Three sharp knocks rapped against the door, shattering the early morning silence. Jongdae peeled his eyes open, fervently wishing he had dreamed the sound. To his disappointment, a hailstorm rattled the door in its steel frame.

“Kim! Open up!” Sarai’s call was followed by another flurry of pounding.

Jongdae rose to his elbows in bed and squinted at the glowing dial of his watch. There was still over an hour before their scheduled departure time. He took his time climbing out of bed— Sarai could wear out her knuckles for a bit longer while he pulled on a pair of pants. The moment he opened the door, the diminutive analyst pushed her way inside, her phone held to one ear. Her gaze darted around, dismissing the empty, unused shelves and zeroing in on Jongdae’s backpack, sitting by itself on top of the desk.

“You’re ready to go?” she asked, adding “Not you.” to her phone. Without waiting for Jongdae’s answer, she grabbed his bag and tossed it to him, exiting his room just as abruptly as she’d entered. Jongdae threw his backpack over one shoulder, grabbed his shoes, and ran after her in sock feet.

“Tanzania?” He couldn’t see Sarai’s face as he followed her down the curving corridor, but her voice was tight, upset. “Why did they pull you off the Phoenix operation? They don’t trust you?” She fell silent for a long moment, listening, and Jongdae hopped along, trying to fit his foot into his shoe. “So now the militia is meddling in local politics?” She stopped in front of another door and knocked once, and Jongdae took advantage of the pause to tighten his laces. “Just walk away. All the money in the world’s not worth your life.”

Sarai tapped her badge to the door’s keypad, and the lock disengaged with a click, the door swinging inward. With a light shove, she pushed Jongdae forward. “He needs to ready to go by the time I get back,” she instructed, her brisk steps already carrying her away. Jongdae longed for his wiretapping equipment as she disappeared around the corner, taking her mysterious, maddeningly detail-sparse conversation with her. He turned to find out where she’d deposited him, skimming the nameplate on the door. Byun, Baekhyun. His mood lightened instantly, his thwarted curiosity latching onto a different sort of quarry. Personal spaces often yielded a glimpse into their owner’s psyche-- this could be a chance to peel back some of the the layers surrounding the enigmatic boy. Tingling with anticipation, he toed off his shoes and stepped inside.

Where Jongdae’s quarters were spartan and utilitarian, Baekhyun’s was a patchwork of color and clutter. Skittle-flavored splotches streaked the walls randomly, as if someone had decorated using the most obnoxious paint samples they could find. Multi-hued pinpricks of light danced along the ceiling, thrown by a spinning globe balanced precariously one on the many stacks of books scattered about the floor. Jongdae picked up two books from the stack closest to the door and couldn’t help smiling. Red Fish Two Fish and Algorithms to Live By: The Computer Science of Human Decisions— typical leisure reading.

Stretched out on the bed was the enigma himself, his mismatched sheets jumbled near his feet. His back to the door, Baekhyun tapped away busily on his phone, the strains of what sounded like a dying orchestra leaking from his headphones. Jongdae set the books down as quietly as he could and crept to the bedside. With two fingers, he gingerly took hold of Baekhyun’s headphone band, and, with one quick motion, yanked them off with a “BOO!”

Baekhyun screamed bloody murder, bumping his head against the headboard. Jongdae’s dark heart thrilled with satisfaction at finally startling him for a change, and he struggled to keep his face straight as he perched on the edge of the bed. “Sarai told me you need help packing.”

Baekhyun scowled at him as he rubbed his battered forehead. “What she actually said was ‘Baekhyun doesn’t need help packing because he’s staying home.’ Work on your listening skills.” He snatched the headphones back and jammed them onto his head, flopping facedown onto the bed. Jongdae whisked them off again and skipped backward when Baekhyun lunged for them. He twirled them around one finger, grinning, as Baekhyun seethed from the bed.

“Pack your stuff, and you’ll get these back.”

Baekhyun blew out a frustrated breath, fluffing his bangs. “I was done with those anyway.” He buried himself facedown in his mattress once more, flattening his tie-dye pillow over his head, world-avoidance mode activated.

Jongdae checked his watch, then reluctantly tossed the headphones onto the bed. As much fun as it would be to flip Baekhyun’s mattress and watch the expression on his face as he flew through the air, they didn’t have the time. Sarai was no longer actively trying to injure him, but he didn’t want to test their truce by being late. He picked his way across the tome-littered floor to the closet and brushed aside the gauzy curtain, revealing a wardrobe that was 90 percent beige and 10 percent goth queen.

After a moment of intense deliberation, Jongdae chose to ask, “Where’s your suitcase?”

“Don’t have one,” Baekhyun replied, his voice muffled by the pillow.

“You had one in Canada,” Jongdae reminded him, gathering a random armful from the closet and dumping it onto the bed.

