Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The cities were desolate, a dark and macabre contrast to what they once were. Christopher Bang remembered it clearly, the streetlights illuminating the streets on a clear summer night, people walking alone under the moon, others in couple or families, surely heading to a restaurant to spend a pleasant evening. The illuminated windows of the houses, bringing life and revelry to the buildings, small details that at the time he didn't even take the time to notice because they were mundane, everyday events, nothing remarkable. Now that the sky was a fiery scarlet, darkness always loomed over him and silence reigned wherever he went, all those insignificant details created a deep nostalgia within him, It drove him crazy. He wanted to tear his skin off with his nails until he was unrecognizable. Other times, he wanted to feel his lungs slowly run out of air until the last trace of life in his being was gone. And other times, he would throw himself into the sea, swim to the deepest part of the ocean, and drown there, serving as bait for fish. However, he has never been able to do any of that.

The day the sky fell, as some called it, the final judgment, as others of a more religious bent said. The fact is that approximately... fifteen years ago? More or less, Christopher was unable to calculate it anymore, a thick black rain began to fall, everywhere, it fell but left no puddles, as soon as it touched any surface it dissipated completely. No one knew where it came from, why, or how. At first, no one was affected by the rain, and life returned to normal. After a week, the topic had disappeared from people's conversations, until they began to die. Suddenly, everyone who had been touched by the black rain collapsed to the ground, and quickly the skin of the corpses decomposed into a pool resembling oil. The animals? The same thing happened to all those who were touched, even by a single drop. The vegetation, on the other hand, seemed to be unharmed.

The world, or what little was left of it, panicked. Worldwide emergencies, hospitals and emergency services collapsed, town halls had hordes of people banging on doors and climbing buildings in search of an explanation, a solution, anything, whatever it might be. Tragedy struck next, worsening the crisis they were already facing. The moment all those corpses became a bag of bones, it was almost automatic how the sky gradually turned a dark maroon color. The temperature shot up suddenly and all electronic devices stopped working, leaving approximately a quarter of the world's population scattered across all continents, now cut off from each other, with panic, anguish, and loneliness being the only things left.

Christopher was spared from all those catastrophes, though he's not quite sure how, since the first few months he was like a frightened rabbit, unaware of what was happening around him. At only sixteen years old, he was forced to stop living and start surviving in a practically post-apocalyptic world. At first, he lived by looting supermarkets, but soon that didn't have much effect anymore. All the food was spoiled except for the cans, and that became his main source of nutrition. He was afraid to go out on the street, especially because he didn't want to be caught off guard by the rain. He lived like this for years and gradually deciphered the patterns of the phenomenon that had struck the world. The rain fell once every ninety-three days and lasted exactly four hours, from six to ten in the morning. As the months passed, another phenomenon occurred: plants grew wherever someone had died because of the rain, plants with thick roots that protruded from the ground in waves and large leaves that rose solemnly, decorated with dark lines along them. To Christopher, they looked like veins, and he found them disgusting. The plants were not harmful unless you ingested them or cut any part of them; they released a liquid similar to rain, which had the same effects. He discovered this when he made some friends a few years ago, whom he found wandering around in search of something or someone, whatever it was. One of them, Matthew, tried to ingest them along with another kid in the group. Chaeyeon, the girl who was with them and apparently the younger sister of a friend of Matthew's who sadly passed away, only touched the liquid emanating from the plant out of curiosity. Needless to say, they all ended up dead weeks later, collapsed in front of Christopher.

The temperature always remained at 41 degrees during the day and dropped dramatically to three degrees at night, which was also the only time when the sky returned to its natural color and seemed to be the safest time of day. Until now, it had never rained at night, and curiously, the plants wilted as soon as the moon lit up the ground and returned to their vitality when the sun reappeared. Now, Christopher wasn't sure if he was going crazy as the days passed and it was causing hallucinations, but he was pretty sure the moon was falling apart. On full moon days, large holes could be seen, becoming deeper and more pronounced, slowly becoming more insignificant. Christopher preferred not to think about what would happen when there was no moon left. Perhaps the few remaining people would die of heart attacks or something; that would be the most peaceful scenario. Regardless of the natural disasters that would be caused, for some reason that was the least of his fears; he would manage somehow.

With each passing day, he felt more detached from his emotions. There were times when he couldn't tell if what he was feeling was happiness, sadness, anger... they were all mixed together, and other times it seemed as if they had disappeared altogether. He no longer felt disgust, his heart no longer sank when he saw a corpse or someone died in front of him, no matter how much time he had spent with that person. It was, so to speak, destiny. And he had accepted it completely. He knew that eventually destiny would come for him too, because is there really anyone who wants to live in that world? He didn't want to, he was sure of it. What held him back in his failed suicide attempts was that deep down he wanted to feel human again. Once. Just once more would be enough.

