When Nana was in high school, she used to have nightmares for days, sometimes weeks, about the same person. She didn’t know why she dreamt of him, or what caused the nightmares, or why some nights were worse than others. Those thoughts would flutter in and out of her mind like a Ferris wheel that brought her sanity up, then down, up, then down, and up, until by the end of it, all she wanted was to vomit the turmoil in the pit of her stomach.

Sehun reminds her of the boy in her dreams. Like that boy, Sehun never smiled. Like that boy, Sehun was baffling. But unlike that boy, Sehun admitted that his presence was a danger.

So she understood him, even sympathized, when he said that he was a nightmare, because she, too, knew what it was like to hear a word so many times that even though it had nothing to do with the person, because of repetition, the person evolved into the word.

It’s because of this that she replies, “Sometimes we need a nightmare.”

“You wouldn’t say that if you knew what kind of a nightmare I am.”

“Okay,” she nods, wanting to understand. “Then tell me. What kind are you?”

Sehun, if only for a millisecond, actually considers confessing his entire story. Parts of the truth have already been revealed, anyway. Surely she questions his actions and words, and why he’s done what he did and why he evades being invaded. It would be a liberating thing to tell her exactly who he was in a language she knew.

But fear was the ultimate nightmare, and Sehun was addicted to haunting himself.

“Let’s go,” he says, standing up.

“We’re going to leave him here?”

“The Tender will get him.”

“What does he have to do with this?”

Your tongue is becoming loose, Sehun thinks to himself. She’s unraveling the strings he’s spent years tying around his carefully articulated words. These days, he wrongly predicts his own future. How uncanny it is to be uncertain of certainty.

“You don’t need to know.”

“That poem. It was about you, wasn’t it?”

Sehun pauses from lifting his foot away from this madness and firmly places it beside the half-blood’s head. “I’m not so conceited that I would write about myself.”

“It isn’t about conceit,” she responds. “It’s about expression. You don’t talk with your mouth, so you talk with your pen. The poem is about your life.”

“Life?” Such an uninformed observation. Sehun would guffaw if the sound appealed to him. “I don’t write about life. I write about death. It’s always about death. Do you know why?” His eyes tear into her soul like a hurricane that can’t be controlled. “Because death is the great leveler. And no matter what your disposition, you’ll be exactly the same as the man who lies in the grave next to you.”

She’s heard that before. The boy in her nightmare said it, once. Her ex-boyfriend had mumbled it in his sleep. Never the exact words, but always the same message.

Because existence is merely a presence

And life is evidently a message.

“Then what do you write about?”

He exhales. His icy breath hangs between them like a veil. “I write about the things I cannot do. I have the ability to rewrite my own story.”

With wobbly knees, she stands on her own. “Maybe instead of rewriting it, you could relive it. Carry on a different path. Do something radical. Break the rules.” Of what? Of life, maybe. Of death.

“If only I could,” he indistinctively utters. “We’re not going to talk about this anymore. Hurry up and follow me. I’ll take you back to your house.”

How many times does she have to face him until those walls begin to crumble like the legendary barriers of Jericho? Submission, for now, is the answer. But the time will come when his words won’t be as strong as the cage around his heart. The fall has already started. He’s beginning to say too much.

Himchan sits inside his café with the gray stick held between his lips. He watches his customers chat over a cup of coffee, read a newspaper while eating a pastry, or stir their drink with a straw. They look so happy. Himchan thinks it has something to do with the fact that they’re in a café. No one can resist the environment of a good café. It’s a place where students come to study, business people come to discuss, and travellers come to rest. It’s a wonderful melting pot of personalities and occupations, and Himchan’s store is ideally located where a myriad of cultures would collide.

And that’s why Himchan can never avoid coincidence.

“Your blood smells different,” Chaeri snarls. “I don’t like it.”

“It’s my body. I don’t know why you think that’s relevant to you.”

“It’s putrid. That girl was spoiled.”

“I’m not picky.”

“I told you to find me if you needed something.”

“We never exchanged numbers,” he says lazily. Chaeri pulls a small notebook from her purse, angrily scratches her number onto the page, and tears it.

“There. You won’t have an excuse later.”

“Why do you care who I see?”

He’s right. Why should she care? If she left him alone, he would be a loose Daver. There are hundreds of them out there. She isn’t a Binder. It isn’t her job to monitor him. Why does she care what he does in his spare time?

“Because you like me.”

Himchan chokes when the smoke reaches his nostrils. He spits out his cigarette and beats his chest with a fist. “Shouldn’t it be the other way around?”

