Sehun lies in his own bed but he doesn’t fall asleep again. It’s impossible to sleep when he can still feel a phantom compression in his throat.

 

He doesn’t want to think about how his absence will look like to Jongin once he wakes up alone. He doesn’t want to think about what excuse to offer this time when he asks. If he asks, because Jongin is not the type to press too much.

 

After more than an hour of waffling and tossing in bed, he flings the covers off his body, feet sliding over the edge of the cushion. He slumps there for a few moments, absently staring at the bookcase across the room. And then he spots the brown leather sleeve, spine unmarred, sticking out like a sore thumb with its nonconforming dimensions.

 

Sehun regards it with skepticism at first, but eventually decides to take it out because, why not? It’s not like he’s got anything better to do.

 

Illuminated by a lamp beside the bed, Sehun sits with his back against the headboard, holding the dusty notebook steady in one hand while the other flips to the first page.

 

His mother hadn’t filled out the whole thing; not even half of it. It starts from when she first had her vision. She doesn’t say who triggers it, but she describes it very differently from the visions that Sehun has been getting. Hers seems more anarchic, more painful. True enough, it was the height of the Riot when it happened and that couldn’t have been pleasant. Sehun feels a pang of sympathy, regret, for the mother he never knew.

 

And then there’s the bit about his father. About how she had been fascinated by what he could do and by his advocacy of Hybrids’ rights. How her older sister opposed their relationship because she did not want their family to be associated with a wind wielder.

 

Sehun remembers his uncle talking about her once—the eldest sister who had always dreamed of working for the government. She had completely severed ties with her family, afraid that any remote connection with a Red Flag Hybrid would jeopardize her chances. They never heard from her again after that.

 

Sehun’s mother also writes about how ecstatic they were when they discovered that they were having a baby, but at the same time afraid of what kind of life their child would have to live. She leaves him little notes, perhaps already knowing that she won’t be able to raise him herself.

 

 

 

 

Sehun’s forehead wrinkles in disbelief. Don’t fight them? Don’t be afraid? Is he just supposed to sit back and wait for death to claim him and be happy about it?

 

“Bull,” he mutters hotly under his breath, tossing the notebook across the bed. Sehun glares at it as it bounces off of the edge and lands on the floor. It’s difficult to pinpoint the exact reason for his anger. Perhaps there’s no one reason. Maybe he just wants to understand.

 

Sehun hides his face in his hands, tries to rub off the exhaustion that has settled under his skin. He goes to pick up the diary but stops when he spots a flat thing sticking out from between the pages.

 

Gathering the curious object, he discovers that it’s an old photograph. The background appears to be Hangang Park in Jamwon. There are three people in it, two girls and one boy. He recognizes his uncle’s face easily and his mother, though he hasn’t seen many photographs of her, is hard to miss. Sehun has her eyes after all. The third face is strangely familiar to him even though he’s certain that he’s never seen her before.

 

Or maybe he has? Just not in person? On the news, perhaps?

 

Sehun starts, blinks.

 

 

He stares harder at the picture. Fumbling for his phone, he launches a mobile browser and runs a search on Lee Jungyeon. Sehun pulls a portrait from the search and compares it with the photo in his other hand. The woman on the instant film is much younger; much more at ease, laid back, happy. But it’s undeniably the same person. Sehun gasps, eyes blown-out.

 

The thing is, this woman is the head of the branch of National Intelligence that focuses on the monitoring of paranormal activity across the country—including Hybrid activity. She’s the person you hide from if you’re a Red Flag Hybrid. Which means that the one person who could possibly help him find answers is the same person he should avoid having an encounter with at all cost. The irony of it all isn’t lost on Sehun. But at this point he’s desperate enough to take the risk.

 

He takes a screenshot of the address of Lee Jungyeon’s office and saves the photo in his gallery.

 

 

*

 

 

Sehun is up and dressed in sweats hours before his alarm is set to go off. He might have dozed off a few times, each only lasting half an hour at the most. He’s given up on getting any proper sleep and figures he might as well get an early start if he’s planning to head to Busan later in the day. Also to avoid running into Jongin, he hopes.

