Archive of Our Own

On the soft, white canopy of snow, the spill of fresh blood is stark. It’s easy, the ragged edge of the knife cuts through the soft human skin with little to no drag, scarlet blood spilling between them to color the monochrome world with violence. The attacker lets go of her frayed hoodie, and Minjeong kicks him until he staggers back. Quickly closing the butterfly knife and tucking it into her back pocket, she springs into a run as fast as her feet can take her. One bigot means there are others around — she will have to find shelter. Quickly.

Minjeong wipes angrily at the stray tear rolling down her cheek. But the specs of blood on her hand taint her raw skin red, wearing now a sign of her cold-hearted cruelty like a badge of honor. Some things never get easier — running like a hunted prey, acting in self-defense. Killing.

The air is freezing in her lungs, the meek, shredded hoodie barely warming her up in the heavy fall of snow. It cracks under her sneakers, the fresh snow, and Minjeong hates that her first thought is that she’s leaving an obvious track behind herself. Heart pulsating in her ears, breath coming out in a puff of smoke, frozen limbs trying to push her forward and save her body, for a moment she wonders how long she could run. How long is it until one attacker grows into two, then three — each slashed down grows another two back not different from the head of a hydra — and then one too many to keep her luck pushing? How long until her body catches up to her mind to come to a decision it’s not worth the fight?

(How long is it until she gives up?)

There had been worse times, Minjeong reminds herself. There had been times when running away meant cutting through the gordian knot of people, taking lives just as they screamed she would. The lost futures of those humans burned into her mind like a film reel. If she closed her eyes, she still sees the bright futures, even brighter smiles — weddings, careers, kids. Taken away with trembling hands. Regret and hatred are a tricky mixture to swallow, and her dry throat closes around the heaving of her chest.

Yells arise behind her, footfalls drum, and alarms echo in the empty forest. Keeping up her pace, she could only hope this is not the end yet. Glove-clad hands turn into fists as she runs, but it’s just her dilapidating stamina against the sentinel and her purchasers closing in around her. Robots built with the bloodthirst of a human; the knife cannot cut through metal. She peers back over her shoulder — the heavy body of the sentinel emerges behind the treelines. The humans around it yap loudly like hounds, coming to witness the elimination of yet another mutant.

She’s slowing down. The edge of her vision is blackening, heart rate pumping deafeningly in her ears. Her eyes catch something reddish in the white layer of snow.

A wreck. An old car that has been eaten up by rust, every moveable component stolen to leave behind only a hollow shell. Minjeong immediately targets it. The windows are smashed in, the broken shards glittering on the floor of the car — she jumps in. It’s a futile attempt to get away. The sentinel will detect the X-gene in her without a hitch and hiding in the car is only making her a nicely wrapped gift with no way out. It doesn’t matter anymore. The game is up, and she lost.

She pulls her legs close to her chest, humming a song under her breath. It seems a lifetime away when she was playing her piano at home, in warmth, at peace, surrounded by love. Things change fast; especially when you wake up one day seeing the future of everyone that brushes past you. Her voice comes out in broken syllables, a strange calmness washing over her. The voices are growing louder, but something odd is happening — the cheerful yells of the people are coming out strained, almost angry.

For a second, there’s nothing. The silence is loud in Minjeong’s ears, a vacuum tightening around her brain. She screws her eyes closed, palm pressing to her ears to get rid of it. Pulling her legs closer, making herself smaller — maybe if she’s tiny enough, just a speck of dust in the universe, they’d let her live.

Then there’s a crash. The noise cuts through the deadly silence like thunder, and the fall of something heavy resonates through the ground. Voices growing more and more agitated, the loud pop of the vacuum is back. Minjeong has half a mind to peek out at the odd scene, hope fluttering in her chest like a butterfly, but someone walks into her periphery.

The woman standing there is dressed smartly. Hair slicked back into a ponytail, an elegant coat hanging from her frame, she looks like she just stepped out of a fashion magazine. She looks displaced in the middle of the snowy forest, in the middle of chaos where Minjeong is buying time, waiting for death. It’s funny, the complete calmness she carries herself with; the bored gaze, as Minjeong follows the line of her vision, that rests on the two other girls fighting off the humans, the sentinel nowhere to be seen.

Minjeong tries to make sense of what she’s seeing — the sentinel was an old one, the lack of updates meant Minjeong could almost slip from under its nose if it weren't for the bastard noticing her, but it was powerful nonetheless. But then one of the girls opens up a portal, a black void to somewhere, anywhere — nowhere. So there went the sentinel.

The woman turns her feline eyes towards her, gaze boring into Minjeong’s. Being located by the sentinel was one thing. Knowing that you will die under the hands of a hatred-driven machine is final, undoubtful. Boots kicking away the broken, rusty pieces of the car, Minjeong is not sure if her savior arrived with good intentions. She quickly runs through the possibilities — running away is an option, but with the girl with portal-opening power, it’d be stupid. Staying is another option, even if every single muscle in her body strains to move, to run, to get somewhere safe. Teeth chattering from the cold, she’s about to push herself to stand when the woman steps into the doorway of the car. One hand resting on the empty vessel, she dips her head to have a good look at Minjeong. Her only emergency exit blocked, Minjeong reaches into her pocket to hold onto her knife.

The look of a soldier softens as their eyes meet and it almost gives a whiplash to Minjeong. Dark eyes hold her, but it’s so unexpected — Minjeong is used to the hatred, the vengeance that rests in people’s eyes when they look at her.

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” she says, tender in the harsh snowfall. “I’m just like you.”

Hand gripping the butterfly knife, she's ready to spill some more blood and run. It's an endless cycle; kill to stay alive. Stay alive to kill. Be the worst self of yourself to even keep on living. But the woman reaches her hand out slowly as one would towards a stray cat ready to bolt, and in the palm of her hand a little ball of blue flame appears. It’s warm as she offers towards Minjeong, warmth seeping through the thin material of her clothes immediately. The flames ripple on the surface of the ball like it’s a miniature ocean that rests between the palms of this odd woman.

Tentatively, Minjeong reaches her hands out. The leather gloves are her only possession, but she strips them off slowly to warm her frozen fingers. The ball elongates, ruffles up like a small animal, and escapes the hold, curling around Minjeong’s shoulders.

“What happened to them?” Minjeong asks, voice hoarse and scratchy. Her throat throbs dully, dehydration, and a permanent cold that has her bones chattering under the thin layer of fat and papery skin.

“The hunter becomes the hunted.”

Minjeong raises an eyebrow. “And what does that make you?”

She shakes her head, plump lips pulling into a secret smile. It would look grotesque on another person, but it marks her angelic; face carved into silky marble by rough hands.

“A realistic person,” she says easily. Minjeong has a feeling she has an answer ready for every question. “I’m Jimin, by the way.”

There’s a hand offered towards her, elegant, long fingers waiting for Minjeong to slip her hand into. But that’s not the way to go, not with her bare hands. Instead, she looks up at the stranger, trying to piece her together from the small fragments offered.

“Being anonymous is the safest way to exist,” Minjeong concludes.

“Oh, did you go to the mutant high school? The— Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters, is it?” The mockery in her voice rubs Minjeong wrong, but she cannot raise any complaint about it. She didn’t really appreciate the existence of the school either. With a quick quirk of her eyebrows, she adds, “A lot of good anonymity did to you.”

“I didn’t finish the school,” she says curtly.

The deal is: Minjeong has always been alone because it is better to choose to be alone than set yourself up for disappointment. And Minjeong, with a gift or curse of a power, with the futures stuck in her head that could never happen, that were false, she always felt safer alone. That included the school for the likes of her — when people swarmed around her to tell how their lives would end, if they died between the hands of humans, if they survived. The screams of murder echo between her thoughts, and she’s unable to find if it’s her own memory or the future of others.

But it’s a die today or die tomorrow situation. And she likes it when the future is a little bit more concrete.

Jimin crouches down to be at her eye level. A lot of people tried to coerce her into joining different organizations, but Jimin didn’t even ask about her power. She’s waiting patiently, eyes as warm as the small glob of fire hovering over her shoulder.

“Which side are you on?” Minjeong asks. It feels like a defeat already.

“The one that keeps me alive.”

Minjeong often feels like she’s made out of glass shards; broken to the point of unsalvageable, sharp to the point of cutting deep into the flesh of those who try to touch her. Now, Jimin looks at her with her inconvenient truth, just as sharply.

“I’m Minjeong.”

Jimin lets out a small snort as a laugh. The hand between them still hangs there, in the air, and Minjeong is still adamant about not touching her. Jimin lets it flop to her side and steps back to give way to her. Minjeong's muscles scream as she moves, thighs trembling under her lithe weight as she pushes herself up standing. Back ramrod straight, ready to bolt any second the other woman moves too quickly, she finds herself staring into mischievous dark eyes.

When Minjeong peeks over the rotting vessel of a car, the two other women wave back at her enthusiastically. However she tries to find the bodies, the people who wanted her blood, the sentinel that was designed to kill her upon detection, but her eyes only find a fresh layer of white

snow. Existence erased, her mouth opens to ask what happened but Jimin is quicker.

“Have you also got that fancy name of yours? The one the school gave to mask your identity?”

“Vision.”

***

The soapy bubbles roll in the washing machine with her only set of clothes and Minjeong has a hard time tearing her eyes away from the sight. The cotton T-shirt and sweatpants on her are comfortable, but it holds a foreign scent and every fiber of her being is screaming at her for letting her possession into strange, unknown hands. Running away is still possible, she reminds herself. Stealing the clothes hung in the wardrobe of her room is possible. She tucks her bare hands into her pockets, feeling completely nude without the gloves.

“You will get them back,” Jimin says, mischief resonating back from her voice. Her hips leaning on the machine, she watches Minjeong with hands folded over her chest.

Minjeong gives a terse nod, eyes immediately sticking back to her soaked clothes.

Jimin doesn’t like to be ignored. That’s one of the first things Minjeong learned about her. So she steps between Minjeong and the washing machine, blocking the sight. Reluctantly, Minjeong looks up at her.

“But you do know that the other clothes are yours, right? We bought them just for you.”

Minjeong presses her mouth in a thin line. “I don’t like owing to people.”

