Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Science is not here to fantasize, to confirm dreams or follow paradigms. It is here to ground, to insist on method, and to rediscover, always, the same creation.

The same earth we walk on, the same air we breathe. The same organs, tissues, and cells overturned — the hope of transforming what already exists. For beyond that, what is there? Only hypotheses, whose worth can only be measured by experience and by method.

But sometimes, there comes that researcher who dreams further. Who dares to close their eyes before the trials. Who listens with compassion to those they interview and sees the world they live in with more feeling than calculation.

Celine saw that in Miyeong. Ah, she was the greatest symbol of citizen science anyone could invoke. Her research was not driven by pure scientific fascination, but by the social compassion that declared: “studies with humanity, and not only for humanity.”

The opposite of herself, Celine couldn’t deny. She was so fixed on methods and results that she lost sight of the destination. Like following a river’s course without ever reaching its mouth.

She and Miyeong. Celi and Mimi. They completed each other inside and outside the lab.

So imagine: a rainy Saturday night in August. Celine was filling out reports on zoobenthos — her habit of working beyond what was necessary. The yellow glow of the desk lamp was the only light in the room, while her mind stayed clouded under the weight of obligations.

Her phone rang once. Out of sight, she didn’t see the name. She ignored it.

It rang a second, third, and fourth time. Heavens, who would call so insistently on a Saturday night? She muttered, turned, and stretched out her hand for the phone.

Her eyes widened: Mrs. Ryu, Miyeong’s mother. Strange. They hardly ever spoke. The old woman, with her provincial ways, had never approved of the life her daughter led — too modern for her understanding. That was why it was rare, almost impossible, for her to reach out herself.

Celine answered with a puzzled expression. “Uh… Mrs. Ryu? G-good… evening?” Her voice came out hesitant. Silence stretched, until at last the woman spoke.

“…Miyeong… she’s dead, Celine. The car crashed and… and… it didn’t work out.” The tearful voice finally echoed — then fell silent as suddenly as it had appeared.

Celine did not react. The sound of Mrs. Ryu’s voice did not fully reach her, it seemed fragmented, broken by the distance. She repeated each word in her mind but couldn’t stitch the meaning together. “Dead.” The verb hung suspended, distant, as if it applied to no one she knew.

There was no scream, no tears. Only a motionless body, eyes fixed on the wall, phone still in hand. It was as if her mind had been removed, leaving only the mechanism running: breath, heartbeat, the lamp still lit.

At the funeral, nothing changed. People wept around her, sobs filled the temple, but to Celine everything sounded muted. Blurred faces, muffled voices, too many flowers. She tried to recognize the figure in the coffin, but disbelief ruled everything. It could not be Miyeong. It could not. The body there was only matter. She, the companion of so many years, had to be somewhere else, busy, delayed, anything.

The days that followed passed in a single block, without clear difference between morning, afternoon, or night. Reports piled up on the desk, untouched. The hours rushed by too fast, but to Celine they were always the same: wake up, forget for a second, remember all at once.

It was like living inside a single day that never ended.

• ★ •

Her footsteps thundered against the cold, faintly stained floor of the university, each strike echoing louder than it should, as if the entire building noticed her presence. Her hand gripped the strap of her bag with unnecessary force, almost painful, as if in that gesture there was some guarantee of control. It was just going, working as she always had, and returning. Just that. What could be so different?

The answer came at once. The space was not the same. The benches, once so familiar, seemed larger, hollow, incomplete. No longer was there that lively, glimmering figure moving between flasks and slides with the joyful haste of someone who never tired of trying. No longer the distracted humming that floated in the air, a melody almost formless, but that, once leaving her voice, gained its own identity — unique, because it was hers.

Now, silence reigned. Not the natural silence of a laboratory, but a strange, heavy silence that denounced absence. As if the entire place had withdrawn, deprived of a vital spark.

And then, even the work, once perfect and irreducible, seemed to dissolve in the air. Every note, every calculation, every microscopy blurred. Everything reduced itself to one more dragged-out, indistinct second, slipping away like all the others.

Science, once solid ground, now seemed only to record the passing of time — and nothing beyond that.

The thought made the woman’s monotonous stomach churn; she bent back over the slides, eyes fixed on the microscope, as if she could vanish inside the lens. The low hum of the machines was the only sound keeping her anchored. Notes lay lined before her, but they were nothing more than mechanical scribbles — the hand moved out of habit, without mind.

Andy approached slowly, his lab coat half-buttoned, carrying with him the smell of reheated coffee. He had lived in Seoul for a few years, and his Korean carried that foreign accent that always gave him away. Still, he spoke with ease, like someone used to no longer being a stranger there.

“Celine,” he began, hesitant. “I know it’s hard.”

She didn’t answer. Only slid another slide into place, adjusted the light, pretended to listen.

“But… Miyeong’s space needs to be cleared out. The cabinet, the files. The coordination asked.” His voice dropped to almost a whisper. “And they thought it best if you did it yourself.”

The silence that followed seemed longer than it should. Celine lifted her eyes from the microscope, staring at the metallic surface of the bench as if the answer might be there. Her hand tightened around the pen until its tip pressed too hard against the paper, nearly tearing it.

Andy started to add something, but stopped. The weight in the room would not allow it.

To Celine, the idea was absurd. To empty Miyeong’s space was to declare, definitively, that she was not coming back. As if gathering flasks and papers would be the act that confirmed death once and for all.

She only said, softly, almost inaudibly “No.”

Andy drew in a breath, rubbing the back of his neck, before insisting.

“Celine… it’s not a choice. If it’s not you, it’ll be someone else. They’ll send someone from the office, and then all her things will end up in boxes, without any care. You know how it is.”

She closed her eyes for a moment, the pen still trapped between her fingers. The image of unknown hands touching Miyeong’s things brought an immediate nausea.

Andy went on, his voice firm now: “No one knew better what was hers. No one will know what to discard and what to preserve. If there is anyone who can do this with respect, it’s you.”

Silence returned, but this time it weighed differently. Celine stared at the dark microscope, as if there were some refuge in it.

“I don’t want to,” she murmured, but the words came out already weakened, as if surrendering before the battle even began.

Andy didn’t argue. He only lowered his glasses slightly, his too-light blue eye meeting the woman’s brown ones. She bit her lip and murmured to herself.

Then, at last, she let the pen fall onto the notebook. She drew in a deep breath, the dry sound escaping her throat. “All right. If someone has to keep it… let it be me.”

Her eyes fixed on the bench betrayed nothing. But inside her, what felt like defeat was already turning into resolution: if there was to be a place where Mimi survived, it would be in her hands.

• ★ •

The corridor felt longer than usual, each of Celine’s steps echoing as if she were crossing a tunnel. She stopped in front of Mi-yeong’s locker. The little nameplate was still there, intact, as if mocking the situation.

She turned the key slowly, her hand trembling. The click of the lock sounded far too loud, a dry snap that tore through the laboratory’s silence.

The door opened with a brief creak. Inside, everything was exactly as she had left it. A lab coat folded carelessly, boxes of slides hastily labeled, and the notebooks. Several of them. Stacked, with colored post-its spilling from the edges, each one overflowing with notes, arrows, hurried scribbles. Miyeong’s handwriting, slanted and energetic, almost leapt from the pages.

Celine brushed her fingers over the cover of one. She didn’t have the courage to open it. The touch alone was enough to summon her voice, always rushed, saying: “I’ll organize it later.”

The familiar smell of reagents mixed with the faint perfume she used still clung to some of the papers. It was as if time had frozen inside, waiting for Miyeong to return and pick up where she had left off.

But she would not return.

Celine closed her eyes, swallowing hard. Then she began to take out the notebooks, one by one, placing them carefully on the workbench. It wasn’t just emptying a locker. It was gathering fragments of a life.

And she knew, in that moment, she would not allow any of it to be lost.

The laboratory was already empty when Celine finally gave in to the temptation of opening the first notebook. The wall clock marked nearly midnight, and the yellow lamp cast trembling circles across the paper.

The pages unfolded before her like a chorus of voices. Frenzied notes, diagrams, formulas interrupted by little phrases in an almost intimate tone: “It works, but needs revision…”, “Ask Celi if she agrees with this hypothesis…” Each line was like hearing Miyeong speak again, quick, full of ideas.

Flipping deeper, she found something different. Not simple field notes or data tables. They were records of a parallel project. Sketches of artificial tissues, calculations on cellular regeneration, references to models for synthesizing biological structures. And among the technical lines, words almost hidden, written smaller, like a secret: “A body is not enough. There must be a soul. How do you measure what escapes method?”

Celine held her breath. The following pages pressed further into the same idea — attempts to draw the invisible, to fuse the coldness of data with the tenderness of the human. An impossible hybrid.

Her hands clenched the notebook tightly. The weight of that writing fell upon her like a summons. From anyone else, it might have seemed like a mere fancy. But from Miyeong… it was a trace, a path left to be followed.

For the first time since the funeral, the emptiness inside her gave way to something else. Not consolation. Purpose.

The notebook lay open before her, its pages spread like a wound that refused to close. Celine pulled the other volumes closer, stacking them in order, and began tracing an invisible method of her own. She separated notes into distinct piles: replicable calculations, vague hypotheses, near-poetic digressions. The silence of the room was absolute, broken only by the rustle of pages beneath her fingers.

It was a ritual. Not only of work, but of permanence. As she organized, she felt Mi-yeong still there, inhabiting the space at her side, leaning over the bench, whispering low remarks.

Then the thought struck her like lightning. Mimi’s life had been cut far too early, abruptly, as if time itself had taken revenge for a delay that never existed. What sense was there in accepting such a bare injustice?

If what was written there was madness, it didn’t matter. But if it wasn’t? If biological synthesis, the attempt to seed consciousness into matter, could go beyond mere fantasy? The thought lodged within her, both venom and cure.

Celine pressed her hands against the table, drawing in a deep breath.

If science could replicate organs, tissues, cells… then why not attempt to replicate what had sustained Miyeong in her entirety?

Madness or not, it would be worth it.

And the decision, though still unspoken, was already made.

• ★ •

Hours dissolved into nights, and nights into indistinct days. Celine remained in the laboratory even when the university corridors were deserted. Cold coffee, scribbled pages, piles of articles scattered around — everything served only as a step to go deeper into the same idea.

First, she plunged into the literature of biological synthesis. Then, into clinical records, into the fragmented reports Mi-yeong had left behind. It wasn’t enough to continue: she had to surpass. Every note Mimi had left unfinished, Celine filled with almost feverish obsession.

Then came the inevitable point: the need for genetic material. The thought weighed on her as both guilt and promise. Miyeong’s DNA was not just scientific data — it was the key to reopening a destiny ripped away too soon.

But Celine did not want merely to replicate. The trauma of loss was too raw a scar. If she dared to challenge the boundary between death and life, it would not be to return fragility to the world. It would be to create something the world could not crush.

She wrote in her own notebook, in dry, hurried letters: Stronger. Faster. More resilient. Not vulnerable. Never vulnerable.

The idea was no longer just to bring Miyeong back. It was to rebuild her in a form that could survive the unexpected, the cruel, whatever chance might throw against her. A life that would not shatter like glass on the wet road of an August night.

Celine closed her eyes, exhausted, but the thought would not quiet. If she was going to create life… she would create the perfect life.

Celine prepared the laboratory as one raises an altar. Flasks cleaned, glassware sterilized, equipment calibrated to exhaustion. No one suspected — for it was common to see her buried in endless research, isolated even from her own body. But this time there was something different in the rhythm of her gestures: they were not only methods, they were rituals.

She managed to preserve genetic material from Miyeong. A strand of hair, cells kept on slides from earlier exams, tiny fragments that for anyone else would have been irrelevant. For Celine, they were seeds. Each microtube she labeled was a fragment of resistance against forgetting.

And yet, as the weeks accumulated, reasoning imposed itself: she could not truly recreate Miyeong. What had been torn from her would not return identical. Science could model tissues, even architect a consciousness, but there was no possible copy of the unrepeatable sum of a life.

Still, this was not defeat. Celine understood she would not bring Mimi back as she was, but she could create a legacy so perfect it would carry her spark in another way. A person who would not be Mi-yeong, but who would carry within her the same light — that living, tireless presence that filled the air whenever she was near.

Not the sun setting on the horizon, but a new star, burning with its own intensity. Not the same, but just as capable of illuminating.

Celine placed her hands on the bench, staring at the flasks before her. For the first time since Mimi’s death, she felt something close to hope.

It was madness. But it was also inevitable. The notes began as scattered scribbles, margins filled with arrows and circles. But little by little, Celine’s notebooks arranged themselves into columns, diagrams, conceptual maps. Each page ceased being an echo of Mi-yeong and became a new mark, hers alone.

At the center of one of those pages, after hours staring at the blank space, she wrote the first word that belonged to no protocol, no formula. Only a word, simple, like a baptism:

Rumi.

The graphite pressed hard, deeper than necessary, nearly tearing the paper.

The name seemed to carry everything she sought to condense. Not Miyeong, but something derived from her essence. Not a return, but a continuity. A life created to bear Mimi’s legacy and, at the same time, to be more. Stronger, more resilient, more prepared to survive the unpredictable. And honestly, it sounds like a name Mimi would choose for any child of hers — if she had ever had the chance to have one.

Celine ran her fingers over the letters, as if to confirm they were truly there. For the first time, there was an invisible face behind the notes. Not numbers and cells anymore, but the promise of someone who would exist.

“Rumi…” she murmured, almost in reverence.

In that instant, the project ceased to be only a response to grief. It became the only way to return to the world the light it had extinguished. She did not consider herself, in any way, a religious person.

But, as irony would have it — after violating the exclusivity and peace of the beyond, she prayed that her path would still be guided by the confident love that lingered in her distorted and hidden conscience…

• ★ •

The laboratory was drowned in absolute silence. Not the natural silence of closed rooms, but a manufactured silence, so dense it became tangible, as if the very walls were breathing with her. The air was metallic, steeped in ozone and old reagents. Decades had passed since that space had belonged to the university; it was a forgotten territory, ignored on maps, kept standing only by the insistence of a single woman.

Celine stood before the central table, arms resting on the cold metal. The body lay there, bound by wires and tubes that coiled like artificial roots. Pale skin reflected the surgical lamp’s light, almost translucent, like porcelain. Across the arms and torso, violet veins branched in symmetrical patterns, so dense they looked more like design than anatomy. In the hair, a strange hue — indefinable, as if born from a mixture of the natural and the unreal, a reflection of something that had never existed before.

