Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Song: Saturn - Sleeping at last

“Some survivors carry their death within them – just more slowly.”

– Ocean Vuong

Prologue

Sometimes, Felix wishes he could forget what silence feels like. Not the peaceful kind, the one that drifts through the window in the early morning, when the day hasn't quite begun.
Not the comfortable quiet after a long conversation either, or the silence between two breaths, when you pause briefly to inhale.

No. The other kind.
The cold one. The one that swallows everything.
The one that smells like iron and burning rubber.
The one that makes your own body feel unfamiliar, while sirens scream somewhere in the distance and no one reacts.

Like the silence that engulfed him back then, when everything he knew collapsed into a single moment— the ringing in his ears, the blood on his forehead, the numbness in his left leg.

It’s been years.
And still, he wakes up every night with their voices in his ears and the taste of iron on his tongue.

That all-consuming, doom-laced silence has settled inside him like a leftover shadow.
It’s there even when he laughs.
Even when he greets people politely.
Even when he takes orders and serves tea with a friendly smile.

Today is one of those days.
The air in his room is cool, heavy, and quiet – just like every morning.
The light outside is still faint, a kind of false dawn that promises brightness but never quite delivers, as thick rainclouds already drift across the autumn sky.

The clock reads 4:17 a.m.

He wakes long before the alarm goes off.
The echo of fading screams in his ears, traces of tears on his face.
A ghost that knows everything.
A body that protects him and lets memories blur as his eyes open.

It’s far too early. But sleep won’t come again.
His left thigh throbs dully – phantom pain from the prosthesis, like it often does before a weather change.

But he ignores it.
Just like he’s learned to ignore almost everything related to himself.

With practiced movements, he pulls back the blanket
and swings his legs out of bed.
The click of the prosthesis locking in place is almost comforting – a sound that proves everything is where it should be,
even if he himself isn’t.

He showers too long, too hot.
Gets dressed without thinking.
Black. Grey. Quiet.
Covers his freckles under three layers of makeup.
Hides the softness.
Because soft things can be hurt.

He doesn’t look in the mirror.
And that’s for the best.

In the kitchen, it smells like brewed tea – faint and familiar.
The coffee machine hums. The window is open.
Outside, Seoul is already stirring – buses, delivery vans, early voices, the first commuters heading into their bleak routines.

But up here, above the small café, the city still seems to be asleep.

Felix stands with his back to the table.
A half-full coffee cup, shoulders straight, gaze empty.
He doesn’t really drink.
He counts tasks. Organizes the day.
Lecture. Project report. Helping out at the café. Night shift. Music. Maybe.

Don’t think. Just do.
Don’t feel. Just function.

His grandmother will be awake soon.
Her footsteps are soft but steady.
She calls him “Bok-ah,” with that mix of tenderness and quiet concern only a grandmother can feel.
She’ll cup his face in her wrinkled, gentle hands and look her grandson in the eyes.
She’ll tell him to sleep more.
That he looks tired.
That he needs to rest.

And he’ll nod. Like the dutiful grandson he is.
He’ll say, “Don’t worry, Halmoni. I’m taking care of myself.”
With a smile that could almost be believable.
One that hides a lie that would break her if she knew.

She doesn’t know he works at night.
That he barely eats. Barely sleeps.

That he wears his father’s old watch even though the glass is cracked – like everything inside him.
Or his mother’s delicate silver chain, which once felt like it stole the breath from his lungs in the worst moments.
But that’s okay.
That’s the price he pays for being alive.

And that’s how it should be.

If you saw him, you might think he’s just an overworked student.
Polite. Punctual. Neat.
Quiet, but kind.

You wouldn’t notice how carefully he avoids making noise.
How he scans for exits the moment he enters a room.
How he holds his breath whenever something loud breaks the silence.

You wouldn’t really see him.
Because Felix has learned how to fold himself out of the world.
How to live without breathing.
How to exist without being.

He knows what’s coming today.
And tomorrow.
And the day after that.

He knows how many minutes the walk to campus takes.
How many customers will likely show up at lunchtime.
How many hours his shift at the 7/11 will be.
He knows that sometime around 2 a.m., he’ll be sitting in front of the microphone again – makeup on, hidden in shadows, with a voice that finally says what he can’t.

FRECKLES.

His secret self.

A few clicks. A new song. Maybe.
Or maybe just silence.

What no one knows:
That all of this – every step, every action, every ounce of control – is just a desperate attempt not to lose himself.

What Felix doesn’t know:
That somewhere in this city, in a small shared apartment full of voices, laughter, chaos, and quiet battles, a few students are living who are still strangers – but who will soon begin to see him.

Really see him.

Not as the diligent student.
Not as the café worker.
Not as the polite, quiet boy with tired eyes.

But as the boy who has lost himself – and who needs, more than anything, to be found.

Chapter Text

05:14 a.m.

The darkness in the room was beginning to fade.
A narrow beam of light crept between the heavy curtains.
Gray and cold. A silent promise of a rainy day.
Outside, the city began to breathe, and Felix lay awake in his bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
Still.
Empty.

As every morning, he waited for the shrill screeching of his alarm.
And as every morning, he was already awake.
Had he even slept?
He couldn't remember.
He was awake.
And he knew he had been for quite a while.
Awake.
Functioning.

His room was silent. Only the steady ticking of the wall clock kept him company.
Outside, the wind blew against the windowpane, and the first hesitant raindrops tapped softly against the glass.

Shuddering, Felix sat up.
His shirt clung damply to his chest - the last traces of a nightmare.
The fabric rubbed rough against his skin, making him shiver.

He moved cautiously, like someone who has learned not to draw attention.
First, he set down his right leg.
The floor was cool and smooth beneath his toes.
Another shiver ran down his back.

His hand reached for the prosthesis.
The movement was mechanical, assured, familiar.
A click.
Adjustment.
Support.
Stability.
He didn't know whether the sound calmed him -
or merely reminded him.
Reminded him that something was missing.
And that this piece of carbon held him up more firmly than his own will.

Felix sat at the edge of the bed.
Silent.
Not thinking.
Just... there.
His gaze caught on the green glow of the alarm clock.

05:18 a.m.

Two minutes early. But that didn't matter.
None of it ever really mattered.

He didn't need to sleep.
He just needed to... function.
Keep everything running.
Provide safety.

The shrill tone of his alarm tore through the fragile quiet.
A soft sigh escaped him.
Felix turned it off with practiced motion.
Silence flooded the room.

Felix forced himself to get up.
Not abruptly.
Too fast meant pain.
The morning stiffness, the wet weather - it all clung to his bones and made every step harder.
A hot sting shot through his stump.
Felix pressed his lips together, swallowed the sound.
The pain.
The morning torment.
Pain had become the new routine.
He placed one foot in front of the other.
Keep going. Always keep going.

"If I don't think, it works. I just have to keep doing."
The thought was like a mantra, burned deep into his mind.
It wasn't bravery.
It was habit.

05:35 a.m.

The shower was too hot.
He endured it in silence.
He needed it.
He wanted to feel the heat, the pressure, the movement of water on his skin.
Not to relax.
To feel safe.

When the water hit his shoulders, his body at least felt real.
He was still here. Still in the now.

The bathroom filled with steam. The mirror fogged up quickly.
Felix waited.
He avoided looking into the mirror.
What he would see were memories.
Memories he wanted to suppress.
Memories that hurt and meant open, bleeding wounds.

The mirror presented him with everything.
Everything that made him who he was -
and everything he had lost.

His freckles.
Which reminded him of warm summer days in Sydney.
Of: laughter.
Warmth.
Security.

The scar that cut through his right eyebrow.
It reminded him of:
Tears.
Iron.
Noise.
Silence.
Loneliness.

The mirror showed him the unvarnished truth.
The decay of Lee Felix.
Or the shell that had been left behind nearly five years ago.

With practiced fingers, he made his freckles disappear under makeup.
With every dab of foundation, Felix erased a small piece of the past.
Calm, clean movements made the once joyful boy disappear.
Layer by layer, his old self faded.
It calmed him.
Or numbed him.
He couldn't tell.
Didn't even know if there was a difference.

06:15 a.m.

"Bok-ah?"

His grandmother's voice was quiet, almost a whisper -
as if she didn't want to disturb his inner peace.
Or what was left of it.
She sounded tired, frail.
And yet... warm.
Like a familiar, safe blanket that still protected and kept you warm, even when it was already full of holes.

Felix knew she barely slept.
Hadn't really slept in years.
Just like him.
And yet she got up with him every morning.
Always.
As if she were a shadow watching over him, quietly and protectively.

"I'm in the kitchen, Halmoni."
His voice was firm, friendly - as always when he spoke to her.
Not too tired.
Not too empty.
Just warm enough not to raise suspicion.

The soft clicking of her cane could be heard.
Her steps were slow, careful -
her hip would be giving her trouble again.
Felix was already thinking about how he could relieve her in the café today without making her feel weak.

When she entered the kitchen, it was as if light had stepped into the room.
Not bright, glaring light - but a quiet glow that came from within.
Despite all the pain of recent years, despite everything she had lost on that day five years ago,
his grandmother radiated a gentleness that warmed every room.

Home.

That's what his grandmother was to him.
A refuge where no one judged him.
Here, he could simply be Felix.
Could.

But he had to function.
He had to be her rock in the fiercest storm, too.

She slowly sank into the kitchen chair.
Supported herself on the edge of the table as she sat down.
A quiet creak, a barely audible exhale - and then she sat.
Upright.
Dignified.
"We should really get more comfortable chairs," she murmured, and a small smile flickered across her lips.

Felix stayed silent.
Not out of disinterest.
But because he knew they couldn't afford new chairs.
Not with what the café brought in.
Barely enough to cover necessities.
Not with his medications.
Not with him.

He was a burden.
An expense.
A silent entry in life's bookkeeping that kept writing red numbers.
That's why he worked secretly at night.
That's why he secretly mixed his wages into the café's income.
She mustn't know.
She wouldn't understand.
Or worse: she would.

His gaze fell on her.
Her fine, almost translucent fingers were wrapped around the coffee cup.
Her gray hair was neatly tied back, the loose strands softly curled.
Her eyes, gray-blue, looked at him.

And in that gaze was everything.
Tenderness.
Worry.
Questions.
The unspoken.

"I'm worried, my child."
"You look tired."
"Are you sleeping enough?"
"Are you eating enough?"
"I miss your beautiful freckles."

She didn't say any of it out loud. But Felix heard it anyway.
Every single word.

He responded with a smile.
Reached for the pot and refilled her cup.
"Freshly brewed."
A sentence like a shield.
Like a border between him and the truth.

She simply nodded. Let him be.

In the morning, they didn't talk much.
Not because they had nothing to say,
but because they understood each other even in silence.
Because every word could become a crack.
Because they both knew: if you say something too often, it becomes real.

When Felix reached for his own cup, his shirt slid up slightly.
It was only for a moment.
But it was enough.
The crack had formed.

"You've lost weight."
Her voice was calm, gentle.
No accusation, just observation.
And the worry in her eyes.

Felix shrugged.
He tried to shake off the topic.
Like a bothersome fly circling him.

"I eat, don't worry."
A lie.
She saw it.
Of course she did.

His grandmother took a sip of her coffee and weighed her next words carefully.
"Have you had breakfast yet?"
"I'll eat later, promise."
Another lie.
She studied him.
"Later is always never with you."

Felix said nothing.
Silence was sometimes easier than honesty.

But she didn't let go.
"You've got those shadows under your eyes again."
Felix smiled. Tired.
"I've got a lot to do for uni."
She tapped the table twice with her fingers.
"Your studies are eating you up."
Her voice was quiet, almost brittle.
"Bok-ah, you have the right to rest. To sleep. To have a life."

"I know, Halmoni."
She looked at him. Long. Quiet.

Felix stood up.
His movement was controlled, almost automatic.
"It's exam season. It'll get better. I promise."
Another lie.
And she knew it.
But she said nothing.

"I have to go, or I'll be late for my first lecture."

When the apartment door clicked shut, she was left behind.
She watched him through the window, like she did every morning.
"You move through the day like a ghost,"
she whispered into the empty room.

07:25 a.m.

The world outside was bathed in gray.
The sky hung low, heavy and cloud-covered over Seoul.
The rain had eased, but the asphalt still shimmered.
Fragments of the night reflected in the puddles, distorting Felix's silhouette as he walked down the street.

His hood pulled deep over his face, hands buried in his jacket pockets,
Felix moved through the city.
Like a shadow on autopilot.
His backpack pressed evenly against his back, like a metronome.
Step.
Breath.
Step.

The subway was full. Like every morning.

Felix stood close to the door.
Pressed against the wall.
His backpack tucked tightly to his side.
His headphones sat deep in his ears.
Without music.
Just to muffle the voices, the loud noises.
Like cotton in his head.
Like a shield against the outside world.

People stood shoulder to shoulder, bags pressed together.
They talked.
Yawned.
Scrolled through their phones.
The air was filled with the smell of wet fabric, shampoo, street dust, and too much perfume.
Felix hated it.
And yet, it was his only option.

His grandmother didn't own a car.
And even if she did, he wouldn't ride in it.
Not since back then.
Not since the rubber had burned in his nose.
His leg had gone numb.
Not after he'd heard her scream.
Not after the all-consuming silence.

A child cried farther back, a voice cursed quietly.
Felix turned slightly to the side, locked onto an escape route.
Instinctively.
He wasn't relaxed.
Not in crowds.

His gaze caught the dirty subway window.
He saw his reflection in the glass.
It looked foreign.
A face that hardly felt like his own.
The freckles were gone.
The skin dull.
A few dark strands of hair fell into his forehead.
The hood covered the rest.
His expression neutral. Flat.
Only he saw what was missing.

No one saw his leg.
No one knew what was underneath.
What was missing.
And that was good.
Perfectly invisible.

He wanted to be invisible.
Because the fewer people who saw him,
the fewer who would remind him that he existed.
And the easier it was not to break.

08:45 a.m.

Lecture Hall C.204.

Felix sat where he always did: Fifth row, last seat on the right.
Not too far up front, where questions were asked.
Not too far in the back, where the murmuring was louder than the lecturer.
The seat beneath the flickering neon light had become his usual place.
His safe harbor in a sea of noise and motion.

The room was cold.
The air filled with the smell of old books, coffee, and dust.
A faint trace of sweat lingered.
Too many people, not enough oxygen.

His notebook was already open.
The pen between his fingers.
The rows gradually filled.
Some still talking, others typing messages or sipping cold coffee from clear plastic cups.

The professor entered the room.
On time.
As always.
Felix liked that.
Predictability calmed him.

"Welcome to the lecture: Risk Management in Networked Systems."

A hint of irony clung to the title.
Felix saw himself as the unpredictable risk in his own system.
And yet he tried.
Tried to maintain control.
With every trembling breath.

The professor's tone was as always: calm, energetic, with a touch of dry irony.
Felix liked that.
It was calculable.
The same every day.

He wrote everything down.
Not because the topic excited him,
but because facts grounded him.
Because he clung to structure like a drowning man to driftwood.
Words, concepts, diagrams.
Anything he could understand and control.

Then...
a voice.
Something that didn't fit into his daily calculations.
Something he couldn't factor in.

"Hey, do you have the notes from last week?"
The boy to his left - Park, maybe? - leaned toward him slightly.
"I was sick. Would be great if you could help me out."

Felix flinched.
Just a little.
Not enough to be noticed.
Then nodded, forced a polite smile, and flipped through his folder.

"Thanks, man. You're my lifesaver."

One word. Lifesaver.
A hot jolt ran through his nervous system.
And suddenly:
Smoke.
Screeching tires.
The screaming scrape of metal.
Blood on his hands.

A fraction of a second.
One word that hit harder than it should have.

Felix smiled thinly.
"No problem."
He turned back to his notebook.
Kept writing.
His hands trembled slightly.
His body appeared calm, but inside...

...a weight settled on his chest.
Like a heavy blanket.
Made of thoughts that weighed too much.

13:11 p.m.

Felix waited.
Not for someone - just for the right moment to disappear without being noticed.

The next lectures weren't relevant for the exam.
He knew that.
But professors didn't like it when students skipped.

But Felix had no other choice.
He had to go back to the café.
His grandmother needed support.

Felix pulled his hood deep over his face and left the building through a side exit.
His steps were practiced.
Almost stealthy.
Like someone who had learned to disappear before anyone could ask questions.

He would catch up on the missed content during his night shift.
Like every night, when the blanket of quiet settled over the city and hardly anyone wandered through the darkness.
That was when he could study.
Between customers, shelves, and blinking price scanners.

But right now,
the last bit of family he had left needed him.

And when his grandmother needed him,
he went.
Always.

13:46 p.m.

The rain had turned finer, but Felix was still soaked to the skin when he entered the café.
The warm chime above the door rang softly, like a greeting.

His grandmother only gave him a brief glance.
She said nothing.
Just handed him a towel and gently stroked his cold cheek.
Then:
"Go change, Bok-ah. I'll take over for now."
She nodded toward the stairs.

As he climbed the stairs, the old wood creaked beneath his steps.
Upstairs smelled of lemon cleaner and freshly washed laundry.

Felix went into the bathroom.
He peeled off his wet clothes, folded them neatly onto the small washboard by the door.
The cool air bit into his skin, but he ignored it.

His new clothes consisted of simple jeans, a dark T-shirt,
and then - the apron.
Moss green, delicately embroidered at the top corner with soft lettering:

고요
(It means silence, calm, inner peace.)
- the name of the café.

And below it:
Come to rest. Stay for a moment.

The name of the café often felt like a cruel joke.

Silence - when his head was screaming.
Peace - when his body was aching.
Calm - when he was running on the inside.

It was as if the word 고요 mocked Felix's entire existence.

And yet...
As he fastened the last buttons of the apron, he felt something.
Something between duty and comfort.
Here, he was the one who functioned.
Nothing more - but also nothing less.

The 고요 was especially popular among students.

The café was small, but it breathed.
With its eight tables.
Three two-seaters by the windows and five larger ones that comfortably fit five people each.
It offered space for barely 28 guests.
And yet every day, every single seat was taken.

Felix's grandmother once said to him:

"The 고요 shouldn't feel like one of those modern, hectic cafés that only care about profit.
The 고요 should feel like a gentle embrace.
A refuge from the chaos of the city and life itself. Quiet, warm - like a living room with soul and warmth."

And that's what it was.
Felix couldn't deny it.

The café was small and intimate.
It followed a natural color scheme of warm tones.
There were subtle accents.
Soft, warm lighting - not from large ceiling fixtures, but from small light sources spread throughout the café.
Little table lamps, wall lights, or whimsical fairy lights that blended perfectly with the space.

The tables were all old, slightly worn.
But each one was unique.
Some round, some square.
It was quirky - and couldn't have fit the concept better.
The chairs, too, were all different.
A wild mix.
Not a single one matched the other.
And yet it worked.
With their little seat cushions.

The mugs were also special.
Colorful, wildly assorted, and lined up behind the counter.

Nothing matched anything else.
Like a loosely assembled family.
Like something that wasn't perfect - but held.

On the windowsills and hanging from the ceiling were flowers and plants scattered throughout the café.
A colorful mix of lavender, succulents, and dried flowers in glass vases.

In the back area of the café stood a small bookshelf,
where students and other visitors regularly left or swapped books.
It was popular and drew people in.

On an old chalkboard outside the shop,
the day's special was written in careful handwriting.

"You have to offer people variety, Bok-ah.
Their everyday lives are already dull enough.
So we need to make it a little brighter."
She had said that back then, full of conviction.

The music in the shop was calm.
Soft instrumental music - jazz, acoustic guitar, or a classical piano piece.
It fit the concept of the café perfectly.

When Felix came down from the upstairs room, the air smelled of vanilla, coffee, old wood, and lavender.

His eyes scanned the shop automatically.
It was quieter than usual.
Two regulars at the far window.
A student with a pink umbrella photographing her Americano.

Felix was grateful for the repetition the café offered.
Making coffee.
Serving drinks.
Wiping tables.
Washing glasses.
Tasks that didn't ask questions.
A routine.
Control.

The soft chime above the door rang.
Felix turned around.
Two young men entered the café.
They couldn't have been more different.

One seemed the same age as Felix.
He had soft jawlines, chubby cheeks, full lips.
His features were almost childlike.
His hair was honey brown, medium length - and chaotically tousled.
As if he had styled it with just his fingers.
The young man radiated a strange mix of calm and something chaotic.
Almost like an over-wound clock.

The other seemed older than Felix.
Not by much.
Maybe one or two years.
He had a presence that you didn't immediately understand - but instinctively felt.
He seemed calm and cool.
His gait was smooth, controlled - like someone who was centered within himself.
Nothing about him was exaggerated.
And that was exactly what made him so noticeable.

He had high, defined cheekbones, a fine, straight nose, a slightly angular jaw.
His lips were closed and lightly pressed together.
His hair was black and neatly styled.
His eyes were dark brown, almost black - deep and alert.
His gaze didn't observe - it read.
Which sent a chill through Felix.

Felix watched them for a moment before stepping behind the counter.

"Two iced Americanos, please," the older one said in a calm voice.
His friend looked around the shop with curiosity.
His eyes sparkled in the gentle light.
"Jagi, it's unbelievably beautiful in here," the younger said with admiration.
He didn't seem to expect an answer, as he immediately turned to Felix.

Warm, deep brown eyes with golden flecks looked at Felix.
"Is this a family café?"
His voice was warm, open - almost too loud for the room.

Felix nodded politely.
"Yes. It belongs to my grandmother."
"She has great taste!"
"Thank you. I'll be sure to tell her."
He forced himself to smile.
Routine.

"Feel free to choose a seat. I'll bring your drinks to the table in a moment."
They thanked him and sat by the window.
Their fingers met on the tabletop and intertwined as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Felix turned away and began preparing the order.
He served the drinks.
Quietly. Without words.
Just a polite smile and a soft bow.

He caught snippets of conversation - about university, exams, a movie Felix didn't know.
For just a moment, he wished he could sit with them.
Just belong.
Have carefree conversations like a young man his age.

The wish faded.
As always.

And then - the laughter.
Felix was just about to serve a glass of water.

The laughter was clear, bright, and carefree.
It cut through him like cold air.
Something inside him flinched.
His hand clenched slightly around the tray.
The glass slipped. Didn't fall - but tipped against the plate with a dull thud.
Water splashed.

Felix froze for a moment.
Took shallow breaths.
No one noticed anything.
No one saw the slight tremble in his hands.

15:25 p.m.

The two young men were still sitting by the window.
From time to time, they looked outside, then back to each other.
Their closeness was natural.
Their gazes soft.

Felix only saw them from the corner of his eye.
He envied them.
For their lightness.
For their laughter.
For what they allowed themselves.
For their connection.

He, too, longed for such an unburdened moment.
Just sit.
Not think.
Not function.

But he stood behind the counter.
With hands that had long been aching.
With a body held together only by willpower.
And a smile that didn't belong to him.

17:50 p.m.

The sun slowly began to set, hidden behind thick clouds.
The light in the café grew warmer, softer.
Felix was drying glasses when the pair got up,
and the more lively of the two waved cheerfully.

Felix bowed slightly.
"Please come again!"

They left.
The door closed with a soft chime.
They had been the last customers for the day.

And for the moment, there was nothing.
No noise.
No voices.
Just the gentle sounds of the music.
And the faint scent of lavender in the air.

Felix let himself sink against the wall for a breath.
Eyes closed.
Hands buried in the drying cloth.
Just a moment.
Just one.