Yes, he had met a couple of people, but he never formed close bonds with them; they were simply passengers in his loneliness. Some moved away, others died. In the end, no one stayed by his side.

“May the moon wait for you.” He bowed down in front of two corpses, which seemed recent because the pool of oil was still beneath them. He raised his left hand, clenched it into a fist in front of his chest, and cupped his right hand around it. It was a kind of ritual he performed every time he saw a corpse. Since the moon seemed to be the only thing protecting people from their circumstances, he took it as his own religion.

That day he had gone out to walk? To investigate? A little of both. Christopher had settled in a house on the outskirts of town, a place where there weren't too many oil plants but close enough to go find more cans if necessary. Since moving into the house, he had devoted himself to creating a vegetable garden in the backyard. The plants were not affected by the black rain, and there were no adverse effects if they were consumed afterwards. He was sure that the only thing that kept his humanity alive at that moment was the garden. Working in it relaxed him, and for a few hours everything seemed to return to a now distant normality, without any inexplicable catastrophes, with his brothers, with his parents...

Thoughts and feelings that made no sense to bring to light at that point.

He walked past the corpses. As it was daytime under the scorching sun, he wore a long-sleeved linen suit; he had several of those at home, as it was a cool fabric that was comfortable to wear with long sleeves. He always carried a wagasa umbrella that he had found in a shop. He had to take every possible measure to protect himself from the rain in case the weather changed at any moment; he couldn't take any chances. At night, however, he wore dark sweaters and a large coat made of bison hair? He couldn't remember, another garment he had snatched from a store. He carried all of this in a backpack in case he was wandering around late at night away from home, which happened often. In the end, it was his favorite time of day when the moon rose above his head.

He decided to travel a little further, to find other places where he could get more cans of food to avoid going to the city. The vegetation there was too dense, extremely risky to venture into.

He walked calmly, his gaze lost. Every step he took was heavy; it was one of those days when he would like to take a bite out of the lethal plants and cease to exist. Every time he passed one of the plants, his gaze darkened more and more, a permanent reminder of his fate.

Hours passed, the sun was already setting on the horizon, and he was still dragging his feet along the asphalt. He had decided to follow a road so he wouldn't get lost on the way back. He had been wanting to turn back and return home for half an hour, but if his hallucinations weren't playing tricks on him, he could see a large warehouse in the distance. Night fell suddenly, and with it the cold. It was time to change clothes, replacing his linen suit with a black sweater and cargo pants of the same color, finishing with his coat on top. Of course, the umbrella was still open; if he wasn't under a roof, he would never close it.

“Jackpot,” he whispered. It was a large food warehouse, and he was sure he could make use of it.

One of the large rusty metal doors was lying on the ground, while the other was barely half open. He didn't go in straight away; he wanted to take a look from outside before entering the dark warehouse. He could see merchandise scattered on the floor, shopping carts overturned, shelves in ruins... It looked like someone had already been there. If he was lucky and not many groups had passed through yet, he might still be able to salvage something.

He entered cautiously, avoiding the few oil plants inside. Warehouse workers or customers, he assumed.

A generously sized skylight in the ceiling allowed the dim moonlight to enter. He had long since run out of matches to light the candles at home or the small iron candlestick he took on his nighttime journeys, so he had to resort to more... old-fashioned methods. It was his own fault for forgetting the candlestick at home.

He continued wandering through the aisles, this time not focused on finding food, but following a hunch. As a general rule, warehouses and supermarkets stank. No matter how many years passed, they still had a characteristic odor that was, to say the least, unpleasant. Colonies of insects gathered inside, and in short, it was a disaster. Or at least that was the general rule that this warehouse was not following. Even amid the mess of scattered carts and cans, many of them already open, it smelled clean. It smelled chemically clean. Someone had thoroughly cleaned the place.

The place was huge, and with every step he took, he was careful not to make a sound, picking up the unopened cans along the way. He wasn't afraid of encountering someone; it would be strange to do so in the first place. He was more afraid of encountering something beyond his comprehension, another anomaly. He passed by some fish tanks, fish tanks with fish, live fish. And right at the end of the hallway was a mattress with blankets. There was definitely something or someone living in the warehouse.

“Who's there?” A voice echoed behind him, accompanied by the sound of chains being dragged. Christopher spun around, pulling out a machete he was carrying to cut plants along the way if necessary. “Who's come to visit me?”

