Chapter Text
CHAPTER 6: The End of the Beginning
The rest of Changbin’s shift passed in a daze, his body moving on autopilot while his mind spiraled. He typed up reports, responded to alerts, nodded through briefings, but none of it registered. It was background noise compared to the memory of the basement.
Seungmin’s visions.
Hyunjin’s madness.
63’s brutal truths.
The sounds from the cages he could still hear them. Cries that no one had ever answered. Screams that had echoed off sterile walls until they faded into silence.
At 6:00 a.m., he clocked out. His hand trembled as he tapped out a message to the group chat.
Binnie: Can we meet up for coffee?
The reply came seconds later.
Lixie: Good morning Binnie-hyung! I’m up, so I can be there in 30. The usual café?
He hesitated before answering. He needed to be closer. To Minho. To Chan. He didn’t know what he was walking into, but something inside him whispered that he didn’t have time to be careful.
Binnie: Actually… can we meet at the one over by Min’s building? I uh… Just can we do that?
There was a pause before Minho replied.
Min: This has ‘I did something and the company can’t know’ vibes.
Changbin stared at the screen, thumb hovering. I can’t tell him, he thought. He won’t believe me. How do I explain what I saw down there? What I felt?
He didn’t answer immediately.
The lobby was nearly empty as he exited the building, the artificial light from inside bleeding into the soft pink hues of dawn. The city was slowly waking, commuters yawning into phones, delivery trucks humming, the world continuing as if nothing was wrong, but everything was wrong.
Every step he took away from that facility was heavier than the last. His thoughts were consumed with the memory of Minho’s name spoken like a death sentence, the echo of 63’s cold voice:
"He dies on that table."
Changbin’s chest tightened. He needed help. Someone who could think beyond the rules. Someone who wouldn’t ask for permission. He needed Chan. He opened the group chat again, fingers moving faster now.
Binnie: Hyung, add Chan to this group.
Another pause.
Min: And what makes you think I have his number?
Lixie: …… Seriously, Hyung?
Lixie: I can feel you eyeroll from my apartment.
A moment later, a notification popped up.
Min added Chan to the group.
Min: There. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
Chan: Um… Good morning to you too?
Jisungie: I AM TRYING TO SLEEP HERE!!!
Lixie: Good morning Sungie! I guess that means Minho-hyung doesn’t have to come wake you up after all.
Min: Why is it always me who has to collect the gremlin?
Jisungie: Because you love me and I’m your favorite.
Min: That was before you gave your heart to a cheesecake.
Jisungie: GASP. Don’t you dare bring Hope into this. She is innocent!
The banter made something ache inside him. How easy it was for them. How unaware they were of the horror hidden below their feet. He closed the chat and opened a private one.
Changbin: Chan, we need to talk. Preferably before the others. I can be at the café in ten minutes. How quickly can you get there?
Chan: Oh this is serious, huh? Yeah, I can be there in ten. Just gotta change real quick.
Changbin: Life or death serious. I’ll see you soon.
He slid his phone into his pocket and turned east, toward the café near Minho’s building.
The streets were quiet at this hour, just the low hum of passing cars and the rhythmic pulse of his own footsteps. His head was pounding with everything he couldn’t say aloud. Faces kept flashing through his mind, Hyunjin’s wild, unhinged grin; Seungmin’s calm, tired eyes; 63’s grim composure. And beneath it all, the inescapable image of Minho, strapped to a table under Park’s scalpel.
I won’t let that happen, he repeated like a mantra.
But his fear gnawed at the words. Could he really stop it?
Changbin walked faster, turning the corner past an alley bathed in shadow. The air was cool, but sweat clung to the back of his neck. His body was exhausted, aching from power strain and anxiety. Every step brought him closer to the café and further from the man he’d been before last night.
Because now he knew. He knew what the company was doing, what it had always been doing. Trapping people. Children. Torturing them. Bending them into weapons or letting them rot.
