The sick laughter that rings amongst the few eventually dies down to a hollow silence after the nth body falls to the ground assiduously. Now, the people appear to be significantly afraid, fearing of the things to come, especially them to be delivered by this stooping figure. A seemingly gentle face, mismatched by the stranger’s strong and deceptive hands. “Anyone else up for a game?” croons the visiting stranger, adjusting his grip on the rusted pole. The taunt, albeit subtle, no longer instigates the group’s twisted humour. It is more accurate to mention that this loner is currently identified as a potential threat to their position. Their men, one by one, had been eerily struck down by this shadowed visitant, as they first had no want to entertain anyone without set appointment. Circumstances have altered.

 

It ignites fury and his double-edged comment adds insult to the injury. The people they have employed are not to be taken lightly and having them rendered unconscious — ungainly sprawled — is hardly pleasing. The man with the scar across his brow, assumingly the leader of the pact, barks a welter of incomprehensible commands and the group take immediate charge. Tactical approaches are enforced and improved on the spot, but the lean male’s dexterity and mind proves to be an inexorable folly of theirs. Like dominoes, they fall and inadvertently drag each other’s feet down. “If only you guys have listened earlier, then I need not resort to such alternate ideals,” points out the hooded male, skimming the skin of a beaten person’s thorax. With a hushed, “Ho hum,” the male increases the pressure, causing the victim to thrash about wildly.

 

He does so until another attacks him from behind, and the wielder of the rusted pole directs it appropriately. A yelp of pain, eyes affected by imminent fear. With the scarred one left the only one standing, the man stutters a question. “W-Who are you?” says the man, visibly shaken by the sight of his fallen comrades. This outsider may not be in the mood for killing, but he is still lethal to their own underground operations. A moonlight smirk carves deeply into the unknown one’s quiet expression. The susurration of leaves stirred by the coquettish wind loosens the hood that masks the figure’s features, and lightens his blow advantageously. Despair imbues the leader as the one holding the pole against the neck answers the earlier query. “Do not fear for the works executed by someone — fear me, for being no one,” laughs the brown-haired male half-maniacally, and the gleaming eyes are ones belonging to the perpetual unrest. A distant shriek erupts.

 

“I will avenge the coded.”

 

Those are the words left behind on a torn notebook page in the night scene aside from the injured group of people. Written in blood, it unsettles the citizens watching the news. “That’s the fifth note,” are some of the whispers exchanging in the congested streets. “And the words are never changed. Should we be afraid?” Though their doubt may seem simple, but it is not for the reason that the government claims that everything is under control. They have their search range narrowed and it is specified that it is all but a sole person’s doing. It doesn’t exactly quell the inquietude brewing in the people’s hearts, however, but it is far worse to disagree openly with the authority. Unbeknownst to the crowd’s knowledge, the perpetrator is lurking amongst them, smiling in frank disbelief at the way the media has presented the predicament.

 

“Well, well,” hums the male under his breath. Taking a casual look at his surroundings, the male inconspicuously direct his gaze at a reflective glass window. Let others think him to be vain if they desire to, for he has no care for them at all. First, it is the styled disarray of his russet hair that amuses him exceedingly. The lengthened fringe has a thin attraction for the right portion of his head, the delicate bare blank of the forehead conspiring to the differing countenance. But most of all, it is his eyes of silvery shallowness that alienates his past attitude. Jung Daehyun blinks surreptitiously, an ill notion entertained by his transformed self. It had not always been this way.

 

After the episode at the fateful rendezvous, the spate of newfound information drove him to uncontrollable madness. He was deranged, with an unclear mind of thought and nothing had the ability to catch his fragmented attention. The porcelain mug was the first to break, alongside with the shattering plates and the hand that intended to asphyxiate his friend who turned out to be a traitor. The witnesses screamed for help, but before the call was responded to, Jung Daehyun had bitterly clawed Youngjae across the cheek, a gaping red wound evident for anyone to descry. With a strangled cry, the hurt male had escaped the restaurant swiftly and hid within the shadows. And there he hid with utter discontent with the world, with his friend, with everything — markedly himself.

 

Then a realization dawned upon him. It caused a crooked grin to infect his being and render it captive.

 

“If I am no one…” he had muttered under his breath slowly. “I am not bound to anything. They may know me as Jung Daehyun, but I am not because that fiend has stripped me of my identity. For I am nothing. And nothing cannot be incarcerated.” That was certainly the beginning of his descent to a path undeterred.

