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            Dizzy, white, blank. Fireflies flicker in and out of Hyungwon’s field of vision until his forehead slams the wooden desk, a momentary blackout. Heartbeat irregular, breaths a beat too late. Muted circles swinging back and forth inside the disconnect between daydreams and reality.

            His eyes shoot open, painfully awake. The circles fill out to squares to an entire window on his left and the orange streaks of streetlight filter through fabric pores onto crisp bed linens. Clamor and commotion trickle through the air vents, stomp of footsteps underground. He doesn’t have to look to see that there are people gathered outside the apartment window, foggy lenses on poles pressed up against glass.

            It’s been three days since Hyungwon last closed his eyes to sleep.

            There’s a script on the corner of his desk, edges curled from use and the poet exhales until his lungs run out because he shouldn’t have. He shouldn’t have said yes when his publisher booked a ten-minute timeslot on late night TV to introduce his new book, something he worked endless days and nights for the past year, traveling to various corners of the world to collect details and literary accuracy all to be washed down a drain, dried ink on parchment lost under the silhouette of his photograph.

            Skip to last Monday and Hyungwon wakes to find his face plastered under trending articles on every major news outlet, his name hashtagged all over SNS without a single mention of his work. Regular daily routines like a stroll in the park, a morning coffee followed soon after by the distinct clicks of camera shutters and high-pitched screams.

            "You look awful," Kihyun, his publisher, says, turning over the other man’s limp wrist to feel for a pulse. A sigh of relief spills out when the vein under his thumb returns a slow, steady beat.

            Hyungwon's heels click against the tile floor, an unsteady hand through his hair.

            "I haven't slept," the poet rasps, dry fog caught in his throat. Clinking porcelain cups and the sound of human chatter vibrate against his skin, strands of hair balled between his fists. "They won’t let me. The doorknob rattles at the top of every hour, windows howling even after I glued them shut. Bright flashes at midnight between closed window blinds. Walls whispering, talking, creaking. I’m terrified.”

            "God," Kihyun releases the gasp of air building up over his guest’s entire monologue. "Should we get you into hiding? Hey, breathe with me. In, out, in, out, come on. This can't be good for your heart."

            "I'm willing to try anything at this point." Hyungwon shuts his eyes and lowers his head to the table, resting his sullen cheeks against the back of his hand. "Weak heart or not, this is no way to live."

            "Of course," Kihyun nods, hand drifting over a shoulder. "Of course. Let's get you somewhere safe."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

           

            The black-haired man an eyebrow, green drinking straw caught between lips.

            "So what do I have to do? Beating up others isn't really my thing.” His legs are spread, skin-tight denim hugging his thighs, a bulging arm thrown behind his head.

            After putting his weary-eyed colleague up in a hotel, Kihyun consulted the company lawyer to discuss options. In a matter of days, the situation had gotten out of control, causing mental turned physical distress to his signed talent and he couldn't have that. Projects have deadlines and with the writer’s recently televised appearance, the phones have been buzzing nonstop with subsequent offers by the dozens. The office in chaos over the unexpected surge of public interest in and out of the building.

            "You received professional training, right?" Kihyun asks, finger pointed underneath bulleted text on paper. Shin Hoseok name popped up through a friend of a friend and the publisher simply didn't have the time to vet through countless resumes and sit through as many interviews while his friend was out there, half-dead, half-alive from sleep deprivation.

            "Yeah, but that was like club security. Tossing drunkards out of the building—not really secret agent, take a bullet for the president kinda thing."

            "Really doubt you'd have to take a bullet, Mr. Shin.” Kihyun sets down the leaf of papers onto the table and leans forward, hands clasped together. “Just keep him safe. Keep others away from him. Chase the stalkers away. You don't have to hurt or touch them unless they try hurt or touch him.”

            "So, like a bodyguard," the black-haired black-tanked prospect leans back in his seat further, exhaling through his nose up to the ceiling. "Mm, yeah I could do that. Could really use the cash."

