Archive of Our Own

The shrill siren cut through the silence of the neighbourhood. Flashes of red and blue illuminated the streets as a single car sped down empty roads, drawing only the attention of the odd person on the sidewalk or onlookers peering out of the safety of their houses.

It was a lot easier to get to places in the middle of the night, Do Kyungsoo thought as he slammed his foot into the brake pedal. For a moment, the whole world slanted forward with the momentum of the car. Kyungsoo clenched his teeth, unbuckling his seat belt even before the car had tilted back from its suspension. As he pushed the door open, hesitation struck him.

His eyes wandered to the outline of his jeans pocket and touched it gingerly, as if it would shatter.

“Kyungsoo!”

Kyungsoo looked up sharply. Jongdae was already out of the passenger side, his own gun tucked securely in his grip.

All at once, the mental fog in Kyungsoo’s head cleared. Pulling it out of his pocket, he only had the time to glance at the first chamber of the revolver– empty– before he was sprinting after Jongdae, racing up to the ninth floor of the fifteen-storey apartment.

The unit in question would have been identical to its neighbours, if not for its physical keyhole. On a normal day, it would have taken Kyungsoo fifteen seconds to cross the distance. Today, it took less than five.

In the dead quiet of the night, faint sounds of a scuffle drifted out from the thin metal door. Without putting his ear to the door, Kyungsoo could make out grunts and the sounds of furniture shifting, its legs scraping against the floor in the tell-tale sign of a struggle.

He exchanged a look with Jongdae, who nodded wordlessly, unlatching the safety of their guns together. Kyungsoo straightened his back against the wall and lifted his right leg, taking in a deep breath before mustering all the strength he could into a single well aimed kick, just below the door knob.

The door swung in with an ear-splitting bang, bouncing off the wall as it collided.

“Park Chanyeol.”

Chanyeol raised his head quickly, wide eyes jumping back and forth between the two detectives in front of him.

The one seated across him pulled his gaze from Chanyeol’s hand at the same time, meeting his stare. Instinctively, Chanyeol pulled his hands under the table. He knew what the detective had been looking at, and it was a habit his mother had spent his whole childhood trying to get rid off. But the thick skin around his fingertips, adorned with freshly carved pink craters, were evidence of a parent’s eventual resignation.

Still, the shame of being caught picking his skin never went away.

“Could you tell us more about yourself?” the man asked, pressing the button on his pen.

Click.

Chanyeol lowered his gaze. What could he say to two detectives who showed up in the middle of the day? If they were here, they already knew who he was, which means that they were looking for information that wasn’t on their system. But what kind of information did they want?

Chanyeol’s nail hooked onto a loose edge around his nail bed.

“I.. um, my name is Park Chanyeol. I’m thirty-three this year.”

The man across from him nodded, pen scratching against paper. “What do you do for a living?”

“I’m a graphic novelist,” Chanyeol replied doubtfully, as if he weren’t sure that he was one. Again, the man nodded.

“Self-published, is that right?”

Chanyeol grunted something in vague agreement, slighted by the correction. Lots of people were self-published these days, why was there a need to distinguish?

The detective glanced at him before scribbling something else in his little notebook.

“Where were you on the night of the twentieth?” the man asked casually.

Chanyeol frowned at the cup of water in front of him, wrinkling his nose in the process. “I must’ve been at home– I don’t really go out that much,” Chanyeol said, then looked up warily, “Why are you asking me this? What’s this about?”

“Was anyone with you that night?” the detective continued.

“No, I– I don’t have many friends,” Chanyeol admitted in a small voice. “What’s going on?”

Before the man across from him could reply, the detective who had been inspecting his shelf turned around with his brows still knitted sternly, staring at Chanyeol with piercing eyes. “Have you seen the news this morning?”

“No..” Sensing the detectives’ scepticism, Chanyeol added, “I just woke up.”

They turned their heads in the direction of the stove, where a pot sat quietly next to an empty instant noodle packaging. Steam had long deserted it.

“Breakfast,” Chanyeol said.

The man across from Chanyeol looked at his wristwatch and shared a look with the guy behind him.

“Three days ago, on the twentieth of August, a body was found in the tram of the Kyeongyong Amusement Park. Have you heard about this case?”

Chanyeol nodded slowly. He’d heard about this case three days ago, when Baekhyun came over with lunch. From what Baekhyun had told him, the body of the amusement park’s security guard had been found on the benches of the tram that went around the amusement park. The man had been stabbed in the chest, and had his throat slit as well.

But that was three days ago, what did it have to do with today’s news?

As if he could hear Chanyeol’s unspoken question, the detective continued, “Have you ever been to the Kyeongyong Amusement Park, Mr. Park?”

“Yes,” Chanyeol said.

“Do you remember its layout? Could you describe it for us?”

“It’s.. it’s pretty simple,” Chanyeol replied, bemused, “there’s a bunch of rides on one half, and on the other half, there’s a haunted house, a ferris wheel and some booth games. There’s a tram that goes around the perimeter of the amusement park, and it takes–”

Chanyeol stopped abruptly. The look in both detectives’ eyes sharpened instantly.

“What does it take, Mr. Park?” The shorter one prodded, pulling out the chair next to his partner. He sat down heavily and crossed his arms on the table, tilting his head as he studied Chanyeol’s face.

“Photos,” Chanyeol finished quietly.

A photo at every stop, to be precise. Four stops in total, one for each side of the square-shaped amusement park. Now that the conversation had led to this, Chanyeol knew what they were here for.

How could he not? This was the plot of his best-selling mystery novel, Memorabilia.

His thoughts were unusually still, so unusually serene when Chanyeol could feel every pulse in his neck, every beat of his heart getting faster and faster. His body was getting hot, and he could hear his own exhale, but there was nothing but silence in his head.

“Was there anything wrong with the photos?” Chanyeol asked at last, keeping his eyes on the cup of water in front of him.

“That, we can’t tell you,” the shorter man said, “but if you’re asking, you already know what this means, don’t you? This murder couldn’t have happened anywhere else. It was planned with the characteristics of the Kyeongyong Amusement Park in mind– exactly how it happened in your novel.”

“Kyungsoo–”

“Don’t worry, this isn’t an interrogation. We’re not bringing you in for questioning either. This is just an informal chat,” the man named Kyungsoo said. He leaned back against the chair, arms still folded across his chest. “We just wanted to talk to the artist of this novel and see if he could tell us a thing or two.”

“I.. I don’t..” Chanyeol stammered.

A sharp pain shot up his finger. Chanyeol hissed as he looked down at his hands. Blood oozed out from the fold of his nail, spreading along the length of his nail at an alarming rate.

Chanyeol brought his finger to his mouth, sucking on the wound as he stumbled off the chair and towards the kitchen sink. The tap came on with a loud whistle, announcing the burst of water that drummed against the base of the stainless steel sink. Chanyeol winced as water ran down the raw flesh, rivulets of water snaking down his wrists into the sleeves of his hoodie as he held up his finger for inspection. Once he decided it was good enough, he pat his hands against his pyjama pants as he turned around, when he noticed the detectives getting up from the chairs.

“Are you..” Chanyeol trailed off.

“We need to make a move,” the taller one said, taking a single sip of water from the glass in front of him. He pocketed his notebook and offered Chanyeol a half-hearted smile. “Thanks for your time.”

“Thank you for coming by,” Chanyeol said, slightly dazed. He shuffled behind them awkwardly, rubbing a hand against the back of his neck as he held the door for them.

Kyungsoo glanced at his partner. He dug into the pockets of his pants, proffering a band-aid and a name card that Chanyeol accepted hesitantly.

“This is..”

“My name card. Give me a call if you can think of anything that’ll be helpful,” Kyungsoo said, turning to leave. Then, as if he remembered something, Kyungsoo turned back, gaze dropping briefly to Chanyeol’s red fingertips. “Try to let your wound heal before you pick at it again. You don’t want to make it worse.”

“Just this? The police came by to visit based on your comic?”

“Kind of, if you put it that way..” Chanyeol sighed, pulling a thread of chicken from the drumstick on his plate. “They said that they wanted to see if I knew anything that could help them.”

Fried chicken and beer are his go-to meals when he needed cheering up, but all Chanyeol could think about was the unspoken accusation in Detective Do’s eyes. There was no doubt in his heart that he had nothing to do with the crime, but if what the detectives hinted at was true, it was his book that gave someone else an idea of how to kill. Could he really absolve himself of all blame then?

“Like what? Who the culprit is?” Baekhyun said flatly around a mouthful of chicken. He licked the tips of his fingers before reaching for the glass of beer next to him. “It’s crazy that they bothered to visit you over this. So what if the crime scene in your novel resembles the Kyeongyang Amusement Park? You’re not responsible for every crime that happens there. Does the police visit Agatha Christie whenever a murder occurs on a train?”

Chanyeol glanced up at Baekhyun. Two big gulps, a loud, satisfied burp, and the low thud of the glass being placed back on the table top, exactly where a circle of water was pooled.

“I don’t know if you can say that,” Chanyeol murmured, dropping his gaze again. “From the sound of it, the murderer followed my plot to a tee.”

Baekhyun paused. “What do you mean? Didn’t you say that the police didn’t tell you anything?”

“Yeah, they didn’t really say anything, but..” Chanyeol frowned. “When I asked them if there was anything strange about the tram photos, they said that this murder could have only happened at Kyeongyang. That could only mean that there’s something off about the photos.”

Baekhyun picked up a wing from the box between them. “Remind me again how the victim died in your story?”

“It’s not how the victim died that’s the mystery,” Chanyeol said softly, “it was the timeline of his death.”

The blare of the TV filled the silence of the house.

“You know how the Kyeongyang tram goes in two directions, right?”

Baekhyun nodded. “Clockwise and anti-clockwise.”

“And that it starts from the West station?”

“Starts and ends there,” Baekhyun agreed.

Chanyeol nodded. “It takes approximately twelve minutes to travel from one station to the next, and the photo at each station is taken within a three minute interval. If you start in a clockwise direction from the West station, you’ll reach the North station about twelve minutes later, have the photo taken by the fifteenth minute, and depart for the East station.”

“So it takes an hour to make a full trip back to the West station.”

“Yeah,” Chanyeol said, falling quiet for a moment. “In my book, there were eight photos taken that night, meaning that the tram had made two trips. From the timestamp of the photos, the police found that there was nobody on the tram during its first trip. However, in the second set of photos, there were three things that happened. The first was that the tram was empty in the East and South photos. In the last photograph of that night, the victim’s body was positioned on a bench with his throat slit and blood staining his clothes.”

“Don’t think I didn’t notice how you left out the North station. What’s in the photo?”

“In the North station, someone covered by a black cloak was standing next to the victim’s body.”

“The photos of the tram at East and South stations were empty, but there were people at the North station. That would mean that the tram was travelling in an anti-clockwise direction. The victim was killed at the North station and the killer got off the tram before it reached the West station.”

“Supposedly.” Chanyeol said.

“No, no,” Baekhyun shook his head adamantly, “That’s not the twist. There was something else– you’ve said this before. It’s related to the photos.”

Chanyeol tried to suppress a smile. It wasn’t the first time they’ve spoken about this, but Chanyeol always appreciated Baekhyun’s child-like curiosity and passion. It made him

“Well, who said the cameras were taking pictures of the tram, right?” Chanyeol said.

Baekhyun stared at Chanyeol for a long moment, not comprehending, before he jumped up from his chair and clapped his hands together in realisation, eyes as wide as saucers.

“Right! That was it!” Baekhyun snapped his fingers. “Those photos of the tram at the East and South stations were photos of the first round, wasn’t it? The tram was travelling clockwise in the second round. The killer placed photos of the empty tram in front of the camera!”

Chanyeol couldn’t hold back the smile on his face any longer.

A grin burst across Baekhyun’s face as he hooked his arms around Chanyeol’s shoulders, messing up his hair aggressively. Chanyeol shrieked, trying to pull away from Baekhyun.

“Oi! Baekhyun! Your hands are oily!”

The sound of the TV was punctured by Chanyeol’s shouts and Baekhyun’s piercing laughter, the occasional thump of Baekhyun’s feet against the floor and the scraping of Chanyeol’s table against the kitchen tiles. In the throes of chaos, Chanyeol’s elbow shoved the glass of beer, causing it to fall across his plate, beer splashing across the table in a spectacular wave.

Chanyeol turned an accusatory eye on Baekhyun, who only flashed a sheepish grin. “Oops?”

They threw a few kitchen towels over the mess, promising themselves that they’d clean it properly after their meal. Chanyeol wasn’t too fussed about it. He knew that Baekhyun was only trying to cheer him up, and it worked. For a moment, Chanyeol forgot about the murder case and the police. Even now, he felt better about it. Lighter.

Baekhyun sat back on his chair, throwing an arm over the top. “God, that still gives me the chills. How’d you even come up with that one?”

Chanyeol dropped his gaze. He picked up his chicken and tore off a small piece from the bone, shrugging a shoulder stiffly. “.. I don’t know, it just came to me one day.”

“It just came to you one day?” Baekhyun parroted, rolling his eyes.

Chanyeol barely had time to feel bad about it before Baekhyun was raising his glass. “But, anyway, let’s drink up! We’re here to celebrate, man!”

“What’re we celebrating?” Chanyeol asked, raising his own glass.

“Memorabilia is now viral! It’s the biggest thing on and off the internet. Everybody and their grandparents are talking about it. You’re a household name now, Chanyeol!” Baekhyun said, then after a moment of thought, added, “Well, Loey is. But we both know that that’s really you.”

“I don’t know if this is something to be happy about, Baekhyun. Someone just died.”

“Well, I mean, sure. But it’s not like you killed the guy. They’re two separate topics that shouldn’t be conflated,” Baekhyun said casually. He leaned forward to tap his glass against Chanyeol’s. “This will all blow over once the police arrests the real murderer. But your number of subscribers on ToonWeb skyrocketed a hundred thousand overnight– that’s not blowing over. The dark days of unemployment are over, my friend. You’re about to be rich.”

Chanyeol eyes Baekhyun over the rim of his glass, watching Baekhyun throw his head back and down the cup of beer in four big gulps. Then, he dropped his gaze into his own glass, giving the translucent yellow liquid a little swirl, swallowing down the ball of guilt that had been stuck in his throat for a long time.

“Naturally, anyone would be upset about having the police visit them. Your anger and outrage is perfectly normal. But you’ve also mentioned feeling guilty about the murder at Kyeongyang, could you tell me a little bit more about that?”

Chanyeol always hated the cream coloured walls of this office. On sunny days, it gave the office a warm vibe that reminded him of the kindergarten where he used to get bullied for his ears. It was an artificial warmth, fabricated by people whose professions were supposed to include empathy and care.

On rainy and cloudy days, the cream colour of the walls turned into a drab-looking gray that devoured all the life in the room, spitting out all the staleness that came with thirty-three years of living. All of Chanyeol’s bitterness, his resentment and hurt, stewing in a four-walled box that he visited bi-weekly.

The second hand of the wall clock slid past twelve, the minute hand took its last step down. Another minute had passed.

“Chanyeol?”

“It’s my book,” Chanyeol said, averting his gaze. “Someone was killed in the same fashion as the character in my book. Even the police said so. I think it’s hard not to feel kind of responsible for it, even if I didn’t do it. The fact that I put this idea out there and someone used it makes me feel.. like maybe if I didn’t publish this on the internet, no one would have died like that.”

“‘Died like that’?”

Chanyeol shrugged. “This killer wanted to kill someone enough to find ways of doing it. If it wasn’t my book, it would have been someone else’s.”

The therapist, Kim Junmyeon, picked up his glass of water and took a long sip. Chanyeol knew that was Junmyeon’s way of buying time. Time to come up with an appropriate response, time to divert the subject, time to find a way of prying further into his thoughts.

The glass landed on the table so quietly that it made the clock sound like an airplane.

“Let’s go back to that feeling of responsibility,” Junmyeon said, his gentle voice leaving no room for argument. “Do you think you would have felt the same guilt if the police hadn’t shown up at your house?”

