Chapter Text
Yoojin jolts awake, cold to the bone. His eyes are wet with tears, there's something knobby bruising his spine, and he can't push the trembling from his limbs. It's pitch black. He's outside. Why is he outside?
For a long time he doesn't move. A few seconds, maybe a few minutes. Awareness drips back to him, as slow as molasses, and he begins to register that he's slumped against a tree trunk, he's covered in leaves and dirt, and he doesn't remember a single thing about how or why he's here. His heart won't stop hammering inside his chest, even though he's pretty sure he hasn't moved for—a long time. Possibly longer than he's willing to think about, by the ache of his muscles.
Yoojin pushes himself to his knees and regrets it immediately: a starburst of pain behind his eyelids nearly makes him pass out. Fuck. He bends over, palms pressed into his eyes, and forces himself to breathe the cold air in and out slowly.
He was in the kitchen, talking with Yoohyun. After that, he sat down and played with Peace. The memories come reluctantly, and when they do, they're faded and fuzzy, like they happened weeks ago. There's a logical thought that tells him he probably shouldn't be outside in the dark, lying on the ground, if only because Yoohyun would have scolded him ruthlessly for that. So why...?
Kidnapped? Somehow fell into a dungeon? Some stunt from the Filial Duty Addicts…?
In, two, three, four, out, two, three, four, in—
And then he hears it.
He feels and hears it at the same time: a low, thrumming buzz that resonates straight through his bones. It's not an instrument. It doesn't sound digital. If it's a voice, it's not a human one.
Yoojin recognizes, belatedly, that he doesn't just feel exhausted; that inhuman sound terrifies him, and he doesn't even know why.
The comforting numbness of Fear Resistance never arrives, and he can’t open his status window. It’s a dream, then…? But something about this place doesn’t feel…
There's nothing to gain from staying here. His eyes have adjusted to the darkness, only barely; he can spot a few darker shadows in front of him, possibly trees, and a lighter area which looks like a clearing or a pond in dull light. Either way, it's a direction that looks more promising than wandering further into trees.
Yoohyun.
Yoojin pulls himself to his feet and tries to ignore the throbbing behind his eyes. Tries to ignore the buzz and his trembling limbs, and the terrible conviction that this place is wrong.
“Home,” he whispers, and steps forward.
The door clicks open behind Yoohyun, but he doesn’t turn around. His eyes stay fixed on the body of his brother in front of him, hooked up to every kind of machine they have. It’s been three days, far too long. Each hour wears on him like an entire day.
“You’re late,” he says.
“I came as soon as I heard. How is Han Yoojin-gun?”
Seseong’s Guild Leader steps closer, moving into the edge of Yoohyun’s vision with a bouquet of bright flowers. It’s the kind of absurdly expensive bouquet filled with flowers that grow only in dungeons ranked A-rank and above. Yoojin would have hated it.
“Seseong’s Guild Leader took four days to complete a dungeon.” Yoohyun clicks his tongue. “Disgraceful.”
“It was unfortunate timing. I had to oversee a new team—Soyoung’s new favorites, you know the ones. If I’d been alone I’d have been here days ago.”
Sung Hyunjae tilts his head, staring at Yoojin. “He looks fine.”
Yoohyun says nothing.
Hands flip through the doctor’s chart hanging on the edge of the bed. “Always a puzzle, your brother,” Sung Hyunjae comments. “I’ll send for a specialist we’ve worked with before. He has some experience with medical mysteries.”
He moves towards Yoojin, bouquet in hand, but Yoohyun blocks him.
“Get out.”
“Why? I can’t pay a visit?”
“You don’t care for my brother,” Yoohyun growls. “You just think he’s an interesting toy. How could I let someone like you near him?”
Sung Hyunjae stares at him, eyes blank and dark.
Then he smiles broadly. Goading. “You should watch yourself, young master. Without your brother you're coming apart at the seams.”
“Wouldn’t you like that? It’s all you ever do, isn’t it? All you want is entertainment. That’s all we are to you. Toys.”
“Most people are,” Sung Hyunjae replies. “Your brother is simply the most interesting one I’ve come across in a long time.” He sighs. “It’s unfortunate, isn’t it. My toy is broken.”
Yoohyun lunges at him, red fury in his eyes. His hand bursts with flame—
The clearing turns out to be a field of flowers, each one perfectly still in the windless night and identical to its neighbors. It's a common plant that Yoojin recognizes but can't name, the kind of plant you'd find growing between asphalt and fences. He's never seen so many of them in one place before, or ones so large. These rise to his waist, making him feel small and queasy.
In the starless, moonless night, the field is a carpet of gray flowers stretched out in all directions. Petals blur together beyond a few meters, and he can't tell how far the field goes in this bad light. At the edges of the field are dark shadows—trees, maybe—but there's a small break in the forest where something angular and sloped lies, maybe a house. Better yet, there's a dim yellow light inside, barely visible but still there.
Dungeons don't have houses with lights, do they?