The response triggers a laugh out of Jimin. She tilts her head to take Minjeong in, a half-smile staying behind on her lips. Minjeong hates being the center of anyone’s amusement, but she will take it for now.

“You’re free to leave whenever you want. We’re not holding you hostage,” Jimin explains easily.

“It’s odd when someone just takes you in and offers you everything.” She waits, watching for any reaction that would give her a clue about underlying motives. But Jimin is a plain slate and Minjeong claws to stay atop of her genuinity. “Especially nowadays. What do you want from me?”

She shakes her head. “Gosh, you’re like an untrusting stray puppy. But yes, kindness is still an existing thing. Especially when we’re made out of the same material.”

Minjeong thinks back to the fallen bodies of the mutants she used to know, still feeling the throb of the invisible scars on her heart they left. And while she decided to build a fortress around her heart, Jimin is doing the exact opposite. There’s just something magnetic that pulls Minjeong in; maybe her gentle confidence or the power she seems to hold that makes her feel — safe. But again, Minjeong, with all her distrust, never really prided herself to be a good judge of character.

And if they want something from her — she can still outrun that problem when it arises.

“I’ll need gloves. I’m not comfortable touching people without them.”

It happens in a second. Just like a snake striking down on its prey, Jimin grabs her hand. Minjeong’s immediate reaction is to screw her eyes closed, to prepare herself for the onslaught of bits and pieces of a future that feels wobbly, feels incomplete. But—

“I—” Minjeong furrows her eyebrows, trying to find an answer in Jimin’s eyes, “I don’t see anything.”

“You would see… thoughts? Past? Future, maybe?” Minjeong weakly nods at the last one. Jimin clicks her tongue. “You won’t see mine. My brain had been tinkered with.”

Jimin pulls her long, black hair behind her ears and there they are. Long, silver scars rest on her temples, running into her hairline. Minjeong hesitates for a moment, foreign to the feeling of wanting to touch someone else, but catching Jimin’s eyes, the silent agreement there, she runs her fingertips over the scars. They are rough under the touch, old but still protruding like they were fresh — whoever did this, it wasn’t their cleanest job.

When Minjeong draws back her hand, Jimin sighs, letting her hair fall back, obscuring her face. “The people who did this to me thought I would be a better weapon if I wasn’t sensitive to other mutants who can get into my head.”

Minjeong heard about mutant experiments. Jimin looks so young, so comfortable in her skin. She stands tall, offers sincerity — Minjeong would expect someone broken into pieces, someone who is only an echo of her former self.

“They failed a lot of experiments,” hatred flashes through her eyes, “but not this.”

The past few years had made Minjeong’s social skills rusty. So when she’s about to offer any consolidation, words get stuck in her throat. But then Jimin looks at her, understanding lighting up in her warm brown eyes and she realizes she doesn’t need to try that hard.

Instead she says, “I never actually thanked you for saving me.”

Jimin tilts her head, a smile softer than the tee on her back pulling on her lips.

“Because you don’t have to.”

Rebuttal sits on Minjeong’s lips — because if she learned something from being hunted is that everything is an exchange. Just as she has a hard time accepting this little group not wanting anything from her, that they just give clothes, food, and shelter over her head because of the goodness of their hearts — she has a hard time accepting saving her life is just another thing not worth mentioning.

But then Jimin reaches out again and Minjeong flinches. Years of keeping her hands tucked away don’t just disappear, even if she consciously knows Jimin won’t leave an imprint of a terribly intangible future. And Jimin’s grip is tight around her hand, like she hears the echo of tens and hundreds of lives in Minjeong’s mind.

“We’re looking out for each other because who else would?” she explains. “The world is collapsing on itself Minjeong, and we only have each other to rely on.”

Minjeong pulls back her hands. She tucks them away in her pockets because she fears that the mere touch of warm palms on her would open a dam that took too long to build.

“I heard the same sentiment from Xavier’s school as well,” Minjeong says, to set up a trap. And Jimin falls into it, with the slight scrunch of his nose to be compared to them. A small puff of laugh escapes her lips. “You don’t like them.”

“I never said that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“I just don’t agree with a few things,” Jimin shrugged, non-committal and reluctant to share more. But at Minjeong’s searching look, she adds, “Especially the hiding away part.”

The washing machine stops, a tiny melody cutting into the conversation. Minjeong uses this time to turn away from Jimin, to keep her secrets to herself before she asks why she left the school. The scent of the detergent lingers in the air and it calms her — the scent of her childhood home makes her shoulders drop.

Jimin clears her throat. “As I said, you’re free to leave anytime. But if you want to stay, you’re more than welcome.”

Holding the still warm, wet clothes to her chest, she longs for a night without waiting to be attacked in the cheap, dilapidated motels she used to stay in. A night when her body doesn’t wake her for every miniscule noise, for every car stopping in front of the motel. Her grip tightens around the clothes — she doesn’t necessarily trust Jimin, but the butterfly knife still rests in the pocket of her sweatpants, a comforting weight even if using it brings little comfort.

“I’ll stay,” Minjeong says, “today.”

Jimin grins, all pearly white and toothy, and it’s surprisingly gentler than the way she carries herself. Minjeong flexes her hand behind her back, silently scolding herself for being pulled in by a kind stranger like she wasn’t burned like this multiple times.

“Wanna see the rest of the building?”

***

One day turned two, that turned three and Minjeong realized she’s been sleeping in this awfully soft bed for a week now. Arms reaching towards the ceiling, her joints crack after a long night of sleep. The routine is always the same; Minjeong waking at 7 am sharp to the delighted chatting and loud footsteps filtering in from the corridor. She will allow herself ten minutes of sorting through her thoughts, calming the quick chase of her heart and the phantoms looking over her with the intent to kill. She's in one piece and that's what is important.

Jimin’s sharp knock comes as she's braiding her hair. She's leaning against the doorframe with the usual childish smirk resting on her lips.

“Have breakfast with me?”

Jimin keeps her distance. She doesn't try to touch Minjeong, but physical distance is the only thing she respects. Minjeong likes having meals with her, spotted throughout the day to escape from the restlessness that comes with being confined to the four walls of her room, but Jimin tends to ask uncomfortable questions that barge through whatever mental barricade Minjeong holds up against her.

“You said your power is seeing the future, right?” Jimin asks off-handedly, digging through her food and stuffing a spoonful of porridge into her mouth. She only looks up at Minjeong when her silence stretches long.

Minjeong gives a terse nod.

“How is it?” she pushes, despite sensing Minjeong’s boundaries. Comfort zone, for Jimin, is just an obstacle to jump over and the more she pushes for answers, the more Minjeong wants to fight against it. But she’s also the victim of warm, brown eyes on her and survival instincts always kick in a beat too late in the company of a pretty woman.

She tries to play it off, stuffing a spoonful of porridge in her mouth to buy time. “Honestly? Useless.”

Jimin furrows her eyebrows. “Is it now? It doesn’t sound like it.”

“It is, though. But I have to admit, I do have a knack for lotto numbers,” Minjeong tries to joke, hoping Jimin would drop the topic.

With the way Jimin stares at her, Minjeong feels transparent under the fluorescent light of the canteen. She wonders if she’s as easy to read as Jimin makes her feel.

“Has Xavier taught you how to control your power?”

“There’s little to control about the future,” Minjeong says, just to be difficult. The way Jimin talks about the mutant school and the professor leaves a bitter aftertaste in Minjeong’s mouth, like she herself was the one bashing them — the school that took her in when no one else would, fought for her when everyone else turned against her. Minjeong could’ve had a chance there if she allowed herself the luxury to feel at home. Even though home ceased to exist when she blew out the candles on her birthday cake as she turned eighteen.

“Weird,” Jimin pauses. “I beg to differ.”

“How so?”

She shrugs. “I mean there’s a way to control every power. Maybe you could concentrate on pinpointing one aspect of the future. Maybe you could control it so you didn’t have to be afraid of touching others. I know very little about your mutation, but there must be a way to bend it to your will.”

“No need.”

Jimin’s hand stops in the air and she tilts her head. “What do you mean no need?”

“I don’t want to use it.” Minjeong stabs her spoon into the bowl, stuffs her mouth to kill the bile rising in the back of her throat at the thought of going around touching people. “It leaves a mark on me, like a band or something. Every future I see stays with me like a fucked up mark. And there are things I don’t want to remember.”

“Powers are always exchanges.”

Minjeong’s hand stutters. “Does the fire hurt you?”

Without saying anything, Jimin lays her hand down between them, palm facing the ceiling. Burned off fingerprints leave her fingers looking synthetic, almost like plastic under the harsh light.

“Yes. I don't know if you noticed but the mutations are not without sacrifice,” she says, words spiteful. She wiggles her fingers, marking each word with shiny burnt skin. When she’s satisfied with Minjeong’s reaction, Jimin pulls her hand back, laying it on her lap.

“It's not a fair exchange.”

Jimin scoffs. “When was life ever fair.”

But it’s really not fair, Minjeong wants to say but opts to stay silent. Because I never asked for this.

She never asked for a power that left her feeling like a stranger in her own body. She never asked for a power that made her left behind, made her abandoned by the ones she treasured the most. It’s not a fair exchange when she got something and paid the price — the balance tipping to one side heavily, sacrifices piling on top of each other for a power she never wanted.

“I like concrete things,” Minjeong says out of the blue, stuffing her mouth full. The occasionally stolen food never tasted so good. Jimin smiles at her, pushes her own metal tray towards Minjeong and she takes it. “The future… It’s always changing. It shows one thing now, and one decision later, another. It’s very slippery and kind of hard to understand.”

“How so?”

“You might see a future that you like, right? But as I said, one wrong decision leads to the collapse of the whole.” She chews, reaching over to steal a piece of spicy radish from Jimin’s plate. “It’s like— it’s like a game of Jenga.”

Jimin snorts. “You’re so unserious.”

Minjeong looks at her, the curiosity shining in her eyes and sighs. She never liked speaking of her mutation; if anything, it only brought misery on her and a complex about needing something constant in her life. But also never speaking of it tainted her mind bitterly, kept her churning on her own unfortunate life, reliving everything like a reel.

Suddenly, stomach full and heavy and uncomfortable, Minjeong leans back in her chair. She cannot decide if it’s the sudden intake of food or the bile-tasting topic that is weighing down her belly. Under the table, she feels a slight nudge at her calf, and she crumbles too easily for Jimin’s curiosity.