 

His green ideas regarding the attempt to seek for assistance discreetly proved terribly detrimental. His unprofessional posters caught the attention of mean people who cheated him of the card that he worked so hard to get the other time. They robbed him of the item in which he spent time trying to store a secret stash of money. Also, he had gotten a fair amount of fisticuffs during frail negotiations. Sometimes he had ended up on the luckier side, walking away with something of use in spite of his battered self but most of time, it was for naught.

 

A few days after those repeated failures, Daehyun turned to the next possible alternative — women. It didn’t make him feel good but it was close to undeniable that his charming looks would be useful. Having seated at the end of the long bar table, the male merely adjusted his hooded jacket lightly and tried to appear casual, as if he wasn’t expecting anything out of the norm to happen in this dark hideout. Why, he was not of legal age as well but that wasn’t the point. Although it was probable that he seemed dumb for not ordering anything — it might have been the cause of his dirty luck. A sultry woman in a tight dress sauntered to his side smoothly and stood too close for comfort. “Hello there, handsome,” greeted the woman carelessly with a small smile. “May I buy you a drink?” It was obvious that he was not downed with alcoholic drinks just yet, a feature likely viewed to be attractive.

 

Here was a young male that would be active and a change of taste, was the prominent notion. When a reply was not articulated, the long-haired lady had daringly leaned closer and placed her hand on his thigh. Her lips parted to add something more in an effort to induce a response when it turned to a stretched whimper. Jung Daehyun had contained his disgust long enough to grab her by the wrist with an iron grip, wearing a dangerous smile. “Go ahead,” he vocalized darkly. “In fact, I insist.” That night was a successful one in which he had gotten the woman to withdraw a surplus of cash or else be threatened with other means. He had ditched her in a room before running for his life, terrified by what he had done but guiltily happy with the money — after all, he needed them and he was too unversed to have known that they could be felt instead of being important digits on a screen.

 

The money was not spent frivolously. It was mainly used for everyday necessities and changing his appearance. His bangs were styled and he decided on silver contact lenses, on the thought that people had a tendency of calling him silver-tongued. It was once a running joke, but now it is something that determined the identity of a non-existent.

 

After a last, good blink, Daehyun shakes the memories away and continues walking forward, the plan clear in his mind. While he may be one who does not exist, he still intends to find a way out of this mess by escaping the clutches of the government and the institution forever. Since the stealthy act of running away, he is being hunted. However, the search is useless by a slight margin since there are people who are actually on his side. Or so it seems at the first glance. The contemplative twenty year old is acutely aware that they are only assisting while his act of rebellion seems to be significantly pernicious to the government’s image. When he falls, it is inevitable that it will happen alone. It is a very, very confirmatory fact. Even so, it is a risk that he takes gratefully. Some is better than none, in spite of the madness in his head that tells him otherwise.

 

By and by, he stands idly beside a white pillar, finding it strangely fascinating. “I suppose this would make a good lookout point in the case of—“ mumbles Daehyun to himself when a random commotion piques his interest. The silver-eyed male casts his gaze in the assumed direction and sees a scared teenager on his knees. An older figure seems to be upsetting the contents of the paper bag on top of the adolescent’s head. Since the jacketed one isn’t in close range, he could only make out that the bullied one is a Jung and well, discrimination as always is free of charge. “Where are you guys hiding him?” snaps the man, or something along those lines. Not really wanting to watch the scene unfold any longer, the twenty year old turns away and mutters a gentle, “Oops,” for the young innocent. It is evident that the government is getting desperate to track the troublemaker down before anything else ludicrous eventuates. He surmises that it would be wise for all Jungs to remain indoors until the battle is dealt with.

 

While his night crusades is viewed to be one executed for his morbid pleasure, it is not so. The quiet one has his reasons for prowling around in the most mysterious way possible, hoping to compel answers to come forth by command. Most of the time though, people get instinctively protective and suspicious — leading to fights because of his apparent association to the Jung project. The notes he leave are just a little extra bonus for anyone who proves meddlesome. The frown that mars his countenance doesn’t abate his winsome look, at any rate, as the male ruminates on the scarce pieces of various clues he managed to obtain. With painstaking effort.