18:30 p.m.

After he had cleaned the café and prepared it for the next day, Felix went upstairs.
Each step heavier than the last.
His body worn out from the day.

Felix entered the apartment.
The lighting was dimmed.
The TV flickered softly in the living room, playing a cooking show.

Sounds came from the kitchen.
His grandmother stood at the stove.
Her back slightly bent, one hand on the pot, the other stirring the contents eagerly.

She wore her floral apron - the one Felix had given her a few years ago.
Her silvery-gray hair was still tied neatly in a small bun.

She turned slightly in his direction.
She looked at him.
A smile rose in her eyes - warm, exhausted, but genuine.

"Bok-ah."
She came toward him. Slowly. Every step careful.
Her hand rested on his cheek.
So much love and affection in just one touch.

Felix allowed himself a brief, fragile moment.
He leaned into her hand.
Soaked up warmth and love.

"I worry about you, Yongbok."

Felix opened his eyes and pulled away from the warmth.
The moment was over.

"Halmoni..."
The sound barely made it past his lips.
He was exhausted.
Had no energy for this conversation.
For this fight.

"You look especially pale today."
"I'm fine, Halmoni."
She stayed silent.
Saw the lie in his eyes.
She had lost this battle years ago.

She said nothing.
For now.
Then - one last gentle touch on his cheek.
A soft smile.

"Get changed. Dinner's almost ready."

Felix nodded, tired.
Relieved to escape the conversation.
He slipped into his room.

The room was quiet, as always.
Only the soft ticking of the wall clock could be heard.

He quickly changed.
A dark hoodie, simple sweatpants.
He sat on the bed, leaned back against the wall.

Hands in his lap, fingers slightly clenched.
Eyes closed.

Don't think.
Just for a moment.
Just five minutes.
Maybe ten.
Maybe long enough to slip away from himself.

But before it happened, his grandmother called out.
Dinner was ready.

He got up.
Back into the light.
Back to smiling.
Back to functioning.

21:46 p.m.

His bag was ready.
Inside: the uniform of the 7/11.
Black, plain.
With a name tag.

He sat on the edge of the bed.
Fully dressed.
Hands folded together, eyes fixed on the floor.

He waited.
He always waited.
For the click of the remote.
For the soft creak of the door.
For the moment when the house finally settled,
and his grandmother went to bed.

22:06 p.m.

The last shuffling of his grandmother's feet could be heard.
The door closed.
Then silence.

Felix stood up.
Put on his jacket.
Grabbed the bag.
He moved lightly through the hallway.
He knew every floorboard, every creaking plank, every spot that could make a sound.

He opened the door slowly.
Closed it even more slowly.

Outside, the rain greeted him.
Soft.
The air was heavy.
The streets were quiet.

Felix walked. Step by step.
Like the shadow he was in his own life.

22:20 p.m.

The store's sign flickered, as always.
Felix entered through the back door.

It smelled of plastic and stale air.
Slightly damp.
Familiar.

He slipped into his uniform.
The name tag sat crooked. He left it that way.
He put on his neutral face.

The refrigeration units hummed as Felix entered the sales area.

His coworker from the evening shift grinned at him.
"Punctual, like a robot."
He wiggled his eyebrows playfully.
"Get it? Robot. Because of your leg."
Laughter.
Too loud.
At his expense.
Like every shift.

Snickering, his coworker patted him on the shoulder and disappeared.
"See you around!"

Felix was left behind.
Alone.

23:35 p.m.

The refrigerators hummed.
The security camera blinked quietly.
The sales area was lit with artificial light.
No windows.
Except for the entrance door.
No sense of time.
Only hours stretching like chewing gum.

And Felix began his routine.
Restocking shelves.
Wiping the floor.
Occasionally serving customers.

A man nervously typing on his phone.
Two beers.
A pack of instant noodles and chewing gum.
He paid in cash.
No eye contact.

Then a kid.
No older than 14.
Black hoodie, dirty pants.
Felix saw himself in the boy's eyes.

He stole a chocolate bar.
Felix saw it.
Said nothing.
Let the boy disappear.
He just pulled out his wallet and placed the money in the till.

Between the customers: study material.

Bullet points, diagrams, short snippets of code.
He highlighted two paragraphs in the script.
The text began to blur slightly, so he blinked.
His eyes burned.

His reflection in the cash register monitor was pale.
The dark circles beneath his eyes could no longer be hidden.
He looked like someone who had once lived.

Felix turned away.
Forced himself to keep reading.

02:30 a.m.

He leaned on the counter.
His back ached.
The prosthesis pressed.
He knew he'd soon need a new one.
But he said nothing.
Just pressed below his knee.
Ignored the pain.

He yawned.
Silently.
The exhaustion tugged at him.
But he remained upright.

The register beeped.
A sensor blinked.

His thoughts were already wandering to the next task.
The email he still had to write.
The presentation that needed preparation.
The calendar that was filling up like an overflowing tub,
brimming with unfinished obligations.

A customer entered, mumbled a "hello."
Felix forced himself to a formal bow and a polite smile.
Not too friendly - just neutral.

03:00 a.m.

End of shift.
Technically.

The coworker - late.
Again.
He always waited.
But he didn't come.

03:30 a.m.

The door chimed.
The coworker entered the store, still on the phone.

"Yo, sorry! Subway... you know how it is. Swear I meant to be early."
He grinned, pulled on his uniform.

"Was it busy?"

Felix shook his head.

He didn't say: You're late again.
He didn't say: I barely have the strength to stay upright.

He simply took off his uniform.
Put on his jacket.
"See you," Felix murmured.

"Yeah man! I'll be on time next time, promise!"

Felix said nothing.
He knew it was a lie.
He left.

04:00 a.m.

The streets were empty.
Seoul slept.

Felix slipped back into the house.
Closed the door quietly.
Pushed his shoes into place.
Walked silently through the dark.

In his room, he let himself fall onto the bed.
Clothes still on.
He was too tired to undress.

He just wanted to sleep.
Truly.
Just sleep.

The world spun softly.
And Felix sank into sleep.

~
Laughter.
Joyful voices.
The clear giggles of his sisters.

Then-
A bang.
Silence.

There were hands. His hands.
Covered in blood.
Flashing lights. Red. Blue.
A lost doll.

The taste of iron on his tongue.
Smoke.
Sirens.
Something hissing.
The smell of burning rubber in the air.
And Felix screamed.
But no one heard him.
~

05:03 a.m.

Felix's eyes shot open.
His breath came in gasps.
His throat burned.
His heart pounded against his ribs.
His body trembled.
Tears ran down his face.

He sat up.
Hands clutching the sheets.
He was shaking.

Sweat clung to his skin.

The taste of iron and rubber still lingered on his tongue like a phantom.
The dream was gone...
But the feeling remained.
It always remained.

Felix curled up.
Pressed his forehead to his knee.
Trembled.
Breathed.
Alive.

Chapter Text

"A friend is someone who knows all about you – and still loves you."
– Elbert Hubbard

A morning in this shared apartment felt like the awakening of a many-headed, slightly overwhelmed dragon: loud, chaotic – and with a surprising amount of batter.

The sun hadn't yet fully fought its way through the wide-open kitchen windows, but the room was already filled with the scent of vanilla, browned butter – and slightly burned batter.

When Seungmin entered the kitchen that morning, he stopped in surprise at the door. Not because someone was already at the stove – but because of who was standing there.

Hyunjin.

He looked like the result of an especially exotic fashion show:
A silky lavender robe clung to his slim figure. His face was shining with a skincare mask, making him look like a living porcelain doll. In one hand, he held a spatula, in the other his phone, from which the beat of "Hype Boy" was softly playing. Hyunjin moved to the rhythm, as if cooking were a dance and the pan his audience.

Then a pancake landed on the floor.
Hyunjin sighed dramatically, picked it up, kissed it gently, and said seriously:
"I believe in second chances."
Then he placed it on the stack of finished pancakes.

Seungmin sighed deeply.

Hyunjin and cooking.
Two worlds better kept apart.
Like water and electricity.
Or fire and ice.

Seungmin shuffled over to the coffee machine, muttered a tired “Morning” in Hyunjin’s direction, and grabbed a steaming cup of coffee. Then a plate with toast – plain, because he was too tired for an elaborate breakfast and also wanted to avoid a potential poisoning from Hyunjin’s cooking.

Armed with his breakfast, he secured one of the highly coveted kitchen chairs.
Because you had to know:
In this shared apartment, seven young men lived in the tightest of spaces. The kitchen was little more than a narrow corridor – just wide enough for a stove, a very slim counter, a relatively large fridge, and a table with four chairs. During shared meals, the rule was: If you didn’t get a chair, you sat on the floor. Or on a laundry basket. Or on someone’s lap – depending on your courage and hunger.

Seungmin was already seated at the table, sipping his coffee and scrolling through his phone when Chan shuffled into the kitchen.
With tousled hair, a faded hoodie, and the expression of a man who had already held three meetings with himself before even stepping into the hallway.

“Ah,” Seungmin murmured dryly, without looking up.
“The relic from the last century has awakened.”
“Still younger than your jokes,” Chan grumbled and yawned heartily.
He lazily opened the fridge, stared inside – and frowned.
In front of him sat a plate with a single olive. Taped down.

He wanted to ignore it.
He wanted not to ask.
But apparently, his brain still had a sense of duty.

“Why is there a taped-down olive?”
Hyunjin – still in rhythm, without turning around – simply said:
“Don’t eat it. It’s art.”
Chan closed the fridge door with the resigned precision of a man who had already seen too much today.
He pressed two fingers to the bridge of his nose. “I’m getting too old for you guys.”
Hyunjin giggled. “I googled ‘Chan’ last night,” he said proudly. “Apparently, he was an ‘up-and-coming talent’ back in 1872.”

Chan paused.
Thought for a moment.
Sighed deeply.
“I hereby officially end my friendship with both of you in this apartment.”
Then he sat down next to Seungmin – and wordlessly grabbed a toast from his plate.
Seungmin didn’t even flinch.
One toast was a small price for peace.

The kitchen door swung open once more, this time with a certain determination.
Changbin entered – freshly showered, hair still wet, already fully dressed, a gym bag casually slung over his shoulder. His steps firm, his gaze clear – like someone who had secretly downed two coffees before anyone else had even blinked.
He looked like the only adult in a house full of oversized teenagers with questionable sleep schedules.

“Smells like... an attempt at breakfast,” he muttered, throwing Hyunjin a meaningful look.
“Smells like the perfect breakfast!“ Hyunjin defended himself indignantly.
“You should flip your perfect breakfast. It’s smoking already,” Changbin commented dryly, raising an eyebrow.
Hyunjin quickly slid the spatula under the pancake and flipped it into the air with a dramatic twist.

He caught it – halfway.
The rest landed sizzling on the stovetop. Hyunjin just shrugged, as if he had expected that.
“I believe in second chances.”
Changbin snorted in amusement. “Just don’t let Minho see this.”
Hyunjin froze briefly, gave Changbin a dark look – then raised the spatula like a weapon.
“Yah! Seo Changbin! Stop it, you’ll summon him!”

And at that exact moment, the kitchen door opened again.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
But with a certain Minho-like finality.
Black long-sleeve, sweatpants, barefoot, his gaze: sharp as a well-honed kitchen knife.

“What shouldn’t I see?” Minho asked as he stepped into the kitchen.
Hyunjin stiffened slightly. “Oh… nothing, Hyung! Just… breakfast!”
He spread his arms like a game show host trying to sell a terrible prize.

Minho stepped closer, leaned over the pan. The pancake sizzled at the edges, as if begging for mercy.
“That’s not breakfast. That’s a cry for help to the fire department,” Minho muttered dryly.
Then he turned to Chan. “Why is he even allowed near the stove?”
Chan raised both hands. “Democracy. I voted no.”
Hyunjin placed one hand on his hip, still holding the spatula like a weapon with the other.
“I cooked! With love!”

Minho grabbed a plate, inspected the pancake stack, picked the one that looked least threatening, and sat down at the table with a sigh.
“Your love tastes like ash.”
Laughter broke out.
Even Seungmin briefly lifted the corners of his mouth before turning back to his phone.

Minho silently reached for Seungmin’s coffee mug and took a deep sip. Seungmin looked at him – sighed – and surrendered without a word.
“If you set off the smoke detector again,” Minho said while chewing, “you’re doing laundry for the next three weeks.”
“Deal,” Hyunjin grinned, as if it were a serious agreement.

Jisung entered, a slightly more chaotic version of himself – hoodie worn backward, toothbrush in hand, hair like an exploded plush toy. The look in his eyes: somewhere between REM sleep and reality.
“Has anyone seen my other sock?! I had two. TWO!”

Seungmin slowly turned to him, as if he had to carefully ration his energy reserves just to deal with these absolutely absurd mornings.
“Maybe it fled to your last coherent thought. That one’s also missing, apparently.”
“I can’t think when my feet are uneven!” Jisung complained dramatically, standing on tiptoe to emphasize the severity of the situation, the asymmetry of his foot attire. One sock was bright yellow with little ducks. The other foot: bare.

Chan, eyes half-closed, buttering toast, muttered:
“You can’t think when they’re even either.”

Minho gave Jisung a look – somewhere between affection and “If you say one more thing, I’ll stuff your sock into the toaster.”

“Wow! I come in here with a real crisis – and you laugh. This is the beginning of my villain origin story.”
He exhaled dramatically.
Then he sniffed.
“Why does it smell like traumatized pancakes in here?”
“Hyunjin cooked,” Minho threw in dryly.
“Oh God. Are we in danger?”
“Why does everyone always bash my cooking?!” Hyunjin protested, placing both hands on his hips indignantly.
“Because you don’t have any,” Seungmin replied dryly.

And then… the door opened again.
Jeongin entered the room. Quiet as always. Unobtrusive, yet impossible to miss.
In his hand, he held a bright yellow sock – and looked at it like it was a mathematical riddle.
“Uh… Hyung?” he said cautiously, lifting the sock slightly.
“I think this is yours? I… found it in the bathroom cabinet. Next to the hair conditioner. And… a fork?”

Jisung’s eyes widened. “MY SOCK! My baby!”
He grabbed the sock as if Jeongin had just returned the final puzzle piece of his dignity.
“I thought I’d eaten it in my sleep.”
Jeongin shrugged. “I... just have questions.”
“We all do. For years,” Changbin yawned.

Seungmin looked at Jeongin and wordlessly pushed his plate with the last piece of toast toward him.
Jeongin smiled broadly and took the toast.
He sniffed the air, tilted his head.
“It smells… like a festival and a house fire at the same time.”
Hyunjin turned to him with sparkling eyes.
“That, my dear, is the scent of creative freedom and love!”

At that moment:
BEEP—BEEP—BEEP!
The smoke detector screamed.
Minho leaned back, calmly sipping Seungmin’s coffee.
“And the scent of three weeks of laundry duty.”

When the laughter had died down and the smoke detector had been silenced – with the help of a wooden spoon and Minho’s death glare – a moment of almost surreal calm settled over the kitchen.

Then, Jisung’s face suddenly lit up.

“Oh my God, I have to tell you about this café Minho and I found yesterday!"
His tone left no room for escape, nor did the fact that he was already bouncing excitedly near the kitchen door.
"I swear, it was like... like something out of an indie film!"
Minho didn’t even look up.
“We just wanted to buy bread,” he stated dryly.
“And we found a piece of soul,” Jisung said dramatically, dancing toward the table and dropping onto Minho’s lap.
Minho groaned but didn’t put up a real fight.

“The café was so cozy. Old-fashioned, but not dusty. It had… charisma,” Jisung continued to gush, describing with expansive gestures what had clearly become a sacred place in his mind.
“It’s tucked away, almost hidden. Huge windows with old wooden frames – the light was like honey. Plants everywhere, a record player, and a little bookshelf. And the music!”
He sighed exaggeratedly and collapsed against Minho’s chest, who looked at him with a mixture of annoyance and fondness. Jisung, in his element, kept going.
“Soft jazz, so quiet it felt like the room itself was listening. And the smell! Coffee, lavender, cedarwood... I could’ve moved in.”
He spoke fast, eyes shining, as if he’d discovered something holy.
Minho sighed and shoved another bite of pancake into his mouth.
“He inhaled so dramatically he almost cried,” Minho mumbled between bites.
“Because it was BEAUTIFUL!” Jisung defended himself passionately.

Hyunjin turned halfway around, balancing a failed pancake on the spatula.
“What was the café called?”
Minho shrugged. “I think–”
“고요!”
Jisung burst in. “Like… silence or peace. Isn’t that poetic?”
“Yah, Jisung, don’t interrupt me,” Minho grumbled.
Seungmin raised an eyebrow without looking up from his phone.
“Doesn’t really suit you, Jisung.”

“And where is it?” Hyunjin asked, growing more interested.
“Somewhere between the bus stop at the park and that little antiquarian bookshop,” Jisung explained.
“One of those places you only find when you get lost. Quiet. But somehow also sad.”
Chan looked up now too.
“Quiet and sad? Was it a café or a dramatic short film?”
“Both,” Jisung grinned.
Seungmin leaned back, thinking briefly.
“Maybe a good place to study.”
Jeongin said calmly: “More like a place to breathe.”
“Or to get inspired!” Jisung chimed in, making an overly dramatic gesture.
“I could write a song about it. Title: Flat White & Falling Angels.”

“Why angels?” Changbin asked, visibly confused.
“There was this guy. An employee,” Jisung said quietly, almost reverently.
“He looked like an angel on espresso. Dark eyes. Pale skin. That presence…”
Changbin raised an eyebrow.
“An angel with caffeine issues. Sounds… heavenly?”
“No, really! You don’t get it!” Jisung insisted.
“You would’ve had to see him, Hyung! Something about him touched me. Not romantically or like a really good song, but… like he reminded you of something you’d long forgotten.”
The rest of the sentence was barely a whisper as Jisung suddenly stared dreamily into space, as if his brain had short-circuited.

Jeongin, who had silently watched the scene, began to giggle.
“He’s about to drool.”
Jisung blinked and then glared at Jeongin. “I am NOT drooling!”
Then he turned excitedly to Chan.
“And his voice! Oh my God, Hyung! You should’ve heard that voice. So deep, so distinct! Totally not what you’d expect from his appearance.”

“Say, Jisung… did you fall in love?” Jeongin teased, tilting his head dramatically.
“You sound like a Disney prince right before the duet.”
“Pff, no. Of course not,” Jisung said – with a slightly too long pause.
“Well… maybe a tiny bit. But not romantically! It was more like… like I peeked through a veil for a moment, you know? That guy had those eyes… dark. Quiet. Like he’d lived three lives already. He looked like… like a fallen angel with a coffee apron and a sad soul.”

Minho demonstratively set down Seungmin’s cup.
“An angel, huh? Uh-huh.”
He looked at Jisung with a knowing gaze, as if considering whether this was a good moment to make use of the butter knife.
“I said not romantically!” Jisung exclaimed, but laughed.

“But seriously – that guy had something. Not just the eyes. His entire presence. You saw it too, didn’t you, Jagi?”
Minho, who hadn’t commented further until now, nodded slowly.
“I can’t argue with Jisung.”
“SEE!?” Jisung shouted triumphantly.
“Damn, Jagi…” Minho grumbled, covering Jisung’s mouth with his hand.
Then he continued more quietly, almost thoughtfully:
“He really did have something captivating. I can’t describe it. You just had to look at him – and suddenly you felt the weight of the world.”

For a moment, silence.

“That sounds sad,” Chan finally said quietly.
And everyone nodded silently.

Hyunjin, who had just managed to slide the last crooked pancake onto the plate, turned around with sparkling eyes.
“Now I want to paint him. Maybe just the eyes – in black and white. And underneath I’ll write: The weight of the unspoken.”
“ Good Lord, Hwang Hyunjin!” groaned Chan.
“You can’t just go around painting random people!”
“Who even says Good Lord anymore?” Seungmin giggled.
Chan blinked at him with a deadly glare.

Lecture Hall C.204 – 8:30 a.m.

The hallway smelled of old linoleum, stale coffee, and those cheap whiteboard markers that always dried out too quickly.
And yet, Seungmin liked it here.
The campus, to him, was a strange mix of noise and concentration – like an oversized brain, where every corridor was a strand of synapses.

He entered the lecture hall from the top, let his gaze wander briefly across the half-empty room, and headed – as always – to the same spot:
on the edge of the uppermost row, right next to the door.
Perfect location – far enough from the center of chaos, with a good view of the projector, enough distance from the professor and: optimal escape routes.

He sank into one of the rickety seats, tossed his backpack to the floor beside him, and yawned discreetly into his sleeve.

Seungmin was early.
As always.
Not because he especially loved this lecture, but because he hated having to squeeze past already-occupied seats later.
Besides, he liked the calm before the academic storm.

Risk Management in Networked Systems.
Sounded better in English.
But in truth: Seungmin liked the subject.
It had structure. Patterns. Cause and effect.
No sentimentality, no vague interpretation.
Just numbers, probabilities, decisions under pressure.

At first, he had his doubts when his criminal law professor recommended the module to him.
It seemed dry, technical – not very legal.
But by now, he saw it differently.
This subject wasn’t a distraction, but a sharp complement to his law focus.
Almost... calming.

The lecture hall was slowly filling.
Tired faces, crumpled scripts, soggy to-go cups.
Then the professor entered.
Punctual.
With a swish of his coat, a cool gaze, and an aura that briefly silenced even the Wi-Fi.
He had something of Severus Snape, Seungmin thought in every lecture.

The professor set his thermal cup on the lectern, adjusted his glasses, and began without preamble.
“Before we continue with today’s topic, I will, as announced, present the group assignments for the semester project.”

A restless murmur went through the room.
Seungmin looked up.
Right. That was today.

The professor remained unfazed by the reaction.
He scrolled through an open document on his laptop.
“The groups were formed at random – with the goal of encouraging diverse approaches to thinking. Partner swaps are therefore excluded.
I remind you: this project accounts for 80 percent of your final grade.”

Collective groaning.
Seungmin snorted softly.
Random.
Random meant chaos.
And chaos meant: people who Googled answers and ignored spelling.
Unbearable.
Unacceptable.
And 80 percent on top of that?
This would be fun.

Names were being read aloud.
Some students nodded, others cursed, a few even clapped quietly—
whether out of nervous breakdown or genuine joy, hard to tell.

Then it came:
“Kim Seungmin and Lee Yongbok.”

Seungmin frowned slightly.
Lee… Yongbok?
The name meant nothing to him. And that irritated him.

Before he could think further, his seat neighbor tapped him on the shoulder.
A guy in a cap, energy drink in hand, with the aura of someone who had played too much Call of Duty.
“Dude, I feel sorry for you,” he grinned.
“Wouldn’t want to trade places with you.”

Seungmin gave him a narrow look. “You wouldn’t have had a choice anyway.”
The guy giggled. “I don’t think you know who you’re stuck with.”
He nodded toward someone in the fifth row.
Dark hair, a faded hoodie, narrow shoulders.
“Lee Yongbok. He’s… well. Kinda creepy. Hardly talks.
If he does, it’s in half-sentences. Always sits there like he’s at a funeral.”

Seungmin raised an eyebrow.
Creepy.
Seriously?

“But bro—”
I’m not your bro, Seungmin thought, annoyed.
“—the guy is actually smart. Like, scholarship-level smart.
I mean, have you seen him take notes?! Like a freaking printer.
No joke. I swear, there’s something… computational in his brain.”