“Really. The future is very fragile. Everything is interwoven with each other. It’s… complex. They are only the reflection of a certain time and place. Possibilities, if you will.” She shakes her head. “Sorry, that’s all I can tell you. I’m no expert in this, I never really thought too much about it.”

“Isn’t it sad, though?” Jimin starts, her honesty a scythe to severe the head of her self-pity. A smile. Snip-snip. “That you keep pushing away this part of yourself?”

Minjeong knows her only for a week now, but Jimin doesn’t try to woo her by stepping around sensitive questions. Sometimes she’s standing behind Minjeong to catch her during a trust fall, sometimes she’s the one who’s pushing her to fall. Busying her hands to tear away at the napkin and roll small balls between her fingertips, Minjeong refuses to acknowledge the questions. Not even with Jimin nudging her under the table.

“It’s my turn to ask questions,” Minjeong declares, to which Jimin only raises her eyebrows. As there is no strong opposition she says, “You are the leader of this organization.”

“This is not a question,” Jimin points out. Minjeong catches on that she doesn’t disagree. She’s noticed the first time they met — the authority that lingers around Jimin, people turning towards her in question, in plea for getting straight orders. Even now, Minjeong feels the eyes waiting for them to finish their meals, the unofficial end of their little hangout, so she can be discarded and Jimin can attend to more important tasks.

Yet, Jimin takes her time. She picks up her mug of coffee, blows away the steam. Ignores the people looming around them, watching every millisecond of the exchange.

“What kind of organization is this?” Minjeong asks finally.

Jimin peers over the rim of her mug. “Do you want a pretty lie or the truth?”

“Truth, obviously.”

Jimin sets down her chopsticks, waiving together her fingers to rest her chin on them. “I want to protect the people whom I like. If it means I have to turn into a monster to do so, I will.”

“So you kill people?”

The slight curl of her lips that seem to rest there permanently, freeze. “Be careful, Minjeong. You're tethering on hypocrisy.”

It's Minjeong who crosses the bridge between them, and burns it afterwards. She's the one who reaches out, fingertips leaving a phantom of a touch on the back of Jimin's hand as a miserable attempt at truce. She’s so unused to touching that she missed the smooth fingertips, but now, more conscious but still just as oblivious, she runs her thumb over the burn marks. It’s a clumsy venture, especially as every fiber of her being screams at her to pull back.

But the truth is less sweet than the melted edges of Jimin. Rushing from the endless cycle of killing and staying alive, into intentionally planning to eliminate certain groups — because, if Minjeong is honest, if she’s not pretending to turn a blind eye to her surroundings, she could see it without confronting Jimin about it.

Because if she looks around she sees the military precision, the clear hierarchy between the members; could see the same clothes hanging on bodies to symbolize the unity of the organization. And there are more blatant things — the training rooms, both conditioning in power use and physical strengthening; the ease with which they collected Minjeong, saving her from a bloodthirsty group and a sentinel in a three-to-too many fight.

Minjeong ignored them, to enjoy the softness of her mattress and the gentle smile of Jimin.

“You think differently of me now, don’t you?” Slowly, Jimin retracts her hand, slipping out of Minjeong’s hold. Physical distance, she can understand. Minjeong goes back to tearing away the napkin.

“Do you want a pretty lie or the truth?” Minjeong repeats Jimin’s question.

The chair scratches against the floor, loud like a thunder even in the lively hum of conversations in the canteen. It’s a slippery slope, wanting to reach out to fight off the icy layer frosting over Jimin’s benevolence. Minjeong always fumbled when facing kindness.

“It’s rich coming from someone who’s not stepping out of their room without their knife.”

***

It doesn’t get better in the next few days. Jimin gives her the cold shoulder whenever they pass by each other in the corridor. She doesn’t appear in the morning, playful mouth already pulling into a smile to ask Minjeong for breakfast. Instead she receives polite nods, because everything Jimin does is painfully polite and hospitable even if her feelings are hurt.

But what takes Minjeong by surprise is her own behavior. Guilt corrodes her insides, slows her heartbeat to an echo. And she still stays. She stays, folding clothes after she watched the washing machine roll her soapy, wet clothes over and over again, as she labelled and stores these feelings in her mind, burying them deep so that they don’t interfere with her decision. A bed, food, safety — was she also participating in the brewing war by using Jimin’s organization for her own good? Knuckles whitening under the pressure, fingers digging into the soft material of the sweater she’s folding, it’s a hard bite to chew on.

“I thought you had already left.” The voice breaks her out of her daze, making Minjeong drop the sweater from her hands. When turning back, she’s faced with the woman who was with Jimin when they saved her, leaning on the doorframe. Without extending her hand, she nods and introduces herself, “Aeri.”

“Minjeong.” She mirrors.

“I know.”

Minjeong ignores the comment. “Should I? Leave, I mean. I feel like everyone expects me to run away.”

“Everyone expects it because we’ve been in your shoes. Coming to terms with this,” she motions all around the building, “is hard.”

“What?” she deadpans. “Living in a military base preparing to break out a war?”

Aeri tilts her head, her gaze searching Minjeong’s face. “You know just as well as I do that the war has already started. It’s just not yet called by its name. And now, it’s about who’s winning it.”

Minjeong leans down to pick up the fallen sweater, slowly folds it into a perfect shape, then stuffs it into the wardrobe. She takes her time, just to hide the rising quickness of her breathing at the mention of a war; of killing ever being justified with the promise of freedom. Tainted to the point of feeling like a noose around her neck, freedom means nothing.

“Believe it or not, this is not a killing spree,” Aeri reasons when she gets enough of waiting for a reaction. “But I get it. I was skeptical too.”

She takes a deep breath, leans against the wardrobe. She watches as Aeri, without any invitation, walks into the room and perches herself on the top of Minjeong’s carefully made bed.

“What’s your power?” Minjeong asks.

“Intangibility,” Aeri says, inspecting her nails. Her feline eyes snap up at Minjeong as she’s nodding in understanding. Then Aeri adds, “Astonishing. Ice. Why does it matter?”

“Just curious.”

Jimin called her an untrusting stray once, but looking at Aeri, the woman reminded her of one as well. The instinct of a prey is to master evasion and survival — never in her life Minjeong would’ve thought she’s the one triggering a reaction like that from another mutant. The passing thought makes her soften on the tenseness of her shoulders.

“By the way, I’m not here to make you miserable,” says Aeri.

“Are you not?”

Aeri snickers as she dusts invisible dirt off her uniform. She stalks closer, the waft of her perfume is warm in Minjeong’s nose. For a second, she doesn’t know how to react. If she should prepare for physical intrication for not wanting to get involved in this, if she should expect a farewell hug. But Aeri stops a few steps away from her, safe distance for the both of them. She shakes her head with a hint of a smile.

“No I’m not. But you’re a funny guy, Minjeong. Actually I’m here to deliver these.” From under her jacket, she pulls out a small box and reaches it out for Minjeong. The box is tied with a black ribbon, a bow sitting on the top of it. Minjeong doesn’t move to take it. “Jimin sends it to you but she’s too stubborn to do it herself.”

It’s enough of a reason for Minjeong to take the box. Slowly, she pulls the ribbon and opens the box, revealing a pair of leather gloves.

The gloves are pretty under the neon lights, black and shiny as Minjeong pulls them on. It's like a hug from an old friend, fitting snugly on her hands, not limiting her movements. Aeri watches her, eyes telling she knows much more than she initially lets on.

"Don't forget to thank her," she says. Minjeong looks up at her, quizzical look setting on her features. "Jimin. She's been distant in the last few days. I guess it has something to do with your small dispute from the other day."

The heat in her cheeks betray her because Aeri lets out a sharp bark of laughter.

"I knew that was the reason behind her moodiness. You don't have to be embarrassed, Jimin is an easy person to fight with. She's a little bit — too idealistic." Minjeong reckons seeing a slight twist of her mouth but it disappears just as quickly as it came. "Now if you don't mind, I'm taking my leave."

Aeri turns around, done with the conversation. But before she could go, words tumble into Minjeong's mouth and before she knows they fall out.

"Why do you stay?"

Aeri stops in her tracks. She doesn't move, only turns slightly to peer back at Minjeong. Dark eyes settle on Minjeong’s body like heavy chains and she immediately regrets ever asking. Yet, Aeri’s expression melts into a somber mellowness, more approachable than ever before.

“Because I would be lying dead somewhere already otherwise. And I have not one bone in my body that is hoping for martyrdom.” Aeri straightens her back. She tilts her head, a small curl of her lips mocking Minjeong. “Do you still think we’re that different?”

The question lingers in the air for a few seconds while Minjeong opens and closes her mouth in response. Without ever coming up with an answer, Aeri takes the silence as a reply and leaves.

***

The warmth of the gloves burns the palm of her hands as Jimin passes by her in the corridor and only nods at her. Minjeong, as it turns out, likes being ignored even less than Jimin.

“Thank you for the gloves. They’re really pretty,” she says quickly, words rushing into her mouth to give them out as a truce for Jimin’s cold war. It’s enough to make Jimin stop, just a few steps away from Minjeong. Her back straight, uniform crisp on her form, hands tightened into white-knuckled fists, she doesn’t turn towards Minjeong.

“You are welcome. Please use it well.”

Her voice comes out like a soft caress despite the tension raging in her body. Attachment is an odd thing — a small seed rooted in hopelessness, a string knotting her to Jimin’s pinky. She barely knows the woman but she still feels hollow being in the line of her ignorance.

“Jimin,” Minjeong says. She takes a second to recollect what she wants to say, but the moment Jimin turns around, these thoughts fall from her outstretched hands and scatter everywhere. Instead, she scratches her cheek and looks away. “I don’t want to pretend to understand your ways of doing things. I don’t think I’ll ever agree to the notions you have, but I’m sorry for trying to act superior over you. My hands are as tainted as any other person’s here because that’s the only way to stay alive. I still have the knife in my pocket because I don’t trust people easily, especially not when I don’t have a physical power and almost everyone here can overpower me easily. I’m sorry that I am like— like this, when you are the sole reason I am still standing here today.”