“I’ve no affinity for confessions.”

“What makes you think I like you?”

“You kissed me.”

He scoffs. “I’ve kissed a lot of people.”

“I’m the first of your kind that you’ve ever kissed. Do you know why I know that?” She leans in, her lips pursed. “I tasted it.”

“Would you stop?” He cries out. “I’m tired of these little mind games you play with me. I don’t care, okay? I don’t care for confusion. I’ve had enough of that. Just reply clearly for once.” Himchan stares at the cigarette on the table. Tiny flickers of orange still beam beneath the crispy dark ash. “Look, I’m really sick of being with you. You never make any sense. Your words are ambiguous. I don’t know who you are. I’m in the dark, and I don’t even know how I got here.”

“You put yourself there.”

Himchan slams his fists on the table. His customers raise their brows at his manners. Lowering his voice, he replies, “I’m going to ask you a question. Please answer plainly.”

He’s still overly pale, despite having nourished himself. And although he hasn’t been a Daver for very long, he’s aged since she last saw him.

“Ask me a question, then.”

“Who are you?”

Simply, like he requested, she answers, “I’m a Niver.”

“And what is that?”

“I’m a creature of the night. Bitten after dusk. Not quite as young as you, I’ve been like this for some time.”

“And what do you … do?”

“I feed. But I haven’t done that in a long time, either. I’m picky about food.”

Himchan counts his fingers. One, two, three, four, five. He taps them on the table. Five beats. Five seconds. “Tell me more about being a Niver.”

“We can turn people. We have to remain in the shadows. But like I said, I’ve been like this. I’m less susceptible to light than new Nivers. The black clothes help.”

“How long have you been that way?”

“Twenty-two years.”

Himchan curses. “People like that shouldn’t exist.”

“And yet here you are.”

He rubs the stub of his cigarette into the table. “At least I look my age.”

“Since we’re on the topic, you should share your story, too.”

Himchan doesn’t think of it as a story. To him, it’s a chapter that he intends to skip. He can’t quite bring himself to do it, though. These past few pages have been entirely too demanding. “I was – turned, if that’s what you call it – two years ago. I was on my way to the café when a crazy maniac grabbed me. I passed out, woke up in my apartment with holes in my neck. I didn’t know what I was, but things started to change.”

“You don’t know who bit you?”

“No. When I asked people about it, they said nothing happened on that street. But that’s unbelievable. I know where it happened, I know when it did, yet people say it never was.”

Chaeri smiles. “That’s the work of a Binder for you.”

“Then the day of the accident … was that a Binder? Is that why I can’t remember?”

“I don’t know. Most likely.”

“If I was going to be in an accident, it could have at least been normal,” he says in exasperation. “But of course I had to go crazy and – my neighbor. He never answers when I come by. He’s related to this, isn’t he?”

Chaeri shrugs, but she can’t look him in the eye when she says, “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

Himchan makes a mental note to visit him tonight. He is certain his neighbor would have answers.

“Do you have any more questions?”

“No. This is enough for today. It’s a lot to swallow.”

“Was that a pun?”

He glances down. “Unintended.”

Her smile widens. “I have a question, too. And I’d also like it if you answered me plainly.”

She has nothing with which to torment him, so he nods. “What is it?”

“Can you take me on a date?”

Today, I met someone

Who made me want to be alive

And although she didn’t know me

She gave me the will to survive.

Sehun scratches out the stanza and starts over. Although he hasn’t begun the poem, he writes the title at the top of the page.

A Life Wish

And, without having even finished the poem, he writes at the bottom: For Nana.

The Tender jumps when his phone rings. His arm aches when he reaches over and lifts the phone from the center of his pillow. Even though Sehun isn’t an active Niver, the result of his activities overworks the Tender. The reason the Tender moved to this zone in the first place was because it was supposed to be peaceful. They didn’t tell him that one of the Nivers was such a drama queen.

Speaking of, he’s the one calling him at this forgotten hour.

“Sehun?”

“Hello, Tender. I had a question for you.”

“Are you asking me if I were asleep? Because I definitely was.”

“Message me her number before you go back to bed, then.”

The Tender covers his yawn. “Who?”

“Nana. You have her number, don’t you? Message it to me.”

“Why would you –“

“I’m taking her out on an apology dinner.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“You were going to. Text it over. I’m hanging up.”

The Tender sits up in his bed. “Wait, Sehun. When can I bring your pills over?”

A pause. “I told you. I’ll get them myself.”

Click.