 

That part of the plan falls through, though.  Jongin is already setting the galbi down beside the rice and the deonjang jjigae when Sehun steps out of his room. Judging by the dishes laid out on the table, he must have been awake for a while now, too. Sehun worries his lower lip as he approaches.

 

“I figured you’d be up early.” Jongin’s smile is tight, his eyes tired. He doesn’t explain himself; doesn’t ask, either. “You’re just in time. Let’s eat.”

 

Sehun's hands curl into fists as he gets a strong urge to throw himself at the other man; to touch him and taste his mouth, because he knows for a fact that it’s better than any breakfast in the world. But then the memory of what it feels like to suffocate, to gasp his last breath, comes back to him so vividly and he balks.

 

“Sorry, I can’t today,” he says instead, barely meeting Jongin's eyes. He doesn’t miss the way the man's face falls. He looks more hurt than disappointed; as though this is more than just about breakfast. And it probably is.

 

“Maybe when I get back?” Like it makes any difference, his mind mocks him. “I have to go.” Sehun turns to the door in a hurry, grabbing his old Nikes from the shoe cabinet on the way.

 

“Sehun, wait.”

 

Sehun hears the sound of wood dragging on the floor, the muted percussion of socked feet rapping on the rug. He’s slipping on his shoes when Jongin catches up to him by the doorway.

 

“Lu Han-hyung says my apartment is ready. He says I can move back in any time.”

 

Sehun holds his breath, uneasiness coiling in his belly. “Yeah?”

 

Jongin gives a curt nod in reply. His gaze never lifts, as if to watch for infinitesimal shifts in Sehun’s gestures, for fissures where he can maybe try to see behind the well-positioned mask. Sehun can feel himself wavering around the edges.

 

“Do you think,” Jongin cuts himself off. Pink tongue darts out, swipes at dry lips. His voice comes out steady. Deliberate.

 

“Should I move back?”

 

Sehun’s mouth jerks faintly, but nothing but a quiet breath slips out. The question sounds an awful lot like ‘Do you want me out of your life?’ to his ears, and the answer to that is a resounding ‘No. Stay with me. Don’t leave.’

 

He doesn’t say it. Everything is so muddled. There is nothing that he’s sure of at this point, not even Jongin. It’s not his fault and Sehun knows that he’s not being fair. He reverts back to the idea of confessing everything, just coming clean. But he doesn’t know how different that is from cutting him from his life for good.

 

Sehun swallows thickly before trying to speak again. “Yes,” he blurts out, playing at a casual tone. He averts his gaze under the guise of tying his shoes. “I think you should. I mean, it’s yours. I don’t see any reason why you shouldn’t.”

 

Several beats pass in silence. Jongin doesn’t say a word. And one can only take so long tying shoelaces.

 

Jongin searches his expression intently the moment he looks up. Sehun doesn’t flinch. As the seconds sail by, he grasps the subtle changes. It snowballs into something heavy that settles like a rock at the bottom of his stomach. All of a sudden Jongin’s eyes aren’t so easy to read now, either.

 

“Right,” breathes Jongin, blinking rapidly as he slowly retreats. “Okay, then. Have a nice run,” he adds with the hollowest smile Sehun has ever seen on his handsome face, and it makes him want to hurl.

 

 

*

 

 

When Sehun returns to the apartment hours later, exhausted and dying for a nice shower, Lu Han is there waiting in the living room. Sehun jumps back, spitting out a curse. Lu Han hasn’t barged in like this in a while, ever since Jongin moved in. He’s made himself comfortable on a seater sofa adjacent to the long couch.

 

Sehun is about to tell him off, maybe find a way to send him on his away without being too rude, because he really is too ing tired for games right now. But something in the man’s stern expression tells him that he isn’t here to play.

 

“What did you do?” He demands without preamble.

 

Sehun bristles. “Nothing. What are you talking about?” He is genuinely confused and, frankly, rather offended by the accusation.

 

Lu Han must have noticed because he tones down the harsh attitude and heaves a long breath. He gestures at the empty couch and Sehun complies, only because he’s too worn out to argue. He doesn’t erase the glare from his eyes, though.

 

“Can you explain to me why Jongin is asking about cancelling his lease?”

 

Sehun’s pulse skips, his throat suddenly parched. He didn’t see that coming. But maybe he should have.