“I don’t know, it’s hard to say,” Chanyeol said, looking out of the window. His fingers started moving against each other, fingertips dragging along each other. Over the callouses, over the fresh bandaid, in search of a spot ripe enough to tear apart.

“I think I would’ve felt the same way, even if I’d found out by myself. Like that detective said, that crime could only have happened at Kyeongyang. My book was inspired by Kyeongyang. Baekhyun said I’m not responsible for things that happen in Kyeongyang, just because I drew about something that happened there. But it wasn’t a random robbery or act of violence. It was a murder scene that was the same as what I drew. No matter how you look at it, it’s me all over that crime scene. And when you have the police showing up, it shows that it’s not just my overthinking.”

Junmyeon nodded in understanding, writing something in his notes. “It’s good that you’ve talked about this with Baekhyun. Talking about things helps you to process your emotions better.”

“Baekhyun’s full of shit,” Chanyeol snorted, rolling his eyes. “He congratulated me on going viral because of this. I don’t know of a worse timing or context.”

“That sounds like his way of cheering you up.”

“Yeah,” Chanyeol said with a half-smile, letting his thoughts drift into uncharted waters. “I sometimes think.. I don’t know how I would have done any of this without him. Maybe I wouldn’t have.”

“Friends are important pillars in our lives,” Junmyeon agreed. Chanyeol shook his head, letting his fringe sweep to the side of his forehead.

“No, I mean yes– they are– but it’s not just that.” Chanyeol turned his gaze away. “I.. I owe Baekhyun a lot, the kind that I won’t ever be able to repay in this lifetime. Maybe not even in the next.”

“Well.. what makes you think that you need to repay him? He takes care of you because that’s what he wants to do. I’m sure he doesn’t expect anything in return.”

“Maybe,” Chanyeol said. “But some things you have to return eventually. I just don’t know if I’ll be prepared for it when it comes.”

Junmyeon’s smile turned stiff at the edges. He took a glimpse at his notebook before adjusting his grip on his pen, crossing his legs in the other direction.

“I want to talk about journalling again. Have you given it some thought?”

“I don’t write diaries,” Chanyeol said flatly. Junmyeon’s smile remained on his face.

“A journal isn’t just a diary,” Junmyeon said, “it’s also a way of keeping track of things. Your meals, your moods, accomplishments and setbacks. It’s a way of tracking your progress, so to speak. And it doesn’t have to be very detailed. It can be as brief as you want it to be.”

When Chanyeol didn’t dismiss the idea immediately, Junmyeon pressed his case. “The choice is yours, but this is something that I recommend to help with managing your anxiety. By keeping a record of your days and your moods, we’ll be able to identify things that trigger your anxiety. Medication can be good in helping to stabilise your moods, but it should only be a crutch. Ultimately, what we aim to do here is to enable you to control your thoughts and regulate your emotions. But we can’t do that unless we know what we’re working with.”

That night, Chanyeol had a dream.

Kyeongyang Park was empty. Chanyeol supposed it would be for how late it was. The sky was pitch black, without even a hint of the moon or the flicker of a star. The world had turned over, and where abysses used to stay dormant deep underground, Chanyeol found himself staring up into one.

The walk to the West station from the entrance of the park took a long time. Chanyeol couldn’t estimate how long it was, but he knew that it was eerily wrong. No matter how long his strides were, it seemed as if he never crossed more than a few meters. Rides that he knew by heart followed him as if the park was a canvas paper dragged through the middle. Booth games, rollercoasters, the haunted house and the ferris wheel closed in on him, converging on a single point that was the West station.

As Chanyeol stepped onto the platform, the tram began turning the corner, its wheels making a constant tak-tak-tak as it made its way down the tracks. He recognised this, Chanyeol thought. The tram stopped right in front of him, letting out a loud sigh as it came to rest, and its door swung open with an ominous click.

Dark. It was dark inside the tram. A black curtain had been draped inside the tram, obscuring its contents from view. A niggling feeling inched up Chanyeol’s spine, its cold fingers ghosting his bare skin until it wrapped itself around his neck. Chanyeol knew what awaited him inside. He knew that he should walk away.

His legs started forward.

Every step he took raised the hairs on his arms. Every step that he took tightened the knots in his stomach. But even with all the alarm bells ringing inside of his head, Chanyeol could not help the way that he gripped onto the handrails as he lifted a leg onto the steps, the way that he bent his body as he stepped onto the tram and into the darkness.

Chanyeol snatched a breath of cool air as he clenched his hands, digging his nails into the cushion of his pillow. Every beat of his heart thundered in his ear. Lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub.

With shaky hands, Chanyeol pushed himself up against the headboard, eyes fixed on a spot across the room. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he could make out the silhouette of his desktop and monitors sitting across from him, spotlighted by the chalky moonlight that gave the room a cold shade of blue.

Chanyeol’s hands fumbled under his pillow until it landed on his phone. He pulled it out quickly and redialed the last person on his call list, every ring tone filling the gaps of his heartbeat.

Drrr.

Drr drrr.

Drr–

“What is it?” Baekhyun croaked over the phone. His voice was hoarse with sleep, a sign that he had been deeply asleep before Chanyeol’s call. A pang of guilt burst in his chest.

“I..”

“It’s three thirteen. I know you wouldn’t be calling for nothing.” When Chanyeol didn’t reply, Baekhyun said, “I have work tomorrow, but I’m not hanging up until you talk to me, Chanyeol.”

“I– I had a nightmare,” Chanyeol finally said.

It was only after he spoke that Chanyeol realised how stupid he sounded. People had nightmares, but he must have been the only one who had to call his friend about it. Weak and pathetic– Chanyeol couldn’t help but berate himself, chewing on his lips. Why’d he have to wake Baekhyun up for nothing?

The sound of fabric shifting came over the phone. “Wanna talk about it?”

The patience in Baekhyun’s tired voice evoked a fresh wave of guilt in Chanyeol. His stomach sunk as he swallowed down the ball in his throat, trying to keep his voice level in his reply. “You have work tomorrow.”

There was a long silence before Baekhyun spoke again. “I get off at seven. How does dinner and ice cream sound?”

There were years that summer fought autumn for more stage time. This year, summer had gracefully relinquished the centre stage. Chanyeol could see it in the way that sunsets crept earlier and earlier, he could feel it in the way that the air felt against his face, lighter and breathable. The oppression of the summer humidity was over.

They met at a hole in the wall shop operated by second generation owners. It was so nondescript that there wasn’t even a signboard for it, and furnished with worn down wooden tables and metal stools with rusty and sometimes uneven legs. It was the kind of shop that you went to when you wanted a quick meal, because there was no menu. They served only one item: rice with a fixed set of sides, and a stew that depended on the ingredients available in the kitchen that day.

Today, they had soybean paste stew.

Chanyeol snuck a glance at Baekhyun, who busied himself with throwing his cucumber salad into Chanyeol’s dish.

Baekhyun looked tired. It wasn’t the kind of tiredness you’d get from a long day at work or a hard week with personal issues, but the kind of tiredness that surfaced after years of going through the motions chipped away at your soul. It was the bone weary exhaustion that people tried to rinse away with short vacations, the kind that you only realised years down the road when you remembered who you once used to be.

There used to be a light in Baekhyun’s eyes that wasn’t quite there anymore. Chanyeol didn’t know when it happened, or if it happened so gradually that he never noticed its disappearance until now. There was an epidemic of indifference amongst the working class. The slouch in Baekhyun’s back and the way he carried himself was so reminiscent of all the other office workers that it scared Chanyeol. Chanyeol remembered when Baekhyun had dreams of his own. They used to talk about writing books and publishing stories of their own. Now, only Chanyeol spoke of stories.

Without pausing his motions, Baekhyun asked, “Did you manage to get some sleep last night?”

Chanyeol dropped his gaze as heat rushed to his face. “I did,” Chanyeol said. He picked up his chopsticks and stirred his soup half-heartedly, biting the insides of his cheeks. “Did you?”

Baekhyun did a head shrug. “I never sleep that well on Sundays anyway. It’s hard to adjust back after staying up on Saturdays.”

Chanyeol nodded dumbly, sticking some rice into his mouth. That was Baekhyun’s way of closing the topic. He knew that Chanyeol felt bad about waking him in the middle of the night. Without reopening the subject, this was how Baekhyun reassured him that he wasn’t upset.

Baekhyun had always been the more tactful one, Chanyeol thought. That was what made Baekhyun so popular with different groups of people everywhere he went. It wasn’t just consideration for others, but being perceptive enough to understand what was needed.

Chanyeol only wished he could emulate that quality.

“So what happened?”

“Ah?” Chanyeol said, snapping out of his thoughts. He lifted his head to find Baekhyun staring at him calmly, chewing thoroughly on a piece of pork he pulled out of his stew.

“In your nightmare,” Baekhyun clarified.

The wooden door slid open loudly, jostling the bell at the end of the metal track. Two men in office attire came in, one with his jacket hung over his arm and the other with his tie undone. They sat at the table at the other corner of the shop, where the teenage shop assistant came to them with a bottle of water and two stainless steel cups shortly after.

Even from where they were seated, Chanyeol could smell the heavy stench of smoke clinging onto their clothes.

“I dreamt of Kyeongyang Park,” Chanyeol said, pulling his gaze away from the two men and back to his bowl of rice. “It was night, and I was the only person in there. I was walking towards the West station, but it took a really long time to get there. No matter how fast I walked, it seemed like I was walking in place..

“Once I got to the West station, the tram started moving until it stopped right in front of me. The doors opened, but it was completely dark inside. I couldn’t see anything. But even though I couldn’t see anything, I knew what was waiting for me inside.” Chanyeol furrowed his brows. Without realising, his words had picked up the pace, his fingers finding familiar grounds again. “I didn’t want to go in– I knew that I didn’t want to go inside– but my body moved by itself. It was getting up the tram, and I–”

A hand covered his gently. Chanyeol blinked, following that hand all the way up to Baekhyun’s face, worry lines written across his forehead.

“You’ll bleed again,” Baekhyun said as he pulled his hand back. Chanyeol retracted his hands belatedly, tucking them between his thighs as he looked down at the table, at his nearly untouched food.

“I woke up,” Chanyeol finished without fanfare.

Chatter erupted across the shop. Chanyeol and Baekhyun turned in sync to the source of the commotion, where the shop assistant was busy serving out the dishes and the men were laughing as they opened a bottle of cold beer. Never one for staring, Chanyeol turned back, fidgeting with his chopsticks in place of his hands. Baekhyun let his gaze linger, his expression unreadable for a moment before he turned his attention back on Chanyeol.

“You dreamt of your book,” Baekhyun said.

“I dreamt of the crime scene,” Chanyeol corrected.

“Which follows your book closely,” Baekhyun added, as if it made a world of difference.

“But it didn’t just feel like a dream to me, Baek,” Chanyeol said, ignoring Baekhyun’s sentence. He put down his chopsticks again as he frowned at his food. “It was like I was there. It felt so real– the walking, the tram pulling in, even the completely dark and empty sky felt real.”

“Dreams usually feel real while we’re in them.”

“I’m being serious, Baekhyun.” Irritation bled into Chanyeol’s voice.

“So am I,” Baekhyun said. “Dreams feel real, but that’s all they are. It’s not until we’re awake that we realise how illogical and unrealistic they are. You’re talking as if you were there, but you weren’t, Chanyeol. Your subconscious probably mixed up details between your book and what the detectives told you, but it doesn’t change the fact that you weren’t there.”

None of this was new. Chanyeol wasn’t there that night, and neither did he kill anyone. But that dream rattled a deep part of him for reasons he couldn’t explain to anyone– not even himself. Even as he was seated across Baekhyun in a dingy shop, he couldn’t shake off the cold surface of the tram’s metal bars, or the vibration of the platform as the tram rolled to a gradual stop in front of him. And while hearing it from Baekhyun helped, there was still a feeling in Chanyeol’s chest that he was unable to stamp out completely, burrowing deeper into his core.

Chanyeol peeked at Baekhyun through his fringe, and Baekhyun’s expression softened. Worry shimmered in his eyes as he leaned forward, pursing his lips for a long moment.

“Have you been taking your meds?”

If it had been anyone else, Chanyeol might have spouted a few defensive words before leaving in a flurry. However, it was Baekhyun. This was the same Baekhyun that came running to him whenever he had a panic attack. This was the same Baekhyun that bought take out for him and cleaned his place on days that he felt too unwell to get out of bed. This was the same Baekhyun whose arms cocooned him when he thought that nothing he did in life was ever good enough.

And it was this same gentleness that Baekhyun was affording to him now, the same lack of judgement that gave Chanyeol pause to reflect.

Did he open today’s pill box? Chanyeol didn’t think he had.

“I.. I haven’t taken them today,” Chanyeol admitted in a small voice.

The metal legs of Baekhyun’s stool cried as he leaned back, folding his arms across his chest. Sensing Baekhyun’s disappointment, Chanyeol straightened his back and raised a hand next to his face. “I didn’t skip it on purpose, honest! It’s just.. I forgot about it. Really. Really.”

Baekhyun studied him wordlessly with his arms crossed. “Promise me that you’ll take it once you get home?”

“Promise.”

Whatever Baekhyun saw on his face must have been enough. He unfolded his arms and picked up his chopsticks, the corners of his lips starting upwards. Just like that, the weight on Chanyeol’s chest disappeared. He returned Baekhyun’s smile with his own, feeling his appetite return slowly.

It was only near the end of their meal that something else occurred to Chanyeol. He lifted his head abruptly from his bowl of soup.

“There’s something else that I need to do tonight,” Chanyeol said. Baekhyun arched a brow.

“What?”

“I need to get a journal.”

First journal entry. Dr. Kim should be proud after months of trying to get me on this.

Met Baekhyun for dinner, soybean paste stew, nothing special. Had ice cream afterwards. Baekhyun had mint chocolate, I chose vanilla, Baekhyun paid. Talked a little about my current book. Baekhyun gave some great suggestions. Came home and took my meds as I promised Baekhyun. A good day.

Attention was a manufactured commodity. It was also in perpetual short supply. On this count, Baekhyun was wrong. It didn’t take the case getting closed for it to blow over. When no breakthroughs came within the next few weeks, the country had moved onto the next scandal, the next outrage. Kyeongyang Park was open for business as usual, the West station had attracted its own morbid share of pilgrims, and Memorabilia was freshly emerging from its short-lived heyday.

Five days ago, an invitation to a lunch time appointment sat in Chanyeol’s read inbox, offering to publish his next three works in print. Three hours ago, Chanyeol made a verbal agreement.

He should be leaping with joy. He should be standing at the top of his flat, screaming to the neighbourhood that he’d finally succeeded. Instead, he was walking aimlessly down the long, winding road with his heart in knots he couldn’t undo.

Autumn was in full bloom. Leaves that were fully green as recently as two weeks ago were now splashed with shades of yellow and brown, littering the streets when an especially strong gust of wind tugged on them. Chanyeol’s gaze chased a small leaf, carried on the back of a drift that rushed towards the sky, disappearing somewhere in the vastness of the white, shapeless clouds above. The deep blue of the afternoon sky had washed away, fading into a light blue that Chanyeol knew would soon reveal embers of orange and red.

Going on long walks was a good way to clear his head. Chanyeol didn’t appreciate it much when Baekhyun used to drag him out of his house, but in the process it became part of his routine, and now Chanyeol was able to see the beauty in these breaks. He liked listening to the sound of the birds and the trees, subtle as they were in the roar of the evening traffic. He liked seeing the changing scenery as he walked from one neighbourhood into another. He liked seeing other people fill up the roads and sidewalks, each with their own lives to live, each with their own problems to solve. It grounded him and reminded him that he wasn’t alone in his struggles, and Chanyeol needed that.

His walk inevitably led him to a small neighbourhood playground, where only three kids were still taking turns down the slide, their high pitched laughter echoing in the quiet of the area. A couple was sitting on the bench nearest to the slide, the man engaged in his phone and the other resting her head on her shoulder as she watched over the children fondly.

Chanyeol’s footsteps came to a stop a distance away from the playground. He stuffed his hands into the front pocket of his hoodie as he smiled to himself, thinking about the times that he and Baekhyun used to chase each other around the blocks as kids. It wasn’t until he pulled his gaze away that he noticed a man sitting on a bench parallel to the walkway, holding a cigarette in one hand and a black thermos in the other.