A figure appeared between the shelves, a tall, shabby man making his way through, dragging heavily on the long chain tied to his wrist. He was also dressed in thick layers of clothing and a fur jacket. He stopped a few feet away from Christopher, the moonlight reflecting strongly in the man's gray eyes, which would have been hypnotic if it weren't for the murderous aura emanating from him. For the first time in fifteen years, Christopher was terrified of another human being.

“I don't like visitors.”

Chapter Text

Christopher's heart was pounding in his chest, and he was sure the other man could hear it from that distance. Beads of cold sweat slowly trickled down his forehead. The people he had met so far had been friendly and usually happy to find another human companion, but there was always the possibility of encountering someone hostile or who had completely lost their mind. Damn his luck that he was the one who had to find the wretch one.

The man stared at him, waiting for an answer that wasn't coming. His fingers curled involuntarily with anxiety. The whole scene seemed like something out of an old horror movie, and he didn't want to stay and see how it ended. Christopher suddenly ran down one of the aisles, his backpack heavy with the cans he had collected and his thick clothes not helping his agility, yet he had never run so fast before. He could hear the sound of a chain banging loudly against the metal shelves, followed by terrifyingly fast footsteps close behind him. He propelled himself along the shelves and turned aimlessly through the endless corridors of the warehouse in order to reach the exit as quickly as possible.

His breathing was agitated, blood rushed through his body, and his eyes were crystal clear with panic. He was afraid; every bone, every muscle in his body was fearing for its end, and for some reason, that was making him feel alive again.

“Where do you think you're going, hare!” The voice sounded so close that he stumbled in surprise. The man wasted no time and, with the same chain that was tied to his body, wrapped it around Christopher's neck, pulling him back and forth between the two of them. “You shouldn't enter other people's homes without permission.”

With one hand, he grabbed the chain that was mercilessly clinging to his neck, doing his best to gasp for air so as not to fall unconscious, while he raised the other hand, where he held the machete, and with the strength he had left, he lunged backward. He didn't manage to stab him, especially with the number of layers the other man was wearing, but it was enough to make him step back to avoid it.

He discarded his backpack as he stood up; he didn't need it that much, he would find more cans elsewhere and manage to find a replacement for the rest of the odds and ends he kept inside. With a forward impulse, he ran again toward the exit. He took a small knife from his pocket. He knew the man was following him. He could see that there was a smaller door on the other side of the warehouse, partially obstructed by an oil plant, and that was his target. He veered toward that exit door, wasted no time jumping over the plant, and spun on his heels with the knife in his hand to stab it. Black liquid began to spurt out seconds later.

He kept running for several meters before looking back to make sure the man wasn't following him. He saw him standing in front of the door, and he swore he could see those gray eyes from that distance. Terrifying. It was terrifying, and that's why he didn't understand why he had a smile on his face the whole way back, laughing out loud and feeling the need to return to the warehouse the next day.

Dawn broke, the sun rose slowly above the horizon and with it the temperatures rose gradually, giving way to another day. Christopher got up, he was more cheerful than usual and his thoughts were in the clouds, he was unable to focus on any activity because everything led him back to the warehouse. He couldn't look in the mirror without seeing the reflection of the chained man. Every time he looked out the window, he was sure he could see two hidden eyes watching him from the shadows, waiting for him to leave the house to attack. It was a feeling of anxiety that ran through his whole body, telling him to stay under a safe roof, and then he collapsed with the feeling of anticipation and the need to go outside and see what was happening. Perhaps he had already lost his mind completely.

He tended to his vegetable garden, spending the early hours of the morning in the backyard. He had to repack his backpack, having lost the one he always carried the day before, although, being cautious, he had several of them already packed with everything he needed in case an emergency like this arose. The only thing he would miss was his linen suit; it was his favorite.

The rest of the day was quiet. He cleaned the house and read The Alchemist for the twelfth time to keep his mind occupied elsewhere. He couldn't help it; his stomach was in knots, he twisted his feet restlessly, and he clutched the book tightly in his hands until his fingers turned white and hurt so much he couldn't feel them anymore. He moved his eyes nervously, the longer he looked, the more the letters began to blur and his breathing became heavier, his gaze shifting toward the front door. He wanted to go back. He had to go back.

He left everything behind and grabbed his backpack. The only new thing he had on him was a gun he found hidden in that same house when he moved in. He had never used it, nor was he sure how to use it, but he would figure it out if he needed to. He stood in front of the door, already dressed for the night except for his coat, sweat betraying him. It was no more than two minutes before the sun disappeared completely and darkness swept through the streets, accompanied by a cold breeze and the moon rising proudly to the highest point in the sky. He was sure he shouldn't be getting into murky waters. He had met so many kind people or people desperate for human contact, and yet they had never mattered to him beyond the small joy of having a conversation with someone other than himself in years. But that man, the man who wanted to kill him for entering “his” warehouse, was a different story. He had a wild need to see him again because the adrenaline rush was too addictive.