            "Okay," Kihyun snaps to seal the deal, hastily pulling a yellow envelope out of his briefcase before Hoseok can change his mind. "So I had a lawyer draw up a contract. Look it over, mark any conditions you need revised, then send it back my way."

            "Agh, no need for all that. Let me see." Hoseok opens the envelope and skims over six pages of legal jargon and lengthy disclaimers. His eyes nearly bulge out of his face as they glaze over several zeroes lined up on the last sheet. "Okay, wait, wait—so you're telling me I get one billion won in compensation if I sustain injury on the job? Sign me the hell up."

            Hoseok bites the cap off the pen and signs the contract.

            "There's an NDA written in there, as well. Do not disclose any personal details about Chae Hyungwon. Not even what I'm about to tell you." Kihyun looks left and right before scooting his chair to whisper into the other man’s ear. "Mr. Chae has a medical condition that he was born with and doesn't talk about. His heart doesn't work very well and spent his childhood in and out of surgeries. And I'm not saying you would, but don't cause any unnecessary stress for him. Please, please protect him."

            "Would have been nice to know beforehand, but not a big deal," Hoseok extends his arms outward, cracking knuckles and neck. "But, bad heart. Got it."

            "Shh!" The publisher hisses out of his seat, finger pressed to his lips as he scans the area once again for prying ears and eyes. "No one can know about this."

            Hoseok narrows his field of vision onto the publisher shaking his head, scratching some information on his notepad before ripping out the page, folding it, and placing it in the black-tanked man's hand.

            "Please show up here at 6pm to meet Mr. Chae. I’ll be there to introduce you." He folds the other man's open hand into a closed fist. "For now, figure out a way to get rid of the individuals hanging around his apartment building. him home from the hotel when it's safe to do so. I'm counting on you." The publisher pats the other man's back reassuringly before picking up his briefcase to head back to the office and finish drafting some documents.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

            The door opens a few inches, stop chain still intact as a wildly disturbed eye peeks through the crack.

            "Hyungwon-ah, it's me. You can open up," the publisher announces through the opening.

            A rush of air flies by as the door slams shut, metal clinking against metal, then swings opens barely wide enough for the insider to usher the two outsiders into the entryway. He turns to secure the stop chain, top lock, and doorknob, jiggling its handle for good measure.

            "This is Shin Hoseok. Your bodyguard." Hands gesture for the unidentified man to introduce himself, lips pursed expectantly. Kihyun can't help but notice the blank expression wearing the writer's face as if he completely dreamt up their earlier discussion about hiring someone to keep those obnoxious fans of his at bay.

            "Hello, I am Shin Hoseok. 26 years old. At your service." The rehearsed phrase rolls off his tongue short and quick because the writer isn't much of a talker, Kihyun reasoned. He bows a full ninety degrees and on his way up, observes his client’s feet, legs, chest all the way to the coffee-colored tip of his head that looked about the size of his fist, body frame like a thin wall of ice that could blow away at the slightest gust of wind. An instant challenge. Good thing he was always up for one.

            Hyungwon, in his infinite silence, avoids eye contact with the man staring holes and pins into his forehead and returns to his bedroom, door clicking shut behind.

            Kihyun's gut twists like hour hand of a clock, watching the close-lipped poet stagger into his safe haven like a train wreck in slow motion. Ballasts sinking the corners of his frown, he turns to the bodyguard. "I apologize—he's not usually like this. Like I said, not a talker. Probably woke up on the wrong side of the bed."

            Hoseok nods, the stranger’s dire qualities written into headspace. He throws a thumb over-shoulder. "Outside—"

            "Yes, outside—you saw them, right? Good-for-nothings. Waste of air. All that. They're like zombies risen from the dead with the sole purpose to continuously screech, heckle, and break into my talent's apartment for the tiniest glimpse of his beautiful face on any given day," the publisher rasps, a vein popping his forehead just thinking about the tireless parade of 3am phone calls to his cell, the poet describing in horrific detail the conditions under which he gasped himself awake. A supposed intruder there, creaking floorboards here.

            The bodyguard then smirks, a sparkle in his eye. "I have an idea."

