i.

Sunggyu has always wondered if one of the criteria for being a good leader was a warped sense of humour.

“I always hoped that you would give up this place when you took over,” Sunggyu says in disgust, cringing at a particularly strange reflection of himself down the corridor. Howon grins wolfishly, crossing his legs and leaning back in his chair.

“Why give up a perfectly good base of operations?” he asks, tilting his head slightly to the side. “Or do you hate mirrors that much?”

Sunggyu doesn’t answer then, because he doesn’t have one. He continues disliking the hall of mirrors with its distorted reflections on every wall, never stops telling Howon that there are more respectable places to operate out of and that an abandoned carnival is no place for the leader of their entire gang. (“I like preserving the eccentricities,” Howon replied, completely seriously. Sunggyu almost lobbed his paperweight at him. Like leader, like heir.)

Sunggyu only finds a concrete reason to hate the hall when the first of those things staggers in. Everyone reels back from the stench, but to Sunggyu, that’s nothing compared to the sight of the rotted, grotesque creature reflected over and over and over in every mirror he can see—twisted images of decaying flesh and peeling skin, on every wall down the corridor.

He hears Woohyun shouting, and the sound of the shots he fired echoes down the hall.

Sunggyu runs out the back and throws up.

 

 

-

That corpse is the first of many.

It doesn’t take long at all for them to piece together what happened. A plague—one that they have no name for—a plague that sets in and rots your flesh within the day, eats away at your brain until you’re nothing but a walking, mindless corpse. And yet it stops there, never quite killing you, keeping you alive to walk the streets and spread the disease further. Or perhaps it simply allows you to walk past death and beyond.

The word’s on the tip of everyone’s tongue, but nobody wants to say it.

They’re doing everything they can to stop it, but Howon knows it’s only a matter of time. They can’t keep this plague contained forever; word is going to get out at some point, and everything will fall apart. Worse, the plague itself will get out—and the world itself will truly be doomed then.

He gathers the members he most trusts together, even though the plan that’s started to take form in his head makes him dread what will happen to them. But desperate times call for desperate measures. At least, that’s what he tells himself to pretend that what he’s doing is acceptable.

Sunggyu keeps his head lowered, and Howon can’t help but notice the way his hair falls forward, shading his eyes. Next to him, Woohyun is silent and still; L even more so, as if he’s trying to fade into the shadows. Sungyeol is the only one fidgeting; he scuffs his foot against the ground, wrings his hands, plays with his hair. He’s always been the restless one.

They know he has a plan—and it hurts Howon to think that they believe in him enough not to even ask what it is. They trust him too much.

Howon closes his eyes briefly, giving himself the few seconds of weakness before he forces them open again. Standing around isn’t going to make anything happen. “Sungyeol,” he says, and Sungyeol immediately snaps to attention, suddenly looking as composed and respectful as the others. “Deliver a message for me.”

They trust him, and he’s going to bring them all down with him.




ii.

Sungjong adds another tally mark to the count he’s keeping on the wall, half-impressed by the number that’s built up. Close to two weeks in the same place—that’s a new record. He’s hardly dissatisfied, not when running takes more effort than he likes, but it’s admittedly unnerving. It shouldn’t be so easy for him to hide.

“Your Highness!” Sungjong almost drops the knife when the door flies open and Dongwoo rushes in, the reprimand on the tip of his tongue (I am no longer ‘Your Highness’, Jang Dongwoo, I have not been your prince for a long time and will never be again)—but the words slip away when he takes in Dongwoo’s dishevelled appearance and tense frown.

“So have we been found?” he asks, though he knows the answer to that already. “How are our escape routes? Have they been compromised?”

“No, Your Highness, we haven’t been found.” Dongwoo pauses, as if reconsidering. “No, actually, yes. We’ve been found. But not by the bounty hunters. It’s someone else.”

“Someone else?” Sungjong repeats quizzically. “You have to tell me more than that, hyung. By who?”

Dongwoo wordlessly shrugs, but takes a plain white letter from his pocket. Sungjong accepts it silently, noting the fact that it’s actually sealed and addressed to him. It’s a letter reminiscent of the ones he used to handle when he was still the beloved ‘prince’ of the sect he’s glad to be free of—though from the bounty hunters, the feelings are clearly not mutual. Shaking off the stray thoughts, Sungjong breaks the seal, carefully withdrawing the neatly-folded paper inside.