In his mind, he made up the excuse that he needed more cans of food, even though he had enough cans to last at least two more years and his garden was almost ready to be harvested. He needed more cans. Or so he told himself.

After seeing the warehouse for the second time, it seemed bigger than the first time, as if it had doubled in size overnight. He looked small next to the metal walls, pathetic. He left his backpack next to the umbrella several meters away, carrying his machete and gun with him, in case he needed to run again and didn't want to lose his things again. He walked silently, taking light steps, half crouching, to the metal gates, which were still in the same position as the day before. The poor lighting persisted inside, but he could see several unopened cans scattered on the floor. In fact, there was a small pile stacked a few meters in the back.

He entered, careful not to make a sound, his eyes darting around. There seemed to be no sign of the man; everything was in the purest and most chilling silence. He moved forward slowly, sure that with every step he took, he was getting deeper into the lion's den. What a pity that his rationality had disappeared years ago. One more step and, unfortunately, he kicked a can. The can rolled away in a noisy journey so long that it seemed to mock Christopher.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, shit.” He grabbed his head with both hands, squeezing so hard in case he could somehow disintegrate his brain and disappear from the earth and spare himself further suffering. He stood still, not moving, trying to hear if the man was nearby. To his surprise, the only response he got was silence. No footsteps, no chains, nothing. That was even more terrifying.

He wanted to think that he had gone out to do God knows what, but the fact was that he wasn't there, and since he had gone to the trouble of going there, he would take his loot. This time he moved faster, reaching the pile of cans and bending down to take a couple, putting one in each pants pocket and two in each hand.

The quick drag of a chain and a sharp blow with what appeared to be metal struck Christopher on the head. He dropped the cans and leaned on the ground, his head spinning and his whole body screaming at him to run away, but he was unable to get up. Another blow and he collapsed.

He was soaked, the heat was unbearable, and the sun's rays began to bother him when it came out completely. He wanted to open his eyes, but was greeted by a severe headache; it felt like he was being stabbed over and over again.

“How stupid humans are.” The voice sounded close to his face, with contempt and reluctance, dragging out the words as if it took too much energy to speak. A hand grabbed his hair without any delicacy, pulling hard to lift his face, forcing him to open his eyes to see what was happening in front of him. “They return to dangerous situations over and over again, like moths to the light, addicted to a moment of adrenaline in exchange for risking their own lives...''

The blurry image gradually cleared, and for the first time he had the opportunity to see him in detail. He had no choice; he was tied up. Much taller than Christopher, his hair was cut in a buzz cut, allowing his maniacal gray eyes to be the main attraction. He would be a rather attractive man if he didn't want to kill him.

“I needed cans. I didn't know anyone lived here.” Christopher's voice came out in a hoarse whisper. His throat hurt excessively. He was sure he had been dragged by the neck with some kind of rope or chain. It stung too much, and he hadn't had a chance to drink a single sip of water since the night before.

“But today you knew, and you came anyway.”

He said nothing; he had no coherent argument to refute that, apart from his mad desire to be a damn fool. The only response he could muster was a long sigh. The man finally let go of his hair and, without saying a word, untied the chains that bound his hands and feet and began to undress Christopher, who was still wearing his nightclothes. If he kept them on, he would die of heatstroke at any moment. Freeing himself from his coat, he felt lighter, had caught his breath, and his headache was a little less prominent. The man rummaged through a cloth bag, which seemed to be full of clothes, probably to give Christopher a change of clothes. The cables suddenly crossed in his head, a tingling sensation that traveled from deep within him to every limb, giving him the impulse to run away from there.

He had taken no more than ten steps when that sensation was replaced by agonizing pain in his thigh. He fell to his knees instantly and felt the area with his hand. A knife was buried in his skin, but he didn't dare touch it.

“You're crazy, kid! Damn it, if you want to kill me, just do it.” He was in distress, his face contorted with pain, and he simply collapsed on the ground. He preferred to let fate take its course and end this situation. It wasn't how he expected to die, but he preferred that to the other highly lethal things that were flooding the world at that moment.

“I'm not a murderer.” He approached, dragging his feet reluctantly across the pavement. He dug his knee into the ground and, with his chained hand, pulled the knife out of Christopher's thigh, eliciting a scream of pain. “You're so annoying. From now on, you'll be my hostage...”

“If you're hoping someone will pay the ransom, you're going to be very disappointed.”