And Chan… Chan was his only hope at getting the others to believe him. The only one that could understand the horrors Changbin had seen in Seungmin's memories. Changbin would need Chan to stop Park and keep Minho alive.
Changbin didn’t even register the front of the café until he was standing in front of the glass doors. His reflection stared back at him…haunted, pale, and uncertain.
He stepped inside and took a seat in the farthest booth from the window, heart pounding, every nerve on edge.
All he could do now was wait.
*****
The last text Changbin had sent chilled Chan to the bone.
Changbin: Life or death serious. I’ll see you soon.
The words echoed in his mind like a bell tolling something final. What could that even mean?
His fingers fumbled slightly as he pulled on his hoodie and grabbed his keys. The café was only five minutes away, but something about the message about the tone behind it made Chan’s chest tighten.
Something was wrong. Very wrong.
The summer air was thick, the sky washed in that pre-dawn gray-blue where the world felt unreal. The streets were mostly empty, just the occasional passing car or flicker of fluorescent light from a storefront. But Chan didn’t see any of it, he was too focused on the knot forming in his gut. His instincts screamed at him.
It wasn’t just that Changbin was scared. It was who had scared him.
He reached the café in three minutes flat, heart hammering, a light sheen of sweat slicking his brow and the back of his neck. He pushed the door open with more force than necessary, the little bell overhead giving a startled jingle.
Inside, the café was dim and quiet. The smell of coffee should have been comforting, but it barely registered. Chan’s eyes scanned the room until they landed on a figure in the back booth. Changbin looked like a ghost. Pale, hunched over, rubbing his hands together like he was trying to scrub something invisible off his skin. His eyes were distant, too distant like he hadn’t fully come back from wherever his mind had gone.
Chan’s stomach dropped. He approached slowly, carefully, like one might approach a wounded animal.
“Bin?” he said softly.
Even with the gentleness in his voice, Changbin jolted. His eyes snapped up, and for a moment, they were wild, unrecognizing before relief rushed into them like a dam breaking. Changbin moved to stand, but Chan raised his hands, palms open.
“It’s okay. Just me.”
He slid into the booth across from him, never taking his eyes off the younger man. Changbin’s gaze kept darting around the café, like he was waiting for something to follow him in.
“Hey, Bin…” Chan kept his voice light. “What’s going on? You look like you saw a murder or something.”
He gave a small laugh, but it died almost instantly. Because Changbin didn’t smile, he didn’t scoff, didn’t even blink. Instead, a shadow passed over his face, something deep and bleak and shaking.
“Okay,” he said, voice dropping into something low and steady. “Tell me what’s going on.”
Changbin swallowed hard, throat visibly working. “I… Uh… Last night… Something happened.”
“Take your time,” Chan encouraged gently.
But the words that came next were not what he expected.
“You’re not from Australia, are you?”
Chan went still. Everything about him seemed to pause, his breath, the shift of his shoulders, even the faint tapping of his foot beneath the table.
“I…” He hesitated, then answered with quiet resignation. “No, Bin. I’m not.”
Changbin nodded slowly, like that confirmed something he’d already accepted.
“Look, Chan. I met some old friends of yours last night.”
The moment he said it, Chan tensed. His body didn’t move, but his eyes sharpened with something between suspicion and grief, like a memory was trying to claw its way up from beneath years of silence.
Changbin pressed on before Chan could speak. “A man who can bend elements to his will. Break down his body into particles and move through solid matter.”
Chan’s eyes widened. His voice came out barely above a whisper. “38…Hyunjin”
Changbin gave a single nod. “A man who can possess people with a touch. Who can block almost any ability.”
Chan’s jaw clenched. His eyes glistened.
“63…” The name caught in his throat like glass.
Changbin leaned in, voice low, deliberate. “And a man who can see both present and future. Who can bend reality to his will.”
Chan’s eyes were rimmed with tears now.
“52…Seungmin” he breathed, reverent and broken.