It was Detective Do. Kyungsoo.

The detective had already seen him. A cloud of grey dispersed in front of his face as he nodded at Chanyeol.

“Detective..” Chanyeol said, suddenly stiffening up. Kyungsoo nodded again.

“Mister Park.”

A pair of crows flew overhead, joining a lone crow perched atop a traffic light. Chanyeol traced Kyungsoo’s line of sight and found him staring past the three birds in the distance, cigarette dangling dangerously between his fingers.

It was hard to reconcile the man in front of him with the image of the man he met weeks ago. The stern, serious gaze and set of his jaw contrasted with the relaxed slope of his shoulders now, the arch of his neck as he raised the thermos to his lips, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down with each sip.

Then again, this was the same man who noticed the unevenness on his fingertips, the same man who offered him a plaster right as he was leaving. There was consideration that wasn’t part of his job scope. There was kindness that Chanyeol rarely saw from strangers in easier professions.

Chanyeol ran a thumb down his index finger, tracing the everchanging landscape.

“Thank.. thank you,” Chanyeol said after a long time had gone by, hoping the waver in his voice wasn’t as obvious as he thought. Kyungsoo looked back at Chanyeol with a raised brow. “For your plaster. I never thanked you that day. Thank you.”

It took a moment for Kyungsoo to understand. “You’re welcome,” he said.

“It’s rare for people to carry them around. Do you do it often?” Chanyeol asked with an awkward smile. “Give it to people?”

Kyungsoo twirled his flask as he peered into it. “Not really, no.”

When Kyungsoo finished his drink instead of explaining, Chanyeol realised that it was because the wounds he saw in his line of work might not have been the kind that a plaster could help with. And while Chanyeol was berating himself for it, Kyungsoo gave him a once over.

“Did you walk here?” he said, his voice so level that it was almost disinterested. Kyungsoo took a long sip before turning back to Chanyeol. “It’s far from your place.”

“Ah? No, I didn’t. I was in Jongmuk district.”

“Jongmuk?” Kyungsoo repeated with a rare display of emotion– confusion.

“I accepted an offer,” Chanyeol explained. “JC Publishing has offered to sign me for three books.”

Understanding bled into Kyungsoo’s expression. There was a hint of a smile on his face as he raised his flask in Chanyeol’s direction. “Congratulations.”

Despite the simplicity of Kyungsoo’s congratulations, Chanyeol had no doubt that it was heartfelt. But for some reason, it was precisely because of how sincere Kyungsoo was that made the whole situation seem empty to Chanyeol, hollow. That the first person he should tell such news to was a stranger who had been investigating him just weeks ago. That he hadn’t already called Baekhyun hours ago, excitement and elation stitching the grin onto his face.

It was an earnest congratulations, but all it did was to echo his loneliness.

“.. Thanks,” Chanyeol said, digging his hands into his hoodie pocket as he kicked the heel of his shoe against gravel.

“Any plans to celebrate?”

Chanyeol shrugged. “I think so. Maybe I’ll tell Baekhyun to come over for dinner.”

“Baekhyun?”

“Yeah, my best friend,” Chanyeol explained. "He, um, he’s always been there for me, taking care of me and sticking up for me, even when we were just children running around the playground.”

“Oh?” Kyungsoo flicked his cigarette, arching a brow.

“Yeah.” Chanyeol rubbed a hand along his nape. “I used to– people used to pick on me, when I was young. I had a pet ferret, Ddori. They made fun of me a lot for that. One day, Ddori went missing, and I suspected it was them but.. I didn’t have any proof. Nobody responded to the posters I put up around the neighbourhood. I cried for days.”

Disapproval lined Kyungsoo’s forehead. “I’m sorry that happened to you.”

“It’s okay, Baekhyun beat them up for me. I think it was him against six of them. Made them cry more in one hour than I did for that entire week.” Chanyeol chuckled fondly.

“Was he a big child?”

“Nope, he was the smallest in our grade, actually. But he’s a dan three black belt in Hapkido. Well, he wasn’t at that level yet when we were in sixth grade, but he’s always been talented at it.” Then, as an afterthought, Chanyeol added, “He’s always been talented at everything.”

“He sounds like a good friend.” Kyungsoo smiled briefly at Chanyeol. “But it doesn’t sound like you’ve told him about your book deal yet.”

“No, I haven’t..” Chanyeol shook his head.

“Why not?”

“I don’t know,” Chanyeol admitted. The shrieks of laughter floated through the air, filling the lengthy silence that crept between them. Chanyeol glanced up, squinting at the sky that had begun to bleed streaks of red. “I think I don’t know if I’ve earned it. I don’t know if I deserve this. Probably not.”

“Memorabilia was a hit. Everyone liked it.”

“Did you?”

“I thought it was original, and originality is hard to come by these days.” Kyungsoo pulled out a portable ashtray from his jacket, crushing the butt of his cigarette against the metal tray and disposing it inside. The metal ashtray closed with a firm click before he slid it into his breast pocket again, grabbing his thermos as he stood up slowly. “Enjoy the rest of your day, Mister Park.”

Chanyeol watched as the detective’s silhouette grew smaller and smaller until it was out of sight completely before he crumpled onto the bench. Streaks of yellow and light pink swirled in the larger blue sky, leaking golden rays that fell across the neighbourhood. It highlighted the playground, reflected off the glass windows of the blocks surrounding him, and as Chanyeol extended his arm to grab a handful of the sunset, it struck him that the pinkness that used to be a trait of his hands was now faded. If he ran his fingers along each other, he could still feel the remnants of skin that were witness to his anxiety, but it had been days since it last bled.

Chanyeol pulled his phone out of his pocket.

Dinner tonight, Chanyeol texted in the morning.

I’m vetoing buldak. I don’t have anymore carbon pills, Baekhyun said an hour ago. Chanyeol rolled his eyes as he pulled out the pork belly that had been slow roasting in his oven for the last two and a half hours, leaving it on his kitchen counter while he typed his reply.

It’s not ramyeon.

Who the fuck are you? Pickpocketing is a crime.

Chanyeol chuckled fondly, shaking his head at his phone. He bent over the kitchen counter, placing his face close to the pale piece of pork in the metal pan as he took a picture.

Seven-thirty.

The reply was immediate. I’ll be there at seven. Then, another message: You’d better not start without me.

Chanyeol shook his head, slipping his phone into his pyjama pocket as he started to tighten the edges of the aluminium foil box, closing it more snugly around the pork belly in its center. There was about another hour to go in the oven before the half an hour. That would give him more than enough time to start the rice in the rice cooker and cook some omelettes on the side, maybe even cook some miso soup using the paste in his fridge that was now a permanent resident.

Just in time for Baekhyun’s arrival.

Chanyeol hummed the tune of a new pop song under his breath as he pushed the pork belly back into the oven. He picked up the little chick on his shelf– a gift from his sister when he moved out– and turned the chick around until it was at the maximum setting of one hour, placing it on the kitchen counter when he was done.

Retreating into his room, Chanyeol twirled the stylus in his hand as he thought about his storyboard. The book deal injected a burst of inspiration in him. What used to take him weeks to get started on was now finished in a matter of days.

This might be the best work I’ve ever done, Chanyeol thought. Granted that he was only a third of the way, Chanyeol had a good feeling about this.

After a while of editing his storyboard, Chanyeol felt his eyelids getting heavier. It was hard to fight against the late-afternoon lethargy that came daily, whether he had a light meal or a heavy one, or whether it was a hot day or a cool one. Chanyeol got off his chair and threw himself onto his bed, hugging his pillow as he wiggled under his covers. Sunlight filtered through his thin curtains, spotlighting the small specks of dust that danced in the air when Chanyeol hopped onto his bed. Chanyeol watched them move around in mid-air with a lazy gaze, eventually closing his eyes and embracing the pull of sleep.

Tak.

Click.

“Chanyeol.” A gentle weight landed on his arm, shaking softly. “Chanyeol-ah.”

“Mmm?” Chanyeol pried an eye open, turning his head upwards to the source of the sound. Baekhyun’s face swam into view, his features hard to discern in the darkness of the room.

Darkness?

And what was that smell?

Chanyeol sat himself up sluggishly, wiping the last traces of sleep from his eyes and the corners of his mouth. “What time is it?”

Baekhyun checked his phone. “Seven-eighteen.”

Chanyeol’s heart lurched into his throat. He leapt out of his bed and past Baekhyun, almost slamming into the dining table on his way to the kitchen where the smell of something burning became much stronger. His arms were working on autopilot as he opened the oven.

The faint smell of something charring exploded in the air.

“Chanyeol?”

Chanyeol bent over, covering his nose with his arm as he squinted through the released heat at the black surface of the pork belly in the oven. Panic kicked in instantly. Without a second thought, Chanyeol reached into the oven barehanded, gripping onto the sizzling edges of the metal pan and dragging it outwards for a second before pain shot up his arm. He cried loudly, dropping the metal pan which clattered unevenly on the oven grills before toppling over the side, spilling its contents all over the floor.

“Shit.” Chanyeol cradled his hand with gritted teeth. “Fuck!”

Baekhyun was at his side at once, hauling him up and turning the tap to the cold side. The force of the cool water on his swelling skin was enough to make him tear up. He squirmed in Baekhyun’s grip, incoherent moans of pain escaping from between clenched teeth.

“Stop moving,” Baekhyun said. Chanyeol sucked in a deep breath, willing himself to hold still.

The pain eventually subsided with the running water, clearing away the mental fog of panic with it and bringing a new clarity to his thoughts.

Dinner was ruined. He ruined it. The pork belly that was supposed to be the star of the meal was now lying on the floor, burnt beyond the point of salvaging. The rice he was supposed to cook remained unwashed, and the egg that he planned on cooking wasn’t done. Nothing was done and Baekhyun was here. He’d invited Baekhyun here to eat, and there was nothing to eat.

He had messed up again.

“Does it hurt?” Baekhyun asked quietly, closing the bottle of cool aloe vera from the fridge and applying it gently along the aggressive streaks of red on Chanyeol’s palm. Chanyeol shook his head mutely, but hissed when Baekhyun grazed along his wound. Baekhyun’s gaze flickered up, the rebuke in his eyes fizzling out before he turned his focus back on Chanyeol’s palm. “Sorry.”

Guilt ballooned in Chanyeol’s chest. He swallowed thickly, blinking back the tears in his eyes.

“I’m sorry, Baekhyun,” Chanyeol croaked. Baekhyun looked up again, surprised, and Chanyeol’s lip quivered. “I messed up dinner. You came all the way here and I couldn’t even– I couldn’t even wake up on time to finish cooking.”

Baekhyun’s expression softened imperceptibly. “Hey, it’s not your fault.”

“But it is,” Chanyeol sniffled. “I was supposed to wake up and check on the pork belly and start the rice. I even set the alarm.”

Chanyeol lifted his head, turning to the chick timer that he placed on the..

.. empty kitchen counter.

Baekhyun followed Chanyeol’s gaze, turning his body halfway to stare at the kitchen counter. Despite his silence, Chanyeol could hear the unspoken question on Baekhyun’s face.

“No, but–” Chanyeol said, getting up quickly. He walked to the counter, surveying the spot where the timer should have been. The space where the timer was set down before he went into his room. Empty. Clean. Nothing.

Chanyeol’s gaze darted up to the shelf, where the timer was. In the same angle it always was, at the same place it always was. As if it had never been moved.

“What..?” Chanyeol murmured, dumbfounded. He took an unsteady step forward, supported by a hand on the counter. “Why is it.. But I..”

Chanyeol furrowed his brow. No, this couldn’t be. He set the timer– why didn’t it go off? He was here. He stood right here a few hours ago, turning it all the way to the back. He placed it on the counter, so why was it up there again?

A soft, tentative touch on his shoulder brought him back to the moment. “Chanyeol..”

“No, I– I swear that I set the timer. Baekhyun, I set the timer and I put it here.” Chanyeol spun around to face Baekhyun. Desperation was a beast caged inside his chest, and as Baekhyun’s gaze wandered to the timer and back to Chanyeol, Chanyeol felt that animal grow restless, unsettled.

“Maybe it ran out of battery,” Baekhyun suggested. Chanyeol’s frown deepened.

“No, that doesn’t.. I put it here. I remember I did.” Chanyeol tapped his finger impatiently on the counter for emphasis. “And– and there’s still battery. Look–” Chanyeol snatched the timer off the shelf, shoving it into Baekhyun’s hands.

Baekhyun cast a look at Chanyeol before he inspected the timer, turning it to a minute. A fraught silence hung in the air like a blade over Chanyeol’s head. Has a minute ever felt so long? Chanyeol didn’t think so. He was standing on a precipice, waiting for that alarm to ring and bring him back safely over the edge. His body was held tightly, his nails digging into fresh ground and his jaw aching from how hard it was clenched.

The timer’s shrill cry pierced the palpable silence. It vibrated violently in Baekhyun’s grasp, the physical manifestation of Chanyeol’s relief and vindication.

He was right. On this count at least, Chanyeol was right.

“See? It’s working. And I would have heard it if it rang. So I don’t know why it didn’t–”

“But are you sure it did?”

Chanyeol closed his mouth. He stared at Baekhyun, nonplussed.

“What?” Chanyeol finally asked. Baekhyun set the timer down impassively, raising his gaze to meet Chanyeol’s.

“Are you sure it rang?” Baekhyun shrugged his shoulders. “I miss my alarms sometimes. It happens.”

“I..” Chanyeol trailed off. “No, but, even if I missed my alarm, how could it have moved back to its original position on the shelf? I put it here, on this counter.”

“But it was up there when we saw it, wasn’t it? And I don’t think it moved by itself either.”

Chanyeol fell silent, suddenly unsure of himself. Baekhyun was right– how sure was he that the alarm rang? He was asleep, he could’ve missed it– he even missed Baekhyun opening the door of his flat. And if it didn’t ring, maybe he never set the timer in the first place. That would explain why the timer was still in its original position. It would also explain why he never heard it ring.

But it couldn’t explain away the uneasy feeling lodged deep within his chest.

“Yeah, maybe you’re right,” Chanyeol said, noncommittal. He slid down against the kitchen cabinets until he was on the floor, legs spread and nearly touching the mess of pork belly in front of him. He sighed heavily, dragging his hands through his hair and grabbing fistfuls of it as guilt washed over him.

“I’m sorry.” Chanyeol mumbled, hiding his head between his arms. “I invited you over and ruined dinner and freaked out over something stupid. I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

Fabric rustled softly next to him. A few seconds later, Baekhyun said, “It’s okay. It’s just dinner. We could always order in.”

Chanyeol lifted his head to peek at Baekhyun through his fringe. Baekhyun was slumped against the cabinets with his head thrown back, eyes closed gently against the light. There was no hint of irritation

“I know, but.. I wanted to make something nice. To celebrate.”

Baekhyun rolled his head towards Chanyeol and opened an eyelid after a beat. “Celebrate what?”

I was supposed to cook roast pork belly today, but I messed up. I thought I set the timer before I went back into my room, but it looks like I didn’t. I don’t know.. I still feel like I did, but the timer was in its usual place when I distinctly remember putting it on the counter.. Baekhyun gave me a look earlier, like he wanted to know if I’ve been taking my meds (I have), and I don’t want him to ask me again. It makes me feel like I’m crazy.

It’s stupidly hard to clean oil off parquet flooring. Every time you wipe a spot, the grease moves to a different location. It drove me insane. And my fingers still hurt from trying to pull the pan out of the oven. Baekhyun did most of the cleaning. I felt bad about it. Inviting him for dinner, then ruining dinner and letting him clean up the mess I made.. I feel like the worst friend anyone can have. I guess this is something Junmyeon would like to talk about the next session, he’s always going on and on about having a chip on my shoulder..

Baekhyun seemed kind of tired tonight. Quiet? I told him that I received a book deal and accepted it. He congratulated me, but even I could see the effort in his laugh. But I can’t blame him. He cleaned my whole kitchen and only got to eat at nine. I would be pissed if I were him. Maybe he was pissed. I should find a day to make it up to him.