The response he got was the man poking his finger into the wound. Christopher writhed like a worm on the ground, the stabbing pain eventually sapping his energy. He wanted to go back home to his garden, but he had to go to that warehouse and find himself in a situation even more pathetic than the one he was already in. He hated himself. The man disappeared for a moment, returning with an extra chain that was tied around Christopher's neck and the end to one of the giant metal shelves. He had been demoted from hostage to dog.

“You can call me Hyunjin, by the way.” He was turning his back on him, rummaging through the cloth bag again, scattering all the clothes on the floor.

“Mh... Christopher.”

Chapter Text

He caressed the cold metal around his neck. He didn't have enough strength to move into a more comfortable position. His body felt exhausted, and even the act of breathing was uncomfortable. It felt like he hadn't slept in weeks. He could have been at home tending to his garden, but instead he was chained up in a warehouse as a hostage with someone he was untrusting.

“Do you even know how to use this?” Hyunjin had taken the gun from him when he was unconscious. He received no response again, revealing that he indeed had no idea how to use it, which made him laugh. With his index finger, he caressed the trigger and pointed it at Christopher, a silent mockery toward him.

Hyunjin hadn't had a peaceful interaction with another human being in decades. Well, not that it could be classified as specifically peaceful, but at least they had exchanged a few words, which in his dictionary was quite an achievement.

When it all started, he was just a teenager who ended up in jail every few days because his relationship with his parents was pretty terrible. Since he was little, his mother had not held him in high esteem. All her attention was focused on his younger brother, who turned out to be a prodigy, obedient, affectionate, kind... and a host of other sweet words that come to mind. His mother began early on to give him disgusted looks whenever something went wrong, while his father, on the other hand, took a more aggressive approach. No one in that house loved Hwang Hyunjin, a child who was unable to concentrate on the tasks he was given, who did not excel at any instrument or in his studies, who had no sports or interesting hobbies... He was simply useless. The lack of affection was a hard blow for such a young child. His mind spiraled into depression at an early age, and it only got worse as he grew older, reaching its worst point in his early teens. It was a downward spiral with no brakes, a radical change where he went from constantly wanting to please his parents to get their approval to doing everything possible to give them a reason to hate him.

He went to class intermittently, escaping to the city center where he found the only place where he felt a shred of happiness. The Sinchon district was the purest street art a person could imagine, with lights illuminating the street in extravagant colors to attract the attention of passersby, hoping that their performance would be entertaining enough for people to stop and watch the artists. Musicians, dancers, painters... all with a designated spot, the murmurs mingling with the different songs playing, rumbling the ground and causing a tingling sensation in the soles of his feet that encouraged him to run from one side to the other to see each and every one of the artists who spent hours there, hoping that a talent scout would even look in their direction. The only time Hyunjin was allowed to dream was during his trips to Sinchon. He imagined himself in a few years' time alongside those people, putting on a unique show that would lead him to a prestigious agency and become the country's next big talent.

What a pity, dreams never come true for the unfortunate of soul.

It was on one of his trips to the city center that he lost his mind a little as he passed by a music store, a small, unremarkable shop that had several products on display outside. Among the guitars and amplifiers were a pair of speakers, like the ones he had seen used in the art district, small wireless speakers perfect for any self-respecting street artist. His parents would never buy him one of those; anything other than a piano, opera, or violin was not considered art in their dictionary, so the only solution was, clearly, to steal it.

Slow footsteps, cold sweat soaking his hands in anticipation of what he was about to do, he stretched out his arm closer and closer until he could touch the hard plastic casing with trembling fingers. His head was spinning, everything was getting dark around him, and all he could see was the small speaker. It wasn't a big deal; no one would notice. He already had it in his hand; he just had to get out of there.

“Can I help you with anything, kid?” The voice of a young man, probably the store employee, startled him. All his instincts to flee kicked in, and all he could do was run away with the speaker in his hands.

The echo of a voice shouting “thief” reverberated inside his head. All he could do was run until his legs could no longer carry him and get home as quickly as possible. Unexpectedly, he found two officers at the door talking to his parents. His mother snatched the shiny new speaker from his hands, and his father slapped him so hard that he collapsed on the floor. The officers took him away. He would spend a day in jail under supervision at Mr. Hwang's request, just to teach him a lesson. That night, lying on a stone bench with only an officer sitting several meters away from him, ignoring him, tears fell down his face. To his surprise, as he tried to decipher his feelings, despite feeling resentment, there was something else hidden there: satisfaction.