            Kihyun's eyes widen at the thought of no longer having to make the thirty-minute drive to his client’s apartment from the office building. He places both his hands firmly onto the bodyguard's broad shoulders. "Please."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

            The week after Kihyun no longer has his eyes buried in paperwork, he blocks off an hour to visit his most troubled talent's home in the green forests of Namsan. Maybe it's because his mind was preoccupied with other things on his way up, but the absence of huddled bodies outside the apartment building doesn’t register right away. Only once his line of sight falls onto the figure of a black-harnessed, muscled man standing at parade rest blocking his path did he remember.

            Hoseok nods to acknowledge the publisher's arrival, then moves over to the side, cocking his head to let the visitor know he could pass by.

            Before Kihyun so much as raises his knuckles onto the door, he turns to ask, "How did you do it?"

            The bodyguard smirks for a split-second, replaced by a dark gaze that nearly takes the publisher aback. "Requested CCTV footage to identify all persons of interest, messaged their family members who collected them by ear. Those remaining were privately investigated and subsequently blackmailed. Anonymously, of course."

            "Nice," Kihyun whistles. "No violence. Hyungwon-ssi would appreciate. No, I'm sure he does. How has he been?" The publisher bites his thumb after asking because it's been days since he last heard from the young writer and neglected catching up on the daily security log reports the bodyguard emailed to him since the first day.

            "Better," the bodyguard states. "His complexion has improved. Appetite returned. Sleeps half the day. Mouth still shut. It's all in the reports."

            "Yes, sorry. I failed to read over them the last few days," the publisher laughs sheepishly. "Has he left the house at all?"

            "Yes," Hoseok replies, relaxing his hands. "To various coffee shops, cafes, and nearby parks. No incidents."

            "That's good, then." Kihyun completes his series of questions before rapping knuckles onto the apartment door. Although they had to resort to hiring a bodyguard to keep obsessive fans out of his hair, at least Hyungwon could return to normal daily functions that helped spur his creative mind. Maybe this visit, the writer would have something for him and give some semblance of hope for making this month's deadline that had already been pushed out two weeks. "You've done really well. Hyungwon-ssi may not show it, but he must be extremely grateful."

            "I'd do my job properly even if he wasn't," Hoseok reassures the publisher, taking his own words as a reminder. This was a job. One that paid well, and despite the irregular hours, was fulfilling in its own way. Although, if it wasn't for their relationship as client and bodyguard, Hoseok probably wouldn't place himself in the writer's company of his own will.

            The first day they met, he was snubbed for God knows what reason. The next day, he texted the number provided by the publisher to report for his first day only to be ignored for four hours until a text from that same number told him to grab some fruit snacks and chips at the store and place them in a bag on the apartment door handle. On the third day, Hyungwon opened his door whom the bodyguard then escorted out the building, past two elderly women walking their dogs, and down several blocks for a cup of coffee at what must've been the writer's regular place. It was then that, despite the slow, haggard body language, Hoseok couldn't help but notice the poet's beautifully drawn face. Like a flower boy straight out of a comic book. In his twenty six years on earth, Hoseok never once doubted his reflection in the mirror but in that instant he knew Chae Hyungwon was on a different level.

            It was also then Hoseok concluded that the writer doesn't talk. At all. For a short while, he believed the writer was mute, which would explain the publisher's offhanded comment that the writer doesn't talk much. That, coupled with numerous hand gestures that the bodyguard only semi-understood led him to think so. But that wasn't the case, because one afternoon the bodyguard searched up and watched the interviews online that resulted in him landing the job in the first place, and found himself pleasantly drawn to the soft tenor that hugged against his ears, trickled down his spine, and settled under his skin. Not sure what he expected, but the results didn't disappoint. It's been weeks, but Hoseok counts the days until real words would pass through full, painted lips into sharp, expectant ears.

            Maybe the thought to help the writer let his voice be heard runs through his fingers. Slithers up his shoulders, across deep collarbones and tight mandible, sitting atop the crown of his head.