But the features… ah, the features were both a dagger and a gift. The face recalled Mimi. Not identical, but an echo. The faintly rounded cheekbones, the delicate nose, the lips at rest in a serenity that almost resembled breath. Every detail was a nod to the past, a tribute sculpted with scalpel precision. It was like looking at a painting: never the same person, yet carrying the essence that memory insisted on keeping alive.

Celine brushed her fingers over the glass surface protecting the body. The chill climbed her arm, but she did not withdraw. Twenty years of work had condensed here. Twenty years in which the world had moved forward, while she buried herself deeper into the same wound. Now, at last, the moment had arrived.

At the side of the table, the control panel waited. A thick, insulated cable ran straight to the power source. A calibrated discharge — neither excessive nor too faint. It had to be exact, just enough to break the threshold between inert mass and vital impulse.

She adjusted the controls with slow, almost solemn motions. Each turn of the switch seemed to echo across the room. The red needle climbed, millimeter by millimeter, until it reached the mark in her notes.

For a moment, Celine hesitated. The image of Miyeong, laughing among the benches, humming distractedly, cut through her. Then came the memory of her body sealed in a coffin, heavy with flowers. The contrast almost made her falter.

But she did not falter.

She placed her hand on the main switch. Drew in a breath, as if she wanted to hold all the air in the world inside her chest. Then pressed.

The electric surge coursed through the cables and struck the body. The violet veins beneath the skin lit in magenta, like living circuits firing all at once. The glow surged through the arms, the torso, the neck, until it reached the face.

The body convulsed. First, a taut arch, muscles straining like cords about to snap. Then the chest jolted upward, as if seeking air for the first time.

The heart beat. Once, erratic. Then again, stronger, vibrating against the walls of the chest. The monitors erupted, signals spiking, graphs pulsing with violent intensity.

Celine felt the ground vanish beneath her feet. She did not blink, barely breathed. She only watched.

The eyes opened.

One, deep brown, utterly natural, human in its imperfection. The other, however, shone gold, an almost electric light, so intense it seemed to defy the darkness of the room. The two mismatched irises fixed themselves on her.

And in that instant, Celine saw not only her creation. She saw an abyss.

The conflict struck like a double-edged blade. Part of her wanted to throw herself on that body and embrace it, call the name she could no longer speak. Another part recognized she had committed an unforgivable trespass, crossing boundaries even science had never dared touch.

Ethics, reason, love — all whirled together in one storm. What lay before her was not just a body crafted against the balance of nature. It was something new, woven of grief and obstinacy, carrying both the calculations and the tears that had fed its making.

The heart now beat in rhythm, steady, filling the room with a deep sound, undeniably alive. The veins still flickered in intermittent magenta, as though the energy that had sparked it remained throbbing inside.

Celine stepped closer. Each footfall dragged the weight of two decades. Her reflection merged with the creature’s face on the glass, as if they were a single image.

And then she whispered to herself, so softly it nearly vanished into the machines’ hum:

“… it’s… alive.”

Chapter Text

She couldn’t quite remember the last time she had been to Korea. Perhaps she was five, maybe six years old? The memory was blurry, like an old photograph left too long in a forgotten box. Nothing seemed exactly clear, but there was one unshakable certainty: that country was part of her story, a land that pulsed like inheritance, like a hidden root. It was a place deeply important to her mother — and therefore, inevitably, to her father as well.

Her father, an American with a clear voice and an open laugh, had once worked at the grand Honmoon University of Nations, in the Seoul campus. Not in just any department, but at the very heart of the biological, environmental, and medical sciences — the place where the greatest minds of a generation were shaped. It was there that he met her mother, an oceanographer enthralled by the sea and the quiet discoveries it held. They found each other between laboratories and conferences, and chance became destiny. They fell in love quickly, almost like something out of a romance: they dated, married, and soon after moved to the United States, carrying with them the promise of a shared life, balanced between cultures.

Zoey’s childhood, however, did not reflect the softness of her parents’ love story. Growing up in Burbank, California, was harsher than it should have been. She had always been too spontaneous to fit into the expectations of others: loud when she was supposed to be quiet, creative when they demanded restraint, distracted when they insisted on focus. In the schoolyard, she was often the easy target. Her dark hair, the features inherited from her Korean mother, and her effusive way of speaking set her apart. “Weird,” “different” — words that echoed again and again from the small but sharp mouths of other children.

Bullying became an unwanted companion in her early years: taunts, exclusions, muffled laughter in the hallways. Zoey tried to fight back at first, but soon realized that the spontaneity others saw as weakness could also be her strength. At home, she sought refuge in science books, notebooks filled with sketches of plants and animals, drawings of sea creatures her mother described in long nighttime conversations.

And when the days grew too heavy, it was always her father who pulled her back. He would sit her in front of the small home aquarium and say:

“The world is so much bigger than school, Zoey. Bigger than those hallways. Believe in what you love. That’s where you’ll find your strength.”

Those words, repeated over the years, built an invisible core inside her — strong enough to withstand the tides of prejudice.

In the end, she believed. She believed that dreams could outlast cruel laughter, that her path didn’t have to be limited by the stones thrown at her in childhood.

And so, when the time came to choose her future, the decision was almost obvious. She would return to Korea, to the very Honmoon University of Nations where her parents had first met. The Seoul campus, renowned for its excellence in environmental sciences, would be the place where she could deepen her passion: to understand, preserve, and transform the relationship between human beings and the natural world.

Zoey boarded the plane with the feeling that she wasn’t simply going to study. She was closing a cycle, reconnecting to origins denied to her by distance — but never by memory.

The plane landed at Incheon with a sharp jolt, and Zoey drew in a deep breath as though she had crossed more than just an ocean. It felt like a return, though there were no clear memories to anchor the sensation. The air seemed different — more humid, more alive, filled with sounds and words that still stumbled against her understanding.

The journey to Seoul unfolded like a mosaic of landscapes that both fascinated and unsettled her: glass skyscrapers reflecting the gray morning light, streets brimming with hurried people, colorful signs blinking in characters she struggled to read. Everything felt familiar and foreign all at once.

But Honmoon University of Nations was something else entirely. The moment she passed through its main gates, she felt the weight of history and promise. Towering buildings of modern, imposing architecture stood alongside meticulously tended gardens. Students moved in every direction, carrying books, tablets, field equipment. The campus was like a small city devoted solely to knowledge.

Following the map she’d been given, she made her way to the Department of Environmental Sciences. The main corridor had walls covered in scientific murals: diagrams of ecosystems, photos from oceanic expeditions, three-dimensional models of biomes. Her heartbeat quickened. At last, this was the place where everything she had studied in silence as a child would become practice — real discovery.

A receptionist handed her a folder of documents: class schedules, temporary credentials, and the location of her dorm. “Dormitory 733,” it read, in both English and Korean. She smiled, relieved by the translation, and hurried along.

The dormitory building was tall and austere, but inside it pulsed with life. Voices in countless languages echoed through the corridors, luggage wheels scraped across the floor, doors slammed open and shut. Zoey climbed the stairs, her chest heavy with anticipation. When she stopped in front of the silver-plated number — 733 — she drew in a breath.

The key turned with a sharp click. The room was simple: two beds, two desks, compact closets. A window opened to the view of the university’s side gardens. A small space, yet it would be the stage for her new life. She set her suitcase on the floor and stood still for a few seconds, just looking around, letting the weight of the moment settle in.

It was real. Everything was beginning now. The first step for Zoey to discover who she could become.

• ★ •

Her steps cut through the morning air as she crossed the crosswalk — hurried, steady. She could very well have been inside a luxury car, a foreign motorcycle, even a private helicopter — resources her family had in excess and flaunted at every opportunity. But Mira wasn’t like that. She never had been.

The simple act of walking down Seoul’s wide streets, backpack slung over her shoulders, wind tangling her hair, was itself a silent declaration against everything expected of her. As if she were saying: I don’t need any of it. I don’t want any of it.

Her chosen path had already been the first of many affronts. While her parents dreamed of a daughter with a business degree, fattening the family’s financial empire, or dazzling in the tech sector with patents and digital innovations, Mira simply veered off course. When they tried to push her toward industrial pharmacology — perfumes, cosmetics, lucrative chemistry — she laughed in their faces.

She chose another road, guided by nothing but instinct. Science. Research. Anything that kept her far from the rotten gears of money. Not out of naiveté, but because she couldn’t stand the thought of being just another cog in a family that had always placed figures above character.

In truth, being the black sheep had never been a burden, but a banner. She carried it proudly, like an exposed scar, daring anyone: yes, I’m different — so what? If every other child of corporate dynasties were just obedient shadows of their parents’ ambition, then she would be the exception that burned their eyes.

Because in the end, in a world full of bastards, where the rule was selling your principles for the right price, the mere act of having character was already a form of rebellion. And Mira? Well, Mira would always be an incurable rebel.

Mira lifted her gaze to the monumental gates of Honmoon University, and for a second she almost lost her stride. It was larger than it looked in the photos, so imposing it crushed any trace of arrogance from those who passed beneath it. White columns, glass gleaming in the morning light, gardens so meticulously kept they resembled living models. It wasn’t just a university — it was the nervous center of knowledge for an entire nation. And now, somehow, it was her new territory too.

The Biomedical Department sat in a side wing, modern, its luminous panels pointing toward labs, research halls, auditoriums. The smell of alcohol and metal mingled with the perfume of flowers wafting from the central square. A living contradiction — and Mira smirked, because she liked that.

She picked up her temporary ID at the reception desk, along with an envelope of instructions. Room 733. East Tower. The campus felt infinite, but the digital maps projected onto the walls guided her to the main elevator. As the numbers climbed, she adjusted the strap of her bag on her shoulder.

When the doors opened, she stepped into a long corridor — symmetrical doors, pale flooring reflecting the ceiling’s white light. She walked to the last door of the wing. 733. Knocked once, more out of habit, then turned the handle.

On the other side, her roommate. Short, black hair parted into two low buns that swayed as she looked up. Bronze skin, unusual in that place, freckles scattered across cheeks and nose, brown eyes full of immediate kindness — almost disarming. 

And then, the contrast asserted itself. Mira — tall, almost model-like, her salmon-red dyed hair catching attention from every angle. The golden rims of her round glasses flashing in the room’s light. Her expression? One of quiet defiance, as if her very existence challenged the space around her.

One radiating warmth, the other a kind of distance. But no more was needed for the inevitable truth to announce itself: their university life would never be normal.

Zoey was completely immersed in her own universe. Legs crossed in an almost acrobatic pose on the bed, tablet balanced on her lap, headphones spilling underground rap that probably not even half of Korea knew existed. The digital pen scribbled across the screen in quick, careless strokes, yet full of energy — as if it were impossible to keep her ideas trapped inside.

The oversized shirt slipped off one shoulder, the shorts underneath nearly invisible beneath the fabric, and by the looks of it, Zoey had already adapted to the dorm better than any welcome manual could suggest. The bed by the window had been her obvious choice — the sun poured across it in golden beams each morning, and the view of the central campus gave her the feeling of truly living inside a dream that had seemed unreachable just a few months ago. The price, the strain of the scholarship, the sleepless nights… all of it was worth it just to be there.

So deeply lost in her own world, she didn’t notice when the door opened. Didn’t notice the tall shadow cast across the room’s floor. Didn’t catch the critical, almost bored stare of the woman who had just walked in. Mira.

“...Hi?” The deep voice sounded. Silence.

Zoey kept absentmindedly murmuring along to the beat of her song.

“Hello?” Mira pressed, her voice now lined with impatience. Nothing.

The redhead let out an exasperated sigh, rolling her eyes before tossing her bag onto the other bed — the one farthest from the window, wrapped in the comfortable shade of the wall. At least they wouldn’t have to fight over sunlight. She dropped onto the mattress with force, the air wheezing out in a sharp thud. That sound, at least, shattered Zoey’s sonic bubble.

The girl jolted, pulling her headphones off. She looked sideways — and froze.

At the room’s entrance stood… someone. Someone who looked as if she had walked out of a university fashion magazine: tall, salmon-red hair gleaming under the lamp’s reflection, round golden-rimmed glasses, blasé expression like her very existence challenged the entire world. For an instant,

Zoey felt the freckles on her cheeks burn hot, her brain short-circuiting.

“Eo… eo… jo-eun achim?” she stammered, tripping over each syllable. The pronunciation came out so clumsy that she wasn’t even sure she’d said anything intelligible.

Mira pinched the bridge of her nose, the automatic gesture of someone reaching for patience in a place where it didn’t exist.

“I can speak English, you know?” The deep voice landed like a verdict. “I’m not the most fluent in the world, but I bet I know more English than you know Korean.”

Zoey’s eyes lit up like fireworks.

“Oh, thank God…” She let out a nervous laugh, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear — and only then did Mira notice the streak of green tied into one of her buns, a tiny burst of colorful rebellion. It was, she admitted silently, almost cute.

“Sorry for not, you know… noticing you earlier. I was just so distracted and— well, whatever! What’s your name?” She straightened up, suddenly eager. “I’m Zoey. Nice to meet you!”

“Mira.” That was all she said. The name lingered in the air, heavy, clipped. But Zoey only smiled wider, as if she’d just been handed the key to a mystery barely beginning to unfold. The girl still clutched her tablet to her chest like a shield, grinning ear to ear. Mira, on the other hand, was already sprawled on the darker bed, wearing the look of someone who had dragged herself across half the city only to now deal with a roommate straight out of an ad for contagious joy.

“So… Mira, huh?” Zoey’s voice was clear, almost musical. “Pretty name. Short, sophisticated, easy to remember.”

Mira cracked one eye open at her. “Hm.”

Zoey laughed to herself. “You’re the type who answers with monosyllables until you decide someone’s worth the energy, huh?”

“Maybe you’re smart enough to figure that out quickly.” Mira’s voice dragged in her throat.

“Wow. Straightforward. I like it.” The tone was teasing, playful. If she could’ve been embarrassed talking to someone that stunning, well… she’d just make up for it with her inability to stay quiet for more than three minutes.

Mira sighed, but the tiniest trace of irony pulled at the corner of her mouth. Zoey seized the chance and pressed further.

“What’s your major? I’m betting something fancy — you totally look like that, like genetic engineering or… astrophysics!”

“Biomedicine.”

“Ta-daaaa…” Zoey made a trumpet sound with her mouth. “Hero of the modern world, huh? Bet you read… I don’t know, medicine leaflets for fun!”

“And you look like the kind of person who makes up bad nicknames for people five minutes after meeting them.”

Zoey burst out laughing. “Fair. But hey, it’s part of my charm, can’t help it.”

The redhead rolled her eyes, but seemed less inclined to ignore her now.

“I’m Environmental Sciences,” Zoey announced proudly, almost sitting up straighter like she was giving an interview.