 

It is intelligent information that he is deprived of, and it pertains to the ambassador of this orphan project that he intends to cross swords with, whether literal or not. Looking at the great olden clock tower, Daehyun is not enthused to discover that the people that are supposed to meet him are late. A wretched thirty minutes late at the appointed time frame of nine o’clock at night. Judging by experience, it is highly possible that they are trying to wait him out and see how serious he is because information relayed is information lost for the giving side; likened to a worthless currency. Out of boredom, the twenty year old decides to shrug off all niceties by kicking a loose pebble hard in a stray direction. A low unexpected snarl emanates, and the boy is inescapably amused at how his arbitrary action has smoked out the hiders.

 

“Are we ready to speak now?” remarks Daehyun blinkingly, looking mightily blameless save for the next words that accompany his image. “The map — I want it.” At that, his eyes scarily narrow to a fine degree of perception, dropping a few bank notes onto the floor. It is a straightforward bribery for he has no want to meander along unnecessary roads. He has been doing that since forever. Their greedy eyes stare at the money, and the one holding the parchment tentatively edges towards him in a dilatory fashion. The boy only hisses audibly when the assumed leader stops the parchment holder from doing so.

 

“Identify yourself, Silver Eyes,” challenges the person with a dubious mien. “We have heard of you as of late, but your state of enigma is not one we would conclude reliable. Your name will be an equal exchange in this pursuit.” A triumphant look masks the man’s face while the jacketed one groans inwardly. It is very well for himself to alter his outward appearance, but it is definite that while he regards himself as a restless ghost, they will not. A foolish notion wonders if the intellectually gifted male would be able to sort him out of this mess. He snaps, knowing very well that this is possible because of the other’s whimsical and selfish life of subterfuge anyway. “No?” mocks the man after a while. Taking a deep breath, the twenty year old leans on a nearby metal pole, pretending to be lost in thought. Then he let his anger rip.

 

The twenty year old equips the pole that is loosened before this aggravating meet and monstrously strikes the people down. “People never change, now do they?” drones his thoughts in boredom, as the jacketed one’s hands merely slays all of them to the ground. Of course, he is no murderer but unbeknownst to its owner, the mind is eventually considering that path; a path of corpses to step on in his ascension to a life unchained by despotic wills. Retrieving the parchment, he scowls at the false information detailed. While the rough coordinate of the building is correct, the blueprint of the structure is inevitably forged by some amateur. “Looks like another wasted work tonight,” muses Daehyun as he drops the pole, holding his bleeding neck instead. A slight puncture that isn’t lethal, something he guessed after a few fights. And one can be certain that he writes the sixth note in fresh blood as well.

 

A few more operations take place and fail miserably, as all the seemingly authentic clues do not seem to match or add up at all. Pulling a long, callow face, the twenty year old thinks of the most obvious solution to it all. Donning a cool, black-coloured jacket — instead of the usual navy and the occasional camouflage green — the male takes a few more utensils to serve as his future biddings. Guns and swords are not in his possession, unfortunately, since he did not have the money to buy one or the skills to steal one. A thief he can be, but one of the smallest threats. That kind of level should not be relied on if one has a better prospect in other unconventional methods. Staring at his reflection for a moment longer, he wishes the man in the mirror the best of luck and employs the hood over his brown mess of a head.

 

Sighting the whitewashed mansion from afar, Daehyun could not refrain from blinking erratically. The sunlight is preposterous, but the approaching afternoon would be the best hour for his intentions to take place. Yes, indeed. Most cautiously, the twenty year old sneaks his way inside the large hall, before accidentally tripping over a loose shoelace. Or so it would appear to be. With sharp spears pointing at him in a vicious circle, the guards inquire the fallen one to identify himself. For the nth time, he speaks not of his name and such. By choice, the hood falls neatly off his head, revealing a smiling silver-eyed boy. “I would like to meet the ambassador,” comments Daehyun carelessly. He stands up, raising the guards’ alarm. They prick him by accident, even.

 

A menacing growl threatens to loosen itself, but he will not permit it. The one with the black jacket is planning to either be carried into the man’s quarters by force or easily, by which he does prefer the latter— “And who is this?” articulates a feminine voice. It belongs to the scarfed lady who is walking towards him with graceful steps. The guards’ anxious whispers capture his attention. Well then, he didn’t actually expect the sole board member that indirectly launched the Jung project to be a woman, but that is alright. It’s not like the plan depended on masculinity, and why, his luck might be proven better in a little bit now. Scrutinizing the cornered male, the woman smiles in return. “Now, let us not keep a guest waiting!” quips the lady. “It will not be nice to do so. You may call me Ambassador Chane.”

