i got suede on my vinyl @lovecase - Tumblr Blog

🍋 as the world caves in──martin edwards

sum. martin park's life ends at nineteen. or at least, that's what it feels like when a career-ending diagnosis trades recording studios for hospital rooms and label meetings for treatment schedules. you've long since accepted that hospitals are less places to heal and more places to learn how to live anyway. somewhere between floor four, a rooftop overlooking seoul, and one impossible promise, the two of you start building a future that neither of you is supposed to have. and for two sick kids, the future has never been so uncertain.

note. i don't think i've ever done this much research for a fic. this is my baby she took almost a month (procrastination) but she's here now happy (kinda) & healthy (kinda). nerd juhoon agenda sorry not sorry. joyride and what you what are also honorable mentions for being my babies so they got their whole entire cameo anyways ok enjoy pls ignore mistakes & logical errors (i've never been a patient idk) this is very poorly proofread ily ♡

warnings. 28k words. angst. grumpy x sunshine coded. hospitalization & chronic illness. coarse language. forced separation & separation anxiety. they fall fast & hard. bittersweet ending. health anxiety. grief tropes. sean

( 💿 ) as the world caves in—matt maltese . . . what you want—cortis . . . my blue lips—cortis . . . phoenix—stray kids . . . cover me—stray kids . . . wonderwall—oasis . . . scott street—phoebe bridgers . . . 0x1=LOVESONG tommorrow x together . . . fake plastic trees—radiohead . . . panic—beomgyu . . . joyride—cortis . . .

Martin Edwards Park is on the fucking top of the world.

"Louder! Turn that shit up!" Sean yells, throwing his arms in the air as the end of the track fades out.

"It's already at max, Sean, you're going to blow the sub," Martin laughs, spinning around in his squeaky swivel chair. He feels a burning pride in his chest. "Besides, my mom's upstairs. If she hears that kick drum vibrating the kitchen tiles again, she’s taking the power cords."

"Let her!" Sean grins, grabbing a slice of cold pizza from the box on the floor. "You're a professional now, Marty. Tell her it's for the culture. Tell her it’s an investment."

"Yeah, tell her that and see how fast you get evicted," James laughs, leaning against the basement stairs with a smile. "But, nah, seriously. Play it again from the bridge. It's fire, dude. Unreal."

The basement studio included cheap LED strip lights and the smell of energy drinks and hot pizza. It was the only place Martin felt entirely like himself—surrounded by tangled audio cables, a worn-out MIDI keyboard, and walls lined with egg-carton foam that didn't actually deaden the sound but made it feel official.

Tonight, the bass isn’t pumping from the monitors, but the room is louder than it has ever been.

"To the future richest man in this room!" Sean yells, slamming a plastic cup against Keonho’s. He is still in his practice jersey, taking up half the worn-out futon. "When you’re selling out arenas, I better get courtside seats to whatever city you’re in. That’s the tax for being your muse, Marty."

"You're nobody's muse, Sean. Sit down," Juhoon says, though he's smiling, his glasses sliding down his nose as he hovers over Martin’s laptop. He taps the glowing PDF document on the screen—the official letterhead from the label. "A three-year development deal. Do you guys even realize the legal weight of this? They don’t just scout nineteen-year-olds unless you’re, like, a freak of nature."

Martin sits in his chair, a dazed, stupid grin plastered across his face. He's unbelievably giddy. He’s spent the last four years of high school hiding away in this exact basement, skipping parties to tweak vocal tracks and build beats until his eyes bleed. It's felt like screaming into a void.

But now, someone's finally screamed back.

"Don't let it go to his head yet," James chimes in, tossing a crumpled napkin at Martin. As a dancer, James seems to move effortlessly, even just while standing. "He still has to produce my crew's next showcase track. For free. It’s in the unwritten best-friend bylaws."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever you want," Martin laughs, his chest swelling. He looks around the room at his people. Keonho, who has a swim meet at 6:00 AM but hasn't even checked his watch once; Juhoon, who is practically treating Martin's contract like his own personal victory; Sean and James, already arguing over music video concepts.

This is supposed to be the starting line. They're all on the edge of becoming the people they want to be.

"Alright, look, I actually have a new demo," Martin says, leaning forward to grab his mouse. "The A&R guy said they loved the hook, but I wanted to show it to you guys before I send the final mix—"

He stops.

A sudden wave of pressure hits the back of his throat. It feels like trying to swallow a mouthful of copper pennies. The glowing laptop screen blurs, the bright blue text bleedig into a smear of light.

"Martin?" Juhoon asks, his voice suddenly dropping its teasing edge. "You good?"

"Yeah. Just... stood up too fast, I think," Martin mutters. Except he hasn't stood up. He's still sitting down. A strange coldness starts at the base of his neck and rushes down his spine. The air in the basement suddenly feels wrong, like he's trying to breathe underwater.

He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees to steady himself. His heart is hammering against his ribs. Thud-thud-thud. It sounds just like Sean’s basketball hitting the hardwood, but it's hollow. Panic, sharp and metallic, spikes in his gut.

Something is wrong. Something is so wrong.

"Hey, man, you look really pale," Keonho says, setting his drink down.

"I'm fine, I just need a sec," Martin tries to say, but the words catch. A deep, wet cough tears out of his chest—the kind of cough that starts from the very bottom of your lungs.

He claps his hand over his mouth out of instinct.

Another cough hits him, harder this time, racking his entire upper body. When he pulls his hand away to catch his breath, he expects it to be wet with spit.

It isn't.

His palm is coated in blood.

Martin stares at his hand. His brain completely short-circuits. For a fraction of a second, he honestly thinks it's a joke—like he’s spilled cherry soda or grabbed a prop from a movie. But then it starts dripping, sliding down his wrist and staining the gray fabric of his favorite sweatpants.

"Oh my god," James breathes, taking a step forward, his face draining of all color.

"Martin, don't move," Juhoon says, his voice cracking as his calm shaters into pure terror.

Martin tries to inhale, but another violent cough interrupts, and this time, the blood spills over his lips, pooling on the desk, splattering across the keyboard, and dripping onto the glowing contract on his laptop screen. He feels dizzy—not the fun, lightheaded kind of dizzy from winning, but a terrifying weight that is dragging him toward the floor.

What the hell is happening to him?

The room starts to tilt. The cheap LED lights flicker into darkness at the edges of his vision.

"Call someone! Sean, call an ambulance right now!" Keonho is yelling, his arms grabbing Martin's shoulders just as his knees give out.

The last thing Martin sees before everything goes black is the bright red stain spreading across the white paper of his future, and the terrified, helpless faces of the boys he’s grown up with.

That was almost two weeks ago. Martin Edwards Park has hit fucking rock bottom.