“The cool side of science, you know? Ocean preservation, forests, saving the planet from global warming… picking up trash on beaches on Mondays, that kind of thing…”

“Good luck with that.”

“Thanks. I’ll need it.” She smirked, chewing on the end of her pen.

“But it’s kinda weird, right? Us being in the same room. Different majors, different departments… How does Honmoon even decide this stuff?”

Mira pushed her glasses up her nose. “Probably to encourage interdepartmental living. Academic diversity. All those pretty things that look good in the university brochure.”

Zoey almost fell off the bed laughing. “Wow, said the girl who’s clearly read the whole brochure.”

“I didn’t read it. I deduced it. Fundamental difference. Seems kind of obvious to me. An international institution like this? It has to look way more impressive than it already is.”

“You sound so confident about that, Sherlock Holmes of...Biomedicine.”

“...Freckled Watson.”

Zoey clutched her nose, feigning shock. “Hey, now that’s personal!”

They both laughed, each in their own way: Mira quiet, Zoey loud. A silence settled — brief, before Zoey shattered it again.

“The room’s nice though, huh? Spacious, good view. I took the window bed because I love sunlight. You ended up on the dark side, but… suits your mysterious vibe.”

“I didn’t mind it. Not the biggest fan of brightness… and I don’t have that mysterious vibe you keep saying.”

Zoey narrowed her eyes, studying her as if she’d just uncovered a riddle.

“Of course you do. You look like some kind of shadow elf with that face of someone who hates ninety percent of humanity…”

“Ninety-two.”

“See? You’ve even got your own statistics. Mysterious and mathematical.”

Mira tried to hide the smile, but failed. Zoey cheered as if she’d just scored a point. Her eyes ran once more over Mira’s clothes — a little too stylish for someone’s first day at university, really.

“Speaking of style…” Zoey tugged at her oversized shirt.

“This one was my dad’s. Stole it before I left. Comfortable clothes are my freshman uniform.”

It was a gray shirt, with the university logo and the graduating class year — 1998.

“Well, at least you look comfortable.”

“Comfort is sexy, said me, myself, and I.” she declared triumphantly, raising her arms as if proclaiming a universal law.

Mira studied her for a moment, still calculating if it was worth engaging. But she couldn’t help it: she shifted, leaning on her elbow, and finally called her by name.

“Zoey.”

“Yes, my charmingly grumpy roommate?” Zoey’s boundless lack of filter was so disarming that even someone with a hardened mask might allow themselves to slip a little.

Mira let out a low chuckle, sinking deeper into the pillows. “I just hope you don’t drive me crazier than I already am — or crazier than my workload will.”

“Ha! Now that’s a challenge. You’ve asked the wrong person…” Zoey shot back, winking.

• ★ •

The first week was all about adaptation — and, honestly, damn necessary. Zoey had a terrible sense of direction and had to turn her notebooks into living maps: arrows, curves, “turn here,” “don’t get lost, idiot,” lists of shortcuts through that freaking university that felt more like a city of nerds than a campus. Between one building and another, she memorized landmarks: the boring scientist statue in the plaza, the café with its permanent cinnamon smell, the glass corridor that led straight to the soil lab. All noted. All scribbled. All to avoid walking in circles.

Her first class was Applied Ecology. Pure joy. But, damn, also a punch of demand. The professor was way too perfect, neat to the bone, the academic and moral ruler of the course personified. Blazer without a wrinkle, schedule without gaps, bibliography without mercy. So perfect that Zoey, during the break, almost apologized for her own incompetence in advance. She already had an indecent pile of books to read for just that one subject. “Breathe, you wanted this,” she reminded herself, laughing alone as she crossed the hallway.

In the university cafeteria, the air was like a fairground: trays clattering, people speaking loudly in who-knows-how-many languages, steam rising from the restaurant chimneys. Zoey waved at classmates, dodged a line that seemed to start and end in nothing, and headed for the table she had agreed on with Mira.

The taller woman was, in fact, a surprise. Stern in demeanor, her gaze carried weight, but it suited her perfectly. The right contrast: where Zoey exploded, Mira condensed; where one jumped in headfirst, the other measured. They had plenty in common and, at the same time, seemed to live in opposite poles — complementary and juxtaposed, never oppressive or adversarial.

Mira had been genuinely shocked to learn about the skateboarding championships: Zoey had flirted with the world circuit until an injury in her right knee cut the line. Zoey, in turn, lit up when Mira talked, without hesitation, about gender identity, expression, and the pleasure of drag performance.

Zoey considered herself queer, still figuring out exactly how far that reached her entirely; having a roommate so immersed in that universe opened a window for her.

Age? Different, but without drama: Zoey was 19, Mira 22. Religion? Zoey agnostic; Mira, close to her grandmother’s shamanic traditions. Taste buds? Zoey weak for spice and too much seasoning; Mira a devotee of excess, happy to pile up so many condiments the “original flavor” became a philosophical concept. And still, it all worked.

Zoey dropped her bag on the chair with a soft thud, just enough to pull the redhead out of her phone trance. “Did you get the Kimchi Jjiage?” she murmured.

Mira lifted her gaze, impassive, “What, you don’t like it?”

“Uh… today’s options aren’t really calling me. I think I’ll go for the vegetarian one.”

“It’s Jeyuk Bokkeum made with soy protein,” came Mira’s reply, eyes back on the screen. Zoey rolled her eyes, teasing, “You’re really gonna handle the spice?”

“Hey! It’s not that much, okay? I… I can take it.”

Mira chuckled softly, shaking her head. “I think it’s smarter for you to grab food at one of the canteens.”

“Uh, I’m way too lazy for that.” Zoey stood, but stopped when she noticed Mira still glued to her phone, ignoring her own tray. “What’s got your attention so bad?”

A short pause. Mira gave in, “Romance told me some research labs are open to freshmen. They post specific slots for us.”

“Oh… Romance is that senior of yours, right? The one with the weird hair?”

“Yeah. That one. He’s from the Saja group.”

“What a weird-ass name, huh?”

“Totally.”

Zoey tilted her head, asking for more, “…and then?”

“I think I’m gonna apply to one. They’re going to use the grades from the first round of tests to select people. If your grade is really good, it can even be paid.”

“Oh. Part of the tuition money coming back to you? Academic cashback, huh?”

Mira rolled her eyes, undone by the joke, “Yeah. You could say that… And you, are you gonna try for one?”

“Ah… I don’t know. I don’t deal well with overloaded routines. But… I’ll check it out later.”

“Cool. If I were you, though, I’d go grab food before you end up with the stuff scraped from the bottom of the pan.” The line came sharp, surgical. Zoey groaned, remembering her lunch as if the world was scolding her for being late.

“Damn it,” she muttered, standing for real this time. She joined the line, her mind drifting, hypnotized by steaming pans, signs with names she still stumbled to read. In the buffet display, the deep red of chili glowed like a warning; to the right, the vegetarian section promised mercy. Zoey made her cautious selection, her tongue already burning at the thought.

On the way back, the cafeteria was still its good chaos: people laughing, cutlery clattering, debates about exams and hackathons and seminars.

Mira was still at the table, posture relaxed, phone turned face-down now, which, by her standards, was a sign of consideration. Zoey set down her tray, sniffed her food with suspicion, and sat.

“Look at this,” she pointed at the plate. “Civil, peaceful, no crimes against my taste buds.”

“Weak,” Mira judged, far too serious to be entirely serious. “But worthy.”

“If I survive the semester, we’ll talk about training my tolerance,” Zoey shrugged, picking up her jeotgarak. “For now, let me be a proud coward.”

They ate for a while in silence. Not the awkward kind, but the between-acts kind. Zoey glanced out the window: sunlight cut through the central courtyard, tracing students across the grass. The whole university seemed to vibrate to its own rhythm.

“Saja,” Zoey repeated, circling back. “What does that group do?”

“Hardcore biomed. Applied research. They’ve got lines on cell culture and tissue engineering… and some crazy stuff with biomaterials—” Mira’s eyes gleamed just enough to betray real interest. “Romance said the screening is tough.”

“You like those challenges that humiliate freshmen?”

“I like what’s serious. And what pays,” she replied, dry, unapologetic.

“Uh-huh. Academic cashback,” Zoey bit into a tofu piece, satisfied. “Maybe I’ll look for something with fieldwork and water. If it’s pure lab work, I’ll faint.”

“You won’t faint,” Mira said, like passing judgment. “At most, you’ll complain and make jokes. Then you’ll do it your way.”

Zoey smiled. It was exactly what she needed to hear, without having to ask: someone who didn’t treat her lightness as childish, but as a method.

“By the way,” Zoey poked at the subject she loved to tease, “does your drag have a name?” 

Mira set down her jeotgarak, the corner of her mouth tugging upward. “It does. But you’ll only know after the first test. Academic merit before gossip.”

“Cruel…”

“I’d say fair and provocative.”

They laughed. Zoey pointed at Mira’s plate, “That’s a crime against the tongue.”

“This is life,” the redhead countered, glorious in excess. “And before you ask: yes, I taste every spice. All of them at once. That’s the point.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And you’re noisy.”

And still, it worked. The word settled between them as confirmation. The age gap that could’ve become hierarchy turned into care. The beliefs that could’ve created distance turned into curiosity. The palate that could’ve sparked war turned into an inside joke. The university cafeteria became their shared ground.

“By the way… I know I said I wouldn’t, but today, if there’s time, you can show me that lab notice.”

“I will. And you hand me that crappy shortcut map of yours. I don’t wanna become a wandering ghost around here.”

Zoey winked, proud, “Don’t get lost, idiot — shared version. Deal.”

She leaned forward, blew on her still-hot food, and thought — not out loud, but with the same clarity — about all the things she would have to invest in. Adulthood is built on sacrifices and hasty positions, after all.

• ★ •

Mira had already gone to sleep — of course she had. She had the best sleep routine between the two of them, almost military, an infallible inner clock that made her crash at the same hour every night and wake up with the same energy. Zoey, on the other hand, was wide awake, wrapped in an old hoodie, the laptop screen casting light on her tired face. Her eyes burned, but she couldn’t stop reading.

The call for freshman laboratory programs was open in front of her. An endless list of names, most of them sounding way too grand: Saja, Nuri, Horizon, Haneul, Byeol. Each group tied to heavy research lines, with cold, technical descriptions. But there was one that made her hold her breath: Sunlight.

It wasn’t just another lab. It was the lab. The place where her father had worked, where he met her mother. Where part of her own story began. And, more than that, where one of the most brilliant researchers she had ever read — Ryu Miyeong — had developed her ideas. The woman hadn’t just studied ecology: she had placed culture and collective memory as a vital part of environmental preservation, defending the environment as humanity’s heritage. For Zoey, that was surreal. Humanity’s heritage. Not just forests, not just rivers. It was history, it was people, it was life in multiple layers.

Zoey sat there, chin resting on her hand, soaking up every line of the call. The lab felt untouchable, but for the first time since stepping into university, she felt like there was something worth chasing all the way. All she needed was simple — at least on paper: do well in the first two months of the semester, flawless grades, no stumbles. It looked like it all came down to discipline. Looked like.

• ★ •

And so, Zoey dove in.

Two months of a routine she never imagined she’d agree to for herself. She, who hated rigid schedules, had to build a bare minimum of discipline: wake up earlier, even unwillingly, scribble daily goals on post-its stuck to the wall, review readings before bed. Sometimes it was ridiculous — reading at the university cafeteria while chewing in a rush, or balancing notebooks on her skateboard while waiting for friends to finish a conversation.

She spent countless nights flipping through pages highlighted in green and blue, her personal code colors: green for “this is definitely on the test” and blue for “this is brilliant, never forget.” The dorm turned into chaos: piles of books on ecology and applied chemistry, highlighters cracked open on the desk, cold coffee cans discreetly stacked beside the laptop. Mira grumbled sometimes, complaining about the glow of the screen or the noise of the keys, but always ended up turning to the side and falling back asleep.

Zoey tried, on some days, to find balance: stepping outside for air in the courtyard, carrying her notebook and pretending the sun helped her memorize formulas. Sometimes she caught herself laughing alone at absurd things her professors said, other times she nearly cried staring at a spreadsheet of results that made zero sense. But with time, she noticed something: she was getting faster. Understanding came easier. Her memory seemed to work hand in hand with her excitement.

And deep down, there was always that image: the name Sunlight shining like a beacon in her head. Every reading, every summary, every sleepless night was a step toward that place that tied together personal history, scientific admiration, and something she couldn’t quite explain, but called destiny.

By the end of those two months, Zoey wasn’t the same girl who had gotten lost in the university hallways. She still got lost — inevitably, her sense of direction was still terrible. But now she knew exactly where she wanted to go.

• ★ •

The morning broke heavy. It was as if the entire campus had been holding its breath since the night before — every corner, every hallway, every classroom echoing a silence that only existed on result days. Students avoided looking at each other for too long, everyone pretending at normalcy, but the tension was palpable, like electricity in the air.

Zoey had barely slept. She’d spent the night tossing in bed, compulsively refreshing the results page on her laptop, even knowing the announcement wouldn’t come until late morning. Her heart beat out of rhythm, as if every passing minute was an intolerable delay. Each time she looked at her roommate sleeping peacefully, she felt a mixture of envy and tenderness. Mira had that irritating calm — or at least, she seemed to.

But the truth was that Mira was at her limit too. The past weeks had been a marathon of exams and readings, and though she tried hard to keep a steady face, the redhead caught herself biting at her nail or adjusting her glasses more often than she’d admit. When they left the room that morning, they barely exchanged words. It was as if the weight of the moment had stolen speech itself.

The university cafeteria, usually noisy, was strangely quiet. A few students whispered, others stared at their phone screens with furrowed brows, all waiting. Zoey and Mira sat side by side, but no conversation came. Only waiting. Time dragged on, cruel, until a notification popped into both of their inboxes at the same moment, stamped with Honmoon’s official seal.

That was when their eyes met. Intense. Unwavering. A mirror of expectation, fear, and hope. Neither spoke for a few seconds. They just opened the email together, hands trembling, breath caught.

And then — as if the universe had rehearsed the moment — they both spoke at once, in a perfect, almost disbelieving unison:

“I got into Sunlight!”

The shock of their echo made both of them widen their eyes, and for a second they didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or scream. Zoey was the first to burst into laughter — nervous, almost hysterical, covering her mouth with her hand. Mira followed right after, but her laugh carried a depth of relief, as if a crushing weight had finally fallen from her shoulders.

Without thinking, they hugged tightly — an unexpected, warm embrace that overflowed with everything they hadn’t said in the past weeks. The effort, the tension, the sleepless nights. Fate now seemed to bind them in a way impossible to ignore.