“I burned it.”

Trying to reason with a sulking teen was pointless, so Jongdae abandoned the direct approach. Instead, he drifted around the room, searching for a clue to Baekhyun’s mood. ‘Chaos made manifest’ was a charitable description of the space, excepting the curiously immaculate desk. The shelf above the desk held a row of leather-bound journals, a dozen in all, neatly arranged. A single journal, its cover still unlined and shiny, occupied the place of honor on the writing surface. A sad, bacon-wrapped egg wallowed on top of the journal, hugging a set of ebony fountain pens. Jongdae slid the depressed plushie out of the way and, with a wary glance toward the bed, flipped the book open to its first page.

January 1, the first line read. Calligraphic hangul trailed down the page in traditional vertical lines, but the words themselves were nonsense, written in some secret code. He paged through the rest of the journal swiftly- it was nearly half filled with the cryptic script, one sheet allotted to each day of the year. Jongdae closed the book and gently replaced the egg. He turned his attention to the journals occupying the shelf, trailing his fingers along their spines, noting the signs of wear and tear. He pulled the oldest from its place, and it fell open with ease. Its first page listed the date, January 1, but there was only one line, English, written in a childish scrawl.

I am four years old again.

He turned the page, hoping for more, but the other entries were indecipherable, just like the current journal. He looked over his shoulder and found Baekhyun watching him from underneath the pillow, one eyebrow raised. Jongdae’s face went warm and, feeling like a parent caught snooping, he carefully re-shelved the journal. Fingers drumming against the surface of the desk, he racked his brain for something trustworthy to say.

“So.” He spoke just to break the silence, then ran out of ideas. He turned to face the bed, clearing his throat awkwardly, on the verge of blurting another inanity, when his attention snagged on another stack of books. What’s in a Drop of Water? the topmost title asked. Jongdae huffed a silent laugh at himself, shaking his head, amazed that he’d overlooked the obvious. He knew exactly what would lure Baekhyun out of his funk, and, with a little finesse, gain his trust as well. “So,” he repeated, shifting his weight so he could sit comfortably on the desk, “don’t you want to know what happened?” Hook.

“Be less specific,” Baekhyun retorted.

“Engineering that escape took a lot of effort. Don’t you want to know if it was successful?“ Line.

“Your English needs work. Nothing you said made sense,” Baekhyun said, but his eyes glittered with interest from the pillow’s shadow.

Jongdae pointed his chin toward the pile of clothes he had dumped on the bed, waiting. It didn’t take long. Baekhyun rolled over and reached underneath his bed, pulling out a small duffel bag. With a delicate sneer, he sorted through the mound of white shirts and khaki pants and pulled out a black t-shirt. With an eloguent look in Jongdae’s direction, he dropped it into the duffel. Sinker.

“Sarai caught up to them in the parking lot with a gun.”

Baekhyun sprang upright, sending his pillow tumbling to the floor. “AND?”

Jongdae motioned toward the pile of clothes again. “You need pants with that shirt.”

Baekhyun grabbed a handful of clothing and stuffed them into the bag without looking. “AND?!”

“I knocked her out.”

Baekhyun fell backward onto his , his jaw falling open. “You did not.”

“She thought I was there to help.” Jongdae spread his hands. “She didn’t watch her back.”

Baekhyun packed a pair of skinny jeans that glinted with bedazzlement. “The witch holds grudges, you know.”

Jongdae choked back a laugh. “There’s no way you call her that to her face.”

Baekhyun smirked as he folded something lime-green and satiny into his bag. “I like my manhood where it is.” He reached underneath his bed again, pulling out a plastic bin. “So what happened after you doomed yourself?”

“The escapees hijacked the Hong Kong courier. Security sent out a helicopter and a pair of cars, but apparently, their GPS trackers were spoofed. The chase team hunted a perfectly innocent family of five all the way to their house in Wi...” he paused, leaving the unfamiliar word hanging.

“Wyoming,” Baekhyun finished, fishing a few pairs of polka-dot socks from the bin. Jongdae gave himself an internal high-five at the confirmation. Baekhyun was definitely the mastermind.

“The teams are trying to search for them the old-fashioned way, but there’s not a lot they can do without attracting the attention of the press or stepping on the jurisdictional toes of our territorial hosts.”

“What a shame,” Baekhyun said brightly. He disappeared into the room’s small bathroom, then poked his head out, holding up a pair of plastic packets. “How many face masks should I take? Enough for one week? Two?”

“Three.” Sarai swept into the room, clad in tactical pants and a hunter’s vest, an army duffel slung over one shoulder. “Are you done?”

Baekhyun flew out of the bathroom and hurled himself on top of his bag, hurriedly zipping it shut before she could see what was in it. “Almost.”