From that day on, he began stealing from various different stores, vandalizing public buildings, and always making sure they knew who had done it so he could see the faces of anger and shame his parents had every time the police officers arrived for another catastrophe his eldest son had caused. Hyunjin was slowly destroying the Hwang family's reputation. People were no longer willing to do business with his parents, his younger brother was known for the disasters caused by Hyunjin, and even the police had become friends with him after spending so many days behind bars. At first, his heart sank a little, putting on those shameless acts to get the slightest attention, good or bad, from his parents, so that someone would see him a little more deeply, that he too was a child who needed the love and support of his family and friends. He had to come to terms with himself, stifling any feelings of affection he might have had. It wasn't worth feeling anything for people who gave him nothing in return, a harsh reality for a child barely entering adolescence.

And the day came, a day that seemed like any other at first glance, when his parents fell to the ground and never opened their eyes again. His brother was screaming in sheer terror, trying unsuccessfully to call emergency services because the lines were down.

“Don't bother, they don't have a pulse,” said Hyunjin, sitting down in the nearest chair.

His brother was hyperventilating, tears streaming down his face, clutching his parents' clothes so tightly that his knuckles turned white.

“They just... died... How can you be so calm, Hyunjin? Are you a psychopath or something? They've taken care of you your whole life! But you're just ungrateful, yes, that's why the only thing you're good at is making our lives miserable. You have an inferiority complex and you take it out on everyone else...”

Hyunjin was unmoved by those words. The love he had for his family had gradually dissipated until it had almost completely vanished. He wasn't close enough to his brother to feel bad about seeing him cry inconsolably. To be clear, they had no relationship at all. The youngest of the Hwangs didn't speak to him unless it was strictly necessary. If he could avoid looking in his direction, even better. He had distanced himself so much from his older brother that some people were surprised to learn that he actually had a brother. He didn't talk about him; he was non-existent, a stone in the road that he had to constantly kick out of the way. How was Hyunjin supposed to feel bad for him?

"Would you have screamed and called the emergency services so vehemently if it was me lying there lifeless? Would your parents have mourned my loss or sighed with relief?'' Perhaps these were somewhat extreme thoughts, but the silence accompanied by his brother's annoyed, frowning face was all he needed as an answer. “Yes, I don't have parents, I don't have a brother, I'm not going to mourn the death of strangers.”

From that day on, Hyunjin left behind his home, his brother, and his surname. He was no longer a Hwang; he was Hyunjin, and he didn't need anyone else. He survived as best he could. Three-quarters of the population had disappeared, and in his early years, he struggled to fend for himself, coming close to death several times until he discovered the pattern of the rain with great difficulty. He did his best to learn how to wield every weapon at his disposal: knives, guns, his own fists—anything would do. He had become a threat to other living beings. The few people who encountered him fled in terror, as he was not particularly friendly. He wanted his space; he wanted to be alone with no one to bother him. He spent years gathering canned food, set up his home in an old warehouse on the outskirts of town, and lived in peace during that time. Every now and then, people would recklessly venture into his small territory, but needless to say, everyone who entered regretted it when they saw a boy dragging chains and a large knife approaching them too quickly.

As for the chains, there was nothing special about them worth mentioning. He started using them as training to run faster and ended up getting so used to them that he never took them off. He also couldn't remember exactly where he had put the key to the lock, so that was another excuse.

Hyunjin had been terrorizing the few remaining people for so long that he was surprised when another of his victims decided to return the next day. He didn't remember how to interact like a normal person with another human being; he had never really had a decent interaction since he was born, and being isolated didn't help either. He wasn't thinking rationally; he had a distorted view of what was right and wrong in many cases, and the only thing he understood at that moment was that the feeling of loneliness dissipated suddenly as soon as the man set foot in his warehouse.

As a general rule, being stabbed and chained up was not exactly something to be happy about, but Hyunjin thought Christopher should feel flattered. It was a sign that he liked his company. Why? No one knows. After all, he had tried to kill him twice.

“Would it be possible to heal the wound? At least a little? I have some things in my backpack that might help.” Christopher was dizzy, his words slurred with difficulty. After the adrenaline rush wore off, all his pain came flooding back.

To his surprise, Hyunjin listened to him, but it was Hyunjin after all. The wound was still bleeding, creating a small pool on the marble floor, and Christopher was beginning to writhe in agony.

“I'm not a doctor, so don't blame me later.”

And so Hyunjin poured half a bottle of hydrogen peroxide over the wound, Chris's senses suddenly sharpened, a sharp pain traveling from his leg to the depths of his chest. He wanted to squirm in place, holding back the scream of pain that ended up choking in his own throat. He was clutching his thigh with both hands, applying so much pressure that he was sure he was digging his nails deep into his skin. Hyunjin was annoyed by all the drama that was unfolding. He grabbed his leg forcefully and cleaned the wound with a cloth. This time, Christopher's cries echoed throughout the warehouse. Once he had finished cleaning and bandaging the wound without care, he collapsed to the floor. Pain and exhaustion quickly took over his body, or perhaps he simply fainted. He wasn't sure.