He looked down at the table for a moment, as if trying to anchor himself. “They’re alive?” he asked, voice hoarse.
Changbin nodded. “Alive. Still down there. Locked in cells… Park’s kept them buried beneath this city like secrets too dangerous to be spoken aloud.”
A single tear slid down Chan’s cheek. He didn’t wipe it away.
“How… how did you find them?”
“I didn’t. They found me.”
Chan looked up sharply.
“I was going to B1 to check on the cameras but the elevator kept going. They let me see. One of them, Seungmin, shared his vision with me. I saw what they lived through. I felt it, Chan. All of it. And…” Changbin’s voice cracked. “63 Told me Seungmin saw Minho. He’s in danger. Park is going to take him at the gala. 63 said Park would torture him. Pull his powers from his body by force. Said Minho would die on that table. Chan…. I can’t…. WE can’t let that happen.”
Chan straightened, eyes intense. He did know what the connection he had to Minho was but it was there. Even then he could feel the pull. “What could Park possibly want with Minho?” Chan asked.
Changbin stared at Chan, searching his face for... something. He didn’t even know what he was hoping to find. Reassurance? Denial? A sliver of humanity left untouched by the truth?
“You don’t seem shocked that Min has abilities,” he finally said, voice low. “I mean, I know your friends do, so you know powers exist, but…”
Chan held his gaze for a long moment, expression unreadable. “I saw him fling Jisung’s fork across the table after we got our suits,” he admitted. “And I know Jisung has something…some form of electricity.”
“Electromagnetism,” Changbin clarified quickly. “He can also screw with your emotions if he touches you. Push fear, calm, rage, whatever he wants.”
Chan nodded slowly, absorbing the information with that same intense focus that always made it seem like he was cataloging everything for later. “So you and Felix?” he asked.
Changbin exhaled heavily. There was no point in lying now. “Felix can manipulate light energy. Create it. Destroy it. He nearly blinded me the day he got promoted to head of the coding department.” A brief, bitter chuckle escaped his lips. “He’s twenty-two, a literal prodigy, smarter than anyone I’ve ever met. He can heal wounds too. With his hands.”
Chan raised an eyebrow but didn’t interrupt.
“As for me…” Changbin leaned back in the booth, arms crossed, voice turning quieter. “I can manipulate weather. Storms, wind, pressure systems… And I can read minds.”
A flicker of something passed over Chan’s face, confirmation.
“I knew it,” Chan muttered. “Well, I didn’t know it was you, not for sure, but I knew someone reached into my head during my interview. I could feel it like static under my skin. I don’t know what you saw.”
Changbin’s voice was quieter now. “Darkness. Pain. Fury. But honestly, that’s not what matters right now.” His eyes locked onto Chan’s. “Minho was there too. Down in those cells. Do you remember him? All those years ago?”
Chan froze. “What?” he asked, startled. “Wait… what do you mean he was down there?”
“63 told me. Well…” Changbin tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing, “...I figured it out. He said there was a boy, about a year younger than the First. Silver eyes. Cat-like. How many people do you know with molten silver eyes, Chan?”
The older man swallowed hard.
“63 called him Subject 2,” Changbin went on. “Said the two of you were practically inseparable. That Subject 2 could move things with his mind, strong, dangerously strong. One of the most powerful psychokinetics they’d ever seen.”
He let the words sink in, watching Chan closely. Watching the color drain from his face as the gears in his mind began to turn. He could see Chan spiraling, reaching back through dust-covered memories, rummaging through a lifetime’s worth of pain he’d locked away long ago.
“I…” Chan blinked. “I don’t remember him being there.”
His brow furrowed deeply, like the effort of trying to remember physically hurt.
“How could I forget someone like that?” he asked, more to himself than to Changbin. “If he was that close…why don’t I remember?”
Changbin’s next words came out barely above a whisper. “So it’s true then…?”
Chan looked up at him, dread in his eyes.
“You’re the First, aren’t you?” Changbin asked softly, like a man resigning himself to something inevitable.