“W-w-wait, I thought you applied to Saja!” Zoey said, wiping away a tear she hadn’t even realized had escaped.

“I ended up finding Sunlight more interesting… and… well, I saw your name on the participant sheet. I think that gave me a little push too.” The taller girl admitted, a sweetness in her voice that made Zoey’s smile widen even more — as if that were possible.

Their college lives had already been far from normal. But in that moment, as they repeated the same triumph together, they understood: from now on, nothing would be just coincidence.

Chapter Text

The alarm went off — 4:30 a.m. An ungrateful hour for almost everyone, too early for most urban workers and too late for those unlucky few who hadn’t yet laid their heads on the pillow. For Celine, however, it was the precise balance between discipline and necessity: perfect.

She rose with the precision of someone who wasted no movement. Her stretch was almost methodical, the arc of her spine cracking in a calculated rhythm, shoulder blades drawing steady lines beneath pale skin. There was something performative, almost athletic, in every gesture. If a spectator had been there, they might have sworn they were watching an Olympic gymnast warming up. But there was no audience — only the disciplined silence of her apartment, broken by the soft tick-tock of a wall clock.

First, her right foot touched the cold floor. The certainty of always choosing the correct side. Then the left, the assurance that any path could be traced, even through depths. Celine kept discreet superstitions, applied almost scientifically — not as naïve belief, but as mental programming rituals. Patterns which, when repeated, guaranteed control.

She stood in a single impulse, relying only on the strength of her legs and hips. Never her hands, never outside support. A silent reminder of her own independence: she needed no help to rise, no momentum beyond what lived inside her. That detail, seemingly banal, was a private creed. A nonverbal manifesto, renewed each morning like prayer.

She moved to the bathroom. The black marble floor reflected her long silhouette like glass. When she switched on the light, her eyes narrowed briefly but quickly adapted to the clinical glare, unhesitant. She looked at her reflection with the same detachment she would a scalpel blade: objective, pitiless, uncompromising.

She brushed her teeth in counted motions, unhurried but waste-free. Thirty-two strokes for the upper arch, thirty-two for the lower. No less. She washed her face with near-icy water, letting her skin flinch at the shock. The thermal jolt woke her more than any coffee ever could. Her hair, long and black as spilled ink, was pulled into a tight bun with no loose strands. Each morning began with this containment ritual: no disorder permitted in the body, no disorder tolerated in the mind.

From the bathroom, she walked to the kitchen. The space was austere, immaculately clean, almost inhospitable. No magnets on the fridge, no pictures, no plants. Only smooth, ordered surfaces, as if every object belonged to a laboratory. The coffeemaker had been prepared the night before — another reminder of efficiency. A single press of a button and the bitter aroma began to fill the air. While it brewed, she opened the fridge and took out two clear containers: egg whites and pre-cut vegetables. She mixed them in a nonstick pan with just a thread of olive oil. The coffee finished dripping at the exact moment she flipped the omelet in a swift, unhesitant motion.

Celine did not eat for appetite, nor for tradition. She ate as one fuels a machine. Nutrition was calculation, energy an equation. Three eggs, half a cup of spinach, one thin slice of whole-grain bread. Nothing more, nothing outside the plan. She chewed in silence, undistracted, eyes fixed on the bare wall ahead. Thoughts came, but they were sifted as though through a microscopic mesh: anything noisy, discarded.

Meal finished, she washed the dishes immediately. She never left plates to pile up, never postponed simple tasks. Discipline in small things, she believed, was the cement that upheld the great.

Then came exercise. A full hour of functional training in her improvised living room gym: mat, dumbbells, pull-up bar. She needed no fitness center; her body had long since learned to obey under any circumstance. Sweat rose quickly, sliding down her collarbones, darkening her fitted shirt. Squats, push-ups, planks timed to the second. Every drop that hit the floor was wiped away instantly, as if even her sweat could not be allowed to leave unwanted marks.

When the session ended, she returned to the bathroom. Cold shower, nonnegotiable. Celine faced the freezing water as punishment and baptism. Each morning was a trial, a reaffirmation that she could still endure. Still resist.

Back in her room, she dressed with her signature precision: gray tailored trousers, crisp white shirt, black blazer. No excess color, no superfluous adornment. Only a discreet metal wristwatch, her father’s gift. Hair in the same tight bun, thin-framed glasses aligned to perfection.

Appearance complete, she turned to her desk. Three notebooks lay there. The first: scientific notes. The second: tasks and appointments. The third: more enigmatic, filled only with fragments — ideas, impossible equations, memories. It was in this last one that, from time to time, a single name appeared scribbled in the margins: Miyeong.

Celine opened the first notebook and reviewed the previous night’s notes. Her eyes raced across formulas as if absorption cost no effort. The pen tip slid in corrections and additions, never smudging, never hesitating. Finished, she set it aside, opened the second, and scanned her schedule.

Meetings at eight. Report reviews at ten. Experiment supervision at two. Each block of time set, no space for improvisation. And yet, always a silent margin, reserved for what no one else knew: her private research. The true core of her routine.

She drank the last sip of coffee — cold now, but still as bitter as it should be. Eyes closed for a moment, deep breath in. When she opened them again, she was ready. No distraction. No doubt.

Her morning ritual, every gesture, every movement, was not merely efficiency. It was armor against the world’s chaos. It was how she stayed whole, even after everything she had lost. Each day, she sharpened herself anew, like a fresh blade: hard, cold, ready to cut. And as she glanced once more at the clock — now exactly 6:00 — Celine allowed herself the faintest smile, short, almost imperceptible. She was right on time. She always was.

• ★ •

The city was still half-asleep when Celine stepped outside. The morning air carried that damp freshness, its pollution disguised by the breeze. Most buildings still rested in bluish shadow, but she walked with firm, almost military strides, as if always one step ahead of time itself.

The route to Honmoon held no trace of wonder anymore. The campus’s grandeur, its mirrored buildings, its wide corridors connecting entire wings — none of it stirred in her even a flicker of awe. For freshmen, it was a modern temple of knowledge; for Celine, it was façade. The University was only the gleaming shell that concealed, somewhere forgotten in its undergrounds, what truly mattered.

She crossed through the main gate, ignoring perfunctory greetings and bright smiles from younger students. The low heels of her shoes struck the polished floor in rhythmic clicks, a perfect metronome. No chatter, no distractions. Only the path to the deactivated wing, an old structure marked with perpetual under maintenance signs — a place no one dared enter, except her.

Celine passed through a side door lined with abandoned lockers. Down dark staircases, through damp corridors, the scent of rust heavy in the air. But all that was just passage. A few more meters, and the hall opened into something else: her private laboratory, sculpted over decades — cutting-edge technology. A silent, almost surgical space of white walls and polished steel, broken only by the low hum of ventilation systems.

This was her real life. This was her. At the center, Rumi sat.

Not lying down, but upright on the cushioned structure that served as her containment bed. Three months of existence, and already a being that refused any human category. The body grew with abnormal perfection: defined muscles, strong joints, pale skin veined with violet tracings like artistic brushstrokes. Hair thick and of shifting hue tumbled over her shoulders, recalling Mi-yeong’s shadow for an instant — only to deny it the next, asserting itself as something singular.

And the eyes — those eyes — still the same as at the instant of her birth. One, a warm natural brown; the other, a vivid, electric gold. Sometimes Celine swore that golden eye pulsed like a reactor, charged with its own energy.

“Good morning, Rumi,” she said, her voice controlled — but softened in a way she used for no one else.

The creature tilted her head, the gesture both mechanical and rawly curious. No reply in words. Not yet.

Celine moved with efficiency to the side counter. She began preparing the protein porridge that served as Rumi’s main meal. The blend was precise: isolated proteins, essential amino acids, vitamins in surgical doses. No flavor, no pleasure in eating. It was only fuel. Just as Celine treated herself, so she programmed Rumi: functionality before anything else.

As the thick liquid spun in the mixer, she arranged the morning’s program. Stacks of materials were ready — reading blocks, cognitive exercise sheets, tables of visual memory drills and logic puzzles. Celine laid them out on the smaller metal desk, ordered by calendar.

Today would be intense: after the meal, a series of motor coordination tests, followed by advanced logic challenges, and in the afternoon, another round of sensor-based trials.

She breathed deeply. Three months, and Rumi had already surpassed any human in raw strength, physical endurance, and factual learning capacity. Formidable. If she wished, she could outmatch the best athletes on the planet, top academic trials with ease.

But the essential part was missing.

Celine watched Rumi take the food container in steady hands, expressionless. No trace of will, of pleasure, of distaste. Only the automatic execution of instruction. She ate in silence, like a programmed machine.

A familiar tightness closed around Celine’s chest. What she had created was brilliant, yes — but still hollow. No spark of soul, no flash of individuality. It was like beholding a flawless painting, drained of color.

She pressed her fingers against the bridge of her nose, chasing off the intrusive thought. She couldn’t afford weakness. She knew this was the hardest step: muscles were not hard to engineer, nor was encoding cells for regeneration — any of that surreal genetics would dazzle scientists. But shaping what humans called the self? That was the impossible frontier.

Still, as Rumi’s mismatched eyes lingered on her for a few seconds — brown, gold — Celine felt she was close. So close.

If Mi-yeong could not be brought back, if she could not be rebuilt from nothing, then at least Celine could leave behind a legacy. A being stronger, quicker, more resilient. Not fragile as Mimi had been against a cruel, unpredictable world. Not a sun, but a star — still a light against the dark.

“Today we’ll have more exercises,” Celine murmured, almost to herself. “You’ll learn more. You like that, don’t you? You always achieve excellent results.”

Rumi tilted her head again, eyes steady, but silent.

Celine turned back to the papers, her hand gliding over the task list. The conflict throbbed beneath: What was she doing? Ethics? Love? Reason? Why did it all feel uncontrollable when resting in her own hands? Everything tangled into a dense soup she dared not taste fully.

But in the end, only the next step mattered. Only continuing.

She adjusted her glasses and looked up again. “We’ll begin… but first…” She opened a cabinet of Rumi’s care items and pulled out a hair ribbon.

Every morning before tests, Celine tied Rumi’s hair. Almost an intimate ritual, though wrapped in objectivity. The thick, violet strands — always that unexpected hue, never part of the design — slid easily through her fingers as she pulled them back, braiding firmly into the long traditional plait Mi-yeong had once worn. The loose front locks, left on purpose, framed the creature’s face softly, almost human.

Celine seldom allowed herself to feel, but in those moments discomfort was unavoidable. To see that braid — the same style, the same daily care she’d given Mimi countless times — and then confront the contrast of purplish veins beneath pale skin, of asymmetrical eyes no human could possess. It was like playing with the spectrum between familiarity and estrangement, memory and invention.

“Perfect,” she whispered, adjusting the braid over Rumi’s shoulder. The creature stayed still, blinking slowly, obedient. Heaven, it wasn’t perfect — why did she let herself lie?

The first test was reaction. The auxiliary lab was set with motion sensors and mechanical arms programmed to launch objects at random trajectories. Celine keyed commands into the panel, and cylinders began firing rubber balls at varying speeds and angles.

Rumi moved. Fast. Strong. Muscles flexed beneath her skin, coordination precise. She caught one, dodged another, stepped back to calculate spacing. Every motion was near flawless — but flawless without expression. No facial shift, no spark of surprise or delight. Only stimulus-response.

“Reaction time: 0.12 seconds,” Celine recorded, eyes locked to the stopwatch. “Trajectory deviation: zero.”

She pressed her lips together, technically satisfied. But inside, frustration gnawed. Was this what she wanted? A perfect reflex machine? No. But apparently, this was what she had achieved.

She continued with strength and endurance checks — her weekly routine, ensuring stability of the synthesized body.

When the physical trials ended, she guided Rumi to the desk. The creature sat, posture erect, awaiting instructions. Celine handed her a clipboard with fine-motor exercises: number sequences, short phrase copying, mathematical symbols.

The pencil moved firmly in Rumi’s hand, shockingly precise for someone only three months old. Lines came out straight, controlled, almost elegant. The brain absorbed and replicated efficiently. She could imitate. She could write.

But never her own words. Never anything beyond what was given.

“Do you understand?” Celine asked, almost involuntarily, leaning close to Rumi’s face.

The mismatched eyes held hers. Brown. Gold. Nothing else — no yes, no no. She could supply formulas for Rumi to unravel step by step. But ask her to interpret? No.

What hurt most, perhaps, was the absence of voice. Three months of stimulus, training, conditioning — and Rumi had not uttered a single word. The vocal system was intact. Exams confirmed: flawless vocal cords, no structural fault. And still, silence.

A silence so heavy it made the lab itself seem to sag.

Celine knew: this was the greatest barrier. Voice was more than vibrating air in muscle — it was the bridge to personhood. Without speech, there was no organized thought expressed, no identity declared. Silence trapped Rumi as incomplete, a formidable body imprisoned in the unspoken.

“You can,” Celine whispered, her hand guiding Rumi’s over the pencil. “Try. Just… try.”

Nothing.

The hiss of ventilation filled the void the creature left.

Celine stepped back, drawing a slow breath, returning to the schedule. This was how it had to be: record, analyze, attempt again tomorrow. Objectivity. Science. Yet each unbroken silence cut her deeper, like a blade turning inside her chest.

She wanted more. Needed more.

And staring at that braid, at that face framed by soft strands, at that silence, the contrast was unbearable: Rumi was not Mimi. Not yet.

Would she ever be?

Before leaving, Celine always performed the same ritual: arranging Rumi’s space as if it were a terrarium for a rare creature. There was no affection in the gesture, only rigor and functionality.

On the table, she placed three carefully selected books: one on comparative biology, another on introductory philosophy — almost a textbook, nothing too subjective — and a work of classic literature, chosen more for density than emotion. Beside them, pens, notebooks, and precise instructions on which chapters to read and in what order.

Near the shelf, she organized folders with visual logic exercises, vocabulary cards, writing sheets. Each page was dated and coded in a system only she fully understood, as if preparing a protocol for a clinical experiment.

“Reading first, then practice,” she murmured to herself, adjusting the bookmark in the philosophy book. “One-hour gap between sessions, fifty minutes of writing, ten of rest. Repeat.”

She spoke softly, but never to Rumi. It was as if the creature could not understand verbal instructions — though she did, though she absorbed them. It was Celine who could not speak in human terms of coexistence.

In the lateral wing of the lab, she calibrated the physical training machines: treadmill set, weights arranged in ascending order, timers preprogrammed to measure endurance. A whiteboard displayed coldly written numbers: kilometers, repetitions, recovery time.