"You're lucky we caught it early."

Lucky, huh? He doesn't feel lucky. He feels, like... unlucky. Really, really unlucky, and really, really pissed.

The words aggressive and incurable bounced off the sterile white walls of the consultation room, landing harshly on him. They didn't feel real. They felt like words for a sick person, not a literal description of what's happening inside Martin’s own ribs. Martin isn't sick.

But the proof is everywhere. It's in the constant ache in his chest, the heavy plastic bracelet clamped around his wrist, and the clear tube of the nasal cannula feeding oxygen into his nose with a quiet, maddening hiss.

Hiss. Click. Hiss. It 's the only rhythm he has left now.

(And it makes for a horrible beat, by the way. He'd just like to add that.)

Martin stares up at the acoustic tiles of his hospital ceiling. There are exactly seventy-two of them in his line of sight, each dotted with tiny, irregular holes. He’s counted them four times today already.

On the outside, his life had been moving at a million miles an hour. Beats, lyrics, mixing, a future with a label that actually believed in him. Now, his entire universe is restricted to a twelve-by-twelve room in a long-term youth ward.

A youth ward. The name itself feels like a sick joke. He's nineteen! He's supposed to be moving into a dorm or a shitty apartment with a roommate who steals his milk. He's supposed to be up until 4:00 AM in a real studio, not up until 4:00 AM because a machine is telling him his heart rate is fluctuating.

Jesus.

He rolls his head to the side, looking at the corner of the room. His laptop sits on the bedside table, closed and cold. He hasn't opened it once since he arrived. He couldn'tt bring himself to look at the desktop, because he knows the file for his final demo is sitting right there on the screen, proof of the life he’d been kicked out of.

His fingers twitch, aching for the keys of his MIDI controller, but the mere thought of trying to write a melody right now makes a bitter taste rise in his throat.

What is he even supposed to write about? The sound of the blood pressure cuff inflating? The way the soap smells like fake lemons and bleach?

He's angry. It's a hot kind of rage that sits right behind his eyes, making him want to scream until his throat bleeds again, or smash the water pitcher against the linoleum floor. It isn't fair. He's worked so hard.

He’s sacrificed sleep, a social life, and normal teenage experiences because he had a goal. He had a vision. And just when the door had finally swung open, his own body slammed it shut and locked it from the inside.

A knock rattles the wooden door of his room, breaking through the silence.

Martin doesn't turn his head. He doesn't want to see a nurse with another tray of tasteless food, or a doctor with a clipboard full of numbers that mean absolutely nothing to him. He just pulls the scratchy hospital blanket up to his chin, closing his eyes and wishing he could disappear into the mattress.

Fortunately (and unfortunately) it is neither Dr. Too Boring For His Own Good, nor Nurse Annoying As Hell. Okay, that's mean-spirited. But considering his given situation, he's allowed to be a little mean-spirited.

The door flies open so fast that Martin actually flinches.

"Look at this! They got him in the VIP suite!"

Sean’s voice is loud in the quiet room. Well, Sean's voice is always loud. He walks in first, carrying a plastic convenience store bag that's bulging at the seams. Behind him comes Juhoon, balancing a stack of thick paperback books under his arm, followed by Keonho and James.

For a second, the room feels incredibly small. These are guys used to wide-open spaces—basketball courts, Olympic-sized pools, and dance studios with mirrors that stretch for miles. Stuffing them into a twelve-by-twelve hospital room feels like trying to park four SUVs in a one-car garage.

It's... kind of fucking crazy, really.

"Man, you look like crap," James says, but there is a wide, easy grin on his face as he kicks the bottom of Martin’s bed. "They treating you okay? Or do I need to fight a nurse?"

"Please don't fight the nurses, James, they control the good meds," Martin mutters, pushing himself up against the pillows. He tries to make his voice sound normal, but the nasal cannula gives him a slight lisp, and his throat still feels like it's lined with sandpaper.

So much for normalcy, but whatever.

"Hey," Juhoon says, stepping up to the side of the bed. He doesn't look at the IV pole or the monitor. He just drops the stack of books right onto Martin’s legs. "Brought you the good stuff. Well, good if you’re trying to keep your brain from rotting. I got the advanced music theory modules from the university library. Sneaked them out using my cousin's ID. Don't lose them, or I’m a felon."

"Thanks, 'Hoon," Martin says, looking down at the heavy textbooks. Juhoon isn't some stereotypical nerd who wears pocket protectors; he's just a regular guy who happens to ace every exam without trying, the kind of dude who would stay up until 3:00 AM playing video games and still pull a perfect score on a calculus mid-term the next morning.

Normally, Martin would hate people like that. But Juhoon's chill; he's the type that doesn't care enough to brag.

"And I brought the actual essentials," Sean announces, dumping the contents of his plastic bag straight onto the bedside table, right next to Martin’s untouched laptop. Packs of spicy ramen, bottles of sweet tea, a bag of sour gummies, and a plastic container of fried chicken that is already leaking grease through the paper.

"The cafeteria food here looks like drywall. I saw a lady carrying a tray down the hall and I almost cried for you, bro. Eat up."

"I can't even eat half of this, Sean," Martin says, a small, genuine smile finally breaking through his stubbornness. "The doctors have me on some stupid low-sodium restriction."

"What they don't know won't hurt 'em," Sean shrugs, pulling up the room's solitary plastic armchair and immediately breaking it by leaning back too far. "We’ll act as lookouts."

"Yeah, because you're so subtle, Sean," Keonho snorts, leaning against the windowsill. He 's wearing his team tracksuit, his hair still slightly damp and smelling faintly of chlorine. "You practically yelled across the entire lobby because the elevator button didn't light up fast enough."

"It was lagging! Elevators shouldn't lag!"

The room dissolves into something familiar. They talk loud, they argue over who gets to sit where, and they treat the hospital room like it's just another Friday night in Martin's basement. Which it's not Not by a long shot, but his friends do a good job of pretending.

It's a sensory overload. It's overstimulating. It's the best thing to happen to him in a hot minute.

The smell of chlorine and fried chicken completely erases the fake lemon bleach scent, and for a few minutes, the constant hiss-click of the oxygen machine is drowned out by Sean’s loud (and annoyingly infectious) laugh.

"Look at this," James says, pulling out his phone and shifting onto the edge of the mattress. He shoves the screen in Martin’s face. "The choreo for the winter showcase. We changed the transition during the second verse because Riki kept tripping over his own big ass feet. Watch this part right here."

Martin leans in, watching the video. On the tiny screen, James moves like water—effortless, his body perfectly moves with a hip-hop beat. It's a track Martin mixed for them three months ago. Watching James excute a perfect backflip into a hard freeze makes Martin’s chest tighten, but he forces his eyes to stay glued to the screen.