He’s not sure what he was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t this. It’s all Sungjong can do to keep himself from showing any outward reaction when he reads down the message, crinkling the paper where his fingers have tightened around it.

It’s not a cryptic message; it’s downright straightforward. A location, a time, a name. Nothing else.

Nothing else is necessary.

Sungjong slips the paper back into its envelope, brow furrowing. Dongwoo’s looking at him expectantly, waiting for his answer. “Well,” he starts slowly, “we haven’t been found by the bounty hunters yet—but it looks like we’re leaving now.”

It’s a shame, really. He was hoping to reach two weeks.

 

 

-

“Everything’s in place, Hoya.”

Howon looks up at the sound of Woohyun’s voice, noting with slight disapproval the use of his street name. He chose it himself and wears it with pride, but at the same time, he’s close enough to Woohyun—close enough to all of them—that he doesn’t want to hear them use that name. They’re his family. He doesn’t want that name putting distance between them.

“All we have to do now is wait.”

He can’t really blame Woohyun for withdrawing, though. After he told him and Sunggyu the plan in its entirety, he was fully prepared for the possibility of them both turning on him. When they had only reacted with silence, and then assent, Howon hadn’t been sure whether to be relieved or anxious.

“Woohyun, you do understand what you’re getting into?”

He’s asked this question more than once, so he expects it when Woohyun nods. It frustrates him that Woohyun keeps his head lowered—he can’t read his expression.

“Woohyun.” He gets a slight incline of his head in reply, and the barest flicker of emotion in his eyes. “Be honest with me. Give me your answer not as my subordinate, not as my right-hand man, not as my friend—give me your answer as Nam Woohyun.”

Woohyun hesitates; Howon sees it. But then he just nods again, firmly, and this time he doesn’t cast his eyes downwards.

“I understand.” He’s regained his steely composure, but that second of hesitation was all Howon needed. That’s my answer.

“There’s one thing though, Howon.”

Howon looks up, caught off-guard momentarily by Woohyun’s name switch. Woohyun gives him a crooked smile, looking straight at him.

“I’m not your right-hand man. I’m your left. Sunggyu-hyung would scream if I stole his position.”

The words make Howon laugh, but at the same time, his heart sinks a little. He’s built this for them—for all of them—a family they can trust, a place they can call home. And now he’s destroying it. He’s burning it to the ground, and nobody’s even trying to stop him.

Sometimes Howon wonders why he leads them.

 

 

-

Dongwoo’s uneasy.

Something about the atmosphere here isn’t right—the emptiness of the streets, the odd quiescence that seems on the verge of breaking at any second. Shop windows are closed, doors barred, lights dimmed. Dongwoo feels like he’s walking through a ghost town.

Sungjong’s unnerved too, he can tell; but he still holds himself confidently, walking down the deserted street as though a procession is there to welcome him. Dongwoo remains on guard, one hand on his gun and the other on his knife, watching out for any sign of movement.

He tenses when he sees a shadow shift out of the corner of his eye, placing his hand on Sungjong’s shoulder to stop him. “Wait,” he whispers. But he’s barely said the word before a man emerges—a handsome, clean-cut man who somehow, like Sungjong, manages not to look out of place in the empty, dark city.

“Who are you?” Sungjong asks imperiously, shooting a look at Dongwoo to tell him to stay his hand. The man tilts his head slightly, then shrugs.

“Your guide, I guess?” He scratches the back of his neck, glancing at Sungjong surreptitiously. Dongwoo vaguely theorises that he’s probably trying to reconcile Sungjong’s appearance with his mental image. He’s heard talk on the street about how people think the legendary runaway prince looks like. “Call me L.”

L leads them a surprisingly efficient route to where Sungjong tells him, in a low whisper, is the meeting place stated in the letter. Dongwoo starts feeling anxious by the time they reach the foot of the hill, and even more so when L leads them straight into the abandoned carnival, shoving the locks aside like they don’t matter at all (and certainly, they don’t lock).

Dongwoo feels a shiver run down his spine when they’re led into what has to be an old hall of mirrors, trying not to look at the myriad reflections of himself on the walls. Sungjong, in contrast, gives every single one a passing glance, as if they don’t bother him at all. Dongwoo’s glad when the hallways converge into a proper (though still mirrored) room—but its lone occupant sets him on guard again immediately.