The guy gave a mock shudder. “Like: brrrr. Goosebumps.”
Seungmin ignored the sound effect.
He wondered how people like this classmate made it through university without completely losing themselves.
But fine.
Not his problem.

He let his gaze slide further down the lecture hall.
There he was.
Sitting upright. Calm. Almost too calm.
It wasn’t absence—it was… restraint.
Like someone who was consciously aware of how much space they were taking up.
Not creepy.
Just… quiet.
And focused. So focused it became noticeable again.

Seungmin watched him for another moment.
If this Lee Yongbok really was as brilliant as claimed… even better.
A thinker was always better than a follower.

But there’s something different about him,
Seungmin thought.
He just couldn’t quite say what it was.

Chapter Text

“Sometimes what we fear the most isn’t what destroys us – but what changes us.”

— Benjamin Lebert

8:30 AM
Lecture Hall C.204

Something felt different that morning.
The lecture hall looked the same as always: pale, cold, dimly lit – just enough to take notes.
But something was off.
The light felt too bright. The voices clinked too loudly. Too close.
Felix couldn’t quite say what triggered this feeling inside him.
Maybe it was because his left thigh had been pulsing since he woke up – dull and demanding, like a heart that mocked him with every beat that he was still alive.
Or maybe it was the residue of his dream, clinging to him like a second sticky skin, threatening to consume him.
The dark shadows beneath Felix’s eyes were stronger than usual this morning, plainly showing just how exhausted his body was.
He had trouble hiding them with makeup that morning. His grandmother didn’t seem to notice – which lifted a little weight from Felix’s shoulders.

Now Felix was sitting in the fifth row, last seat.
As always.
Where eyes didn’t linger and one could be easily forgotten.
Where the light flickered slightly and he had the feeling that he could truly disappear.
Just right.

When the professor entered the room, Felix barely lifted his head. He knew the ritual: the coat, the glasses, the voice like a cold clockwork.
But today, the rhythm was different.
Group assignments.

The word latched onto his spine and left a dull throb behind his temples.
A shiver ran down his back, like a sudden gust of wind from nowhere.
He had known it. Had read it in the course syllabus. Noted it.
But preparation meant nothing if your body read the signals wrong.
If a mix of fear and nervousness flooded your system.
Groups meant closeness.
Closeness meant visibility.
And visibility meant: questions. Looks. Forced answers.

The professor began to read names aloud.
Voices rose. Some laughed, others cursed.
Felix tried to breathe.
He drew circles on his notebook paper – a nervous tic he hadn’t been able to suppress since elementary school.
He listened. Or at least tried to.

Then:

“Kim Seungmin and Lee Yongbok.”

The pen paused mid-swirling motion.
But in his head, something hit—hard.

Why him?

Not that Felix knew him.
He didn’t really know anyone.
But Kim Seungmin was… present.
He had already noticed him during the first days of class.
Not loud—but intense. Direct.
With an expression like freshly ironed suspicion.
A look as if he only had to glance at you to see all your darkest depths.

And then it happened. Almost imperceptible.
A dull comment from the back rows.
“Dude, I wouldn’t want to switch with you.”
A laugh.
Felix’s body tensed. His back straightened, his eyes fixed on his notes. On the circles that seemed to want to pull him into their depths.

Please don’t keep talking. Please don’t...

“Lee Yongbok? That guy’s creepy.”

Felix’s stomach clenched.
The word cut. Not deep. But precise.

He didn’t hear what came next.
Because that was enough.
A single adjective.

Creepy.

And suddenly, it was back.
The silence.
The glances that lingered too long.
The comments that were never loud, only targeted.

He had heard worse.
Back then.
Now? Now he heard it less.
Not because people didn’t think it anymore.
But because he had made himself invisible.
Folded himself small enough to not be noticed.
And yet, one single sentence was enough to set it all off again.
It was almost as if he could hear the laughter again, the cutting words and the mocking looks.
Sounds and stares he had to endure during his school days.

Felix had hoped no one would notice him anymore.
Had thought it was enough.
That he was quiet.
That he never turned around. Never asked questions.
Felix had hoped his strategy would work.
Function. Stay invisible.
Only react when necessary.
But apparently one look was enough.
His name.
And he was back again: the odd one. The freak.

Felix blinked.
Not because something was in his eye. But because his heart was pounding too loudly.
It was stupid.
It was ridiculous.
He wasn’t here to be liked.
He was here not to stand out.
To drag himself through this degree without anyone seeing the cracks beneath the surface.

And now: group work.
With Kim Seungmin.

His gaze drifted—unwillingly—to the upper row of seats.
There he sat. Light brown hair, hoodie, an expression somewhere between bored irony and calculated alertness.
He looked like someone who could assess you in three seconds—and actually did.

Great.

Felix felt his stomach twist slightly.
Not from fear.
Not really. Or maybe?
He forced himself to stay calm.
Breathed shallowly through his nose.

The professor turned on the projector. Light flickered across the wall. A simple slide appeared. No unnecessary design. No image. Just text.

Semester Project: Key Topics

The professor read aloud, as matter-of-factly as a news anchor:
“The following topics have already been assigned to each group. Subsequent selections or swaps are not permitted and will result in a score of 0.”
Some students groaned.
Again, this futile rebellion against structure.
The professor continued undeterred, reading out the respective groups and their topics.

“Group 9: Kim Seungmin and Lee Yongbok.
Topic: System error vs. individual error – where does responsibility lie in traffic accidents? Your focus: the analysis of real case reports, legal classification of negligence and systemic shortcomings, ethical discussion of guilt.”

In that moment—brief as it was—the world quietly collapsed around Felix.
Single words dripped into his consciousness like oil on water.
Traffic accidents
Negligence
Responsibility
Guilt

The blood instantly rushed in his ears.
He blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Was this a joke?
It sure felt like it. As if the entire universe was laughing at him and, after five years of guilt and pain, just wanted to punish him even more intensely for the simple fact that he was still breathing and his family wasn’t.

Something shifted. Not physically. Internally.
The contours of the lecture hall blurred before Felix’s eyes.
For a moment, everything was silent.
Only the echo of a squealing tire could be heard.
It screamed inside his skull, like an echo that wouldn’t fade.
His vision blurred. He blinked rapidly, but it didn’t help. He saw nothing—only those fleeting images—
dark shadows, blood on his hands.

He resisted the urge to rub his hands on his shirt, to wipe the blood away.
To make it disappear. Or replace it with real, fresh pain. With physical pain that might bring him a bit of clarity and drive away this heavy fog.

He inhaled shallowly.
Exhaled slowly.
Not here. Not now. You can’t break down now!
Come back. Now. Right now!
He forced himself to breathe. Took his pen back into his hand, mechanically. The weight of it served as an anchor, slowly pulling him back into reality.
He slowly circled his hand. Movement meant control.
And control was all he had left now.

After the lecture, the typical hallway commotion began.
Voices, backpacks, hurried footsteps.
Felix waited. Stood off to the side.

He saw Seungmin a few meters away, standing at his desk. Packing his things. Carefully, but not rushed. His movements had a system.
He seemed like the kind of student who always kept track of things.

Felix knew he had to talk to Seungmin.
Knew that they should speak now.
The group project would stretch over several weeks.
Studies, case analyses, ethical essays, presentations.
There was no avoiding it.
He just had to stay in control, so he wouldn’t slip back into the abyss of his fragmented memories. He couldn’t afford it. He mustn’t. He had no right to wallow in this emotional chaos or receive sympathy from others.
Not for something he was partly responsible for.

Felix straightened his shoulders and controlled his breathing.
His face. His voice.
Then he stepped closer.
Stopping at a safe distance in front of Seungmin. Reserved, but not dismissive.

“Hi,” he said with a calm, steady voice. Controlled, with no trace of emotional unraveling.

Seungmin paused and turned to him.
Raised his brows slightly. He gave Felix a once-over.
“Lee Yongbok, right?”

Felix nodded.
“Yes.”

A pause.

“So, I’m not really into this whole hierarchy thing. You seem to be around my age? Born in 2000?”
Felix nodded. “September 2000.”
“Perfect! Me too. So let’s just go with... Yongbok?”
Felix nodded again.
“Perfect. Call me Seungmin.”

Seungmin observed Felix for a moment.
No frown. No fake smile.
Just a quiet gaze.
Alert. Attentive.

Then, as if he sensed the slight unease building in Felix, Seungmin looked away and instead let his gaze wander across the now empty lecture hall.
He sighed briefly.
“We’re going to have a lot of work ahead of us,” Seungmin finally continued. He stretched slightly, as if trying to shake tension from his shoulders.
“I think we got the most thankless topic.”

Felix gave a barely noticeable shrug. Then nodded.
“It sounded... interesting,” he replied hesitantly. The word left a fuzzy taste on his tongue and a leaden weight on his body.
Seungmin didn’t seem to notice the hesitation. He just nodded in agreement.

“How about the cafeteria? Around noon? We could start gathering some ideas,” Seungmin suggested.
Felix thought briefly. Weighed the time he had between working at his grandmother’s café and his nightly shifts.
“Yeah, that sounds good. I have to help out at my grandmother’s café in the afternoon though. If it’s okay with you, we could also meet there sometimes. I’ll have to serve in between, but...”
“Sounds peaceful!” Seungmin said enthusiastically.
“Definitely better than my shared apartment. We could work there too, but... I live with some very special people.” Seungmin snorted softly. Like laughing at a joke only he understood. “I couldn’t in good conscience drag you into that chaos.”

And with that, it was settled.
A work partnership.
Not a friendship.
But a beginning.

1:25 PM

The cafeteria was full, but not suffocating.
Steam rose from plastic lids, metal cutlery clinked against trays.
The room was crowded, but not cramped. Enough air to breathe, enough voices to blend in.

Felix liked that state:
Anonymous enough to disappear.
Lively enough not to stand out.
And yet, he still hated the crowd. The noise they made.
It was a lot—but bearable.

He sat at the edge of a window table.
He had chosen this seat deliberately. Edge location, enough distance from the walkway, and a clear view of the entrance.

In front of him stood a cup. Simple cardboard, black coffee, unsweetened.
Next to it, his notebook. Open, the pages still blank, but the pen was ready.
A low hum had settled into Felix’s body. His muscles were tense, ready to flee—a flight he couldn’t take, wasn’t allowed to take.
If he tried to get out of this project work, there would be consequences. If they only affected him, he wouldn’t care.
But now he had a partner. Seungmin.
And Felix couldn’t risk Seungmin getting zero points just because of him.
He only had to do what he always did:
Turn off his emotions and focus solely on the facts.
He could do that. He did it every day.

Seungmin approached with light steps. Wove through the other students, balancing his tray in his hands like he’d done it all day long.

He set the tray down.
On it: a bowl of noodles, cola, napkins, and a fork.

“You're not eating?”
Seungmin sat down across from Felix, fork loosely in hand.
Felix shook his head.
“No appetite.”

Seungmin nodded.
Watched him briefly. Not intrusively, but attentively.
A faint furrow in his brow—so subtle it was barely noticeable.
But Felix saw it and tensed slightly.
Then Seungmin looked down at his food, poked at the noodles a bit.

“Understandable,” Seungmin murmured eventually. “I think there’s more chemicals in this than carbs.”

Felix’s shoulders lowered a fraction.
A faint twitch of the corners of his mouth, once he had processed Seungmin’s comment.
Just a bit. But honest and unconscious.

They didn’t talk much at first.
Seungmin ate silently for a few minutes, then they began to brainstorm.
Keywords. Fragments. Frameworks of ideas.
Systemic error? Isolated error? Infrastructure? Driving behavior? Human failure?

Felix felt like the topic stared at him every time he read the word responsibility. And it hit him in the gut. Every word. Stronger and stronger.
But he wrote down everything Seungmin said. Quietly, without showing any sign.
Word for word.
Idea by idea.
Because running away wasn’t an option.
Not anymore.

Seungmin tapped his pen against the tray.
“I looked up a few cases earlier. Wrong-way drivers. Poor signage. Construction zones without safety measures.”

Felix listened.
His fingers rested still on the paper. A stark contrast to the storm raging inside him.

“Maybe we could request files from the prosecutor’s office... real case studies, you know? Maybe something we can really sink our teeth into.”

Felix’s grip on his pen tightened.
He said nothing.
Just breathed a little shorter. His eyes stayed fixed on the notebook.
On the paper, the ink had started to blur slightly in the corners of some letters.
He forced himself to stay calm. Just enough not to draw attention.
He nodded slightly, so Seungmin would continue.
Seungmin was just talking about a contact he had at the prosecutor’s office—someone who might provide access to older cases—when a loud squeaking sound interrupted their conversation.

Sneakers on linoleum.

Then a shadow fell across the table. Tall. Excited. Practically vibrating.
“OH MY GOD! I CAN’T BELIEVE IT! YOU FOUND THE COFFEE ANGEL!”
The voice was… too loud. Too alive. Too fast.
Felix flinched instinctively and shrank back in his seat.
He blinked.
Slowly looked up—and stared into a face that beamed like a neon sign on too much sugar.

A boy—around his age, with big eyes and a grin that was both exaggerated and utterly sincere—had planted both hands on the table edge like he needed to hold on to keep from bursting.

He stared at Felix like he’d just discovered a rare animal.
“Uh… what?” Felix asked softly.
“I know you!” the stranger shouted, just as loudly and enthusiastically. “You were at that café yesterday! The one with the jazz and the giant windows! You were working there—you’re the Coffee Angel!”

Felix stared.
Uncertain how to react. Wait or run?

Then he looked at Seungmin, who sighed and lowered his fork.

“Yongbok. This is Jisung. One of my crazy roommates. You might now understand why I’d rather not work in our apartment.”
“Not crazy. Visionary,” Jisung interjected and dropped uninvited into the empty seat beside Felix.
Felix instinctively pulled back slightly. Not much. Just a centimeter.
Just enough.
He blinked again. And then… something clicked.

“You were at my grandmother’s café yesterday with your boyfriend, right?”
Jisung nodded eagerly. “Yes! Yes, exactly! We sat by the window! And I watched you froth the milk—oh god, that sounds super weird. But the café was like a poetic diary with a hint of cinnamon!”

Felix opened his mouth, then closed it again.
Confused. Unsure what to say.

“That… makes me happy? I think?”
Jisung, completely oblivious to Felix’s discomfort, leaned even further into Felix’s space.
His eyes sparkled with excitement, his body practically vibrating in his seat.
“Please tell me you work there every day!” Jisung now sounded pleading. “I’ve got this project—like, maybe, possibly, a song...”

“Please say no,” Seungmin muttered, half to Felix.
“I don’t want you to become Jisung’s personal mascot for spontaneous inspiration.”
Felix raised an eyebrow and looked at the boy with the radiant eyes and puffed cheeks.

Jisung turned bright red at Seungmin’s words.
“Not true! I just find him... interesting.”
“Which is the same thing in your world,” Seungmin countered and pushed his tray aside.

Seungmin looked tense, but not hostile—rather... protective.
Felix observed both of them closely.
He could hardly follow the conversation, so great was his confusion.
But something about it felt familiar.
Not in content.
But in tone.

Like sibling banter.
A pang shot through his heart.

“At least I didn’t want to secretly paint him like Hyunjin did!” Jisung retorted, indignant.

Felix blinked.

“What?”
“Ignore him,” Seungmin murmured.
“If we’re lucky, he’ll go away on his own.”
“Rude!” Jisung gasped dramatically.
Felix flinched.
Just slightly.
But noticeably.
The sound was too sharp. Too sudden.

“Han Jisung. That’s enough,” Seungmin said, this time more sharply.
“We’re not here to entertain you. We have a project to work on.”
Jisung ignored him.
Instead, he turned back to Felix, leaning forward again—too close.

“Seriously… how do you get that milk foam right? I saw it from the next table. It looked like clouds over Kyoto at sunrise.”
Felix blinked. “W-What? I don’t know. The machine does it.”
Jisung nodded reverently.
“Magical!”
Seungmin slid his tray a bit closer between Felix and Jisung.
A silent stop signal.
He snorted. “Did you even listen to him?”
“Silence, nonbeliever! An angel can only be magical! It’s... so dramatic!”
Jisung leaned back with a loud sigh.

Seungmin furrowed his brow. Clearly now truly annoyed with his roommate.
“If you don’t leave now, I’ll call Minho-hyung. Then you’ll get real drama.”
Jisung shot up, outraged. “Traitor!”
He threw Felix one last, almost reverent smile.
“See you, Coffee Angel.”
Then he rushed off, bumped into another student—and was gone.

Silence settled over the table.
Felix stared after Jisung. That boy was like a sudden whirlwind of charm, confusion, and chaos.

Felix was still completely overwhelmed by what had just happened.
Then he slowly turned back to Seungmin.
“Why… does one of your roommates want to secretly paint me?”
Confusion was written all over his face.
Seungmin sighed.
“Told you. I live with lunatics.”
Felix looked back at his coffee. And this time—there was a smile.
So delicate, it was almost unnoticeable.
He didn’t even feel it himself. Trapped in the moment of absolute absurdity.

“But at least… it’s not boring.” he murmured.
Seungmin smirked.
And for a tiny, fleeting moment—
the world didn’t feel like a minefield to Felix.
But like a place where—despite everything—
a little bit of life might be allowed.

Chapter Text

"Sometimes we carry scars no one can see, and fight wars no one knows about."

— from People on Sunday (loosely translated from the original dialogue)

The kitchen smelled of black tea that had long since been forgotten on the counter. The windows were fogged from the evening, behind them fleeting lights from the city reflected. Inside it was quiet, only the faint rustling of paper and the muffled hum from Seungmin’s headphones broke the silence.

He sat at the kitchen table, hunched over a pile of printouts. His gaze was focused; with a pen between his fingers he highlighted paragraphs and wrote notes in the margins. The reading glasses had slipped slightly down his nose, but he didn’t notice, too absorbed in the report he was reading. His eyes practically flew over the lines.

Accident Report – Case No.: 250318

Location: Arterial road near Umyeon-san, heading toward Seocho-gu
Date: 18.12.2011
Time: approx. 5:30 p.m.
Persons involved:
• Lee family – (names redacted)
• Unknown driver – fled the scene

Description:
For reasons still unknown, a vehicle drifted into oncoming traffic on a straight stretch of road. The evidence and witness statements suggest the oncoming driver may have fallen asleep at the wheel. To avoid a head-on collision, the driver of the family vehicle swerved abruptly. The family car left the roadway, rolled over multiple times, and slammed into a tree at high speed. The oncoming vehicle continued driving. The suspicion of hit-and-run was confirmed. The search has so far been unsuccessful.

Consequences of the accident:
• The driver and two minor passengers died at the scene.
• The front-seat passenger initially survived but died on the way to the hospital from internal bleeding.
• Another minor passenger was found unconscious with severe head trauma and a massive injury to the left leg.

Note:
Lee F., the surviving minor, spent four months in an induced coma. Due to a severe crush injury to his left leg, the lower leg had to be amputated. Upon waking, Lee F. had no memory of the accident. The doctors stated that after such severe brain injuries, memory loss is not uncommon, and they do not expect Lee F. to regain those memories.

Status of the investigation:
The fleeing driver has yet to be identified. Investigations for negligent homicide and hit-and-run are ongoing.

Seungmin read the report to the last word. Then he set the papers down in front of him.
A heavy weight settled over him. Of the cases he had read so far, this was one of the most tragic. Through human error alone, an entire family had been wiped out and only one family member had survived.

Seungmin couldn’t begin to imagine how terrible that must be for this person.

He involuntarily thought of his own family.
Of his parents and his older sister.
He shook his head quickly, not wanting to allow those thoughts in.
He furrowed his brow. Not from overwhelm. More… contemplation.
He wondered if this case was suitable for analysis. Or maybe a step too far.
I should go over this case with Yongbok tomorrow.

Before Seungmin could sink deeper into his thoughts, Chan stepped into the kitchen. He was wearing an oversized hoodie, shuffling in slippers and heading to the fridge with a tired look. He opened it, ignored the lone olive still inside, and quietly took out a cold bottle of water. Then he dropped into the chair opposite Seungmin. He opened the bottle and took a deep drink, sighing in satisfaction.

Seungmin briefly looked up and took off his headphones.
“Hello, hyung,” he murmured, almost tonelessly, before bending back over the paper.
Chan studied the desk-like arrangement spread across the kitchen table. He pulled one of the top sheets toward him and skimmed the contents.

Accident Report – Case No.: 24653
Power outage in the traffic light system led to a pile-up in the rain. Three injured, one fatality.

He skimmed the bare facts and felt the heaviness between the lines.
“Don’t mix anything up,” Seungmin said without looking up. His voice was calm but firm.
“What exactly is this?”
“Uni.”
“For which module?”
No answer.

Chan frowned.
He knew all their degree programs. Had them noted down.
Not out of control, but out of care.

“Seungmin… did you choose a new module?”
Now Seungmin froze, caught. The pen hovered in the air.
Slowly he looked up, but avoided Chan’s eyes.
“No.”
The answer came too fast. Too flat.
Chan looked at him. Long enough for Seungmin to let out a defeated sigh.
“Okay, yes. It’s a new elective module.”
Before Chan could say anything, Seungmin raised his hand.
“Before you get worked up – it’s not a heavy module. It was recommended to me and it really complements my focus well.”
Chan stayed quiet for a moment, studying him.

He remembered too many nights when he had thought himself: I can handle this. And then it had happened.
The kitchen. The fall. The sound of his own skull hitting the tiles.
Three days in the hospital. A scar that remained.
And Minho, who had scolded him like a broken computer that still had to work.
Since then, Chan kept watch.
Not just over himself, but over all his housemates.
Maybe sometimes too much, which often led to arguments.

“If it’s just an elective… why have you been sitting here for nearly four hours, digging through twenty case reports?”
Seungmin shrugged slightly.
“It’s a group project.”
“And where’s your group?”
He knew Seungmin.
If he thought his assigned partners would just slow him down, he’d do projects alone.
“I’m not working alone.”
Chan raised a skeptical eyebrow.
“Really, hyung. Not this time. We’re meeting tomorrow to work on the project together. I’m just sorting things in advance. Promise.”
Chan still didn’t look convinced but accepted it reluctantly.
He decided to keep an eye on the whole thing.

“Take breaks anyway.”
“Yes, hyung,” Seungmin said, a tiny smile in his voice.

“Oh, hyung! Guess who my project partner is.” A wide grin spread across Seungmin’s face, but in his eyes was that small, calculating spark that always made Chan suspicious.

Chan leaned back in his chair, raised his eyebrows, and crossed his arms thoughtfully over his chest.
“Is it someone I know?”
“Not directly, no.”
Chan snorted. “Then how am I supposed to guess?”

Seungmin leaned forward slightly, as if about to announce a thrilling plot twist. “Because we talked about him this morning.”

Chan frowned, blinked, and at the moment recognition hit, his eyes widened.
“Not Hannie’s… coffee angel?”
His laugh came like a reflex, incredulous and unusually high for him. Seungmin nodded, pleased.
“The candidate scores a hundred points.”
Chan straightened up and tilted his head.
“So, that guy with the sad eyes, right?”
“His name is Lee Yongbok,” Seungmin explained, sinking back into the old kitchen chair. His eyes lost their playful gleam for a moment.
“And you know what? I can kind of understand Sungie’s fascination with him now,” he admitted quietly.