There was no use denying it anymore. Chan nodded once. “Yeah, Bin. I’m Subject 1.”
The booth fell silent.
Changbin let out a shaky breath and leaned forward, his voice laced with urgency. “Whether you remember him or not, Chan…we can’t let Park get to Minho. He doesn’t care about him. He just wants a way to lure you out. To finish what he started. How Park even knows…” He cut himself off, frustration bubbling. “We were careful, Chan. So careful. We kept our heads down, stayed hidden. We didn’t even know there were more like us. Let alone ones being kept like animals, under our feet. Suffering.”
That last word left his throat like a blade, raw and trembling.
“Did 63 or Seungmin say how?” Chan asked, quieter now. More guarded.
Changbin’s head dropped slightly. “No. Just that it would happen tonight. At the gala.”
He looked up again, panic starting to rise. “That’s tonight, Chan. Tonight. We have to do something. We can’t let them take Minho.”
“Who?” a new voice asked, calm and cold.
Both Chan and Changbin flinched like they’d been shot. They turned toward the source of the voice. Minho stood at the end of the table.
His face was unreadable…stoic, calm, his tone as deadpan as always, but one eyebrow was raised in a silent challenge. Behind him, Felix and Jisung stood close. Jisung's brows were drawn tightly in suspicion, while Felix’s arms were crossed, mouth pressed into a thin line.
Minho’s eyes flicked between the two men at the booth.
“Who’s taking me?” he asked.
The air around the table went still.
Minho glanced between Chan and Changbin, and the looks on their faces made his pulse spike. They were pale, still, like they’d been speared clean through by something sharp, cold, and final.
Jisung took a tentative step forward, his gaze fixed on Changbin. “Binnie… why are you so afraid?” His voice was barely above a whisper, hesitant. “I’ve never felt this level of fear from you before.”
Changbin didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His throat had locked up.
Minho’s head snapped toward Jisung, then back to Changbin. His tone cut like a blade. “What the fuck is going on?” His hand darted out, pointing between the two men. “You two…start talking.”
Before either of them could answer, Felix stepped in, voice even but firm. “Not here.” His eyes scanned the café, the other patrons, the soft clinking of mugs and low murmur of idle conversation that suddenly felt too sharp, too dangerous. “This seems serious. Let’s grab our coffee and go to Min-hyung’s place. It’s the closest, and there are too many ears here.”
Without another word, they moved as one to the counter. No one made small talk. The weight of unspoken truth followed them like a stormcloud as they took their drinks and left.
The walk to Minho’s apartment was quiet, too quiet. Tension crawled along their skin like static. Minho walked slightly ahead, shoulders tight, his mind racing. Something was wrong. Deeply, horribly wrong. His nerves were shot, his jaw clenched. He could feel Chan’s eyes on him with every step, like he was something fragile about to shatter.
Changbin trailed behind them, his eyes locked to the pavement, fists clenched tight at his sides. His mind replayed everything, Seungmin’s vision, 63’s blunt truths, the realization that Chan was Subject 1. Every step felt heavier than the last.
Jisung walked near the middle, trembling. He was struggling to rein in his empathic ability, but the emotions were a flood. Panic, dread, guilt, and something deeper like grief. Sparks of electricity danced along his fingers, jumping from nail to knuckle with barely concealed strain.
Felix walked at the back of the group, silent, scanning them all. His brain spun, processing, cataloguing expressions, heartbeats, micro-reactions. He was trying to map the full picture, to understand what he’d missed, how they all had missed it.
When they arrived, it wasn’t even 9 AM. The company had closed for the day to allow them time to prepare for the gala, but none of them felt like celebrating anything.
Minho unlocked the door and stepped inside, immediately scooping up Soonie from her perch on the windowsill. He collapsed into the armchair, cradling the cat against his chest as he slowly ran a hand through her fur. He didn’t speak, just breathed in and out, trying to still the frantic rhythm of his heart.