Hyunjin stood watching for what seemed like hours as the man slept on the floor, a mess, his clothes torn from their fight, his pants half torn with bloodstains, his hair a bird's nest framing his face. Dry tears adorned his cheeks, his brow furrowed, he seemed to be in discomfort. Curious, curious that all of this seemed mildly charming to him, perhaps in a twisted way, but charming nonetheless.

Chapter Text

Christopher woke up before sunrise, the cold had penetrated his bones to the point that he awoke shivering. He didn't even want to look in the mirror to see how gaunt he must have become in just a few hours, all because of the man who was sleeping too soundly for Chris's happiness, just a few feet away, on a mattress instead of the cold cement floor, even with a blanket instead of a simple T-shirt that was so worn out it was disgusting, and he didn't even know where it had come from since it wasn't his usual clothing.

With some difficulty, he crawled to the mattress where Hyunjin was sleeping. He was just a few feet away from him, and the chain was long enough to reach him. Every little movement felt like hundreds of needles being stuck into his body continuously, but he didn't care. He was angry, angry that the guy was sleeping so comfortably while he had to endure lying on the floor with only Moon knows how many wounds and a stab wound in his leg. He deserved to sleep on the mattress!

“Bastard...” he growled, grabbing Hyunjin's foot with one hand and shaking it until he woke up, to no avail. He struggled to his feet and began kicking the mattress until the young man finally showed signs of life, waking up dazed by the incessant blows and a clearly enraged Christopher.

“What's wrong with you now?” Hyunjin's voice was slurred as he sat on the edge of the mattress, looking straight up and meeting Christopher's eyes. He couldn't help but think about the strange beauty in front of him, with dried blood adorning part of his chin and lips, dark circles under his eyes that made him look more dangerous than he really was, and hair dirty from all the rolling around on the floor he had done in less than 24 hours... Hyunjin tilted his head to one side, examining his warehouse partner, unable to figure out why he was the only person he was able to tolerate, a thief dog too stupid to escape.

Christopher said nothing and lunged like if he was hunting prey, straight for Hyunjin's neck. He wasn't thinking rationally, he didn't think about trying to arm himself with whatever he could find. He had so much pent-up rage, not just from these last few days but from all these years that he had unfortunately been keeping inside with no way to release it. It made him angry to be alone, without friends or family. He was angry at having to get used to seeing the corpses of acquaintances and strangers. He was angry at having to take shelter from stupid rain and deadly plants, at having to search for food and create a garden because it was the only thing the climate didn't exterminate. He was angry that his descent into madness meant talking to a couple of lettuces and tomatoes as if they were his best friends. He was desperate to die, but he didn't want to do it in such pathetic conditions.

He bit and scratched Hyunjin wherever he could, kicked him, and they struggled like two wild animals. Hyunjin wasn't much stronger than Christopher, but he definitely had more experience when it came to fighting. He grabbed both of his arms to keep him in place, and Christopher bit his hands again, but he couldn't get him to let go. At first, Hyunjin was confused by the sudden attack. The boy's twisted mind wasn't processing it as an attack for knocking him unconscious, stabbing him, or chaining him up. Hyunjin was processing the situation as a kind of compliment, almost a “thank you” for saving Christopher from something worse. He was laughing, really laughing as if it were child's play. He was going to end up unhinged. Hyunjin turned him over, this time taking charge of delivering the blows to Chris's bruised body, and maybe it was the adrenaline, but he couldn't feel any pain; neither of them was capable of feeling pain at that moment. It tickled them more than anything else, so much so that they finally found themselves laughing and struggling, landing the occasional blow, slowing down until they simply stopped, letting the air fill their lungs again little by little between soft laughs.

Now Christopher was angrier than before, and not because of his kidnapper. Conflicted feelings, it seemed unfair to him that his first “real” interaction was with some kind of psychopath. He was angry at himself for not resisting or freeing himself from the chains while the boy slept, because they weren't even tied properly. It was so easy to escape that the situation itself was embarrassing. Pathetic is the only word that can describe it, because the worst part is that it was the first time in years that he hadn't felt the burden of survival on his body. Even though it had been less than ten minutes of struggle, it had been ten minutes of freedom. Without thinking, just letting himself go.

For so long he had been longing to be free, although many would say he already is, he continues to live under the imposed rules of a natural disaster, every day with his heart shrinking at any new strange phenomenon that might appear to kill him mercilessly. He was tired, he was fed up with his existence. He misses the warm chats with his sister after arriving at class, drinking a little tea and eating sweet snacks that he kept under his bed so his mother wouldn't find out. Some of his classmates made his life miserable, but that was life. Christopher no longer has a life; no one walking the earth today has a life. They are headless chickens running around until they inevitably reach the end line one way or another. He didn't care if he died in years, months, days, or that very day in a matter of hours. The only thing he firmly desires is to live before he does.