 

“He spoke with me earlier,” Lu Han continues when he doesn’t get an answer. “He seems to be seriously considering it. And here I thought things were going well. I was even under the impression that he was going to stay with you for good, because his apartment has been ready for weeks and yet he hasn't moved back. What happened, Sehun?”

 

Sehun is still stuck at ‘his apartment has been ready for weeks,’ and he really doesn’t know what to say. It’s true that he hasn’t heard any trace of hammering or drilling noises in a while, but it in his mind that didn’t necessarily equate to Jongin moving out. Somehow when he accepted this arrangement, at the back of his mind he knew that there was a good chance that he wasn’t signing up for something temporary. Or at least he wouldn’t mind if it ended up that way. It feels like such a long time ago now.

 

Lu Han’s sharp stare is still fixed on him, waiting for a response, and he still has no idea where to start.

 

“I’m a seer,” he blurts out heedlessly, like that explains every unfortunate turn of events in his life.

 

Lu Han doesn’t bat an eye.

 

“And?” He presses, looking utterly unimpressed. Sehun’s not even surprised by the reaction anymore—or lack thereof.

 

Taking a heavy breath, Sehun lies down on his back, stretching his legs until the tips of his toes stub against the side of the arm rest. Recounting every detail of the past days is the last thing he wants to do, but Lu Han is no doubt hell bent on getting it out of him, anyway.

 

“You can read minds,” mouths Sehun, nearly lifeless, and flings a boneless arm over his eyes. “Read mine.”

 

He hears Lu Han’s feet stomp on the carpet.

 

“I'm serious, Oh Sehun.”

 

“So am I.” And he really is, if that’s the only way to get Lu Han off his back.

 

Sehun shuts his eyes tight as he feels the telepath breaching the borders of his consciousness. He doesn’t know what exactly it is that Lu Han is looking at, but Sehun simply filters nothing. He doesn’t have the energy to try. The door to his mind is wide open. Save for muted gasps every so often, Lu Han remains silent for the most part. It feels like hours have passed when the pressure of another presence lifts off his head.

 

“That's...” Lu Han trails off, his tone somber. “Okay, I see the problem.”

 

Something as simple as sitting up again proves an arduous task, but Sehun powers through, pushing on his hands and letting his weight sink into faux leather.

 

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do—I don't know how we—I don’t know, hyung.”

 

There’s a flash of sympathy in Lu Han’s eyes as thin lips press together in a tight line. He inches forward, bending at the waist, and props forearms on his knees. He fixes the younger man with a serious look.

 

“Sehun, has it ever occurred to you that maybe you’re getting these visions for a reason?  Maybe it’s like a compass of sorts? A map? Maybe they’re bringing you to where you’re supposed to go?”

 

Sehun snorts ruefully. “Did you get that from my mother’s diary?”

 

“What? What do you mean?” The confusion on Lu Han’s face looks too genuine to doubt.

 

“Nothing. Forget it.” Sehun shakes his head. “A map, though? You mean to my death?” He sneers.

 

Lu Han cards fingers through his hair as he slumps back. Only then does Sehun notice the weariness dulling the natural luster in his eyes. He almost regrets the acid laced in his tone, but Lu Han appears to take it in stride.

 

“Everyone dies eventually, kid,” he says, perhaps a little too offhandedly. Sehun can’t be bothered to feel any outrage toward the notion, no matter how morbid it sounds, because he knows that it’s true.

 

“Listen. I can't tell you what to do.” Lu Han sounds as dreary as he looks, though no less decisive with his words. “Cut him loose or be with him earnestly—that’s your call. But I say don’t let that inevitability get in the way of what’s going to make you both happy right now.”

 

Sehun squirms in his seat. As nice as that sounds he can’t be as idealistic. His voice is strained as he speaks.

 

“You’re telling me to stay with the man who could be my killer.”

 

Lu Han bristles, mouth pursing tightly, like he’s holding back a few choice words. Gripping the arm rest firmly, he pushes himself off the seat. There’s a thoughtful look on his face as he stops to regard the younger man. He sighs, eyes turning softer. He rests a hand on Sehun’s forearm and gives it a comforting press.