 

Gasps of evident surprise infect the guards. It is maddening that the one they have sworn to protect has granted the intruder a temporal stay. In fact, it is the first time she has ever done this. Surely the madam has not succumbed to the male’s fine outer appearance, right? No, it will not be possible. She would not be so shallow. Truth be told, the woman is not like that at all. The ambassador had spotted a glimpse of his scarred neck and easily concludes him to be the recent perpetrator. A silent, “Hello, Mister Jung,” was issued without anyone else’s knowledge but Jung Daehyun’s. It is sufficient to enlarge the smug grin on his face. “Consider me the guest of honour, Madam Ambassador,” mentions the jacketed boy with a hidden derisive laugh. Oh, he is certainly dressed for the occasion.

 

After quick inspections were carried out, the guards release Daehyun, permitting him to walk around the mansion legally. Ambassador Chane proves to be a good hostess as she had been waiting for his impending arrival. “Welcome — you are probably the first to pay a visit,” she comments, an underlying meaning that is painfully obvious within that sentence. He offers a smile and thanks her for the privilege, but the pleasant exchange of niceties actually irks him. Being the one behind the project doesn’t cause a fair view to emerge from the hurt twenty year old, truly. She gives him a brief tour of the gigantic place, casually crossing over a transparent connecting bridge about five storeys high to enter the next block. Facing his old enemy is somewhat bittersweet, considering how he used to be so shaky about increased heights. Now, the fear is nearly conquered, and the remainder positively heightens his sense of perception. Daehyun supposes that he could thank that ex-friend of his for that stupidly outrageous visit to the glass tower. Or not.

 

Blinking reluctantly, the jacketed one glance at his dull wristwatch. It is the only thing that would remind him of his tortured life in the Jung quarters. Based on the time given, it is apparent that an hour has passed since the inspection. “Well, well — it looks like we’re done with viewing the place,” chimes the ambassador opportunely. “You seem hungry, young man. Shall we partake a hearty lunch together?” On a normal occasion, he would have rejected strongly, but this is close the chance that he has been waiting for. Plus, it is not every day that he would get an invitation to the table belonging to a person of position, more so the ambassador of his terrible life. Unnatural eyes drooping imperceptibly with thoughtfulness, a smile enlightens his features.

 

“It will be my delight.”

 

The ambassador and the silver-eyed male is ushered into a vast room, a long marble table fit for eight but only occupied by the pair. The food is already set on the table, and all that they need to do is to enter and take their seats. The jacketed male takes his place across the woman, them both posing in a dignified manner before the heavy thud indicated the guards’ departure. Prompting the visitor to eat, Ambassador Chane readily consumes her portion neatly. For the first few minutes, Jung Daehyun doesn’t. Instead, he stares at the satin curtains and the carpeted mess on the floor that reek of discordance. The opulence displayed isn’t something that he is fond of at all. Eventually, nevertheless, he picks up the fork and knife to begin slicing the meat on the plate. “Thank goodness,” she says easily. “I was beginning to think that you would never eat.”

 

Halting the cutting process, his eyes flicker to hers. “Perhaps so, too,” muses Daehyun. “I am incredibly sickened by all of this.”  He pushes himself away from the table, the chair chalking the ground about the length of one foot. Now, the ambassador stops as well. It is either out of intuition or plain etiquette. “Is this how you intend to avenge for the coded?” she questions calmly. “By refusing the food given to you? How cheap.”

 

“No, it is not like that at all,” answers the twenty year old with equal equanimity. “I, too, would agree that the refusal of succulent delicacies would be most doltish.” The ambassador actually quirks a brow. With arms crossed, she articulates a logical notion. “Is that so?” she mutters in return. “Then enlighten me, young man.” A crude grin devours.

“Madam Ambassador,” he enunciates elusively. “Had I been any other, perhaps I would try to befuddle you with random but equal possibilities. I could say that I intend to play thief, or maybe stalk you persistently. Why, the thought of being close to you without your knowledge is certainly tempting. Since I’ve spoken of these, however, my attempt at mystery is debunked. Spending an hour or two with me should have you informed that I am not like that. In fact, I much prefer to be straightforward.”