She also left the meal prepared — a protein porridge measured for calories, vitamins, and amino acids. Nothing resembling real food. Nothing with taste, smell, or pleasure. Only fuel, and for Celine, that was enough. Finally, she checked the internal cameras, monitoring readings, environmental sensors. Every piece of data was archived on her laptop, ready for pattern comparison upon her return.

Then, ready to leave, she cast one last glance at Rumi, still seated, the long braid falling over her shoulder, eyes fixed and silent. “Everything you need is here,” she said, almost mechanically. “Follow the plan. When I return, we’ll review the results.”

She closed the door behind her without realizing that, deep down, this was not care. It was confinement with the luxury of resources.

This is how Celine believed she was “creating” something — through protocols, schedules, and stacked materials. She did not perceive that, despite all the books and devices, she left Rumi alone in a silence as absolute as the absence of her own voice. But it was part of the process, right? Rumi could access the world more fully once she mastered the basics.

That is distant for now, but she will manage, won’t she?

• ★ •

Celine closed the last drawer of her private laboratory, the dry click of metal sliding into place echoing like a full stop. The wall clock, relentless, read 7:52 a.m. She still had eight minutes before needing to leave the university’s forgotten wing, but she preferred never to test the limits of her own punctuality. Being late was, to her, an absolute sin.

Before crossing the heavy door that isolated the space — her true domain, more than any official residence — she straightened her posture in front of the frosted glass reflecting her image in a nearly faded silhouette. Shoulders square, chin slightly raised, hair tied in a tight bun. A pristine lab coat, not a fold out of place, and discreet heeled shoes marking the rhythm of her discipline. There was no room for hesitation in her appearance: everything about her had to convey the same as her mind: rigor, constancy, power.

She unlocked the door with her magnetic card, the green beep sounding, and stepped across the threshold. Outside, the abandoned corridor of Honmoon felt like a parallel world. Peeling walls, flickering unmaintained lights, dusty floors. The price of invisibility: no one would suspect that behind this dead wing existed an impossible project, a creature that already surpassed the limits of science.

She inhaled deeply, leaving behind the weight of that silence. Rumi would be alone — and if all went as it should, she would not waste the time. Celine had left more than enough material to keep her occupied.

With each step she took, the layers of the university began to overlay again. First, the less trafficked corridors, still shadowed and silent. Then, the sounds multiplied: a janitor sweeping the stairs, the rhythmic noise of morning students crossing the courtyards, the distant cacophony of hundreds of voices speaking at once. Honmoon awakened like a living city, made of rhythm and hurry.

When she stepped into the central courtyard, the view hit her with its usual grandeur. The university’s monumental buildings, in glass and concrete, reflected the rising light like columns of crystal. Meticulously maintained gardens framed the wide paths, trees symmetrically planted like sentinels. There was something artificial about that perfect beauty, as if everything had been rehearsed for an eternal parade of excellence. But, after all, Honmoon was that: the ultimate showcase of science and prestige.

Celine crossed the space without slowing, never looking to the sides. Some students turned to stare, not at her beauty or immaculate lab coat — but at the aura of someone carrying a higher purpose. Everyone knew who Kang Celine was. Professor of Genetics and Applied Biotechnology, thrice Ph.D., internationally recognized researcher, head of one of the university’s most prestigious laboratories: Sunlight.

There were rumors as well. She never smiled. Her students rarely knew anything of her personal life. She was perfectionist to the point of cruelty. But Sunlight had renown. Working under her could open doors at any institute, in any country. For freshmen, being there was both a dream and a test of endurance.

She passed under the monumental arch leading to the dedicated research wings. There, the flow of people shifted: fewer laughs, less rush, more folders tucked under arms, laptops open, tense conversations about results, trials, hypotheses. The heart of Honmoon pulsed within, and Sunlight was right at the center: a building of pale facade, tall windows, a blue flag with the solar emblem fluttering in the wind.

Celine stopped at the entrance, slid the magnetic card, and entered. The interior was flawless: shiny floors, smooth walls with illuminated panels, the faint smell of alcohol in the air. At reception, a staff member in a black suit stood to greet her with a brief bow.

“Good morning, Professor Kang.”

She responded with nothing but a firm nod, already crossing the hall. Her steps echoed on the marble like a trademark.

The Sunlight laboratory was not just a workspace. It was a symbol. Glassed rooms revealed cutting-edge equipment: centrifuges, spectrometers, cultivation chambers. In another wing, tables organized for team meetings. On the upper floor, a private library, exclusive to the department.

Celine climbed the wide stairs, each step marked by controlled cadence. On the second floor, she entered her office. It was spacious, but without excess. Shelves full of scientific books and discreetly displayed awards. On the desk, only the essentials: a laptop, a few folders, a pen. One wall was entirely covered with digital panels connected to the lab’s central system.

She dropped a folder onto the desk, removed her coat and hung it up, sitting in the ergonomic chair, now focusing on the laboratory documentation. When she checked the clock, it read 8:43 a.m. In seventeen minutes, the first group of freshmen would enter the auditorium door.

While waiting, she opened the panel and scanned the names. About twenty selected students. Twenty young individuals who, over the coming months, would be tested not only on technical ability but on resilience. Celine did not believe in nurturing. She believed in sculpting. And to sculpt, one needed fire.

Her eyes ran over the notes: varied courses, some in biomedicine, others in pharmacy, others still in environmental sciences. This diversity was intentional. Years ago, she herself had advocated that Sunlight should be a transdisciplinary space — and that the first filter should not be specialty, but discipline.

At exactly 9 a.m., the assistant knocked on the door. “Professor Kang, the freshmen are already in the auditorium.”

Celine stood without haste. Adjusted the lab coat over her shoulders, checked the bun in the reflection of the desk glass, and walked to the door. Her firm steps echoed through the corridors until reaching Sunlight’s central auditorium.

When she entered, the murmur ceased instantly.

Two dozen young students were there, some adjusting their glasses, others sitting upright, a few nervously biting their lips. In the back, a girl with hair tied in two buns, a streak dyed green, fidgeted with her notebook, while another, tall, red-haired, with round glasses, stared at the floor with restrained disdain.

Celine climbed the podium. She did not smile. She didn’t need to.

“Welcome to Sunlight.” Her deep voice carried through the microphone. Clear, direct, without embellishment. “This is not an ordinary study space. It is a research space. And here, research means discipline, dedication, and absolute precision.”

Her eyes swept the auditorium, lingering just a second on each face. The students shrank, as if she could read their thoughts. And she would, if necessary.

All for perfection.

• ★ •

Zoey’s alarm went off first — a poorly chosen electronic tune, loud enough to annoy any roommate within a two-room radius. Mira rolled over in bed, mumbling something incomprehensible, while Zoey was already sitting up, her hair a mess of crooked buns, blinking repeatedly as if the world was far too bright to face at half past six in the morning.

“Today’s the day,” she murmured, her hoarse, sleepy voice carrying an almost electric vibration. The phrase wasn’t just for herself, but for Mira as well, who still had half her body buried under the duvet.

Mira raised an eyebrow, her glasses sliding slightly down her nose, and replied with an irritating calm “I know. You said that like ten times before going to sleep last night.”

Zoey made a face but didn’t respond — she was already busy drawing back the curtain. The morning light flooded room 733, gilding the white walls and revealing the small, organized chaos the two had built in less than two months of living together. Piles of books in Mira’s corner, notebooks scribbled in a mix of English and Korean on Zoey’s desk, two forgotten mugs with traces of coffee, and a shirt of Mira’s that Zoey had “borrowed” and never returned.

Getting up early had never been a problem for Mira. She preferred silent rituals: bathroom, cold water on the face, hair tied up, clothes chosen with precision. Zoey, however, seemed to vibrate on a different frequency, stumbling around the room in loose shorts and a crumpled t-shirt, humming a low rap refrain Mira didn’t recognize — yet it had already embedded itself stubbornly in her head.

Zoey was so excited she almost forgot to swap her headphones for her sneakers. “Wanna grab something to eat before we go? I don’t want to faint from excitement in the middle of the auditorium.”

“You always have an excuse to eat,” Mira replied, adjusting the lab coat she had folded over her arm, just to give the first impression of seriousness when necessary.

“Hey, I’m a frustrated athlete; my metabolism still thinks I train six hours a day,” Zoey laughed, grabbing her bag and tossing the tablet inside without a care.

They left the dorm together, the campus already alive with movement. Students crossed the alleys with hurried steps, others clustered around outdoor tables, open books, coffee cups everywhere. The morning air in Seoul carried a biting chill but also an infectious energy — the kind of vibration only found in places where the future seemed to start with every next step.

They made their way to the university cafeteria, and the sight alone left Zoey wide-eyed. The place looked more like a central station at rush hour: trays moving back and forth, voices in multiple languages, the mingled aroma of food and fresh coffee.

“Oh my god… this chaos is too beautiful,” she commented, picking up her tray.

Mira, as practical as always, was already in the correct line. “You’re gonna want an Americano, right? Since you still haven’t learned how to eat a typical breakfast here.”

“You know me too well,” Zoey said, winking as she filled her cup with orange juice. “And you? Starting your day with some weird soup and three kinds of chili?”

“Kimchi Jjigae,” Mira replied without hesitation. “The only thing that really wakes up your brain.”

They found a table by the window, overlooking the bustling heart of the campus. Zoey leaned on the ledge, eyes shining. “Do you realize, Mira? Today we’re going to see Sunlight. The lab. The lab! My dad talked about this place like it was a legend. He said any research done there really made an impact on the world. And now… we’re going there.”

Mira blew on her spoonful of soup, serious, but a spark flickered in her eyes. “Yeah. Honmoon’s most prestigious lab. And with the most feared professor too.”

“Do you think she’s really that scary?” Zoey asked, innocently biting her bread.

“She’s Kang Celine,” Mira said, as if the name explained everything. “Everyone knows her reputation. Cold, strict, almost impossible to please. But also… the brightest.”

Zoey rested her chin on her hands, her gaze distant. “You know, I don’t care if she’s cold. If she lets me work on projects like the ones my dad always talked about, I’ll already feel like the luckiest person on the planet.”

“And if she doesn’t?” Mira prodded, raising an eyebrow.

“Then I’ll pester her with questions and ideas so much she’ll have no choice but to give me a chance,” Zoey said, laughing at her own audacity.

Mira sighed but couldn’t hide a discreet smile.

They finished breakfast quickly, Zoey’s excitement practically speeding up time. When they stood, the clock read 8:40. The moment was approaching.

They followed the path toward the Sunlight building. The weight of the moment was palpable. With every step, the architecture seemed to grow: corridors widening, buildings taller, colors cleaner and colder. In the distance, the lab’s white, luminous facade, with its sun emblem emblazoned like a crest.

Zoey paused for a moment, grabbing Mira by the arm. “Look at this. It’s like… I don’t know. Walking into the Olympus of science.”

“Don’t get carried away,” Mira replied, though her eyes were also fixed on the building.

But when they passed under the entrance arch, together, something shifted. The environment silenced itself in their minds. It was as if the glass walls, sterilized corridors, and metallic gleam of every piece of equipment spoke the same message: outside, nothing matters. In here, only research exists.

And, as different as they were, Mira and Zoey felt at the same time — this would be the place that changed their lives forever.

The auditorium was already full when Mira and Zoey stepped in. There wasn’t the usual ruckus of freshmen who didn’t yet know each other; on the contrary, the space vibrated with silence, as if every breath were measured. The chairs arranged in a semicircle, the cold white walls, the Sunlight crest in gold at the back of the stage — everything exuded solemnity.

Zoey bit her lip, gripping her backpack strap as if that alone could anchor her. She whispered to Mira, leaning closer. “Wow… it’s more intimidating than I imagined.”

“It’s just an auditorium,” Mira replied, though her own spine was far too rigid to really support the idea of indifference.

Students from different departments were evident just by their attire. Some wore immaculate lab coats, others dressed casually, and a few carried badges from parallel research centers. Yet they all shared the same trait: anxious, restless eyes, as if about to witness a legend materializing before them.

The lights dimmed. The side door opened. It was as if the air itself had been ripped away. Kang Celine entered.

She didn’t need to speak to command the room. Her steps were measured, posture straight, white coat aligned like armor. Hair tied in a firm bun, skin marked by endless nights in the lab. There was an almost cruel precision in every movement — nothing superfluous, nothing diverting from purpose.

She positioned herself at the center of the stage, hands resting on the acrylic podium, and swept the auditorium with a gaze that seemed to pierce every student present. Zoey swallowed hard. Mira kept her eyes fixed on her, as if challenging the weight of that presence was the only way not to give in to nerves.

Then Celine spoke.

“Good morning, everyone.” Her deep voice echoed through the microphone. Clear, direct, without flourish. “This is not a common study space. This is a research space. And here, research means discipline, dedication, and absolute precision.”

“You are here because you stood out among hundreds. Because your grades, projects, interviews demonstrated competence and potential. But let me be clear: potential means nothing without discipline. And discipline without results has no value.”

No one dared move a muscle.

“At Sunlight, there is no room for mediocrity. No room for excuses. Each of you will be tested. Not in classroom exams, but under real research conditions, where mistakes are costly and success demands more than effort — it demands sacrifice.”

Zoey felt a shiver run down her spine. Part of her wanted to run, but another part — stubborn, alive — burned with excitement. She glanced at Mira, who, despite her composed expression, had eyes so steady they seemed to pierce Celine like blades.

“You did not come here to learn. You came to prove you deserve to remain. Many of you will not succeed. Those who do… will not be the same.” Celine let the silence linger. It was heavy, calculated, causing some students to avert their gaze, others to shift uncomfortably in their chairs. “The sun does not exist to warm individuals. It exists to sustain worlds. Be the sun. Or burn trying.”

Then, with the same calm with which she had entered, she concluded:

“Welcome to Sunlight.”

The lights came back on. Some students held their breath, others exhaled in relief. Zoey bit the corner of her mouth, whispering to Mira, “…she’s even scarier than I imagined.”

“And yet,” Mira replied, adjusting her glasses without taking her eyes off the stage, “I can’t stop respecting every word she said.”

Zoey smiled, nervous, but with her eyes shining. She was officially inside the world she had always dreamed of — and had no idea yet how far it would take her.

• ★ •

When Celine left the stage, there was no applause — no one would dare. The sound that filled the auditorium was the clipboards clacking against each other and a microphone being tested by someone taking her place.

“Good morning, everyone.” The voice was male, casual, carrying a Korean accent with a faint touch of English. It came from a short man, with a friendly face and a broad, approachable silhouette. The contrast with the previous speech was almost brutal. “I’m Bobby, a second-year master’s student here at Sunlight, and… don’t worry, I don’t bite. The one who bites is Professor Kang.”