 

“I think Jongin deserves a little more credit than that, Sehun,” Lu Han says quietly before leaving him alone with his own conflicting thoughts.

 

 

*

 

 

Locating the National Intelligence Department headquarters is the easy part. Getting somebody to direct Sehun to the right office is the real challenge, especially without a pre-scheduled appointment to fall back on.

 

It helps that he dressed appropriately, though—white dress shirt under a dark suit; thin, black tie; dress pants, pressed to perfection; all of which he borrowed from Chanyeol’s closet—so that he can pass for a respectable journalist on an official assignment. Other technicalities were easy enough to forge. The more important, more immediate hurdle is to look the part.

 

And so after more persistence and charm than he cares to display on a daily basis, he finally finds himself at Lee Jungyeon’s secretary’s desk. She doesn’t appear too eager to be of assistance but Sehun isn’t deterred, not when he’s come this far. He identifies himself as Lee Junghee’s son. When he asks the high-strung-looking woman to please kindly pass this on to her boss, she glowers for a good ten seconds, but delivers the message anyway. In minutes, he’s being ushered into an empty conference room at the far end of the hall—as far away as possible from inquisitive eyes and ears.

 

“Please take a seat, Mr. Oh. Director Lee will be with you in a minute.” The woman regards him with one last appraising look, a little more hospitable now that he’s proven himself important enough that her boss is actually willing to give him the time of day, before gently closing the door behind her.

 

Sehun unwittingly begins to take a gander at his surroundings. The walls are a drab off-white throughout, boxing in equally impersonal furnishings. An array of chairs is impeccably stationed around the long table. It almost feels wrong to pull one out for himself lest he disturb the order, but that’s exactly what he does because it seems infinitely better than to stand around idly like an idiot.

 

The air is cold and stale, and it makes his nerves tingle.  Sehun wrings his hands nervously as he moves to take a seat. His barely touches the posh material when he hears the door handle turn. He shoots straight up, breath catching in his throat.

 

The woman who steps through the gap bears a striking resemblance to his uncle Donghae—the shape of her eyes, mouth, chin. It’s a wonder he’s never noticed it before. Perhaps he’s never really looked, until now.

 

She halts at the door the moment she sees Sehun, her eyes giving away a miniscule hint of shock, as though she’s finding that Sehun is nothing like she expected. A second later, she shuts the door, swift and with a muted quality of practiced authority. She takes a seat, easily slipping into her rightful place at the end of the table, and gestures at Sehun to do the same.

 

She clasps her hands over the clear glass of the tabletop, expression neutral.

 

“You’re Jungh—Lee Junghee’s son.” It isn’t a question.

 

“Oh Sehun.” He clears his throat, tries hard to keep himself together. “I’m Oh Sehun. Director Lee.”

 

He valiantly fights the urge to cower as Lee Jungyeon pins him with a cold, calculating stare that sends goosebumps all over his skin. And people tell him he’s cold. The woman’s expression is schooled into one that makes it impossible to tell what’s on her mind—an invaluable skill for someone of her stature.

 

Several moments of tense silence pass. And then suddenly she cracks, just the tiniest fraction.

 

“You look so much like your mother,” she opines softly, as if only meant for her own ears. Sehun blinks at the hint of awe in her tone.

 

The woman seems to relax somewhat, like a weight equivalent to a pebble has fallen off of her shoulders. It’s an improvement, no matter how minute, and Sehun finds himself releasing the breath he doesn’t remember trapping in his lungs.

 

“If I may say, it’s very bold of you to come here. Also reckless. But then again you are your parents’ offspring.”

 

Sehun is not sure how to take that. Was that an insult or a compliment? He notes the trace of amusement in the curl of , though. Sehun elects to err on the side of caution and not say a word. It doesn’t look like she expects a reaction anyway.

 

“So tell me.” Lee Jungyeon reclines in her chair. Her elbows are on the arm rest, posture intact, clasped hands moving to her middle. “What can I do for you, Oh Sehun?”

 

Sehun gulps. “I have... I have a few questions, if you don’t mind.” He pauses, hesitates. This is probably, literally, the worst time to be second-guessing his decision to come here. But there he is, suddenly realizing that he hadn’t thought this through at all. There’s a reason why Lee Jungyeon left all of this behind. Why would she want anything to do with it now?