Chimes of laughter rang in the air.

Chanyeol blinked, surprised to find that evening was already creeping in. Strokes of orange buried under a light blue sky, wisps of white tangled across its length, it was as average as any other evening that Chanyeol had seen. But the longer he stared at the sky, the stronger the sense that something was amiss became. There was something missing about this place, something strange about those unmoving clouds.

Unmoving?

“Did you walk here?”

Chanyeol spun around, where Detective Do sat with a cigarette in one hand and his thermos flask in the other. Faceless children ran around the playground a distance away. As secondhand smoke wafted his way, Chanyeol wrinkled his nose in the expectation of its smell. Instead, it passed by without lingering, an odourless vapour.

“It’s far from your place,” Detective Do said.

Chanyeol recognised this. It was a conversation he’d had two weeks ago at the park.

“No, I took the tram here,” Chanyeol replied before he could catch himself.

The detective looked behind Chanyeol and nodded in sage understanding. “It’s convenient.”

Chanyeol followed the detective’s gaze to the road behind him, now occupied by a track with a stationary tram on it. It looked identical to the one from Kyeongyang Park, except that this wasn’t Kyeongyang.

“It is,” Chanyeol was saying as he turned back. “Have you taken it?”

The detective shrugged, looking at the photos in his hands. Where did his cigarette and flask go? “I did. I have some photos too, have a look.”

Despite the distance between them, Chanyeol found himself reaching across and grabbing the photos like it was the most natural thing in the world to do. His head tilted to the side as he glanced through the photos, slipping one behind the other as he did. Blanks, all of them, yet for some reason, it made sense to Chanyeol. It was as if he could see the invisible ink pressed onto each piece, and knew that they were a collage of material from his book, right down to the frame of each scene he used.

He should be alarmed. He should be nervous. He was none of this. An eerie serenity gripped his mind as he handed back the photos to the detective.

“You’ve read my book.”

“You’re a bestseller now, everyone’s reading your book,” came the detective’s reply.

“Did you like it?” Chanyeol found himself asking. A part of him was keenly aware of how ridiculous it was to be asking this question, but the part of him that belonged to the dream saw nothing wrong with the progression of their conversation. It was strange, but it made sense. And from the way that the detective’s lips curved into a half-smile, Chanyeol thought he wasn’t the only one.

“I thought it was fine.” The detective shrugged. “I just have one question to ask you.”

“What’s that?”

Stale laughter drifted over in the background, turning distorted as Chanyeol looked towards the playground where children ran in choreographed rounds. The evening sunlight that shot off the window pane seemed brighter now, more intense. And the longer Chanyeol squinted at it, the more he thought that there was something intentional about its angle he couldn’t put a finger on. Intentional. Something that filled him with a sense of wrongness.

Like a spotlight on him.

“Was it worth it?”

Chanyeol turned back to the detective with furrowed brows. “Was what worth it?” he asked hesitantly. Dread expanded in his chest. Trepidation raced through his veins. There was something heavy in the air pressing down on him, and a general feeling of danger raising the hairs on his arms.

Nothing had changed about the park. Not the golden sunlight painting long shadows across the pavements and roads, nor the shrill laughter that cut through the silence of the dream, but something had shifted in the atmosphere, turning it sinister. Despite the onset of cold in the otherwise warm evening, Chanyeol felt his palms turning sticky. The world seemed to spin slowly as the detective leaned forward, dropping his gaze to Chanyeol’s hands.

“Killing that man– was it worth the fame?”

Chanyeol lowered his eyes stiffly. Red. His hands were covered in red. Red droplets clinging onto his curved knuckles before they grew too heavy, red streaks crawling down the length of his wrists, his arms. Each twitch of his fingers emphasising the viscosity of the blood on his hands, each tremor reflecting the sunlight, reflecting a glimpse of himself.

Reflecting a glimpse of a camera.

Chanyeol’s head snapped up. Across from him was the camera stand, and just behind it, the West Station’s signboard.

Something knocked against his chest. Hair, brushing violently against his skin, smearing something wet down the length of his arm. Chanyeol looked down to where his arms were locked together in a chokehold, holding a man in place. Blunt fingernails clawing lines along the back of Chanyeol’s hand as the man struggled, gagging and gasping for breath.

In the dim light afforded by the single lamp at the station, Chanyeol noticed something else. The glint of the knife in his hand, the same knife he had at home. The one with serrated edges Baekhyun gifted to him when his old knife handle broke.

Why was he holding onto this?

Slowly, without willing it, his hand brought the unused blade of the knife to the man’s throat. The man squealed in fright, thrashing harder in Chanyeol’s grip. It was impossible for Chanyeol to possess the kind of strength he was displaying, but it was him. It was his arms around the man, his knife digging into the man’s throat.

The knife pulled open the man’s throat like a zip.

Blood spurted out of his neck, spraying across the floor of the tram, against the metal railings. Squelches filled the air as the scent of iron grew stronger, almost offensive. But Chanyeol stood still, watching blood drip down the man’s clothes, feeling the warmth of it leak between his fingertips.

The last gurgles of the man choking on his blood. And then the sound of flesh hitting the floor with a loud, wet thump–

Chanyeol’s body jerked into the mattress of his bed.

His fingernails dug into his palms through the blanket as the ceiling swam into view. He scanned the room as his eyes adjusted to the dark, the familiar shapes of his room furniture slotting into place with every breath he took. In, out. In, out. Then, remembering the last vestiges of his dream, Chanyeol pulled his hands out of the blanket.

Clean. They were clean. Trembling, but dry.

Clean.

Chanyeol turned on his side, curling into himself in relief. Most of his dream had already faded from his memory, but the sick, sticky feeling of blood on his hands, in the crevices of his fingers still lingered. And when Chanyeol closed his eyes, he could still feel the weight of the knife in his grip, the way his fingers closed around its handle.

The sound of skin being torn apart.

Chanyeol’s eyelids flew open. He pushed himself up against the wall, patting around his bed for his phone. Without thinking about it, Chanyeol unlocked his phone and swiped to his conversation with Baekhyun, bringing the end of his phone towards his lips when his eyes caught on the time at the top of the screen.

04:07.

It wouldn’t be the first time that Chanyeol sent Baekhyun a message at this hour, but it suddenly dawned upon him that it wasn’t fair to Baekhyun. Why should Baekhyun have to tolerate all of his emotional outbursts? Just because he was Chanyeol’s best friend?

Didn’t Chanyeol promise Baekhyun that he was in a better headspace now?

Chanyeol dropped his phone between his legs and combed his hands through his hair, pulling tufts of hair at his nape. What would Baekhyun say if he were here? That Chanyeol wasn’t responsible for the murder at Kyeongyang? But how true was that, really? The victim had been murdered in the same fashion as the murder scene in his novel. Even if it wasn’t his hand on the knife, it was his hand on the stylus.

Chanyeol drew a shaky breath.

He should probably write this in his journal. But writing it into his journal would cement his role in the murder. Leaving it as a thought would be leaving it in the abstract.

But he wasn’t responsible for that man’s death.

That’s right. He wasn’t responsible for that man’s death.

Chanyeol dragged his hands down his face.

Had he taken his medication today? He couldn’t recall. Chanyeol frowned as he got off the bed, picking up the pill box on his desk. Maybe this was why he had been feeling out of sorts today, Chanyeol thought as he opened the box for Thursday. Baekhyun had pointed out before how volatile his moods became when he skipped his medication.

But the lid opened to an empty box, and the same feeling of something being amiss crept back into Chanyeol’s chest.

He couldn’t remember taking his medication, but the box was empty, which means that he must have taken it at some point during the day. There was no way that he’d miss a day– that was what having a pill box for each day of the week was for.

Just to be sure, Chanyeol popped open Friday’s lid. Two pills lay inside. He hadn’t forgotten to fill the pill box, so he must have taken his pills, but why didn’t he remember doing so?

Chanyeol closed the pill box and slipped back into his bed, pulling his blanket up to his neck. It was fine if he didn’t remember, Chanyeol decided. He had taken his medication and that was all that mattered. What he needed was to get some sleep and maybe he would forget the warm and sticky sensation between his fingers.

Just a dream.

Just a dream.

“I’m sorry, I don’t think I understand what you mean.”

The clink of the teaspoon against the porcelain cup contrasted greatly against the soft, instrumental music playing in the background of the cafe. Chanyeol pulled his hands together under the table as he regarded his editor carefully, watching the man heave a deep sigh as he picked up his pencil tiredly.

“It’s not enough,” his editor, Minseok, said plainly. The tip of his pencil hit the haggard notebook with a cold thak. “Forget the storyboard, let’s go back to the basics. Describe the murder scene to me.”

“Um,” Chanyeol hesitated, casting a furtive glance at Minseok before he continued. “A man was murdered in his house. His body was found sitting at the dining table with warm food in front of him.”

“Okay, what is the mystery here?”

“Well.. there was power line maintenance, but the food was freshly prepared. If the man was killed before the maintenance was done, the food couldn’t be warm.”

“But the detective sees that the mains were on, weren’t they?”

“They.. are.”

“Which tells us that the food was cooked after the maintenance, doesn’t it?”

“Yes..”

“Meaning that the real mystery is not the murder scene itself, but who killed him, isn’t it?”

Chanyeol bit on the insides of his cheeks and clasped his hands together loosely under the table, running his fingers along each other. “Yes..”

Exasperation bled into Minseok’s expression as he let go of his pencil. “Now do you see where I’m coming from?” he asked. “This works as a short story, but it’s not enough for a standalone book. It needs more development. How do you plan to hook your readers? What makes this murder scene so different from others? How are your characters related to this?”

Chanyeol bowed his head. His legs started jumping in place as he clamped his hands between them, the edge of his nails tugging on familiar spots as if it could rip out the indignance that struck him.

He knew that Minseok was right. His story was weak, but he was working on it and had been working on it. That’s what drafts were for. He’d work on it.

“I know it doesn’t.. I know it doesn’t sound promising now, but give me some time. I promise that it’ll be much better.”

Minseok closed his hands together with a downward tug on the corner of his lips. His glasses slipped down the bridge of his nose slightly as he shook his head. Chanyeol opened his mouth to protest but Minseok held up his hand.

“Chanyeol, I’m not here to hinder your work. My job is to help you, and part of that is helping you to see and accept that this story is not going to work.”

Chanyeol felt his world spinning. He swallowed back the nausea threatening to spill up his throat as he realised what was happening.

He had never been in control of the situation, but Chanyeol felt more helpless now than ever.

“But.. what if I submit a new draft by the end of the week? I still think this is a good story, I just need an extension. You’ll see it once I get it fixed–”

“The decision comes from above me,” Minseok cut him off without hesitation.

At that moment, there was no hint of compassion in Minseok’s eyes. He looked at Chanyeol with pure indifference, as if they had not been in correspondence for weeks, as if Minseok had never laughed with Chanyeol over a joke during one of their meetings. It was a painful demonstration of how impersonal work could be, a painful demonstration of how little Chanyeol’s efforts meant to anyone.

Flashes of his previous editor came to mind. The way that he looked at Chanyeol, his eyes hardened with resolve, the strong line of his jaw as Chanyeol begged him to reconsider rescinding the offer, the echo of his footsteps cut off by the door slamming shut in his wake.

All superimposed on Minseok. The same look in their eyes, the same cold, shut off gaze. Ripples of an old pain were amplified by a fresh wave of hurt, pulsing through his entire body as a high-pitched ring pierced through his thoughts.

It wasn’t fair. He worked so hard on this.

He worked so hard on getting himself here.

“But that’s.. that’s not fair,” Chanyeol said weakly, his voice breaking at the tailend of his sentence. The corners of his eyes began to sting as he curled his hands into fists, crumpling the fabric of his pants in his grip. Minseok pressed his lips into a thin line as he uncrossed his legs under the table, leaning forward with his hands folded neatly together.

“Chanyeol, we receive thousands of completed manuscripts a year. Some of them are brilliant, most of them average. Out of thousands, only a few impress enough to make the cut, and those take months of effort in order to make it something worth publishing.” Minseok paused, gauging Chanyeol’s silence as he continued. “You are an exception. We’ve signed you on based on the promise you’ve shown with Memorabilia. You’re guaranteed three books, and the firm is happy to keep our terms of the deal with you, but this story is not one of them. The jury’s out on whether that’s fair or not, but the firm will not be publishing this story.”

A long pause ensued. Chanyeol kept his eyes on his white knuckles, unwilling to cry in a public space.

“I worked so hard on this..”

“I know,” Minseok said softly, then, “I’m sorry.”

“You said you’d help me,” Chanyeol sniffled, rubbing away the wetness in his eyes. Minseok pursed his lips.

“I know it doesn’t look like it, but this is part of helping you. We’re cutting our losses early so that we can move ahead with ideas that the firm will be happy to publish.” Minseok offered Chanyeol a half-smile. “I know you’ve mentioned your previous experience with a publishing house, so you know how this works. But you have to believe that we believe in your stories and–”

“So why are you guys killing this story?”

Minseok's smile morphed into a frown. Chanyeol lifted his head to meet Minseok’s gaze, his mouth screwed tightly and his brows drawn together. “If you guys believe in my stories, why are you killing it before you read the whole thing?”

“Chanyeol, we’ve been through this–”

“No, all I’ve been hearing is excuses for why you don’t want me to work on this anymore. You say you believe in my stories, but what you’re doing now.. you’re telling me that you think I’m going to fail! You’re just pre-empting my failure!” Chanyeol said, standing up abruptly.

The chair skidded to a stop behind him. Instantly, all conversation in the cafe ceased as all heads turned in their direction. Minseok scanned the audience before turning back to Chanyeol with a wary smile, raising his hands slowly as he leaned away from him.

“Chanyeol,” Minseok said slowly, “calm down.”

Everything happened in slow motion. Everything was in slow motion. Chanyeol could feel the heat of everyone’s gazes upon him, burning through his nape. He could feel the belated shame of causing a commotion crawling down his spine. But there was something about Minseok’s tone that pushed him further into his rage.

What did he know about hard work and success? All he ever knew was to shut people down. He didn’t know how much Chanyeol had to do to get here. He didn’t have a dog in this fight. All he was was an outsider, someone who couldn’t understand what having dreams meant.

How could he have the audacity to tell him to calm down?

Chanyeol could feel his blood pulsing in his neck, the heat of his body concentrating in his palms and feet. The throb at the front of his head turned violent at once, expanding rapidly, expanding rapidly–

“Don’t tell me to calm down!” Chanyeol howled. “Don’t sit there and tell me to calm down when you don’t know what it means to me!”

A pindrop silence filled the cafe, interrupted by the fading notes of the piano instrumental over the speakers.

Minseok stared at him with wide eyes and parted lips. All that confidence was flushed out of his features. For the first time ever, Minseok looked nervous. Scared. “Chanyeol–”

Scared? Of.. him?

Suddenly, Chanyeol became keenly aware of the deafening silence in the cafe, of all the eyes trained on him. Apprehensive and accusatory stares directed at him. Everyone making their own judgement of him, all sharing the same conclusion.

Everyone was scared of him.

Chanyeol turned back to Minseok, whose gaze flickered between his face and his hands. With his stomach sinking, Chanyeol lowered his eyes until he saw red on his hands. Raw skin usually hidden away by the top, hardened layers, fresh traces of blood oozing out from deep under his nail pockets.

Red on his hands, a sticky sensation between his fingertips. He was back in that tram again with that ugly, wet squelching sound echoing in his ears.

Chanyeol’s blood went cold.

“I..” Chanyeol surveyed the room again, his throat constricting with each passing second, his heart slamming against his ribcage.

Lubdublubdublubdublubdublubdublubdublu–

“I will finish this book,” Chanyeol said in a low voice. He grabbed his manuscript off the table. “And you will see what I mean.”

Chanyeol couldn’t hear the sound of the electric bell as he stumbled out of the cafe or the rush of the wind as the door opened to a strong drift blowing against him. He couldn’t see the stream of vehicles slowing to a stop on his left as the light turned red. He couldn’t hear the sound of the traffic light as the green man came on. All he could hear was his racing heartbeat in his ears. All he could feel was the sweat on his fingers creating soft spots on his manuscript.

