Work Text:
[Eden Studio ̶ night.]
The hallway sighs. Its walls weep rust and time.
Yoon Jong-woo sits by his desk, pen trembling in his hand.
He writes as though each word might save him, though the paper listens like a corpse.
“What is a man,” he whispers, “but a beast that dreams of virtue?”
The bulb flickers, once, twice and then steadies.
Behind him, the door creaks. A voice, smooth as polished bone, fills the air.
Moon-jo:
Why wrestle words, my dear Jong-woo?
Your pen bleeds less than you do.
Come, let us speak,the city outside cares not for your writing . Here, in this place, I alone would read you true.
Jong-woo:
You speak as though you know my soul. I am no saint, yet I am no serpent either. This place... this Eden ̶ it gnaws at me. Every whisper here smells of death.
Moon-jo smiled with a smile so faintly that it was barely visible:
Death, you say? Nay ̶ rebirth.
You are molting, shedding the skin of small dreams.
The countryside boy dies so that the writer ̶ the real you ̶ may breathe. Tell me, do you not feel alive in the terror?
Jong-woo:
Alive?
If madness should be life, then I have drunk to the deep of it.
You speak of freedom, but you cage me with your eyes.
Moon-jo:
Then call me jailer.
Who loves his captive’s mind.
See, the others here are noise, rats scurrying in human form.
But you, Jong-woo ̶ ah, you think.
You ache.
You could be magnificent if only you stopped pretending to be good.
Jong-woo speaks up with a trembling voice: Because I am not you.
Moon-jo:
Yet you could be.
I see it in your eyes when you look upon the wretches that breathe beside you ̶ that flicker of disgust, of divine judgment.
Do not hide it, Jong-woo.
The city made you its prey, but I... I could make you its god.
A long silence. The only sound: the hum of the fluorescent light, the city’s heart beating somewhere far below.
Jong-woo:
You twist my fear into prophecy.
You offer salvation with bloodied hands. And yet.
When you speak, I do not hear evil.
I hear truth, spoken in the tongue of ruin.
Moon-jo:
Then write me as I am,
not as a monster, but as a mirror.
For in your reflection, I live.
When I die,
I shall not perish in flame or blade, but within your memory.
And you shall keep me.
Feed me.
Love me, even as you curse my name.
Jong-woo’s voice almost breaking:
You speak of damnation as a thought of it being affection.
Moon-jo:
What difference lies between the two?
Both burn, both consume, both make men honest.
He leans closer, almost whispering into Jong-woo’s ear.
Moon-jo:
You are my finest creation, Jong-woo.
And I, I am your first story worth telling.
[the same desk, days later.]
Jong-woo writes once more. The page is stained, but the words are steady.
“He said we were alike. I denied him once. Now I see ̶
We are strangers no more, only reflections, sharing a hell too narrow for two.”
He closes the notebook. Outside, the sirens wail ̶
but within the quiet of Eden, a voice still hums.