 

Sehun shakes his head. “I’m sorry, I really don’t have anyone—I don’t know anyone else,” he splutters, visibly deflating.

 

But then the woman only nods, holds her gaze steady, like she knows full and well that this is exactly the conversation she signed up for when she agreed to meet him.

 

“Go on.”

 

He supposes that’s his cue. Sehun worries his lower lip for a second, gathers his resolve back up.

 

“Can you tell me what you know about the premonitions?”

 

“Ah, you’ve met your trigger.”

 

That wasn’t a question either. It’s as if she’s always a step ahead of him and, frankly, it pacifies rather than unnerves him. He’s glad that he doesn’t have to go through painstakingly trying to explain himself.

 

“I just need to know if there is a way to reverse it. Uncle Donghae told me once that there wasn’t, but if there’s any way, any way at all—”

 

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that there is,” she answers. “As far as I know, the manner in which it happens could change, but not the person.”

 

Sehun’s gut sinks. He must look absolutely miserable because the Director’s expression begins to soften around the seams.

 

“Listen, Sehun,” she says, her tone lighter than he’s ever heard it. “I recall constantly hearing that these visions are meant to propel the seer to their meant path.”

 

And at that, Sehun loses control over his own tongue.

 

“See, I don’t understand that. All we see is death, and if there’s no way to alter it, then how is that supposed to be remotely helpful?” There’s more, so much more that he wants to get out of his chest, but he cuts himself off, afraid that he’s gone out of line this time. He backpedals fast.

 

“I’m sorry, Director Lee. I didn’t mean to—”

 

The woman waves his apology away. “Like I said: you are your parents’ son. I can’t expect anything less than this kind of temper,” she quips, a look of mirthful resignation settling on her otherwise impassive features. Sehun flushes slightly, embarrassed.

 

“I wish I could be of more help to you, Sehun. But I have to admit that I don’t understand it any more than you do.”

 

Sehun watches her curiously. She doesn’t elaborate but it’s possible that she hasn’t come across her trigger yet. Or maybe she did not inherit the ability at all. Whatever the case, he thinks it wise not to pry.

 

“I can tell you one thing, though,” she adds gravely. “The more you think of fighting it, the more you weave your life around avoiding the inevitable instead of accepting how your fate is entwined with your trigger’s, the worse the visions will get. You have to let it run its course.”

 

Let it run its course. Sure. And wait for it to drive him crazy. He doesn’t know what prompts the visions. He doesn’t know what will make it stop, either, other than the ultimate fulfillment of it. It’s a ing dead end.

 

“I saw what it did to uncle Donghae.”

 

“Then don’t be like him,” she says firmly, leaving absolutely no room for argument.

 

Lee Jungyeon stands, planting her palms on the glass. She looks Sehun straight in the eye, as though to make sure that she gets through; that her words are burned into his mind because this could very well be the first and last time that they will ever meet like this.

 

“Donghae was a good man, but don’t be like him. Don’t let this consume you. Just live, Sehun. Like your mother did.”

 

Sehun feels the words wash over him like a bucket of ice-cold water. He doesn’t get to process any of it because suddenly Lee Jungyeon is in front of him with one hand outstretched. He rises to his feet, bending at the waist respectfully as he accepts the handshake, and yet all the while he barely registers that he’s moving at all. He snaps back to himself only when he hears the woman speak.

 

“It’s very good to meet you, Oh Sehun. But I hope I never see you here again,” she says pointedly, all formalities back in place.

 

Sehun watches her reach for the door handle. Then his mouth fires before his brain can stop it. Yet even as he calls after her, a bigger part of him doesn’t expect her to actually turn back. But then she does.

 

Lee Jungyeon looks at him, her expression tightly closed off now. But he doesn’t fumble this time.

 

“Do you know who my mother’s trigger was?”

 

Sehun can swear he saw the faintest jerk of a brow. For about a microsecond, something in her eyes shifts—a flicker of surprise, maybe. It fades faster than Sehun can blink.

 

“I do,” She says quietly. An elusive smile ghosts on her lips. “It was your father.”