Maybe there are more things to say but the familiar warmth behind her eyes makes her stop. Her heart grew a row of sharp teeth, snapping at anyone who came close. A cowering animal, she realized she is. Because she can only hide the bleeding if she’s loud enough, if she snaps her teeth voraciously enough.

“Minjeong,” Jimin’s voice is soft against the hurt, “you don’t have to be anyone but you.”

That’s the problem. Minjeong shaped herself so much to fit in — as a student at the mutant school, as a normal person in the human society, as a villain of humanity — that she doesn’t feel like anything anymore. She’s an amalgamation of everyone she ever touched. She’s made of plasticine and stuffed into different shaped molds, different fingerprints marring her skin to make her what she is today. A shapeless lump of memories. She exists and she doesn’t.

She nods, though.

When Minjeong feels brave enough to raise her gaze, Jimin is searching her face and by the look of it, she finds something that doesn’t sit well with her. Turning around to finally properly face Minjeong, the tight set of Jimin’s shoulders released a bit.

“You can stay. You don’t have to be part of the uprising.” Jimin’s words come out stronger. “I didn’t rescue you to be part of something you don’t want to fight for or to draft you to be a soldier to work off the price of your life. I just didn’t want another one of us to fall to unfounded hate.”

If I watch it happen and I don’t do anything, I’m still involved, am I not?

She can ask the question endlessly in her head, torment herself with the weight of her decision — but. But she already decided to stay, unconsciously as she worked down her fences to small hurdles for Jimin to jump over. Minjeong might be unused to the selfless nature of human interactions but she’s a quick learner.

Jimin heaves out a tired sigh. The dark circles under her eyes are heavy, dragging down her eyelids for a few milliseconds of rest. She fights exhaustion by shaking her head to sober up.

“Why are you so nice to me?” Minjeong asks.

The question seems to surprise Jimin and it gives a little satisfaction to Minjeong. Jimin lets out a small puff of laugh, disbelief evident on the way her tired eyes glint at her, and walks closer until she stops right in front of Minjeong. Slowly reaching out, she takes Minjeong’s hand in hers, peeling away the glove while watching Minjeong carefully. Each minuscule movement of her face causes a small stop in Jimin’s actions, until the glove is properly off.

“I know what it feels like to be on your own. To become hopeless. I’ve been on your end too, and believe me when I say I don’t want anyone there ever.” The heat of another hand on hers is foreign but welcomed. Jimin’s calloused fingertips dance along her skin and Minjeong has to focus on the shape of her mouth to find her answer. “I don’t expect anything from you. I saved you because I selfishly wanted you to be here. Safe and sound.”

While the apology tasted like bile in the back of her throat, this comes easier. Familiarity flutters in her chest like a short-lived mayfly. Minjeong offers her a weak smile.

“You have a thing for strays, don't you?”

“I do like myself some little puppies with sharp teeth,” Jimin shoots back.

“Have breakfast with me?” Minjeong asks, fragile hope building and looming over her head. The buzz in her chest is there again as Jimin nods.

Despite the exhaustion that lags her reactions, a slow smile spreads on Jimin’s lips. Handing back the glove, Minjeong pretends it’s by accident that their knuckles brush together. She pulls it on to purge the phantom of her touch.

“You missed me, didn’t you?” Jimin teases and Minjeong just rolls her eyes as a reply. She gave a contemplative look at her wristwatch, a scrooged old thing that Jimin kept on at all times.

“Busy?”

“I can make time,” Jimin says too quickly. For you, Minjeong adds in her head because while Jimin’s thoughts, pasts and futures are protected by the thin scars, her face tells everything for her.

Somewhere between watching her friends die and fending for her own life, she forgot how to apologize. Lungs that threatened to collapse under the weight of guilt, the bumbling mess in her head clears as Jimin forgiveness comes readily. And she spends too long in her own head that she almost misses the quick change in Jimin’s expression.

Jimin smiles, sweet and teasing. “Ah, changed my mind. Rain check on breakfast tomorrow, okay?”

“Why?”

She steps closer, slow like she would scare Minjeong away if she moved abruptly. Minjeong’s about to scold her, but once again Jimin is too close, her eyes shine too bright despite the tiredness. She tips back Minjeong’s chin slightly, another kind of hunger resting in her eyes.

“Would you mind if I kissed you?”

Hairpin turns lead to this: Minjeong is pushed up on a wall in an empty storage room, kissing Jimin back. She thought Jimin would taste of something decadent, bitter from years spent being a lab rat, sour from the growing number of friends she keeps losing, spicy from the anger that resides in her. But she tastes sweet on Minjeong’s tongue, a sweet determination to show something to Minjeong.

She’s just a taxidermy, stuffed out with everything she could’ve been. But a line of heartbeat rushed through her frozen body as a response to the kiss; after a life spent swallowing down every single desire to stay alive, now she’s facing the idea of dying young and never wanting anything ever. Jimin kisses her like there’s a Minjeong-shaped hunger in her that coils around her mind, that makes her push Minjeong to the wall and consume her whole.

It doesn’t come as much of a surprise as it should — she’s caught Jimin’s lingering gaze on her mouth, felt the wandering fingertips whenever she was close enough to be touched. And Minjeong has been starved her whole life, stripped from human contact as soon as she turned old enough to appreciate it. Still, Jimin’s mouth is sweet against hers, and it breaks her apart and stitches her together.

“I don’t want you to think that this is—” Jimin rushes to say as they gasp for air. She kisses Minjeong again, short and demanding, a punctuation to send the meaning of her words through Minjeong’s dazed mind. “That this is only happening to get rid of some steam.”

Minjeong pulls away a bit, but the back of her head knocks to the wall. Eyes jumping from Jimin’s eyes and her red, glistening lips, she lets out a small puff of laughter.

“I honestly don’t care why this is happening. As long as I’m part of it.”

She surges back, silencing whatever comment Jimin had by pressing her lips to hers. She’s clumsy, all teeth, noses bumping together — but she’s a fast learner, an enthusiastic one. She revels in the soft gasps that leave Jimin’s lips as she leaves open-mouthed kisses on the underside of her jaw. Self-consciousness lingers in the back of her head, but slowly it gets pushed away further by the enticing new feeling of holding someone. Kissing someone. One part of her wants to let the blazing star of the sudden happiness out as tears prickle her eyes. Another part of her wants to mold into Jimin’s hold, feel the warmth of her palm, the bruising of her kiss.

But it’s over too quickly, too suddenly. The beeper on Jimin’s side screams into the background noise of their rushed breaths. She tears it off her belt, hastily reading the short message.

The high blush on her cheeks drained, growing pale.

“What does it say?” Minjeong asks, even though she doesn’t want to hear it.

Once, Jimin called her a hypocrite and she realized that she is. She craves the safety this place offers but not the dirty side of it. She wants Jimin as long as she’s happy and smiling and sweet, but not the leader of an organization that is ready to go to war. But Jimin promptly just shakes her head, a soft sigh leaving her lips as she lays her forehead on Minjeong’s shoulder. The roles reserved, Jimin being at the mercy of Minjeong, makes her freeze.

“Just give me a second.”

Jimin is not crying but she’s close to it. Her hot breath seeps through the cotton tee on Minjeong, turning more and more ragged by each passing second. It wakes something in her, empathy buried deep down, and she cards her fingers through Jimin’s black locks.

They only stand there for minutes. Jimin stitches herself back together in no time and when she pulls away, she’s again the picture perfect leader. The only tell she has is in her red-rimmed eyes. She cups Minjeong’s face and brushes their lips together, so lovely in its foreignness that Minjeong doesn’t try to interpret it. The ghost of the tender touch lingers there even after she leaves.

***

Every morning, she looks into the mirror and finds a different face there. The change isn’t drastic, it comes slowly. First, her paleness disappears and gains a healthier complexion. Then, her cheeks fill out as she doesn’t have to go to bed hungry every night. And then there’s a shine in her eyes that is foreign, a curl to her lips that seems misplaced on her, a dust of pink on her cheeks that keeps returning with vengeance whenever Jimin pushes her boundaries, touch featherlight during their casual conversations during the morning.

She gets to meet Yizhuo, the sweetest girl with one of the rarest powers Minjeong has ever seen . She re-meets Aeri, finding the woman is full of jokes when she’s not guarding the pride of her best friend. She’s not entirely sold on Minjeong, though, keeping the flow of their chit-chat as shallow as possible.

And Minjeong burns bridges because every day, the possibility of leaving decreases until it disappears altogether.

The pitter-patter of the rain on her windowsill paints the gloomy morning with ambient noise and Minjeong stands before the window to watch the silent forest around them. The snow was slowly melting away, instead wind and storms took over and she still has no idea where they are. In the mountains, probably. In a dilapidated five-storey building that hides an intricate maze under the hard, cold earth. Somewhere safe, comes the meaningless answer from Jimin whenever she asks.

“Breakfast?” Jimin piques as she peeks through the door.

Minjeong shakes her head, doesn’t even turn around. “Not hungry.”

It catches up on her quickly. The restlessness builds in the vessel of her body each day as she eats breakfast with Jimin and watches her leave to be part of something. She asks, keeps her cards on the table, visible for everyone to see but she receives half-answers that don't ease her mind even a bit. Spending her early twenties running from the forever looming death, to finally get to sit around, she doesn't find herself.

And she feels guilty. It drowns her lungs, keeps her choking for air. She’s here. Surviving. Living comfortably. Others, who she’s met during the years, are still running to ditch death, struggling to keep a shelter over their heads. Others, who swarm the corridors of the organization, are ready to sacrifice their lives to make a change. They riot against the system that wants to silence them; and Minjeong lingers at the back, just watching as Jimin leads the change.

The pact was easy. Minjeong stays as long as she doesn’t have to kill anymore. Easy enough.

Maybe it’s not.

Jimin opens the door wider, chilly air stealing inside of the room from the corridors. She invites herself in, standing behind Minjeong.

“You’re still not a captive here. You can do whatever you want.”

It’s icky, the rage that suddenly fills her. Like syrup, it sticks to her throat, to her tongue, makes her want to choke on the words. She turns around, facing Jimin. “Can I see what you’re doing?”

Jimin rarely uses her ranking over Minjeong. But the contempt hardening her features, the rigidity of her uniform against Minjeong’s light sweatshirt, the authority lingering around her makes Minjeong feel small. Almost childlike.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Minddongie.”