The others filed in quietly. Jisung sat cross-legged on the floor beside Minho’s chair. Without a word, he reached under Minho’s pant leg and wrapped his fingers gently around his ankle. He sent a wave of calm toward him, smoothing out the jagged anxiety he felt radiating from Minho’s body. Minho looked down, caught his gaze, and offered a small, grateful smile.
Felix remained standing, drink in hand. His patience ran out quickly. “Okay,” he said bluntly, staring between Chan and Changbin. “I don’t know what the hell is going on, but what the fuck, hyung?”
Chan and Changbin exchanged a heavy glance. Chan let out a sharp breath and dragged a hand down his face, as though peeling away the last layer of denial.
“Okay… um…” he began, voice steady but low. “I know you all have powers.”
Jisung’s head snapped up like he’d been slapped. “Powers? What? Hyung, what are you talking about?” He laughed, but it came out thin and hollow, an automatic deflection.
Changbin turned to look at him, his expression softer than it had been all morning. “Sungie… really? He knows.”
Jisung froze. Every muscle locked. The sparks on his fingers flickered, then died out.
Chan pressed on. “I also have abilities,” he said, looking each of them in the eye. “I can manipulate time. I can slow it down or stop it completely. I can’t move it forward or back, but I can freeze a moment if I need to.” He hesitated, then added, “And… I can create a shield. It’s not very large, but it’s impenetrable.”
All eyes were on him now. Even Soonie paused in her purring. Shock settled like a thick fog.
Jisung blinked. “You can stop time?”
Chan nodded slowly. “Yes.”
“Jesus Christ…” Felix whispered.
Minho didn’t say anything at first. He just kept petting Soonie, but his eyes were locked on Chan now. Sharper. Deeper. Like he was seeing him for the first time.
“So what now?” Minho finally asked, his voice cool. “You going to tell us the rest?”
Chan nodded again and turned toward Changbin. “Go ahead. You’ve seen more than I have.”
Changbin swallowed hard. The truth pressed against his throat like broken glass. “There’s more of us,” Changbin said, his voice gravel-thick with dread. “People like us. Hidden beneath the building. In cages.”
His words landed like blunt-force trauma in the center of the room. Jisung tensed. Felix stopped breathing. Chan’s gaze dropped to the floor.
Changbin continued, each word extracted like a splinter from flesh. “We thought we were hiding well…but we weren’t. Not well enough. Park knows. He’s been planning something.” He inhaled sharply, the breath shaky, brittle. “Minho… he’s coming for you. Tonight. At the gala.”
Minho didn’t move. Not at first. But his body went rigid where he sat, his fingers curled tightly in Soonie’s fur. His face remained still, a mask of detachment, but his shoulders had turned to stone.
“What?” he asked, flat and low.
Changbin looked at him, eyes full of hesitation and something close to guilt. “One of the ones underground… they call him 63. I…I went somewhere I wasn’t supposed to go. A place we didn’t even know existed. Below Sublevel B1. There’s an entire underground facility.”
He swallowed again. This part hurt the most. “You were in the cells too, Minho. Years ago. With Chan.”
Chan flinched, subtle, but sharp. As if the air had stabbed him. Minho’s face didn’t so much as twitch, but his breathing had changed, quicker, uneven. The silence bled into a low hum of confusion.
Changbin pressed on. “You were Subject 2.”
Minho stood so abruptly the chair screeched across the floor. Soonie fell from his lap with an angry, startled meow and bolted into the hallway.
“No,” Minho muttered, pacing. His hands trembled at his sides, fists opening and closing in anxious rhythm. “No. Changbin, I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. I was never, caged, or trapped…” His voice cracked on the last word. The image alone seemed to unravel him.
“I was never there,” he said more sharply. “I grew up in Japan. We didn’t come back to Seoul until I was 19. My parents, they…they were…”
He froze. Mid-step. Eyes locked on nothing. His breath caught in his throat.