As he makes his way through the field, Yoojin keeps his gaze on the light. At first glance he doesn't notice the shadow behind it, but his destination grows closer, it registers. A mountain, maybe—it's far taller than any of the smaller hills surrounding it. Tall, jagged, and dark, like someone ripped away the bottom of the sky.
He notices it at second glance, because it begins to stretch upwards.
He freezes, staring at the shape that—just doesn't make sense. It can't possibly be a monster. He's seen big ones, but never ones the size of mountains. He doesn't see heads, or legs, or wings or arms. He sees only a great shadow, a blackness that yawns open, and white tombstones as large as buildings in a perfect row.
Not tombstones. Teeth.
It must be thousands of miles away, but his body ripples from the reverberation like a plucked guitar string. In the distance, the mouth begins to moan.
“My condolences,” Song Taewon says. A professional, that man. He doesn’t even blink at the charred hospital walls or the broken windows. Nothing surprises him.
Yoohyun’s never been fond of the man, but Yoojin has grown an odd liking for him, as he has with all of his strays. The man’s inclination for mental contortions and self-hypocrisy disgust Yoohyun, so it’s regrettable that his hyung is trying to win him over. Yoohyun hasn’t decided yet whether Song Taewon causes more problems with his presence or with his absence; if only it were clear one way or the other. Then something could be done with him.
Song Taewon has done his best to mimic sincerity on his face. Maybe he’s deluded himself into thinking he’s being sincere. No one knows the depths of that man, least of all him. “Please accept my wishes for Han Yoojin-ssi’s quick recovery.”
Yoohyun has no patience for false manners, and he’s never been good at playing nice.
“Why don’t you give more than just well-wishes?”
“Pardon?”
“Does that place breed idiocy?” Yoohyun muses. “Did we not purge it well enough last time?”
Song Taewon’s brow furrows in confusion, and then freezes in realization. “This—isn’t the work of the Association, Han Yoohyun-ssi.”
“Why not?” Yoohyun stands up. Steps closer. “I’ve kept tabs. As have we all. Not everyone is as honorable as you.”
The other’s jaw tightens.
“It isn’t the work of the Association,” he repeats. “You know as well as I do that no one’s in a position to do something like this now.” Both of them hear the unsaid: Especially not after what you did.
“No one?” Yoohyun tilts his head. “Would you bet your life on that?”
Song Taewon stares, measuring his dwindling options.
“No,” Yoohyun says. “Your life isn’t worth much.” He gestures to Yoojin’s still body. “How about the life of an F-class?”
Song Taewon hesitates, then sighs.
“I can assure you that no one in the Association is part of this,” he says. “And to strengthen your trust, I will… personally verify this, with all the methods at my disposal.”
Yoohyun considers for a moment, then nods in acceptance. “I look forward to what you find.” He smiles. “We can’t have another misunderstanding, can we?”
Fuck. Fuck. Yoojin sprints, heart pounding in his chest, lungs burning. His shoe catches on something hard and he smashes face first into a cushion of petals and twigs, but that doesn't stop him for long. The dark, oppressive shape looms in the distance, far beyond the house, but Yoojin can't help but feel exposed, like a beetle scuttling across a hardwood floor.
What kind of hellscape is this? It has to be a dream, there’s no way something like that thing is real, but Yoojin’s brain can’t shake the feeling of recognizing otherness, a presence that doesn’t belong to him. It stays at the edge of his vision, no matter which way he looks, just— there, both far away and just out of reach, watching him, a vast void with teeth—
The paradox shoots more anxiety into his heart. It has to be a dream. That thing has to be real. Fuck.
The house is a run-down wood cabin, so old Yoojin panics: how could anyone be living there? It also looks like a cabin straight out of a horror film, creepy ambiance included, and Yoojin is headed straight for it, he just knows there’s nothing good inside.
The moaning is getting louder. He halts in front of the door for a second, prays that there isn't a serial killer inside, and pushes the door open. It's unlocked, Yoojin wonders with hysteria, of course it's unlocked, it's probably a trap—
"Hello?" His hand finds a light switch, and flips it.
He goes cold.
It's his apartment. His apartment. Not the one in Haeyeon, the one in his old life, the one where he sat on the ground for hours watching news clips of his brother and cursed him. The one where he couldn't get the heat to work, ever, and the shower always ran cold, and the floors were always cluttered and dirty with convenience store food and bandages and bags of trash because he just couldn't bother anymore.
The TV, the trash, the dirty curtains and the fucking crutches. They’re all here, like someone was about to film a movie of the darkest days of his life.
There's a pristine white envelope on his unmade bed. On the envelope, in a tight, elegant script, is his own name. Han Yoojin.
WIth fumbling fingers, he tears open the envelope. Inside is a single, crinkled sheet of paper, with a single question written.
Who are you when there's no one around?
In the middle of the night, Yoohyun blearily looks up and startles. Hyung's eyes are wide open, bloodshot, glassy and unseeing.
“Hyung,” Yoohyun tries, suddenly filled with a terrible, cold fear. “Hyung? Can you hear me?”
Hyung's parched lips tremble open and close. Yoohyun puts his ear next to them.
“Nobody,” whispers hyung. “Nobody, nobody nobody nobody—”