 

The sharpened table knife is held in a suffocating range against the ambassador’s neck. “… I have a predilection for directness and intravenous stuff,” muses Daehyun nicely before his words distort exceedingly in a dark manner. “Now, don’t you dare scream for your guards or they’ll come in and see your mutilated neck.” He is never fond of resorting to cruel measures, but this person is different. The one who disguised her intentions behind a seemingly benign project — how despicable. Right there and then, he does not want to kill but he wants to retrieve every single information that is required. Before the twenty year old is able to do so, however, a searing pain stabs his leg. His eyes widen, realizing that the incapacitation is done by the work of the ambassador’s weaponed shoe.

 

By hapless luck, it distances the two and gives her the opportunity to summon the guards. This time, they are not equipped with their spears but judging by their stance, they are able fighters. While the fisticuffs ensue, Daehyun persistently fling questions regarding escape and other matters, although it is pathetically obvious that they will be deflected. The madam gleefully states that the coded will never find a way out, which incites his perpetual fury. “Oh really now?” scorns Daehyun between the throwing of punches and occasional kicks. “Do you not worry about the growing number of your guards sprawled on the ground?”

 

A soft laugh tinkles. “I need not bother about such trivial things,” she merely replies. “Time will tell you why.” More guards fall, and he concludes that bizarrely, they didn’t have a set uniform. How weird. Anyway, that isn’t the main point here. With an amount so dearth, the twenty year old is dealing with the last five when his leg halts from knocking a certain one unconscious. He stares with great emotion. This guard, he just had to wear a seamed cap today now didn’t he— Daehyun is pinned on the ground with sufferable weight on him. The silver-eyed male attempts to shake free but it is futile, and without a second wasted, the corner of his eye picks up the image of the ambassador approaching him with something vaguely familiar. And perilous. The ground comes up and brings him to a world of darkness as a bitter thought dominates.

 

“Idiot.”

 

He wakes to the sound of plodding shoes. Jung Daehyun opens his eyes gradually, hoping against hope that he would not be facing some authoritative figure. Luckily, perhaps for once, he doesn’t. In fact, after his eyes adjust to his surroundings, he notes that he is placed in some messy room, lying on the ground. The sound of constant footsteps appears to be outside the room, probably guarding it. Squinting, and feeling the slight tug of restrain on his arms, the male made some inconclusive plans and decidedly falls back asleep. There is a right time for everything.

 

The silver-eyed male does not respond to the pulling of his tousled hair well, a pointless move made to wake him. A salient frown mars his countenance as several guards march him out of the room he was held captive in like a ragdoll. “I can walk, you know,” he complains recklessly under his breath, earning him an uncomfortable jab at the side. “… Fine.” They continue down a few hallways and make some turns until they arrive at a typical white room. A small, “Ah,” escapes the dejected male’s windpipe, alongside with a faint suspire. No wonder it feels familiar — because it is. This room and he are acquainted. If not the exact premise, then somewhere else that is quite similar in semblance. His emotions tumble.

 

“Welcome,” greets a booming voice. “You seem familiar.” The silver-eyed one could pretty much narrow his eyes at this point of time. He and the criminal psychologist — well, according to the twenty year old himself — have a turbulent relationship. The man seems bent on persuading Daehyun out of the path he had chosen. As if that influenced him at all. He has become more heinous, if anything. With a wretched lopsided grin, Jung Daehyun engages the impossible. The cinereal thumbtacks that he held on with his teeth painstakingly with proper balance are flung in all directions, injuring some of the guards and the criminal psychologist. In turn, he coughs up the blood that was purchased by the spiky materials before addressing the initial salutation. “What are you talking about?” he challenges in a threateningly soft voice. “I have no more familiarities to bask myself in.”

 

Taking one glance at those false silver orbs, it is the harsh truth. For the eyes of the twenty year old speaks of everything that is important regarding his lifespan, and it has deteriorated drastically since they last met.

 

I am nobody. I don’t exist. I have no identity. Everything is taken from me. There is no reason to continue after I achieve my vengeance. The thought of escape is something darker than what I first conceived it to be. I am a fake.

 

The screams of his damaged soul is exhausting.

Yet the betraying, enlarging grin on the twenty year old’s face hardens the psychologist’s trail of thought. “This potential psychopath has to be stopped at once,” is what the man figures. “It does not matter if he has been wronged beyond retribution.” Drawing the reserves of his anger at the impudence displayed by the Jung imbecile, the man orders the inevitable to be brought forward in their schedule. Upon holding the technologically advanced handgun, the man notes the many battle scars gained by the twenty year old during the span of his life. Even so, the punishments incurred seem insufficient as of late.