He feels a little déjà vu; he’s sure his confusion shows through for a moment when he has to quickly match his own mental image of Hoya, gang leader, to the perfectly decent man sitting on the chair. It’s obvious that he doesn’t have the wrong person; the man sits like the chair’s his throne, and he’s having an official audience with them. But Hoya isn’t what he expected at all. He looks like… any other normal man.

“So you’re Hoya.” Sungjong’s voice is as calm as ever, and Dongwoo feels a ripple of pride. Sungjong can be nervous and scared on the inside, but he’ll never let it show. Hoya smiles at them, standing up, and Dongwoo tenses when he holds out his hand—but Sungjong just smoothly shakes it, eyes never leaving his.

“Yes. I hope you don’t mind that I sent out a guide. I was afraid you wouldn’t make it in time.” He glances briefly at Dongwoo, and Dongwoo suddenly has the thought that punctuality is hardly the only reason why he sent someone to pick them up. “Welcome. I think we need to have a talk.”




iii.

Sungjong doesn’t say a word for what feels like hours. He just listens as Hoya talks frankly, yet about nothing of consequence; pleasantries that remind him too much of the kind he was forced to entertain once upon a time. He’s just starting to get impatient when L walks in again, and the conversation pauses while he makes his report. He hesitates at first, seeing Sungjong in the room, but Hoya motions to him to start speaking.

L takes a deep breath, and Sungjong expects a long-winded report that covers everything from clothes to weather to wheel condition. But in the end, all he says is, “They’re here.”

Hoya looks thoughtfully at him, though Sungjong sees his brow crease. Apparently ‘they’ are something to worry about. “Which side?” he asks, and that makes Sungjong raise an eyebrow.

“Both.”

Complete silence falls for a moment, and Sungjong turns his gaze to Hoya. With a sigh, Hoya turns back to him. Sungjong can feel the gazes of the whole room bearing down on the two of them. “I suppose I should explain.”

“Please,” Sungjong says politely, although all he really wants is to give the man a good shake. He just sat through several hours of absolutely nothing waiting for a report about an unknown ‘them’.

“The bounty hunters after your life are closing in. Well, more accurately, the force of your entire sect—”

“Former sect,” Sungjong corrects coldly.

“—Former sect is about to get here. I may or may not have said a word about how you would very certainly be right here at this time.”

Dongwoo shoves his chair back so hard at the words that Sungjong jumps, and he’s about to say something when Dongwoo draws his gun. “This was a set-up?” Dongwoo demands, sounding angry and strangely—hurt?

“Dongwoo,” Sungjong says sharply, already very aware of the fact that there are three other people in the room on Hoya’s side who have guns pointed at Dongwoo. He narrows his eyes at Hoya, who raises his hands in surrender. “You had better have a good reason for this.”

“I do, I swear. I don’t want to hurt you or Dongwoo, either. This may actually benefit us all in the end—as long as you let me explain. Can we all put away our weapons?” Hoya asks lightly, glancing at Dongwoo. Sungjong’s annoyed at the familiar way he says Dongwoo’s name, like he didn’t just admit to selling them out, but he motions to Dongwoo to put away his gun anyway. He notices that the others do the same, although he’s still wary.

“Fine. Start talking.”

“Have you heard talk of the plague?” Hoya asks directly, cutting straight to the chase. Sungjong sees Dongwoo tense next to him, and feels dread slowly rising in his stomach. No. He can’t be talking about that.

“You hear a lot on the streets,” he answers, keeping his voice flat. “Your point, please.”

“It’s here.”

The silence that falls again is almost oppressive in its weight. Sungjong breaks it by drawing a deep breath, digging his nails into his palm.

“I see.” He lets the silence linger for a few seconds more before speaking again. “I fail to see what that has to do with selling me out.”

Hoya smiles bitterly, leaning forward on his elbows. “I didn’t have much choice in the matter. I assume you’re aware of the plague’s effects. Of what it does.”

“I am.” Dongwoo calls it a ‘zombie plague’, which is what it is. But Sungjong knows well enough that few people call it that, as if by calling out what it really is they have to admit it’s real.

“You see, your s—your former sect has one thing that we don’t. They have firepower. More than enough to raze a city.” Hoya’s mouth twists into a cynical smirk. “Definitely enough to rid one of a plague.”