"That's sick, Jimmy," Martin says, clapping James on the shoulder. "The timing on that drop is perfect."

"Right? I told them you'd love it," James grins, pocketing the phone. "We'll show you in person, y'know, whenever you get out."

"Yeah. Sure. Whenever I get out," Martin repeats. The words taste like ash, but he keeps his smile locked in place. He knows the script. They all do.

That's the thing—the terrifying, beautiful, exhausting thing about this visit. His friends are putting on a whole load of BS. Sean's being extra loud, Juhoon's being extra casual, Keonho's talking about his upcoming swim meet like it's not a tiny hospital room they're crammed into, and James's acting like Martin will just be fine.

Which he might not be. He might never be. Martin could die here, for all he knows. His last meal could be the chunky mystery meat they serve here. The point is, no one knows anything. It's all so uncertain.

But they're trying so hard. Martin can see the slight tension in Juhoon’s jaw every time the heart monitor beeps a little too quickly. He sees the way Keonho’s eyes flick to the clear tubes hooked to Martin's nose before immediately looking away, forcing a laugh at something Sean says.

They're terrified.

They're boys who have no idea how to handle the fact that one of their own is locked in a youth ward with a terminal stamp on his chart. So, they do the only thing they know how to do: they pretend nothing has changed.

And honestly? Respect.

So Martin plays along. He cracks jokes, he steals a sour gummy when he thinks the nurses aren't looking, and he asks Keonho about his qualifying times for the national selection.

"I dropped half a second on my individual medley," Keonho says. "The coach said if I keep this pace up through the spring, the university scouts are going to start a bidding war. I might actually get a full ride, man."

"That’s insane, Kono. Seriously," Martin says. He reaches out, his knuckles bumping against Keonho’s fist. "You’ve been working for that since we were ten. You deserve it."

"Thanks, Marty. I'm gonna smash it for both of us," Keonho says, his voice dropping into something slightly more serious for just a split second before Sean interrupts by accidentally knocking over a fake potted plant.

(This is one of the times that Martin could kiss Sean for being a pain in the ass, because he really doesn't want to have a serious conversation about how he could die any moment.)

They stay for three hours. They eat the chicken, argue about basketball stats, and Juhoon explains a highly complex, completely illegal strategy for getting free drinks from the hospital vending machines that involves a paperclip and a lot of patience. It's normal. It's exactly what Martin thinks he wants.

But as the clock creeps toward 8:00 PM, the realization that visiting hours are ending sinks in. The outside world is calling them back. Martin isn't welcome there.

"Alright, we gotta bounce before the head nurse comes in here and physically throws me out," Sean says, stretching his arms over his head. "I got a 6:00 AM practice tomorrow, and Coach will make me run bleachers if I’m late."

"Yeah, I have to go, too," Juhoon says, gathering his jacket. He pats the stack of music theory texts he’s left on Martin's nightstand. "Read up, Park. I expect a full analysis by next week."

"I’ll try," Martin says. He will likely not.

James stands up from the bed, dusting a few stray crumbs off his hoodie. "We’ll come back next weekend, man. Or earlier if we can sneak away from classes. You just hang tight, alright?"

"Don't do anything stupid while we're gone," Keonho adds, flashing a quick thumbs-up as he moves toward the door.

"I'm literally locked in a bed, yo. What am I gonna do, rob a fuckass bank?" Martin jokes.

They laugh, a chorus of loud, overlapping goodbyes echoing through the small room. Sean claps him on the shin, Juhoon gives a wave, and then, one by one, they file out into the corridor. The wooden door clicks shut behind them.

And just like that, the universe shrinks back down to twelve-by-twelve.

The silence presses into his chest until he can barely draw a breathh. The smell of fried chicken and chlorine lingers in the air, a cruel reminder of the life that has just walked out the door.

Martin sits perfectly still, his eyes fixed on the closed door. He can hear their faint voices fading down the hallway—Sean’s booming laugh echoing once more before the elevator doorsshut.

They're gone. Back to their lives. Back to the world, the practices, the swim meets, the dance studios.

A slow, toxic wave begins to build in the center of Martin's stomach. It isn't the clean anger he felt earlier. It;'s something uglier. It's envy. Pure, unfiltered, ugly envy, and the moment he recognizes it, a deep sense of guilt slams into him, making the mixture unbearable.

How could you be jealous of them? his brain screams. They’re your best friends. They love you. They just spent their Friday night sitting in a depressing hospital room eating cold chicken just to make you smile.

But he is. God, he's so jealous he could vomit.

He looks at the corner of the room where Keonho had been standing. Keonho, whose body is a machine of pure muscle and lung capacity, built to cut cleanly through water. Then Martin looks down at his own arms. They look pale, almost translucent under the harsh fluorescent lights, the blue veins standing out sharply against his skin. A purple bruise is already forming where the IV line meets his vein.

His body isn't a machine. It's a trap. It's breaking down, failing him at nineteen, while his friends are out there dropping half-seconds off their swimming times and planning futures that stretch out for decades.

They have a tomorrow. They have a next week, a next year, a graduation, a career. Martin has seventy-two ceiling tiles.

How great for him.

He looks at the nightstand. His laptop sits there, an insulting accusation. Next to it is a stray piece of notebook paper that has slipped out of Juhoon’s textbooks—a blank sheet of staff paper, meant for writing music.

Martin reaches out, his hand shaking so violently he almost knocks over a bottle of sweet tea. He grabs the paper. He stares at the five horizontal lines running across the page, waiting for a melody to hit him, waiting for the words that usually come so easily whenever he's stressed or sad.

Nothing comes. Just the hiss-click-hiss of the oxygen.

The rage catches fire instantly. It rises up from his throat, hot and violent.

"Damn it," he chokes out, his voice breaking.

With a sudden, frantic burst of movement, Martin rips the paper in half. The noise of the page tearing feels loud in the quiet room. But it isn't enough. It doesn't empty the pressure in his chest. He tears it again. And again. His fingers work with a desperate speed, shredding the staff paper into tiny white flakes until his hands are tired, which doesn't take long.

Lately, he's always been tired.

He throws the handful of scraps into the air. They rain down around his bed like a pathetic excuse for confetti, landing on his blanket, on his lap, on the floor.

"Stupid," he whispers, his chest heaving as he grabs the edges of his blanket, his knuckles turning white. "It’s so stupid."

He wants to scream. He wants to rip the IV line out of his arm, fling the laptop against the wall, and smash every single piece of monitoring equipment in the room until the machines finally shut up. He wants his life back. He wants his basement. He wants his future.

He wants himself back.