Some laughed nervously. Others remained frozen, unsure if this was allowed.

Bobby smiled, arranged the papers on the podium, and continued. “You already know how it works: one year of adaptation. During this period, you’ll get familiar with the departments, learn the research routines, and, most importantly, prove whether you have enough discipline and performance. Those who succeed secure a permanent spot until graduation — and depending on your performance, you might even continue in postgraduate programs. Those who don’t… well, it’s simple. The exit door.”

Silence fell again.

Bobby, however, seemed genuinely at ease with everyone else’s tension. “So let’s get to the point. I’ll read the names and departments. Pay attention.”

He began calling names, one by one, assigning freshmen to different areas: phytoplankton, aquatic microbiology, heavy metal toxicology, dispersion simulations. Each designation sounded like a sentence, determining the course of months — maybe years — of each student’s life.

Zoey drummed her fingers on her thigh, impatient. When she heard her name, she nearly jumped out of her seat.

“Cho Zoey,” Bobby read, stretching the pronunciation. “Department of effluents and impact on lentic biota.”

Zoey inhaled deeply, heart racing. This was it. It was real. The same department where she had read countless articles citing her father. The same field that had made her fall in love with environmental science.

Mira gave her a sidelong glance — part evaluative, part approving. Zoey almost laughed but held herself back.

Next, it was Mira’s turn.

“Kim Mira,” Bobby announced. “Department of treatment for animals affected in lentic bodies.”

It was like a spark. They exchanged a look and didn’t need words to understand. Zoey would study the origins of the problem, pollutant discharges, and their effects on the ecological chain. Mira would handle the consequences, the impact on living organisms, the recovery efforts. Different departments, yet deeply interconnected.

Zoey raised her eyebrows, resisting the urge to nudge her friend. Mira adjusted her glasses and maintained her composed posture, though there was a glint of satisfaction in her eyes.

Bobby continued with the names, indifferent to the small moment unfolding in the audience. When he finished the list, he looked up and gave a half-smile.

“Done. Now you have your initial assignments. Work hard, don’t screw up, and remember: everything here is monitored. Effort is good, but results are what matter. You have one year to prove you belong at Sunlight.”

The auditorium began to empty, groups forming, seniors guiding the newcomers. Zoey let out a low laugh, finally nudging Mira.

“Did you notice? I’m studying the water, you’re studying the animals. It’s like… we’re two halves of the same system.”

Mira huffed but couldn’t suppress a small smile. “Don’t romanticize it. It’s hard work. We’ll have to sweat for every piece of data, every report.”

“I know,” Zoey said, eyes shining. “And I can’t wait.”

The groups were led through the corridors of Sunlight’s main building. The interior made the structure feel even larger, with its glass walls, metal staircases, and the lingering scent of disinfectant mixed with something Zoey couldn’t identify. The architecture was almost brutalist: functional to the bone, without a trace of charm. But to the freshmen, every step felt like crossing into legendary territory.

“Effluents, follow me,” announced a tall senior, her lab coat impeccable, hair tied in a neat bun. Zoey nearly tripped in her rush to keep up.

Mira was called in another direction, with a smaller group. She gave Zoey a brief nod — a short gesture, yet carrying something like complicity.

Zoey hugged her backpack to her chest and followed the group. The senior opened the door to a spacious room, where the air was heavier, humid. Rows of jars containing water samples, each numbered, filled shelves up to the ceiling. Analysis machines were arranged on benches, emitting sporadic beeps and lights.

“Welcome to the effluents department,” the senior said. “Here we deal directly with the quality of water that reaches us. These samples come from various points in lentic bodies: lakes, reservoirs, artificial ponds. You’ll learn to measure pH, dissolved oxygen, turbidity… but most importantly: you’ll learn to identify the invisible impact.”

Zoey approached a glass tank where some aquatic plants floated in slightly greenish water. Small fish swam sluggishly inside. One rose to the surface, gasping.

She swallowed hard. The books had never shown her anything this raw.

“These organisms are our first indicators,” the senior continued. “They tell us, before any graph or table does, that something is wrong. And you’ll learn to translate what they’re showing.”

A shiver ran down Zoey’s spine. The excitement was still there, buzzing under her skin — but now mixed with a sharp edge of discomfort.

Meanwhile, down another corridor, Mira followed her supervisor in silence. The animal treatment department was smaller but stifling. The antiseptic smell mingled with the odor of wet fur, and the constant hum of running machines filled the air.

On stainless steel tables, small transport boxes held animals rescued from contaminated water bodies. Birds with wings weighed down by oily substances. Turtles with shells darkened by chemical deposits. Some amphibians kept in aquariums, their sensitive skin already showing signs of necrosis.

Mira inhaled deeply, trying to maintain her composure.

“This is our work,” explained the supervisor, a young man in a lab coat with deep dark circles under his eyes. “For every water sample analyzed in the effluents department, here we see the direct consequence. It’s not theory — it’s life. The goal is to treat, rehabilitate, and release these animals back into nature whenever possible. But sometimes, it’s not enough. You need to be prepared for that.”

He opened one of the boxes and lifted out a duck, motionless, feathers clumped together, soaking wet. Gently, he began cleaning it with a warm solution. The animal didn’t react.

“It’s not glamorous. It’s not pretty. It’s hard, it’s dirty, and sometimes, it’s frustrating. But every life we manage to save is worth it.”

Mira kept her face impassive, but her heart raced inside. She had never been easily intimidated — yet the sight was striking, brutal. And still, there was a strange steadiness that anchored her.

At the end of the day, the two met in the inner courtyard, still in their lab coats, exhausted.

Zoey flopped onto a concrete bench, letting out a sigh. “Okay… I was not ready to see fish suffocating or water so dirty that diluted shit would be cleaner…”

Mira sat beside her, adjusting the strands of hair escaping her elastic. “I wasn’t ready to see a duck practically dead.” They laughed, a nervous, almost conspiratorial laugh.

Zoey rested her chin in her hands. “It’s heavy. But… I don’t know. I feel like this is exactly where I’m supposed to be.”

“Me too,” Mira said without hesitation. “It’s heavy, but it’s real.”

They stayed there, in silence for a few seconds, listening to the wind sweep across the courtyard.

• ★ •

The dormitory was quiet. The corridors, which had bustled with freshmen rushing back and forth in the morning, now held the suspended silence of a tired building. It was almost midnight, and only the distant hum of elevators betrayed any movement.

In room 733, Zoey lay on her stomach on the bed, legs swinging in the air, laptop open in front of her. Her hair, tied in two low buns, was a little undone, strands falling across her freckled face. An open bag of cookies sat beside her, already half gone.

Mira, on the other hand, was the complete opposite: sitting with her back straight, legs crossed on her own bed, still in her oversized sweatshirt. Her reddish-salmon hair fell over her shoulders, and her gold-rimmed glasses reflected the soft lamp light. While Zoey munched on cookies and laughed quietly at random videos, Mira scribbled notes in a thick notebook, her handwriting firm, organized.

“Okay, seriously,” Zoey said suddenly, mouth half full. “If I see one more fish drowning because he is unable to exchange gases, I’m going to have nightmares.”

Mira lifted her eyes from the notebook, raising an eyebrow. “You will have nightmares. That’s the fun part.”

Zoey laughed, muffling the sound with a pillow. “Fun? I nearly cried in front of the senior. And you’re telling me it’s fun?”

“Of course. It’s like… a trial by fire,” Mira replied, resting her chin on her hand. “You don’t survive this, you don’t survive Sunlight. Simple as that.”

Zoey squinted, feigning indignation. “Okay, seriously… have you ever cried in public?”

“No.”

“Ever cried in secret?”

Mira stared at her for a few seconds. Then shrugged. “...Maybe.”

Zoey smiled, as if she’d unearthed a precious secret. “Knew it. You’ve got that tough-girl act, but underneath, you’re just a little ball of sensitivity.”

“Spread that around campus, and I swear I’ll lock you out of the room.”

Zoey laughed louder, rolling on the bed until she was covered by the blanket. Her energy seemed inexhaustible, even after a long, heavy day.

“Hey, but seriously,” she said, voice softer now, “when I saw those animals today… I didn’t know if I could handle it. But then I thought… my dad worked here, you know? And now I’m here. It feels… right.”

Mira closed her notebook, setting it aside. Her expression softened slightly. “Yeah. I know what you mean. I felt that too. Like… finally being where I was meant to be. Doesn’t matter how heavy it is.”

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. It was dense but comforting, as if they shared something without needing to say much more.

Zoey broke it by grabbing another cookie. “Want one?”

Mira wrinkled her nose. “That’s pure sugar. Zero nutrients.”

“Exactly. Perfect for today.”

After a few seconds, Mira took a cookie from the bag. “Just one.”

Zoey beamed. “I’m going to write this in the calendar: Mira, queen of the seasoned salad, ate a cookie with me.”

“You’re unbearable.”

“And you like it.”

The exchange was quick, natural. Zoey hadn’t thought twice before speaking; Mira, for a moment, was speechless, just pushing her glasses slightly up her nose, a flimsy excuse to look away.

The night stretched on. Zoey closed the laptop, tossing it aside, and turned to face Mira. “So… you always wanted this? Biomedicine, animals, all that stuff?”

Mira thought for a moment. “I always wanted something that was mine. Not what my family wanted. They think rebellion is going against the system. But in a world full of hypocrites, having integrity is rebellion enough.”

Zoey studied her intently, her brown eyes lit by the soft lamp. There was an intensity in Mira that always caught her off guard.

“…you talk beautifully, you know that?”

“I talk seriously.”

“That’s what I mean,” Zoey whispered before laughing at herself.

The clock blinked 1:12 a.m. The university slept, but in room 733, two freshmen — so different in every way, so unknowingly complementary — found their own rhythm. Between cookies, confidences, and teasing, the strangeness of the first day dissolved, giving way to something new.

Chapter Text

“Zoey! Holy shit—” Mira exploded as she swung the door open and took in the disaster. Clothes piled like tiny mountains, empty bottles lined up suspiciously along the desk, post-its plastered across the wardrobe in a chaotic mosaic of deadlines and reminders no one else could decipher. Mira’s blanket lay crumpled on the floor. Zoey’s tablet, screen glowing, seemed almost self-conscious amid the mess.

They spent more time in the lab and classrooms than in their dorm anyway — expected, normal, almost mandatory in that academic madness. But there was a line between living for science and actually residing inside a set of abandoned experiments. Mira stalked the room like a crime scene investigator.

“Seriously. This looks like an experiment on chaos, entropy… applied to everyday life or something.”

Zoey lifted her eyes lazily, amused, shrugging. “Okay, okay… I get it. It’s a mess. But hey, we’re alive, right? Progress.” She spoke in a tone that mixed apology and pride. Her voice sounded small against the heap of cutlery and scattered papers.

Mira crossed her arms, forcing her tone softer than irritation. “We’re exhausted, Zoey. Can’t you see? Look at your face. Look at my hands. This isn’t just sloppiness — it’s fatigue.” She paused, studying her roommate with eyes that were softening. “We need to sleep properly. And eat something that doesn’t come from Mrs. Kim’s questionable trays or plastic bags! Christ, for an environmental scientist, you’re way too… consumerist.” She crossed her arms, striking a bit of drama. “Must be an American thing…”

Zoey blinked, a crooked smile forming. Reaction time was quick. “Then I propose something radical: Friday night, we go out. New bar near campus. Snacks, drinks, laughter from people who don’t talk pH for two hours. Sound good? Or you want a fancier restaurant? I heard the place is awesome!”

Mira hesitated — not because the idea was bad, but because she knew Zoey was the kind of person who came up with impulsive solutions. Still, the suggestion hit the right note. She bit her lip, mentally scanning the exam schedule and task list, and let out a nearly relieved sigh. “Weird for you to propose escaping the routine, but… okay. Friday. Bar. Enjoy the damn night without thinking about samples for next week. Around seven, sound good?” Her question was met with a quick nod from Zoey.

They both laughed, a short, knowing laugh. The room was still a war zone, but suddenly the mess felt less urgent. Something more pressing had emerged: the need to recharge. A simple decision, but for two young researchers at the start of their careers, it would serve as a safety valve — and a reminder not to become complicit in their own experiments.

• ★ •

Mira was finishing up at her workstation, putting the instruments away with practiced precision. She slid the slides with samples into their proper drawer, wrapped up the tweezers that would need to go for sterilization later. She pulled off her mask and tossed it in the trash. Her body moved on autopilot, each motion precise from dozens of repetitions. But her mind was glued to the large central clock on the wall.

8...7...6... — every second counted, every tick bringing her closer to five o’clock and freedom.

When the minute hand finally aligned, Mira’s exhale was as quiet as necessary. She folded her lab coat over the chair, adjusted her blouse underneath, and ran her hands quickly through her tied-up hair, already planning how she would undo it once back in the dorm. With her characteristic silent elegance, she left the lab.

Zoey was already waiting in the hallway, leaning against the wall with arms crossed. Her wide smile betrayed that she had kept her promise to escape the sector early. “Thought you’d be later, model scientist.”

Mira raised an eyebrow, the kind that gave no ammunition for teasing. “If we’re going out, I won’t be late.”

The walk to the dorm was punctuated by scattered comments about professors, deadlines, and a few inside jokes about the other freshmen. But as they stepped into the room, the energy shifted. The week’s chaotic mess was still there — the same disarray noted days before. But this time, there was a sense of anticipation that made the clutter almost irrelevant.

Mira went straight to the mirror. She tossed her backpack onto the bed, undid the haphazard bun in her hair, and shook it loose with her hands. “I’m going to need a few minutes.”

Zoey laughed, opening her own closet as if searching without much thought. “Sure, madame. The night is yours. Just don’t take an hour.”

Mira glanced sideways, trying on a small earring against her ear. “Elegance takes time.”

The preparations became a parallel ritual. Mira chose a light, flowing dress in a deep shade that highlighted her pale skin and the movement of her hair. She went with mid-heeled sandals and, as always, subtle but well-placed accessories: thin rings, a simple metallic bracelet. Her perfume was soft and sophisticated, a signature. Every gesture seemed choreographed, natural, almost rehearsed over a lifetime.

Zoey, on the other hand, was practical, though no less stylish. She picked straight-cut dark jeans, a light cropped top, and an oversized jacket that balanced the look. Her clean white sneakers added the casual vibe she favored. She applied just a touch of mascara, tied her hair into two low buns — almost a trademark now — and declared herself ready.