Sarai’s eyes slitted in suspicion. “You’re packing something weird, aren’t you?”

Baekhyun shook his head vigorously, and drew a pair of khaki’s from the pile of clothes, his face contorted in disgust. He forced it into a tiny opening in the zipper, then smiled up at her sunnily.

Sarai’s chin jutted out, fingers tapping, unconvinced. “Where are your meds?” she asked at last, and held out her hand. “I’ll carry them so they don’t get lost again.”

Baekhyun clutched his bag to his chest, bed springs creaking as he wriggled backward. “They’re all the way in the bottom.”

“That’s what you said last time.” Sarai bounced her hand impatiently. “Hand them over.”

“I ran out.” He toyed with the bag’s zipper, not meeting her eyes.

Sarai’s hand went to her hip. “You used up a week’s supply of pills in one day?”

In a tiny voice, Baekhyun confessed, “I flushed them down the toilet.”

“Baek!” Sarai gasped, her duffel dropping to the ground with a dull thud. “You flushed-” She dragged her hands through her short hair, making it stand on end. “When— How long have you been off your meds?!”

When the boy picked at a loose thread in his sheet instead of answering, Sarai scrubbed her face in weary vexation. “It’ll take at least a day to synthesize a new batch.”

“We can just go without it.” Baekhyun batted his eyelashes at her and received a sharp flick on the forehead for his trouble.

“We’re not flying to another country without your pills.” Sarai turned away from him and whipped out her phone, muttering, “We’ll have to rework the formulation again.” She missed the wicked glint that appeared in Baekhyun’s eyes. Jongdae in a breath, wishing he had popcorn for the show.

“Just take that nifty blowgun you used in Canada,” Baekhyun suggested, his tone caustic. Sarai winced, the phone lowering to her side as she pivoted slowly to face Baekhyun. He stretched his right leg out in a dancer’s extension and jabbed an accusatory finger at his thigh. “It worked great.”

Sarai her lips. “You remember that?”

“I didn’t have to! Turns out,” Baekhyun yanked up his pants leg, revealing a fading black-blue bruise, “shooting someone with a giant needle leaves a mark!”

“Han developed the rescue serum last month,” Sarai explained, drying her palms on her pants. “I wasn’t expecting to actually use it.” She shook a scolding finger at Baekhyun. “I wouldn’t have had to use it if you were taking your pills. It’s no wonder you’ve been having so many episodes lately.”

“Not the point.” Baekhyun sullenly rearranged himself so he was facing the wall. “You promised you’d ask first before using anything new on me. Naughty.“ The last word was muttered under his breath, and Sarai lost a few shades of color in her face.

“I’m sorry, okay?” She grabbed her bag from the floor, shouldering it hastily, but whirled back to Baekhyun before she reached the door. “Don’t you dare put ants in my bed again!”

“Don’t worry,” Baekhyun said, still facing the wall, arms crossed. “They won’t be ants.”

Ooh, plot twist.Jongdae hugged himself, barely containing his amusement.

Sarai leaned one hand on the doorknob, deep breaths through her nose. Leather groaned as the handle of her duffle crumpled in her tightening grip. “My sister sent me a face cream made with the mud of the Nile,” she gritted out. “It’s very expensive.”

“That’s nice.” Baekhyun’s shoulders hunched stubbornly.

Sarai strangled her bag strap, her teeth bared in a grin closer to rigor-mortis than mirth. “I’ll give it to you!” she chirped in a sugary voice. Jongdae smothered a laugh with both hands.

Baekhyun spun around, his eyes wide. “Really??!” He bounced to his feet. “Thank you, noona!” He gleefully blew her an elaborate, double-handed heart-shaped kiss. Sarai batted it out of the air, but her scowl didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“I need to give the lab an address to ship the new batch of pills.” She yanked open the door. “Finish packing and be at the car in ten.” The door slammed behind her with a percussive thud, sending several book stacks tumbling.

Baekhyun jumped excitedly from one side of his bed to another, chanting “Face cream, face cream!” with every leap.

“How has she not killed you yet?” Jongdae wondered aloud, watching him. “I’m sure she knows plenty of ways. ”

Baekhyun used his last jump to launch himself towards the desk. “She gets paid to put up with me,” he said, pulling open a drawer. “And her salary is really high.”

“I thought she was an analyst.” Jongdae peeked over Baekhyun’s shoulder as he rifled through the veritable magpie hoard inside— chrome lipstick tubes, rings plain and jeweled, bracelets and cuff links monogrammed with other people’s names, bullets.

When Baekhyun withdrew his hands, each of his long fingers was decorated with a different ring. “She slums it up with the number munchers in her free time, but her life revolves around me,” he said absently, fitting a black stud in one ear, “World’s most dangerous nanny.”