 

“I think I have been much too lenient on you,” says the psychologist in a hard tone, tapping the gun on the criminal’s shoulder. “You are not learning at all.” A bored look encompasses the brown-haired male before it transformed with a macabre sense of delight. “Perhaps,” he murmurs, before hurling the final thumbtack at the man with the use of his bleeding tongue. It rips the man’s cheek, and he howls in pain. Overcome with maniacal desires, Daehyun laughs. And laughs and laughs and laughs. It is likely that it would have continued if the man did not recover from his unfortunate accident. The man growls. He equips the gun to an appropriate calibre and plants it on the twenty year old’s temple. “Any last words?” threatens the psychologist as the room hushes up.

 

The jacketed one glances at the weapon connected to his head and graces the infuriated one an innocent smile. “Burn in hell.” Fingers pull the trigger.

 

There are two types of strategies in the world regarding important possession. One may be willing enough to risk a non-protection around that certain matter, fooling another into believing that there is nothing of worth there. The other method is obvious and usually employed — guard it with your life. Guard it to the brink of death or face a punishment of equal severity. Of course, the latter is the one implemented here at the four gates of the state. A handful of guards watch out for any intruders that try to break their fortification unauthorized. Though it rarely happens, it does tonight, and it is ill luck that they chanced to be a little sleepy.

 

It costs the attention that might have prevented the incident from happening. Three guards are spread-eagled on the ground before the remaining register what is occurring. A breach.

 

The guard’s eyes shudder upon sighting the criminal. Russet hair and silver eyes. That is all he needs to know. “W-Why are you still alive?” the guard inquires with drowning fear. “Why?” He remembers the execution; the way it was conducted. There is no way this person, based on past experiences, could ever get away unscathed. The gun pressed on the young adult’s temple— “Go to sleep,” muses the perpetrator before knocking the last guard unconscious. And the guard does.

 

“All that yapping is going to take a toll on me,” groans the silver-eyed one inwardly as he rubs the sides of his head. Truthfully, Jung Daehyun almost didn’t make it. The searing pain that reached his soul and pierced it is impractical. It was the power of will and other inconsequential elements — which in turn, assisted him so it wouldn’t be too accurate to label them inconsequential — that caused his re-emergence. The twenty year old bleakly supposes that the surprise factor actually works to his advantage, so he should not be ranting about it. Anyway, there are more grave subjects to attend to. His heart beats with trepidation upon sighting the distant city beyond the gate.

 

With trudging footsteps, the male warily makes his way to the gate. To his delight and utmost suspicion, it isn’t chained or locked in any way. Frowning, he thinks hard but is unable to come up with anything creative. So if there are hidden traps or anything, then so be it. Or so the serious twenty year old thinks. To actually die in vain would be blasphemy. He quietly passes the gate and closes it behind him, walking forward until he bumps his head. Silver eyes dilate in unspeakable horror.

 

No. It cannot be.

 

It would be too sick and horrible to be true. Surely, certainly, perhaps, maybe, it will not and never be—

 

But it is.

 

Blinded by his ebullience, he had failed to notice the biggest artifice. The twenty year old stares in despair; stunned by the terrifying idea that it is a cleverly-engineered reflection of this place from a strategic angle. Ire pulsates through his veins. With a voiceless cry, he punches the obstacle in front of him over and over again until his hands bleed. Even then he stops momentarily. This land seems to be covered with this strong material in a dome-like structure. Daehyun scowls, trying to find a gap of substantial size — which is the one at the highest point of the sky. He continues to pummel the unshakable barrier, questioning everything and anything.

 

Why is there a barricade? Why didn’t he notice this before? Why is there even a why for this? Just who is sick enough to make anyone believe in a false escape? Why couldn’t he choose his way out for once? He becomes desperate enough to shoot bullets at it, using the guard’s gun, but it doesn’t work. There isn’t a scratch for him to take offence for.

 

The subtle arrival of another deepens his grief. “Yoo,” is all Daehyun utters with animosity, not turning around. Like he cares to converse with him like a delectable host. As if. The acknowledgment is intended to scare the other off while he stands a considerable distance apart. “Hi,” says the other carefully. A minimal expression of dissatisfaction rolls off the twenty year old’s tongue. So apparently that doesn’t work on the seamed cap boy. Well, assumingly he is wearing one. He isn’t supposed to bother to look at him, after all. “What are you doing here,” adds Daehyun as a false afterthought, making the question sound more like an approaching ultimatum. “I cursed you to perdition.”