Sungjong stays silent, Hoya’s plan slowly taking form in his head. He almost can’t believe it. Hoya controls the city—his influence is strong enough that if he wanted, he could well make a sect out of the entire town. The fact that he hasn’t, has instead chosen to act the part of protector to the city, speaks to how much he cares for it. And now he’s callously talking about inviting someone in to burn it down.

“I don’t mean to let you get hurt, of course. I’ll protect you, even if it kills me.” Sungjong’s taken off-guard by the conviction in Hoya’s voice. He sounds like he’s never been more sure of anything in his life. “But I know your sect doesn’t act on rumours. I needed you here, to pull this off. I’m sorry.”

Sungjong stares down at his hands, aware of Dongwoo practically vibrating next to him. He’s just the opposite of Sungjong—the shock probably has him longing to move and do something, to stop himself from thinking too much. Sungjong feels like his muscles aren’t working. “You planned all of this from the start,” he says quietly.

“Yes, I did.”

“You made me come here, kept me in the dark, and only told me when I had no chance of escaping.”

“I sent you an invitation. If you truly didn’t want to come, you could’ve ignored me.” Hoya smiles ruefully. “But yes, the moment you stepped foot in here, it was a lost cause.”

Sungjong spends a moment to look around the room, taking in its other occupants. Dongwoo next to him, the only person he really trusts right now. The others are Hoya’s men—he’s been introduced to them. Woohyun, on Hoya’s left, standing stiffly with a hand still on his gun; Sunggyu on his right, head lowered, not saying a word. L is off to the back, fidgeting the way Dongwoo is and glancing around like something in the room is missing. He wonders in passing which of them sent the message to Dongwoo, or if it was someone else entirely; the person L’s eyes are searching for.

After all, everything started with that letter. For him, at least.

“So how are you planning to make them raze the city?” Sungjong asks, staring at his hands. He can’t bear looking into Hoya’s eyes anymore.

“I’m sure they’ll mow some of it down in search of you, of course. From there, I’ll give them a sign—let them know this is where you are. But the rest…” Hoya sighs deeply. “I suppose I’ll have to hope they see the rest of the walking corpses and realise they have to kill them or die.”

“I’m sure they will,” Sungjong replies. “If not for that, just on the off-chance that I’ve become one of them.”

He actually gets a smile from Hoya at that. “Thank you,” the man says. Softly. Sincerely. “And I truly am sorry.” For dragging you into all this.

Sungjong smiles back faintly, and tries to stop his racing thoughts.

 

 

-

They listen to the battle play out—hear it through reports, relayed to them secondhand by the messengers and scouts. The sect is, indeed, ravaging everything in its way, plague-ridden creatures and all. And yet they still seem intent on reaching their destination. The day hasn’t even ended when the final report comes in, that the sect is all but bearing down on them.

“It may be time to leave,” Sungyeol tells Hoya. Dongwoo finally has a name to put to the man who gave him the message, but he misses the bright smile he saw.

“Almost,” Hoya muses. “Is Woohyun in position?”

It’s L who answers this time. “Yes, he is.”

“Good. A little bit more, and it’s time.” Hoya motions Sungyeol and L back, looking towards Dongwoo and Sungjong. “Again, I’ve said it a few times, but I’m sorry. I promise you’ll be safe.”

“I trust you.” Dongwoo spins around at Sungjong’s quiet words, not sure whether to be completely shocked or guiltily relieved. Because somehow, without knowing… he thinks he’s started to put his trust in Hoya too.

“Thank you,” Hoya replies with a smile. “Sunggyu, are you ready?”

“On your order, Howon.”

“Good. Now we wait.”

The silence is tense, while they wait for Hoya to give his orders. Dongwoo can’t help staring out at the mirrored corridor before him and the open door beyond that, Woohyun’s figure far in the distance at the rusted gates. He knows Hoya’s plan—he told them that, at least—but that doesn’t make it any easier to handle.

“Dongwoo.”

Sungjong’s voice is quiet, but in the stark silence that has fallen around them, it rings loud and clear. Dongwoo tears his eyes away from the scene before him to focus on Sungjong, struck by the hard set to his jaw. Sungjong doesn’t look back at him.

“Dongwoo, am I still your prince?”

Dongwoo in a deep breath, staring at the younger man. Suddenly Sungjong seems so much older than his twenty-one years, the sadness and gravity etched into his profile.

