The very next day, the physical exhaustion of last night and the many nights before that, was long gone, now replaced by emotional fatigue and burnout instead. It was a rush of events and rushed communication, rushing here and there to tick off the various things that needed to be done.

Early in the morning, Yeonjun gathered Soobin, Taehyun and Kai in his car, making his way across the lengthy roads of the busy city. The sight of an empty spot in the backseat was a reminder of his destination and his loss. Keeping his composure for the sake of the younger duo sitting in the back, Yeonjun continued to drive until he was cornering into the neighbourhood of Beomgyu’s family.

Revealing the news of the death of a son was never meant to be easy, however, revealing that Beomgyu had died in such an unnatural and unforgiving way, right in front of Taehyun’s eyes, was as hard as it could possibly get.

Throughout it all, Yeonjun and Soobin tried to spare the details in hopes of consoling Beomgyu’s mother, who cried and cried until she was out of breath. His father, on the other hand, buried his face in his hands, unable to say a word.

The attention was on Taehyun, and he too could feel it. He felt small, he felt like a monster, but not a large one. He felt like a small specimen ready to be stomped on, discarded away like he never mattered at all. Beside him, despite having Kai sit next to him, Taehyun felt an awfully cold chill engulfing him.

He couldn’t make out the words fully, couldn’t expend any more energy without passing out, but he knew that Beomgyu’s mother was trying to console him, trying to let him know that they didn’t blame him.

But Taehyun wasn’t stupid.

He knew. He knew what they all truly felt inside, and the idea of being blamed for the death of a son, a friend, a lover, was sickening. He felt sick. He shut out the words that reached his ears, only apologising under his breath, words that felt like a chant by then, words that would never stop leaving his lips.

While Soobin escorted Taehyun and Kai back into the car, Yeonjun informed Mr. Choi of their situation and their dedication to keeping things private and secretive until their safety was guaranteed. A part of Yeonjun felt guilty for using the words ‘safe’ and ‘protected’ so easily in front of a father who had just lost his dear son.

“Let’s go.” Yeonjun spared one last look at the house on the side, the front door still open and letting the incessant cries reach his aching ears.

Soobin nodded, looking over his shoulder to see Kai staring out the window with no visible emotion. He then shifted slightly to see Taehyun staring at the floor of the car, his hands clasped and his thumbs picking at the cuticles. With no words coming from the backseat, Soobin turned his attention back to the road, ignoring the loud beating of his heart.

They had all just fought a giantess, navigated through a changing maze, survived on a floating platform, and somehow, Beomgyu’s death was the hardest part to believe and accept.

Beomgyu’s funeral was held a few days later, although it was arranged privately with only a few extended relatives and a few close friends being invited. Throughout the service, Beomgyu’s mother complained about not having seen her son in so long, not even a dead body – an empty but closed casket at the front. Meanwhile, his father tried his best to explain that it was an accident with no camera footage to rely on; it was something that he had discussed with Yeonjun’s father prior to the funeral.

Flowers were given, speeches were delivered by some relatives, hushed conversations were somehow loud and clear, but despite all that, Beomgyu’s closest friends sat on their seats, completely silent and simply staring ahead.

Yeonjun looked around, seeing the people stare at him and his friends, and he wondered what they were saying. He wondered if Beomgyu was listening. He wondered if Beomgyu was watching him and the others, and he wondered if Beomgyu was smiling, crying, furious. He wondered if Beomgyu could ever forgive him.

Soobin tapped his feet on the ground, panic and frustration masking his sorrow. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his legs, his hands busy playing with the sleeves of his shirt. He needed to hold on to something, to someone, and Beomgyu just wasn’t there. He looked to his side to see the empty chair that he placed.

Taehyun was handling it the worst. With his eyes swollen and dark from all the crying and sleepless nights, he let his head hang low, his gaze fixed to the floor. He murmured under his breath, a repeated apology, almost as if he was cursed with it. A sin for his crime. He only hoped that his soft apologies would reach his lover, his dead lover.

Kai had a small smile on his face that faded every now and then, reminiscing the times he shared with his friend. He no longer found it in himself to blame it all on Taehyun, or on Soobin and Yeonjun for not staying on the platform as the eldest ones of the group. Instead, he blamed it all on himself. He wondered if the outcome would’ve been different if he never introduced Beomgyu to the others, if he never befriended Beomgyu himself. Still, he couldn’t imagine a life without his dearest friend, so he broke at the thought of being forced to now live a life without this precious, dearest friend.

Soon after the funeral, having returned to the university, the quartet found out that Minho’s sudden disappearance was finally published in various articles and newspapers. Yeonjun’s father, upon having discussed it with Minho himself and his family, had made sure to sell a particular idea to the public, the idea that Minho had escaped his student life for a sudden break – a quiet, private expedition with no communication with anyone.

The team was rather surprised to hear that the public had so easily accepted this outrageous idea, especially the excuse of malfunctioning cameras failing to capture Minho’s movements in and out of the campus.

“I suppose this is it.”, started off Yeonjun.

He looked at the others with pitiful eyes and an apologetic smile. A part of him was sad at having to bid everyone goodbye, but he was also thankful to have some time alone. The sight of anyone even remotely involved with the