths. He was close. Just a few more steps… and…

He stopped for a moment when he saw his reflection in the tall, wall–mounted mirror beside the booth entrance.

Hair tousled, breath uneven, eyes wide. He looked every bit like someone sprinting into a fire, not walking into a nightclub lounge.

Till stared at himself.

Damn it.

Ivan couldn’t see him like this. Not looking shaken. Not like prey. He’d done that before, played into the wrong narrative, handed over power without realizing it.

He pressed his hand flat against the wall, tipped his head slightly and drew a breath in slowly, letting the beat from the club pulse in his chest like a metronome. Shoulders back. Chin up. Let it all wash off. 

He’s in public. He rationalized, for sure Ivan was in his usual mask. He wouldn’t do anything. 

He reached up, ran a hand through his hair to tame it, blinked twice, and let his expression relax.

Get it together, Till told himself and rolled his shoulders back.

He stepped forward, keeping his pace even just enough to look like he hadn’t just run halfway across the club.

The booth came into view in pieces, the sleek curve of the leather seat, the shimmer of a half–finished drink, and finally the three of them mid–conversation.

Ivan had one arm resting over the backrest whilst Sua was sipping her drink, her brows raised as she listened. 

And Mizi, Mizi caught Till’s approach first.

“There he is!” she beamed, lifting her thumb in an exaggerated gesture of approval. “You killed it out there!”

Till felt something unclench, just a little. 

The sound of Mizi’s voice, the familiarity in her grin? It grounded him. Gave him a lifeline to hold onto, even with Ivan sitting right there across from him.

“Thanks,” he said, sliding into the empty seat across from them. “I was actually nervous about the new song.”

“Stop hitting on my girlfriend with every song,” Sua said dryly, arms crossed as she took a slow sip from her drink.

“I’m not!”

“Oh, so that crush song wasn’t for me?” Mizi leaned in, her tone so casual it bordered on relieved.

Till opened his mouth, hesitated. Well? Not exactly. It wasn’t about her now, not in the way it used to be. But the ghost of those feelings still clung to his music like a stubborn note that refused to fade.

“I–I mean…”

“You still stutter whenever you talk to Mizi,” Ivan cut in, voice smooth and unbothered. “You should work on that, dude.”

Till blinked. His brain stalled for a full second, like someone had yanked the power cord out and jammed it back in again.

Dude? Till’s smirk barely twitched into place, but his thoughts ran faster than any expression could catch up.

For a split second, it almost made Till believe the man in front of him was someone else entirely. Not the same person who had hugged him from behind days ago, whispering the most intimate endearment he’d ever received in his life. 

Now, here he was, calling him dude like they were nothing more than friendly strangers on a sidewalk.

Hah. Don’t get him wrong. Till wasn’t angry. Why would he be? In fact, it amused him. Amused to see just how far Ivan could drag this game of pretend.

Till bit back the instinct to react the way he used to when they were kids. Instead, he offered Ivan a mirrored smile.

“Is that so?” Till said, lifting someone’s drink off the table without looking who’s the owner. “Sorry, just a habit.”

“Hey, that’s mine!” Sua exclaimed

“It has pineapple in it,” he argued, already inspecting the glass. “You hate pineapples.”

“On pizza, genius. That’s lime.”

It was too late. The taste had already hit his tongue— sour and citrus–bitter. And while Till usually liked sour beverages, this one tipped past his limit. It made the back of his jaw clench and his nose wrinkly with every sip.

Still, he drank. Licked the tang off his lips and let liquor bobbed down his throat, hoping the burn would wash out the nerves in his chest.

What he did notice though, was those black orbs across him… tracking every slick of saliva that his mouth was producing.

Till, like always, ignored it.

Till set the drink down with a clink and borrowed the talkie walkie for another shot as a peace offering to Sua, who still looked mildly annoyed.

Then, with a courage brought by being in the public eye, he asked Ivan. “What are you doing here?”

Ivan, ever smooth, replied. “I was with my father earlier.”

Till blinked once. “Your father?”

“Yeah.” Ivan shrugged. “He had a client to meet. I figured I’d tag along, kill some time. Then I saw Mizi.”

Till didn’t answer right away. His eyes wandered toward the VVIP section, where he saw Ivan come from. That private room had been reserved long before the night even started. For a corporate group or something. 

If that’s the case then he couldn’t say Ivan had followed him here. 

“Oh, right! I forgot to tell you,” Mizi jumped in, turning to Till and pulling him out of his thoughts. “Me and Ivan actually ran into each other last summer. Remember when our old school invited some alumni back for that graduation thing? He gave a speech.”

Ivan offered a modest shrug. “They asked. I said yes.”

“Of course he said yes,” Sua said, coldly behind her newly arrived drink. “He likes giving speeches.”

Till hummed. It made sense. Ivan had always been a prodigy, sharp in academics, resilient in extracurriculars, and with that kind of face that looked good on brochures? It surprised no one that they chose him to convince parents the school was doing something right.

And Sua was right. Ivan had always been a speech guy. Whether it was a solo talk or a two way conversation, he had a way of making it feel comfortable. He knew how to say things just right, knew how to make them feel like they were being listened to. It was all so perfect. Too perfect. Like he’d studied how every human emotions works and got top marks for it. 

Till hated that he knew it’s all a mask. Hated that he’d gotten close enough to notice the difference. That he let himself believe in it, once. Sometimes, he wished he hadn’t. That they’d never clicked, never had a reason to start anything at all.

But he couldn’t put the blame entirely on Ivan. Because back then, Ivan was the only one who knocked. The only one who gave enough damn to check if the door would open. And Till, being who he was, had answered. 

Eagerly. 

Oh, how he clung to that attention… To that early greed for connection.

Till secretly bit his lower lip.

He hated himself even more.

Till called for another round of shots with the talkie walkie. He didn’t care if he blew all his money tonight. Let it. He just needed something to keep his hands full. 

He kept drinking. Sipping, licking, pretending the rim of the glass deserved more attention than the company he was with. Too caught up in his quiet self loathing to notice Hyuna and the rest of the band joining the booth, far too gone to register Ivan being introduced as another face from his high school.

He watched Hyuna laugh at something Ivan joked about. 

Till scowled. That’s my stalker, noona.

He drank. Again. And again.

He told himself he wouldn’t get drunk tonight. That he’d behave, even if there was nothing waiting for him on the next day. 

But here he was.