“Really?”
Chan sounded genuinely surprised, especially because he rarely heard Seungmin talk like that.
Seungmin met his eyes. “Yeah. He seems like someone… where every answer just raises more questions.”
Chan studied Seungmin.
“That fits with what Minho said this morning,” Chan finally said thoughtfully. Seungmin only gave a small smile.
“Kind of, yeah. But he really is different, hyung. And that makes me curious.”

Before Chan could answer, the kitchen door burst open.

“Kim SEUNGMIN!”

Hyunjin stomped in, arms crossed like he was about to open a trial.
Seungmin barely looked up.
“If this is about your laundry service again—no, I’m not helping you.”

Chan got up, laughing.
“I’ll leave you two to it.”
“Traitor,” Seungmin hissed after him. And with that, Chan left the kitchen laughing.

“This is about something MUCH more important than laundry!” Hyunjin declared, undeterred.
“And that would be?”
Seungmin sighed and pulled his laptop closer. He began typing, unmoved by Hyunjin’s theatrics.
It happened almost daily, after all.

“Jisung just told me – with a grin I wanted to wipe off his face – that YOU… met THE coffee angel!” Hyunjin announced indignantly and collapsed with a dramatic sigh into the chair Chan had just vacated.

Seungmin looked at him.
“Ah.”
“Ah?! That’s all you have to say?!”
Hyunjin sounded as if he’d been denied a personal holiday.
“You know him now too and DIDN´T tell me? No voice message so I could see him too? You didn’t even send me a picture!” Hyunjin whined, slumping onto the table, disturbing Seungmin’s papers.

“He’s my project partner.”
Seungmin gave him an annoyed look and pulled some papers out from under Hyunjin’s head.
Hyunjin stared at him like Seungmin had just said he’d tamed a dragon and then casually gone back to watching TV.
“You… you’re working with the coffee angel?” Hyunjin stammered.
Seungmin sighed. “Yes.”
“And you didn’t tell me?”
“Obviously.”

Hyunjin threw his arms in the air.
“This is betrayal of the highest order, Kim Seungmin!” he cried.
“You know I want to see him. And now you sit with him at uni and I… I…” He paused dramatically, as if to measure his words. “… I sit here like the last idiot, sketching someone from memory that I haven’t even met!”

Seungmin looked at him, unimpressed.
“Sounds like your personal problem.”
Hyunjin leaned over the table, drilling his gaze into Seungmin.
“This isn’t my personal problem. This is a matter of honor. You will introduce me to him!”

“No.”

“Yes!”

“No.”

“Seungmin…”
Hyunjin’s voice took on that soft, dangerously sweet tone.
“… you know I can make your life difficult.”
Seungmin calmly raised an eyebrow.
“I live under the same roof as you. My life is already difficult.”
Hyunjin’s mouth fell open. For a moment there was silence. Then he glared at Seungmin.
“I’ll make it happen. You’ll be begging me to come along.”

Seungmin turned back to his laptop.
“Keep dreaming.”

3:00 a.m.

“See you tomorrow!”
The door of the 7/Eleven closed behind Felix. His shift was over for the day.

The night hung heavy over Seoul. The first hints of the coming winter were already in the air, cool air snaking under Felix’s shirt. He pulled his hoodie’s hood over his head and headed toward the café.

The day weighed heavy in his bones.
Everything in him screamed for rest.
And yet Felix slowed his steps, just to savor the quiet a little longer. That strange kind of quiet only a big city at three in the morning knew.

When Felix finally returned to the apartment, he slipped quietly into his room and sat down at his desk.
He should have been sleeping, but a nervous hum in his chest kept him awake.
The desk lamp was dimmed, its soft light dancing on the half-closed curtains. The rest of the room lay in semi-darkness, except for the faint glow of his recording equipment, waiting silently for their cue.
The laptop was on. But the screen was empty.
The cursor blinked in time with his breathing.

Felix leaned back, the chair creaking softly.
His thoughts didn’t come in order. They never did:
frantic, sharp-edged, desperately searching for an escape.

System error.
Responsibility.
Cause.
Effect.

He had written about it today, discussed it.
Seungmin’s words echoed in him, sober examples of factual cases.
People who made mistakes.
People who suffered under systems.
He had nodded, taken notes, as if he were engaged in the topic.
And inside… Felix had already shut down.

He drew his legs up and pressed his forehead to his knees.
Breathed in slowly through his nose.
Held it.
One. Two. Three.
Let the breath out again.
Counted. Again.
Nothing helped.
The restlessness in his chest only dug deeper.
His thoughts played along with his growing agitation, circling his meeting with Seungmin and breaking it into tiny fragments.

Seungmin had been… different.
Not intrusive. Not kind out of pity.
Just clear. Direct. As if he expected nothing and because of that saw what was there.
Felix had caught himself almost… liking the moment at the table.
Almost… enjoying it.
Because of Seungmin.
And because of Jisung.

Jisung.

That whirlwind of words and cinnamon fantasies.
He had called him “coffee angel.”
Had looked at him as if he wasn’t something broken.
Not like someone whose mistakes were recorded on a police report.
And Felix… had smiled.
Just for a moment.
And that…
was unforgivable.

You can’t do that.
You have no right to lightness…
Not when you’re the one who…

He inhaled sharply, closed his eyes.
The thoughts came faster. Heavier.
The spiral of self-blame pulled him down deeper.
One thought. Then two. Then a hundred.
They came faster, grew heavier.
Like a leaden fog wrapping around his chest.
Like a weight no one could see but that he carried.

Maybe…
Maybe you shouldn’t have argued.
Maybe then you could have prevented it.
Maybe you don’t deserve to be sitting here.
Maybe… it would have been fairer…

He stood up abruptly.
The chair almost tipped.
His gaze fell on the small keyboard, the interface, the mic.
His fingers trembled as he set it up.
Cables. Headphones. Laptop on record.
He knew what was coming now.
What always came when the world was too much and he couldn’t breathe.

Freckle

His oldest escape.
Felix took one deep breath, then hit record and began to sing.
At first hesitantly, then harder. Firmer. Until every note vibrated in his chest.

My life is so unfair
Everyone sees me as if I'm the beast out there
My dreams become nightmares
Please give me a break right now
I wanna just be myself
No one can truly see
The human inside me

He sang.
Not to impress.
Not to sound like “the guy with the deep voice.”
But because otherwise…
he would break.

The lyrics flowed.
Fragmented. Raw.
They came from exactly the place he usually locked away.
Where the guilt lived.
And the anger.
And the need to belong somewhere.
But not being allowed to. Because the guilt was too heavy.

My life is so unfair
I'm still left in despair
Just when I thought that God
Had answered my whole prayer
After I let you go
And saw you out the door
I wanted you to know
How much I love you, so, oh

He kept recording. Over and over.
In between he paused. Listened. Deleted. Screamed. Started over.
Hours passed.
Outside it was dark.
And inside too.
But on his screen, something was taking shape.
A track.
A fragment.
A truth.
My life is unfair.
And that was the only thing that felt… right.

Chapter Text

“It’s not the load that breaks you down, it’s the way you carry it.”
— Lena Horne

Saturday began, unexpectedly, in silence.
No clattering dishes, no fight over the last clean glass, no Jisung doing cartwheels through the living room while singing. Only the faint scent of coffee and the occasional creak of old floorboards filled the apartment.

Minho, Jisung, and Hyunjin were all still in their rooms, somewhere between dreams and the denial of having to get up.

Changbin, as always, had been up early. He left the apartment before the first rays of sunlight colored the sky — his morning jog, as every day.

Jeongin was also already gone, leaving almost at the same time as Changbin. A few job application folders under his arm, jacket buttoned askew. He’d been looking for a part-time job for weeks now, but so far without success.

Chan sat at the kitchen table, laptop in front of him, headphones pulled low over his ears. The coffee cup before him was half empty and cold. No one knew if he had just woken up or if, as so often, he had simply worked through the night.

And Seungmin?
He appeared in the kitchen unusually early. A packed bag slung over his shoulder, his gaze cool but alert as it swept the room.

In the kitchen he found a half-finished cup of cocoa, an open box of cornflakes spilling generously across the table, and Chan sitting in the middle of the chaos, completely focused.

Seungmin didn’t comment. He silently grabbed a granola bar, casually checked that his USB stick was still in his jacket pocket, and was just about to leave when a door opened behind him.

“Where are you going?”

Hyunjin stood in the doorway of his room, still in his sleep shirt, hair a mess, pillow creases on his face. He yawned, rubbed his eyes, and blinked sleepily at Seungmin.

Seungmin stopped, exhaled slowly.

“Uni stuff,” he said curtly. Short. True. Without inviting further questions.

But Hyunjin kept looking at him, a small crease forming on his forehead. Then his eyes lit up.

“Wait… you’re going to the café!”

Seungmin sighed, but didn’t turn around, only his pace slowed involuntarily.

“Take me with you!” Hyunjin now sounded wide awake.

“No.”

Seungmin opened the door. Too late. Hyunjin had already slid into the hallway and was clinging to Seungmin’s arm like his life depended on it.

“Why not? I have nothing planned today. And you’re going to that café.”

Seungmin was forced to stop. He looked first at his arm, then at Hyunjin. His eyebrow twitched in mild annoyance.

“You mean the café with the quiet guy you want to paint, even though you don’t even know his name?”

Hyunjin nodded eagerly. A look of pure innocence mixed with the pride of an artist who had already spotted his next masterpiece in a stranger’s face.

Seungmin blinked once.
“Forget it,” he said firmly, trying to free his arm. But Hyunjin only clung tighter.

“Whaaat? Why not?” he whined loudly.
“Because it’s a uni meeting. We’re working. You’d be in the way.”
“I swear I’ll behave. I’ll just sit there, drink my coffee quietly, and simply exist in the background.”

Seungmin raised an eyebrow skeptically. Said nothing. Just let the silence work for him.

“No.”

“Whyyyy not?” Hyunjin dragged out the syllables dramatically, tugging on Seungmin’s arm.
“Jisung’s already seen him twice! Twice! And me? Not even once! That’s unfair!”

Seungmin exhaled sharply.
“First, you just want to come along to see if he really looks like a fallen angel,” he began slowly, his tone low and slightly threatening. “And second, he’s still a human being, not an exhibit! I said no.”

Hyunjin immediately prepared to protest, giving his best puppy-dog eyes and leaning forward dramatically, as if he might throw himself to the floor any second.
“Minnie, pleeeaase…”

Seungmin finally pulled his arm free and put a bit of distance between them.

“I’m sticking with no.”

Hyunjin’s mouth dropped open in outrage.
“Better stay here and do your laundry before Minho-hyung finds out you haven’t even started.”

Hyunjin looked briefly caught out, but the pout quickly returned to his face.
“You’re so heartless, Kim Seungmin!”
“Whatever. See you later,” Seungmin muttered, slipping out the door and closing it behind him.

Hyunjin remained in the hallway — barefoot, sulking, and deeply offended.

________

The wind was biting as Seungmin walked the three blocks toward the café.
He’d been surprised when Yongbok had given him the address — the place was less than a ten-minute walk from their shared apartment. Even stranger, none of them had ever stumbled upon it before. Or perhaps it was stranger still that Yongbok himself had never caught his attention until now.

Seungmin turned the next corner and saw it. A modest café wedged between two residential buildings with weathered façades.

The café itself looked as if someone had carefully placed it there only yesterday. The wooden paneling was dark-stained — old, but well-kept. On the wall, in understated golden letters, was the name:

고요.

In front of the entrance stood a small, worn chalkboard, artfully lettered with the day’s recommendation:

“Cinnamon Mocha & Pear Cake – for rainy days that could use a little color.”

Tiny flowers were drawn around it — careful and loving.
Seungmin took in the sight and let a faint smile tug at his lips.

Hyunjin would have fallen in love with this sign alone.

With that thought, he pushed the door open.
A small bell chimed — bright, old — the sound lingering for a moment in the room before fading away.

Warm air curled around him as he stepped inside. The air smelled of strong coffee, soft lavender, and sweet vanilla.
He inhaled deeply. The scent reminded him of his childhood — of evenings when he’d run to his grandmother’s house with fresh vegetables from the market.
It warmed something in his chest.

The door clicked shut behind him and Seungmin looked around.
He instantly understood why Jisung had been so fascinated by this place. It wasn’t one of those modern, hip cafés screaming for minimalistic design awards and Instagram filters.

This one felt… timeless.
Not old. Not shabby.
Just still and comfortable. A place that invited you to linger.
The music was barely more than a whisper in the background — just enough to soften the silence, not to drown it out.

He liked the place immediately.

His gaze wandered.
An older man was reading his newspaper. A young woman worked intently on her laptop. Two high school students chatted quietly by the window.

Then he saw Yongbok.
He was behind the counter, preparing an order. He hadn’t noticed Seungmin yet — completely absorbed in his work. His movements were precise, focused.

Seungmin took a few minutes just to watch him.

Yongbok didn’t quite fit the picture. The café, with its muted tones, radiated a cozy warmth — and yet Yongbok looked like he’d been cut from another image entirely. Like a bad Photoshop job.

He was dressed entirely in black, broken only by the moss-green apron tied neatly around his slim waist. His dark hair was slicked back, his expression calm, focused… almost tense.

But something made Seungmin pause.

The concentration he’d first assumed, upon closer look, seemed more… uncoordinated. Not distracted, exactly — but deeply, utterly tired.
A heaviness seemed to rest on his shoulders, pressing down on his slight frame.

Seungmin also noticed the deep shadows under his eyes, stark against his pale skin. His shoulders were held too tight, as if they didn’t know how to relax. And when Yongbok finally looked up, his gaze was emptier than it should have been.

Seungmin lifted a hand in greeting. Yongbok nodded and came out from behind the counter.

“Hello.”
His voice was quiet, his bow slight. Not impolite — just… flat. His gestures carried the same weariness as his appearance.

“Just have a seat. I just need to finish this order, then I’ll join you.”
Seungmin nodded and sat down at a table in the back corner.

The moment he sat, an elderly woman emerged from a room behind the counter. She was small, with gray hair pulled into a neat bun. Her hands were slim, lined with age. But her eyes — they were sharp. They reminded Seungmin of Minho. Only calmer.

She wore the same moss-green apron as Yongbok, which made Seungmin guess she must be his grandmother.

She spoke briefly with her grandson, who nodded and gestured toward Seungmin. Her gaze followed, finding him easily. A gentle smile spread across her face and she made her way toward him with slow but steady steps.

“Ah! So you’re Yongbok-ah’s friend, yes?”
Her voice was warm, with a soft accent Seungmin couldn’t quite place. He’d noticed it in Yongbok, too, and it felt familiar — though he couldn’t remember from where.

Seungmin stood automatically, bowing deeply to the elderly woman.
“Kim Seungmin, ma’am. We’re working together on a uni project.”

She laughed softly, placing a warm hand on his shoulder.
“No need to be so formal, my boy.”

Seungmin straightened and met her dark eyes. An honest smile had formed on her lips.

“Just call me Halmoni, yes?”

Something about her manner reminded him painfully of his late grandmother. The feeling caught in his throat — part tenderness, part embarrassment.

She seemed to notice. Her smile grew even softer, and a warmth spread in him that brought a faint flush to his cheeks.

“That’s very kind. Thank you… Halmoni.”

She waved it off warmly, studying him — not critically, but like someone testing a new recipe, not yet sure if it would turn out right.

“Young people these days are so thin,” she murmured, shaking her head lightly. Seungmin noticed her fleeting glance in Yongbok’s direction.

“As long as you study here, I don’t want to see a single won from you. Whatever you eat or drink is for your strength. Do you understand me, Seungmin-ah?”

He opened his mouth to protest, but the look in her eyes allowed no argument. So he nodded and thanked her.

She seemed satisfied, nodding to herself.

“I’ll send Yongbok-ah over to you shortly.”

With that, she returned to the counter, where Yongbok was waiting. Seungmin watched them speak quietly.

He saw her say something that clearly didn’t please him. Yongbok objected, gesturing toward the café, then toward Seungmin. But his grandmother only shook her head calmly. She smiled softly at him, touched his cheek, and said something again — whatever it was, it made his shoulders slump. He nodded briefly, but without enthusiasm.

With a resigned sigh, he removed his apron and disappeared into the back. It wasn’t long before he returned with a bag over his shoulder and a tray in his hands.

On it balanced a tall glass of iced Americano, a glass of water, and a plate of spiral butter cookies dusted with lavender sugar.

Yongbok set the tray on the table.

“The coffee’s for you.”
He placed the condensation-coated glass in front of Seungmin, set the water on his own side, and the cookies in the center.

Seungmin looked at the coffee in surprise.
“I didn’t order anything, but… this is exactly what I would’ve chosen.” He looked up at Yongbok, astonished. The other just shrugged a little awkwardly.

“Halmoni has this sort of… talent? She looks at someone and just knows what they’d like to drink,” Yongbok explained, taking a seat across from him.

________

The next few hours passed in quiet focus.
Seungmin reported on the research he’d done the night before, sliding the corresponding printouts over to Yongbok.

The latter listened attentively, jotting down key points in his notebook, occasionally asking precise, well-thought-out questions. They spent a long time working through their first case study:

Traffic accident caused by technical failure.

Seungmin was impressed at how smoothly the collaboration went. His project partner was proving to be a real asset. Yongbok asked the right questions, connected facts quickly, and drew logical conclusions as if he’d been studying the subject for years.

But slowly, something in the air began to shift.
At first, it was barely noticeable — a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth, his shoulders curling just slightly forward. Then Seungmin noticed the veins standing out on the back of his hands as he gripped his pen. His fingers trembled, almost imperceptibly.

Seungmin watched him for longer than politeness allowed.
He saw it.
He saw everything.

The unease spread like a thin layer of frost across glass. Eventually, Seungmin couldn’t hold back any longer.

“Everything alright?” His voice was calm, but his eyes stayed fixed on him.

Yongbok looked up, caught off guard for a split second — almost guilty.
“Yeah. I’m fine.”
His voice was deeper, rougher, and the words came too fast. Seungmin caught the lie in his eyes — the glint of something unsaid. He couldn’t explain how, but he knew the topic was troubling him.

“Do you want to take a break?” he asked carefully.

“No need.”
Short. Clipped. His gaze slipped away, as if afraid Seungmin might see more than he should.

________

Felix’s POV

Seungmin hesitated, then nodded slowly.
“Alright… then maybe let’s move on to the second case.”

He reached beside him, pulling out a thin beige folder and setting it in front of Felix.
“I think if we combine the technical failure case with this one, we’ll have a strong foundation for our analysis.”

Seungmin kept talking, his finger tapping lightly on the folder.
“This one’s about a hit-and-run resulting in death.”

He spoke on — neutral, factual, focused on his notes, not his partner.

He didn’t see the way Felix took the folder as though it had suddenly doubled in weight.
Didn’t see the way his fingers tightened around the thin cardboard.
Didn’t notice the faint shiver running through him.

Slowly, almost reluctantly, Felix opened it.
His eyes skimmed the first lines — the clinical details.
Date. Time. Location. Number of victims.

The letters seemed to shift, the page itself threatening to splinter under his gaze.
What little color was in his already pale face drained away completely.

His breath came shallow.
And somewhere deep inside, something old and untamed began to rattle its cage.

Seungmin’s voice was now just a low hum in the background. Only fragments reached him — droplets falling into an empty room.

“…hit-and-run…”
“…possible driver fatigue…”
“…impact speed…”
“…three victims died at the scene…”

His eyes stayed on the open file.
He read the key facts again.
The place. The date. The street.

It wasn’t just familiar.
It wasn’t coincidentally familiar.

This was his accident.

A sharp, crushing pain pulled tight across his chest.
He was holding pieces of his past in his hands — pieces his mind had locked away for years. He knew the reports. The case file. But having them here, physically in front of him, was suffocating.

His heart began to race so fast it no longer felt like beats — just a relentless tremor.
The air in his lungs thickened, heavy, like water. As if he were trying to breathe through a soaked cloth.

Without thinking, his fingers went to his throat, as though he could loosen the invisible knot tightening there. His hand caught on the thin chain that had belonged to his mother.

A dull pressure bloomed behind his temples, hammering in sync with his frantic heartbeat.
His heart — still beating.
Unlike… theirs.

Nausea rolled over him.

The chair screeched against the floor as Felix stood abruptly. The wooden frame tilted dangerously, then caught itself and landed with a soft clack.

“I… I’ll be right back,” he heard himself say.
His voice sounded calm — an unsettling contrast to the chaos inside him.

He didn’t wait for Seungmin’s reply.
He turned and walked away.
Straight. Controlled.

Each step felt like he was watching himself from far away — a silent spectator trapped inside a body moving on autopilot.
Exactly as he’d trained himself for years.

Act.
Don’t think.
Just keep going.
Always straight ahead.

He climbed the stairs to the apartment.
His vision blurred, the light above him flickering like brief flashes.
His chest rose and fell in short, jagged bursts.
He tried to inhale, but the air snagged on an invisible knot in his throat.

Breathe.
Breathe.
BREATHE, DAMMIT!

His fingertips tingled.
The world around him dulled, as though stuffed with cotton. The bathroom door was suddenly there. He yanked it open, stumbled inside. His movements were mechanical as he locked the door behind him.

His knees gave out as he gripped the cold edge of the sink.
His breath came in ragged gasps, unable to find any rhythm.

A sharp, high-pitched ringing started in his ears. Louder. Louder. Until it drowned out everything else.

Felix squeezed his eyes shut, forcing himself to grab hold of something — anything — but his heart only pounded faster.

And then—

His stomach seized.
Bitter bile burned up his throat.
He doubled over, the nausea hitting so abruptly he barely had time to position himself. Pure muscle memory carried him to the toilet.

Bitter.
Burning.
Unstoppable.

He retched up the little he’d eaten in the past hours.
The sounds echoed harshly against the tiled walls.
Each convulsion sent fresh waves of pain through his chest and skull.

When it was over, he was still clinging to the cold porcelain.
He panted, his entire body trembling. Sweat beaded on his forehead.
Tears slid down his cheeks.

All that remained was the pounding in his temples — and the metallic taste of guilt on his tongue.

Felix let himself sink to the floor and screamed every emotion out of his body. Until there was nothing left but the familiar, cold, emotionless shell.

He didn’t know how much time had passed.
But when a tentative knock on the door pulled him from his daze, he shot up from the floor. The world tilted slightly, but he caught himself.

“Bok-ah? Are you alright?”
His grandmother’s voice came from the other side.

“Yes, all good. I’ll be right out, Halmoni.”
His voice was startlingly steady. No trace of the panic remained.

He washed his hands, rinsed his mouth, erased every sign of what had just happened.

Only then did he look into the mirror.
His eyes were slightly bloodshot, his skin a shade too pale — but that couldn’t be helped now.

He lingered a second too long, then turned and left the room.

When he stepped back into the café, his grandmother was behind the counter. She was serving a customer, yet her eyes flicked to him for a brief, assessing moment.

Felix smiled at her.

Then he walked back to Seungmin as if nothing had happened.
As if the world hadn’t just narrowed for a few minutes until there was nothing left but darkness and cold porcelain.

“Sorry to keep you waiting.”
He reached for the incriminating folder and opened it again.

He swallowed — just once — before locking everything away inside himself.
He’d always been good at that.
Carefully. Methodically.

“This case would actually work really well for our analysis.”

With sheer force of will, Felix shoved his pain down.
This wasn’t about him or his feelings.
It wasn’t about the fact that every word he read was cutting deeper into his heart.

This project wasn’t only tied to his already fragile mental stability — it also determined Seungmin’s grade and the responsibility to get him through this course.