“Min?” Chan’s voice was gentle, but laced with urgency. He stepped forward slowly, hands raised.
Minho didn’t react. He stood still, as if suspended in time, eyes wide, unblinking, silver, glowing. He was unraveling in real-time, the trauma scraping against memories he hadn’t known were buried. Something was cracking open inside him, and it was breaking everything on its way out.
Chan reached out, careful and slow, and placed his hands on Minho’s arms. He felt the tension there, taut like wires pulled to the point of snapping. He rubbed up and down, slow, soothing, until his hands found Minho’s shoulders, his neck, his face.
“Min,” Chan whispered, “what’s going on? Talk to us.”
Minho’s pupils dilated. His breath shuddered.
“I… Ch… Chan…” he stammered, voice far away, like it was coming from the bottom of a deep, flooded well.
Chan cupped his face, thumbs brushing beneath Minho’s eyes, trying to anchor him to the present, to something, someone, real.
“Minho, Jagyia,” Chan said without thinking, the word slipping out on instinct. “Come back, yeah? I need you to come back to me.” It wasn’t a command. It was a plea. Soft. Desperate.
For a moment, no one moved. Finally…Minho blinked. Slow. Heavy.
The silver glow in his eyes dulled, faded. His jaw unclenched. The breath he exhaled came out broken, but it was his again.
He looked at Chan. Really looked at him. And somewhere behind the fear, behind the fractures, there was recognition. And pain. So much pain.
The silence shattered, utterly destroyed, by a squirrel of a human who had clearly never read a room in his life.
“Chan hyung,” Jisung piped up, voice too loud for the fragile moment, “did you just call Minho hyung jagiya?”
Felix, without looking, snatched a pillow off the couch and launched it like a missile. It landed with a perfect thwap against Jisung’s face.
“Really, Sung…?” he muttered, deadpan.
Jisung blinked behind the cushion, dramatically offended. “Whaaaat? I’m just saying what we’re all thinking!”
Felix just glared, then shifted his gaze back toward Chan and Minho, his expression softening.
Minho had composed himself again, at least on the outside. The faint tremble in his hands had quieted, his breathing evened out. He kept his fingers lightly on Chan’s, still cradling his face, as if drawing strength from the contact.
“I’m okay,” he said softly. His silver eyes met Chan’s, searching them. “We know each other, don’t we? Is that why I feel so…” He paused, his brows furrowing, like he was fishing for a word just out of reach.
“Connected,” Chan finished for him, voice low. “I can’t say you were there, underground. I… I don’t remember you. Not clearly. But still, I feel like I’ve known you my whole life.”
His thumbs gently brushed beneath Minho’s cheekbones again, his eyes locked on Minho’s, searching for something he didn’t know he had lost. The space between them shimmered with unspoken things.
Minho gave him a soft smile, small, uncertain, but real. Then, with deliberate calm, he reached up and gently pulled Chan’s hands away from his face. He straightened, adjusted his expression into something far more familiar: blank, dry, unimpressed.
“Well,” he said flatly, “now you’ve gone and made it weird.”
Chan blinked then burst out laughing, loud and genuine. The sound cracked the tension like sunlight cracking stormclouds. His head tilted back, eyes crinkling with amusement as he clutched his stomach.
“You’re so weird,” Chan managed between laughs as he staggered back to the couch and flopped down, still chuckling.
“And you,” Minho replied, crossing his arms and resettling in his seat, “are insufferable.” But a faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. For a moment…just a moment the room felt lighter.
Minho let out a long breath, shoulders finally starting to relax now that he’d retreated back into the armor of sarcasm. His voice, though still tinged with uncertainty, carried its usual bite again.
“So…” he said, drawing the word out. “Park wants me for whatever reason I can’t remember, also for whatever reason. Fantastic. What do we do?”
The room quieted. The weight of the question settled like fog.
Changbin glanced around at each of them, eyes tired but focused. “I… honestly, I don’t know. 63 is clearly able to move around more freely than the others. 38, Hyunjin, is…” He trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck. “Unhinged is the nicest possible way to describe him.”