“Cigar break,” Till said as he stood, slipping out past Dewey and Hyuna who didn’t even look up, too wrapped up in chatting with Ivan.

He meant to go down to slip out the back door, but the first floor was packed. People were everywhere,and the stairwell was even worse. Some couples were all over each other on the steps, not budging anytime soon.

With no real way down, he took the rooftop instead. His footsteps echoed softly in the narrow stairwell, the air growing cooler the higher he climbed.

When he finally pushed the metal door, the night breeze immediately rushed in through his chest to fill his lungs.

“Thank Anakt, no one’s here,” he whispered to himself.

There was already a stick between his lips when he folded his left arm onto the rough concrete, leaning into it while his right hand fished for the lighter. 

Most of the city below was still lit up, music drifting from open windows of neighboring nightclubs and light traffic loosening in lazy waves. A few corners had already gone quiet, clocked out early to enjoy the eve. 

Till brought the lighter to the tip, shielding the flame from the wind with a loose curl of his fingers. The cigarette easily caught the crackle, ember flaring to life. He dragged in deep, confining as much as he could until his throat stung.

Smoke spilled from his lips in a long exhale, curling upward before the wind tore it apart. The first drag always hit differently— bitter, dry, addicting enough to make him feel like something inside him had been scratched at the right place. His shoulders dropped as he exhaled, tension finally smoothening out with every breath.

The cool sting in his lungs gave him something else to focus on, enough to blur the self loathing thoughts he had earlier.

Till closed his eyes. 

“Cheer up, cheer up.” 

The words barely left his mouth before an old memory whisked behind his lids.

He was tucked into his tiny bed with a fever patch on his forehead. He wasn’t really sick, not exactly, but for some reason, his eyes stayed half-lidded, his voice came out dry whenever he tried to speak, and every now and then, a half-hearted cough would slip out.

A hand slipped into his. Smaller than his, but warmer.

“Cheer up,” Ivan whispered, crouching by the edge of the bed. 

He breathed into Till’s fist to warm it, then pressed his lips against the trembling fingers.

“Cheer up…”

The loud clang of the metal door behind him snapped him back to the present.

Till flinched and turned quickly, gaze snapping over his shoulder. The second he saw who it was, the tension in his shoulders worsened. 

Of course, it was Ivan.

Till exhaled slowly through his nose and turned to fully face him. 

He didn’t know where the courage came from. He usually avoided facing people directly. It was too easy for his face to give him away, or worse, for people to read him wrong. If Till wanted to deliver his point across the way he wanted it, the other person had to be beside him. Or behind him. Never in front.

Ivan, however, was a different case. Till didn’t get flustered around him, in fact, he preferred having him right in front. Because after what happened last time, Till could never trust him with his back again.

“You don’t smoke,” Till said, breaking the silence first. His tone laced with irritation, as if asking why Ivan was in his space.

Ivan didn’t answer. He just stood still, unblinking. 

It made Till’s neck prickle.

Unsettled, Till’s eyes flicked around the rooftop, searching for another way down. But all he saw were high railings, a steep drop, and the door behind Ivan.

Great. He was trapped.

Ivan’s mouth tugged into a small, eerie smile.

“You’re right,” he finally said, stepping forward slightly, eyes dropping to the cigarette between Till’s lips. “Can’t have that kind of thing messing with my circulation, baby.”

All thoughts about Ivan being an athlete and how cigarettes could indeed mess with his circulation completely drained the moment he called him that again.

Till scoffed, forcing himself to bury its effect on him. 

“Dude, you should stop with those corny endearments,” he said, pulling the cigarette from his lips and pinning it between his fingers. His voice had a lazy edge to it, not quite slurred, but looser than usual. 

He squinted at Ivan through the faint trail of smoke. “Where’d you even get that from anyway?”

For all that honesty was worth, Ivan didn’t answer.

Maybe that was what made it worse. The fact that Ivan could still look so unaffected while Till’s mouth kept moving, pushed his buttons by something he didn’t know how to rein in.

“God, you’re so annoying when you do that.” Till exhaled a half laugh, a little breathless from the frustration bubbling up. “Fine. If you won’t answer. I’ll guess.”

The silence was long enough to start scratching Till’s nerves raw.

“Oh, were you listening to my performances? I’m not saying you’re stalking me or anything but…” Till said, narrowing his eyes. “I often call Mizi ‘baby’ in my songs.”

That struck.

Till didn’t need a reply. Ivan’s gaze dropped dangerously, his shoulders not quite slouching but no longer squared, and just like that, the air around them shifted into something heavier. As if someone had dimmed the rooftop lights without touching the switch.

Till tilted his head, studying the change with interest. “Oh, dang,” he drawled, cocking one eyebrow. “You thought it was about you?”

No answer.

“Wow,” Till let out a sharp laugh, stepping off the cemented rail he had been leaning on. The gravel under his soles gave a soft crunch. The wind tugged lightly at the hem of his shirt as he closed the distance, slowly, intentionally.

Ivan didn’t move.

Till didn’t care. He leaned in. Just slightly. Close enough that Ivan would have to feel his breath against his skin. Close enough that Till could see the subtle twitch in his jaw, that flicker in his eyes he always tried to hide. 

“Is that what you want?” Till whispered, voice low, mocking, dangerous. “For me to call you baby?”

Ivan just watched. Eyes trained on Till’s every movement, every breath. 

The ash head leaned back with a grin that didn’t reach his eyes, then casually lifted a hand and tapped Ivan’s cheek, insulting.

“And here I thought you were fairing well when I ended everything in your garden,” Till said, cold and brutal. “You’re still the same. Work on your mask better, bastard.”

Then he turned, walking past Ivan without another look, ready to take the exit. 

The conversation was over. Whatever game Ivan was playing, Till didn’t feel like entertaining it furth—

A sharp rustle of movement behind him was heard.

Till halted from his tracks and turned around slowly.

Ivan stood at the top of the very spot Till had been leaning on earlier, perched there like he wasn’t just one step away from falling off a three story building.

Everything in Till froze.

The cigarette between his fingers stopped burning in his mind. His jaw clenched, the humor drained from his face like blood from a wound. Even the air felt different, cold and biting against the sweat on his temple. Whatever rush was in his system a second ago vanished, flushed out instantly by the image of Ivan out balancing himself so carelessly on the ledge.

His throat went dry.

“Ivan,” he said, steadying his voice as best as he could. “What the hell are you doing?”