All he had to do was turn off his emotions.
He could do that.
He’d been practicing for years.

He just had to keep functioning.

Chapter Text

"It is remarkable how one moment can change everything." – from The Curious Case of Benjamin Button (2008)

Felix POV

The days after the meeting with Seungmin passed for Felix as if under water. He moved, went about his tasks, spoke and breathed, yet everything felt muffled and surreal, as if he were experiencing it all from far away.

Since that moment when he had returned from the bathroom to Seungmin at the table, he had lost contact with himself. Time seemed to blur. Monday, Tuesday, everything dissolved into a gray mass that could not be held onto.

Only his strict, recurring pattern kept him together:
Lectures.
Project meetings.
Shifts at the café.
Night shifts at 7/Eleven.
And in between… nothing.
No breaks, no gaps for thoughts to fall into.

Felix clung to this pattern like a life buoy. Because he knew that if he let go, he would fall. He clung so tightly that he completely forgot how to live.

He barely slept. When he tried, the dreams came. In them he saw their faces, heard their laughter, before the screeching came and then the silence. That merciless, suffocating silence.

So he stayed awake until his body forced him to collapse. Unconsciousness was his only peace. For there were no dreams there.

His grandmother began to grow suspicious. He downplayed her worry, called the bruises from his falls “stupid accidents.” But her eyes didn’t believe him. They carried worry, mistrust. Silent and relentless.

During the day he pushed himself deeper into his tasks. Worked out scripts for the project. Ignored the stabbing pull in his chest. Swallowed down the flashbacks that wanted to break him.

Sometimes he found himself gasping in a bathroom stall while a panic attack tore him apart. Then he washed his face, pulled up the neutral mask, and went back to the library. Back to Seungmin and his watchful eyes.

“Take a break,” Seungmin had said once. Felix had only smiled tiredly and continued with the endless analyses of the moment that had completely changed his life.

In the afternoons he stood in the café. His grandmother sometimes pushed him aside with gentle words. “You work too hard, Bok-ah.” Her gaze was full of worry, full of love, and every time it cut him to the heart. Yet instead of giving in, he smiled at her, set a cup on the counter, and kept working.

Because breaks meant rest.
Rest meant thoughts.
And thoughts he could not allow.

At night he stood at the cash register at 7/Eleven. Stared at the blinking display while the minutes dripped slowly by and he desperately tried to keep his head above water.

Thus the weeks passed.

Felix spoke little. Mostly only what was necessary. With his grandmother or with Seungmin, who asked questions about numbers, facts, or research. Felix answered them. Short, precise, functional. Everything beyond that bounced off him.

He was just trying to survive.

Sometimes he noticed his hands trembling when he locked the portafilter into the café machine. Sometimes he realized he had been staring at the same line in a text for minutes, unable to understand it. Sometimes he no longer remembered how he had gotten from one place to another.

But he kept going. Always going.
He functioned.

It dragged on for weeks. This rut of work, exhaustion, and his neutral mask.
Until one afternoon, gray and still, something happened that broke the cycle.

A Friday that burned itself into his pattern like a crack in glass.

The university smelled of autumn that day. Of sun on wet asphalt, of damp leaves drifting in the wind.

Shoes squeaked on the wet linoleum floor, voices echoed from the walls as the last students crowded out of the seminar rooms.

Felix walked down the corridor, hood half pulled over his head and his shoulders drawn up. He wanted to disappear. Become part of the gray mass. No one to be seen.

But then something pierced the veil that had lain over his eyes for weeks.

It was a movement, little more than a twitch at the far end of the hallway. So insignificant one would normally overlook it. But Felix noticed it, and it made him stop abruptly.

At the other end of the corridor stood a boy.
He looked younger than most, maybe in his first semester.

He was slender and had a posture that looked both cautious and defiant. His brown hair clung slightly to his forehead, as if he had just come from the rain.

His backpack hung crookedly over one shoulder, the fabric slightly torn at a seam. The fingers with which he held the strap were restless, caught in an incessant dance. It looked impatient. His dark brown eyes scanned the crowd. Clearly, he was waiting for someone.

Felix didn’t know why he didn’t just keep walking. He couldn’t even say exactly what had made him stop. He shook his head at himself. He should just keep going.

Back into his personal hell that was called life.

But at the moment he turned away, a dull sound caught his attention.

He looked back.

The boy was suddenly kneeling on the floor. His face slightly contorted, his eyes wide open and his mouth shaped into a silent Oh. His backpack lay in front of him. Its contents – notebooks and pens – had spilled across the hallway floor.

Two older students stood in front of him. Broad shoulders, loud laughter without warmth, and an exaggeratedly confident grin that instantly revealed they had gotten away with this too many times before.

“Watch where you’re going!” the bigger one growled. The boy hunched his shoulders and reached for his backpack, but a foot shoved him roughly against the lockers. The metallic clatter echoed through the hallway.

“Don’t you think you should apologize to an older student?”
“I-I’m sorry…” His voice cracked. Fear was plain in his eyes.

“Louder. With Hyung!”

Felix felt something tighten inside him. The humming in his head that had worn him down these past days stopped abruptly. His exhaustion vanished. Cold clarity flooded through him.

He didn’t know any of them.
But something about the scene shook him. Tore open old memories from his school days. Memories he had buried deep within.

Before he understood it, he was already moving.

His steps echoed dully off the walls. Steady. Unstoppable.

“That’s enough.”

His voice was calm, almost too calm, but it carried an unusual sharpness.

The older students turned to him, eyeing him. What they saw was a thin guy. Slim, with a too-pale face. Someone you’d only have to blow on to knock over. But his gaze was too direct to look harmless.

“What’s it to you, freak?” the bigger one spat.

Felix stepped closer, positioning himself between the boy on the floor and the two older students.

“Leave.” His voice was firm.

The guys in front of him laughed loudly. Then the smaller one stepped forward and shoved him with his shoulder. Felix didn’t budge an inch. He looked genuinely unimpressed.

“Tch! Get lost!” the smaller one snapped and grabbed Felix by the collar.

A mistake.

It was meant to be a grip to yank him back, but Felix reacted instinctively. He twisted his arm, broke the hold with precise pressure against the wrist. His years in Taekwondo paid off now. The guy cried out in pain and stumbled back. Felix stepped back as if nothing had happened.

“Fuck…” his attacker gasped, shaking out his wrist. His friend stepped forward angrily, ready to fight. Felix fell into a defensive stance, meeting his opponent’s eyes.

“Do you really want this?” Felix asked, still calm, but with something hard in his eyes.
“You have a choice,” he said quietly. “Leave, or stay and lose.”

For a moment an inexplicable rage burned in his chest. He almost hoped they would stay and fight him.

In hindsight, Felix couldn’t explain where this rage came from. Maybe it was being thrown back into his own youth, or maybe it was the lack of sleep he’d had in recent weeks. But he was ready to fight.

The two older students exchanged quick, nervous glances. They seemed to realize Felix wasn’t intimidated.

“Forget it, let’s go,” the bigger one muttered, dragging his friend with him.

Almost disappointed, Felix watched them leave. Then he turned to the boy on the floor.

But then…

“Hey, freak!”

Felix glanced over his shoulder.
A fist hit him hard. Pain exploded across his face, he staggered, stumbled backward, and crashed into the boy, who caught him with a startled sound.

“Showed him, didn’t we!” the two older ones laughed. By the time Felix looked up, they were already running down the hallway and out the door.

Felix cursed softly and wiped his lip. Blood stained the back of his hand. His lip was split. He ignored it and turned to the frightened boy.

“You okay?” His voice was gentle, almost cautious. As if he were afraid of scaring him even more.

The boy nodded hesitantly. “Uh… yeah. Thanks. I…”
“It’s fine,” Felix said softly.

He picked up the backpack and gathered the scattered contents.
“You… you don’t have to,” the boy stammered.
“It’s okay,” Felix muttered, putting the items back into the bag. Then he handed it to the boy, who accepted it gratefully.

“My name’s Jeongin,” he said cautiously.

Felix smiled at him. “Yongbok.”

Then his face grew serious again.
“Does this happen often?” Felix asked, gesturing around at the situation.

“No. I just… wasn’t paying attention and bumped into one of them. I guess that made them angry,” Jeongin explained.

“You should report it.”

Jeongin looked nervous, pressed his lips together, then nodded reluctantly.
“Yeah… I will, Hyung.”

Felix blinked at the familiar address. A soft, almost involuntary smile crossed his face. He didn’t know why, but something about Jeongin stirred something inside him. Something long silent.

But then he remembered what he had just done. Several students had witnessed the scene. Eyes were on him. His stomach tightened. He had definitely not helped himself stay invisible and unnoticed.

He cleared his throat awkwardly. Tugged the hood that had slipped down back over his face.

“Well… take care of yourself, Jeongin-ah,” he said shortly, turning to leave.

But as soon as he took a step, his legs suddenly gave out. It was as if the ground had been yanked out from under him – abrupt, without warning. The adrenaline that had carried him was gone, leaving only a heaviness that mercilessly dragged him to his knees.

His vision blurred, dark spots danced at the edges, crowding into the center. A dull drumming filled his ears, accompanied by the pounding pulse in his temples. Reflexively, he reached to the side. His fingertips found cold metal. The lockers held him upright, kept him from collapsing to the floor. His breath came in shallow gasps.

“Yongbok-Hyung!” The voice sounded panicked but close.

Two hands gripped his forearm tightly, holding him upright. The blurred face in front of him slowly came into focus…
Jeongin.

“Hyung, what’s wrong? Should I get someone?”

Felix shook his head weakly. The movement only made everything worse.
“No…” he rasped. “Just… a moment…”

Jeongin carefully pulled him to the wall, helping him slide down to sit.

“Sit,” he murmured, almost like an order.

Felix let it happen. Pressed a hand against his forehead as he breathed heavily.
“Guess it’s… too little sleep,” he muttered painfully, more to himself than to Jeongin. Jeongin knelt beside him, watching him with worry.

“Wait here.”

Before Felix could protest, the younger boy jumped up, ran down the hallway, and returned moments later with a water bottle. Felix accepted it gratefully, took a few sips, and felt the drumming slowly ease.

His vision cleared just enough to see Jeongin’s face clearly – alert, watchful, with a concern that ran unusually deep for someone he had just met.

“Thanks,” Felix said softly.

Jeongin looked at him with big, dark eyes full of fear. It was clear he was overwhelmed by the situation.
“Should… should I call someone?” he asked hastily.

Felix shook his head and forced a weak smile.
“I’ll be fine,” he muttered, more to convince himself than Jeongin.

To prove his words, he set the bottle aside and pushed himself up against the wall with both hands. An inner curse accompanied the realization of how little strength his legs still had.

The signs were familiar. Far too familiar. He had felt them too many times in recent weeks. The tremor before fainting.

Determined not to worry Jeongin any more, Felix clenched his teeth and pushed himself up. Every breath burned in his chest. He leaned on the wall, tested his footing, and forced himself to take a step forward. Just one. Just to show he could.

But the world refused to obey. The dizziness crashed over him like a cold wave. The hallway closed in, the voices in the background grew muffled, distorted as if underwater.

He swayed. His grip slipped.
And instead of hitting the floor, he crashed into something solid.

Two strong arms held him upright.

“Whoa, hey! Careful!”

The voice was deep, clear, and belonged to the broad-shouldered guy now holding him up. Felix blinked dazedly up into the stranger’s face.

He didn’t know him.

Before he could say a word, he heard Jeongin sigh in relief.

“Changbin-Hyung.”

The newcomer turned to him.
“What’s going on, Innie-ah?”

“Hyung… I’m not sure exactly.” Jeongin held his hands half out, as if considering grabbing Felix as well. “He just helped me, and then he suddenly looked like he was going to collapse.”

Changbin’s gaze shifted critically to Felix. Deep frown lines furrowed his brow.

“And who is he?”

“Yongbok-Hyung,” Jeongin answered immediately.

“He–”

“…is still standing here and can hear you,” Felix interrupted quietly. Even though his head pounded, he forced himself to take his weight back from Changbin.
“I’m fine. Thanks for your help,” he muttered, trying to free himself completely.

Changbin snorted softly, as if he knew it was a lie.

“As pale as you are? You don’t honestly believe that yourself.”

“I’m fine–”

“Don’t talk nonsense. We’ll sit you down before you really pass out.”

Felix wanted to protest, but Changbin’s grip was firm, leaving no room for argument.

“I can walk on my own,” Felix murmured.

“Sure you can,” Changbin replied dryly, effortlessly steering him down the hallway.
“That’s why you almost collapsed just now.”

Felix’s mouth twitched slightly.

“I was just… off balance.”

“And I’m the president of this faculty,” Changbin shot back without changing expression or taking his eyes off their path.

Jeongin walked close beside them, visibly torn between worry and fear Felix might take it the wrong way.
“Hyung, maybe you really should—”

“I’m fine!”

Felix’s voice cut too sharply through the corridor, silencing Jeongin immediately. Changbin stopped at a bench and pressed Felix down with firm, controlled movement.

“Sit. If you faint, I’ll have to carry you. And believe me, that would be uncomfortable for both of us.”

Felix stared at him, as if ready to retort, but the dazedness in his gaze betrayed he had no strength left for words.

“I just… need a moment,” he murmured finally, rubbing his temples.

“Exactly. And you’ll get that now. No discussion.”

Changbin leaned against the wall, arms crossed, like he was standing guard. Jeongin carefully sat next to Felix, watching him with genuine concern. Felix’s gaze shifted between the two of them.

“You really don’t have to—”

“Yes, we do,” Changbin interrupted him, and this time it sounded less like an order and more like a statement.

Felix was about to respond when Jeongin cleared his throat softly.

“Hyung… I just wanted to say… thank you. For earlier.” His voice was small, unsure.

Felix shrugged. “It was nothing.”

“For me it was something,” Jeongin replied seriously, then quickly dropped his gaze as if ashamed of his openness.

Changbin studied the two silently before fixing his gaze on Jeongin.

“So… are you going to tell me what happened now?”

Jeongin hesitated, turning his head slightly away as if deciding whether to tell the truth.
“It was…” He chewed the inside of his cheek before continuing. “It was two older students. I accidentally bumped into one of them… they wanted an apology and pushed me.” His voice grew quieter. His gaze fixed on his own tangled hands. “Yongbok-Hyung stood up for me and helped.”

Changbin’s jaw visibly tightened, his voice dropping deeper and more dangerous.
“Do you know who those idiots were?”

“No. It all happened so fast and then they…” Jeongin trailed off, his gaze flickering to Felix.

Meanwhile Felix slipped further out of reality. The conversation reached him only in fragments, like voices from far away. Words bounced off, merging into distorted noise. Everything turned muffled, soft… his limbs heavier.

Just stay sitting. Say something so they stop talking about you.

But the words stuck in his head. The voices faded as if someone turned down the world. Darkness crept in at the edges of his vision. Everything grew muffled and wrapped in cotton. His body felt heavy and far away.

He felt the world tilting around him. As if the ground was slipping from his feet.

Not now. Not here.

He tried to press his hands harder against the bench, to stand. He wanted to stand, to run, at least to somewhere no one would see when it happened.

Because it would happen – Felix knew it with icy certainty.

But when he pressed his fingers into the bench, his legs didn’t respond. The movement stayed a thought that never reached the body. His heart pounded so loudly it drowned out everything else.

Pull yourself together.

“Yongbok-Hyung?” Jeongin’s voice sounded strangely muffled.

Answer him! Damn it, do something, anything!

But the command echoed uselessly. He couldn’t answer.

A wave of dizziness tore away the last of his orientation. The sounds around him dropped into dull thuds. He blinked, but the blackness at the edges devoured the rest of his vision with terrifying speed.

The world tilted completely.

And he plunged into darkness.

______

Changbin POV

Changbin stood with arms crossed while Jeongin haltingly explained what had happened. He heard the words, but his gaze kept drifting back to Yongbok.

He sat there so still, one might almost forget he was even there. Shoulders slightly hunched on the bench, as if trying to take up less space than necessary. His hands lay flat on the bench, but his fingers twitched restlessly, as if needing to hold on to something that wasn’t there.

Changbin noticed he had barely blinked in the last minutes. His gaze looked not only absent but… strangely far away, as if one ear was still in the conversation while his mind was trapped somewhere else entirely.

Jeongin kept talking, but Changbin noticed Yongbok’s face growing paler. A faint sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead.

Then came a tiny, almost imperceptible sway in his posture. The tension drained from his shoulders – not in relaxation, but in weakness.

Jeongin seemed to notice the change too. He leaned forward in concern.

“Yongbok-Hyung?”

No response.

“Hyung?” This time louder, with a trace of panic.

Still no reaction.

Changbin saw how his eyes went unfocused. His pupils didn’t react the way they should, and for a split second there was that glassy, distant shimmer before his eyelids fluttered.

And then all tension left his body. He just gave way. No attempt to catch himself, no twitch to stop the fall.

“Damn it!”

Changbin pushed off the wall and caught Yongbok the same moment he began to slump sideways off the bench. The weight was surprisingly light, the muscles slack as if all strength had drained from them.

Jeongin stared at them wide-eyed, as if even breathing might break something.
“What… what’s wrong with him?” he gasped, his eyes darting frantically between Yongbok and Changbin.

“Don’t talk, help!” Changbin snapped a little too harshly. He decided he’d apologize later. Lowering himself, he eased Yongbok down to the floor.

“Give me your jacket, Jeongin-ah.”

Jeongin obeyed without another word, pressing the fabric into his Hyung’s hand. Changbin tucked the jacket under Yongbok’s neck so his head wouldn’t lie at an odd angle. His gaze swept again over the pale face. He looked even paler than before, even his lips drained of color.

“Is he breathing?” Jeongin’s voice trembled.

“Yes,” Changbin replied curtly. He leaned closer, checking for a pulse at his neck.

Too fast.Way too fast.
Damn it, this isn’t just a simple fainting spell.

“We’re taking him to the infirmary.”

Changbin slid one arm under Yongbok’s back, the other under his knees, and lifted him carefully. Effortless. Frowning, he realized how light the body really was under his grip. His hand felt the sharpness of bone through the fabric of his shoulders. Way too light for a boy his age.

And then, there was something else.

Beneath his arm, where the muscles of the left leg should have given way, he felt an odd stiffness. No muscle, no warmth. Smooth, hard, unyielding.

For a moment he froze, realizing what he had just felt.
A prosthetic.

He shot a quick glance at Jeongin, but the younger boy was only staring at him with wide, panicked eyes. So Changbin said nothing. He gave no sign. He had no right to bring it up here, not in a hallway full of curious ears.

“Will that work?” Jeongin asked uncertainly, half-raising his arms as if unsure whether to help or not.

“Yes. Run ahead and open the doors for us.”

Jeongin nodded quickly and hurried off, holding every door wide while Changbin carried the limp weight securely in his arms. Yongbok’s head rested slack against his shoulder, his body rocking faintly with each step.

Chapter Text

“It is not our abilities that show what we truly are… it is our choices.” – Harry Potter (Albus Dumbledore)

Changbin PVO

The buzzing of the neon tube was the only thing filling the small room.
Changbin sat on the wobbly chair beside the narrow bed, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on the boy in front of him. The sharp smell of disinfectant hung heavily between them, coating his tongue like a film.

He hated it.
And yet, he stayed.
Keeping watch over a boy who had so suddenly stumbled into his life.

Yongbok lay motionless. His face was too pale, his lips pressed into a thin line.

Jeongin had left the room a few minutes ago, after the attending nurse had gently asked him to fetch something sugary. Changbin could imagine how grateful Innie was for this task – away from the silence, away from the oppressive sight that had made him pace the room like a bundle of nerves.

Now he had a task, and with it the feeling of contributing something productive to the situation.

The nurse’s words still echoed in Changbin’s head.

“Your friend is slightly dehydrated and has low blood sugar,” she had explained while routinely checking Yongbok’s pulse.

He hadn’t said anything, hadn’t corrected her.
Friends.
They weren’t that.
He had only just met him himself.

Yet despite that fact, Changbin felt that Yongbok already meant more to Jeongin. He had seen that sparkle in his dongsaeng’s eyes when he sat with Yongbok on the bench. That was enough for him to know that this boy would take on a special place in Innie’s life. Which meant that the word friend was close enough to describe their relationship for now.

A faint, strained exhale broke the silence.
Changbin straightened immediately. Yongbok’s eyelids twitched, then slowly opened.
Glassy.
Unclear.
His gaze blurred, as if struggling to piece the world back together.

Changbin wanted to say something, anything reassuring. But then he noticed Yongbok’s chest rising faster. Not much, but noticeably. As if it was following an invisible rhythm. His pupils darted restlessly around the room, from the white wall to the neon light, to the door, and back again.

His fingers clutched the blanket so tightly that his knuckles turned white. His breathing grew rapid, shallow.

Damn.

Changbin didn’t need a second glance.
This wasn’t just normal confusion after fainting. He recognized a looming panic attack when he saw one.

“Hey—”

Changbin leaned forward slightly, his voice deliberately kept deep and calm.

“It’s alright. You’re in the university infirmary.”

Yongbok’s eyelids fluttered, his pupils still darting around the room as if searching for an escape. His chest rose and fell faster, the tendons in his neck standing out as though he were fighting something invisible.

Changbin moved closer, placing a hand on his shoulder – not firmly, but like an anchor, a silent reminder that he was there.

“Breathe with me, okay? In…” He demonstratively drew air into his lungs, calm and steady. “…and out. Very slowly.”

For a moment, it seemed as if the words weren’t reaching him at all. But then those dark eyes fixed on Changbin, and hesitantly, Yongbok’s breathing began to follow. Uneven, halting, but he followed. Every breath felt like a small victory for Changbin. He kept his hand where it was until he felt the tension in the shoulders gradually loosen.

“See? You’re okay.” Changbin spoke softly, though he didn’t lose the alertness in his gaze. “No one’s going to hurt you here.”

Yongbok said nothing. Only the weak sound of his breathing, slowly evening out. But the trembling in his hands subsided—and that alone was enough for now.

Changbin leaned back slightly to give him some space.

But when Yongbok tried—struggling, with a slight twitch—to sit up, Changbin reacted instantly. His hand pressed back onto the boy’s shoulder, gentle yet firm enough to hold him down.

“Stay lying down. Just until Innie gets back, okay?”

For a brief moment, resistance flickered in Yongbok’s eyes, a silent refusal—but it crumbled just as quickly as it had come. He sank back into the pillows, eyes half-closed, his voice still gone. A faint, exhausted exhale slipped from him, almost like a sigh heavier than it should have been.

His eyelids fluttered again, as though he were fighting not to drift off. But then his gaze slowly wandered across the room, as if he needed to check whether his surroundings were truly as harmless as Changbin’s words promised.

“W… what happened?”

His voice was hoarse, broken, and deeper than Changbin had ever heard it. The sound sent an involuntary shiver through him, so unfitting for the pale, quiet figure before him.

“You collapsed in the hallway. Do you remember that?” Changbin asked calmly.

Yongbok’s head moved weakly—sluggish, a slow shake. His eyelids flickered as if still struggling to grasp reality. Changbin leaned back slightly, studying him more closely.

The sallow face, the pale lips, the dark shadows carved under his eyes, and in between it all, that strange emptiness that seemed more than physical.

It was as if he were looking at a boy carrying more fractures inside him than he ever wanted to show. And today, he had stumbled over one of those invisible edges. Changbin felt relieved that he had been there to catch him before he could fall through completely.