Felix raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t he the one who smiled while covered in blood?”
Changbin nodded grimly. “Yeah. That one. And 52, Seungmin, isn’t quite as far gone, but he’s not exactly stable either. He’s more like… if sarcasm and sociopathy had a child and raised it on caffeine and disdain. Still, he has a sharp mind. I think, if we can reach them, if we can get to them they might help. But I need to go back down there. Tonight. When everyone, even Park, is focused on the Gala.”
“But we also need to keep Minho from falling into Park’s hands,” Felix said, his tone sharp and serious. His gaze flicked toward Minho, watching him closely.
“I’m okay, Lixie,” Minho said, offering a tired but reassuring smile. “Maybe these people, 63, Hyunjin, Seungmin, they can help me piece together whatever the hell is locked inside my head. Something is there, I can feel it. Like trying to see your own reflection in fogged glass.” He waved vaguely in front of his face, frustration seeping through.
“I didn’t get much time with 63,” Changbin said, voice low. “But if I can get back into the elevator and past Sub-Level B1… I can get them out. I just…” he hesitated “...I’ll need help.”
“I… I can go with you, hyung,” Jisung said suddenly, voice barely above a whisper. All eyes turned to him. His hands trembled slightly. “I can… override the systems. I can crack into the building’s internal AI. Redirect the guards, cut power where needed.”
To emphasize his point, he lifted his hand. Sparks crackled and danced across his fingers,nervous, erratic, but controlled. A live current of power and fear.
There was a long pause before Minho stood, brushing his palms over his thighs and straightening his shirt. His jaw was tight, his gaze sharpened.
“Then it’s settled,” he said. “Binnie, you’ve been up all night. It’s nearly noon, you need rest if you’re going to be useful tonight. Use the guest room.”
Changbin opened his mouth to protest, but Minho silenced him with a look. No arguments. Not right now.
Minho turned to Chan, something unreadable flickering across his face. “Chan… can we… um. Can we talk?” He reached out, offering his hand.
Chan looked up, eyes softening. “Of course.”
He took Minho’s hand without hesitation and let himself be led out of the room, toward Minho’s bedroom. But of course, nothing went unnoticed in that apartment.
“Use protection, hyung!” Jisung called after them, grinning like the absolute menace he was. “We don’t know where he’s been!”
A flash of white light exploded near his face, courtesy of Felix.
Jisung let out a dramatic yelp and collapsed to the floor, shielding his eyes like he’d been struck blind. “AH! MY EYES! I’M HIT…DOWNED BY MY OWN BROTHER!”
Felix stepped over his twitching form with no sympathy. “Sung… you are a walking menace.” With a huff, he continued into the kitchen and started pulling ingredients from the pantry.
Jisung peeked up from the floor, pouting. “You guys are so mean to me.”
Changbin yawned loudly, stretching his arms over his head as he passed. “Sung, you really need to learn how to read a room.”
“But if I did that,” Jisung groaned, flopping dramatically onto his back, “how would I live my truth?”
Changbin just chuckled, already halfway down the hall. “I’m going to lay down. Try not to destroy the kitchen. And please don’t be… yourself.”
Jisung gasped, scandalized, as he sat up. “This is why Hope is my favorite. You’re all monsters.”
Felix didn’t look up from the eggs he was cracking. “I bake to avoid stabbing.”
Jisung got up, dusted himself off, and wandered into the kitchen to help, mostly by talking. Still, despite the chaos, the apartment felt different now. Lighter, more focused.
The battle ahead was uncertain. But the line had been drawn, and for the first time, they weren’t just reacting.
They were preparing.
*****
Minho closed the bedroom door with a soft click, but the sound echoed in his chest like a gunshot. His hand lingered on the knob, knuckles white with tension. For a moment, he stood there unmoving, shoulders hunched as if bracing for a blow.