“Only if you have things to hide.”

“I play my cards open.”

“Funny you say that.” Minjeong hates how her voice comes out scratching, a claw ready to draw blood. “I still have yet to receive a straight answer from you.”

Jimin pauses. Satisfaction fills Minjeong to the brim, threatening to overflow by seeing the quiet anger reflecting in Jimin’s eyes. But it dissolves as soon as it comes, storm clouds giving way to the mischievous bright glint. She reaches out her hand, hovering a little in the air like she expects Minjeong to pull away from her touch. When she isn’t, cupping her cheek in her hand, she breaths a small peck on her lips.

“You’re quite argumentative today, darling. But I don’t have time for this. I’ll send Aeri to keep you company.”

“I don’t need Aeri to keep me company. I need you to stop keeping me in the dark.”

“I don’t hide anything from you that isn’t for your own good.” Jimin doesn’t pull back, the mere centimeters between their faces, the warm touch on the side of her face all make Minjeong dizzy. “Some things are better if they are kept under the pretense that they don’t exist.”

“Like?”

Jimin chuckles and irritation surges in Minjeong. Leaving another kiss on the corner of her mouth, Jimin straightens her back into a regal pose that distances itself from Minjeong once again.

“See you in the afternoon, Minjeong.”

***

"You should get a hobby," Aeri off-handedly tells her. Turns out the woman is less of an asshole when not probed for her ideals. She bites into an apple, loudly crunching on it and while Minjeong told Jimin she doesn’t want Aeri here, it would be a lie if she said she didn’t enjoy her company. "Yizhuo likes painting. You could ask her for materials."

Minjeong scrunches her nose. "I'm not really the artistic type."

“Yeji likes to work out.”

Another scrunch. "I don't know. What do you like?"

"Retail therapy but it's getting less and less accessible nowadays.” She shrugs, a long sigh leaving her lips. It’s funny seeing her trying to fit into the role of a babysitter — and Minjeong encourages her, trying to lay her suspicions to sleep. “I don’t really have too much free time anyway.”

“Why?”

It’s here — Jimin will never tell her anything. The people closest to her might be less careful handling out morsels of information. Babysteps.

“Someone’s gotta keep Jimin in check, don’t you think?” Aeri’s eyes glint in the dim room, a grin breaking out on her lips. Minjeong realizes belatedly that she already knew the reason behind her civility. With a groan, Minjeong collapses against her soft beddings and Aeri lets out a small chuckle. Pricking her forehead, she adds, “Even though I heard you do a good job in that too.”

Minjeong peers one eye open. “I’m thankful I can be here. But I don’t appreciate being led on or treated like I’m stupid.”

“No one thinks you’re stupid.”

“Great. Thanks,” she musters as much sarcasm in her tone as possible. Aeri seems to be immensely enjoying it but catching the sour expression on Minjeong’s face, her smile withers.

“Jimin just tries to water down your experience. She does that for everyone — after sending years fending for yourself, don't you want a little break? Just to feel normal a bit before everything goes south again?”

“I don't wish to be lied to be spared.”

“Only because you don’t know what is resting behind all of this.”

And maybe she’s right. Maybe Minjeong should just enjoy the lull of ignorance, so that guilt won’t corrode her bones and turn her into rust. Maybe she should just let Jimin wander around the daylight, only caring what she’s doing when she accepts her in her arms. Kisses turned touches, touches into something more — Minjeong now falls asleep with Jimin’s arm thrown over her hips, her warm breath tickling her nape. Maybe, just as Aeri said, she should just savor the sunshine of happiness.

She should. She could. But that happiness feels robbed from someone else. It feels fragile as Jimin gazes at her with her red-rimmed eyes, stoic expression only intact by sheer force.

Aeri throws the stem of her apple across the room and it lands perfectly in the bin. Jarringly unlike the guarded person she first met, Aeri’s gaze is a little more open now. She turns towards her with her full body, keeping distance so that their knees don’t touch and causing Minjeong to steal unwanted future memories.

“What would you be if there was peace?” Aeri asks.

Minjeong thinks about the choir. The dance club. The childish, off-beat performances she forced her parents to watch. Her letter of acceptance to the entertainment company. Her endless reflection in the practice rooms.

But also, Minjeong opens her mouth to say something generic — I would have gone to university, I would have moved abroad, I would have married by now. Aeri watches her from the side, feline eyes inspecting her.

“Don’t lie. Tell the truth,” she demands. “There’s little that you need to protect from the future.”

“I wanted to be a singer. I was a trainee, y’know, and while it was hard I enjoyed every minute of it.” It’s easier to say it aloud than she expected. Something buried deep down in her that she finally lets free, and it doesn’t feel like she’s just ripped a piece out of herself. After she takes her deep breath, she asks back, “What would you have been?”

“Same as you.” Aeri clicks her tongue, gives her a cheeky smile. “Maybe we should start a band when everything settles down.”

Not if. But when.

***

Jimin is beautiful under the thick layer of sarcasm and bloodthirst. She’s gentle even with the scars littering her body; aggressively protective over those whom she deems worthy. Minjeong doesn’t know if she’s included — she knows only that the ticklish feeling of Jimin’s fingertips running on her bare back, drawing shapes and forms that aren’t familiar to her, writing words that read a lot like confessions that she’s afraid to voice out. Because Minjeong is fine with the unlabeled relationship; fine with knowing only the touch of love without the meaning of it.

Being touch-starved her whole life, Minjeong is ready to lose herself in the warmth of Jimin’s touch — the palm resting on her hips, the lips marking down on her neck, the nose that runs up in her inner thigh. She doesn’t mind getting lost in this haze, because it means she’s free. Minjeong is so used to putting herself into uncomfortable, tight little boxes that when she finally has the chance to step out of one and stretch out her arms, she turns greedy. She doesn’t want to fit herself back into them. She doesn’t want to appear non-threatening again for humans to accept her — because they won’t. Minjeong can make herself the most appealing person ever and she still won’t be accepted.

“What are you thinking about?” Jimin asks, her tone is a low rasp from the sleep that comes and goes from between her hands.

“You.”

Jimin lets out a sharp little laugh, turning her whole body towards Minjeong. Under her eyes, the circles of exhaustion are still clear and Minjeong reaches out to run her thumb gently over them. She lets her. Eyes fluttering close, she nuzzles closer to the touch.

“I’m not sure if it’s a good thing,” Jimin teases.

“I think it is.”

The silver of the moonlight is the kiss of an artist’s brush on Jimin’s cheek, and Minjeong wonders if it would be too selfish to take a picture of her like this. To preserve her in time in her vulnerability, to have her like this — without the authority of her uniform, without bearing the burden of the whole world. The pager still rests on the bedside table, a cruel reminder that Minjeong only has her until someone else needs her more.

“Aeri told me you wanted to be a singer.”

“That snitch.”

Jimin chuckles, low and raspy. The sound fades away slowly and her unmasked gaze finds Minjeong. “Sing for me.”

Minjeong somehow knows Jimin will be talked about long after they are gone. How, once lowered into the dark soil, she’ll become a symbol — of peace or of war, it’s still unclear. People will talk about her, and Minjeong wonders if Jimin ever wanted to be a hero. If she wanted to be a villain. If she will rest well in her death knowing how polarizing her message was.

“I’ll sing for you,” she starts, fingertips running along the protruding silver scars on her temple. “If you tell me about these.”

“It’s not a bedtime story.”

“I still want to hear it.”

Silence stretched between them for so long that Minjeong thought Jimin fell asleep. But then she turns over to her back, hiding her face in the crook of her arm and starts talking. Minjeong has spent the last few years being cooped up in her own misery, to the point that it almost drowned out her empathetic side — but Jimin talks about being captured like an animal, kept behind bars, limbs tied down so she wouldn’t, couldn’t escape. Drugged out of her mind, she went through what Minjeong just felt like she did. The operation table, the experiments. They wanted her body, her power, her everything — but not her. Not her human side, not her thoughts, not her emotions. Somewhere along her nape is tattooed a small number 011. There were more of them. She’s never seen the other inmates but heard their screams.

Nausea rises in the back of her throat, vertigo hitting her as she listens. She swallows it down; fears that if she showed any discomfort, if she cut into her tale, Jimin would clam her mouth shut and won’t talk about it anymore. Because this Jimin is tired and pliant, human as she sheds down the skin of a warrior. This is her that survived an attempt of murder.

Jimin’s words slowly peter out, her chest rising and falling in the deafening silence. She lets her arm drop by her side but she avoids looking at Minjeong.

“Please don’t look at me with pity. That would make me feel like I’m still stuck there,” she warns. “Can you sing for me now?”

“What do you want me to sing?” Minjeong asks just to find her voice.

Jimin turns her head to the side, facing her. “Anything.”

Minjeong sings songs she sang so many times that the words are engraved in her mind.

So Jimin wants to protect them so things like this won’t happen again. To anyone. So Minjeong, thinking that by standing in the middle, not choosing any sides as long as violence is involved, has to realize it’s also a choice.

***

Minjeong curses herself for not noticing before — living her daydream and playing house, she failed to notice what Jimin tried to hide from her. The bodies that are brought back to the organization, broken and bloodied, unconscious. The dark circles around Jimin’s eyes grew by each new bed added to the medical bay, the frown lines between her eyebrows deepened by each new casket lowered to the ground. Faces that Minjeong grew familiar with at the cafeteria, at the gym, on the corridor. Polite smiles turned glassy eyes, warm laughter into heavy silence.

Without missing a night, Jimin opens her door, crawls into her bed. And without missing, every morning the pager tears them out of their dreams, shoving another nightmare down their throats. It takes a toll on Jimin. It takes a toll on her. It makes her moving through the corridors sluggish, makes her guard up whenever she exchanges small talks with any new faces — what’s the guarantee that they won’t be the next ones turning up, bodies broken and barely alive?

She catches Yizhuo’s gaze on her in the corridor a few times. Her eyes linger on her, a phantom weight on her shoulders that almost makes her want to apologize to her. For wasting their resources. For pulling away their leader’s attention. For not standing with them. The list is endless, but her mouth feels too cottony, too many words crowded there. So instead, she just nods at her. She receives a nod back.