 

 

*

 

 

Sehun watches cities flit by through the wide spanning window of the Express. Trying to catch the view is an exercise in futility, with landscapes blurring beyond recognition and splatters of color disappearing into each other from the sheer speed. But Sehun doesn’t look away.

 

He doesn’t know exactly how his mother lived; he never had the privilege of knowing her, except perhaps through the pages of a musty, old diary. There isn’t much that he can infer from what little glimpse it has allowed him into his mother’s thoughts. It couldn’t have been easy falling in love with your trigger—this Sehun knows for a fact. And yet, now that he really looks back on it, none of what he’s read so far suggests that she had been a quitter. Or that she even remotely considered running away.

 

Just live, Sehun. Like your mother did.

 

Pulse racing, he takes his phone out and the first thing he does is check the time. It’s late, but not late enough that Jongin will be done with training. In a split-second decision Sehun steps out of the station instead of hopping onto line four and making the transfer to the orange line at Chungmuro station. It’s the fastest way back home, but he’s not heading home just yet.

 

He considers taking a cab, but then the bus that passes along the TM Ent. studio arrives at the stop faster than he can hail one. It’s unsurprisingly nearly filled to the brim with passengers. Sehun takes one look inside. Without hesitation, he swings up the steps and taps his T-money on the sensor. It’s incredible, he thinks as he squeezes into the pack, how months ago, this would have been out of the question.

 

Luckily, majority of the passengers alight at the second stop. By the third, he gets to sit down. He looks at the time again. He’s cutting it really close.

 

Sehun considers calling Jongin to tell him to wait. Jongin will probably ask him why he’s coming to see him when he can just wait at home. He’s asked himself the same thing, and the answer is because he’s not sure if Jongin will come home. Because he needs to tell Jongin that he’s in love with him before he loses the nerve. Because he needs to ask Jongin not to move to his own apartment, or to any other apartment, or else he’ll send out tornados to trash it so that he can’t. And because he just wants to say that he’s really sorry.

 

What’s one more leap of faith to cap the day?

 

Sehun pulls up Jongin’s number from his contacts and presses call before he changes his mind.

 

It rings once, twice—and then the entire bus makes a sharp swerve, flinging his body toward the window, into which the side of his head slams hard. He vaguely catches the sound of glass breaking, of bloodcurdling screams, before he’s catapulted out of the seat by sheer force. He’s not inside the bus anymore. He knows because he’s looking at it—badly battered lump of metal that’s tipped on its roof—not far from where he’s sprawled on his side, unable to move.

 

His senses are all hazy, like there’s a white cloud framing everything he sees. He must have broken his ribs because he can almost feel them crushing his lungs. He squints, blinking weakly. He catches the spark of fire, smoke everywhere. He tries to breathe in gasps and he chokes. It hurts so ing much. He feels himself slipping, brain squeezing painfully, and then he gets a kick of déjà vu. Except this is not a vision anymore. This is real. He would bark out a wan laugh if it weren’t so impossibly difficult to merely breathe.

 

Sehun vaguely registers a weight in his hand. He’s still holding his phone. And then he remembers why—Jongin. Regret claws its way up to his chest.

 

 

He vaguely hears a garbled noise that oddly sounds like his name, but it’s like it’s coming from miles away. Then suddenly he feels fingers shudder against his cheek, breaking through the numbness.

 

“! Sehun, stay with me! Look at me, please!”

 

Just fluttering his eyelids feels like trying to bench press three times his weight. He tries, though, and it’s Jongin’s face that he’s rewarded with. But then there’s no way he could have gotten here that fast in a cab.

 

What the hell are you doing, you brash moron, he wants to rage out. He coughs up blood instead.

 

“Stay with me, Sehun, come on.” He looks to his sides furiously.

 

Sehun can make out the shrill noise of sirens in the background, but Jongin is really all he cares to pay attention to right now. His handsome Jongin. Distraught and frantic at the moment, but handsome nevertheless. Somehow Sehun manages the faintest of smiles. Calm begins to seep through and it settles over him like a blanket, even as he feels himself shutting down fast.

 

So this is really it, he thinks. And as he looks at Jongin’s face, feels his hand holding his, he finds that it’s okay. Going like this is okay.

 

His eyes are getting far too heavy. He doesn't fight it.