All he could feel in his body was rage. An uncontrollable, violent desire to erupt surged inside of him– and it scared him. That he could be so angry that he wanted to lash out on something, that he wanted to scream and shout and make sure that this injustice was heard–

Something bumped against his shoulder.

“Chany–”

“Fuck! Watch where you’re going!” Chanyeol howled. The manuscript crumpled in his grip.

Silence swept in with the wind as Baekhyun’s stunned expression greeted him.

“Baek– Baekhyun?” Chanyeol said after a long moment had gone by. “What’re you doing here?”

Baekhyun lifted his hands awkwardly, showing the two bags of groceries in his hands. Through the thin white plastic, Chanyeol could see the vague outlines of some vegetables and small styrofoam boxes– meat. “Getting dinner.”

It was at that moment that Chanyeol remembered where he was. Dongnam-gu. This was where Baekhyun lived.

Of course he would be here. Getting dinner.

All the fight in Chanyeol’s body evaporated at once, leaving shame and guilt.

“I– I’m sorry.” Chanyeol raised a hand to his forehead as he dropped his gaze. “I was the one who wasn’t watching where I was going..”

“It’s fine, don’t worry about it,” Baekhyun said lightly. “What’re you doing here? You didn’t tell me you were coming over.”

Baekhyun’s smile began slipping from his face as he regarded Chanyeol, waiting for an explanation. But when it didn’t come, Baekhyun looked down at the crumpled manuscript in Chanyeol’s grip and went quiet for a moment, putting two and two together. “Is that your manuscript?”

“Yeah.” Chanyeol nodded again, reluctantly this time. Baekhyun furrowed his brow.

“Did you.. have a meeting with your editor?”

Chanyeol turned away from Baekhyun, gripping onto his manuscript more tightly. “.. Yeah. He lives around the area.”

Baekhyun skewed his mouth to the side as he contemplated the situation briefly.

“Have you had dinner?”

Chanyeol shook his head. “No.”

“I’m cooking beef bulgogi tonight, wanna join me?”

Chanyeol’s gaze flickered up as he sucked in his lips. “I don’t want to impose..”

“How can you be imposing when I’m the one offering?” Baekhyun chuckled with the roll of his eyes, turning around to lead the way.

Baekhyun’s flat was a six minute walk from where they were. Six minutes wasn’t a long time, but it was enough for Chanyeol to relearn how differently time flowed in different environments. In his neighbourhood, Chanyeol could feel every second of each minute. It was six minutes to notice the cigarette buds littering the sidewalks; six minutes to smell the exhaust of passing cars; six minutes to hear the disjointed rhythm of different people’s lives, windows closing with loud bangs and the sound of the TV channels being changed all clashing together.

In Baekhyun’s neighbourhood, six minutes was simultaneously as short as it was long. It was six minutes to realise how much quieter a neighbourhood could be in the rush of the evening peak hour; six minutes to appreciate the last scatterings of brown and orange leaves guiding them forward; six minutes to smell the fresher, crisp air that came with a more exclusive space. Baekhyun must have been talking, Chanyeol was sure, but he couldn’t help but be distracted by the peace and serenity that embraced this neighbourhood.

“Wanna talk about it?”

Chanyeol didn’t need to ask to know what Baekhyun was referring to. He shook his head weakly, slipping his hands into his pockets. “Not really.”

“Alright,” Baekhyun said.

For some reason, the ease at which Baekhyun dropped the topic scratched something in Chanyeol. He furrowed his brows for a moment before blurting out, “They’re killing my story.”

They entered the lift together. Baekhyun pressed the button for the ninth floor and let the doors close before turning back to Chanyeol. “What do you mean?”

“They’re– they’re killing it. They won’t let me continue my story.”

“Why? What’s wrong with it?”

“They said it’s weak. They said it isn’t good enough.”

“Bullshit, they know that you’re the author of Memorabilia, right?”

The lift doors dragged open with a mechanical voice announcing the floor number.

“They know, but I don’t think it matters to them now.” Chanyeol shuffled out of the lift, hanging his head. Baekhyun sighed sympathetically, patting Chanyeol’s arm on his way out.

“So what’re you going to do now? Think of another story?”

“I know how stupid it sounds but.. I don’t want to give up on this one.” Chanyeol leaned against the wall, watching Baekhyun force his key into the lock. “I really like it. I think it has something. I believe in it.”

“How’re you going to do that?” Baekhyun asked distractedly. His tongue crept out from the corner of his mouth as he struggled to push his key into the hole, jingling the other key in his key ring.

“I don’t know yet, but..” Chanyeol trailed off, watching Baekhyun struggle for a few seconds while wondering if he should offer to help, but by the time that he reached out, Baekhyun’s key finally turned. Baekhyun laughed triumphantly, now starting his other struggle to pull the key out.

“Have you thought about getting a digital lock?” Chanyeol asked. Baekhyun made a noise of acknowledgement.

“Mhm, I did.”

“Wouldn’t having a digital lock save you from this trouble? All your neighbours have them installed too. You’re the only one still using a physical key.”

“Because I like having a key,” Baekhyun said as he shouldered the door open. “Going digital is more convenient, sure. But having a physical key is more romantic. When I have a girlfriend next time, it’ll be more significant to pass her a key than to tell her the passcode for my house.”

A laugh burst out of Chanyeol. “Why’re you thinking that far ahead? I think you should worry about getting a girlfriend first.”

Baekhyun rolled his eyes. He shoved a bag into Chanyeol’s hands as he kicked off his shoes at the door. “Shut up and put the milk in the fridge.”

Chanyeol grinned at the back of Baekhyun’s head, following him inside.

Baekhyun’s flat was the complete opposite of Chanyeol’s. It was minimal and sparse where Chanyeol’s flat was almost cluttered with small artifacts collected over the years, a hodgepodge of items donated to him by his family and relatives. Baekhyun’s white walls and sleek furniture were sleek but Chanyeol always thought that it was clinical. Nothing gave any character to Baekhyun’s flat, which Chanyeol felt was a pity given Baekhyun’s warm and gentle personality.

The only thing that stood out like a sore thumb was the magnetic white board stuck to Baekhyun’s monochrome fridge. It was something that Chanyeol got for him as a joke back in high school, when Baekhyun couldn’t remember which tests and exams were coming up. Baekhyun scoffed at it then but every time that Chanyeol saw it, there was always something written on it.

Today, a piece of paper was stuck to it.

“Powerline maintenance?” Chanyeol said, lifting the paper from the board.

“Yeah, that’s tomorrow isn’t it? What time was it? Something like ten in the morning?”

“Ten to one, yeah,” Chanyeol agreed. “It’s three hours. That’s pretty long.”

“Doesn’t bother me. I’ll be in the office anyway.” Baekhyun said, opening a cabinet with a shrug.

“Won’t you need to turn your fridge back on?”

“Huh. You’re right.” Baekhyun paused, the can of condensed milk still in hand. “I guess I’ll just have to turn it on after work– it’s not like I can just leave in the middle of the day to come back just for this anyway.”

Suddenly, something occurred to Chanyeol. An idea.

“I could do it.”

Baekhyun stopped in the middle of closing his cabinet, spinning around to look at Chanyeol apprehensively. “What? Really?”

“Yeah, I– I could do it, if you’d like,” Chanyeol said, his fingers curling inwards to begin their usual routine.

Baekhyun planted his hands on his hips as he pondered. “But it’s thirty minutes by bus for you.”

“I don’t mind,” Chanyeol said with a weak chuckle, bringing a hand to scratch his neck. “Besides, I like your coffee. I’ll help myself to it.”

When Baekhyun still didn’t look convinced, Chanyeol added, “I mean it, Baekhyun. You– you’ve helped me so much over the years. Let me do this small thing for you.”

Baekhyun studied Chanyeol for what felt like minutes before relenting, nodding with a smile. “Alright, you have my key, right?”

Chanyeol found Baekhyun’s smile the easiest thing to replicate. “I do.”

The plot of his book fell into place. Images and scenes came to mind all at once, rearranging themselves and filling the gaps in between like water flowing down a stream.

Chanyeol sat hunched over at his desk for days on end, his stylus a dancer and his tablet her stage.

How could it have taken this long for everything to fall into place? He could see it all now. It was so clear.

This was what his story was about all along.

I’ve got a new idea for my book. This time, they’re going to love it.

.

.

.

.

If only things were ever that simple.

No one ever thinks about getting arrested until they’re faced with the possibility of it. For Chanyeol, it wasn’t until he was opening the door to a bunch of stone faced policemen that he realised what was happening.

From the way that Kyungsoo stepped up, casually unfolding his arrest warrant, to the way that his partner waved at the men around them apprehend him. The world never seemed more surreal than it did at the moment that a pair of metal handcuffs clicked securely behind his back, a pair of hands clasping his shoulders, leading him towards the lift where more men waited for him.

It wasn’t like the movies. There was no commotion as he was shoved into the backseat of the police car, just the cold efficiency of the police as they maneuvered around the small crowd that had formed. They’d done this many times, Chanyeol thought as the car rocked when the front door slammed shut. This was just one of the many times that they’d arrested someone. Was this how each arrest went? Was this the same scene that had played out many times before, only with a different person in his seat?

The atmosphere in the car was colder than it was outside. The chill of the detective’s glance through the rearview mirror was razor sharp, as if he could see through Chanyeol. Chanyeol wondered what he looked like now. He wondered if the whole car could hear his hummingbird heartbeat. He wondered if silence was contagious, if the silence in his head had infected other people or if he had been infected by them.

He wondered what his life would look like tomorrow.

For most people, it was Tuesday. For Chanyeol, it was the day that his life would never be the same again.

How was he going to go back home and face everyone after what just happened? How could he meet the same neighbours and smile at them the same way after they’d seen him get escorted into a police car with his hands behind his back? Photos of him being led away in handcuffs would be splashed across the news. His family would see it, his relatives would ask about it, his acquaintances would have stories of him. How could he go back to living the same life he had before all of this?

The swing of the metal door shook Chanyeol out of his thoughts. The two detectives walked in with hard expressions, the taller man holding a file in his hand as they walked to the table where they settled in naturally.

“Mister Park,” Detective Kim said, placing the file on the table. “Have they read your rights to you?”

Chanyeol looked back at him blankly. Detective Kim glanced at Kyungsoo before continuing.

“You have a right to remain silent. Your silence cannot be used against you in court. You also have the right to have the assistance of a defense counsel. Are you clear on this?” the detective recited.

Chanyeol realised after a long moment had passed that they were waiting for his reply. He nodded quickly, his heart pounding heavily in his chest.

“Say yes if you understand,” Kyungsoo said.

“Y.. yes,” Chanyeol murmured.

“The time is eleven hundred hours and fifteen minutes. Park Chanyeol, do you know why you’re here today?” Detective Kim asked.

Chanyeol’s gaze fluttered between them. “No, I.. I don’t.”

Detective Kim nodded. “Have you been following the news recently, Mister Park?”

“No, not really..”

The detective nodded again. “What have your activities been for the past week? Can you recall for us?”

“Specifically, on the sixteenth?” Kyungsoo said, folding his arms across the table.

“The sixteenth? Last Friday?" Chanyeol echoed. “I.. I woke up and had lunch–”

“What time was this?”

“Ah, um, my alarm was set for eleven-thirty. I guess I woke up at eleven-thirty. I.. I didn’t snooze my alarm.” Chanyeol added, pausing for the detectives to comment, but when they said nothing else, Chanyeol continued. “I.. my friend’s flat was having a powerline maintenance from ten to one, and he asked me to help him turn the power mains back on after it was done, so I–”

“Where does your friend stay?” Detective Kim interjected. Chanyeol was startled.

“He.. he stays in Dongnam-gu.”

“And what time did you arrive at his house?”

“One-thirty.. I think.” Strength faded out of Chanyeol’s voice. “I left my house at twelve-fifty. Dongnam-gu is thirty minutes away by bus..”

The two detectives shared a brief, cryptic look, and although Chanyeol wasn’t privy to what exactly it meant, he knew from the way that they looked back at him that he had said something of interest. It was the look of a predator circling their prey.

They’d smelt blood in the water.

“What time did you leave your friend’s house, Mister Park?” Detective Kim asked, tilting his head.

“I.. I..” Words wouldn’t come out of Chanyeol’s mouth. He stared at the detective for a long moment trying to work his tongue, feeling it slowly turn into lead. “I left at three.”

“You left at three?” Detective Kim’s eyebrows shot up as he leaned back against his chair, crossing his arms. “You arrived at one-thirty and left at three. What were you doing there for an hour and a half, Mister Park?”

“I.. I made myself some coffee at my.. at my friend’s place. I like his coffee a lot. He.. he said that I could help myself to it.”

“Coffee? For one and a half hours?” the detective snorted. “Did you have trouble making coffee?”

“No, I–”

“Or was there something else that you were doing for one and a half hours?” Detective Kim finished, dropping his voice.

Chanyeol’s heart stuttered. They knew.

“What do you..” Chanyeol shook his head lightly, unable to look away. “I don’t know what you..”

“What were you doing during that one and a half hours, Mister Park?”

“I.. I already told you, I was having coffee–”

“Do you have proof of this?” the detective said over him. “Was there anyone else in that house? Can anyone vouch for you that between one-thirty and three pm, you were drinking coffee in your friend’s house?”

“No, I.. I was alone.”

Detective Kim pulled the file from his lap and opened it, sliding it across the table to Chanyeol. Minseok smiled at Chanyeol from a black and white photo clipped on top of the stack of papers inside. Chanyeol recognised that photo. It was Minseok’s staff pass photo.

Chanyeol’s gaze flitted upwards.

“Do you know this man?” Detective Kim asked.

Trepidation twisted Chanyeol’s stomach into knots. Chanyeol didn’t know what he was here for, but he didn’t need any additional context to know that Minseok’s photo shouldn’t be here. That it was, meant only one thing.

“What.. why are you–?”

“Answer the question please, Mister Park.”

Chanyeol closed his mouth and swallowed thickly, clenching his hands on his lap. “He’s my editor, Kim Minseok.”

Detective Kim nodded, tapping his finger against the photo absentmindedly. “When was the last time you spoke to him, Mister Park?”

“That’s.. last Thursday,” Chanyeol murmured. The detective nodded again.

“That would be the fifteenth, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“Could you confirm that at five-thirty in the evening of the fifteenth, you met Kim Minseok in the Hearts Cafe in the Dongnam-gu area?”

“.. Yes.”

Detective Kim reached behind Minseok’s photo and slid out another paper. It was a montage of four different moments captured from a video footage of the cafe, coloured and slightly blurry with a conspicuous timestamp on the bottom right corner of each photo.

There, in each photo, Chanyeol could hear the screech of the chair against the concrete floor of the minimalistic cafe. He could feel the heat of everyone’s eyes on him again, the farewell of a cello reverberating on the speakers of the cafe.

Don’t tell me to calm down!

“There are eyewitness reports of an altercation between Kim Minseok and yourself.” Detective Kim said, studying Chanyeol’s stillness. “Would you mind telling us what happened?”

What happened?

The decision comes from above me.

The detective’s lips were moving. Chanyeol could feel the breeze of the air conditioning blowing down the length of his arms. Across from him, demarcating the edge of the room, was a long one-way mirror that reflected his disheveled appearance. His long, uncombed hair that was unkempt at best, his sickly pale complexion that he couldn’t attribute entirely to fright. Was this how he looked like on a normal day? Was this how he looked like that Friday afternoon, with the chair sinking its claws into the concrete floor?

Minseok’s wide eyes flashed in front of Chanyeol’s eyes. The fear written all over his face, the tensed silence that washed across the cafe.

The detective’s fingers tapping on the picture in slow motion.

He said he’d work on it, didn’t he? How was he supposed to show that his work was good enough if they didn’t give him the chance? Did they think he enjoyed this? Being told that he had to start over again?

How many times did he have to start over? How many times did he need to try? To try being a better person, to try being a functional person? Take your medicine? Write your journal entries? Clean your room and throw the trash?