Chan watched him quietly, standing near the bed but giving him space. His presence was steady, patient, like he was holding a lamp in a dark hallway, waiting for Minho to walk toward him.
Minho finally turned. His expression had crumbled. The careful sarcasm, the hard-won composure, it was all gone. Just bare emotion now. Raw and unguarded.
“I’m scared,” he said, voice hoarse.
Chan’s chest tightened, but he didn’t interrupt.
Minho swallowed hard. “I’m scared of what they did to me… what I don’t remember. What if it wasn’t just pain they buried? What if they buried me? And everything I am now is just… noise layered on top of someone I wouldn’t even recognize?” He looked away, blinking rapidly. “What if I’m dangerous, or broken, or worse…”
“Minho,” Chan said softly, stepping forward. “No.”
Minho’s lip trembled, and he shook his head like he couldn’t hear it. “You don’t know. I don’t even know. It’s like I’m standing on the edge of a cliff blindfolded, and I don’t know if what’s waiting for me down there is truth or madness.”
Chan reached him. He didn’t grab, didn’t pull. He just raised one hand to Minho’s face, brushing his fingers over his cheek like Minho might shatter if he pressed too hard. “Then take the blindfold off,” he whispered. “Let me do it with you.”
Minho’s breathing hitched. He closed his eyes, leaning into the touch. “I’m terrified, Chan,” he whispered. “Not just of Park. Of the person that was buried when my memories were taken. That I’m not someone worth choosing.”
“Min,” Chan murmured. “Don’t you get it? I don't know what our past was, but can you see it, the golden thread woven into our souls? I’ve already chosen you. Even on the first day at the coffee shop the second I saw you it felt…. Every moment I get to stand beside you, I’d choose again.”
Minho opened his eyes, and they were glossy with unshed tears. “Why? You don’t even remember me.”
Chan smiled, but it was tinged with sadness. “Maybe not with my mind. But my soul does. When I look at you, I feel like I’ve already lost you once. And I’ll be damned if I let that happen again.”
Minho’s breath caught in his throat. The air between them buzzed with something electric not the same charged chaos as the world outside, but something delicate. Something tender.
“Chan…” Minho breathed, and the weight of everything they hadn’t said collapsed between them.
Chan stepped closer until there was no space left. He tilted his head, brushing his nose against Minho’s, their breaths mingling. “You don’t have to pretend with me,” he said. “You don’t have to be strong. Let someone else carry it for a while.”
Minho didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His chest ached like something inside it was finally breaking open. Instead, he reached up with trembling fingers and cupped the back of Chan’s neck. Their foreheads pressed together. Eyes closed. Hearts racing. Then Minho leaned in, slow and unsure, and Chan met him halfway.
The kiss was feather-light at first, almost hesitant. A question rather than a statement. Minho’s lips trembled against Chan’s, and Chan responded with a hand at his waist, pulling him closer, grounding him. Their mouths moved together with growing certainty, as if they’d done this before, maybe not in memory, but in every lifetime their hearts remembered.
When they finally pulled apart, neither of them moved far. Minho stayed close, his breath still shallow, forehead resting against Chan’s. His voice, when it came, was barely a whisper.
“I don’t know what happens after tonight.”
Chan nodded, brushing a thumb over Minho’s cheek. “Whatever it is… you won’t face it alone.”
Minho let out a shaky breath and smiled, small, but real. “Stay?”
“Always.”
Chan led him gently to the bed. They didn’t speak as they settled beneath the covers, shoes long since kicked off. Minho curled into Chan’s side, arm draped across his chest, face tucked into the crook of his neck. Chan wrapped both arms around him, holding him close like he could protect him from dreams, from memories, from time itself.
Minho sighed into him, the tension finally melting from his shoulders. “Thank you,” he mumbled, nearly asleep.
Chan pressed a soft kiss to the top of his head. “Sleep, Jagi. I’ve got you.”
And for a few precious hours, before the world turned violent again, they rested.
Together.