“How long?”

The question snapped Changbin out of his thoughts.

“About twenty minutes,” he answered curtly.

A small nod—so brief it was almost as if Yongbok wanted to bury the topic immediately. But Changbin kept his gaze on him. Not curious. Watchful. Something about this boy compelled him to look closer, even though it was obvious the other wanted to retreat.

The silence between them stretched, heavy and sticky, until the clicking of the door broke it.

“I got—”

Jeongin’s voice cut off abruptly when his eyes landed on Yongbok. His face instantly changed. It brightened, the tension in his shoulders easing noticeably.

“Hyung!” he called, much lighter now, relief filling his tone.

A small plastic bag dangled from his hand. He rushed forward, as if he couldn’t wait any longer.

“You’re awake again!”

Slowly, Yongbok turned his head toward Jeongin. He blinked, as though he needed a moment to place the younger boy properly.

“Was… just out for a bit,” he murmured, still scratchy, almost embarrassed.

“Just out?! Hyung, you collapsed! That was really…” Jeongin’s voice wavered, his gaze dropping as if that made the memory easier to endure. “…that was really scary.”

For the briefest moment, Yongbok’s expression twisted—regret, shame, all in one look far too open for someone who usually seemed so guarded.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, barely audible.

“Don’t apologize, Hyung.”

Jeongin set the bag down on the nightstand, his fingers fidgeting because he had no other way to get rid of his nerves.

“The nurse said you should have sugar and fluids. I didn’t know what you liked, so…” One by one, he pulled out a can of soda, a few small juice packs, and several bags of gummy bears, holding them up with a proud smile as if they were a carefully chosen gift. “…I just mixed a little bit of everything.”

Changbin couldn’t help but sigh quietly. Jeongin’s clumsy care was so typical that it still brought warmth into the small room, even now. He even found himself smiling faintly—and was glad that someone like his dongsaeng was here.

But when Jeongin began shoving the snacks almost haphazardly into Yongbok’s hands, Changbin immediately rose from his chair.

“Innie-ah. Let me help him sit up first, or else he’ll choke on us.”

His voice was calm but firm enough to make Jeongin stop instantly. Changbin carefully slid his hands under Yongbok’s arms, once again registering how thin his frame was, and slowly helped him into a sitting position. Jeongin assisted by tucking two pillows behind his back until he was halfway steady.

Yongbok murmured a hoarse “Thanks,” quiet, almost shy, as if he felt the need to apologize for needing help. Changbin waved it off without making a fuss.

“It’s fine.”

He took the soda from Jeongin. The aluminum cracked open with a soft hiss filling the room.

“Try it,” he said curtly. It wasn’t a command, but his tone left little room for argument.

Yongbok’s fingers curled around the can as if it were heavier than it was. For a moment, it looked like he wanted to set it back down. But under Jeongin’s watchful eyes, he finally raised it to his lips. He sipped carefully, barely more than a taste.

Almost instantly, a faint trace of color returned to his face. The rigid pallor faded—if only slightly.

Changbin leaned back, arms crossed, letting out a quiet breath. A small, almost imperceptible nod betrayed his relief.

Jeongin, on the other hand, immediately leaned closer, eyes wide and full of curiosity.

“See? Feels good, right?” His voice brimmed with quiet hope, almost as if his own well-being depended on the answer.

For a moment, Yongbok remained silent. Then he lifted his gaze, meeting Jeongin’s expectant eyes—and an honest, warm smile crept onto his face.

“Yeah… thank you. This is one of my favorites.”

Changbin leaned back in his chair again, crossing his arms once more, watching the scene with barely concealed amusement. Jeongin’s ears turned pink, and a proud sparkle lit up his eyes.

That’s so unlike Jeongin, Changbin thought to himself. Usually, a tiny bit of recognition isn’t enough to make him beam like he’s just won the world.

____

Felix POV (+ short Changbin POV)

Changbin and Jeongin spoke quietly with each other, their words drifting past Felix like distant murmurs while he sipped his drink. With every swallow, a hint of warmth returned to his cheeks. The pressure behind his temples eased, the dull ringing in his ears gradually faded. Bit by bit, the stubborn haze that had wrapped around him like a thick fog began to lift.

But as soon as his body started to return to working order, his mind began mercilessly churning. One single thought pushed its way forward. Clear, loud, and relentless.

He had been unconscious for twenty minutes. On top of that was the time he’d spent helping Jeongin, and then when Changbin had urged him to rest for a while.

A fleeting glance at the clock on the wall confirmed what he feared.

Seungmin was waiting.

Every passing second felt like another step toward failure. His stomach twisted painfully, each heartbeat deepening the gnawing pull inside him.

Images rose in his mind.
Seungmin, sitting at the table in the café, tapping his foot impatiently, the glass of water long empty, his patience at its end. Maybe he was already on the verge of leaving.

The thought tightened around Felix’s throat. The warmth that had just returned to his cheeks drained away again, as if ripped out of him.

I can’t stay here. Not when Seungmin is waiting for me. Not when I’m already letting him down before I even arrive.

Felix set the can down. The faint clink of aluminum in the room felt like a confession, far too loud.

He pushed the blanket aside and tried to swing his legs over the edge of the bed. They felt heavy, as if they didn’t belong to him, but he forced them to the floor. The urge to stand was stronger than the trembling that immediately sank into his knees.

“I have to go,” he muttered, barely louder than a breath, more to himself than to the others.

Changbin’s head snapped around. His gaze was sharp, his tone unyielding.
“You don’t have to do anything—except sit here and get some sugar into your system.”
No raised voice, but so much weight in his words that they couldn’t be ignored.

Felix’s fingers clawed into the blanket, his knuckles turning white.
“I have… an appointment. Someone’s waiting.”

“Someone can wait until you’re not about to collapse again,” Changbin replied, not moving from his place.

Guilt burned hotter than exhaustion. The infirmary suddenly felt too bright, too narrow. Every breath came as if forced through cotton.

I need to get out of here.

Felix shoved his legs over the bed’s edge, ignoring the pull in his muscles. The floor wavered, seemed to slip away from him, but he forced himself up.

He had an obligation, and he would meet it—at any cost.

“Yongbok.” This time Changbin’s voice was deeper, sharper, a clear warning.
“Sit back down.”

Felix acted as if he hadn’t heard. In his mind, the path was already drawn: open the door, down the hallway, out into the open, and straight to the café.

Seungmin’s waiting. I can’t let him down.

But just as he pushed himself up, his knees buckled. Jeongin was instantly at his side, his hand gripping Felix’s elbow, holding him as though even a gust of wind could knock him down. Which wasn’t far from the truth.

“Hyung, what are you doing?” Jeongin asked quietly, disbelief and barely hidden panic in his voice.

“I have to go…” Felix breathed, weaker than he intended. “My project partner’s waiting.”

“Your project partner can wait ten more minutes,” Changbin cut in, his tone sharp now. “I’m sure he doesn’t want you collapsing in the hallway again.”

The next moment, Changbin was beside him, a strong hand landing on his shoulder. Not painful—but a weight that allowed no argument.
“Sit down. This isn’t negotiable.”

A final flicker of resistance rose in Felix, that irrational urge to just run, to reach his goal faster sparking across his body like goosebumps. But Jeongin’s steady grip and Changbin’s unyielding hand blocked every escape route.

His body gave in first. He sank back onto the edge of the bed. His head followed more slowly, his gaze stubbornly fixed on the floor, as if he could find a hole in the gray linoleum to disappear into.

The guilt pounded in him like a second heartbeat. The anger at his own failure burned deep in his stomach.

It was only the buzzing of his phone in his pocket that made Felix flinch. He pulled it out in a rush, glanced at the display, and immediately his breathing quickened.

Seungmin.

“I have to take this,” he murmured, already half rising again.

Changbin exchanged a quick look with Jeongin.
“Stay seated, or—”

“I can’t stay here.” Felix’s voice was too fast, too sharp, almost defensive. But since neither Jeongin nor Changbin moved to let him leave, Felix was forced to take the call sitting on the bed.

Changbin couldn’t catch every word, only fragments like “…I’ll be right there” and “…I’m sorry.” But the tremor in Felix’s voice was unmistakable. When he tried once more to rise from the bed, Changbin’s patience snapped. In one smooth motion, he plucked the phone from Felix’s hand.

“You’re staying here. Period.”

“Give it back!” Felix’s voice cracked as he lurched forward, but Jeongin, with an apologetic glance, gently pressed him back into the pillows.

Changbin lifted the phone to his ear.
“Hello? This is—”

“Hyung?” The voice on the other end made him pause.

“…Seungmin-ah?”

A brief silence followed, broken only by the faint static of the line. Then Seungmin’s voice, surprised but tinged with that familiar blend of skepticism and mild annoyance that Changbin knew instantly.

“What are you doing with Yongbok’s phone?”

“Long story,” Changbin answered curtly. His gaze slid back to Felix, who sat hunched on the bed, hands clenched, forehead creased as though he couldn’t quite process what was happening.

Felix’s heart beat faster, unbidden. The conversation reached him only in fragments, yet every word tightened the knot in his chest. Guilt seeped under his skin like cold water—first into his fingertips, then spreading into his chest.

“He collapsed at the university,” Changbin explained evenly, but firmly. “Innie and I happened to be there and brought him to the infirmary.”

“No–”

Felix’s protest was barely more than a whisper. Quiet. Broken. Changbin gave him a quick glance, and his chest clenched involuntarily.

Felix lowered his gaze again to his hands resting in his lap. His fingers were slightly cramped.

He should’ve been more careful. Instead, here he was, being a burden.

Then Seungmin’s voice came through the phone—muffled, but clear enough.
“Well, it was bound to happen.”

The words hit Felix like a blow. Not loud, but they rang with sober certainty. Confirmation of what he already knew.

I’m a problem. For everyone.

The thought weighed his heart down even further.

Changbin spoke with Seungmin for a few more minutes, calm and matter-of-fact. Felix barely caught any of it. The droning in his ears blurred the words together. All he heard was Changbin promising to bring him to the café once he was better.

Better.
A word that felt farther away than anything else in this moment.

“All right, I’ll come up with something for Halmoni,” Felix heard Seungmin say on the other end.

Halmoni.

Just the thought of her face made him shrink inside. That searching, gentle yet unavoidable gleam in her eyes, as if she were silently whispering: Bok-ah, you have to take better care of yourself.

Changbin ended the call and placed the phone wordlessly on the nightstand. The gesture was calm, but to Felix, it felt like a verdict had been passed.

He tried to breathe deeper—quietly, as if he could trick himself into calming down. But the knot in his chest remained. He needed to stand up. To get back to the café. Back to Halmoni. Back to Seungmin. Back to his duties.

The thought of someone else speaking for him, of someone else explaining why he wasn’t there… it tightened his throat even more than the guilt already did.

But no matter how hard he tried to force his body to obey, the truth lay mercilessly in every muscle that still gave out, in every weight pressing him down.

He wasn’t ready.

And maybe that was the worst part of all.

Because until now, he’d always been able to rely on his body to endure whatever his mind commanded.

But now, it rebelled. And Felix could do nothing but yield helplessly to that betrayal.

_____

Jeongin POV

It took almost an hour—two more drinks and half a bag of gummy bears—before Changbin finally decided that Yongbok was stable enough to make the trip back.

The walk to the café passed in silence, except for the muffled sound of their shoes on the asphalt.

Jeongin kept slightly behind Yongbok, his eyes fixed attentively on him. Every movement, every breath, every small stumble—he noticed them all.

Yongbok’s steps were slow. Not out of choice, but necessity. He seemed to be rationing his strength carefully, just enough to last until they reached their destination. Step by step, as though he couldn’t afford a single wasted one. His shoulders slumped slightly forward, his gaze fixed on the ground as if that were the only thing he could concentrate on.

Beside him walked Changbin. Arms loosely crossed, gaze seemingly forward, but Jeongin knew he was registering every shift, every sign. He was ready to intervene at any second. And Jeongin caught himself moving too whenever Yongbok faltered, as though he, too, wanted to catch him.

In Yongbok’s hand still dangled a half-empty juice box. Every now and then, he lifted it for a small sip. Not like he was thirsty—more like he knew he had to. Mechanical. Dutiful.

The silence between them felt heavy. Not exactly uncomfortable, but dense. Like a space filled with unspoken thoughts that no one dared voice, afraid it would weigh him down even more.

Jeongin lifted his head as they turned a corner, and suddenly Yongbok’s pace picked up just a little. A faint trace of energy seemed to return to him.

Jeongin followed his gaze—and there it was. The café.

Framed between two buildings, its windows glowing in the golden light of the setting sun.

A flicker crossed Yongbok’s features. Not joy, not relief—but something Jeongin couldn’t quite name. Yet it made him feel just how much this place meant to him.

As they pushed open the café door, they were immediately embraced by the warm scent of fresh pastry and strong coffee. The bright chime of the little bell announced their arrival. No sooner had they crossed the threshold than an older lady emerged from behind the counter.

Her eyes didn’t go first to Jeongin or Changbin as new customers.

No—they landed instantly on Yongbok. In them lay a mix of obvious relief and quiet worry, an expression that left no doubt she had been waiting for him.

“Bok-ah.” Her voice was quiet but carried weight. With quick yet controlled steps, she approached. “Where have you been? I was already worried. Seungmin-ah said something had come up for you at the university.”

Jeongin sensed Yongbok tense slightly beside him. His reply came quickly, smoothly, almost too casually, as if he had prepared the excuse beforehand. And Jeongin was certain he had.

“I’m sorry, Halmoni. I stayed longer at the library and lost track of time.”

For just a heartbeat, Yongbok’s grandmother paused, as if to test whether she could believe his words. Jeongin noticed right away—she didn’t fully. He saw it in the faint furrow of her brow. But instead of pressing him, she gently reached for his arm and drew him into a brief embrace.

When she pulled back to arm’s length, her eyes searched his face. Careful, examining, with a kind of motherly sternness—and yet full of warmth.

“It’s all right.”

Then her gaze fell to the small injury on Yongbok’s lip.

“And that? What happened to your lip?”

Yongbok’s hand moved automatically to the spot, as though he’d forgotten about it.
“Oh… I tripped at the university. Nothing serious.” He gave her a soft, polite smile—more a gesture to reassure her than a reflection of real calm.

She looked worried but finally nodded and let go of his arm. Still, Jeongin could swear her watchful gaze had imprinted itself deep into Yongbok.

No sooner had the touch broken than she turned to the other two. Only now did she seem to fully notice Jeongin and Changbin. Her face brightened, her eyes sparkled kindly.

“Ah, and who are your companions?” she asked, tilting her head slightly.

Before either Jeongin or Changbin could answer, Yongbok cut in. His voice sounded calm, maybe even a little too casual—almost as if he were deliberately steering the conversation.

“University acquaintances. And friends of Seungmin.”

She gave Jeongin and Changbin a warm, genuine smile.
“Friends of Minnie-ah, then.”

Changbin’s gaze flicked to Jeongin, full of disbelief and unspoken protest. His eyes practically screamed:
She’s allowed to call him Minnie?!

Even Jeongin was taken aback. They themselves had to earn that nickname over years—and only after two years of living together had their hyung finally allowed it.

“Yes, that’s right. We’re friends of Minnie-ah. My name is Seo Changbin.” He bowed politely, and Jeongin immediately followed his lead.
“Yang Jeongin, ma’am.”

The elderly lady stepped closer, now studying them up close. Her gaze was kind, but also watchful—like someone who instantly knows whether she’s dealing with honest hearts.

They seemed to pass her silent test.

“Changbin-ah and Jeongin-ah, then.”

She nodded, satisfied, as though she had solved a riddle meaningful only to her. “Please, just call me Halmoni.”

Changbin gave a short but respectful nod, while Jeongin thanked her shyly. Yongbok stayed quiet, watching the scene.

“Good.” Halmoni clapped her hands lightly, a small gesture that felt like drawing a line under the matter, before motioning invitingly. “Now that we’ve cleared that up, come—I’ll show you where Minnie-ah is sitting. Bok-ah, wait for me at the counter for a moment, please.”

Yongbok gave a brief nod and made his way over.

Halmoni led the two of them through the small but cozy interior.
The scent of coffee, mingled with a faint trace of vanilla, hung warmly in the air. The tables were simple yet well cared for, each adorned with a small vase. Jeongin liked it instantly.

By the window sat Seungmin. On the table lay two coffee cups—one empty, the other still half full—as well as an open notebook. With hunched shoulders, he studied a worksheet, his brow slightly furrowed.

As they drew closer, he slowly lifted his head. For a brief moment, he seemed confused that they had come without Yongbok, but when his eyes flicked toward the counter, his expression cleared.

“There you are,” he said in his usual monotone.

Halmoni left them almost immediately, heading back toward Yongbok. They watched her exchange a few words with him before he disappeared into a room behind the counter. Changbin stiffened unconsciously, as if his body hadn’t quite decided whether to follow him.

“Don’t worry.” Seungmin’s voice cut through the silence at the table. He had tracked their glances, the small twitches in their expressions. “If he stays in the back too long, Halmoni will follow. She keeps an eye on him.”

Then he gestured curtly to the chairs. “Sit.”

Jeongin slid into the seat across from Seungmin, while Changbin sat down beside him. The hum of casual conversation in the background stood in sharp contrast to the tension lingering at their table. It was almost tangible.

“So?” His voice was calm. Too calm. “Is someone going to explain what happened?”

Seungmin folded his arms across his chest. His gaze was steady, demanding, as if he could pull the answers out of them even before they spoke.

Jeongin cleared his throat, searching for the right words. “We met Yongbok-hyung earlier on campus.” Hesitant. As if he were giving away something that wasn’t his secret to tell. His fingers drummed nervously against the table, trying to draw courage from the rhythm.

Then he described what had happened in the hallway.

The two older students, their loud voices, the shove, the burn in his back when he was slammed against the lockers. He spoke quietly, almost as if every word risked making the memory too real again.

As Jeongin spoke, Changbin simmered with anger in his seat. Jeongin knew that if he ever found out who those students were, they would meet a side of his hyung they’d regret.

And then he told him about Yongbok.

How he had stepped in without hesitation, without asking questions. As though it were the most natural thing in the world to put himself in front of someone he barely knew. As if it were only right to draw the anger of two strangers onto himself just to protect Jeongin.

Jeongin’s voice lowered, grew almost fragile as he reached those last words. His gaze dropped to the table, hands clenched tightly together, as though he feared they might see his uncertainty otherwise.

For a moment, silence fell. Only the muted sounds of the café filled the air.

Changbin’s eyes flickered dangerously, tension tightening his jaw. Seungmin, however, remained still—only his sharp gaze stayed locked on Jeongin, as though weighing every detail.

“And then…” Jeongin’s voice faltered. His gaze sank lower, as if he had to drag the words out of a corner he’d rather leave untouched. “He… was hit by one of the older students.”

The chair beside him creaked with sudden tension. Changbin had straightened, his eyes hard.
“Excuse me?” His voice was deep, cutting. “You’re telling me this now?!”

Jeongin avoided his eyes, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “I thought… he was still standing afterwards. I didn’t want to make unnecessary fuss—”

“Unnecessary fuss?” Changbin stared at him in disbelief. “He nearly collapsed in front of you, Yang Jeongin! And you omit the fact that he’d been struck beforehand?” His voice carried more than anger. It was worry, thinly veiled in fury because it was too large to show any other way.

The worst part for Jeongin was the disappointment swimming in his hyung’s eyes.

He opened his mouth, wanting to reply—but before he could say a word, a gentle shadow fell across the table.

Halmoni stood beside them, a small tray in her hands. The scent of freshly brewed coffee and something sweet drifted toward them. Without a word, she placed a large cup of coffee in front of Changbin and a steaming mug of hot chocolate in front of Jeongin.

Exactly what he needed most. The feeling of comfort.

“Here you go, children.” Her voice was warm, almost soothing, as if she knew the tension that hung over the table.
“So you’re not just sitting here arguing.”

Jeongin and Changbin blinked up at her in surprise. Only Seungmin looked unimpressed, as though he had seen this before.

Jeongin glanced at the cocoa in front of him, startled. “But… we didn’t order anything.”

Halmoni exhaled in quiet amusement.

“I know.” She smiled, a soft, knowing smile. “Sometimes you can simply see what someone needs.”

For a moment, silence lingered again—this time lighter, almost relieving. Changbin took the cup in his hands. “Thank you… Halmoni.” The word rolled off his tongue more easily than he’d expected, as though it already felt natural.

Halmoni stayed by the table, her gaze warm, while Jeongin hesitantly sipped his cocoa. His eyes lit up almost instantly.
“This is delicious!” he exclaimed, voice full of awe and childlike joy.

Halmoni laughed softly, that gentle, motherly laugh that seemed to loosen the tension around them. “I’m glad, my boy.”

“This café is really beautiful,” Jeongin blurted out, almost too quickly, as if he couldn’t keep the warmth he felt to himself. “So cozy… it feels familiar right away. So different from those cold, modern cafés.”

Halmoni’s smile softened, the lines around her eyes deepening with warmth. “I’ve had this place for so long. It’s my heart.” Her gaze drifted for a moment, as though she could see back through the years—to the days she had built the café, brick by brick, with nothing but love and perseverance. “I love my work here… the people who come by, the conversations, the smell of coffee that’s long seeped into the walls.”

Her voice trembled slightly, and a faint shadow crossed her expression. “But—” She paused, breathing deeply, as though the admission cost her strength. The dreamy look gave way to something heavier. “As much as I love this work… I am an old woman. I can’t run my café the way I did years ago.”

Her smile weakened, almost weighed down, as she looked toward the counter. “Without my Yongbok, I would have had to close this place long ago.”

Her hand brushed along the edge of the table, as if needing something to hold on to. “He takes on so much. He thinks of things before I do. He makes sure I don’t overwork myself. And he never complains.” The warmth in her eyes trembled with worry. “But I can see how hard he works. Not only here, but for the university as well. He always pushes himself past his limits. And when I confront him about it, he just…” She sighed softly. “…he just smiles my worries away. As if they’re nothing.” Her voice grew quieter, almost breaking. “Sometimes that scares me more than anything else.”

The words hung in the air, heavy. Oppressive. For a moment, silence fell over the table.

Changbin and Jeongin exchanged a look. Brief, but full of unspoken memory. Of the infirmary. Of the pallor in Yongbok’s face. Of the trembling that wouldn’t stop.

Seungmin had barely moved, but even Jeongin noticed how he paused. His finger, which had been tapping against the rim of his cup, now lay still. His expression hadn’t changed—but that small hesitation spoke louder than any word.

It was clear to all of them: Halmoni’s worry was not unfounded.

And then, as if she sensed the weight pressing down on them, Halmoni laughed softly, lifting her hands in a gentle wave. “Ah… don’t mind me. An old woman and her worries.”

For a brief moment, the silence at the table lingered—heavy, filled with thoughts no one dared to speak aloud. Finally, it was Seungmin who broke it. His voice was calm, almost casual, yet there was something deliberate in his tone, like someone who had already reached a conclusion.

“Maybe you should hire someone. An assistant, for example.”

Halmoni blinked, clearly surprised—as though she hadn’t expected anyone to take her worries seriously. “That’s easier said than done, my boy. It’s hard to find someone reliable. And truthfully…” She lowered her voice slightly. “…Bok-ah doesn’t like relying on strangers.”

Seungmin didn’t look up from his cup. His finger traced slow, absentminded circles along the rim, but his words came clear and without hesitation. “You know… Jeongin is currently looking for a job.”