Ivan didn’t look at him at first. Just let the wind tangle through his jet black hair as his shoes teetered on concrete. His hands hung at his sides like weights. 

Then, slowly, he turned his head, an unhinged smile curling up.

“You said I’m still the same,” Ivan replied, voice soft and eerily even. “So I figured I’d prove you right.”

Till blinked. “This isn't funny, get down.”

“Hmm, was I ever funny?” Ivan's eyes squinted, then widened again. “Alright, I’ll try cracking a joke, try your best to laugh, yeah?”

“No—”

Ivan lifted his other leg.

Till’s breath caught. His brain screamed at him to rush forward, to drag Ivan back down, but his body was locked in place, frozen with something he hadn’t felt in years: real, teeth grinding panic.

Ivan’s arms swayed out to his sides, like some twisted ballerina trying to find the center.

“Stop,” Till said, breathless, voice strained. “Stop messing around—”

Ivan leaned backward. Just a bit. Not enough to fall. But enough to make Till’s stomach drop.

Then back again.

Then forward again.

Oh god.

“Stop bluffing,” Till snapped, the panic seeping in through his tone. “It makes you look more pathetic.”

Ivan’s head tilted, bangs sweeping sideways as he peered down at Till like he was looking at a painting.

A sick twist of humor played at the edge of his lips. Glassy irises, gleaming with something that looked a little too close to honest ruin.

It was small, a minor dip of Ivan’s right shoulder, so minor someone else might’ve missed it. But Till had been watching closely. He caught it the same way you catch an instinct mid breath.

Shit.

His legs moved before his mind could. In one full motion lunge, Till darted forward just as Ivan’s body began tipping backward, the cement ledge grinding underfoot.

“Fuck— no, no!!!”

Ivan’s right arm almost fell out of reach that Till’s fingers barely caught his sleeve. 

His body slammed into the railing. Hard. A jolt ran up his ribs, knocking the air out of his lungs.

Till didn’t mind it, he immediately scrambled his other hand until they latched tight around Ivan’s forearm.

“Sick fuck!” he gritted out, arms straining. “Are you insane?!”

Ivan didn’t try to help him. He dangled, dead weight in Till’s grip.

“Fuck, you’re heavy!” Till gasped, heel skidding against the gravel as his upper body folded halfway over the railing. “Pull up!”

Ivan’s face was blank. Not wide eyed. Not even smug anymore. Just watching Till, upside down from his angle, hair catching wind.

Till’s muscles screamed. One wrong slip and Ivan would fall. And Till would either dislocate his shoulder or go down with him.

“Let it go, Till.”

“Shut up and pull yourself up!”

“You’ve done it before,” Ivan smiled serenely. “You can do it again.”

Veins bulged along Till’s forearms. Sweat slicked his brow, turning cold in the rooftop wind. With his stomach pressed painfully against the ledge and the trembling growing worse, Till knew he couldn’t hold on much longer.

“Please…” The word broke from Till like a crack in glass, shaky, thin, barely holding back everything else underneath. 

“Ivan…” Tears welled in his eyes, blurring the pale figure he was desperately trying to keep from falling. “Please…”

In a final act of desperation, Till did the only thing he could think of.

He yanked Ivan harder toward him, not caring at the loud crack of his shoulder he just heard. His entire body poured it all at the touch. 

It wasn’t a rescue grip anymore. It was that hold. That hold he used to do when he didn’t want Ivan to leave.

That old, selfish one.

“Please…” Young Till’s voice cracked as he held onto Ivan’s smaller hands. His fingers were clammy, grip was desperate. Like if he let go, everything would vanish.

Ivan looked down at their joined hands. Then he tilted his head.

“But…” he murmured, almost gently. “Marty’s waiting.”

Till’s heart thudded. His hold tightened instantly, almost too tight now.

“Till… it hurts…”

“Please, Ivan…” he coughed. Forced it. Made the sound rough as if to remind Ivan of what he was walking away from.

A sick boy. A fragile body. A friend not to be abandoned.

“Don’t leave me.”

Till clings to Ivan, his entire body still trembling from the shock as he takes in deep, shaky breaths.

Ivan— now safely back on the right side of the railing, runs a hand along his back, lips brushing against Till’s damp temple, though it does nothing to soothe the panic still gripping him.

“I hate you…” Till said, tone dripping with pure hatred. “I hate you so fucking much…”

Ivan hummed in agreement.

Till was going to kill him. He was sure of it.

But not today.

Chapter Text

When Ivan was young, he never thought about dreams or plans. Why? Because the idea of a future felt like something reserved for people who could afford to close their eyes without fear of not waking up.

His life, however, was about keeping his stomach from turning on itself, about making it through the night and being ready to fight again the next morning.

He never knew privilege, never understood what affection or softer emotions were supposed to mean. To him, everything was simple. If he wanted something, he took it… If he needed something, he fought for it.

Survival. That was the only thing he knew.

But even in the slums, where staying alive should’ve been the only thing that mattered, the world still found ways to tempt people with its foolish brightness. 

“In love with you…”

“... when you were mine…”

He remembered the feel of his hair against his forehead, dry and rough from never being washed right, stiff with grime that clung to him no matter how much he tried to shake it off with rain water. 

The pavement was cold under his bare feet, rough and unkind, and his little hands, covered in filth, pressed flat against the glass of a cheap jazz bar.

Inside, was a completely different world. The light was soft, spilling in warm shades of yellow and amber red, catching on glasses and smoke until everything seemed to glow. Figures sat close together at small tables, their faces blurred by haze, their voices low as if they were in on some big secret only the rich with golden teeth could hear.

And then there was a voice, so loud and clear that it slipped through the thin glass, and into him like the words were alive and meant to scratch something in anyone’s brain.… So raw that although this was the first time he was hearing her, it was familiar. 

“…Remember when you're in love…”

The singer on stage leaned toward the microphone, lips painted in a dark shade that caught the dim light whenever it moved. Her red dress clung and loosened with every sway, the fabric rippling like a slow fire without any ember following her movements. 

Ivan couldn’t catch every word, but the melody that was smooth as velvet dragged across stone, was enough to halt him mid–step.

“Love, love, always you…”

“…In love, love, always”

For a moment, Ivan thought he could mimic her. His mouth parted, tongue flicking against the edge of his little snaggletooth as if that would somehow shape the same sound.

But before any sound could form, the entrance door swung open.