 

Uncharacteristically, the other doesn’t laugh. Instead, the younger one’s voice takes a solemn tone. “I am not obliged to obey the curse,” answers Youngjae. “However, that’s not the point here. Daehyun — please talk to me.” The boy would have given a snappy comeback if it is not for the thought that suddenly appears. Something about the way the nineteen year old’s question is formed is absolutely mistrustful. “Well, well, am I to meet the government’s last weapon of defense?” assumes the silver-eyed one bitterly. “What makes them think that I would even listen?” He turns around and spots him about fifteen feet apart. Slightly more if one counts the gate. The nineteen year old wears a cerulean beanie. Blasted beanies.

 

“I am not their weapon,” replies Youngjae, exceedingly offended. “I’m just here to say that I’ve been looking for you, and I’m glad to have found you. Even if you are being upset about how your exit crumbled.” That is the last straw. The mask of patience he has been enduring finally ripped itself into unfixable fractions. Of all things, putting together fake concern and mocking his act of desperation is adding fuel to the unquenchable fire. In untimed motions, the seamed cap boy feels the ground against his chest and a powerful hand digging into his nape. “Say one more stupid thing and I’ll blow your head off,” states Daehyun. “Or choke you. Whichever preferable. I dare you.”

 

A short, wheezy chuckle ensues. “Oh, Daehyun.”

 

The one pinned on the ground struggles to turn around to face his opponent, but he does. With his back on the hard, rugged ground, the nineteen year old blinks once at him. Daehyun narrows his eyes at the use of that futile tactic. Ignoring the choking sensation, Youngjae wears the tiniest of smiles, shaking his head slightly. “If I really have to be killed, I wouldn’t want to die looking at your weird silver eyes,” wisecrack the seamed cap boy. “So you might want to consider removing them.” The twenty year old’s hand wraps around the other’s neck tighter and the gun’s trigger is held fractionally closer.

 

“Some people just have a death wish, now don’t they?” comments Daehyun coldly. The younger’s one raises a polite brow. “Not really,” he murmurs. “I just have a point to get across and that is what matters. I can’t say whether you’ll keep me alive or not but my last request — if it has to be — would be for you to listen.” Wearing an indifferent look, the twenty year old blinks. Taking it as a signal to go ahead, Youngjae speaks.

 

“After you left, I knew I had to do something,” he begins quietly. “I have pillaged you without consent and I have to do something somehow. And then I had a weird hunch that you were trying to find a way to break free. The governmental imprisonment at the age of twenty-one is no secret, you see. So I’ve been trying to find a way out, and I’ve been trying to find you again to say I’m sorry.”

 

“What makes you think that your apologetic feelings are worth anything?” growls Daehyun, resisting the urge to break the other’s frail neck. “Will it undo the disaster that has taken place in my life? My parents died an unjust death and the love and acceptance I seek will never be possible in this lifetime any longer. No one is willing to adopt me into their home and I think the government would be pleased to play with me. Why do you think I intend to find a means of escape? … What makes you think that you can do anything?”

 

“I’m afraid of you because we are similar.” That disjointed statement rolls off the nineteen year old’s tongue and it has the power to confuse and paralyze the thinking system. “What?” exclaims the twenty year old accidentally. The last thing he wants to do is to expose his surprise, since he is supposed to not care. He is supposed to treat this as meaningless banter. The fact that his emotions are getting riled up is ridiculous. “Just like I said,” affirms Youngjae with a defiant look in his eyes. “I have not the pains you have, but I know what is it like to lose and hurt beyond easy repair. You have my word on this.” Daehyun calls him a blatant liar. The neck turns a pale blue.

 

“I am not done yet,” growls Youngjae unexpectedly with immense pain. “Before you do something like this, hear my one last request. Remove my beanie.” That request exists because the nineteen year old’s hands are rendered useless for the time being. Noticing the hesitant look, the younger one makes a sarcastic remark regarding how the beanie shouldn’t be removed because like, he would totally emerge with heroic powers afterwards. Annoyed, Jung Daehyun executes the seemingly nugatory task. The grip on Youngjae’s neck slackens and the gun drops to the ground.

 

On the nineteen year old’s forehead, he has an imprinted circular target, accompanied with a number eight. Overcome with this discovery, the twenty year old swiftly checks the other’s collarbone by pulling the collar down and rolls up the two sleeves. There are three more similar target circles, numbering eleven, fourteen and seventeen respectively. “You were telling the truth,” the silver-eyed one mentions emotionally. The younger one shrugs weakly on the ground, a faint smile on his lips. “Thank God you didn’t pull the trigger before finding out, huh?” he quips.

