It is late in the morning when Luhan rises, the sun shining brightly in the sky, unseen to Luhan through blackout shades until he presses a button on the wall to raise them.

He rubs the sleep from his eyes, small bits of it sharp and rough against the back of his hand. His eyes wander to the screen on the bedside table, and he taps the side of the frame, causing it to light up.

“What is today’s schedule?” he mumbles, but the microphone is able to pick it up anyways, and displays the necessary information on the screen.

“It is currently 11AM. Today, you are scheduled to meet up with Zitao at 2:30 in Myeongdong, in front of the entrance to Starbucks inside the food court, which is located on the second floor of Shinsegae Department Store. The temperature outside will range from a high of 72 to a low of 65, so light clothing in several layers is recommended. Would you like me to suggest an outfit?”

“No, that’s fine,” Luhan sighs, tapping the side of the screen to set it back into sleep mode.

He walks to the bathroom, staring at himself blearily in the mirror, but even that whirs with information, ready to suggest skin products to use or to measure the size of his face compared to yesterday or even how much his nose hair grew overnight (not that he really wants to know that, so he’s never used that option. His friend Jongdae, however, seems to really enjoy having the mirror do that, for reasons Luhan’s never understood).

Luhan splashes his face with water, rubbing his skin slightly to cleanse it. He takes the towel from the hook beside his sink to wipe his face dry, then takes the bottle of lotion that is proffered to him by a robotic arm from a cabinet.

He squeezes a bit out into his palm, massaging it gently into his skin (lest he hear a chiding “Master Lu, you should not treat your skin so roughly!” chime from somewhere in the ceiling), then returns the bottle to the cabinet with another sigh.

Ruffling his dark brown (one of the few shades of hair that society deemed acceptable) hair, still disheveled from sleep, he pads into the kitchen, where another screen whirs to life, displaying several options for breakfast.

Luhan presses one at random, sitting down at the table that’s far too big for one person to eat alone at and buries his head in his arms.

A few moments later, his arm is nudged by something cool and smooth, and he turns his head to the side, seeing a white plate pushed towards him. He tilts his head slightly higher to view the contents of it, and nods slightly in approval at the omelet, picking up the fork from the edge of the plate and cutting off a small portion.

It tastes the same as always, made with 200 grams of egg, 25 grams of sharp cheddar, 50 grams of black forest ham, and half a gram of salt, garnished with a five-leafed parsley sprig.

It’s perfect, of course, just like everything else in this world.

But there’s something about it that’s just so bland.

Luhan finishes eating and pushes the plate to the side, where it is immediately whisked off for sanitation by another robot. He returns to his room with heavy steps, shoulders slumping as he stands in front of his closet’s mirrored door.

“Good afternoon, Master Lu,” a voice says (close to human, but still has a slightly metallic edge that Luhan can distinguish as robotic), “what would you like to wear today?”

“I don’t care,” Luhan sighs, “jeans, t-shirt, and hooded sweatshirt. Random colors.”

A faint hum comes from the closet, then the doors open and a small stack of perfectly folded clothes is pushed forward.

Luhan grimaces.

“Can I have a black hoodie, please?” he asks, staring at the highlighter-yellow sweatshirt with mild horror. “Where did that even come from?”

“Records indicate it was gifted by Kim Jongdae two years ago for Christmas.”

“Please dispose of it,” Luhan says, shaking his head as he takes the other offered clothes, a dark grey v-neck t-shirt and black jeans with a slight shine to them (given by Zitao, of course—no one else ever gave him Gucci.)

“Noted. Here is the sweatshirt you requested, Master Lu,” the robot chimes once more, and Luhan pulls the jacket over his head, straightening it and ruffling his hair so that it fell normally once more.

“I will be out until approximately five PM,” Luhan announces, seemingly to no one, but every microphone in the house picks up his speech and records it into the database.

He grabs his wallet from the drawer in his bedside table, and gives himself one last check in the mirror before exiting his room and walking towards the front door.

“Master Lu, you have forgotten your glasses again,” a voice chides as he slips on his shoes, and Luhan lets out an exasperated groan.

Every day he tries to leave the house without his accursed glasses, and every day the robots remind him otherwise.

A slim metal arm holds them out towards him, and Luhan takes him resignedly, unfolding them and slipping them on his face before opening his front door and leaving his home.

He doesn’t lock the door behind him—the automations inside his house will do that for him (not that anyone would bother trying to break in, anyways.)

An egg-shaped pod hovers in front of him, the words ‘Where would you like to go?’ flashing on a touchscreen on the side.

Luhan types in ‘Myeongdong,’ and the side of the pod opens up, revealing a cushioned white leather chair. Luhan steps inside, settling himself in the chair as another screen comes to life before him.

“Welcome, Master Lu. It is currently 1:34PM, and 67 degrees Fahrenheit outside. Transit time will take approximately half an hour. Please fasten your safety restraint before transit begins. Would you like to listen to any music on the journey?”

“Classical. Mozart.” Luhan doesn’t particularly care for classical music, but he cares even less for the electronic, over-processed music that’s popular as of late (but that’s the only type of music that’s made nowadays, really).

He closes his eyes as the pod moves, the journey incredibly smooth, almost as if Luhan was merely sitting down, save for the occasional shift when the pod turns, but even then, it’s almost unnoticeable.

“We have arrived, Master Lu. At what time do you need transport back to your residence?”

Luhan opens his eyes slowly, the stark whiteness and bright screen momentarily blinding. “I’ll call when I need it. God knows Zitao can shop forever,” Luhan says, turning in his seat and sliding out the open side, feet firmly hitting the sidewalk below as the pod zooms away.