Anonymous faces dictating his work. People with no skin in the game forcing him back to square one. What right did they have to tell him that he wasn’t good enough? Just because they worked at a publishing house? Just because they were on the other side of the contract?

The soft ringing in his head grew louder, consuming his thoughts, those faces, those eyes and all the disdain in them.

“Mister Park?”

Chanyeol blinked. His eyes shot in the direction of the voice, not to Detective Kim, but towards Kyungsoo. The sound of something smooth gliding across the table brought Chanyeol’s attention down to where Kyungsoo’s fingers were curled gently over a plaster. Chanyeol’s gaze dipped further down to his hands, fingernails digging crescents into his palms.

Small tabs of skin stuck out along the tips of his fingers from where he’d been peeling them.

Chanyeol extended his hands, pulling the plaster towards him without looking up. He took his time wrapping it around the short, angry red line running down the side of his index finger. He must have pulled down on that strip hard enough for it to start stinging again.

“I..” Chanyeol started, then glanced up at Kyungsoo. “Minseok said that they weren’t happy with my manuscript. They wanted me to submit something else.”

“And then what happened?” Detective Kim asked, his frown still in place. Chanyeol nodded at the pictures with his chin.

“We didn’t.. see eye to eye.”

“Mister Park, do you remember what you said to Kim Minseok?”

“I said a lot of things,” Chanyeol replied.

Detective Kim threw him an unimpressed glance as he pulled the file from under the photos, flipping to one of the pages inside. “Do you remember telling Kim Minseok that he ‘will see what you mean’? What did you mean by that?”

Chanyeol felt his jaw muscle twitch, an involuntary action. What was the point of asking him all these questions about that day if he already knew what happened from everyone else? He stared wordlessly at the detective for a long moment, balling up the plastic wrapper of the plaster in his palm.

“It was a draft. I told him I’d work on it, he told me that’s not an option. But I know.. I know that people will love it if I just had the time to work on it. He told me it wasn’t good enough, but I know it is, and I wanted to prove that.”

“Prove that?” Detective Kim raised his brows, looking at his partner. Kyungsoo set his jaw as he turned back to Chanyeol with a grim look, fishing out a photo from the file.

“Like this?” Kyungsoo asked, placing the photo in the center of the table.

A photo of Minseok’s limp body seated at a table, and at the centre of all the dishes was a stunning red cast iron pot.

It must have been painful, Chanyeol thought, staring at the knife lodged all the way to its hilt in Minseok’s heart. His head was tilted forward, eyes hooded and blank. Blood stains ran down his shirt, dying the bottom half of his cream sweater a dark maroon.

Chanyeol had seen that cream sweater once, when he first met Minseok. It was merino wool.

“Kim Minseok was found dead in his flat at seven-forty in the evening of the sixteenth by his friends who were invited for dinner,” Detective Kim explained. “Does this scene remind you of anything?”

Finally, Chanyeol lifted his head, realising dawning on him. This was why he was brought here.

They suspected him of murder.

“It wasn’t me,” Chanyeol stuttered, his lips going numb. “I didn’t.. I didn’t do this. Why would I kill him? He’s my editor! What– how would his death benefit me?”

When both detectives remained unfazed, desperation started chewing at Chanyeol. It threw itself against his insides, a beast trying to escape from its cage that was closing in on it with every passing moment. He was breathless as he sat in that chair, his legs jumping under the table, the white light over his head becoming unbearable.

“I didn’t do it,” Chanyeol said again, shaking his head. “I wasn’t.. I was at my friend’s house. I was–”

“In Dongnam-gu?” Detective Kim said wryly, narrowing his eyes. “Mister Park, I’m sure you’re aware of the power line maintenance that took place from ten to one in the afternoon. Neighbours reported smelling the scent of fried garlic in the afternoon of the sixteenth, right after the power came back on.”

“Can you prove that you were in your friend’s house between one-thirty to three?” Kyungsoo asked.

“You can check Baekhyun’s–” Chanyeol blurted out, but the rest of the sentence died at the tip of his tongue.

Baekhyun’s door lock was a traditional lock.

A digital lock would have an audit trail, but a traditional lock?

Detective Kim’s stare pierced him.

“You can..” Chanyeol murmured with his throat closing up, lips quivering. “You can check..”

“An autopsy performed on Kim Minseok showed something else as well,” Detective Kim said, “His time of death wasn’t on the sixteenth– it was the night before, on the fifteenth.”

“You were the last person he met,” Kyungsoo said.

“Mister Park, where were you on the night of the fifteenth?”

Chanyeol once thought that it was impossible to ever experience such calm again. He had never been more keenly aware of the passage of time as he was at that moment, never been more clear headed than he was now. At that moment, Chanyeol knew everything. It was acceptance, it was resignation.

He was cornered.

It was his manuscript that dictated Minseok’s crime scene– a manuscript few others had seen. He had been arguing with Minseok in a public area just hours before Minseok was murdered. He was in Dongnam-gu during the time of the murder and the set up of the crime scene.

He didn’t have an alibi.

No one saw him taking the bus back home that night, and no one saw him struggling to retrieve Baekhyun’s key from his lock. No one saw the way that he debated with himself before giving in to a second cup of coffee that afternoon, and no one felt the swing of Baekhyun’s door as he opened it once he was done washing both cups.

So this is how it ends, Chanyeol thought as he looked towards the white ceiling. But he still hadn’t finished his book..

Red flashed through his mind. The warmth of blood on his hands, so thick it was almost viscous. The wet squelch of his knife driving into soft flesh.

That dull, wan light of the West Station’s lamppost.

“I want an attorney,” Chanyeol said at last.

Chanyeol was unceremoniously released from detention forty-six hours later.

Chanyeol couldn’t remember much of the forty-eight hours he spent in detention. It came back to him in bits and pieces, like parts of an early childhood that he couldn’t verify were fiction or not. Sitting in that room with only his aggrieved silence to accompany him, walking back to a cell to share the night with the other accused, lukewarm food that he tasted like sand in his mouth.

The police had forty-eight hours to extract something incriminating from him. Now, he walked. For how big of an event his arrest was, his release was unfairly quiet. No apologies were offered, no sympathy given, just cold looks from men with their sights set on him. But what did it matter anyway? His life would never be the same again. Chanyeol couldn’t go back to being the same Chanyeol from forty-eight hours ago. That hope had been extinguished, that innocence destroyed.

Why did he have to try so hard just to start from scratch again?

Baekhyun got off his seat when he saw Chanyeol shuffle through the metal bars, grabbing the long down jacket from the backrest of the worn plastic chair. It should have been reassuring, but Chanyeol could barely muster the energy to lift his head.

“Chanyeol-ah,” Baekhyun said in a soft whisper. He unzipped the jacket and wrapped it around Chanyeol’s shoulders, patting it down as he gave him a once over. “Are you okay? They didn’t hurt you, did they?”

Chanyeol shook his head weakly. Baekhyun nodded, exhaling through a tired smile.

“Let’s go back home, huh? Let’s go back.” Baekhyun wrapped a hand around Chanyeol’s elbow, guiding him out of the station.

They took the back exit out of the station. As they rounded the corner, merging into the main road, Chanyeol could see a small crowd of reporters and journalists gathered at the front entrance, all craning their necks for a glimpse of him.

Chanyeol let his head rest with the windowpane, closing his eyes slowly as exhaustion set in.

The silence of the car was new– Baekhyun always enjoyed forcing his latest earworm onto others. Even with closed eyes, Chanyeol could feel the heat of Baekhyun’s straying gaze boring holes into the side of his head. He waited a long time for Baekhyun to say something, to ask if he did it, but the only sound was the sound of the car cruising on the road and jolts from the occasional indents.

When enough time had passed, Chanyeol opened his eyes again to see the car speeding past his exit.

“Wait,” Chanyeol mumbled, turning to Baekhyun, “I think you missed my exit.”

Baekhyun's gaze flickered to Chanyeol. “Yeah. I thought that it might not be the best for you to go home right now.” A few seconds later, Baekhyun added, “Besides, I don’t like the idea of you being alone right now.”

A smile snuck itself onto Chanyeol's face. “So where are we going?”

“Back to mine,” Baekhyun said.

Chanyeol felt his smile slipping off his face instantly. He looked at his lap, twiddling his thumbs as he pulled his lips into a poor imitation of a smile. “Is that.. are you sure about that? I don’t think your neighbours would like to see me there.”

“Who cares what they think. It’s my house, they don’t get to decide who comes and goes.”

Chanyeol furrowed his brows in disagreement, but Baekhyun was as stubborn as they came once he had set his mind on something. Instead, Chanyeol placed his chin on his palm, choosing to stare out of the car at the passing scenery that blurred into a drab line of white and grey.

Stepping into Baekhyun’s flat was strangely foreign after everything that had happened. It was hard not to wonder what might have happened if he had rejected Baekhyun’s request that day.

“Here you go,” Baekhyun said, closing his bedroom door with one hand. He handed over a pile of clothes to Chanyeol, folded neatly on top of a clean towel. “Let me know if you need anything else. The body soap’s running down a little, but there’s more than enough if you open the cap and pour–”

“Is this my shirt?” Chanyeol said, lifting the oversized black shirt up to inspect. The same holes along the hem of the shirt, the same thin, worn cotton material he knew with a single touch.

Baekhyun dropped his gaze, taking a second to comprehend Chanyeol’s bewilderment.

“Yeah. I dropped by your place yesterday to retrieve some clothes and stuff.” Baekhyun looked up at Chanyeol with a nervous half-smile. “I hope that’s okay with you..?”

It suddenly made more sense to Chanyeol why Baekhyun didn’t want him going straight back home. If Baekhyun had been to his place, he would have seen the state of his flat by now. Were there reporters camping outside his door, waiting to pounce on him when he arrived? Was his door vandalised by people who believed everything reported in the media? Did Baekhyun get hounded by disgruntled neighbours on his way out?

Whatever it was, Baekhyun didn’t want Chanyeol to know.

“No, it’s fine,” Chanyeol said, taking his clothes and towel.

He stared at his shirt on the top of the pile for a long moment, thinking about all the times that Baekhyun chastised him for keeping such an old shirt. He thought about how long it’d been since he last wore this, and how it had been tucked away in a drawer of clothes he didn’t wear anymore.

He never told Baekhyun where it was.

“What’re you spacing out for? The hot water’s gonna turn cold.” Baekhyun clicked his tongue, pushing Chanyeol gently towards the toilet.

Just before Baekhyun closed the door, Chanyeol grabbed onto the knob, preventing it from turning. Baekhyun stopped in mid-action, gaze shooting up quizzically.

“I..” Chanyeol trailed off, suddenly unsure of what it was he wanted to say. Of all the things floating in his thoughts, Thank you seemed most natural. But in that instance, there was something else more important to Chanyeol that he needed to say.

“I didn’t do it,” Chanyeol said. His grip on the knob tightened as he held his breath.

Baekhyun didn’t reply immediately, but the confusion in his expression disappeared as warmth trickled into his eyes.

“I know,” Baekhyun said, pulling the door shut.

When Chanyeol woke up to an email in his inbox the next morning, saying that his book deal had been put on hold while investigations were on-going, he couldn’t say that he was surprised. He should have known that it was always going to end this way. Right from the start, it was too good to be true.

Chanyeol turned his face into Baekhyun’s guest pillow. A muffled scream ripped itself out of his chest.

“It’s been awhile since we’ve had our last session. How’ve you been?”

Chanyeol stared out of the spaces between the blinds. Dark clouds hovered over the crowded landscape of buildings in the distance– those made of glass, concentrated farther down the soft rolling hills of Seoul, and those made of bricks and concrete, towering over the skyscrapers for a change.

Everything looked sinister. The way that shadows fell across all buildings in sight, as if darkness had consumed everything whole. The usually bustling coffee chain across the road was now eerily quiet, the streets that Chanyeol remembered with sunlight glistening off its pavement was now dull and lifeless. Even the colours of the traffic light were darker today, foreboding. And as Chanyeol stared out the window, he wondered if some of that darkness had seeped into the room. Yellow walls, curated and engineered to bring warmth into a barren, desolate room, now leaking that same rot that manifested in its patients.

The parallel shadow of the blinds on Chanyeol’s face might as well have been bars, keeping him in.

“Chanyeol?”

Chanyeol blinked slowly, opening his mouth belatedly. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

There was a short pause.

“I would,” Junmyeon said simply. Chanyeol could hear that rigid smile in his words. When Chanyeol didn’t reply, Junmyeon said, “We don’t have to discuss anything you’re not comfortable with sharing, of course.”

“I got arrested,” Chanyeol said, monotone. “They held me in custody for forty-eight hours.”

Junmyeon’s face scrunched up slightly, as if he’d tasted something bad. “I’m sorry to hear that happened to you. Do you want to talk about it?”

“I don’t know, that depends.”

“On what?”

Chanyeol turned his gaze on Junmyeon, accusing. “Are you going to send this session’s notes to the police?”

Despite the way that Junmyeon kept his body relaxed on his chair, Chanyeol could tell that that ease had vanished in a flash. His smile stiffened on his face, as if he’d been found out.

“Chanyeol,” Junmyeon said with gentleness born from necessity, “whatever is discussed in this room remains strictly private and confidential. The law takes doctor-patient confidentiality very seriously. The police can ask for my notes, but we don’t always have to comply.”

“But did you?” Chanyeol asked. “Will you?”

Junmyeon uncrossed his legs. “Not unless extenuating circumstances demand it.”

“Such as?”

“If the court orders for them,” Junmyeon said, “if there is a risk to others.”

“And am I a risk to others?”

Worry lines appeared on Junmyeon’s forehead as he studied Chanyeol. “Chanyeol–”

“Well? What do you think?” Chanyeol pressed, lifting his head to stare at Junmyeon. Junmyeon sighed softly.

“Chanyeol, I think what really matters is how you feel about it. If you think that you might be a risk to others and wish to explore that topic, there will always be space in here for us to walk through it together. There was, is, and will never be any judgement of what we discuss. And while I cannot promise that these notes will only stay between us, I can promise you that we don’t hand them over easily. Everyone deserves privacy.”

“And did you?” Chanyeol said after a beat, “Give it to them?”

Junmyeon was silent for a long time before taking off his spectacles, folding them on top of his note pad. “Yes.”

What was it about disappointment that had such a way of sneaking up on you, even when you already expected its arrival? He knew that it was a possibility, prepared himself for it, but hearing it was always something else. No matter how many times Chanyeol told himself that he wouldn’t be surprised, that cruel twist in his gut, like someone wringing his insides dry, made him realise that he had been hoping against hope, pinning everything on that small chance that he was wrong.

But he was right, and he’d never been so sad to be proven right.

A bitter smile came over him. He wasn’t angry or furious. He was desolate.

“That was such a long and roundabout way of saying that you think I’m dangerous, wasn’t it?” Chanyeol said in a level voice, his thoughts impossibly clear. “Do you think I killed that guy? My editor?”

“Chanyeol,” Junmyeon said.

“Did they tell you how he died? How his body was found?” Chanyeol said, “Somebody plunged a knife into his heart and let him die overnight. They broke his arm and legs to get him on that chair, then cooked a feast in his kitchen with his body rotting at the dining table. They even scooped out five bowls of rice for all five people attending that dinner, as if they would really eat–”

Junmyeon furrowed his brows together. “Chanyeol–”

“What is it about me that made you think I could be the killer?” Chanyeol asked abruptly. “Or have you always felt that way about me?”

“It’s not like that,” Junmyeon said placatingly, pleadingly. “It’s not a judgement of who you are, Chanyeol. We received a warrant for your files. There was nothing we could do. It wasn’t personal.”

Chanyeol was thrust back into that cafe, sitting across Minseok with his hands under the table. Minseok and his indifferent gaze, the way that sunlight caught on the frame of his spectacles, wiping down the lenses as he tilted his head.

The decision comes from above me, he said.

Laughter burst from Chanyeol like nails on a chalkboard. Chanyeol bent over in his chair, clutching onto his stomach while tears leaked from his eyes. Junmyeon reclined back in his chair, eyeing Chanyeol warily as hysterical chortles evolved into sobs of despair and resignation, but Chanyeol couldn’t help the laughing spell that gripped him, not even when each breath started to hurt, needles stabbing into his chest, twisting and scraping his insides out.