Another cough tears out of him—not as violent as the one from two weeks ago, but deep enough to make his chest ache with a dull, throbbing pain. He slumps back against the pillows, entirely spent, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

He looks down at the tiny white scraps of paper scattered across his legs. One of them has a single, lonely treble clef printed on it, severed from the rest of the page.

Martin closes his eyes, tilting his head back toward the ceiling. The anger is still there, but the fire has burned out, leaving nothing but a hollow pit of exhaustion behind. He feels like a ghost inhabiting a room meant for a living person. He's completely alone, trapped inside a body that's given up on him before he’d even had a chance to start.

How did everything go so wrong, so quickly?

Martin wonders if it was karma. Or something. Actually, he's been doing a lot of that—wondering. Thinking. There's not much else to do here, other than the stack of kids' coloring books the nurse so graciously provided two days ago, sensing his constant state of boredom.

(Yes, his beef with the nurse is one-sided. Yes, he knows it'a ridiculous. No, he hasn't planned to stop being petty.)

It's 2:16 AM. The rest of the world is asleep, or at least... the healthy parts of it are. Martin’s room is dark, save for the sickly green glow of his vitals monitor and the tiny yellow light on his IV pump. The silence is loud again.

He couldn’t handle the walls anymore. If he stares at those seventy-two ceiling tiles for another minute, he's pretty sure he’ll actually lose his mind.

Uh, considering he hasn't already.

He swings his legs over the edge of the mattress, his feet hitting the cold linoleum floor. His knees feel a little shaky—a side effect of spending two weeks doing absolutely nothing but deteriorating—but he forces himself to stand.

Unlocking the wheels of his IV pole takes a second of clumsy fumbling. The metal pole is his mandatory sidekick now, a tall, rolling coat rack of bags and tubes that keeps him tethered to the room. And to staying alive, he guesses. He grabs the cold metal grip, gives it a tentative push, and winces as the little wheels let out a small squeak.

"Great. Stealthy," he mutters to himself.

He slips out of his door and into the hallway. The youth ward at night is different. The harsh overhead lights are dimed to a sleepy twilight, and the nurses' station at the center of the floor is mostly quiet, save for the low murmur of two night-shift workers gossiping over paper cups of coffee.

Martin doesn't want to be caught and dragged back to bed like a toddler, so he turns left, heading down the long, residential wing where the long-term patients stay.

The floor feels endless. His bare feet click softly against the floor tiles, accompanied by the rolling clack-clack-clack of his IV pole. He doesn't really have a destination. He just wants to walk until his legs force him to stop, or until the buzzing energy in his chest finally runs out of fuel.

He feels like a ghost haunting a corridor of sick people.

Alright, that has been a little dramatic, he admits. Give him grace, though, he's dying.

Every closed door he passes probably contains another kid whose life has been completely derailed by a bad lottery ticket in the genetic department. It makes him feel a weird mix of solidarity and deep, selfish irritation. He didn't want to be part of this club. He didn't ask for it.

He passes the communal lounge, the physical therapy room, and then turns a corner toward the older, less-frequented end of the floor where the sunrooms are.

That’s when he hears it.

It is a faint, soft melody drifting out into the hall that makes Martin stop in his tracks. He hasn't heard music in far too long. (Only two-and-a-half weeks, but still, this is Martin we're talking about.)

He nudges his IV pole forward, stepping closer to the source. The sound is coming from the alcove near the big emergency exit doors at the end of the hall. There is a wide windowsill there that looks out over the city skyline.

Martin rounds the corner, his (rather cynical) defense mechanisms already locking into place, and freezes.

You're sitting right in the center of the wide concrete ledge, your back pressed against the thick glass of the window. You have one leg tucked up to your chest and the other dangling off the edge. But it isn’t just you. The entire windowsill is... well, it's something.

A string of battery-operated fairy lights, emitting an amber glow, is taped clumsily along the top frame, casting soft shadows over the area. A small, portable Bluetooth speaker sits on the ledge next to you, playing a track at a volume so low it's practically a whisper.

And then there's your outfit. You're wearing the standard-issue ugly blue hospital gown, but it's pulled across your knees as you write on it. A massive assortment of colored fabric markers is scattered around your lap like a chaotic rainbow.

You don't notice him at first. You're entirely focused on uncapping a bright neon green Sharpie, your tongue poking out slightly between your teeth as you carefully draw a jagged little lightning bolt right over the left breast of the gown, right where a hospital logo should be.

Martin just stares. His brain, which has been trapped in a loop of misery and anger for a while, can't quite process the image. Is he dreaming? Is this all part of a medical-induced coma...? It genuinely looks like a teenage bedroom has crashed into a sterile medical facility.

Then, his IV pole gives a sudden, loud squeak as he shifts his weight.

Your head snaps up. Your eyes, wide and completely alert for two in the morning, lock onto him. You don't jump, and you don't look guilty. You just blink, taking in his messy hair, his oversized gray sweatpants, and the sour expression on his face.

"You're making a lot of noise for someone trying to sneak around," you say, your voice smooth and completely devoid of the usual hospital pity he’d grown to despise. You cap the green marker with a click. "The night nurses on this shift are pretty chill, but if you keep squeaking that wheel, Nurse Choi is gonna come down here with a hot cup of chamomile tea and a lecture about sleep hygiene."

Martin scoffs, his grip tightening on his pole. The bitterness that has been stewing in his chest all night suddenly finds a target. "What are you doing?" he asks, his tone flat and uninviting.

You look down at your lap, then back up at him, raising an eyebrow. "I'm performing emergency surgery on a fashion disaster. What does it look like?"

"It looks like you're vandalizing property," Martin says, taking a slow step closer, his eyes tracking the string lights. "And what's with the lights? You tryna turn a shitty youth ward into a trendy cafe? It’s a hospital, not a party."

He expects you to get defensive, or maybe even apologize and pack up your stuff. But you just lean your head back against the glass, a small, amused smile touching your lips.

"Wow," you say softly, shaking your head. "They really let some grumpy ones into the floor this week, huh? What room are you in, room 308? The guys down there said a new dude moved in who looked like he wanted to fight the drywall. Or did they say eat?"

"Room 306," Martin snaps, feeling his face flush slightly. "And I don't want to fight the drywall. Or... eat it. I just think it's stupid."

"What's stupid?"

"This," he says, gesturing vaguely with his free hand toward the fairy lights and the markers. "The whole... setup. You’re trying so hard to make a prison look nice. It sucks. It smells like bleach. No amount of dollar-store lights is going to change the fact that we’re stuck in a place where people come to get broken down."

The smile leaves your face, but you don't look angry. Instead, you look at him with a kind of calm perception that makes him feel suddenly exposed. He doesn't like it one bit. You pick up a red marker, tossing it lightly in your hand before catching it.