Jongdae sat up straighter, looking around the room with fresh eyes. “Did Sarai give this to you?” he asked, poking the journal-guarding egg. He slid off of the desk and picked up Red Fish Blue Fish from its stack. “And these?

Baekhyun grunted in affirmation as he carted a tray of travel-size cosmetics from the bathroom. “We’re playing a game - if I behave all week, I get a prize.” He popped open a miniature tube of lotion labeled Hyatt and squirted a bit onto the back of his hand, sniffing appreciatively. “But being nice is boring, so I added a rule.” He stuffed a handful of the small bottles into his bag. “ Whenever the witch does something I don’t like, we play trick-or-treat.”

“Ants in her bed?” Jongdae guessed, Sarai’s earlier skittishness becoming clear.

“That was years ago. I’m not that evil, anymore. I prefer treats to tricks nowadays.” Baekhyun tugged a silky red shirt from the pile of clothes and it lovingly, “I got this beauty last week, for Joon-hyung.”

Jongdae affected nonchalance as he toyed with a .38 special from the drawer of shinies. “Who’s Joon?”

“Nobody you know.” Baekhyun tossed his bag over his shoulder. “Let’s go, or the witch will take back her face cream.”

Jongdae hefted his own backpack, organizing his thoughts as the boy led the way to the elevator. He’d gotten a few more pieces of the Baekhyun puzzle, but the edges weren’t fitting together like he’d expected. He’d been assuming that Baekhyun was a quarantine agent like himself—precocious, prone to the idiosyncrasies of youth, and more than a little sneaky— but still, an employee. An employee could become disenchanted with his employer’s methods and turn traitor. It would have made for a clear-cut motive, a straightforward starting point for the recent chain of events. But Baekhyun lived here; this quarantine facility had been his home for years, maybe even his entire life. It muddied things.

“Why did you do it?” Jongdae said to the air. When Baekhyun looked at him quizzically, he amended, “Hypothetically- if you were the one who cut the alarms?”

“I would have done it just to watch the polos run around the state,” Baekhyun chuckled. “They don’t get enough exercise.”

Jongdae cut his eyes at him. “You would throw away everything you worked for just for fun?”

The elevator arrived, the doors opening with a smooth hiss. Baekhyun stepped inside, and when he turned to face Jongdae, his grin was devilish. “How could I resist?” He beckoned Jongdae inside. “Hypothetically.”

Jongdae joined him, and the elevator rocked slightly as it traveled upward. “Hypothetically, would you- the saboteur- would help us recapture them? Even though you just helped them escape?”

Baekhyun shrugged. “It’s not like I have a choice.”

“So, hypothetically, you’re okay with going after Phoenix?”

“Wait, what?”

An electronic ping announced their arrival at the first floor, but when neither of them moved, the doors slid quietly shut again.

Baekhyun was holding his breath, his body rigid with tension, pupils blown wide open. Jongdae evaluated his reaction with narrowed eyes. “Sarai doesn’t brief you on the missions?”

“Phoenix! Finally! Kyaaaah!” Baekhyun high-fived the control panel and spun in circles down the corridor as soon as the doors opened. I guess not.

“You’re not supposed to know about the outliers,” Jongdae remembered, trotting to keep up.

“Neither are you,” Baekhyun scoffed, a bit breathless from his celebration.

“I have full clearance now,” Jongdae waved his new badge in the air. “The director told me everything.”

“Everything.” Baekhyun snickered as he skipped back and forth in front of Jongdae. “Did the old man tell you Phoenix has been tying the gunhuggers in knots for nine years?”

“Nine?” Interpol’s records for the Virus only went back three years prior to his arrest. “Nine?!”

“Did you know he fabricated the Interpol record?” Baekhyun continued, guessing his train of thought. “He put in just enough to give Phoenix horns and a tail, but conveniently left out all mention of the gunhuggers’ cockups along the way.”

Jongdae’s head started to spin, but Baekhyun was relentless.

“Did he tell you he started the militia? Did you know outlier abilities aren’t random? Did you know he and Sarai are related? Did you know-”

“How do you know all this?” Jongdae demanded.

Baekhyun danced to a stop, and sighed at him, pity in his eyes. “Was there a quota they needed to fill when they let you become a cop?”

Jongdae escorted Baekhyun the remainder of their trip in a headlock. A small sedan waited near the entrance of the facility, Director Choi strapped into the passenger seat. Sarai looked up from rearranging the luggage in the truck, her eyes widening as they entered.

“Noona! He’s a madman, save me!” Baekhyun finally managed to eel out of Jongdae’s grip and fled to her side.

Sarai simply took his bag and dumped it into the trunk. “Check your shoes, sheets, and shampoo from now on,” she told Jongdae, slamming the lid shut. “The imp holds grudges.”