A thin stream of letters begin to run across the top of the lenses of Luhan’s glasses, and he sighs, the left lens occasionally flashing with someone’s picture and information that only he can see (not that everyone else can’t see it too, because they’re wearing their own glasses, too).

Luhan hates having to wear them, hates being able to see everyone’s personal information, hates everyone being able to see his personal information, too. But from the time he entered primary school, he’d been forced to wear them, just like everyone else, as mandated by law.

In this age, the world’s leaders had decided that withholding information from others was a crime, after one too many crimes against the government by those who tried to conceal things from them. Luhan thought this was ridiculous, but he couldn’t question the system—his parents had, ten years ago, and he hadn’t seen them since his thirteenth birthday.

Luhan’s always hated the government; his parents had been rebels, and that mindset had been instilled in him from a young age. He, however, had been too cowardly to join the protest with his parents, hiding under the bed and pretending that he’d been out with his friends when his parents decided to march straight up to prime minister of China and demand change.

He’d been relocated to South Korea after that—why there, he never found out (and why was the government hiding things from him, when they were the ones encouraging openness? he’d always wondered), and began his new life alone.

“Luhan!” a voice calls, and he turns his head to the left; a leopard-print clad Zitao is waving at him from in front of Starbucks.

“Still wearing that?” Luhan teases, walking towards the younger and lifting up the hem of the jacket in mock judgment. “You look ridiculous.”

“I just look fashionable,” Zitao huffs, taking a sip of his coffee (nonfat soy latte, Luhan’s glasses provide, but it’s not like Luhan cares what Zitao drinks, especially when he’s been drinking the same thing for the past five years). He turns sharply and starts striding off, his own black-framed glasses glinting slightly in the light, giving him the appearance of someone who means business and will most certainly stop at nothing to get what he desires.

“Whatever you say. Why did you even want to go shopping, anyways? You already have a ton of clothes, anyways,” Luhan says, raising an eyebrow as he follows Zitao, his hands shoved into the pockets of his sweatshirt.

“I’m not here to buy anything,” Zitao replies, and they both know that’s a lie, but Luhan lets it slide anyways. “I’m here because I’m writing an article for the school paper about this month’s haute couture.”

“But you already know all that without even having to go to the store!” Luhan follows Zitao into a store and tries to peer over Zitao’s shoulder as he rubs the material of a shirt between his fingers.

“The world of fashion is ever-changing, Luhan. I feel like it represents the world quite accurately,” Zitao says gravely, dropping the shirt and grimacing at it. “There are many trends, and if you don’t keep up with everything, you’re quite likely to be swept away.”

Luhan blinks, because Zitao’s always spouting some sort of wisdom-y nonsense and he can never really keep up with all of it, but Zitao’s dark expression is quickly replaced by a grin as he claps a hand on Luhan’s shoulder and announces that he’s going to give him a makeover.

“We just did that last week!” Luhan protests, but he’s swiftly ignored as Zitao zooms around the store, and Luhan swears that he almost saw Zitao fly at one point, but he’s soon pushed into the fitting rooms and a large pile of clothes proffered towards him.

“Hurry up. They’re separated by outfit.” Zitao slams the door of the changing room shut, and Luhan lets out a long, resigned sigh as he pulls his sweatshirt over his head.

Sometimes he wishes that he had nicer friends.

Then he realizes that Zitao’s probably one of the nicest friends he has.

He then decides that he probably needs new friends.

~*~*~*~*~

Three hours and twenty-five outfits later, Luhan is positively exhausted and Zitao seems more agitated than he should be in this situation, since he hasn’t done much of anything besides scowl and demand that Luhan turn around before ordering him back into the stall and telling him to change his clothes.

“Zitao, are we done yet?” Luhan groans, leaning heavily against the doorframe of the changing room, clad in a grey flannel shirt over a black tank top, burgundy skinny jeans, and black combat boots.

“That looks good on you,” Zitao says, nodding. “Of course, you do have a nice frame, and your face is aesthetically appealing as well, so most of that stuff looked good on you anyways.”

“Then why did you make me change so many times!” Luhan exclaims, exasperated.

“I wanted to see them all. You’re the model for the newspaper, anyways.”

“You—what?” Luhan splutters, throwing his arms in the air. “How did I not know this?”

“Because if I told you, you never would have agreed to it. Besides,” Zitao smirks, tapping the side of his glasses, “these can take pictures, anyways. So it’s fine.”

Luhan decides not to dignify Zitao with a response and tries to slam the door shut (it won’t let him, of course, stopping just before it hits the edge, and them closing softly), taking the clothes off as violently as he can without ruining them, as he has no desire to pay for them and he’s pretty sure that Zitao won’t, either.

“Thank you,” an automated voice says as he exits the changing room, “would you like to purchase any of these items?”

“No,” Luhan says tersely, before Zitao has a chance to say anything, “but thank you.”

“We hope you come again soon,” the voice says as they exit the store, and Zitao sighs.

“I wish you would have bought some of that stuff, it really is quite nice,” he laments, shoulders slumping slightly.

“I don’t have rich parents who give me plenty of money to burn,” Luhan replies, his tone sarcastic. “I’m going to use the bathroom. Don’t run away, or I’ll leave without you.”

Zitao scoffs, muttering something along the lines of ‘do you really think that lowly of me?’

Luhan rolls his eyes and walks toward the restroom, but as he does, something catches his eye.

A flash of bright red, peeking out from underneath a black cap.

Hair that vibrantly red isn’t approved by society, so why does this person have it?

The person turns toward Luhan, and their eyes meet for one brief moment.

And the feed of letters across Luhan’s field of vision stops entirely, leaving his view of the outside world clear for the first time in what seems like forever.

lol i felt like changing the title of the story, i might again later too since i'm very very bad at coming up with titles but oh well.

i hope you're enjoying the story so far ^^