“I want to escape, Hyunjin.” Cold eyes, like those of a dead fish, soulless and graceless, filled only with despair. On the verge of collapse.

“Let's run away.”

“Where to? It'll all be the same desolate land.” Hyunjin had reached out his hand, now standing in front of him.

“I don't know, problems of our future selves.” It wasn't an answer that completely convinced him, but it was enough for him to take his hand. A promise.

Christopher went to wander around the warehouse, finally undoing the poorly made knot that tied him to one of the metal shelves. These types of warehouses used to have all kinds of things, from food to household items to... tools. Like pliers, which was just what he was looking for. On his little adventure, he came across the fish tank. He remembered it from the first day. Finding animals is strange in the current situation, so much so that he stood mesmerized watching them swim back and forth, two little orange fish completely oblivious to what was happening in the world outside their four glass walls.

Small fragments of color fell through the water. On the other side was Hyunjin with a small jar of fish food.

“This is Fish,” he said, pointing to one of the fish swimming harmoniously in circles around the other little fish. “And this one is Chips.”

They circled around the fish tank. It was so strange to see other living beings. He had never had fish as a child, despite them being a popular pet for kids. Such small creatures would not have survived outside the fish tank for more than a day. And maybe it wasn't such a bad idea to be locked up there.

He left the fish behind, setting off on a rather short search for the pliers. He cut part of the chain around his neck, leaving about six centimeters loose. He didn't want to get rid of it completely; it was a stupid symbolism, but he found it funny.

He approached Hyunjin with the pliers, cutting the chain that closed around his wrist and cutting it, leaving those extra inches of length but allowing him to move his hand more freely. Although Hyunjin had become accustomed to dragging the chains for so many years and they had become another part of him, another limb attached to him, getting rid of the weight he carried was frankly liberating.

“By the way, why are you chained?” he asked, holding Hyunjin's chained hand between his fingers, stroking the cold metal with his thumb. Cold and heavy, a burden.

“I don't know, because I'm tied to this world, I guess.” He laughed at his own words, stretching every muscle in his body like a cat, passing Christopher and heading toward a shopping cart filled with dry leaves. He could tell that Hyunjin had collected the leaves to fill the cart. "It's just boring to chase people who meddle in my warehouse! I'm too fast, I catch up with them in seconds, I had to put some restrictions on myself.

He climbed onto the cart, collapsing onto the pile of leaves, some of which flew off, falling at Christopher's feet. He wasn't walking into the lion's den, he was already in its stomach about to be digested. What else could he do? Have fun while he could.

He stepped on the leaf in front of him, a small crunch emanated from it, and in a quarter of a second he was running toward Hyunjin for the second time that day to lunge at the cart. He grabbed it by the handle and, with a push, they both shot across the warehouse, which was large enough for them to roll around as they pleased, going from one side to the other while Hyunjin threw leaves, laughing openly with Christopher as he propelled them from one side to the other, leaves flying everywhere like an autumnal scene from a movie, a little more rough between the cement walls of the warehouse but just as melancholic.

They spent the day taking turns from one cart to another, at some point getting carried away and starting to knock over shelves for the simple fun of it, enjoying the heavy crash. They broke old, time-worn furniture and kicked glass because the sound of fragile crystal shattering on the floor was comforting. Christopher had picked up a sharp piece of glass, reflecting the rays of vermilion red in a spectacle of colors.

He handed it to Hyunjin, sliding his cheek against the other man's, leaning against one of the pieces of furniture, or what was left of it after they had kicked and pounced on it mercilessly. Hyunjin took the piece of glass, his eyes sparkling. If he looked closely, he could see stars shining in his companion's gray eyes, a mischievous look that harbored mischief and a hint of mental instability. With the tip of the glass, Hyunjin carved a pattern into his own palm, his face contorted with pain, but his determination was even greater. Christopher remained unmoved by these actions, merely observing. Blood dripped from his palm, down his forearm, and onto the floor drop by drop. It was exciting to watch that scene, to see the satisfaction mixed with the purest pain and masochism of continuing to cut the thin skin of his hand until he engraved what he deduced was a drawing of a broken chain and two indecipherable letters among the gushes of blood.

He held out his bloody hand to Christopher, who didn't hesitate for a second to reach out and intertwine their fingers, no matter how much Hyunjin's fresh wound stung, a repayment for the stab wound in the other's leg that day.

But beyond being a drawing, it was a promise.