Jeongin’s head whipped around, his eyes going wide in shock. “Minnie-hyung!” His voice was half-indignant, half-embarrassed. His shoulders curled inward instinctively as Halmoni’s curious gaze turned toward him.

“Oh?” Her eyes were examining, yet kind. “Are you really looking for work, child?”

For a moment, Jeongin seemed frozen. His gaze dropped, landing on the surface of his cocoa where small spirals swirled from his nervous grip on the cup.
“Yes… but I haven’t had any luck so far.” His voice was soft, almost shy. There was a faint trace of resignation in it, like someone who had nearly given up hope.

“And have you ever worked in a café before?” Halmoni asked, her hands loosely folded in front of her.

“No.” The word came out too quickly, too thoughtless. Immediately, Jeongin flinched slightly, as though realizing he’d given the wrong answer. Uncertainty flickered across his features as his fingers tightened around the mug.

Before the silence could thicken, Seungmin finally lifted his gaze. “You know, Halmoni, Jeongin learns very quickly. He puts effort into everything, he’s reliable and responsible.” A faint softness crept into his words, barely noticeable—but it carried clear affection for his dongsaeng, something he rarely showed so openly.

A small shimmer passed through Halmoni’s eyes, warm and approving. She stayed quiet for a moment, weighing his words, then slowly nodded.
“Mm… diligence and heart are worth more than experience.”

Her voice softened as she turned back to Jeongin. “Can you imagine working here? It’s not always easy. But it’s honest work, and you learn a lot for life.”

Jeongin lifted his head cautiously. Surprise flashed in his wide eyes, so genuine it was almost audible in the silence—as though the air had been knocked out of him. “I… yes. I mean… yes, I could really imagine that.” His cheeks flushed pink immediately, his answer stumbling out awkwardly, nearly choking on his excitement.

Halmoni smiled quietly and nodded, as though her decision was already made. “Good. Then let’s do it that way. Welcome to our little family, Jeongin-ah.”

For a moment, he just stared at her, as if he couldn’t believe the words were truly meant for him. Then an unsure but radiant smile broke over his face. “T-thank you!”

“Tomorrow is Saturday,” Halmoni continued, her warm voice now carrying a tone of practical clarity. “That’s always especially busy. But it would be a good opportunity to join Bok-ah for your first shift. That way you’ll see right away if you like it. And if you do, you’ll get your contract.”

Jeongin nodded so enthusiastically that Changbin almost reached out in concern, worried he might give himself whiplash. “Yes, absolutely, Halmoni!”

She patted his arm gently before turning back toward the counter—though not without gifting the table one last satisfied smile.

When she was gone, Jeongin sat frozen, his eyes wide.
“What… what just happened?” His voice was barely a whisper, his expression caught between disbelief and pure joy.

Changbin leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, and gave Jeongin a look that was somewhere between disbelief and amusement. “You just got yourself a job without even asking for one.”

Jeongin blinked at him, still looking dazed. “I… I don’t even know how… Seungmin-hyung just—” He turned sharply toward Seungmin, his expression caught between flustered gratitude and accusation. “Why would you say that without asking me first?!”

Seungmin, however, didn’t even flinch. He calmly lifted his cup, took a slow sip, and set it back down before answering in his usual even tone. “Because it’s good for you.”

Jeongin opened his mouth to protest but found no words. Instead, he slumped back in his chair, mumbling something incoherent under his breath that only made Changbin chuckle quietly.

Still, behind the confusion and embarrassment, a spark of excitement glimmered in Jeongin’s eyes—small but undeniable.

Seungmin noticed it, of course. He always did. He didn’t comment on it, but there was the faintest curve at the corner of his lips, so subtle it might have been imagined.

Chapter Text

“He who has a why to live can bear almost any how.” – Friedrich Nietzsche

A fine mist lay over Seoul like a veil, so dense that the streets disappeared beneath it. The night still clung to the edges of the sky, the morning only a faint hint, a narrow slit between darkness and light in which everything seemed to stand still.

The window stood wide open. The air crept in like something alive, seeking out every crack, every corner of the small room. Cold, sharp, merciless. Autumn had stretched out its fingers and brought with it the first bony messengers of winter. They slid over Felix’s bare arms and legs, brushed his neck, wrapped around his ribs as if they wanted to press deep into him.

Felix stood barefoot on the wooden floor in front of the window, dressed only in a thin sleep shirt and boxers. Far too little for the cold that tugged at him relentlessly.

The cold seeped through his skin, sinking deeper until it burned into his bones. Goosebumps prickled across his body, yet he felt them only half. His mind still hung between worlds, numbed by a sleep that had not really been sleep at all. Too short, too loud, too real.

Felix stood motionless at the window, only a shadow against the milky light of the streetlamp. Outside, the orange glow of the lamps dissolved into soft circles that vanished into the fog. The city looked as though someone had draped a shroud over it. Muted. Unreal. As if everything had been wrapped in cotton. Only inside him, nothing was soft. Inside him was weight. Edges. Fractures.

His body remained still; his head did not. He was still half in the dream—half there, where the voices lived he was no longer allowed to hear. The images clung stubbornly to him, bright and cruel. The bright laughter he knew so well, echoing even through the cold.

“Felix, pleeeease~ play with us.”

His little sister. The memory was so vivid that he could almost feel the warm tug at his sleeve. He gripped the window frame tighter, fingers clawing into the cold wood as though it could anchor him in the present, here and now. Yet even now, with the wind brushing his face, burning his eyes, her voice still lingered. An echo he could not shake.

His breath hung white in the air, dissolved, and reformed. He counted it. In… out… Just like yesterday, on the bench, when Changbin had kept his voice deep and steady, reminding him how to breathe. Here, there was no one to remind him. Here there was only the hum of the city slowly waking, and the rush in his head. Breathing was harder when no one counted with him.

He felt empty, yet too full. Drained in a way that had nothing to do with lack of sleep. Tired in places no rest could reach. It was the kind of exhaustion that settled in and grew, eating from the inside until even breathing sounded like work.

Outside, the world went on. Indifferent. Quiet. Inside him, everything had stopped. A part of him longed simply to drift along—to be quiet, unnoticeable, invisible enough that no one would wonder if he was still there at all. Another part reminded him of lists and times, of obligations, of things he must never drop. Reasons why he was still standing here.

He exhaled audibly, and suddenly yesterday’s images were there again. They pushed themselves between him and the fog, tearing open everything he had clumsily tied together overnight.

Yesterday, at the university.
The hallway. The faces.
And he, falling. Not quietly. Not hidden. Not somewhere where only tiles and silence would notice. No… right among them. Under eyes that hit him like spotlights. Under voices that merged into a dull roar. Under hands that held him because he no longer could.

Felix’s hands shot into his hair, gripping tight until his knuckles turned white. He searched for the concrete memory, the before and after, but the reel cut off right at the moment he needed it most. He knew he had fallen. That voices had been there. That Changbin’s hand had rested on his shoulder. That Jeongin’s gaze had nearly suffocated him, so much panic in those wide eyes.

And then: black. A hole. The worst part was not the emptiness. It was the certainty that others had filled that emptiness—with images they would never forget. With the version of himself he despised most.

His breath came in shallow bursts, a quiet, uneven pant that instantly turned to mist in the cold. He pressed his forehead into his palms, as though he could vanish there, where it was dark, small, and still. A rough sound tore from his throat, somewhere between a laugh and a choke.

Pathetic.

Weak.

Pitiful.

The words burned on his tongue, bitter like old metal. “Ridiculous,” he muttered tonelessly. “I can’t even last a day without—” The words cut off, but in his head they were complete. Without falling. Without failing.

“That was bound to happen.”

Seungmin’s sober voice was back. No accusation, just that cool observation. And that cut deeper than anything else. Because it sounded true. Because it struck the truth he so desperately tried to hide.

I am the problem.

I only cause problems.

I take up space. Air. Time. Love that should have belonged to others.

He pressed his palms harder against his face, as though he could crush the thoughts with force. But they only burrowed deeper, finding new paths. And behind all of it, something else glowed faintly. A small, defiant spark.

What had happened yesterday could not be undone. But he could decide what story he gave them from today onward. He just had to convince them. That it had only been a slip. That he was fine. That no one needed to stop anything for him. That they could let go without guilt. That he could handle it. That he could handle it alone. Like always.

He straightened slightly, the window rattling in the draft. His shoulders felt heavy, as if someone had placed stones in the joints, but he forced them back.

I was just overtired. Nothing more. A stupid accident. The kind that could happen to anyone. Nothing worth worrying about, because it won’t happen again. An explanation so simple it could be accepted.

Because if he stayed silent, if he hid, they would start reading between the lines. And if they asked questions, then things might come to light that did not belong there. Not in their lives. He barely knew them, and yet this dorm had already seen more of him than he usually allowed.

He simply had to create distance again. They barely knew each other anyway; it should not be difficult. And Seungmin… their collaboration would end in the near future. Then he could disappear again. Into the shadows that had always protected him. From eyes. From questions. From knowing gazes.

And until then, he only had to show them that he was functioning.

Show them stability.

Show them capability.

Show them you can do it.

Show them what they want to see.

Even if his body had decided yesterday—without his consent—to give up, today he would walk. Today he would function. He had to. Not because it was heroic. But because there was no other way he could live with.

He leaned his forehead against the ice-cold frame. The wood was damp from the fog, the chill burning briefly against his skin. His fingers trembled; he clenched them into fists until the pain calmed them.

Yesterday had been a mishap, a stupid mistake. Mistakes could be ironed out. If he smiled. If he acted relaxed. If he was quiet, punctual, polite. If he said the right things and lowered his gaze, just long enough for the people around him to believe everything was fine.

Maybe, just maybe, then he might believe it himself. For a while.

“No one needs to know how weak I really am,” Felix whispered into the cold. The words evaporated, but the judgment remained. He inhaled deeply, and somewhere beneath all the noise, beneath guilt and duty and shame, something else vibrated—thin as a thread, but there: the wish to be seen. To belong somewhere without being a burden. Without being the boy who had lost his family. Without the guilt that pressed him down daily. He wished for hands that would lift that guilt from him. A place at the table. A laugh that didn’t make him flinch. A stay—not as an obligation, but as an honest plea.

He didn’t dare reach for it. He didn’t even know if he was allowed to anymore. But the longing was there, narrow and shy, like a strip of light beneath a door.

Outside, the mist remained. Inside, the edges. He lifted his head, blinked the moisture from his eyes. He only needed his routine, which was like a railing he could hold onto.

Keep going. Function.
Until no one asked anymore. Until the trembling in his hands subsided. Until the voices grew quieter again.

He deserved nothing else—of that he was convinced. And yet, as he cast one last glance into the milky gray, the question flickered, the one he didn’t want to ask: And what if you’re wrong?

It burned out before it could take form.

Felix stepped back from the window. The cold clung to his skin. He let it. It kept him awake. It held him together. And somewhere inside him, buried deep beneath all the noise, he held onto one narrow, stubbornly childlike piece of hope: that someday, someone would look at him and reach out their hand. Despite the cold and the sharp edges in his heart. Despite the silence that was sometimes louder than any scream.

____

When Felix stepped out of the steaming bathroom a few hours later, the scent of soap and hot water still clung to his skin like a thin veil. As he walked toward the kitchen, he was met by the sight of the already set breakfast table. A strong, spicy, warm aroma hung in the air. Broth, ginger, roasted sesame. Something that reminded him of home and of conversations that could not be avoided.

His grandmother moved swiftly, with practiced motions, through the narrow room. Her wrinkled hands set down the last small bowls on the table. Rice, kimchi, pickled radish; in the center simmered a pot of broth where tofu cubes rose and sank lazily. The dull light of the bulb reflected off its surface. It looked like a small feast. Such a breakfast she made rarely, and never without reason. It was a quiet signal that Halmoni had something on her mind. Something that could not be brushed aside quickly, but had to be discussed.

Felix immediately felt unease spreading inside him.

Does she know?

The thought cut sharply through his head. Had Jeongin said something? Or Changbin? Seungmin? He had not asked them to stay silent. Stupidly, he had just hoped it would simply… fade. Disappear into the noise of everyday life.

But now, here was this breakfast, and the heaviness in his stomach told him he was in trouble.

Felix bit nervously at the inside of his cheek as his grandmother set a steaming cup of coffee on the table and then turned to him.

“Bok-ah.” Her smile was gentle, unshakable, just as always when she wanted to persuade him into something. She gestured toward the table. “I made us breakfast. Sit down.”

Hesitant, like someone walking on thin ice, he obeyed her request, stepped closer, and sank into his usual seat. The chair squeaked softly, the wood felt harder than usual, only amplifying his discomfort.

He tried to push aside the nervous flutter in his chest and forced his lips into a smile that felt foreign immediately, like an ill-fitting mask. Halmoni sat across from him, chopsticks in hand, flipping through the newspaper at the same time. No probing glances. No questions. Only the soft rustling of pages and her quiet humming as she read.

For a fleeting second, he thought maybe… maybe it was about something else.

Felix reached for his chopsticks too. He was still wary, but he didn’t want to draw suspicion if by chance it really was just an ordinary breakfast.

He ate slowly. A bite of rice. A piece of radish. A sip of broth. The warmth briefly reached his fingertips as he held the bowl, but in his throat everything stuck. Every bite felt like he had to force it down so it wouldn’t rise again, along with everything he kept locked away from his grandmother. All his secrets and lies that weighed so heavily on him.

When the newspaper finally closed softly and Halmoni carefully set her chopsticks beside her bowl, Felix knew his gut hadn’t betrayed him. There was something to be said. Something big, judging by the effort of the breakfast.

Her quiet clearing of her throat was like a tremor, just before something was set into motion that could not be undone.

“Bok-ah,” she began. Even in her tone lay that small weight that allowed no no. “I’ve been thinking.”

His hands froze, chopsticks clinking against the rice bowl, the bright sound cutting through the room too loudly.

“About what?” His voice sounded cautious, though his heart pounded so loudly he thought she must hear it.

“I see every day how hard you work,” she began.

His heart skipped.

So they told her after all.

He wanted to protest, to throw out the reflexive I’m fine, but her voice continued steadily.

“Not only in the café. Also at the university, with Seungmin-ah. And…” Her eyes flicked briefly to his dark circles, which he tried every morning to conceal along with his freckles, but had apparently failed to hide today. “I think you even study at night. You always look so tired in the mornings, my boy.”

Guilt burned hot in his chest. If only she knew where his tiredness really came from. How often he had forced himself upright at the 7-Eleven counter because the neon lights refused to let him sleep. If she knew how he secretly slipped the money he earned there into the café’s register so she could pay all the bills at the end of the month. If she knew how little was left when he didn’t work those nights. She would never sleep again. Out of worry for the shop. Out of worry for him. She would forbid the night shifts. And then… then there truly wouldn’t be enough. A cycle he refused to drag her into.

“That’s why I’ve decided to hire some help.”

Felix’s heart clenched painfully. What…? For a second, his mind didn’t understand the words, though he’d heard them clearly. Then they assembled themselves. Glared brightly before his eyes.

“A… helper?” He heard himself speak, far too distant. Rough, broken, full of disbelief. It was as though his grandmother had read his thoughts and now mocked him with this idea.

“Yes.” Halmoni nodded as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “You help me so much, Bok-ah. But you carry too much responsibility, and it cannot go on like this. I don’t want you overworking yourself.”

Overworking. The word dripped with irony, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. He opened his mouth. Wanted to say something, but no words came. His lips twisted slightly as he forced his tongue into obedience. “Halmoni, that’s not necessary. I can handle it.” The sentence that always came. The sentence he held up like a shield to cover the cracks in his wall.

“You always say that.” Her eyes softened. Yet they also sharpened, gazing at him with that piercing clarity only someone who had raised you could manage. “I see what it costs you. You don’t have to carry all of it alone. And you don’t have to hide it from me either.”

His throat tightened. Words clogged inside.

Stop… stop her, stop her now!

But his mouth stayed shut. He couldn’t force a single word past his lips. He could only hear his own breathing, the dull thud of his heart, and the sluggish bubbling of the broth on the table.

Halmoni folded her hands in her lap, her gaze never leaving Felix. “That’s why I asked Jeongin-ah yesterday.” Her voice remained soft but firm at its core. “He will help at the café.”

The words hit like a blow. He blinked, the bowl trembling slightly in his hands. “Jeongin?” His voice sounded harsher than intended.

She smiled gently. “Seungmin-ah said he’s looking for work. He is polite and he has heart, Bok-ah. I sensed it immediately. He will help you and take some of the weight off.”

Felix’s thoughts raced in two directions at once. One part nodded desperately—Yes. Yes, it would be easier. You need help. She was right. He was overloaded, his body had proven that painfully yesterday. Yet the other part screamed louder—How? With what? Every additional wage was money they didn’t have. Everything was already tight. Every extra wage meant less security, more pressure.

And to make up the missing money, he would have to earn more, which inevitably meant taking more hours at 7-Eleven. Or finding another side job. It would not be relief.

Felix suppressed with all his strength the urge to bury his hands deep in his hair and pull until it hurt. It was my fault… he thought desperately. I brought them into the café. First Seungmin, then Jeongin. I brought them here and ruined everything. Damn… Felix felt the urge to cry or scream, he wasn’t sure which. Maybe both at once.

But outwardly he looked perfectly calm, only his fingers clawing at the bowl so tightly it almost slipped from his hands. In his head the spiral had already begun: When could I take extra shifts? Mornings? Before class? That was barely possible.

There was only one option left: convince Halmoni that they didn’t need Jeongin.

“Halmoni… really, it’s not necessary. I can manage.”

“Bok-ah.” Beneath the gentleness lay that quiet, unshakable determination he had known his entire life and never broken. “My decision is made. Jeongin is coming this afternoon for a trial. After that, he will help us.” She smiled—warm, confident, like laying a blanket over his shoulders. “Believe me. It will do you good.”

The smile made something shift inside him. Something that had already been teetering on the edge. Do me good? The word echoed in his head and became a weight. But he had messed it up by letting them into his life, by revealing a weak moment of himself. No matter how much the fear of the additional burden tightened his throat. He had to make it workable, somehow.

That was your price for surviving…

And he would endure it. In his head, the calculations began, cold and mechanical: If he went tonight, tomorrow morning double… swap quarter shifts… maybe Sundays… Everything went in circles and landed at the same point: You’ll carry it somehow.

He knew he had been silent for too long when something in his grandmother’s face changed. “That’s good news, isn’t it?” she finally asked, a little unsure.

He forced his face into an expression that vaguely resembled agreement. It felt tight. “Yes, Halmoni. It is… good news.” His voice carried the words. It sounded mechanical, surreal. Detached from his body.

His stomach rebelled. The stew in front of him suddenly smelled too strong. Everything was too close. Too much.

Halmoni nodded, satisfied. “I’m relieved you see it that way too,” she smiled, lifting her chopsticks. “Bok-ah, eat a little more,” she said gently—casually, like something routine. And yet he felt her gaze linger on him for a moment, appraising, loving, suspicious.

He barely shook his head, placed his hands in his lap so no one would see them tremble. “I… have to go. I’m meeting Seungmin at the university this morning.” The words were even, controlled. Under the table, his fingers clenched together until the pressure forced them to be still.

Halmoni hesitated, looked at him quietly. Then she nodded. “Good. But promise me you’ll eat something later.”

“Yes.” The yes was hollow, a shell too light to hold meaning.

The chair scraped across the floor; a thin, shrill sound that split the quiet kitchen. Felix stood up, and everything felt as though he had to move through viscous air.

“Put something warm on. It’s very chilly this morning,” his grandmother called after him as he stepped into the hallway.

“Yes, Halmoni.”

The hallway smelled of detergent and cold dust. He grabbed his bag, pulled on his sweatshirt jacket, tugged the sleeves over his wrists. The closer he came to the door, the heavier his legs grew. The air grew thicker, with guilt and despair. With the lie he had just repeated: Good news.

For her, maybe.
For him, it was another weight pressing down on his shoulders.

Pull yourself together, he snapped at himself. Halmoni has carried you since the accident. Had to endure you every day. Now it’s time for you to take responsibility, he scolded himself inwardly. He could do it. He just had to stop whining and accept his fate.

He took a deep breath and stepped out. The cold in the stairwell corridor was clearer than the air in the room. Outside, between fog and gray morning, it felt for a brief breath as if the sharpness could cut away the tightness in his chest. It didn’t. But it made him more awake. And awake meant he could work on his problem with a clear mind.

He pulled the jacket tighter around himself and began descending the steps. Each step quiet. Each step a promise that only he could hear: You can do this. Whatever it takes.

Chapter Text

“You can never really run away. Because no matter where you go, you take yourself with you.”
– Scrubs

Chan PVO

The afternoon sun hung gently over the city, gilding the cobblestones and making the shop windows shimmer like little mirrors. The rain had finally loosened its gray, cold grip and spread a late-summer sheen over Seoul, as if the city wanted to forget for a few hours that autumn had long since moved in.

Chan and Jeongin walked side by side along the sidewalk, both wrapped in light sweaters, hands deep in their pockets and shoulders pulled up slightly against the fresh air. The sun broke through the trees, laying golden stripes across their faces, and for a faint moment Chan allowed himself to close his eyes. The warmth dancing across his skin reminded him of Sydney. Of the warmth that never quite disappeared, even on winter days. A tug went through his chest. He missed his home.

And yet, even if he missed it, he had long since found a new one. With people he wouldn’t trade for anything in the world. Among these six boys, this chaos he often organized more like a father than an older brother. A shared apartment that sometimes felt like a storm, but it was his storm.

For now, the two of them walked side by side in comfortable sweaters; even though the golden rays of autumn showed themselves, the temperatures were anything but warm.

Out of the corner of his eye, Chan saw Jeongin nervously tugging at his sleeve. Over and over, unconsciously, like an old habit he couldn’t shake. His steps were smaller than usual, almost cautious. His shoulders were drawn slightly forward, his gaze fixed on the ground.

Chan didn’t need to look to feel the tension. He knew Jeongin too well.

Still the same little Innie, he thought with a soft smile. Far too nervous, even though he doesn’t need to be. He hasn’t changed.

The memory flickered up: the first time he’d met Jeongin. A far too shy student with eyes too big and a voice that didn’t yet know whether it wanted to sound deep or high. Jeongin had wanted to move to the big city back then, away from parents who were pushing him in a direction the younger one didn’t want to fulfill.

Chan had felt responsible for Jeongin immediately. Not because it was expected of him. But because Jeongin had looked at him like a little brother. And because Chan saw him that way.

Because that’s what he was to him. A little brother he kept a watchful eye on. But that didn’t only apply to Jeongin—over the years, everyone in the dorm had become his brother. Each with their edges and corners, with chaos and warmth. A family he would never trade.

He could still see the day Jeongin moved into the apartment. With his small suitcase and a far too uncertain smile. He remembered how Jeongin had stood quietly in the corner, the weight of expectations on his shoulders, and still gave everything just to belong. How he himself had worried that the younger one might drown in their chaos of voices and different personalities. But Jeongin had managed to wrap everyone around his little finger in no time.

And now… Chan looked at him—Jeongin, who had grown. Shoulders that had broadened, a face that had taken on sharper lines. But there was still something of the old Innie in his gaze. The same boy, just a bit older. No longer lost, but still so easily hurt.

“You know you didn’t have to come with me.”

Chan hummed. It was so typical of Jeongin.

“I know.”