            It’s not that he can’t talk, a forked tongue hisses on velvet-crushed wine. Give him a reason to.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

            Hyungwon picked up sign language as a child for different reasons than what he uses it for now. The less he talked, the more he could observe, which was necessary for his craft. As a creative type, he took inspiration from his experiences in life, and his observation of others in theirs. This skill proved most handy when he wanted to be invisible in plain view, betting on the off chance that his ability to sign would be mistaken as the disability to not hear.

            Despite his efforts, he seems to have run into a wall. A wide-stanced, black-engulfed, mountain of fortitude that pierced a force field of invisibility into a million glass shards.

            "I'm not talking to you, I'm talking around you." The bodyguard smirks, standing guard on the inside of the writer's apartment today. The last intruder left the premises sometime around the last full moon, which the poet could finally watch from the comfort of his room without tireless screams under his toes. A returned focus onto a collection of poems centered around modern gender differences in coming-of-age. And a different kind of fixation on a certain broad-chested annoyance hell-bent on shredding his silence into thread. "Sure no one else is here, but that doesn't mean the one addressed is you. Conceited, much?"

            The writer looks up from his work desk across the room, meeting his guard square in the eye before chopping his left hand into his other palm. Stop.

            "If it bothers you so much, wear ear plugs," the bodyguard shrugs and crosses his arms, legs positioned shoulder-width apart. With an intimidating gaze, Hoseok stares straight into Hyungwon's direct line of sight. A defeated scoff and eye roll later, the writer resigns to put on the set of noise-cancelling headphones charging at the corner of his desk.

            The writer's refusal to exchange words only heightened his interest. Fed the growing need to pester and poke his client and break protocol. Juxtaposed along a façade of grace and beauty, the poet’s dogmatic silence tugged like puppeteer strings at the sentry’s jaw, running his mouth ragged until his throat parched and lips bled.

            He couldn’t control himself. Rouge fighter jet on auto-pilot. It was bad.

            Luckily his contract still had months left to work with, because Hoseok would rather die than watch his side of the battle zone go up in flames.

           

           

 

 

 

 

 

 

            After ten straight work days of his bodyguard wrecking his patience, Hyungwon almost breaks. Almost. Chatter that seeped into the pores of his skin, one-sided conversation spilling over time and space that seemed to pull his existence into a vastly black, swirling void.

            Maybe it’s time for mister Chatterbox Musket to go.

            The sasaengs were gone. The bodyguard did his job and for that, the poet was thankful up until the night he snorted himself awake to the sound of Hoseok’s mockery, dangling wind chimes over a white-washed porch inside his head. Like a child begging for attention.

            He clutches at his chest, disoriented pulse. This couldn't be good for his heart.

            At sunrise, Hyungwon raps his second knuckle onto his desk three times.

            Taking his sweet time, the bodyguard finishes whistling a tune to 25 to 6 or 4 and enters the apartment right as the writer finishes streaking angry black marker on a sheet of paper. He holds up the paper for the black-haired man to read.

            What do you want?

            A smirk curls onto his face as the bodyguard gestures if he can approach to which the writer nods.

            Grabbing the marker, the bodyguard scratches two words under neatly spattered outrage.

            Your voice.

            Hyungwon frowns at the paper, then at Hoseok.

            Running a hand through his hair, the poet flicks his wrist dismissively and the bodyguard disappears into the common hallway, followed by the distant hum of a familiar tune.

            Over coffee at noon some days later, Hyungwon tosses a thin brown box across the table to his bodyguard. No written note inside.

            When Hoseok gets back to his apartment, it takes him half a day of shaking and uncapping the newly acquired pen to figure out its silver clip presses down like a button that seems to only garble a bunch of nonsense until he holds it up to the side of his head.

            "You big musclehead.” The screech of sonic feedback echoes into a dark tunnel, eclipsed by a single measure of stringent a cappella like musical candy to his ears.

            Hoseok spends the next half hour keeled over in laughter in his room, fighting back the impulse to unleash a victory howl until his brother yells at him to shut up from the other room. Cute, the black-haired man bites his lips until they bruise. That's too cute.