"It's not a prison," you say quietly, your voice dropping its playfulness but remaining firm. "Prisons have a release date. This is just... where we live right now. There's a difference."

Well, that hits Martin like a bucket of ice water. Prisons have a release date. The words echo in his head. He doesn't have a release date. He knows that. His friends know that. The doctors know that. The realization makes his anger flare up again, hot and defensive.

"Whatever," he mutters, turning his IV pole around to leave. "Enjoy your arts and crafts. I’m going back to my room."

"Hey, Room 306," you call out before he can take a step.

Martin pauses, his back to you. He hates himself for stopping, but he does.

"If you're gonna be miserable, you might as well do it somewhere with better lighting," you say. He hears the rustle of fabric as you shift on the ledge, clearing a spot among the markers. "Sit down. Or stand there and pout. But the view out this window is better than the ceiling tiles, I promise."

Martin bites the inside of his cheek. He should walk away. He should go back to his room, count his seventy-two tiles for a fifth time, and drown in his own resentment. But his legs are actually starting to ache from standing, and the thought of returning to that dark, silent room feels worse than staying here with a stranger who doesn't seem to care that he's being a jerk.

Reluctantly, he turns back around. He rolls his IV pole up to the windowsill, locking the wheels with a loud snap that he doesn't care about hiding this time. He doesn't sit on the ledge (that feels too intimate), but he leans his hip against it, crossing his arms over his chest.

"I counted them," Martin says after a long, awkward silence, his voice a little softer now.

You look up from a new doodle you're starting on your sleeve. "Counted what?"

"The ceiling tiles. In my room. There are seventy-two."

You let out a short, breathy laugh, the sound bright against the low hum of the music. "Seventy-two? Man, room 304 has eighty-four, and three of them have water stains that look vaguely like the map of Italy. I spent three weeks analyzing them last winter."

Martin looks at you properly now. Your skin has that specific, pale hospital hue that comes from staying indoors for too long, and there are dark circles under your eyes, but you don't look fragile. You look... solid. Like you’d been built to withstand a storm and had just decided to build a shelter out of whatever is lying around.

Not that he cares. Or is looking that hard. By the way.

"How long have you been here?" he asks.

"This admission? About two months," you say, switching to a blue marker. "But in and out? Since I was a kid. I’m practically part of the architecture at this point. If they ever remodel Floor 4, they’re gonna find my name carved into the baseboards behind the vending machines."

"Two months," Martin repeats. He’d been here for around two weeks and feels like he's dying of isolation. "And you aren't... losing your mind? You’re just sitting here drawing on your clothes at two in the morning like everything is fine."

"Who said everything is fine?" you counter, looking up at him through your eyelashes. "Everything is definitely not fine. My body hates me, my insurance company thinks I’m a line item on a spreadsheet, and this gown is made of a material that feels like recycled sandpaper. Or worse. Maybe worse. But I can either sit in the dark and let the monitors tell me when to breathe, or I can draw a really cool dragon on my sleeve. The dragon wins. Every time."

Martin looks down at your arm. True to your word, there is a remarkably detailed, slightly cartoonish dragon winding its way up the blue cotton fabric of your gown, its tail wrapping around the opening for your IV line. It's clever. It's stupid. It's completely human.

And he hasn't felt human in two weeks.

"I’m Martin," he said suddenly, the introduction slipping out before his brain can stop it. He feels a weird urge to correct the record, to not just be Room 306 anymore. He also is not going to read into that urge.

By the way. Because he doesn't care. But if he's stuck in here for god-knows-how-long, he might as well make the most of it.

You set the marker down on the ledge, wiping your hands on your lap. You don't give him the standard line. You don't ask what he has, or how long he has left, or tell him that you're sorry he's here.

You tell him your name, leaning forward slightly, your eyes bright under the fairy lights. "I’m a coffee thief, an expert at avoiding the afternoon resident rounds, and the unofficial mayor of Floor 4 since 2022."

Martin’s mouth twitches. For the first time in eighteen days, the bitter taste of anger in his throat feels a little less potent. "The mayor, huh? Did you get elected?"

"Unanimous vote," you lie smoothly. "Me, myself, and the guy in room 312 who doesn't speak but always shares his smuggled chips with me. We have a very strict coalition government."

"...Right. And what are your policies, Mayor?"

"Current policy is that anyone wandering the halls past 2:00 AM has to contribute to the local economy," you say, reaching over and picking up a thick, metallic silver marker. You hold it out toward him, handle first. "Here. Draw something. Or write something. Just don't ruin the vibe, bro."

Martin looks at the marker. His fingers twitch. He hasn't held a pen since he signed that contract in that label's studio. The thought of creating anything feels dangerous, like opening a door to a room he’d already locked up.

"I don't draw," he says, keeping his hands firmly crossed. "I'm not an artist."

"Everyone’s an artist when they’re bored enough," you say, tilting your head. You don't pull the marker back. You just leave it hanging in the air between you. "Come on, dudeee. Don't tell me you're scared of a Sharpie."

"I’m not scared," he mutters.

He reaches out, his pale hand crossing into the warm light of the alcove, and takes the marker from your fingers. The plastic casing is warm from your hand. He stands there for a second, looking down at the blank space near the hem of your gown, feeling the absolute absurdity of the situation.

He's nineteen, a scouted music producer, standing in a dim hospital hallway at two in the morning, about to draw on a girl’s clothes.

He leans down slightly, the smell of your laundry detergent—clean, sweet, completely distinct from the fake lemon scent—hitting him. He places the tip of the silver marker against the blue fabric.

With a slow, practiced hand, he draws a small, clean eighth note. The silver ink bleeds into the cotton, shining softly under the lights.

You watch his hand move, a quiet oh escaping your lips. "A musician?"

"Yeah," Martin says, capping the marker with a quiet click and setting it back on the ledge. He steps back into his space, leaning against his IV pole again, but the defensive posture feels less like a wall now and more like a habit. "Or... I was. Before my body decided otherwise."

"You still are," you say simply. You look down at the tiny silver note on your knee, running a thumb over the ink. "Your fingers still know how to make the shape. The hospital didn't take that."

Martin doesn't answer. He can't. The words feel too big, too real, threatenng to break open the heavy box of grief he’d been carrying since the ambulance ride. But as he looks out the window at the distant city lights, he realizes something.

The hiss of his oxygen machine hasn't changed. It's still there, hiss-click-hiss. But for the last ten minutes, he hasn't been counting the shitty beats it makes. He’d been listening to something else.

The morning after the Late-Night Window Incident doesn’t feel quite as crushing as the previous ones. Martin still wakes up to the aggressive, cheerful beam of sunlight cutting through his blinds at 7:00 AM, and his chest still feels like someone has packed it with wet sand, but the ceiling tiles don't feel like they are actively lowering themselves to crush him.