Jeongin lifted his head just slightly, throwing him a quick sidelong glance.

Chan grinned. “But I wouldn’t miss this café you’ve all been talking about for weeks like it’s the center of the universe.”

A little sound escaped Jeongin, half a snort, half a laugh. He rolled his eyes in mock exasperation, but the tension in his shoulders eased a little. “Hyunjin is going to lose it when he finds out he’s the only one who hasn’t been there yet.”

“True.” Chan had to laugh. The image was too clear.

For a few minutes they walked on in silence, their steps in the same rhythm. But the closer they got to the café, the more Chan noticed Jeongin’s shoulders tightening again. His fingers no longer just played with his sleeve; at times they clenched restlessly in the fabric.

“Innie.” Chan’s voice was calm, but firmer than before. “You know you can do this, right?”

Jeongin looked up briefly and for a moment those big, dark eyes looked straight into his. Full of doubt, full of unspoken questions. Then he lowered his gaze again and nodded slightly. “Yeah… I think so.” His voice was quiet, a little uncertain. But not as much as it used to be.

“Minnie really put in a lot of effort for me,” he murmured then. “So that Halmoni would give me the job. I just don’t want to disappoint either of them. It’s my first real job. What if I mess everything up?”

Chan felt the tug in his chest grow stronger. He placed his hand on Jeongin’s shoulder, warm and steady, and gave it a gentle squeeze. “You won’t disappoint them. And mistakes…” He paused briefly, searching for the right weight in his words. “Mistakes are part of it, Innie. You don’t grow without them. Don’t be afraid to make them. You don’t have to be perfect. You just have to be you. That’s enough.”

Jeongin looked at him. Really looked. And in that gaze was something like gratitude—warm, genuine, almost childlike. Then he smiled, suddenly pulling Chan into a quick, almost overwhelming hug.

“Thank you, hyung.” His voice was quiet, rough with honesty.

Chan blinked in surprise, then wrapped his arms around him for a brief, firm moment before Jeongin pulled away again, ears red with embarrassment.

Chan laughed softly and patted his shoulder. “Come on. Your first day is waiting.”

___

The café came into view. The windows reflected the late sun, the glass front glinting like liquid gold. From the open door drifted the scent of coffee—strong, dark—threaded with a warm, sweet note of freshly baked pastries.

Jeongin came to an abrupt stop in front of the shop. His fingers clenched again in the fabric of his sweater, as if he needed something to hold on to. He took two deep breaths, as if he had to gather all his courage. Chan saw him press his lips together and pull his shoulders a bit higher.

“Innie,” Chan murmured, tilting his head slightly toward the entrance. Jeongin gave a brief nod, as if he had to gather the courage inside himself.

Then they stepped inside together.

The little bell above the door chimed, bright and friendly, and they were immediately wrapped in a warmth that seemed to emanate from the room itself. Freshly ground coffee, sweet-spicy cinnamon, the brightness of citrus—a mixture that instantly evoked a feeling of home. The soft clinking of cups and the hum of muted voices blended into a background murmur that felt almost calming. It was a small, cozy place, with wooden shelves on the walls, gentle lighting, and the sheen of porcelain on the racks. A shop that exuded instant trust.

Chan took a deep breath. It smells like home, he thought. Not like Sydney, and not exactly like Korea either, but like that elusive feeling that arises when you know you’re allowed to stay.

Behind the counter, a young man moved deftly among the machines. A moss-green apron was tied loosely around his narrow waist. His head was slightly lowered, a few strands falling into his face as he carefully locked the portafilter into place. His movements were fluid, shaped by years of routine, and yet there was a striking attentiveness in each motion, as if a single wrong step could shatter the entire rhythm.

Chan noticed him immediately. Not because he stood out—if anything, the opposite. He seemed quiet, almost withdrawn, as though he wanted to disappear into the café’s busy flow. And yet, despite everything, he radiated something so powerful that Chan could hardly take his eyes off him.

That must be Yongbok.

Since yesterday, Jeongin had hardly had any other topic than Yongbok. Again and again he’d steered the conversation toward him, speaking almost reverently and always with a certain warmth Chan had rarely heard from him. Much to Jisung’s delight, of course. Jisung himself had already turned the boy into half a myth with his usual exuberance weeks ago. Even Changbin, who normally didn’t waste many words on strangers, hadn’t hidden how much this boy occupied his thoughts. Seungmin had told Chan at midday that Changbin had accompanied him to the library today to bring Yongbok something to eat and drink. And instead of complaining about it, Seungmin had accepted it with a strange satisfaction. Because even he could no longer deny a certain fascination for this boy.

What is it about you that occupies them all so much?

As Chan followed behind Jeongin, his gaze drifted over the slim figure.

He saw something he didn’t like at all: the shadows under the eyes, the apron sitting far too loosely, the careful lifting of a tray as though even that simple movement cost more strength than he wanted to admit. Yongbok looked fragile—in a frightening way.

But there was also something else. Something Chan felt immediately. A quiet hardness, an unspoken I’ll manage that lay in every controlled gesture.

Chan felt his jaw tighten. It was this contrast that hit him so unexpectedly. Fragile and yet so unyieldingly strong. And whether he wanted it or not, the old instinct was there—the burning urge to protect Yongbok. Just as he had felt with his other brothers.

And that was strange. He didn’t know this boy. Not a single word had been exchanged. And yet Chan felt that pressing impulse to protect him.

With the full tray, Yongbok slipped out of Chan’s line of sight, as if he deliberately wanted to make himself invisible. But before Chan could finish the thought, a voice rose that instantly made the room feel brighter.

“Ah, there you are, Jeongin-ah!”

An older woman came from the back, the apron over her clothes speckled with coffee stains. Her smile carried the same warmth as the room itself. Her eyes shone with such kindness that Chan couldn’t help but smile back.

Jeongin’s face lit up at once. “Halmoni!” he called, almost childlike, and bowed deeply. There was a warmth in his voice Chan had rarely heard from him.

He followed his dongsaeng’s example and bowed respectfully to the older lady. The woman studied him curiously, her eyes sharp and full of kindness at once.

“And you must be Jeongin-ah’s hyung. He said he’d bring you along.”

“Yes, ma’am. My name is Bang Chan. It’s an honor to meet you. And…” Chan paused briefly, his tone softening. “Thank you for giving Jeongin this chance. It really means a lot to all of us.”

The woman studied him for a long moment. Before Chan could lift his head again, he felt Jeongin tugging at his sleeve. “Hyung, don’t be so embarrassing…”

The woman’s loud, sudden laugh made him look up. Warm, round, full of life. She patted Jeongin’s back with a giggle. “Embarrassing? No, my boy. Your hyung is just proud of you. Don’t hold it against him.”

Jeongin turned red to the tips of his ears. Chan couldn’t suppress a grin.

Then the woman turned back to him. Her gaze was soft but clear. “Don’t worry. I’ll take good care of Jeongin-ah. He has a good heart, and that’s exactly what this place needs.”

Chan nodded, lowering his head slightly. “Thank you.”

She waved it off, giving his arm a surprisingly firm pat. “Enough with the formalities, Chan-ah. Call me Halmoni.”

While they spoke, Yongbok moved behind the counter again. He seemed completely absorbed in his work, but Chan noticed the tiny moment when his hands paused for a fraction as he listened to the conversation.

Halmoni followed Chan’s gaze and smiled gently. “And over there,” she said, almost proudly, “is my grandson, Yongbok. My most precious helper. Without him, this café wouldn’t be running anymore.”

Yongbok lifted his head briefly. His gaze—cautious, almost fleeting—met Chan’s, like the flutter of a bird that immediately moves on. Then he gave a short, polite nod and lowered his eyes again.

“Bok-ah! Come here for a moment,” Halmoni called, her voice friendly but with a tone one did not ignore.

Chan saw the boy pause. The portafilter in his hand remained still for a moment, the machine humming dully, before he exhaled audibly, set down his tool, wiped his hands on his apron, and finally stepped away from the counter. His shoulders were slightly drawn forward, his movements small, cautious.

“Bok-ah, this is Chan. Jeongin-ah’s hyung,” Halmoni introduced him.

“Pleased to meet you, Chan-ssi.” His voice was quiet and very formal. Yongbok bowed, a little stiffly. Chan returned the gesture, his gaze lingering just a shade too long on the shadows beneath those eyes.

“Bok-ah,” Halmoni said softly then, “would you be so kind as to show Jeongin-ah what his tasks are?”

“Of course. I’ll take care of it.”

Chan watched the boy turn to Jeongin. Just moments ago he’d seemed like he wanted to keep the whole world at arm’s length, and yet as soon as Jeongin stood before him, something in his tense posture shifted. Not much—almost imperceptible. But enough for Chan to notice. A slight softness in his voice, a hint less tension in his shoulders.

“Come on, Jeongin-ah. I’ll show you everything.”

Yongbok turned away, and while Jeongin followed him with an honest, beaming smile, Chan remained at the entrance. He admired how Jeongin’s eyes sparkled with admiration for this boy. Chan had never seen that expression in Jeongin’s eyes before.

___

Felix POV

Felix pushed open the small door behind the counter, and at once a sweet, heavy scent washed over them—vanilla, sugar, a hint of cinnamon, mixed with the warmth of freshly baked pastries. For Felix, it was a smell he barely noticed anymore; it belonged so much to daily life. But in that moment, with Jeongin at his side, it seemed stronger, almost as if the room had decided to reveal itself to a new visitor.

“This is where Halmoni usually bakes the pastries for the shop,” Felix began, gesturing briefly toward the narrow workspace.

Jeongin’s eyes flew reverently around the small room.

The room wasn’t large, more compact, but arranged with a certain order. Along the left wall ran a wooden work surface where bags of flour stood side by side, a bowl of eggs, an open tin of cocoa. Beside it lay the old rolling pin, its handles worn smooth and pale from constant use. Opposite sat the oven—not new, but well cared for—the glass still fogged from the last round of baking. Next to it, the deep sink over whose rim an apron hung where Halmoni must have left it.

Over everything lay a deep hum. The fridge in the corner, older than Felix himself, vibrated softly to itself. A sound he had barely noticed for years, but that now droned loudly in his ears, as if it wanted to drown out his heartbeat.

Jeongin didn’t notice. He looked as though he had stepped into a hidden world. He stood in the middle of the room, hands in his pockets, head tilted slightly back, eyes wide and gleaming. His steps were careful, almost reverent, as if he were afraid to disturb anything. But his gaze flicked over everything: the jars on the shelf, the rolling pin, Halmoni’s speckled apron. He took it all in, as if he wanted to store it away.

“It smells… incredible.” His voice was hushed, as if he didn’t want to break the silence. He drew a deep breath, lids half closed, as if trying to capture the scent. “Heavenly.”

Felix paused. For a moment he could only stare. At this unbridled enthusiasm radiating from Jeongin—an emotion that had become so foreign to him. A feeling he had lost years ago, back when life had forced him to grow up before he was ready.

Before he could say anything, he heard his grandmother’s warm, rough voice.

“You’re right about that, my boy.” She stepped in, wiping her hands on the apron. Her eyes sparkled mischievously. “It is heavenly.”

Jeongin turned to her, surprised, and Halmoni stepped closer, casually resting a hand on Felix’s shoulder. “But don’t let yourself be fooled by your nose, Jeongin-ah.” Her voice took on that tone Felix recognized at once—that faint pride that made him uneasy every time. She looked at Felix, and he knew she had been listening in. “I’m not the one who stands here every morning. Yongbok-ah is the one who bakes. You know, the recipes—every single one—are his. Without him, this wouldn’t exist.”

“Halmoni…” Felix’s voice came quiet, almost pleading. A protesting murmur as he lowered his gaze. His cheeks burned before he could look away. It wasn’t the work that embarrassed him. He knew the work. He could bear it. It was the warmth in Halmoni’s voice, that pride. Pride he didn’t deserve. To him, it felt like a misunderstanding, an error he couldn’t correct.

And then that look from Jeongin.

“Is that true, hyung?” His voice was soft but full of wonder, almost reverent. His eyes shone—wide, like open book pages where everything could be read. Admiration. “You came up with all of this… yourself?”

Felix’s heart tightened painfully. The glow in Jeongin’s eyes unsettled him—deeper than any praise, deeper than Halmoni’s pride.

It was as if someone had thrown open a door he had long since believed locked. He didn’t just see Jeongin. He saw himself—the boy he once had been. Before everything broke. The boy who had discovered new things with shining eyes. Who had believed that anything was possible as long as he was strong enough.

In Jeongin’s big eyes, he didn’t only see his lost self; he also saw his sisters. The same open trust lay there, the same childlike admiration. Trust he had lost. Trust he hadn’t been able to protect.

Something warm, almost painfully tender, stirred within him. A drive to preserve that light in Jeongin’s eyes. To let him keep that spark. To make sure he didn’t lose it, the way Felix had.

And yet, at the same time, another thought flickered—sharp-edged, as if it wanted to destroy what was awakening in Felix. The thought was sober, stubborn, like a thorn. With Jeongin here, there are new bills. A salary. Money that isn’t there. More pressure. Less sleep. You will have to make up for it.

It wasn’t anger. No resentment. Just that cold knowledge lodged deep in his chest, whispering like a second voice: He makes it harder for you.

Felix didn’t understand why that knowledge had so little weight in this moment. Why the sight of Jeongin’s wide eyes was stronger than the fear of the bills. Why he couldn’t just stay cool, the way he usually did. Instead, the boy softened him, let cracks form in the walls he had so carefully built.

Halmoni’s laughter filled the room—warm and proud—and tore him from his thoughts. “He would never admit it himself, Jeongin-ah. You’ll see for yourself soon enough—Yongbok gives people something beautiful without claiming it for himself.”

Felix closed his eyes briefly. It was too much. Too much pride. Too much admiration. And yet, deep down, in a layer that was barely tangible, Jeongin’s gaze felt warm. A part he didn’t understand. A part he would have preferred to push away at once.

___

“This is the heart of it,” Felix explained, resting his hand on the portafilter of the espresso machine. A soft hiss escaped the line; the scent of freshly ground coffee hung like a veil over the counter. His fingers moved automatically, precisely, almost mechanically. Processes that had long since become second nature. “This is where almost everything happens. You fill in the coffee grounds and tamp them down. Not too hard, or it gets bitter. Not too loose, or it tastes thin.”

Jeongin leaned in slightly, following every movement Felix made with attention. His eyes sparkled with curiosity, and he nodded at every sentence. “Okay. I think I get it.”

Felix’s gaze drifted to him again, and there it was—that pull in his chest. In that moment, the younger looked so young, so open, almost defenseless. As if he belonged more in a classroom or on a sports field than in a café where hustle and responsibility ruled. Part of Felix wanted to take the portafilter out of his hand immediately before he burned himself.

“The cups need to be warmed.” Felix set a row of porcelain cups on the grate atop the machine. His voice sounded matter-of-fact, neutral, as distant as possible. Only that way could he suppress the impulse to step closer and guide Jeongin’s hand.

“Got it.” Jeongin nodded and then looked at him. Not fleetingly. But openly, earnestly, with that unsure but honest expression. “Thank you for showing me all this, hyung.”

Felix’s fingers froze on the cup. Hyung. The word fell softly, but it hit him like a blow. It roused a warmth he didn’t want, one he couldn’t allow. For a tiny moment it was as if the walls inside him crumbled. He cleared his throat quietly, forced a curt nod, and looked away.

He led Jeongin through the narrow area behind the counter, showing him the drawer with teas, the small fridge for cakes, the storage tins for beans. All routine. Movements he’d done for years without thinking. And yet with Jeongin at his side, it felt different. The younger listened as if every detail mattered, as if the world hung on Felix’s words.

And with every step, the conflict inside him grew. Jeongin was diligent, attentive, respectful. He made it impossible to reject him. And that was exactly the problem. Felix didn’t want to let him get close, but something inside had already decided that Jeongin would be allowed space near him.

At the end of the counter, Felix stopped and placed his hands on the work surface. The cold wood beneath his fingers brought him back to the present for a moment. “That’s actually everything for now,” he said quietly, his gaze on the counter.

“Okay!” Jeongin nodded at once, a broad smile flashing over his face. So unburdened, so bright, that Felix involuntarily held his breath. For an instant it was as if that smile warmed the room.

And then he caught himself smiling back. Honestly. Openly. Without a mask. Startled, he turned away at once, clearing his throat sharply as if he could erase the smile. “Good. Then… try your hand at the first order.”

Jeongin looked at him nervously. “Do you think I’m ready already?”
Felix smiled at him reassuringly and nodded. “I think so. I’ll stay with you. Don’t be afraid to make mistakes. That’s how you learn.”

Jeongin blinked, then his eyes widened. “That… that’s exactly what Chan-hyung said earlier.” A small, honest smile crept onto his lips, as if the repetition had comforted him.

Felix’s gaze automatically followed Jeongin’s to the boy sitting at the back of the café. Chan, engrossed in his laptop, brow furrowed, fingers flying over the keys. For a moment he seemed far away, completely in his own world, but Felix’s attention was yanked back when he suddenly felt warmth.

Two arms wrapped around him. Light. Brief. Hesitant.

“Thank you, hyung,” Jeongin breathed softly, almost as if he didn’t quite dare to speak the words.

And in the next moment he pulled away again, as if nothing had happened. Almost as if Felix had imagined it.

Felix stood still, his breath caught for a beat. “You’re welcome…” The answer came brittle, too quiet. He felt dazed, as if the room had suddenly stepped closer to him.

Jeongin grinned broadly, full of confidence, and then took his place at the counter. Ready for his first order.

Felix leaned against the work surface, crossing his arms as if that could contain the warmth that had nested in his chest. He watched Jeongin, observed every movement, ready to step in if necessary. And the longer he watched, the more the contradictory feeling inside him grew.

A warm, reluctant feeling he couldn’t name.

A feeling that calmed him and scared him at the same time.

___

Some time passed before the next customers pushed open the door. The little bell swayed lazily back and forth, but the room remained quieter than before. The confident smile from Jeongin’s first walkthrough had faded; slowly but surely, his old, nervous self crept back in. He stood stiff behind the counter, the green apron seeming too big on him, the ties hanging loose like a child dressed in adult clothes. His hands moved restlessly from the work surface to his pants, as if searching for something to hold on to.

Felix saw all of it without ever staring directly. He knew these movements, these small, restless gestures. They reminded him of himself—or rather of the boy he once had been.

The doorbell chimed; two students came in laughing, schoolbooks under their arms, their voices tinged with fatigue. Jeongin flinched almost imperceptibly. “Uh… welcome!” he managed, his voice jumping higher.

Felix watched as the girls placed their order. One cappuccino and one green tea. Harmless. But to Jeongin, it looked like an exam that would decide pass or fail.

“Start with the tea,” Felix murmured softly, just loud enough for Jeongin to hear. “It’s easier. Then you’ve already got a success before you tackle the cappuccino.”

Jeongin nodded quickly, almost gratefully, and reached for the cup. The water dispenser gurgled, the tea bag dipped into the hot water. His fingers trembled a little, but he managed it. Simple, neat. A small victory.

“Good,” Felix praised curtly. He saw Jeongin’s shoulders loosen, as if that one word had saved him.

Then came the cappuccino. Jeongin locked in the portafilter as Felix had shown him. But he tamped too hard; the espresso came out only in drops. Felix stepped closer, laying his hand briefly on Jeongin’s arm. “Looser. The machine works for you, not against you.”

Jeongin looked up, his eyes wide as if Felix had just revealed a secret. He nodded seriously and corrected his grip. This time the espresso flowed darker, more evenly.

“You see?” Felix set the milk pitcher down, gesturing to the steam wand. “Now the foam. Not too close, or you’ll burn it.”

Jeongin bit his lip as he raised the pitcher. The hiss of steam filled the air. Every tiny splatter made him flinch, as if each sound made him question whether he’d already failed.

“Slower,” Felix murmured again, softly, almost like a whisper. “Listen. The sound changes when it’s right.”

And indeed, after seconds, the noise grew softer, calmer. The foam rose, filling the pitcher—not perfect, but usable. Jeongin poured carefully, tongue tucked slightly between his lips. The result was no heart, no flower, just a shapeless blob on a brown surface. But it was a cappuccino.

“Here you go.” Jeongin set the two cups on the tray and bowed slightly. The students took them gratefully.

Felix saw the tiny moment afterward. Jeongin’s shoulders lifted, then sank again. A small exhale, as if he had just climbed a mountain. And Felix felt something soften inside him. That earnestness, that vulnerable determination…

He wanted to resist, to pull the wall up. But when Jeongin gave him that beaming, uncertain smile, he only nodded. Barely noticeable. It was embarrassing how easily this boy broke through his defenses.

The bell over the door chimed again. This time two tourists stepped in, backpacks on their shoulders, a camera bouncing against the man’s chest. Their voices filled the room at once—bright, carefree English.

“Hi! Could we get two iced lattes? One with oat milk, if possible?” the woman asked with a smile while her partner scanned the menu curiously.

Jeongin, who had just been rinsing the coffee pot, froze. His eyes went wide, his grip on the pot too rigid. “Uh… ehm… latte?” he stammered, the word heavy on his tongue. Color rushed to his face, and his gaze darted to Felix for help.

Felix had seen it coming. Calmly, he stepped beside Jeongin, placing his hand briefly on the counter as if to soothe the air itself. Then he slid effortlessly into English.

“Of course,” he said, easy and smooth, his Australian accent soft and clear. “Two iced lattes—one with oat milk, right?”

“Yes, exactly!” The couple nodded, instantly relieved.

Felix gave them a friendly smile, jotted the order down quickly, then turned back to Jeongin. “Two iced lattes. One with oat milk.” His voice was calm again in Korean.

Jeongin blinked at him as if he had just witnessed magic. “O-okay!” He hurried to work, too fast, too eager, but determined. He filled the glasses with ice and poured in the espresso. Felix unobtrusively slid the oat milk toward him, which Jeongin grabbed at once.

A little later, Jeongin set both drinks on the counter. “Here… iced latte,” he murmured uncertainly, but the two tourists smiled gratefully, took the glasses, and settled at a window seat.

No sooner were they out of earshot than Jeongin spun around. His eyes sparkled—so big and round it was as if he had just discovered the greatest treasure in the world. “Hyung! You… you speak English?!”

Felix lifted his shoulders slightly, as if it were nothing. “Actually… English is my first language.”

“Whaaat?!” Jeongin’s jaw practically dropped. “But— you— I mean… your accent! That was so… so…” He flailed his hands in the air as if trying to grasp the right word and finally burst out in halting English: “It was perfect!”

A soft, dry laugh escaped Felix. Embarrassed, almost shy. “Well… I’m from Australia. I grew up with it. Korean came later.”

Silence. Only the hum of the fridge. Then Jeongin’s eyes flew wide. “Australia?! Hyung, that’s incredible!” He bounced on his toes with excitement, energy bubbling unchecked. “Chan-hyung is from Australia, too! He always tells us so much about it—but that you’re from there as well?! That’s… wow, that’s amazing!”

Jeongin beamed at him with such unfiltered joy that it almost hurt to look. He hadn’t known that such a simple detail from his life—one that was obvious to him—could spark so much excitement in someone else.

His gaze drifted involuntarily to Chan at the back of the café, eyes on the laptop, brow furrowed. For a moment, something stabbed in Felix’s chest—sharp, salty, familiar. Homesickness. He felt the longing for sand under his feet, for the taste of salt in the air, for the sound of the surf. And now… a piece of his home sat just a few meters away and still felt so far.