Heat spilled out, carrying the rasp of throat–burnt tobacco, the sickly sweetness of counterfeit perfumes, and the sharp bite of liquor soaked into coats. With it came a broad, irritated man, shoulders filling every Ivan’s frame. 

A thick hand reached out, shoving Ivan off to the side, the same casual force one might use to scatter a stray dog nosing too close to where it didn’t belong.

Ivan staggered back. The skin on his heel peeling against a small stone, a sharp burn blooming raw with each step he fought to steady, grounding him in the filth of the uneven cobblestone.

“You can’t be here, kid,” the man said, not unkind but not gentle either. “Scram. You’re disturbing the guests.”

The door shut again, sealing the light and voices back inside as if he had imagined them. 

He pushed himself back up with a small grunt and stayed where he was, swaying slightly on sore feet. His half-lidded eyes clung to the glow of the window, his ears straining to catch whatever scraps of sound carried this far.

“…This always happens to me.”

The lyrics slipped out, low and bitter just when it reached his ears.

Before he got accused again for disturbing someone’s peace, he turned his back. The song trailed after him as his small figure disappeared into the crooked mouth of a nearby street.

“In the dark city lights…

…I can’t find anyone, anyone…

Anyone…”

By four years old, Ivan already knew that living meant knowing what to endure and what to fight. He learned quickly which voices meant trouble, which alleyways trapped you in, which corners were worth keeping.

Hunger was cruel, but the cold was worse. Hunger only hollowed you, whilst the cold gnawed until your body shook so hard you thought your bones might break.

One night, he pressed himself into a crumbling nook at the edge of the slums. A broken wall leaned above him, blocking just enough wind to trick anyone into believing they were safer here. 

He sat curled on the ground, knees pressed into his chest, his little spine bent like a twig. In his hands were two dull stones he had scavenged earlier, their edges uneven but heavy enough to scrape. He had watched someone coax a flame out of nothing. The sight burned in him more vividly than anything else.

If they could do it, he could too.

His small hands trembled as he struck the stones together.

Click. Scrape. Click. Scrape.

He tried again. And again. Until his fingers slipped and made his skin scrape against stone. 

A small sound caught in his throat— not a cry, but a curious hum as he watched a bead of blood rise from the split, mixing with the soot and dust that already clung to his fingers. 

Without thinking, he lifted the finger to his mouth. The taste hit sharp and metallic. A sour taste clung to his tongue, iron and dirt mixed together. It did little for the sting itself, but as his saliva slid over the cut, it dulled the ache, distracting it. 

His tongue lingered for a moment too long, more out of habit than comfort, before he lowered his hand again.

“Gross.”

Ivan jerked, small shoulders stiffening and eyes darting wide like an animal cornered. 

He pushed himself back against the crumbling wall, his every muscle poised for escape.

The air hung heavy, smoke and dust catching in his throat as he tried to steady his breath. Every movement in the dark seemed clearer than it should, pulling his senses tight.

A figure leaned just inside the ruin’s edge through the smoke–stained darkness. The ache in his wound was completely forgotten.

It was her. The voice from the jazz bar. The shine of sequins catching the dim light, the cheap powder on her cheeks laid thick enough to blur the dry skin underneath. A burning cigarette hung between her maroon— chapped lips, its ash trembling at the end as she exhaled a slow stream of smoke.

The small glow of her cigarette drew her eyes downward to the two stones clenched in his small hands, blackened from countless efforts. Slowly, she lifted her gaze back to his. Then she saw the little tremor through his frame, the slight shake of a child who had fought off the cold too long.

A corner of her lip twitched as smoke curled out her nose.

“Ah,” she said, voice husky. “You are making a fire?”

Ivan’s round jaw tightened. A low breath slipped through his teeth. 

The stones scraped against each other with a weak spark as he hissed. “Mind your own business.”

The singer tilted her head, unfazed. Her lips parted to let the cigarette dangle as her hand disappeared into the folds of her fur–lined cloak. 

For a heartbeat, Ivan’s shoulders tensed, ready for anything. But when her hand emerged, it was not with the threat he braced for.

It was lighter. Silver, scratched at the edges, catching the weak glow of the night as she flicked it open. The soft click of the wheel filled the silence before a steady flame rose, far stronger than the stubborn sparks Ivan had been coaxing from his stones.

She let it burn between them for a moment, the orange glow painting her half–lidded, cerulean eyes. Then she glanced down at the scraps piled at his feet, wilted newspaper, damp at the edges, thin sticks scavenged from who-knows-where. 

Her gaze lifted back to him, smoke trailing lazily from her mouth.

“Want me to make things easier?” 

Ivan stared. For a moment, all he could see was that tiny flicker of orange, alive and ready… So simple compared to the endless scraping of stone on stone. It would mean warmth right away, no aching fingers needed. 

Without him realizing right away, his body leaned toward it before his mind pulled him back.

Something inside whispered that it was wrong. That flame wasn’t yours . If he took it, it would feel borrowed, fragile, like it could be snatched back any second. He imagined the fire catching, burning bright for a heartbeat, and then gone, leaving the cold twice as sharp after. 

His chest tightened at the thought.

He curled his fingers tighter around his stones, feeling their weight in his palm. They were clumsy and slow. The warmth they’ll make would be tough to make, but it would be his to kill.

He sucked in a breath, jaw locking as he forced the word out. 

“No.”

The singer blinked once, then let out a small— smoky huff that sounded more offended than amused. 

“Suit yourself,” she muttered, snapping the lighter shut. She plucked the cigarette from her lips and let it fall, the ember dimming as it hit the dirt. 

She didn’t bother to crush it, just left it there and let the curling smoke dance into thin air.

Ivan’s eyes followed the thin ribbon of gray until it stung his nose. His face tightened, lips parting in a faint grimace. 

That’s when he realized that he didn’t like the smell of tobacco. Not at all.

She came back to his space.

Not with the lighter to offer as rent though, it was permanently tucked in her pocket unless she’ll use it to light her cigarette. It was just her faint perfume and the click of her heels finding the same broken stretch of wall right every after her performance in the jazz bar.

At first, Ivan found it bothersome. This was his corner, the only small place he could fold into at night. Now there was glittering fabric catching unowned stray light, and annoying drift of smoke cutting into the air he breathed? It annoys him.

Then why not tell her to scram , you ask? Oh, he would have… If it weren’t for the gun at her hip.