Before she can round the corner to run back to her room, where she doesn’t have to necessarily face reality until Jimin returns to her, cracking fire warming her body, a hand grips into her elbow. Her heart stutters for a moment, but it picks up its usual beat when she finds Yizhuo standing there.

Minjeong always assumed it was Jimin who started the organization. But Jimin shook her head, a dry laugh escaping from her sneer, explaining that it was only because of Yizhuo’s portal power that she could escape the test labs.

She’s a lot like you, Jimin said then, a little softer, she thinks everyone can be saved.

“I have to tell you something.”

The tone of her voice is serious. Minjeong furrows her eyebrows.

“What’s up Yizhuo—”

“Jimin doesn’t share the same sentiment, but you deserve to know—” Yizhuo starts, mouth working quickly as she glances around them. “The war is declared. There is nothing we can do now.”

***

In her dreams, life is reduced into a monochromic world of blood. She screams but her mouth is filled with a coppery taste and all it comes out is a pathetic gurgle.

Minjeong bolts upright, chest heaving up and down. She shakes herself, shakes off the gripping hands of violence that stay in the back of her mind after the nightmare — the dreams of friends disappearing without honoring them with a funeral, the blood that would have stained her own hands crimson if not for the gloves she wore, the tragedy of the systematic cleaning of mutants that she suppresses during the day. She’s been waking up every day, to the dreams of the horror of her life that each morning, she puts into little boxes in her mind. They burst open, stuffed too tightly, when she doesn’t force a lid on them.

“Minjeong,” Jimin grunts, voice heavy with sleep, her hand wrapping around Minjeong’s arm to pull her back. “It’s okay. Go back to sleep.”

She crumbles willingly to the touch, a lifeline thrown at her in the middle of a stormy sea. The ice cold waves crashing over her head got nothing on the warm hand that keeps her anchored between the gasps for air. She lays down, eyes staring at the white ceiling. She compartmentalizes because she’s good at that. And then there’s a new lock on the vault, a stronger one. Yet, each dawn the lock breaks or Minjeong opens it willingly — it’s unclear — but it opens, striking her like sea foams hitting the rocks.

“There’s going to be a war, right?” she asks, when she feels Jimin’s gaze on the side of her face.

“Yes.”

Maybe it’s mercy that she doesn’t wrap the truth in a digestible lie. Maybe it’s cruelty. Whichever it is, Minjeong lays back between the fluffy pillows, letting the mixture of their scents lay over her like a safe cocoon. She lets Jimin reach out for her and draw her close, ear lying flat against her chest, listening to the slow rhythm of her heart.

“But you don’t have to be afraid of that,” Jimin says, fingers running through Minjeong’s hair. “You will be safe.”

For a second, Minjeong wishes she could see Jimin’s future. To see what happens — to her, to them. If the safety she promises is true, if she’s saying it to calm the frayed ends of Minjeong’s nerves.

“We’re mere foxes hunted for fun,” Jimin continues. She takes a deep breath. “But it doesn’t have to be like this.”

Minjeong misses her own self before it was murdered on the operating table of otherness. Before she was cut open, skin pulled back and her insides vulnerable to the world in untrustworthy hands; before her innocence was sacrificed for the touch of the future. She treats it as a murder — without a wake, without a funeral. She feels like her body is still laying on the cold operation table, organs sorted to leave her hollow.

Now, she runs the pads of her fingers on silver scars, with a woman who burns blue and feels her empty shell of her body with warmth. Now, she’s ignited with a foreign feeling, to keep the mere vessel of a body alive and well. Even with her insides fresh and glistening lay beside her, even if she’s empty from years of getting used to the thought of dying young — she wants to live.

Fox hole burned by ignorance, she has no other place to call home.

“I don’t want to be hunted anymore.”

Jimin’s eyes flutter open. She searches Minjeong’s face, piety washing over her like gentle waves.

“That’s not all, is it? Say it, Minjeong.”

“I want to be free. I want to fight.”

Amidst prayers to any deity that was listening, she whispered those words long ago. Now, Jimin is finally the one who listens to them, who gulps them down like she was perched for them and Minjeong realized it late.

Jimin’s smile is of the shimmering moonlight on the ripple of water, gossamer and visible only for a few seconds. If you’re lucky. Otherwise, her mouth is forced into a thin line, a soldier masking the initial tenderness of a hot, beating heart. When she’s the head of the organization, Jimin is a stranger, she is a commander and Minjeong can only bend to her wish.

“You don’t have physical power, so you will stay in the headquarters,” Jimin says, a fingertip running down on Minjeong’s naked back.

At first, Minjeong nods, almost dozing off. Then she pushes herself up on her elbows to look Jimin in the eye, mind reeling around Jimin’s clever little fire — the little ball that sometimes dozed off on Minjeong’s skin like a small animal, warm like the touch of a friend, or wild like a famished wolf, tearing everything apart. The thought of Jimin being on the front lines, with her straight backed confidence and her fear only visible from the slight tremble of her flames made Minjeong’s stomach tighten until nausea hit the back of her throat.

“And you?”

“Are you afraid for me?”

“And if I am?”

“That’s sweet of you,” Jimin laughs, short and breathy, “but I’m the leader of this organization, I’m not going to stand back and wait until my friends do the dirty work for me.”

She takes a second to tuck a stray strand behind Minjeong’s ear, knuckles running on her skin. Jimin is stingy with a lot of things — information, secrets, involvement — but not with the adoration she reserves for Minjeong.

“I can take care of myself, Minjeong. Trust me.”

Trust is a large word. A sharp one. Gutting Minjeong out until she spills blood so red, it’s almost black. But she bleeds willingly if it means trust is a two-way street, if it means she’s trusted as well.

“I want to be there with you.”

Jimin scoffs. “You will not be there.”

“You asked for my trust,” Minjeong starts, “and now I ask for yours.”

First, Jimin turns her head away, eyes looking out of the window. She’s serene like this, in the tribulations Minjeong brings over her, mouth pulling into a scowls, eyes locking with the waning moon. The night is silent, even though the sun is coming up sooner each day, even though life has begun again outside their little haven.

“You don’t know how to fight,” she says with finality in her tone.

“I fought to stay alive.”

Gaze locking in with Minjeong, Jimin shakes her head slowly. “You tried to erase yourself to stay alive.”

“You’re not born to be a warrior either, Jimin.” She catches the tightening of her lips, the sudden disappearance of her gentleness. Minjeong is once reminded of her brokenness, as her shards cut deep into the supple flesh of Jimin, who in turn hardens to protect herself. “You’re too— tender hearted. Compassionate. You lose your people and feel it; that’s not how it’s supposed to be.”

“Do tell, Minjeong, how I’m supposed to be?” Sarcasm laces her words as she spits them out for Minjeong.

“Do you think the other side cares how many people are sacrificed for the sake of justice?” The word justice feels heavy and bitter on her tongue, “You get weaker by each lost friend — how are you going to lead the war if you ruin yourself before it gets started?”

“No, you’re wrong. That is what makes them weak,” Jimin asserts, slowly pushing herself up to a sitting position. She pulls her knees close to her chest, hugging them tightly. “I am stronger because I care about you. All of you.”

Stuck in a limbo of violence all she wants is to breathe free again. She has no way of knowing what goes on behind the closed doors, when Jimin is not the gentle lover she’s accustomed to but a heartless soldier. Offering to fight by Jimin to protect her — from the danger outside and inside. Her row of decisions already have her loosened by the seams, and it’s hard to keep fighting for the humanity who is ready to throw it away.

“Minjeong.” Her name leaves Jimin’s lips softly, like it’s a secret prayer. “You like to pretend your moral compass is superior to others. Yet you struggle to pick a side, even if the answer is obvious. One side wants to protect you and the other side wants to destroy you — is it so hard to choose?”

“The world is not black and white.”

“Then why do you pretend like it is?” With a sigh, she scoots down, pulls the blanket higher. “Is it that easy to paint me as a villain?”

Hurt is evident in her voice. But Minjeong answers hurt with hurt; bites into the already marred flesh.

“You said it yourself that I don’t have physical power,” she starts, “so why are you so adamant on getting me to join a war I can’t fight in?”

For a moment, Jimin is silent. Her mouth moves, but it’s too dark to read her secrets off her lips. Minjeong pays attention, waits for the words to reach her at some moment of time. They remain hidden and silent, as Jimin turns over, her back to Minjeong.

“Goodnight Minjeong.”

***

“You’re getting too close to her.” Aeri’s voice is a sharp whisper that picks up Minjeong’s attention. Not wanting to face Jimin so soon after yesterday’s fight, she hides in one of the old storage rooms after overhearing Jimin and Aeri’s conversation from afar.

“I’m not.”

“You are,” Aeri hisses. Their booted footfalls are loud against the tiled floors as they pass over the slightly ajar door Minjeong is hiding behind. “Will you be able to sacrifice her?”

“We don’t have to. The plan is foolproof,” Jimin says, voice oddly terse.

“It’s not. You didn’t—”

They take a turn at the corner and Minjeong cannot hear the rest. She slips out of the storage room, but she has to immediately press close to the wall as the door of the medical bay bursts out to roll a newly brought injured mutant into the surgical room. She only catches a glance at the bloodied face, almost unrecognizably puffy from the hits and broken bones. Pressing her gloved hand on her mouth, she takes her leave for the rooftop.

It's surprisingly cold there despite spring slowly creeping in, but the jacket on her back is warm. Cheers to the small things — just a few months ago her teeth were chattering in her mouth as she took on the sudden snowstorm only in a stolen hoodie. She throws her bag down to the ground.

Aversion has its perks; swallowing down the little ball of guilt she has time to collect her thoughts. Pulling in the chilly air, she lets out a long sigh. Jimin goes out every day to see the horrors of this war, and the moment Minjeong catches a glimpse of it, she’s on the verge of tears. And she’s still taunting her daily, questioning her morals despite knowing little to nothing. Yet. Jimin still kissed her goodbye in the morning, even if Minjeong pretended to be asleep — even after everything.

“Minjeong? What are you doing here?” Jimin's voice is several degrees warmer than the weather outside.

Minjeong whips around and catches sight of a tender look. It’s too raw, too unhidden that it strikes her odd for a moment, until Jimin hides it away with a practiced smile.