While Mira adjusted the strap of her dress in the mirror, Zoey was already sitting on the bed, scrolling through her phone impatiently. “Look, not gonna lie… you look like you walked out of a fashion editorial. If we hit some dive bar and everyone stares, that’s on you.”

Mira smiled, enigmatic, aware the remark was a compliment but giving no pleasure in acknowledging it outright. She just grabbed her small purse, slung it over her shoulder, and announced, “I’m ready.”

Zoey jumped up. “Then let’s go. Before you decide to change the dress one more time.”

They left the dorm side by side, the contrast of styles striking at first glance — Mira immaculate and elegant, Zoey spontaneous and urban. Yet there was a curious harmony between them, as if the opposing details blended into a shared aesthetic.

The Friday afternoon air was crisp, the campus beginning to empty, and the surrounding city pulsing with people looking for their own rest. Walking together, laughing at trivial things, it felt like they were finally keeping their promise: leaving the lab, the deadlines, and the exhaustion behind, if only for a few hours.

• ★ •

The streets near campus were bustling, but in that easy, Friday-night way. Groups of students crossed intersections, professors carried folders and slipped into unassuming cars, and a current of laughter and chatter floated through the air.

Zoey walked with her hands in her jacket pockets, steps quick and confident, while Mira maintained an upright posture, each movement measured, as if even her stride were part of her presentation to the world.

“So… madame approves of my choice?” Zoey nodded toward a newly opened bar ahead. Warm lights glowed through the windows, a sleek neon sign announced the place, and inside, the energy was lively without the chaos of the older, overcrowded spots.

Mira tilted her head slightly, assessing it like she would a painting in a gallery. “They know how to sell the idea. If the food matches the design, I might approve.”

Zoey let out a short laugh. “That’s what I love about you. You can’t just say you like something — you have to analyze it like it’s a research project.”

Mira raised an eyebrow, a half-smile tugging at her lips. “And you… would pick the place with a student discount if you could.”

“Exactly!” Zoey laughed louder, nudging Mira lightly as they stepped through the door.

The bar’s atmosphere blended modern casual with a cozy, intimate touch: light wood, hanging lamps, metal-and-upholstered tables. A living wall of plants added unexpected freshness. Music filled the space without overwhelming it — light, almost electronic beats.

Seated at a table by the window, Mira adjusted her chair carefully before crossing her legs with precision. Zoey tossed her jacket over the backrest, relaxed, already scanning the menu.

“Do we go straight for the appetizers, or do you want to start with something conceptual?” Zoey teased, eyes sparkling with excitement.

“If it’s not fried in liters of oil, I’ll be grateful.” Mira’s gaze swept over the menu, curiosity betraying her composed posture.

“Look… they’ve got vegan options. Chickpea burgers, rustic roasted potatoes, even some tapioca bites — a Brazilian-style starter. I like that, being near Honmoon, it’s super multicultural, right?”

Mira nodded, intrigued. “True. And the menu’s actually bigger than I expected. I’m surprised it isn’t packed for a new bar.”

“Well, if it were just beer and meat, you wouldn’t have agreed. So thank me.” Zoey raised her hand like she was claiming credit.

Mira took a deep breath, a small, genuine smile appearing. “Thanks, Zoey.”

With appetizers to share and light drinks — Zoey insisting on a colorful cocktail, Mira opting for a glass of wine — the conversation flowed naturally. They started with the usual: deadlines, reports, the body’s reaction to accumulated fatigue. But between bites, the tone shifted.

Zoey propped her elbow on the table, idly stirring her drink with a straw. “Ever thought about going fully vegan? You talk about it like it’s already a done deal.”

Mira wiped her lips with a napkin, lifting her eyes deliberately. “It’s about consistency. Not just diet, but ethical choice. I’m still working on adjusting my routines.”

Zoey watched with genuine interest, her teasing expression softened by the light alcohol. “I admire that. I couldn’t do it. I love fried chicken too much.”

Mira tilted her head. “Admiration is easy. Practice is the hard part.”

Zoey laughed out loud, drawing a few curious glances. She waved an apology, returning her attention to Mira. “Okay, next question. Relationships. You have ethics for that too?”

Mira blinked slowly, holding her wine glass with elegance. “I have criteria.”

“Criteria?” Zoey repeated, savoring the word. “Must be a huge list.”

“Not really. Just… selective. I don’t waste time on people who don’t add anything to my life.”

Zoey leaned closer, curious. “So, you’ve dated anyone?”

“Of course. But not as many as you’re probably imagining.”

Zoey grinned, leaning back as if she’d gained ground. “I’ve dated two idiots and one amazing girl. The idiots taught me what I don’t want. The girl… well, she taught me what I might want. Too bad it ended.”

Mira studied her for a moment, taking in more than the surface. She said nothing immediately, sipping her wine instead. “At least you learned something.”

Zoey laughed, resting her chin on her hand. “And you? What did yours teach you?”

Mira’s gaze drifted over the bar, the wine swirling slowly in her glass. “That solitude can be preferable.”

A quiet settled for a few seconds — not uncomfortable, just dense. Then Zoey broke it naturally “Well, lucky for you, you’re not alone tonight.”

Mira, glass at her lips, smiled softly. She took a small sip, then set the glass down with careful precision on the left side of the table — her dominant hand’s side.

Zoey watched every move, noting it like a reference point. She couldn’t deny it — she was completely smitten. But hearing Mira’s candid take on relationships stirred something inside her: why was she caring so much about this, anyway? Hah, it’s Mira! They were just friends… right?

Right?

Her brain felt like it was spiraling into a cyclone. The small anchor she found in the chaos was a glimpse of a pride flag near the bar’s warm yellow-lit wine cellar. That little sight clicked something into place.

“Hm… Mira, you know, there’s something you’ve owed me for a while now.”

“…And what’s that?”

“…What’s your drag name?”

Mira’s silence stretched exactly the time of another sip of wine. She set the glass back down slowly, as if every detail needed to be considered before answering. But her eyes never left Zoey — calm, almost teasing.

“Lady Huntrix.”

Zoey’s eyes went wide. She slapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh that erupted anyway — too loud for the controlled environment of the bar. A few heads turned, but she barely noticed.

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” she whispered, still laughing, bending forward. “Lady Huntrix? Huntrix?! Are you serious?!”

“It’s iconic. Classic. Respect it.” Mira kept her expression firm, though the corners of her lips betrayed a smile she tried to hide.

Zoey thumped the table, gasping between laughs. “Man, I swear, I did not see that coming. You look all… I don’t know, elegant, mysterious… and then you drop LADY HUNTRIX. Sounds like an RPG final boss mixed with a pop diva!”

“Exactly the idea.” Mira tucked a loose strand behind her ear, feigning indifference. “It’s a powerful alter ego. A persona that commands respect.”

Zoey exhaled, trying to compose herself, cheeks flushed, still laughing. “Okay, okay… I accept it. Lady Huntrix. Damn, Mira… I’m never getting over this.”

“No need. Just accept that it’s perfect.”

Zoey leaned on her hand, amused. “You should show me sometime. I want to see that version of you. Bet it’s surreal.”

Mira lifted her glass once more, the restrained smile now a challenge. “Maybe someday. When you’ve earned it.”

Zoey narrowed her eyes, still buzzing from laughter but steadying herself. “Deal. I’ll earn it.”

Inside, her heart raced faster than any joke could mask. Lady Huntrix — the persona, the mystery, the laughter sparking between them — everything accumulated into a weight she couldn’t name yet.

All she knew was she was increasingly caught in that gaze.

Mira exhaled, resting her arm on the chair’s back, as if seeking comfort to open an intimate door. The playful smile she’d flashed moments before gave way to something gentler.

“Lady Huntrix was born out of necessity, you know?” She swirled the glass slowly, watching the crimson liquid catch the bar’s golden light. “Growing up as a trans woman here… it was never simple. My parents wanted to control everything: my clothes, my behavior, even the tone of my voice. They had this fixed idea that I had to be what they expected. But I never was.”

Zoey said nothing — just bit her lip, eyes fixed, drinking in every word as if it held more power than the alcohol in her own hand.

Mira continued, voice steady and low, with a hidden thread of vulnerability. “When I created Huntrix, it was almost like… exorcising everything. Taking the femininity they said I couldn’t have and amplifying it. Exaggerated, performative, cartoonish if it had to be. But also lethal. Real. A caricature that, at its core, is as authentic as I am.”

She chuckled softly, without humor, as if hearing herself for the first time. “It’s funny. They wanted me to be ‘the man of the family,’ this grotesque joke. And I became the exact opposite: a woman who hunted down every outdated expectation and tore it apart. Their hunter. The hunter of any concept that tried to cage me.”

Zoey no longer laughed explosively. The comedic joy of the revelation had dissolved into something else: a kind of awe, almost reverence. She rested her chin on her hand, leaning in, and sighed without realizing it.

She had never doubted her own womanhood. That was never the issue. But at the same time, she had always felt that the conventions of feminine clothing and societal molds never fully fit her. She was constantly negotiating between expressing her own aesthetic and maintaining her sense of self. She could barely begin to understand what Mira had endured. The gap in experience was vast. Yet the strength radiating from Mira was impossible to ignore.

Lady Huntrix. The name that had seemed hilarious minutes ago now sounded perfect. Feminine, fierce, reinvented. An entire manifesto in a persona.

Zoey lowered her eyes briefly, disguising the smile that threatened to escape. In the end, she did the only thing she could: exhale. A long sigh, half skeptical, half surrendered, entirely enchanted.

It was so Mira. And all Zoey could think was how utterly fascinated she was.

Zoey was so lost in her own thoughts — the cascade of ideas and feelings Mira had stirred in her — that she only came back to the present when she felt a gentle poke on her arm. She blinked quickly, like waking from a half-forgotten dream, and met Mira’s amused smile.

“You’re drifting too far away, little one,” Mira said, her mouth curved in a teasing grin, her eyes twinkling.

Zoey let out an awkward laugh, shrugging. “It’s just… I found all of that so… lyrical.” Mira raised an eyebrow, skeptical, and Zoey, losing all restraint, leaned a little closer across the table. “I think I’ve said it before, but I’ll say it again: you speak so beautifully. Actually, more than that. You express yourself in such a distinct way that I could recognize something as yours even if it came out of a thousand other mouths.”

The words rolled out with Zoey’s typical naturalness, but they hit Mira like a gust of wind. The redheaded girl tried to keep her composure, but a flush spread quickly across her cheeks. She rolled her eyes, laughing nervously, and took a hurried sip from her glass to hide it.

“You really have no filter, huh?” she murmured, blushing to the tips of her ears.

“Just speaking the truth,” Zoey replied, too innocent to realize how much she was making Mira ‘uncomfortable.’

A brief silence settled, this time light, like background music no one pays attention to. Mira set her glass down again, tapping her nail lightly against the crystal, trying to regain control of the moment.

“Okay, but what about you?” she said, shifting focus. “You still haven’t told me one of your secrets either.”

Zoey blinked, surprised. “Which one?”

Mira rested her elbow on the table, leaning forward, eyes narrowing as if preparing a challenge. Then, her voice low and dripping with sarcasm — but her lips curled in a restrained smile — she asked:

“Why do you like turtles?”

Zoey tried to brush it off, but Mira raised an eyebrow, refusing to let the topic go. With a resigned sigh, Zoey set her glass down on the table and began.

“When I was a kid… I got bullied a lot. Because of how I was, my size, whatever. The only peace I ever really found was at home, with my parents. They always worked with marine animal research — and I loved tagging along.”

She paused briefly, idly fiddling with the napkin.

“One day, they got an urgent call. A turtle had been rescued, but its shell was cracked — really bad. Could have died. I was too little to stay home alone, so I went with them, all clumsy as usual.” Zoey laughed at herself, then continued in a softer tone. “There, I saw what real dedication looks like. My parents did everything to save that little creature. And the turtle — even so hurt — seemed to fight for its own life.”

She took a deep breath, as if the air itself were part of the memory.

“Since then, it became a symbol for me. Perseverance, faith… whatever. Turtles are amazing. And they always return to the same beach, like devotion or something.” She smiled, a little sheepishly. “I know, I have this habit of seeing everything like it’s poetry, music…”

Zoey scratched the back of her neck and laughed softly.

“Sometimes… I even try to write lyrics. But that’s another embarrassment.”

Mira rested her chin on her hand, leaning slightly over the table, eyes fixed on Zoey with that curious spark that always appeared when something genuinely caught her interest. “Seriously, I’d love to hear some of your songs if you ever feel like sharing,” she said, her voice low, almost shy, but firm enough to show she meant it.

Zoey blinked in surprise, glancing away for a moment, then laughed — a short, nervous laugh. “Ah, I don’t know… it’s nothing professional, you know? Just little things I write when I feel like it. More like a musical diary than anything else.”

Mira smiled, leaning in even closer. “Even so, I’d love it. Sometimes the most incredible things hide in the smallest details, things no one else would notice.”

Zoey exhaled slowly. “Okay… okay, I can show you something later. But only because you insisted.” A mischievous smile tugged at her lips.

Mira chuckled, a light, almost involuntary sound. “You know, I’ve had my phases too… dance, performances… and even now, sometimes, I feel like moving again. Not that I have time, but… when I do, I want to pick it back up. It’s a feeling of freedom, you know?”

Zoey’s eyes widened, surprised. “You dance? Like… seriously?”

“Yes,” Mira replied, leaning back in her chair with a nostalgic smile. “Ballet, a little contemporary… and some jazz too. When I was younger, I practiced every day. But academic life… well, you know how it goes.”

Zoey smiled sympathetically, leaning forward with her elbows on the table. “I totally get it. And you still have the rhythm, no doubt. I bet you can feel it when you dance, even just talking about it.”

Mira blushed slightly, looking away. “Maybe. But it’s not just about rhythm. It’s about expression, letting go. Turning every movement into something that speaks for you.”

Zoey, enchanted, raised an eyebrow. “That sounds so… lyrical. Like… you can feel things through every gesture. I might not dance, but I can imagine it.”

Mira studied her, intrigued and satisfied by the perception. “Exactly. That’s what I feel with your music too. Even if it’s not perfect, it carries something of you. It’s like we can connect to who you are without words, just through essence.”

Zoey lowered her gaze for a moment, feeling a twinge of shyness. “Wow… you really have a way of seeing things, Mira. I don’t even know how to explain it, but… it leaves me speechless.”

“You don’t need to explain,” Mira replied with a soft smile. “Just sharing is enough. Sometimes we don’t need anything more than what we already feel.”

Zoey laughed softly, tilting her head. “Okay, then let’s make a deal. I’ll show you some songs, and you tell me some dance stories. Promise not to laugh?”