It was never touched, at least whenever she’s in his place. But its presence was enough to knot the space between them. A thing like that didn’t need to be pointed out for anyone to know better. That includes Ivan.

So he kept his eyes on his hands instead, whether breaking a bread into smaller pieces or striking stones together that were no longer novice. 

“You’ve got better at it,” the singer teased one time.

Ivan didn’t give her the dignity of a glance. He hauled instead, dragging his small body closer to the flames. 

The fire crackled softly, hungry on the scraps of paper and wood as he let it hold him while enduring an unwanted company.

The singer didn’t seem to mind the silence. A thin line of smoke drifted from her bluish lips. She tapped the ash off her cigarette, metallic dress glittering when her wrist caught the glow of Ivan’s fire. 

“Crowd was loud tonight,” she said at last, her voice low, as if she were only thinking aloud. “Louder than me, the singer,” she paused to drag another tobacco to burn. “Doesn’t matter how much I sing. They are only looking at my body.”

Ivan let the wood hissing against the fire answer for him.

“Sometimes I think they don’t want the cheap music I make. They just… want something to gawk at while they drink,” the bitterness wasn’t sharp but it was muted, tired, like an old bruise showing. 

Ivan offered another silence. 

She lit a fresh cigarette off the dying tip of the first, the flame catching with a brief flare.

“I used to like it, you know?” she murmured. “The lights, the music, the attention . Thought maybe it meant I was worth looking at,” a quiet laugh. “Now I just see their eyes. Hungry, empty. Like they’re waiting for an opportunity.”

She exhaled a long ribbon of smoke, eyes fixed on nothing. “Maybe I should walk out one night. Just leave them staring at an empty stage.” She tapped her cigarette, ash scattering near her boot. “Or maybe I should walk out with this gun.”

Ivan halted. She had drawn it, not with intent but in a lazy— smooth motion, as if she’d only remembered it was there and wanted to feel the weight in her hand. 

She tilted it slightly, letting her thumb brush across the grip. The smoke from her lips curled around the dark. 

Ivan didn’t turn his head, but his gaze lingered at the corner of his vision, watching her fingers trace the steel. She looked at it the way one might look at an old mirror. Partly in curiosity, partly in disdain.

Her eyes then slid toward him, narrowed with a crooked kind of smile.

Ivan, still, said nothing. He only fed another scrap of paper to the fire, pretending it held all his attention.

“What do you think?” she asked, her voice scratchy. “Should I do it?”

The question hung there, clinging to the air like the bitter stink of her cigarette. Ivan kept his gaze on the flames, letting their restless crackle and the distant churn of cars in the city swallow whatever answer she was waiting for. 

For a moment it seemed she might drop it. Then, slowly, her arm moved, and the gun rose toward him.

That made Ivan’s head turn toward her.

“Hey, kid,” she called, her voice dripping with the kind of battery that leaves rust and poison behind. The muzzle hovered just enough to catch the firelight. “I’m asking you a question.”

Ivan looked at her, unreadable, then let his gaze settle on the weapon in her hand. The firelight made it shimmer faintly, pulling out details bit by bit as his dead, red pupils adjusted to the dark. The grip, worn and scuffed. A faint smear of oil along the slide.

He kept staring, his mind filled in what the shadows didn’t show. He saw the flash, heard the crack tearing through the silence, felt the bullet cutting clean through the soft skull of a boy sitting too close to a fire. It was only imagination, but it came too easily, his brain rehearsing something that may happen any second.

For a moment he wondered if it was a bluff, carried around by a woman who liked to talk too much. But then, she clicked something. A small, sharp sound, like teeth snapping into two because of too much grit. 

She had taken the safety off.

It’s real.

“Well?” 

Ivan, still, didn’t answer. Not because he meant to ignore her, but because he wasn’t sure if an answer even existed for it. Maybe she expected silence. Maybe she wanted something clever. Maybe she wanted him to barter with fancy words the way he traded crusts of bread. 

For a brief moment, he thought of telling some vague response, something roundabout and practical.

But before the thought settled on his tongue, something caught his attention above.

It was only a streak at first, faint against the blanket of night. Then the streak deepened, pulling itself into a burning arc across the sky.

A meteor, blazing clean and fierce, dragged itself over the sky’s haze. Not just some star twinkling at the edge of his vision, this one moved, alive, its flame bled into white, white into a tail of pale smoke that seemed to stretch forever.

Ivan’s head tilted back without thinking. For a heartbeat, his whole body went still. The fire in front of him, the gun angled his way, the singer’s demand, all of it fell forgotten. The burning thing above stole every scrap of his attention, caught him like prey in its glow. 

He watched until the blaze thinned and broke apart, until the sky swallowed what was left. 

A snicker made his gaze lower.

The singer was already slipping the gun back where it belonged, its dangerous presence disappearing into the familiar rest at her hip. 

“Ah…” she said, voice dropping to something softer before she turned and began to walk away. “So, you ARE a kid.”

Ivan followed the sway of her boots scuffing against the dirt until there was nothing left to follow. Just the dark closing in around the fire again, and the low hum of the city bleeding from far–off streets.

Only then did he feel it. A wetness cooling against his cheek. His hand lifted halfway before he realized what it was…

Tears . Wet, rolling lines that had slipped out unnoticed streaking down to his chin. 

The next time Ivan saw that woman, she was bent uncomfortably against the wall.

A man stood behind her. Tall, broad, and slick in the way wealthy people often cloaked themselves, polished shoes that didn’t belong in this part of the city. 

His hands pressed hard into the singer’s back, bunching the fabric of her dress until it wrinkled around her hips. 

The man’s movements were unforgiving, relentless, the wet thud of his body against hers echoing lewdly in the narrow street like a foot stepping into a puddle.

Ivan hadn’t meant to stumble across it. He had only come for scraps, following the same path he always did. But when he turned the corner, the scene was already unfolding before him.

He froze in the dim half–light, his arms hugging the teared paper bag of salvaged crumbs. They hadn’t noticed him. Not yet. The singer’s face was pressed to peeling plaster, strands of her hair sticking in damp streaks to her cheek. 

“Fuck… You’re so tight,” the man grunted low, satisfied, oblivious to anything outside his persistent thrusts.

The singer, on the other hand, looked elsewhere. Her eyes had gone hollow, fixed on nothing, as if they had long since slipped out of her body. She didn’t fight the man, didn’t give him anything back, just let her frame move with the pounding. A sound would catch in her throat now and then, a breath, a groan, but it carried no fire, as if everything about her pleasure had long extinguished.