“Thinking of running away?”

Looking at the great expanse of pine forest, she shakes her head. “Nothing similar.”

“Then?” Jimin walks up to her, leaning against the railing.

“I’ve seen Jeno brought in. Or I think it is Jeno.” Minjeong twists her mouth, remembering when she last saw him during dinner. Gripping into the railing, she lets out a shaky sigh. “Does it ever get easier?”

“Do you want the truth or a pretty lie?”

Minjeong scoffs. “You think you’re funny.”

Patience runs razor thin when the noose around your neck slowly tightens. She has to make a decision but it feels like a death sentence instead. Locked into her future; she always craved for something concrete, something less fickle than the futures stuck in her mind. Yet, the weight of her decision brings her down — lying beside Jimin, she comes to the conclusion: she has to leave. She has to pick a side and the side will be her own. Smarter now, she has something to fight for. It’s going to be okay.

“My heart is misshapen,” Jimin admits dryly, leaning down to rest her forehead on the cool of the railing. “Maybe that’s why I’m still here.”

“It doesn't mean it's less precious.”

“You’re the funny one, Minjeong.”

They sacrifice things every day. She will take her chance now for a better future tomorrow.

“I wanted to tell you something.” Minjeong stretches out her bare hand, fingertips resting against Jimin’s cheek. The other woman’s eyes flutter closed. All two hundred and six bones in her body click in place as she says, “I love you.”

Maybe because Minjeong never felt so sure of something, maybe the kaleidoscope colors of her own feelings blinded her so she didn’t anticipate the forlorn downturn of Jimin’s lips to be the response to her confession. For a long time, Minjeong was happy with just being touched, reveling in the feeling of human contact — but it grew in her chest. A single spark turned into a sun; but Jimin looked at her like she shattered the sky itself.

Jimin shakes her head as she draws away from Minjeong’s touch. “It wasn’t part of the plan.”

“What plan?”

“You changed the plan. You will change the plan.” She curses out loud. For the first time ever since they met, Minjeong catches her breaking apart. “I really didn’t want it to be like this.”

“Jimin, you lost me.”

An accusatory glance is thrown towards her. All warmth and tenderness have been sucked out Jimin; the head of the coup in the making stands before her. Jimin takes a step closer, crowding Minjeong to be stuck between the railing digging into the small of her back and Jimin’s towering body.

“You plan to leave, to warn sympathizers about us. Minjeong, have you lost your mind?” Jimin hisses. Grabbing Minjeong’s wrist with bruising strength, she shuts her eyes. Under the thin skin of her eyelids, her eyes move from side to side like she’s searching for something. Opening her eyes, disappointment sits there heavy-limbed. “You already sent a message to them.”

“How—”

The idea has been brewing in the back of her mind long ago. Jimin’s pager rested beside them on the nightstand and while she slept, Minjeong tried to read the mysterious messages Jimin kept receiving. She typed in the little keyboard furiously, keeping an eye on Jimin all the while — a message to the email address of the senator who’s still on their side; who’s still protecting mutants despite everything. She just hoped the little device in her hands was strong enough to get through the distance.

“How do you see what happened? Your mutation—”

“My mutation?” Jimin asks, a satisfied grin spreading out on her lips. It’s hollow, empty — just as her stomach feels at the sneer. “My mutation is borrowing.”

“I thought it was fire,” Minjeong says slowly, tilting her head. She’s seen Jimin using fire multiple times; the artfully created burning roses Jimin offered to her, pretty and blistering at the same time. Not unlike Jimin. “It doesn’t make sense.”

Jimin doesn't look amused by the reasoning. She stands back, holding her hands out, burned fingertips facing Minjeong. Between them a small, black hole appears.

“I touched Yizhuo not long ago,” she says simply, a tiny portal opening up between her palms. As she pulls hands wider, the portal stretches into the black void that Yizhuo has to strangle to manipulate between her fingers. “The fire is Aeri’s. How can I see what you did to betray us? I’ve been borrowing from you too.”

“But— You just touched me.”

She taps her temple. “This stops people from mendling with me. It doesn’t stop me from borrowing their mutation, though. Thanks to these, I can borrow up to three mutations at once.”

All those touches. Minjeong feels faint, and she grips into the railing to hold herself up. Jimin gives her a once-over, a little concerned as her mouth twists into a frown.

“I saved you without knowing your power. But then you told me you are Vision; did you know that the humans were searching for you? You could’ve been their weapon, their little fortune teller to destroy mutants altogether.” Jimin spits.

“So I became yours.”

“We had to check if the mission is leading to a success,” Jimin explains, gentler than before. She reaches out to touch Minjeong’s face but she snaps her head to the other side. “Not everything I said was a lie.”

Minjeong decided to ignore the last remark.

“The future is never concrete,” Minjeong says, tasting bitter venom on her lips, “I already told you that.”

“I know. That’s why we had to keep you close. We had to keep checking on the mission.” Jimin explains once more. She shakes her head, turning back to the woman climbing back into her bed after bearing the weight of something bigger-than-life. “I’m not a mastermind, Minjeong. I just want my peace in this life. And if it leads to destruction first, then so be it. I see a future that is peaceful. If I let you go, let you have your one-man mission to save lives, do you know how it would end?”

She opens her mouth. Then closes it.

“Of course you don’t. You have the power to see the future and make changes — yet you cower behind yourself.” Jimin scoffs. “If you leave now, Minjeong, they will eradicate this organization. They will kill us first and kill you next. And if there is no one left fighting for us, what do you think would happen?”

Biting her lips so hard that she tastes blood on her tongue, Minjeong looks away.

“Does it make me less human,” Jimin asks gently like a summer breeze, “that I want to live?”

“Violence is never the answer,” Minjeong says.

“Minjeong.” Her voice is still a tiny prayer on her lips. “You’re so naive. What if violence is the only option?”

She doesn’t wait for an answer. She takes her phone out of her pocket and presses it close to her ear as she walks over Minjeong’s bag and grabs it. The call rings only one and the other side picks up immediately.

“Yizhuo, please come up to the rooftop. You have to get Minjeong out of here.” Jimin takes a long pause, throws the bag over the railing and it plummets down on the concrete with a sad puff. “Take Aeri if you need her too.”

Jimin turns her back to Minjeong to say something over the phone. For a second, Minjeong has a chance to get out — the butterfly knife rests in her pocket, heavy and serrated. She could fight, slips the blade between Jimin’s ribs to immobilize her long enough for her to have a chance to escape — before Yizhuo and Aeri arrive and lock her future into a prison. She fondles the cold blade, but — it’s still Jimin.

Her time is up. Jimin turns back to her. And it’s not the soldier, not the lover who is looking back at her. Jimin, stripped off of her ranks and labels and insane ideas, is just another woman who tries to survive. Who aches for companionship, for the mundane life. Who wants to love and to be loved.

Minjeong lets go of her knife.

“I really wanted to have this with you. I wanted you to be safe even if everything crashes around us. I love you too, Minjeong.”

She was right in one thing: caring about someone makes her weak. And Jimin was right on this one too: she’s strong because she cares. The paradox makes her head hurt, but her heart has always been quicker on the uptake.

Yizhuo opens the door to the rooftop. She came alone. Her kind eyes flick between them, the downturn of her lips showing she’s not happy with the results either. Only exchanging a look with Jimin, she walks behind Minjeong and leads her away. Before they pass Jimin, she looks up, eyes boring holes into Minjeong.

“You don’t want to believe me when I say that this is the most peaceful plan I could come up with,” she admits. “Please try to understand.”

***

The small ecosystem of the organization works like a well-oiled machine. Jimin is a natural leader, the gravitational center and holder of the strings of lives. She makes snap decisions as she leisurely sips on her morning coffee, already dressed in well-pressed blazers. Each day, she disappears somewhere, a promise leaving her lips to come back — each time, she returns with another battered mutant, and another promise to stop it from happening.

In Minjeong’s perception Jimin is gentle, young and brash. It comes like a slap that there is an entirely different Jimin outside of her understanding.

The alarm bells ring with a deafening noise. Minjeong bolts upright in her bed, hand grasping her chest to calm the sudden rush of her heartbeat. Patting the place beside her, she only finds a cold spot where Jimin should lie. The sound of the alarm is still blaring through the speakers, and Minjeong forces herself out of bed to pull on some semblance of clothes and dig through the pockets of her clothes in the laundry basket to find her trusty knife before the building is evacuated.

Suddenly, her door opens, revealing Aeri on the other side.

“What’s this?” Minjeong yells through the alarm.

“Territory breach,” Aeri says shortly. Shifting from one leg to another, she adds, “Jimin wants to see you.”

Minjeong nods silently, following closely behind Aeri. The territory breach has everyone out and about of their room despite the early morning hours — pinched looks, deep red uniforms and booted legs flashing past Minjeong, swarming to the same direction they are going. It hasn’t happened once before; the headquarters is hidden deep in the forest and Jisu has a protective layer around it that hides it from the naked eye.

Even Aeri, usually laid back in her big cat type of way, marches through the intricate maze of corridors with a certain stiffness of her. She scans her fingerprints and irises at each door Minjeong generally is not allowed through as they walk towards the heart of the organization.

She’s a captive now. Maybe she was a captive before. She still has the same things — she can loiter around the corridors, eat at the cafeteria. Aeri and Yizhuo visit her to make her feel less of a prisoner than a friend — Jimin never visits anymore.

At one gate, Aeri falters. Minjeong almost walks into her. Slightly, she peers back over her shoulder at Minjeong.

“Keep in mind, Minjeong. They came to kill us.”

It bothers her — how much they seem to walk over eggshells around her. She’s seen enough during her days on the streets; dug her own knife into hateful flesh and screamed from the top of her lungs. Yet, they keep her more in the dark about the results of her email, but she sees the tightness of their bodies, the hollowness of their eyes.

Minjeong nods.

The gate opens, revealing a huge circle-shaped room, LED screens plastered all over the walls and in the middle there is a control panel. It feels more like a hangar than a simple room. Her attention is quickly grabbed by the shouts pouring in, the shocked yells, the pleading. On the other side of the room, red uniformed soldiers fight with what seem like outside people in tactic gear. They were the ones breaching the site, and they don’t seem to give up easily. Guns held high to target the mutant closest to them, they fire without a warning.