 

The circular targets indicate the shots fired from the technological advanced guns, mostly for crime use. The thought of actual prison cells no longer appeal to the chancellor and the board members — instead, they are more interested in the imprisonment of one’s mind. The numbers are used to differentiate the pain situation inflicted on the person; example-wise the first one is the pain of being burned alive, whereas the number two would be the sensation of drowning. And the list goes on. When a punishment is given, usually a background check will be done first so that the punishment would be appropriate, enough to cause the person to never do wrong ever again to escape that unbearable feeling. It is certainly worse than death. That is exactly one of the reasons why people like Yoo Youngjae and Jung Daehyun are crazy for getting multiples, especially the latter with his latest episode regarding the gun at his temple.

 

Jung Daehyun has six, and two of their target numbers are the same. He blinks. Noticing the twenty year old’s b curiousity, the nineteen year old answers. “Number eight is experiencing the death of a loved one and number eleven is the feeling of dying before accomplishing anything substantial,” mumbles Youngjae forlornly. “For your information. That’s all.” The awkward silence grows. The twenty year old ambulates, at a loss of words and how to proceed from this point onward; so deep in thought until he forgets about the sole important thing. It is the feeble kick that reaches his brain.

 

“Get me off the ground already.”

 

“Oh.” That is rather lame to utter but the twenty year old couldn’t help it.

 

Scratching the back of his head unnaturally, Daehyun extends his free hand toward the weakened person. “Sorry about the cap,” he mumbles, strangely embarrassed. “I’ll get you a new one.” Finding the tint of amusement in that familiar gesture; Youngjae chuckles freely. The nineteen year old purposefully snaps his fingers to get the older one’s attention. “Admit it, you just miss me already,” he jokes. “I jest—“ A long blink by the older one actually confirms the joke, much to the boy’s surprise.

 

“Shut up, Jae,” warns Daehyun, looking away. “Or else you will continue hatless.” The alternate style of addressing him makes the younger one smile sincerely. At least it is a start, right? Didn’t they say that forgiveness is the beginning of everything? Then Youngjae’s face becomes serious again. “Ah, right — before I forget,” asserts the nineteen year old. “There something I have to tell you. Ambassador Chane is…”

 

Daehyun stares at his companion after the terse explanation. “That’s so screwed,” he says honestly. “So the ambassador is your mother, and your parents parted ways because they couldn’t concur to either stands, and then…?” Yoo Youngjae finds a spark of mirth in the whole situation. And he could not help but to point it out. “Looks like our lives are meant to be inextricably intertwined,” dares the nineteen year old with an audacious wink. A short and direct, “You creep,” is uttered before the silence envelops them once again.

 

“So what now?” wonders Daehyun aloud, eventually breaking the period of silence. Youngjae fiddles with a stone and hurls it. “Eh,” he replies. “There is only one option I can think of right now. Since this nation is currently isolating itself in a dome-like structure, there’s no way you can escape. I was thinking… if trying to change things from the outside isn’t effective, maybe we should do it from the inside.”

 

“I’m not going to be a government’s lapdog.”

 

“Daehyun, no,” answers Youngjae hastily. “That is not what I meant. Wait, well, maybe. I was thinking that at least one of us should try to become a board member and convince them otherwise, like removing the barricade. That’s when the orphans can run. I’m sure a majority of them would be able to find better places out there. Or something.”

 

A frown pulls at the silver-eyed male’s face. “Even if I am supposed to slave away for a few more years, it would be futile,” he muses. “Board members can’t have a past criminal record, and even if they tried to be lenient, only two shots at the most. We are obviously overboard— Oh.” A sudden notion begins forming itself at the same time in both of their minds. Yoo Youngjae, infamous stealer of Jung Daehyun’s identity, has been leaving records under the twenty year old’s name as well. It is highly possible that the circular targets puncture and taint his file forever, but on the other hand, the other original record might be alright. In fact, flawless. A sharp, hungry grin enlightens Daehyun’s features upon hearing the other’s maddening proposal.

 

“Hey Daehyun. Up for tampering with some decade-old records?”

 

“I thought you’d never ask.”

 

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Because this idea honestly ate my brain. I tried my best to write this.

And if anyone manages to read this, thank you very much for your time and effort to devour this piece.