K was nine-years-old and walked with a cane. The Blue made his left leg limp. Calf twisted into a gangly position, he sat at the far left end of the table during meals. Minseok sat to his right; floor mates answered the same call to breakfast, lunch, and dinner. A few more years would pass before Minseok could join his fellow young men on the sixth and ninth residential floors of the Tower. 

“Did you hear about tonight’s apple crumble?”

K had an abnormal love for dessert. His optimism could turn hell into heaven; this characteristic labeled him an outcast amongst his peers. Ridicule followed him like the plague — although he swore up and down he earned his Prayer Tickets “with the fairest of squares.” Minseok sat to his right for every meal. There was something in his apple crusted smile. Scapegoats are too good for the plots they die for.

Prayer Tickets: the Tower’s currency. From modeling clean behavior to surviving the latest viral strain, Minseok amassed 12. K, especially adept at pleasing others, flaunted twice that. It wasn’t a competition. Minseok didn’t know what to ask the Haven’s father for anyway. 

Then he met Sirius. 

After passing The Blue’s medical trials, before becoming a Black Coat, every candidate for sainthood has a metal tag surgically implanted beneath his nape’s skin. Society renames their soldiers. Inugami, Shisa, Orthrus, Sirius: a Black Coat embodies the power of a myth. Skin heals, and the impression remains. Indentations scar otherwise clear complexions.

It sounded better when K explained it.

“See-re-us.”

“Congrats! You can read!” the 13-year-old exclaimed sarcastically. “Believe it or not, not many humans can.” Or not. 

Sirius moved about the sparsely furnished, white room regularly. A trip through The Blue brought the two to this “room without a view” — as Sirius called it. He had an intelligent air about him. Calculated steps kept Minseok at a distance whether eating or sleeping. Malaria was the disease of the year. 

Twelve days into initial injection of the infection, stuck in the same white room, and Sirius started a conversation that lasted longer than two seconds. “Want to play a game?” he asked. He didn’t wait for a response. “It’s called 20 questions. You ask first.”

“Male?”

Sirius scoffed; he’s special and he knows it. “Have you ever seen a female in the Tower?” But he answered, “Yes,” despite the dissatisfaction spreading quickly from tapping fingers and toes.

“Tall?”

“No. And since I’m no trickster, I’ll give you a hint: it’s not you.” It’s not that easy, Sirius added to himself. Whispering to himself. 

“Is he older than us?”

“You’re asking all the wrong questions:” a whisper said aloud. “Yes.”

“Does he live on the third floor?”

“If he’s older than us, what makes you think he lives on the third floor? Try again.” Minseok does. Sixteen more times. Sirius swatted a visible pile of mosquitoes to pass the time. On the thirteenth day, he said, “Final answer?”

“Cassiel.”

“Bzzt!”

Minseok decided he hates this game. This mental choice was his first conscious denial. Rejection in its purest form. It felt good having a verb to express the yellow bile bubbling in his stomach. Hate. Minseok decided he didn’t hate Sirius’s answer to the question: so what? Morality was the lesson of the year.

“The lone wolf starves to death. Know a man’s name, his personality, his propensity to action, gain an ally when you least expect it,” said the young man who wouldn’t tell Minseok his own name. Yet he’s smiling, and his ideals are infectious. “Come on, Michael. Guess again.”

“Black Coat?” 

“No.” Sirius drew close, perhaps perceiving the end of his game. 

“Johnny.”

“Ding ding ding!” Tell the young man what he’s won, he whispered, then, “You win malaria: the disease that’ll sweat you dry! Though I suppose you can’t win something you already have.”  

Sirius shrugged, pulling away again. He jogs laps around the room for a month and a half. Conversation is kept at a minimum. Whatever scant interest he had in Minseok before was long gone.

They sweat themselves dry and exit containment eight months early. “A new record,” a man in a pristine white lab coat praised him. Gave him six, tiny, white slips of paper: Prayer Tickets. Minseok had the sudden desire to eat dessert with K. 

K had a relapse; malaria didn’t sit right with his immune system.

Black Coats are a Darwinist’s dream: a better man. Stronger. Tougher. Boasting a homo homo sapien’s unique self-awareness and altruistic tendencies and more. “Better.” The adjective gives way for “special,” Angels of Haven, Saviors of the World — the latter two titles Minseok saw on posters too lacking in appropriate context to discern meaning.

The Blue’s medical trials weed out the lesser man. Sickly. Disorderly. Failing in the preceding generations’ efforts to evolve. “Lesser.” Unbecoming whispers reached for Sirius’s perceptiveness when they asked why; K should’ve been weeded out long ago. 

Rumors of favoritism circulated, and Minseok ate meals alone. General discontent reached an all time high. Fights started because “he was breathing badly.” It didn’t make sense — judging someone’s respiratory system was a low blow. Peace returned the morning K rolled into the cafeteria, wheel-chair bound.

“What’s for dessert?” was his audible exclamation. To himself. To everyone. Minseok soon discovered his black-coated brethren were dimmer than dandelions.

Black Coats hate K. 

The verb doesn’t occur to them yet — not for those on the third floor. K’s existence in the Tower became valuable the second someone asked why. Minseok briefly wondered if there were other Ks on other floors. Objects of hatred for the inarticulate. 

Halfway through pumpkin pie, an alarm blares. White light floods the cafeteria. Plastic clatters against metal tables and benches. White Coats rush through — floating heads casting black shadows. K’s absence left a plot hole big enough for a pair of Shisa twins to escape.