But when the laughter finally subsided and faded into the unbearable, suffocating silence of the room, all Chanyeol felt was a bone weary tiredness that poured out of every fibre of his being. The fatigue of a long, long journey with no end in sight. The hopelessness that came with every setback.

An involuntary surrender to external circumstances.

“I think it’s pretty fucking personal to me,” Chanyeol said in shuddering gasps, getting up to leave. He was halfway across the room when Junmyeon spoke, so softly that Chanyeol almost missed it.

“I’m sorry,” Junmyeon said.

Chanyeol stopped in his tracks, but he couldn’t bring himself to turn back and look at Junmyeon without waves of hurt lapping at his feet again. This was the man who told him it was normal to feel the way that he did, the man who coaxed him into being vulnerable and then threw him to the police.

Everyone was absolving themselves of any responsibility they had. How nice it would be, Chanyeol thought, if he could wash his hands off of himself too.

Back to that moment where he flicked the mains on in Baekhyun’s house, closing that box and walking back to the door. Back to the moment where he lost his temper at Minseok in the cafe, the chair sliding back under him as he sat down again, everyone’s heads turning away, picking up their conversation where it left off. Back to the moment where he signed the contract with a satisfied grin, his signature coming undone on the line as his hand pulled away from the table. Back to the moment when, back to the moment when..

Chanyeol was sitting at his dining table when he came back to himself.

He stared blankly at the pill bottle in his limp grip, wondering when he’d gotten home. It seemed to be happening more often– losing time. His recent memory was jotted by specific events and places, but always missing the in between fragments that was the fabric of a person’s life.

Chanyeol stared at the bottle in his hand for a long time.

These were the magic pills that were supposed to help him. And now when Chanyeol had lost everything, these pills stayed intact. It was grotesque, offensive, how unaffected it remained through all the events that shattered Chanyeol’s life, as if it had no part in it. As if Chanyeol hadn’t been taking his pills religiously to keep his life together. As if Chanyeol’s life spiraling out of control had been a foregone conclusion from the start.

Mocking, taunting, tormenting. It was a reminder of his flaws and failures– the only thing that remained constant through everything that had happened, and the longer that Chanyeol stared at it, the bigger it looked. Innocuous.

Chanyeol’s grip on the bottle tightened as he gritted his teeth. A spark shot up from his heart, igniting a fire that consumed everything in its path. He could feel his skin heating up suddenly, all that anger and rage manifest physically in his trembling hands, his heightened heart rate. His head was pounding as the world collapsed onto that single bottle in his hands, his fingernails turning white as he dug into its body, as if he could hear it screaming in pain as his nails sunk in, trying to replicate that same hurt that once gripped him.

But that bottle lay peacefully in his grip, blissfully unaware of what was happening around it– and Chanyeol snapped.

He flung the bottle into the wall.

The bottle collided with the wall with a loud bang, disintegrating into its smaller components as its cap flew out of the bottle. It scattered, jumping and dancing like they were dancing, each pill taking its rehearsed spot on the parquet flooring. The light footsteps of the pills echoed in the silence of the house, like the pitter-patter of drizzle against his windowsill, each tak followed closely behind by another.

And it was only then that a thought struck Chanyeol.

How was the bottle so full?

Chanyeol pushed himself up on unsteady legs, holding onto the edge of the table as he hobbled over towards the living room where the pills were dispersed.

White dotted the floor in multitudes.

Why? Why were there so many pills in a bottle that should have been close to empty by now? He took one each day, every day of the week for three months. He remembered checking his pill box before he went to bed each day– empty. It was empty. And if his pill bottle was full, then what had he been eating every day for the last three months?

Chanyeol clutched onto the edge of the table as the world started tilting on an axis.

All those mood swings, all the sudden rush of happiness and sadness, anger and helplessness– were they all related to this? Chanyeol didn’t understand. He remembered opening his pill box every night, checking if it was empty. Because it was refilled at the end of each week– Baekhyun made sure of it. Each pop of the lid, each roll of the pill between his fingers, each time he swallowed it down with a large gulp of water.

How could it be? How could this be?

Then, a more sinister fear crept into the back of his head. If his pills were all here, if he had not been taking any of them for the last few months, what else was he remembering incorrectly?

The feeling that something was amiss gnawed at Chanyeol. He could hear his breath quicken, he could feel the accelerating rise and fall of his chest, the dampness on his fingers, the rough edges of his fingers against each other. His body was heating up at the same time that the air in the room started to freeze, raising the hairs on his arms.

Was he wrong? Had he remembered things wrongly? Chanyeol shook his head, combing his memories desperately when a voice rang in his head.

A journal isn’t just a diary, it’s also a way of keeping track of things.

Chanyeol’s eyes snapped open, his sprint covering three steps in one stride. His hand slammed against the wall as he braked to an abrupt stop, his knee knocking against the legs of his table with a loud bang that Chanyeol couldn’t hear over the sound of the blood rushing through his head. With trembling hands, Chanyeol pulled his journal out from the shelf.

That feeling that something was wrong exploded instantly.

Where were the familiar indents from where Chanyeol would hold the book? The looseness in the front that came with opening a book and writing on the pages?

With numb fingers, Chanyeol flipped through the book.

It was clean, in mint condition.

Baekhyun’s apprehensive face flashed in his mind. That sliver of doubt as he inspected the kitchen timer, that hint of scepticism as he leaned forward in that small shop.

Have you been taking your meds?

Was it all just his imagination? That he hadn’t been taking his medication, he merely imagined that he did. That he didn’t lose his shoes, just the memory that it was missing. That there had never been any journal entries, just the belief that he had written something. That he had never set the kitchen timer, only the sense that he had done it. Afterall, no one could vouch for him that he had done any of those things.

No one else had seen his journal entries.

No one else had seen him set the kitchen timer.

No one else had seen him taking his pills.

Had he been lying to himself all along? Had he been doing something else, while believing that he had done another thing instead?

Chanyeol clutched his head, raw flesh scraping against his scalp as he dug his fingers in. His back hit the wall as his legs finally gave out. He sank to the floor slowly, his gaze jumping around the room, as if the answers to all his questions were written on the walls.

Then all of those dreams he’d been having, the nightmares–

The sickly warmth dripping down his wrists, the uncontrollable twitch of a body in his grip, glassy eyes staring straight at him.. were those real?

Chanyeol hid his face in the crevice between his chest and legs, letting a silent scream rip out of him.

The creak of the door echoed in the silence of the house.

It was soft and prolonged, a timid swing on its hinge. In the silence of the house, it was a lazy clap of thunder, rolling through the clouds until it lost its voice. Once it tapered out, there was a sharp flick of a switch.

Light bled into the dark room, illuminating vague silhouettes.

“Chanyeol?”

Chanyeol heard footsteps before he felt its vibrations through the flooring. Distant tap-tap that stopped abruptly in the middle of the house.

“Chanyeol? Are you–”

Baekhyun’s voice cut off abruptly mid-sentence. There was a short pause before Baekhyun called out again, his confusion plain in his voice.

“Chanyeol? Hello?”

Tap-tap, tap-tap, TAP-TAP, TICK.

Light flooded the room.

“Chanyeol?” Baekhyun repeated, concern dripping from his words. He rushed towards Chanyeol, shaking him gently. “Chanyeol? Are you okay? What happened?”

Chanyeol lifted his head up sluggishly, turning his unfocused gaze to Baekhyun. There was an ache in his neck that hadn’t been there earlier, and as he untangled himself, he realised that he must have been sitting in this position for some time. He frowned, trying to catch Baekhyun’s expression against the light, but his eyes were taking a long time to adjust.

“Baekhyun? What’re you doing here?”

“You didn’t come back,” Baekhyun said, “I was worried.”

It was then that Chanyeol realised how the shadows on the floor had vanished. The sunlight had disappeared. The whole day had gone by without his noticing.

Losing time. He was losing time.

“Baekhyun-ah, I think I’m going crazy,” Chanyeol mumbled, curling tighter into himself as he stared straight ahead.

Baekhyun looked nonplussed for a beat before shaking his head, conviction crossing his eyes. “That’s not true–”

“I took my pills,” Chanyeol interrupted, eerily calm. “I took them everyday. I made sure each day’s box was empty.”

Baekhyun was quiet for a moment. “I don’t understand.”

Chanyeol picked up his journal and shoved it into Baekhyun’s hands. “Have a look.”

Baekhyun flipped through the blank pages, scanning each page until he reached the end of the book where he looked up again, bewildered. “What am I looking for? It’s empty.”

“But it wasn’t,” Chanyeol said firmly, hotly, his body suddenly coming to life. “I wrote in there, Baekhyun. I wrote things in that book, and now it’s.. it’s gone. It’s blank! But I wrote things in there, Baekhyun! I know I did! Because what is the alternative? That I’ve never written anything? What would that mean I’ve been doing, then? What would that mean about me?”

Baekhyun leaned away from Chanyeol, putting distance between them as Chanyeol untangled himself. “Chanyeol..”

“I know I set that timer, Baekhyun. I know I set that timer, and I know I’ve been taking my pills, just like I know I’ve been writing in that goddamn journal!” Chanyeol howled, slamming his hand against the wall.

Silence enveloped the room, cut only by Chanyeol’s harsh panting.

“Because what’s the alternative, Baekhyun?” Chanyeol said in a small voice. “That none of that ever happened? That I’m losing my mind? That I can’t even trust my own memories?”

Baekhyun got up slowly, giving Chanyeol a wide berth so as to not spook him. “Chanyeol-ah..”

“And what would it mean if that’s true? That the things I remember doing were just false memories? And what about the things that I can’t remember then? What happened in those periods of time that I can’t recall anything about? And those nightmares I’ve been having..” Chanyeol wrapped his hands around himself. “What if those are real memories I’ve been suppressing? What would that mean for me, Baekhyun?”

Baekhyun closed the gap between them in three steps. He pried Chanyeol’s hands from himself, unwrapping his closed fists with gentleness that Chanyeol had long associated with Baekhyun, brushing over the sores along Chanyeol’s bleeding fingers.

He hadn’t realised what he’d done to himself.

“Let’s go back, Chanyeol-ah,” Baekhyun said softly, raising his gaze a moment later. The warmth in Baekhyun’s smile couldn’t mask the sadness in his eyes. “I’ll make us dinner, and we can discuss all of this after we wake up tomorrow, okay?”

Chanyeol wondered what Baekhyun was seeing that would bring back that thin smile from those days that Chanyeol couldn’t care for himself.

“Okay,” Chanyeol said.

Tok. Tok. Tok. The sound of a knife against a wooden board, uniform and measured.

Alertness came to Chanyeol in stages. His head swam as he leaned heavily on his right side, a small trail of glinting as it swung from the corner of his mouth. He blinked in quick repetition, watching duplicate but split images fuse together seamlessly. The marble patterns on the floor, the white curtains floating in the light drift passing through the house. That’s right, he was in a house, but not his own.

Ropes binded him to a chair.

Chanyeol pushed himself up, grunting as stray fibres of the rope scratched against his skin. Immediately, the constant tok, tok, tok in the kitchen came to a stop. A moment later, Chanyeol could hear the soft clink of the knife against the table.

“You’re awake,” the person said. There was a smile in their voice. “Are you hungry?”

It was a struggle to keep his neck upright. All the muscle in his body was slack, as if they’d atrophied. It was difficult to even move his mouth. Chanyeol’s head lolled on his neck, coming to an eventual stop where it hung, resting on his sternum.

At the top of his vision, Chanyeol could see a spread on the table. Five bowls of rice were laid out at each seat, with a plate of steamed fish, a bowl of steamed egg and a pot of stew placed in the middle of the table. Belatedly, the aroma of the food filled the air, as if it didn’t exist until Chanyeol took notice of it. They were familiar smells, so familiar that Chanyeol would have been transported back to his childhood days if it weren’t for that pot of stew on the table.

He was unable to tear his eyes away from it, fixated for reasons unknown to him. There was something about it that scratched something deep within his soul. He’d seen this before, and not just because it was a kimchi stew– he’d seen that same pot before. That same shade of red on that enameled cast iron pot.

Chanyeol’s heart lurched. Panic rose in his chest. He could place it now– the pot.

This was Minseok’s house.

“I made something for you,” the person said, his footsteps growing closer. A plate slid onto the table.

A pill box laid in the middle of the plate, his usual concoction of pills inside one day’s container, each oozing stale blood like a pus. A whimper escaped Chanyeol’s lips as he twisted away, but a hand gripped his jaw, sinking their nails into his chin as they forced him to turn back to the plate.

“Skipping meals isn’t good for us, Chanyeol.”

Chanyeol lurched into wakefulness.

His arms flailed by his side, scampering on the bedsheet until they found purchase on the thick, weighted blanket covering his chest haphazardly. His hair was matted to his face, his nape, and as he inhaled a series of short, shallow breaths, he could feel beads of sweat crawling down the bridge of his nose.

The neon numbers on Baekhyun’s digital clock read 21:49.

Chanyeol let his head roll back on the pillow, staring at the ceiling until vague shapes started gaining clarity in his peripheral view. The shape of Baekhyun’s cupboard, the sleeves of Baekhyun’s office wear barely visible through the frosted panel, the small desk in front of the large window with the blinders still kept up. A chalky white light passed into the room, spotlighting the door where a bar of warm yellow light was spilling in at its base.

Garlic and ginger permeated the air. Baekhyun must be cooking.

Chanyeol climbed up slowly, pushing himself against the headboard with unsteady hands. He looked down at his chest, pressing the heel of his palm above his heart where phantom pangs of pain fanned out. Nothing, but his staccato heartbeat, lub-dub lub-dub lub-dub.

Chanyeol cupped his face, drawing his legs to his chest. Just a dream, that was all it was. He didn’t kill anyone. He didn’t hurt anyone.

Baekhyun was right: he was thinking too much.

It took all the strength and energy he had in him to turn on the lights. Chanyeol closed his eyes for a second, opening it slowly as his eyes adjusted to the brightly lit room. Now, where was his phone? Chanyeol scratched his cheek, trying to think through the haze in his mind. It wasn’t on the bed when he woke up, so where was it?

Maybe Baekhyun had come in at some point and put his phone on the table– Baekhyun was always worried that Chanyeol’s habit of sleeping with his phone on his bed would lead to his phone falling off.

Chanyeol ambled towards the table. His phone greeted him with a glint of light dancing on its rounded edges. A smile crept across his face as he swiped his phone off the table, about to turn away when he noticed something from the corner of his eye.

Chanyeol stopped, turning back with the smile on his face falling off in stages. He took a stiff step towards the table, putting down his phone as he pried a book out from the stack of books lined against the wall.

A familiar looking book.

Chanyeol scanned the cover of the book as his hands slotted itself into familiar positions. Places where his fingertips should rest, little indents on the hard case from when he’d been too rough with it, grooves along the pages like waves colliding into each other, things that Chanyeol knew came with time and use. Age that Chanyeol could trace in his memory.

This book cost eighteen-thousand won.

Trepidation squeezed his lungs as he turned the page.

First journal entry. Dr. Kim should be proud after months of trying to get me on this.

The journal clattered on the floor.

“Chanyeol-ah, are you awake?”

The door opened quietly. Baekhyun’s head peaked through the gap, blinking innocently.

“Food’s gonna be ready in ten minutes, so you can wash–”

Baekhyun’s gaze fell on the open journal on his table and the smile on his face froze. Chanyeol swallowed thickly, feeling his throat constricting painfully as he watched the lighthearted, easy going smile in Baekhyun’s eyes fade away when he turned back to Chanyeol.

“How do you.. why is this here? Why do you– why do you have my journal?” Chanyeol asked.

He expected Baekhyun to jump to reply. But when Baekhyun remained quiet, when his smile had disappeared entirely and there was still nothing to be said, a chilling realisation settled in Chanyeol’s chest like a stone. He stared at Baekhyun for a long time, and for the first time since they met, Chanyeol noticed how flat Baekhyun’s eyes could be when he wasn’t smiling. Impenetrable.

Who knew those brown eyes could look like coals?