Mira raised an eyebrow, smiling. “Promise. But only if you don’t laugh either.”

And so, between quiet laughs and curious glances, the conversation unfolded. They spoke about inspirations, funny moments during dance rehearsals, Zoey’s lyrics about the sea, turtles, and how small things could hold immense meaning. Every story, every confession, drew them closer in an unexpected way, building a light yet meaningful intimacy that seemed to defy the space and time of the bar around them.

The night flowed gently, the sounds of the bar blending with their voices, but inside, the world felt reduced to that table, those stories, and the simple joy of finally allowing themselves to share who they truly were, without filters or outside expectations.

“You know,” Mira said at last, lightly swirling her glass of wine, “I think we should do this more often. Really talk. No rush, no judgments.”

Zoey’s eyes lit up with excitement and complicity. “I totally agree. And next time, I’ll bring some new songs. Maybe even invent some mental dances right here, just for you to imagine.”

Mira laughed, leaning back, feeling the weight of the day lift. “Deal. Lady Huntrix will wait impatiently.”

And Zoey just smiled, knowing that these conversations would become a ritual — a bridge between their differences, between their worlds — and perhaps, without even realizing it, the beginning of something much bigger.

They stepped out of the bar, senses still wrapped in the warm glow of yellow lights and the easy laughter that had filled the past few hours. Seoul’s streets at night were a spectacle of their own: neon lights reflecting off cars, signs blinking in vibrant colors, the wind carrying smells of food, coffee, and a city that never truly sleeps. Everything seemed to speed up and slow down at once, as if the city itself were breathing in sync with their steps.

Mira walked beside Zoey, her heels clicking rhythmically against the wet pavement from the recent rain. Her eyes caught every reflection, every movement, but there was something gentle and intentional in the way she looked at Zoey. In an almost unconscious gesture, she took Zoey’s hand, fingers intertwining slowly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Mira’s voice came low, almost a whisper to match the quiet of the street: “How about when we get back to the dorm, we just ignore the mess and watch a movie?”

Zoey blinked, surprised by the closeness and touch. A slow smile spread across her lips — half playful, half enchanted. “Hmm… ignore the mess? Like… turn our backs on total chaos?”

Mira nodded, gently pulling Zoey a little closer. “Exactly. Just you, me, and a terrible movie. Doesn’t even need to be good… just… company.”

Zoey laughed softly, feeling a small spark of electricity along the arm where their hands met. “Okay, okay… that sounds really good. A perfect plan to end Friday.”

They continued walking, the rhythm of intertwined hands and close bodies blending with the distant melody of the nighttime city. At every corner, the lights of modern Seoul cast long, dancing shadows, and the far-off hum of cars and voices only reinforced the sense of a moment suspended in time.

Zoey couldn’t help but keep looking at Mira, noticing the sparkle in her eyes and the poised elegance she carried, even after hours of bar chatter and laughter. “Seriously… you can be so… calm and confident all the time. It’s kind of intimidating.”

Mira just smiled, that soft, controlled expression she always had, tilting her head slightly. “It’s not intimidation, Zoey. It’s just… focus. But I can share a little of it if you want.”

Zoey laughed again, shaking her head. “Maybe I need that, huh. Or maybe I just need to keep watching you and trying to figure out how this… serenity of yours works.”

Their laughter drifted into the cold wind cutting through the street, blending with the urban sounds around them. Each step brought them closer to the dorm, each simple gesture reinforcing the strange, comfortable intimacy that was beginning to form. The idea of a bad movie and popcorn felt small compared to the huge world of sensations Seoul offered them that night.

And yet, as they looked at the lights reflected in the buildings and felt the warmth of their intertwined hands, both knew this night would be remembered far more for the touch, the words, and the shared laughter than for the movie they were about to watch.

• ★ •

Zoey sighed, leaving the final report on the polluted sections of the Han River on the desk. Everything was checked, recorded, reviewed. The sense of accomplishment, however, brought no relief; on the contrary, a suffocating monotony settled in. The early afternoon heat poured through the lab windows, making the air heavy, almost tangible. Each minute dragged as if it had a will of its own, and Zoey found herself glancing at the clock over and over, silently wishing time would somehow speed up.

It was in that absolute boredom that her brain started to conspire, remembering a simple escape: Mira. Why not head over to her lab and keep her company? After all, her roommate was probably still buried under experiments, tests, and spreadsheets that seemed endless.

Zoey adjusted her backpack, feeling the familiar light weight of notebooks and pens, took a deep breath, and decided that this monotony could just as easily be transformed into an opportunity. She left her lab with determined steps, almost bouncing slightly, her remaining energy fueled by curiosity rather than impatience.

As she walked through the Sunlight Laboratory corridors, Zoey noticed how the environment pulsed with activity, even on a lukewarm Monday. Students and researchers hustled past, some machines hummed softly, and the scent of reagents mingled with the industrial perfume of freshly cleaned floors. Everything seemed mechanical, predictable — but Mira’s presence made every detail a little less gray, a little more captivating.

When she reached Mira’s lab, Zoey paused for a moment, taking in her roommate leaning over a cluttered bench filled with vials and slides. The redhead’s posture was impeccable, each gesture precise, every movement deliberate. Her concentration almost illuminated her face, reflected in the gold-rimmed glasses that seemed to fuse with her carefully composed, elegant expression.

Zoey stepped in slowly, careful not to interrupt Mira’s flow. “Hey,” she said softly, so as not to startle her.

Mira looked up, surprised, but the faint smile that appeared showed Zoey had timed it right. “Zoey? What… a surprise,” she said, her voice retaining its characteristic softness, with just a hint of curiosity.

“I… finished everything early. So I thought, why not keep you company? Just to break up the boredom,” Zoey replied, trying to sound casual as her eyes wandered over the lab, admiring the meticulous order that contrasted sharply with the chaos of their dorm.

Mira relaxed her shoulders and exhaled, closing the notebook she’d been working in. “Okay, that’s… actually nice. I didn’t want to be alone for any longer anyway,” she said, gesturing toward a nearby chair. “Sit, then. But fair warning, I’ll need to do some measurements in a bit.”

Zoey nodded, sliding into the chair and taking in every detail around her, absorbing the scientific environment that was at once intimidating and fascinating. Just being there, close to Mira, made the heat and tedium more bearable.

As Mira returned to her work, Zoey began chatting about the small details of her day, commenting on the mundane aspects of the Han River analyses. Soon, though, the conversation drifted toward lighter subjects — inside jokes from the dorm, curious tidbits about classmates, even speculations about how the rest of the week might unfold.

For a few minutes, the monotony vanished, replaced by an unexpected lightness, a sense of companionship that transformed the hot, dragging afternoon into something almost pleasant. Zoey, even sitting quietly, realized that simply being near Mira made the time feel less heavy, and perhaps — just perhaps — this simple visit was far more effective at combating boredom than any experiment ever could.

The lab sector felt stifling in the afternoon heat, but the air didn’t slow the flow of conversation between Zoey and Mira. They spoke without hurry, as if the outside world had ceased to exist, tossing off comments about anything that came to mind.

“So… did you see that group’s comeback? Everyone’s talking about it,” Zoey said, animated, leaning slightly over the bench.

Mira raised an eyebrow but smiled, shaking her head. “I did… I thought the choreography was interesting. But you know, what I really liked was how they set up the stage. Every detail matters.”

Zoey laughed, fiddling with the papers scattered in front of her. “You always look at things so… analytically. I’m just trying to keep up with the dance.”

Mira shrugged elegantly, tossing a strand of red hair behind her shoulder. “Someone has to balance the madness, don’t you think?”

Their conversation drifted to pending work, streaming series, then devolved into playful debates about who would survive longer in a scientific survival reality show. They laughed easily, delighting in small provocations and absurd comparisons, oblivious to the passage of time.

Then a deep voice cut through the chatter. “Since you two seem so bored here…” The tone carried impatience, but a subtle humor lingered beneath it. Both girls turned almost simultaneously, recognizing the authoritative voice.

A tall man, in a spotless lab coat and with a rigid posture, stood crossing his arms, exasperation and resignation etched across his face. “Take those empty acid bottles to the storage room. It’s at the end of the corridor.”

Zoey’s mouth opened in surprise, a flush of embarrassment rising, while Mira exhaled and bent to grab some gloves, preparing to obey. The abrupt interruption broke their lightheartedness but didn’t erase the smiles still lingering on their lips.

“Ah… right. Let’s do it,” Mira said, arranging the bottles carefully on the bench.

Zoey made a small gesture of surrender, shaking her head. “Okay, okay… mission: acid bottle rescue. We’ll be back soon.”

As they walked down the corridor, their conversation resumed in hushed tones, mixing jokes about the absurdity of the order with quips about how the lab’s monotony always found ways to become amusing. Even with the looming responsibility, the atmosphere between them stayed light, as if the task were merely another excuse to stay close and laugh together.

Yet with each step, the corridor grew darker, the evident decay in this part of the university heightening the tension. Focus shifted from conversation to their main objective.

Mira was far more distracted by the fragile case of acids she was carrying in her arms than by anything else. That's when she felt small hands tugging at her lab coat with a bit of clumsiness and force. The redhead rolled her eyes. "Uughh... What is it, Zoey??"

The dark-haired girl then pointed timidly ahead, and Mira followed the line of her finger. Her gaze landed on Celine talking to someone just behind the frame of a doorway — wait, wasn't that the door everyone said not to open??

The two girls leaned into each other, a pathetically united front, as if it could sharpen their vision. That's when they saw it:

A braid — a purple one — slipping smoothly from behind the doorframe before vanishing again. The color caught Mira off guard; the movement was deliberate, almost alive. Her heart raced, arms instinctively hugging the fragile crate tighter.

Zoey’s hand brushed Mira’s sleeve, a whisper of contact loaded with meaning. “…Did you see that?” she murmured.

Mira didn’t respond, eyes locked on the shadowed doorway. Her pulse quickened. Instincts screamed caution, yet the sheer strangeness of the sight rooted her in place. The braid reappeared for a fraction of a second, moving like liquid silk, then vanished once more, leaving behind a lingering sense of something impossible, just out of reach.

Zoey’s voice, barely audible, broke the silence. “That… is… real?”

Mira finally exhaled slowly, deliberately. “I… I don’t know,” she admitted, still clutching the acids. The moment was impossibly fragile, like a held breath suspended between reality and imagination.

Neither dared take another step. The sudden disappearance of the braid left only a faint trace, a suggestion of movement, a lingering color in the shadows. It was enough to unsettle, enough to fascinate, enough to make them realize how small and uncertain the world suddenly seemed.

Zoey tugged Mira’s sleeve again, gently insistent. “We… should probably go.”

Mira nodded, hands steadying the crate. “Yeah… we… we’ll finish this and get out of here.”

Together, they advanced cautiously, carrying both the weight of the fragile acids and the heavy, silent fear of what they had just witnessed — a braid that shouldn’t exist, a glimpse of something impossible, a secret refusing to stay hidden.

• ★ •

Celine adjusted her glasses as she walked slowly down the more isolated corridor of the lab. The dim light glinted off metallic surfaces, and each step echoed in a measured, almost ritualistic cadence. Rumi was ahead of her, focused, brow furrowed as she tried to follow the instructions for the new sequence of exercises and cognitive tasks Celine had prepared.

“Today, we’ll add three more memory tests and one motor coordination exercise,” Celine said, her voice firm but devoid of warmth. She gestured toward the neatly arranged equipment. “You’ll need these sensors to record quick responses. Pay attention to the patterns and do not get distracted.”

Rumi nodded silently, absorbing every detail. Her eyes shone with a mix of curiosity and restraint, reflecting the strict discipline Celine imposed. The scientist studied every movement, every hesitation, analyzing how she could push the creature’s development without exceeding the boundaries she herself had set.

From the corner of her eye, Celine noticed two figures crossing the lab — students, most likely. They weren’t part of the usual routine, but the distant doorway created a blind spot that allowed this brief glimpse. There was no surprise. Small intrusions weren’t unusual, and Rumi couldn’t afford to be distracted by anything. The only concern was remaining unseen.

Celine took a steady breath and gave Rumi a slight nod to end the session. “Very well. We’ll record the data and review the results later. Now, head to your resting area.”

Without glancing at the students, she guided Rumi to the restricted-access door, which she always kept locked. The metallic click of the latch echoed down the silent corridor. “Door locked, area secured. No exceptions,” she stated automatically, her voice carrying an almost cruel certainty.

Rumi stood for a moment, expression neutral, obedient. Celine checked the security systems and sensors, ensuring everything was in order. She then stepped back a few paces, arms crossed, watching the creature settle into the designated space, books and materials meticulously arranged.

The moment was brief. Celine made no mention of the students, asked no questions, displayed no curiosity. It was a minor distraction, irrelevant to what truly mattered. With a firm gesture, she turned and resumed her path down the quiet corridor, each step marked by precision and absolute control, fully aware that Rumi would be safe and occupied until her return.

• ★ •

Celine lay rigid beneath the thin sheets. Rain pounded against the glass, the steady rhythm filling the darkness of the room. She tried to shut out the world, to let her body relax, but the shadows of the past always returned with force on rainy nights. Each drop seemed to hammer memories she had no desire to revisit.

A lightning bolt split the sky. The flash jolted her awake immediately, eyes wide, breath sharp. Heart racing, she rose from the bed, every muscle tense, instinctively aware of urgency. She moved to the kitchen, steps silent on the cold floor, and filled a glass with water.

As she made her way back to the bedroom, she noticed something: one of the curtains had been left open, letting in the streetlight. She walked to the window to close it, still unsteady from the lightning’s shock. But the moment she reached for the latch, she froze.

In the tree on the small hill outside, visible through the glass, stood a tall silhouette. One hand gripped the trunk, a small yellow glimmer flickering through the shadows, accentuated by the dark foliage. Celine blinked, trying to comprehend — but before she could react, another flash of lightning illuminated the scene.

For a split second, she saw: Rumi. The creature’s eyes met hers, deep, intense, aware, carrying a weight Celine had never imagined. In one hand, a single white chrysanthemum. Before she could move, Rumi vanished with the thunderclap, dissolving into the darkness, but the impact of that gaze lingered.

Celine’s body weakened. She slowly sank back, shoulders slumping, breathing heavy. Silent tears traced down her face as she leaned against the window, frozen before something she could not fully comprehend. Every breath was a struggle, every thought a whirlwind of guilt, fear, and something approaching pure, aching sorrow.

She remained there, motionless, until the rain seemed to engulf her completely, the weight of Rumi’s gaze embedding itself into memory like a burden impossible to lift. Crying and silence, nothing else.