A silent gasp sticks in Minjeong’s throat and she shuts her eyes.

“You can open your eyes, Minjeong,” Jimin’s voice comes as a shock.

Slowly, she peers one eye open, to glance at her. Jimin walks up to her slowly, an apex predator circling her prey. She seems calm and collected from the outside; but Minjeong catches the taut line of her neck as she nods towards the scene.

The mutant targeted still stands there, unscratched. The attackers hang in the air, buzzing electric ropes holding their limbs and waists to make them unable to move. A lightning bolt crashes through the air, a warning from the mutant when they start to claw at the rope.

“You wanted to see the truth. Here it is,” Jimin explains softly. Her eyes stare right ahead at the bodies hanging there. “You brought them here. They came because the dear mutant-sympathizer senator sold the information about our location to them. Five of us are in the medical bay — gunshot injuries. Do you still think I’m the one rushing into violence?”

Speechless, Minjeong follows Jimin when she starts walking. She tries to talk but guilt feels like fine dust in her mouth, choking her up.

Jimin makes eye contact with the soldier holding the hostages — Minjeong recalls her name as Ryujin — and a shock wave runs through the ropes. The hostages squirm with pain as electricity rushes through them, their bodies growing stiff until the wave is over. With another nod, the wave comes alive again, buzzing through the ropes.

“Jimin—” Minjeong grabs into her uniform, tugging at the material until she looks at her. “Jimin— Stop!”

“Humans want us dead,” she says simply. Prying Minjeong’s fingers away from her crisp uniform, she holds onto her hand. It’s not a bare touch; Minjeong is careful to keep herself away from touches. “And they won’t confess. They know where we live, what we’re preparing for. We need more information about the buyer. We need to know what we have to face soon.”

“You have to know it’s not right.”

“I do. But it does not mean I have any other choice.” Jimin says through gritted teeth. “Mercy leaves you weak, Minjeong. Do you think they would be merciful with you if they captured you? Do you think they were merciful to the five mutants lying at the med bay after being shot from behind?”

“If you— If you want to punish me for what I’ve done, it’s fine.” Minjeong tears her hand out of Jimin’s grip. “But stop torturing them. There are other ways.”

“You are selfish Minjeong. If you want to admit it or not.” Jimin tucks her free hand behind her back. “You don't pick a side. Safety comes with a price and you paid with our lives. And you don’t even get to receive the result.”

The look she receives from Jimin is pleading. To understand. To see what she’s seeing. Her mutant nickname is Vision; yet she turns a blind eye on things that might be too painful to see. Minjeong rushed into a decision that injured people who were nice to her during her stay here. Betrayal is what she offered for food, shelter and safety. For love.

“You can leave,” Jimin whispers softly. She turns away. To Ryujin, she says, “You can let them go now.”

For a few seconds, Minjeong just stands there. Numb from the weight of her shame, from the weight of the liability she brought on them. She watches the hostages being dropped on the ground, like sacks of flours, she’s about to leave — she doesn’t want to know what will happen next to them. This was enough to witness.

But then one of the hostages starts moving, face contorted with pain, he pulls out a gun. A warning shout leaves her lips as soon as the gun goes off. She sees everything in slow motion — Jimin turning towards her in alarm, the bullet targeting and hitting her and Jimin groping at her shoulder.

Minjeong comes alive then, rushing towards Jimin. Arm reaching out towards her, Jimin holds up her palm to stop Minjeong from touching her.

“It just chipped my shoulder. I’m fine,” she says, words coming out cracking like a whip. “Leave.”

Aeri is waiting for her at the gate, expression tight on her face. Minjeong takes one last look at the scene: Jimin bleeding but standing ramrod straight, the hostages back in the electric ropes.

The gate closes and she lets out a shaky breath.

***

Yizhuo finds her in her room, hugging her knees close to her chest. Information trickles slowly, passing each morsel through several hands until they reach Minjeong — the hostages are still under surveillance in the holding cells. Every person shot is on their way to recover. Jimin included. They still don't have enough evidence to know who bought off the information and decided to plan a surprise attack on the organization.

Jimin misses you.

“That one is not true, Yizhuo,” Minjeong scoffs, burying her head into her hands. If she presses her palms to her eyes hard enough, the images of the hostages and Jimin bleeding are exchanged by stars. “You don't have to lie to me to make me feel better.”

“It’s true, though. She didn’t say it aloud but she asks about you constantly.”

The world is selfish, Minjeong had to realize early on. And she’s selfish too — she wants Jimin to miss her. Because that means she suffers too. For lying, for using Minjeong and leading her on. But betrayal runs two-way here; neither are Minjeong’s hands clean of them.

“I know that you think what we’re doing is wrong.” Yizhuo crouches down next to her. She slowly stretches out her arm, holding it up for Minjeong. An offer. “Why don’t you see for yourself where this all leads?”

You both think you can save everyone. Jimin’s words echo in her mind. Tentatively, Minjeong takes off one of her gloves. Her hand lingers in the air, her jaw clenching. It’s been a while ever since she’s done this. And she’s never wanted to do this again. But Yizhuo looks at her, open and pleading, and slowly, she places her fingertips to her heated skin.

Minjeong is an echo chamber of all the people she has ever touched. The memories of the future, a juxtaposition that keeps Minjeong in check; they are not real and will, probably, never will be. They are mirages that appear to confuse her — but Jimin used them as pinpoints in the future, checkpoints to see what she does is going in the right direction.

But she’s blind to herself. She is like a torn page from a book, a missing detail of all the intricate strings of decisions that weave together a future. She's missing from Yizhuo’s future; a blind spot that seems to be important in the whole, a person cut out from each page of the picture book. She sees Yizhuo with Aeri and Jimin on screens; sees them smiling from posters and shaking hands with presidents. She sees the destruction, the buildings collapsing as sentinels hunt for them, as Yizhuo’s black holes pull in debris and cleaning the streets of the remainder of a war.

And in the end, she sees Jimin. Sitting down in talk shows, calmly explaining why they are not a danger; sweet talk and even sweeter smile gathering support from humans. It’s not without opposition, though. There are fights, there is blood, there is violence. The film reel of Yizhuo’s future becomes quicker — getting caught in a surprise attack, being injured and sedated. Finding home again in the arms of Jimin and Aeri. Finding her smile again as Aeri kisses her, when peace is declared again.

Minjeong pulls her hand away. Yizhuo is watching her, head tilted to the side, curious. It strikes her that she has no way of knowing if Jimin was telling the truth — blind trust of a stray placed in the hands of another. Minjeong forces a tight smile over her features.

Everything is an exchange.

“Please tell Jimin I want to see her.”

***

Jimin comes without her blood red uniform, without the look of a soldier. She comes bare, not as part of the organization, not as someone who’s bearing the burden of the whole world. She comes in her white tee, hair down — Minjeong is most familiar with this Jimin.

Her door is open already, but Jimin still raps on it softly. Her left shoulder is still bound with white gauze, arm hooked so she wouldn’t move too much. Phantom aches rest in Minjeong’s chest. She doesn’t try to smile, doesn’t try to hide her disappointment. They’ve been hiding things for too long, hurting each other too deeply.

Jimin walks in, but only barely. She closes the door after herself; no need for the whole organization to know they are emotionally stunted. She leans to the door, one eye twitching for a millisecond, pain flashing through her features. Minjeong pats the mattress next to her but Jimin only gives her a small shake of her head. And then it’s silent. Minjeong’s mouth works with sentences she’s prepared for now; but everything deserts her as Jimin looks at her, warm brown eyes filled with a strange sense of sadness.

Finally, some words escaped her mouth. “You should’ve told me everything. From the start.”

“Would you have trusted me back then? You barely believe me now.”

“I want to love you.” The heart trashes against her ribcage. “Isn’t that enough?”

Jimin’s throat moves but no sound comes out of it. For a few seconds, she stares out of the window, face rendered in careful neutrality. It gives time for Minjeong to etch her face into her memory if this all goes wrong, if her expectations fail her once again.

“For me it is,” Jimin admits. Her eyes find Minjeong’s. “But is it enough for you?”

Sometimes, Minjeong finds, they are the reflection of each other. Sometimes they are distorted versions of each other. Sometimes she looks at Jimin and thinks they are heading two different ways.

“You shouldn’t love a monster,” Jimin says through gritted teeth, turning away from her. “I will keep on hurting people until this ends. I don’t want you to be caught up in my sins.”

Minjeong hums. She pats the mattress once again and now Jimin is gravitating towards her willingly. She leaves a small space between them so they won’t accidentally touch — Minjeong wonders if Jimin’s as drowned in other people’s futures as she was. Still, Minjeong crosses over the distance, gloved fingers carefully interweaving with Jimin’s.

“I hurt you, you hurt me. You said life is all about exchanges.”

Jimin pulls her hand away. It almost makes Minjeong deflate — she’s tired of them having to hold a knife behind their back while they lean in, tired of them having a cat-mouse game. But Jimin pulls away just so that she can draw shapes into the shiny black leather with her fingertip, letters shaped similarly to her name.

“Please tell me everything. Even if you think I wouldn’t agree. I won’t run away. I promise.” Voice slowly fading away, Minjeong gulps when Jimin starts peeling away her glove. Naked skin meeting naked skin, heart feeling weighing in her chest like a rock, Minjeong jokes, “I can even be your fortune teller.”

A small puff of laughter leaves Jimin’s lips as she draws Minjeong’s name over and over again on her skin. Minjeong slightly wonders what kind of future Jimin sees for her — she doesn’t ask. Jimin still tells her.

“You kept telling me the future is precarious. But I see things in your future that seem to be set in stone.”

Minjeong swallows a heartbeat. “And what are these?”

Jimin laughs again.

“If I tell you, isn’t that bad luck? What if you will try to change it?”

“You didn’t strike me as superstitious.”

“I am not,” she says. Jimin pulls her hands away, letting them fall into her lap. Suddenly the air feels cold on her skin. It is, until Jimin glances at her, molten eyes washing over her, turning her red-hot iron. “Will you march forward with me? Help me with our future?”

“Yes,” Minjeong says too quickly. Reaching out to pull Jimin closer, to cradle her face in her hand, she whispers against her lips, “I’ll give you the vision.”