Dongwoo doesn’t hesitate anymore. Ignoring the stares of everyone around him, he falls to his knee, bowing his head. “No, Your Highness,” he whispers. “You are not my prince. You are my king, and you always will be.”

There is no other title more fitting for the only man in the world who could turn that mockery of a name into something true.

When he looks up, he catches a glimpse of Sungjong’s boyish smile, a fleeting moment of the times they shared before Sungjong cast aside the false title to choose his own fate. He smiles back.

“Then watch,” Sungjong whispers, and steps back just as Hoya looks to Sunggyu, and nods once.

Sunggyu glances at him before stepping forward, blocking Dongwoo’s view. He walks down the corridor, never once looking to the sides, before he closes the mirrored door. When he smashes it down with a chair, Dongwoo understands; it’s the signal to Woohyun.

Minutes pass while Sunggyu returns to Hoya’s side, head lowered. Dongwoo’s last thought is that he can’t see Woohyun anymore, just before the thunderous explosion takes over his senses and he drags Sungjong away, the central corridor going up in a blast of flames and broken glass. And he watches, like Sungjong told him to.

He sees it all in slow-motion—the shards of glass floating as if suspended in the air, the impact sending them into the room they’re in. He sees a thousand reflections of chaos, and through that all, the image of Hoya reflected over and over and over in every shard of glass, every tiny mirror he can see.

Hoya—Lee Howon—smiles sadly at him, amidst a thousand mirrors.

Before he can say anything, someone’s shoving at him, loud shouts in the chaos as he and Sungjong are led out—the ceiling’s starting to fall, and Dongwoo doesn’t manage to look back before he’s made to run and run and run, keeping Sungjong as close as he can.

Dongwoo never sees Lee Howon again.




iv.

The last Sungjong hears of that city is that it’s been wholly taken over by his former sect. Strangely enough, a surprisingly large number of the residents left long before anything went down. Sungjong never does figure out if Hoya had a hand in that, though.

The responsibility of eradicating the plague falls to them, but oddly, its spread is stunted after the devastation of the hall of mirrors. No more new creatures appear from seemingly nowhere, and with few people on the streets, the remainder are quickly taken out.

He enjoys his new, free life—no bounty hunters, no hiding, no skulking. His sect seems satisfied that he died that day amidst the mirrors, and dedicate their time to ruling their new territory with an iron grip. Sungjong decides to bide his time.

He wonders, every now and then, if Hoya made it out alive. His gut instinct is that it would take much more than a collapsing building to take him out, but one can never be sure. Still, while he waits in his quiet country home for the day he can overthrow his sect, he likes to believe Hoya’s out there somewhere too, along with all the others he left behind. Woohyun. Sunggyu. Sungyeol. L.

And of course Dongwoo, the person who swore his fealty to him and left on his orders, but still promised to protect him from afar.

Maybe, one day, he’ll find them all again.




v.

There is a grave digger living in the shack beside the hilltop cemetery.

Nobody knows who is; everyone says he appeared out of nowhere, that one day someone ventured up the hill after the great fire and there was the shack, and grey gravestones as far as the eye could see.

He wasn’t always alone. There was a man with him once, pale-skinned and grim-faced, whose eyes disappeared when he smiled. But one day he too was gone, and in his place was a new gravestone by the shack, a sombre grey like the rest.

There are rumours about the grave digger—that at night he sprinkles salts over the graves, and some even say he sets the ground aflame again. Nobody has ever seen him in the act of digging up a grave, but more than one person has claimed that when they visit the cemetery, the ground appears to have been recently disturbed.

Even so, few people speak ill of the grave digger beyond the alleged claims. By all accounts he’s a quiet, kind man, who tends the graves silently but makes it a point to come down to the city on weekends, greeting many of the people, simply listening to them speak of their lives although he shares nothing of his own. The weekend visits become a routine, and slowly, few people visit the grave digger in his shack.

The last to venture up the hill is a young man, handsome and clean-cut, a traveller known as Kim Myungsoo. He comes more than once, always visiting the grave digger; when the townspeople ask him about it, he simply says he’s trying to piece together a story. Nobody ever knows if he succeeds, for he never tells anyone the story of the grave digger.

It is not his to tell—a story of a thousand mirrors, broken shards that slice if one draws too close.

And in the centre of it is a man, the grave digger, with his sad, quiet smile.