That's kind of a win. Probably.

He spends most of the day pretending to look at the music theory books Juhoon had brought in, though his mind keeps drifting back to the tiny silver eighth note he’d inked onto a stranger's hospital gown. He half-expected the whole interaction to be a weird, medication-induced fever dream.

Then comes the afternoon.

Martin's sitting on the edge of his bed, staring down at a lunch tray that features a gray piece of mystery meat and some steamed broccoli that looks like it's given up on life, when his door swings open without a knock.

"Alright, Room 306, step away from the sadness," your voice cuts through the hum of his vitals monitor.

Martin blinks, dropping his plastic fork. You are standing in the doorway, pushing your own IV pole with one hand and looking way too confident for someone stuck in a hospital for god-knows-how-long.

"Bro, what?" Martin asks, blinking at you. Okay, maybe this is a fever-dream.

"You look like you're about to eat drywall again," you say, stepping into his room with the practiced ease of someone who owns the place. You sniff the air and wince. "Worse. Hospital salisbury steak. That’s a level-one health hazard, Martin. As the mayor, I’m staging an intervention."

"I have a sodium restriction," he mutters, but his eyes automatically track you.

"Rules are mostly just suggestions if you know which hallways to walk down," you reply, giving him a knowing look. "Come on. Grab your IV. It's time for your official orientation. You've been here two weeks, and you’re still acting like a tourist."

Martin looks at the gray meat, then at you. His pride tells him to say no, to tell you he is perfectly fine sitting in his room alone. But his stomach lets out a loud, traitorous growl that echoes off the sterile walls. His cheeks turn pink.

He really does hate his body.

You laugh, the sound bright and completely unbothered by his glare. "See? Your gut is smarter than your attitude. Let's go."

Five minutes later, Martin finds himself trailing behind you down the eastern corridor of Floor 4. It's a weird procession—two teenagers in sweatpants and hospital gowns, their metal poles clacking and squeaking in an irregular pattern against the floor tiles.

"Lesson number one," you say, slowing your pace so he can keep up without straining his lungs. "The architecture of Floor 4 is divided into three territories. You’ve got the Pediatric wing, which is full of screaming toddlers and walls painted like a bad cartoon. Avoid it unless you want to step on a Lego. Then you’ve got the ICU crossover zone down south, which is too intense. And then, there’s here—youth ward. Our little island of misfit toys."

"Is that what we are?" Martin asks, a faint trace of his old bitterness creeping into his tone. "Misfit toys?"

"We're a highly functional community, actually," you correct, turning a sharp corner past the linen closets. "And every community has its resources. For example, pillows."

You stop outside a heavy white door marked Staff Only - Linen Supply. You reach out, testing the handle. It is locked, obviously. But instead of walking away, you knock a specific pattern on the wood—two quick taps, a pause, then three longer ones.

The door clicks open. A middle-aged nurse with a scowl and a nametag that reads Nurse Min looks out. Martin instinctively takes a half-step back, expecting a lecture.

"Ah, the gremlin is back," Nurse Min sighs, but her sharp eyes soften the second they land on you. "What do you want? I’m in the middle of an inventory count."

"Min! My favorite person on the payroll," you say, offering a bright, shameless grin. "My new friend here, Martin, just got assigned to 306. His mattress feels like it was stuffed with rocks, and I fear he may go crazy soon. He needs the good stuff."

Nurse Min looks past you, her gaze landing on Martin. She takes in his pale face, the clear tubes under his nose, and the tight, anxious way he is holding his IV pole. She doesn't say anything for a second.

Then, she reaches into the room behind her and pulls out two massive, incredibly thick pillows wrapped in crisp, high-thread-count white cotton—completely different from the flat, plastic-wrapped pancakes Martin has in his room.

"Take them," Nurse Min mutters, shoving them into Martin's surprised arms. "And if the floor manager asks where they came from, you stole them from the pediatric VIP suite. Got it?"

"Got it," Martin stammers, holding the pillows to his chest. They feel like actual clouds. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me. Just make sure she gets to bed before midnight for once," the nurse says, pointing a stern finger at you before clicking the door shut.

Martin stares at the solid wood, completely dazed. "How did you do that?"

"Min's son used to be a trainee at an entertainment agency before he went to college," you explain, turning back down the hall with a smile. "I let her talk to me about his vocal lessons for three hours last month. Now I’m on the permanent whitelist. If you need an extra blanket that doesn't feel like steel wool, she’s your hookup."

"You’re kind of terrifying," Martin says, though his arms are sinking into the soft fabric of the pillows.

"Shit, I'm a survivor, dude. There's a difference," you say. "Now, put those on your tray table for a second. We’re approaching the holy grail."

You lead him down a narrow service hallway that runs behind the main elevators. The air here smells less like bleach and more like dust and old paper. At the very end of the dead-end corridor stand two massive, glowing vending machines—one for sodas, one for snacks.

"Anyone can use the machine in the main lobby," you say, tapping the glass of the snack machine. "But that one gets cleaned out by the visitors within twenty minutes of restocking. This one? This is the staff breakroom overflow machine. It’s hidden. And more importantly, it has a glitch."

Martin leans his chin on the top of his pillows, watching you with curiosity. "A glitch?"

"Watch and learn," you say. You fish two crinkled dollar bills from... actually, he doesn't know where, and smooth them out against your thigh before feeding them into the slot. You punch in the code for a bag of spicy honey-butter chips, just the kind his mouth has been watering for since his salt restriction started.

The little metal coil turns. The bag slides forward, tips over the edge, and falls into the drop slot with a satisfying thud.

But then, the coil doesn't stop. It keeps rotating, slow and deliberate, pushing the next bag forward until it, too, plummets down into the bin. Two bags for the price of one.

"No way," Martin breathes.

"Row E, slot 4," you say proudly, reaching down to grab both bags. You toss one straight at his head. He catches it against the pillows, the crinkly plastic loud in the quiet hallway. "The spring is loose. It’s been like that for a long time. The technician hasn't noticed because only three people use this machine, and two of them are doctors who only buy the protein bars. Or, well, four people now, I guess."

Martin looks down at the bright yellow bag in his hands. It feels heavy. It feels real. It wasn't hospital food. It's a stupid, small piece of the outside world, a flavor he isn't supposed to have. But, in this moment, it is everything.

"Is this allowed?" he asks, though he is already ripping the corner of the bag open with his teeth.

"Probably not, but what are they gonna do? Evict us?" you joke, popping a chip into your mouth.

The taste hits Martin's tongue, and he swears he could've cried. It is sweet, salty, smoky, and full of everything his strict diet chart forbids. He closes his eyes, letting out a soft, involuntary groan of pure satisfaction. "Oh my god. I think I just had an out-of-body experience."