The sight barely surprised Ivan, except in the way it pulled loose a vague memory to him, something buried deep before he ever found himself folded into the grime of the slums.

He remembered lights… Neon lights, sharp and wild, bleeding across the night in colors that made the dark hot and less of a refuge. There were voices too, loud and endless, laughter that split into shrieks, groans that throbbed through the thin walls, every pitch of human hunger bleeding into the next— Pleasure, pain, tears… Name it, all of it sounded the same to him.

In the middle of it, were hands. So warm and pulling him close, palms pressed over his ears as though those alone could filter out the filth. Someone had coaxed him, hushed him, hummed him to sleep to soften the cruelty of the world.

He couldn’t remember the last time those hands had been there. Couldn’t even place when they’d slipped away, leaving only the noise… Leaving him nowhere .

Ivan stayed in that hollow thought long enough that he didn’t notice the pull of someone looking. 

When he lifted his head, he found the singer’s cerulean eyes already on him.

His gaze held hers as hers held his, as if the two of them were trying to draw something out of the real world around them. But there was nothing to give, nothing to take. Whatever was behind her eyes stayed buried, and whatever sat in him remained locked.

His attention slipped lower to her hip. The gun was there, hanging against the wrinkled fabric. Her hands weren’t bound. No grip held them down. She could’ve used it.

The thought pressed into him until it clicked—

Ah.

His eyes locked into her again. Her stare was the same, but something in it lingered.

Ivan refused to interpret it this time.

The man thrusting behind the singer must have felt her focus shift, his rhythm slowed, and his face twisted into something close to annoyance.

Ivan stepped back into the dark before the man could notice him too. By the time the sound of her breathing was swallowed by the walls again, he was gone.

By the time Ivan made it back to his corner, she was already there. But not against the wall to smoke, but stretched out on his scraps of cloth as if they were her own. 

Ivan stopped a step short, his jaw tightening.

“Get out,” he said, the words flat as his feet carried him closer.

The singer didn’t even open her eyes at his voice, as if he were nothing more than another draft slipping through the alley. 

Ivan clicked his tongue, the faintest twitch of annoyance crossing his face, then nudged her side with the tip of his toe. A low hum answered him this time, her lids finally peeled open. Her gaze settled on him slowly, unhurried, like surfacing from the bottom of a heavy dream. 

For a moment, her stare was empty, flat as glass, but then, something shifted. A flicker, quick and unguarded, as though she had mistaken him for someone else. The glitter died just as quickly, leaving only the deep ocean behind.

If Ivan noticed, he let it pass.

“Ah,” she breathed, as if recognizing him too late. “It’s you.”

His mouth pressed into a thin line. “Don’t you have to sing at the bar around this time?” His voice carried no malice, only the blunt intention of driving her away. “Or are you planning to rot here instead?”

She didn’t answer, just let her head sink back against the ragged cloth.

Ivan crouched a little, his shadow falling across her. “If you’re going to sleep in my space, then you better have food. Otherwise, scram.”

One eye cracked open as Ivan turned near the scraps, striking stone against stone until a faint spark caught. She watched him work for a breath, then let the lid fall shut again.

“I’ll give you food later,” she murmured. “Don’t worry.”

“I’m starving right now.”

“Tsk. Let me rest first.”

“Rest somewhere else if you won’t give me food right now.”

A short pause. “You want to die?”

Ivan’s hand didn’t stop moving, stone scraping on stone. His tone stayed light, almost casual. “This rock will knock you out first before you can pull that useless gun of yours.”

That peeled her eyes open fully. She stared at him then, not with boredom but with calculation, as if weighing the truth in his words. His voice carried no bluff, and that made it heavier than any shout.

Her tongue clicked against her teeth, and with a lazy reach, she dug into her pocket and pulled out a crinkled plastic packet, biscuits inside cracked and half–dust. 

She tossed it toward him. “Happy?” 

Ivan put down the two stones and tore one plastic open, immediately popping a piece into his mouth to satiate his grumbling stomach. He didn’t bother answering her, he was starving.

The singer gave a small snort. “You eat like the world’s about to snatch it from you.”

Ivan just kept chewing. She waited, as if expecting some kind of retort, but when none came, she shrugged and leaned back, minding her own business.

When the food was gone, Ivan brushed his hands against his dirty pants and crouched again, dragging the stones together until sparks caught on the brittle kindling he’d gathered. Soon, a small fire licked upward, its glow chasing the damp chill from the air. 

The silence stretched, broken only by the crackle of flames and the faint hiss of sap burning out of the wood.

“Can you sing?”

Ivan kept his eyes on the fire, saying nothing.

She studied him from her spot, her gaze heavy. “I saw you watching me sing one time.”

He finally turned his head.

“How does that correlate to me being able to sing?”

The singer parted her lips, ready to answer, but no words came. Instead, she closed her mouth again, something unreadable flickering across her face before she looked away.

Ivan exhaled, letting the silence fold back in. The fire crackled, its warmth rolling over him, and for once he allowed himself to notice the beauty of it, the way the flames bent and swayed, alive and untouchable.

Minutes passed, Ivan had almost convinced himself the night would stay quiet when a faint melody stirred through the smoke. 

At first, he thought it was a trick of his ears, some ghost of memory playing in the back of his head. But then the sound deepened, shaped into a low hum.

The singer’s voice slipped into the air. Eyes still closed.

“Even if we shake our heads, it’s always the same place…”

Her tone lingered, not reaching for perfection but for something else, someone who used to live. 

“…I can’t reach you, so I imagine alone.”

Ivan’s eyes stayed on the fire. He didn’t turn, her voice threaded into the fire’s rhythm like it was synching intentionally. Each note pulled at some unspoken part of him, something he didn’t have the words to name.

There it was again… that same familiarity and tug of recognition that had caught him once before in the jazz bar. 

Where did I hear it before?

Strangely, it didn’t bother him. It should have. Noise usually grated on him, pressed against his skull until it became unbearable. But this… this sank into the space like it had every right to be there.

So he let her sing.

The fire popped, sending sparks into the night, and for a while, he almost forgot the cold around him. He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, the warmth of the flames spilling against his face. 

Without realizing it, his chest picked up the tune, low and rough at first, a hum threading under her voice.

He didn’t notice until the sound was already there, rising from him without permission, his own voice following hers.