Chanyeol staggered back, gripping onto the back of the chair for support as he stared at Baekhyun. He wondered what kind of face he was making, what kind of expression he was wearing. He had always been told that he wore his heart on his sleeve, so Chanyeol desperately wanted to know what Baekhyun was seeing that would put that glimmer of satisfaction in his eye.

Chanyeol’s stomach began twisting itself into knots. This was not the Baekhyun he knew. The Baekhyun he knew was kind and gentle, he was a ray of sunshine that kept Chanyeol going through the darkest periods of his life. But the Baekhyun standing across from him was a person who relished his pain. The person who set him up, his best friend of twenty-one years.

The man with the key to his house.

It was as if Chanyeol was watching it happen. Now, he could see everything.

The way that Baekhyun entered his house and turned off the kitchen timer, ghosting his fingertips along the wall as he made his way to Chanyeol’s room. The way that Baekhyun’s gaze swept down his pill box, selecting a day at random to scoop out the pill from. The way that Baekhyun slipped his journal into the bag he packed of Chanyeol’s clothes and daily necessities, preparing to welcome him out of the detention centre.

He could even see the way that Baekhyun dragged the man’s unconscious body onto the tram at the West station, positioning his blade on the ridges of his Adam’s apple, glancing directly at the camera on the pole. He could see the way that Baekhyun sent him off that night, with a warm smile and wave of his arm, making sure that Chanyeol was long gone before he slipped into a change of clothes, grabbing a rope and a serrated knife on his way out of the house. He could see the way that Baekhyun hummed an upbeat song under his breath as he diced garlic in Minseok’s kitchen, undisturbed by the smell of decay around him.

In every one of these moments, Chanyeol could see it all– Baekhyun’s fingerprints were so clear now.

“It was you,” Chanyeol said, defeated. “All along, it was you.”

Still, Baekhyun said nothing. Chanyeol raised his head, blinking back the burn in his eyes.

“You messed with my medication, you took my missing stuff, you turned off the timer in my kitchen. And you..” Chanyeol swallowed his hesitation. “You killed them too, didn’t you? The man in Kyeongyang and Minseok, you killed them both and made it look like it was me.”

Slowly, Baekhyun tilted his head to the side, raising a brow. “Are you sure about that?”

Chanyeol curled his hands into fists as Baekhyun sighed, leaning against the door with crossed arms. He scratched the side of face slowly, gaze flickering up with a glint as he said, “I’m not sure what you’re talking about, to be honest. I didn’t do anything. Are you sure this isn’t just another one of your hallucinations?”

“Stop lying,” Chanyeol said through gritted teeth.

“Think about what the police will say when they find out what you’re accusing me of. Does it sound believable to you? I’m your best friend, Chanyeol-ah. Why would I want to set you up?”

“Because you're jealous!” Chanyeol shouted, the veins in his head pulsing. “You’re jealous that I managed to find success. That I’m the one who’s not stuck in a corporate job he hates.”

Baekhyun stared at Chanyeol for a long time, working his jaw slowly. “Are you sure about that, Chanyeol?”

Baekhyun kicked himself off the door, stepping further into the room. “If we’re confessing our sins here, why don’t we start with you?” Baekhyun waited for Chanyeol to say something, but when Chanyeol remained quiet, Baekhyun snorted. “No? That’s alright, I wouldn’t want to admit to my friend that my most famous works were stolen from him, either.”

“You’re still lying,” Chanyeol hissed.

“Am I?” Baekhyun asked lightly. “Where did you get the idea for Memorabilia? Was it, perhaps, from a black diary in my table drawer?”

Chanyeol froze.

“Not so quick to say anything now, are you?” Baekhyun sneered. “You’ve always been a bit slow with words, anyway. You’re a thief, Chanyeol. You’re a fraud, a parasite. You backstabbed me after all that I did for you. Did you expect me to lie there and do nothing while you steal my flowers?”

“All this, just to get revenge on me?” Chanyeol said through gritted teeth. “Byun Baekhyun, are you crazy?! You killed two people just to get back at me! You’re fucking sick!”

A small, humourless smile came over Baekhyun’s lips. “I’m not the one with the pills.”

Chanyeol launched himself at Baekhyun.

His fist connected with Baekhyun’s face, sending waves of pain up his arm as he leaned into the punch. For a second, it seemed as if the world was tilting with him. But then Baekhyun found footing on the floor, opening his eyes to look directly at Chanyeol with his fist still on his cheek.

It was at that moment that Chanyeol realised he’d made a mistake. Baekhyun was unfazed by his punch. Instead, he looked angered, insulted by the weak attack. And as Baekhyun straightened himself to his full height, Chanyeol remembered something.

Baekhyun had a black belt in Hapkido.

Baekhyun’s fist landed on Chanyeol’s jaw with a sickening crunch that vibrated through his body. Chanyeol felt his body collide with the floor before he heard the sound of his knees hitting the ground, a sharp ringing piercing through the pain that exploded behind his eyes. Waves of pain that radiated from his cheek shot up to his head, the lights in the room suddenly too bright, the blood pulsing in his neck.

Chanyeol groaned loudly, turning onto his back as he sucked in a deep breath.

A weight sat itself securely on his torso, locking him in place. Chanyeol barely had time to register what was happening when a pair of hands wrapped around his neck.

“Why did you have to do this to me, Chanyeol? You were my friend,” Baekhyun said evenly, calmly. Chanyeol slapped Baekhyun’s hands, trying to make him let go. Instead, Baekhyun’s grip tightened. “You forced me to do this. You made me do this.”

“Baekhyun,” Chanyeol rasped. “Stop.”

“I loved you like a brother. How could you?”

“Baekhyun,” Chanyeol wheezed as his legs pushed against the floor. He clawed blindly at Baekhyun’s face, swinging his head wildly. But with his hands around Chanyeol’s neck, Baekhyun lifted his arms and slammed him back down, smashing Chanyeol’s head against the floor.

White blinded Chanyeol’s vision.

He was going to die, Chanyeol realised. Baekhyun was going to choke him to death if he didn’t fight back.

Chanyeol struggled to open his eyes. Against the ceiling light, Chanyeol couldn’t see Baekhyun’s face. He couldn’t see the kind of expression he was making, if his eyes were filled with anticipation of his death or if there was a morsel of remorse that this was what their relationship had come to.

He couldn’t see Baekhyun’s familiar smile or the fondness in his eyes when Chanyeol said something that he found stupidly endearing. Instead, a faceless man was sitting on top of him, wringing his neck to squeeze out all the life left in him.

Tears pricked his eyes. His hands flopped around next to him, aimlessly feeling for something until it landed on something hard. Chanyeol barely had time to register what it was before he was gripping onto it as tight as he could, mustering all the strength he had into one strong swing.

Baekhyun grunted, falling off Chanyeol. His journal fell onto the floor.

Chanyeol heaved as he turned on his side, clutching onto his neck. Every fibre of his being was alight, his mind screaming at him to get up and run. His elevated heartbeat set the rhythm of his flight as he scrambled up on shaky legs, stumbling on his way out of the room. The knots in his stomach tightened when he heard faint sounds of Baekhyun shuffling behind him, but with the world tilting dangerously to the side, it took all of Chanyeol’s focus to stay on his feet.

He scurried towards the front door, limping heavily when Baekkhyun pounced on him. Chanyeol cried, falling against the kitchen island, his arms sweeping across the table when his chin hit the marble. A new wave of pain flared up under his face, electric. Fire spread through his body, radiating outwards through his nerves.

“Why don’t you just save your breath and die already?” Baekhyun growled softly, tugging Chanyeol’s hair. Chanyeol gasped as his legs buckled, almost giving out. Baekhyun pulled his hair again, leaning in so close that his breath fanned against the shell of Chanyeol’s ear. “Don’t worry, I’ll be sure to cry when I give your eulogy.”

Chanyeol clenched his jaw and swung his head to the side aggressively, knocking into Baekhyun’s face. Baekhyun let go of Chanyeol, swaying backwards with his eyes shut, cradling his nose as a trail of red leaked out between his fingers.

Everything in Chanyeol’s vision tunneled. At that moment, there was only him and Baekhyun. Life and death. Kill or be killed.

If it were minutes ago, Chanyeol would have hesitated to grab the knife on the chopping board. Now, Chanyeol snatched it at once, charging at Baekhyun with a primal roar emanating from the depth of his soul.

It was surprisingly easy to slice into someone’s shoulder. There wasn’t a sound like in the movies, there wasn’t even a squirt of blood as the blade went through flesh. All there was, was a gasp from Baekhyun, eyes wide with disbelief.

They fell onto the floor, legs tangled together. Chanyeol dragged himself on top of Baekhyun, his fingers still wrapped around the knife handle. His hands, damp with sweat and shaking violently with adrenaline and fear, slipped as he tried to pry it out of Baekhyun’s shoulder. It twisted inside, scraping against bone with a soft squelch that Chanyeol could feel through the metal. Baekhyun’s mouth widened in a silent gasp, his body arching off the floor as Chanyeol drew the knife out of his body in jerks.

Red bloomed on Baekhyun’s white shirt like a peony in spring.

Chanyeol heard his heartbeat in his ear as he felt Baekhyun’s under his palm, each racing to the finish line. But there could only be one winner, and this wasn’t his friend– it was a stranger wearing the face of his friend, a man who was determined to kill him.

Chanyeol raised the knife and slammed the knife into Baekhyun’s chest. Baekhyun choked wetly, his whole body stiffening up at once. His face was scrunched tightly as he looked at Chanyeol– looked through Chanyeol. Chanyeol felt Baekhyun’s hands climb up his sleeves, grabbing handfuls of cloth as his body collapsed on the floor again. Words tumbled out of Baekhyun’s open mouth, so weak and wet that Chanyeol thought it was just another passing breath. But when Baekhyun’s lips started moving again, Chanyeol realised that he was trying to tell him something.

Chanyeol strained his ears, turning his head to the side as he leaned slightly.

“Everything.. you have.. was mine, is mine.” Baekhyun murmured. He rolled his head to look at Chanyeol with hooded eyes, the only tell of his breathing from the shallow rise and fall of his chest.

Red peonies continued blossoming.

“All you are is.. a copy,” Baekhyun muttered laboriously, his eyes glazing over. “A pale imitation.. of me.”

Everything in his life converged into a single moment of serenity.

The years that they spent growing up together, two boys discussing their hopes and dreams with the zest for life that came with youth. The nights that they spent gaming together, the dinners and suppers they shared before going for tuition classes, the weekends they burnt cramming for exams and the notes they passed between themselves.

And the shame and guilt. Memories of Baekhyun cleaning the trash and washing the bowls and plates in his sink day after day, of Baekhyun lending him some money when he didn’t have the face to ask his parents for more. The shame of chancing upon a black diary on Baekhyun’s table one night, racing through every page before Baekhyun finished his shower, and the guilt when he noticed Baekhyun’s smile faltering that late Autumn night when he presented his first self-published story.

They were two lives so intertwined that it was hard to tell where one ended and one began, but two separate lives nonetheless. And if there had ever been any confusion of whether they were one and the same– Chanyeol would make sure that that would end here, now.

Chanyeol would never let himself live in someone else’s shadow again. He would never owe anyone anything again.

Chanyeol pulled the knife out of Baekhyun’s chest. He raised it over his head, watching Baekhyun’s eyes track the knife with a taunting smile, at complete peace with the inevitable conclusion.

The door burst with a deafening bang.

“Freeze! Police!”

As if it happened in slow motion, Chanyeol could see everything crystal clear. He could see the way that Baekhyun’s gaze drifted past him, the smile on his face morphing into a relief so pure that Chanyeol’s stomach churned.

Strong hands wrapped around his shoulder, forcing him onto the floor.

All the sound in the room came to Chanyeol distorted like he was underwater, distant and delayed. Detective Kim’s alarmed shout as he pocketed his gun, pressing onto Baekhyun’s wound with his hands. Detective Do’s voice in his ear, telling him that he was under arrest. The click of the cold metal handcuffs around his wrists as Detective Do got off him to request for urgent medical assistance.

And as Chanyeol was pulled onto his feet, and the wails of sirens drew closer and closer, Chanyeol turned back, looking over his shoulder where Baekhyun lay.

Baekhyun’s eyes were as unclouded as they’d ever been, staring back at Chanyeol in triumph.

Kyungsoo stood in front of the large television screen with his arms folded across his chest, his unblinking stare focused on the man whose eyes narrowed into crescents as his smile grew wider.

At the bottom of the screen, a textbox read: Survivor of the Memorabilia killings speaks out in memoir.

“Kyungsoo?”

A weight rested on his shoulder. Kyungsoo didn’t need to look to know that it was Jongdae, coming out of the forensics lab with a freshly printed report in his grasp. Jongdae leaned his weight on Kyungsoo’s shoulder, tilting his head at the TV.

They watched the TV in silence for a minute.

“Why are you looking at the TV like that?” Jongdae finally asked, throwing his partner a half-joking look. Kyungsoo didn’t budge. He continued staring straight ahead with his jaw locking into place briefly.

“Byun Baekhyun’s releasing a book,” Kyungsoo said at last. Jongdae nodded, suppressing the roll of his eye.

“I can see that,” Jongdae prodded.

A line appeared between Kyungsoo’s brows as he tore his gaze away from the TV, turning to Jongdae with an unsettled look. “Did you know that Byun Baekhyun has a Third Dan black belt in Hapkido?”

“No, I didn’t,” Jongdae replied.

“Yeah, I checked it. His instructors wanted him to continue, but he dropped out. He had other passions he was more interested in pursuing, apparently.”

“Such as?”

“Writing,” Kyungsoo said. “He wanted to be a writer.”

Jongdae studied Kyungsoo’s face for a moment. “What are you trying to say..?”

“Don’t you find it strange that Park Chanyeol was able to overpower Byun Baekhyun that night?” Kyungsoo murmured, pursing his lips in thought. “Those injuries on Byun Baekhyun’s head could have been blocked by an untrained person, much less for someone trained in martial arts..”

“Well, you know how these things go. Adrenaline kicks in, fight or flight kicks in– anything can happen. People who appear weak can suddenly tap on unknown sources of strength, and people who we think are strong can panic in the heat of the moment.”

“Not like this.” Kyungsoo shook his head. “We’re talking about a trained martial artist, someone with the potential to go further in Hapkido. For him to sustain such injuries.. it’s as if he let it happen. And then there’s the tip-off that night– how would he know that something was going to happen?”

“Didn’t he say he noticed a pattern? That the dates of the killings coincided with the dates of Chanyeol’s web publications?”

“And you don’t find it suspicious how well Baekhyun knew this? That a friend should know the dates of his friend’s works so well? And why would Park Chanyeol do something that would identify him so obviously?”

Jongdae furrowed his brow in thought. “Maybe Park Chanyeol overestimated himself. It’s not uncommon to have serial killers that drop such hints, thinking that the police would never connect them together.”

“No, not like this. Not like this.”

Kyungsoo narrowed his eyes, turning back at the TV screen. As if he could sense it, Baekhyun’s eyes flickered towards the camera, his warm smile growing impossibly wide.

“Everyone, team meeting now! Let’s go! Let’s go!” Someone called, clapping Jongdae’s back as they walked by.

Jongdae offered Kyungsoo a consolatory smile. “Don’t overthink it, Kyungsoo. Don’t forget– the evidence pointed to Park Chanyeol. He wasn’t charged for something that there was reasonable doubt on.” Jongdae pat Kyungsoo on the arm lightly with the folder he was holding, walking away. “Come on, let’s go.”

The echo of footsteps faded as the room emptied gradually, leaving Kyungsoo alone. His gaze lingered for another moment before he turned to leave as well, his jaw clenched tightly as the camera started a slow zoom in on Baekhyun.

“Thank you for making time to join us today, Mister Byun. We’re glad that the real author of the Memorabilia series can finally claim credit for his work!”

The audience roared and clapped in agreement. Baekhyun laughed shyly, waving to the crowd behind the camera.

“And before we leave, tell us again: what is the name of your book releasing next week?”

Baekhyun looked at the camera with delight twinkling in his eyes.

“It’s called Memorabilia: An Afterword. Please look out for it.”