"Righttt? It beats the gray steak," you say, leaning against the side of the vending machine.

For a few minutes, the only sound in the hidden hallway is the crunch of chips and the low hum of the refrigeration units. Martin feels the tension in his shoulders slowly begin to loosen. It's hard to maintain a grand, existential rage against the universe when you're hiding behind an elevator shaft, eating stolen chips with a girl who has a dragon drawn on her arm.

"Alright, final stop on the tour," you say, dusting the salt off your fingers onto your gown. "And this is the most risky one. Keep your wheels quiet."

You lead him back toward the main corridor, but instead of heading toward the rooms, you stop right at the junction where the long-term wing meets the main administration offices. A large black dome camera is mounted on the ceiling, its little red light blinking slowly as it scans the hallway.

"See that?" you whisper, pointing toward the camera.

"Yeah. The eye in the sky," Martin says, his voice dropping instinctively. "The nurses use it to make sure nobody's escaping to the roof."

"Exactly. But look at the angle," you say, pulling him by his arm until he is standing exactly three inches to the left of a large fire extinguisher cabinet. "If you stand right here, behind the shadow of the pillar, the lens can't tilt far enough to catch you. It’s a blind spot about four feet wide."

Martin looks from the camera to the floor. "If you stay close to the wall, are you completely invisible to the monitor at the desk?"

You look at him, your eyebrows raising in surprise. "Yeah, exactly. If you want to slip past the desk to get to the sunroom or the service stairs after hours, you just have to hug this specific wall. I call it the Mayor’s Transit Lane. Of course, there's like nothing up there, so I don't know why anyone would care to go."

Martin lets out a short, breathy laugh, a real one this time. "You've put way too much thought into this, man."

"When you live somewhere, you learn the terrain," you say simply, leaning your head back against the cool drywall of the blind spot. "The first month I was here, I spent the whole time crying and staring at the wall, waiting for the doctors to tell me I was allowed to go home. Then I realized... home isn't a building anymore. It's just wherever I am. And if I'm gonna be here, I'm not gonna let some machine or some camera tell me where the boundaries are."

His first thought is that you are way too fucking wise for your age. His second is a little different.

Martin looks down at his shoes. He thinks about his basement, his studio, and the label that doesn't want him anymore. He’s been treating the hospital like a waiting room for a life that's already over.

But looking at you, sitting in the shadow of a security camera, eating junk food like it's a five-star meal, he feels a weird, unfamiliar shift in his chest. It isn't hope (hope feels too heavy, too dangerous), but it is something close to it. A quiet acknowledgment that the air inside his lungs, clear tubes and all, is still worth breathing.

"Why are you showing me all this?" Martin asks quietly, his eyes meeting yours. "Yesterday I was a complete dick to you."

"You were," you agree without hesitation, a small, teasing smile returning to your face. "A world-class jerk, honestly. But Floor 4 is small, Martin. We don't have room for people who want to keep fighting the drywall. You were suffocating in that room. I could smell the panic from down the hall."

You step out of the blind spot, your IV pole letting out a small, familiar squeak as you turn back toward the residential wing.

"Besides," you shrug. "I haven't had real human interaction, like, with someone my age, in way too long. Your eighth note was pretty good, Martin. Let’s see what else you can do."

Martin stands in the hidden corner for a second longer, the soft white pillows still cradled in his arms, watching your blue cotton gown disappear around the bend. He looks back at the security camera, which is blinking its slow, red light, completely oblivious to his existence.

For the first time in eighteen days, Martin feels a little less like a ghost. He pushes his IV pole forward, the wheels squeaking a little less loudly this time, and follows the mayor back into the light.

Somewhere along the line, you become a constant in his crappy little newfound hospital life. He isn't sure how, or even why, it is that you stick around, but he admits it... he's glad.

It's been four days since the snack machine heist, and Martin's found a weird sort of rhythm. His morning routine still consists of getting poked for blood work, staring down unseasoned eggs, and waiting for a phone call from his friends, but the afternoons are different now.

They usually involve a tap on his door and you dragging him out of his room for some stupid new thing. You’ve shown him how to decode the hospital paging system, which basement elevator arrives the fastest, and how to read the charts outside the staff lounge to figure out which shift supervisor is on duty.

He's starting to feel less like a prisoner and more like a permanent resident. He still hates the ward, obviously. He still hates the heavy plastic band on his wrist and the way his chest feels tight whenever he tries to laugh too hard. But having you around makes the hours click by a little faster.

It's just past midnight when the door to Room 306 creaks open.

Martin isn't asleep. He's lying flat on his back, staring blankly out the dark window at the distant city skyline, his hands folded behind his head. The nasal cannula is doing its usual noisy routine, providing a rather irritating background to the quiet room.

A silhouette blocks the small beam of light from the hallway.

"Psst. Martin. You dead?"

Martin rolls his head over on his thick, stolen pillows. "Almost. What do you want, Mayor?"

"Get up," you whisper, stepping completely into the room. You have a thick, oversized black hoodie pulled over your hospital gown. You look unnecessarily energized, like midnight is your peak operating hour. "We're going out. Put some shoes on."

"It's past midnight," Martin mutters, though he is already shifting his weight to sit up. "The night staff just finished the midnight rounds. If Nurse Choi catches us out of bed right now, she’s going to confiscate my pillows. I'm not risking the pillows, bro."

"Choi is currently in the breakroom eating a Tupperware container of fried rice, and the resident on call is asleep at his desk," you say, waving a hand dismissively. "Trust the system. ...Okay, I'm the system, but I’ve got the schedule memorized. Grab your rolling buddy and let’s go."

Martin sighs, but there's no real weight behind it. He slides his feet into his slippers, grips the cold metal handle of his IV pole, and stands up. His legs don't feel quite as shaky as they did a week ago, a small detail he keeps to himself because acknowledging any kind of medical progress feels like a jinx.

And he is absolutely not risking another damn thing.

"Where are we even going?" he asks in a low voice as they creep out into the dimly lit hallway.

"The executive suite," you murmur, keeping your eyes peeled as you navigate the familiar corridor.

You don't lead him toward the vending machines or the sunroom this time. Instead, you head straight toward the back of the ward, past the heavy fire doors that separate the youth ward from the old physical therapy wing that is currently under construction.

Martin’s heart gives a slight, erratic thump against his ribs. (From fear, not from being sick, which is an observation he hates that he makes now.)

He’d never been down this far. The overhead lights here are completely shut off, leaving the hallway wrapped in a deep, heavy shadow.

You stop in front of a pair of double doors with a massive, yellow Restricted Access - Authorized Personnel Only sign slapped across the glass. To the left of the door is a metal keypad, its little red light glowing.