“So black, black as it can be…”

“... The dark sea gets deeper as you approach.”

The words slipped out naturally as if he had always known them, as if they’d been buried somewhere in his head. His mouth moved on its own, shaping the broken tune she started, filling the gaps of her broken ones.

It was less like singing and more like remembering, an unknown muscle memory from an unknown source.

Then he felt it. A touch. Fingers brushing gently through his stiff hair. Ivan’s head jerked back, raven eyes darting down to the woman lying behind him. 

Her hand hovered, still caught in the act of caressing, her eyes glassy and wet with tears that had not yet fallen. She looked at him as she sang, voice trembling, clinging to the notes as if they were her only anchor.

Ivan froze, the song halting on his tongue. His head tilted slightly, uncertain, as her voice broke in the firelight. She forced herself to go on, raying at the cracking lyrics until the melody gave way entirely.

The song collapsed into sob. Her chest hitched once, twice, and then the tears spilled, pulling jagged cries from her throat. She pressed her hands to her eyes as though she could shut it all back inside, but the sobs came harder, her shoulders shaking with the effort of holding in what refused to be held.

Her voice cracked again, but this time it wasn’t in song. It was in the desperate repetition of a name, a woman’s name that fell from her mouth as though it was the only thing she had left to cling to.

“I’m sorry…” the singer chanted between her sobs and hiccups. “I’m… sorry…”

Ivan sat still, watching the tears slip past her trembling hands, streaking down her cheeks until they dropped onto the dirty seams of his soiled linen, staining where the grime had already claimed its place. His eyes lingered there for a moment, following the damp marks spreading slowly over the fabric. 

When he got bored, his gaze drifted upward the ruined canopy, gaped open to the starless night sky as he stared through it with a half-lidded look with empty thoughts. A faint furrow tugged at his brow, not sympathy, but the mild irritation of being pulled into something messy and human.

Perhaps… He’d charge her for more biscuits later.

In the slums, anything could happen. 

Violence wasn’t a question of if but when , and most of all, to whom . The city was wide, its streets a sprawl of noise and light, but for those who drifted through the alleys, who learned which turns swallowed sound and which corners spat you out into danger, the rules were clear.

Not only beggars haunted the dirty edges. The rich came too, their cars sleek and gleaming, rolling over puddles and trash with the same indifference they showed to the people crouched at the roadside. And when blood spilled in these places, it was easy enough to decide who would be blamed. The poor had no alibis, no voices that carried, no one to listen if they cried otherwise.

Ivan had seen it, shadows stepping out of tinted windows, faces hidden behind masks, the sound of threats carried low and heavy before a body was shoved to the ground. Sometimes it was a beating, quick and efficient. Other times, it was worse. Knives pulled, throats slit, corpses dumped in corners where they would blend in with the rest of the city’s rot until someone carted them away.

It was the kind of violence reserved not for those who had brushed shoulders with the wrong hands, the mobs, the ones who owned half the streets while pretending to be nothing more than rumors. The beggars, the hungry, the drifters like Ivan? They were just useless witnesses. 

No one looked at a stray dog when a wolf walked by . And that invisibility kept him alive.  Should things like these really be witnessed by a child barely five years old?

Well, does the world even care?

“Enough.”

The men obeyed immediately. Their fists fell away from the crumpled figure on the ground, stepping back as if reeled in by the woman’s voice. She stood just beyond the spill of a broken streetlamp, her nails gleaming, polished into sharp, clean arcs that caught the faintest light with consistent menace.

Ivan remained crouched low behind the rusting dumpster, the sour stench of rot pressing into his nose as he leaned forward just enough to see. He had only come to find the singer, to take the food she had promised in exchange for his corner of space the night before. 

Instead, he was greeted with this .

The singer coughed wetly, trying to curl into herself as if smaller flesh might soften the blows she’d already taken. Her arms wrapped tight over her ribs, chin tucked, knees pressed together, but her shivers gave her away. 

“You call yourself dignified?” the woman’s voice slid through the street. “Proud of your little voice while you spread your legs for my husband not even a block away?”

The words landed heavier than fists. Ivan could see it in the way the singer flinched, not only from pain but from humiliation that peeled away whatever pride she once carried. Her head sank lower, hiding her face in the shadow of her brown hair, her breath quickening as though shame itself could choke her.

Ivan pieced it together in silence. So, that man from yesterday was married?

The woman exhaled, her arms folding as if she were speaking only to herself. 

“My husband and I had a deal. Unsha can do whatever he wants. Drink, waste our money, find a body for the night. None of it matters to me,” her heels clicked as she walked. “As long as he doesn't get caught.”

Her gaze flicked back to the singer, curled tight on the ground. 

“Unfortunately,” the woman went on, her tone light with cruelty. “I heard about your little adventure yesterday.”

The woman crouched, careful not to let her coat drag through the filth. “You’re not hard to find, you know? All it took was a few dollars and your name, your family tree, where you currently reside…” Her tone carried a teasing lilt, though her eyes stayed merciless. She tapped her nails against her knee, each strike a neat that left faint crescent imprints against her skin. “Practically your whole life , served up on a silver platter.”

The singer’s voice broke as if the words hurt coming out.

“He… he threatened me,” the singer said, her body folding tighter, arms digging into her ribs as though she could make herself vanish. “Said if I didn’t let him, he’d kill me.”

For a moment, the woman was quiet. Then she gave a small laugh, dismissive.

“I know,” she said, almost conversational. “That’s how Unsha is. When he can’t get what he wants, he pushes until it gives way. He’s always been like that. It isn’t his fault.”

Her gaze dropped to the crumpled figure at her feet, voice dipping lower, steadier. “It’s yours. You wanted to stay alive, so you gave in. That was your choice. Don’t pretend it was anything else.”

The singer lifted her head, eyes flashing in disbelief, her lips twisting into something close to a laugh. “Are you insane?”

The woman only smiled, unbothered, as if the question was too small to matter.

Ivan caught it from the shadows just as the singer did, this wasn’t punishment for sleeping with her husband. That had never been the point.

The woman was here for the hunt , nothing more. Finding the singer was enough; breaking her down was the prize. It wasn’t jealousy that kept her from striking, it was the satisfaction of a predator who’d already won.

The singer seemed to sense her impending doom. Her shoulders squared in a way that almost looked like defiance. “So, what now? Are you going to kill me?”

The woman tilted her head, humming softly as though mulling over a meal instead of a life. 

The corner of her mouth curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “That’s the goal,” she admitted, her tone casual, almost bored. “But what fun would it be if I ended it so quickly?”

The air barely shifted before Ivan felt rough hands clamp around his shoulders, yanking him out behind the dumpster. A startled sound escaped him as his body twisted instinctively against the grip. 

The singer’s head snapped toward the noise, and when she saw him, her eyes widened in horror. They darted back to the woman.

“Don’t…” she whispered, the word catching in her throat like a prayer broken in half. “Fuck…he’s just a child!”

The woman only snickered. Her eyes tracked Ivan as one of her men dragged him closer.

“Hey, kid,” she greeted, her voice warm in the way a snake’s hiss could be mistaken for silk.

Ivan stared back with half-lidded eyes, unreadable though his chest hammered so loudly it drowned the rest of the world. 

He should’ve left. Should’ve saved himself the second his skin prickled that something wasn’t right. The food could’ve been found elsewhere, could’ve stomached the leftovers in the trash. He could’ve—

“I like your eyes,” the woman cut into his thoughts. It wasn’t admiration, it was sardonic, and yet there was a sliver of interest that couldn’t be mistaken. “It kind of reminds me of someone… Have we met before?”

“No…” the singer rasped firmly. “No, you don’t.”

“Hmm,I guess not,” the woman sighed, as though she was doing the singer some twisted kindness by not trying to remember it. 

“I don’t have a child, but I’ve always wanted one,” a small, cruel smile touched her lips for the nth time. “It breaks my heart whenever I see a starving one.”

Ivan’s face stayed still, his eyes blinking once, twice, as if to preserve some thin veil of innocence.

Keep blinking… keep blinking … keep blinking …

“Anyway,” the woman breathed as if she’s done coaxing. “Are you hungry?”

This time Ivan knew he had to speak. The silence wouldn’t carry him any further. 

The question wasn’t really a question. It was a leash, tugging for a reaction. He just wasn’t sure which way to lean.

If he behaved, bowed his head and whispered yes like every other pitiful stray, it would please her only for a moment. If he told her no, however, she’d dig deeper, twisting until the truth bled out of him anyway.

Ivan’s mouth curled, he could sense it. He could sense in the curl of her smile, in the way her eyes stayed fixed on him with a predator’s patience…

This woman liked surprises . 

Ivan lifted his finger, pointing at the singer.

“Will you offer more than she could?” 

For a beat, silence reigned. Even the singer’s breath caught, her eyes widening as if Ivan had just slashed the floor out from under them both. 

The woman blinked, stunned by the audacity.

A sharp, guttural sound burst from her chest, rolling into a guffaw that scraped through the alley walls. She bent slightly as she laughed, not the kind that held joy, but the kind that cracked bones. It was ugly, feral, the sound of someone who had just been given a better thrill than they’d hoped for.

The singer flinched at the sound, as though it struck her harder than the hand had earlier. 

When the woman’s laughter ebbed, she smoothed the sleeve of her coat. “Of course, I can.”

Her eyes lingered on Ivan, then to the singer before drifting back to her men. 

“I like this kid,” she chuckled, gesturing lazily toward Ivan. “He deserves a treat.”

The words carried no warmth. In her tone, he wasn’t a child, wasn’t even a person. Just a pet she’d chosen to indulge.

“Take him,” she said, hand flicking to her men. “Bring him to the nearest fine dining restaurant and buy him the most expensive buffet you can find.”

One of the men nudged Ivan forward with a palm on his back. His legs tensed, ready to bolt, but the black gleam of the pistols at their hips spoke louder than his instinct.

He climbed in the leather interior with hesitation, his shoulders pressed to the frame as if he could fold himself into the door. A man followed close, shutting the car door with a heavy click.

The engine roared into life. Ivan didn’t bother to look back, didn’t dare to meet the watching singer that was shrinking as the car rolled forward.

He was so hungry …

Just as they reached the end of the alley, a gunshot was heard.

Ivan set the last of the bandages aside, the faint smell of rubbing alcohol still clinging to his hands. 

The dorm was quiet now, save for the faint hum of the air conditioner, Till’s breathing, and the muted creak of the bed when he shifted in his sleep.

Ivan sat gently, his eyes unblinking to the figure sprawled on the bed. Till lay rigid, one arm folded protectively across his torso, his body forced into one position by injury of his shoulder. The posture was awkward, uncomfortable by any measure, and yet his face had softened in sleep. 

The raven head almost laughed under his breath. After everything that had unfolded just hours ago, Till still managed to pass out with him still in the room.

Ivan continued to stare, ogling how the blurred dim light reflected over Till’s features as though the room itself wanted to protect him.

A hand rose before he could think better of it. Thick fingers drifted across Till’s skin, tracing what the light had already drawn. The sweep of a brow, the straight bridge of his nose, down to the tip of his chin. His finger continued to follow the slope to Till’s neck, where breath rose and fell steady, then lowered over the soft rise of his throat. His fingertips moved slowly sideways, until they reached the edge of the injured shoulder.

Leaning closer, Ivan let his face hover just above Till’s, close enough to steal the same air. His palm spread across the injured arm, giving it a ghostly touch before his fingers tightened in a slow squeeze, testing the limits of Till’s tolerance. 

Ivan ran through every possible response, would Till jerk awake in anger, punch him, shove him off the bed? Realistically, any of that could happen.

But perhaps it was the haze of alcohol, or the weight of both physical and mental exhaustion Ivan had left Till under, but Till only shifted slightly, arching to pull away from his painful grip. A soft gasp escaped him, eyes still closed, lips parting so close to Ivan’s that it felt like the smallest, most tantalizing brush of air between them.

Ivan’s gaze turned feral for a moment, taking in the heat that had just touched his lips and the gentle swell of Till’s throat. The temptation to lean in and dart his tongue inside Till’s mouth made his stomach tighten, the urge to make him gasp for an entirely different reason burning through every fiber of his restraint.

Not now . Ivan bit down on his lower lip, the snaggletooth pressing hard enough to draw blood.

Ivan released his lower lip, trusting himself enough to not ravage the sleeping man. His hand stayed gentle against Till’s injured arm as he leaned closer, nuzzling the ash-haired man’s cheek. 

“Good night, Till.”

He then pressed soft, wet kisses along the curve of Till’s neck, taking advantage of the other’s lack of consciousness by letting traces of his own blood smear lightly across the skin.