"We can't go through there," Martin whispers. "It’s locked. It needs a code."

"Everything needs a code, Martin. That’s why we have eyes," you say. You step up to the keypad, tapping against the keys in a quick sequence: 0, 8, 0, 1.

The keypad lets out a soft, high-pitched beep, and the heavy lock inside the door clicks open.

Martin’s jaw drops slightly. "How the hell did you get the code?"

"The maintenance guy, Mr. Kang, has a bad habit of typing with his pointer finger while he’s holding a clipboard," you explain, pushing the door open with your shoulder. "I watched him do it three times from the lounge last month. It’s not rocket science. Come on, before the door automatically relocks."

Martin follows you through the threshold, while his IV wheels let out a quiet click as they roll over the metal seam in the floor. The air on the other side of the door is completely different. It's cold—freezing, almost—and it smells like fresh rain instead of cheap floor wax.

You are standing at the base of a narrow concrete stairwell. There's no elevator here, just a flight of stairs leading upward into darkness.

"We're climbing?" Martin asks, looking up at the steps with a sudden wave of anxiety. His body wasn't exactly built for cardio these days.

"Just one flight," you say gently, your tone losing its teasing edge for a second. "Take your time. Nobody's rushing you."

It takes them nearly five minutes to clear the twelve steps. Martin has to stop twice, his chest heaving as he grips the metal handrail, his knuckles turning white under the dim emergency lighting. You don't push him.

You don't offer to help, either, which he appreciates more than he can express. You just stand on the step above him, leaning casually against your own pole, waiting until his breathing levels out.

At the top of the stairs is a heavy metal door. You push it open, and a sudden gust of wind rushes into the stairwell, whipping Martin's messy hair across his forehead.

You both step out onto the roof.

It isn't the main roof where the massive air-conditioning units are located. Not the one you showedd him. It's a wide, secluded concrete balcony that juts out from the side of the fourth floor. There are no lights out here, no monitors, no nurses, and no machines. There's just the sky.

Martin walks forward, the wheels of his pole crunching over a few stray pieces of gravel on the concrete. He stops when his stomach hits the brick ledge, looking out over the city. He's breathing hard from the stairs, but you don't point it out. A cough catches in his throat, and he grips the pole to steady himself.

Seoul stretches out before him like neon and electricity. The headlights of cars on the highway look like a slow-moving river of red, and the air is crisp and cold, biting at his bare ankles and filling his throat.

For a fraction of a second, he forgets he's wearing a hospital gown. He forgets about the clear tubes under his nose. He just feels... small. But in a good way. For once, at least.

"Incredible, right?" you say, rolling up next to him and resting your elbows on the brick. The wind catches your hair, pulling a few loose strands out of your messy braid. "I found this place during my second week here. When the room feels like it’s shrinking, I come up here to remind myself that the world is still moving, even if I’m stuck on pause."

Martin doesn't say anything for a long time. He just watches the city.

"I was supposed to be out there tonight," he says softly, the words cutting through the whistle of the wind.

You don't turn your head to look at him. You just keep your eyes on the horizon. "Doing what?"

"A showcase," Martin says. His voice feels thick, but the default anger wasn't there anymore. It has been replaced by a quiet, heavy sadness that feels a million years old. "My friend, James... his dance crew has a performance at a venue downtown. I spent three weeks producing the track for it. I cut the samples, built the loop from scratch, mixed the low-end until it felt like it was gonna rattle your teeth out. We were supposed to go to an afterparty. I was gonna meet up the senior A&R guy from the label."

He pauses, waiting for the shift in the air. He waits for the heavy, awkward silence that usually follows whenever he mentions his ruined future to his mom or his friends. He waits for you to wince, or to say I'm so sorry, or to offer some empty garbage about how everything happens for a reason.

But you don't. You don't move a muscle. You just listen.

"What kind of track was it?" you ask, your voice casual, as if you are just two college students sitting on a bench outside a convenience store.

Martin blinks, a little taken aback. "Uh. Hip-hop, mostly. Heavy on the 808s, but I threw a chopped-up vocal sample from an old 70s soul record over the bridge. It gave it this weird, like, ghostly texture. Like... like someone screaming from inside a box, but it has a groove to it, you know?"

"Show me," you say, finally turning your head to look at him.

"I don't have my laptop," he says, gesturing vaguely down toward the lower floors. "And we don't have phones in here."

"You don't need a laptop to show me a rhythm, Martin. You're a producer, aren't you?" You smile, tapping your knuckles twice against the brick ledge. "Use your hands. Vocalize it. I don't care if it sounds stupid."

Martin looks at your hand, then down at his own fingers resting on the concrete. He feels a sudden, terrifying surge of vulnerability. He hasn't shared his music with anyone since the basement night. The last time he’d tried to talk about it, he’d ended up coughing up blood onto his own contract.

But the city lights are bright, the wind is cold, and you are looking at him with an expression that isn't sorry at all. You're just curious. It's the first time he'd actually looked into your eyes.

They're so pretty.

He lifts his right hand and brings his knuckles down against the concrete, matching your tempo but adding a double-tap between the beats. "The kick drum goes like that," he says, his voice dropping into a murmur. "It’s low. Like a heartbeat that’s running a little too fast. And then the snare hits right on the two and the four—" He hits his open palm against the brick, creating a flat noise that cuts through the wind.

"And the vocals?" you ask.

Martin hesitates, then lets out a low, melodic hum, his voice vibrating deep in his chest. He drags the note out pitching it up slightly at the end, mimicking a filter he’d spent hours tweaking on his software. It's a simple, repetitve loop, but as his hand keeps time against the stone, the sound starts to lock in.

For a whole minute, the concrete balcony isn't part of a youth ward. It's a studio. He doesn't feel like Martin the Sick Kid. He feels like Martin the Producer.

Martin stops suddenly, his hand freezing against the ledge. He lets out a ragged breath, a small, involuntary cough catching in his throat. He clears it quickly, his heart racing.

"That's... that's basically the loop," he says, looking away, his cheeks feeling suddenly hot under the cool night air. "It sounds better with actual speakers, obviously."

"It sounds like a lot of work," you say, leaning back against the ledge and looking up at the sky. There are no stars visible through the city's light pollution, just a deep, dark purple. "How long did it take you to learn how to do that?"

"Nine years," Martin says, his voice quiet. "Nine years of sitting in a dark basement while everyone else is out living. My friends thought I was crazy. My mom thought I was wasting my time. I didn't care, though. Because when I'm in front of the monitors, I;m the one in control. I can change the volume, I can fix the mistakes, I can make everything sound exactly the way it is supposed to."

He grips the metal handle of his IV pole, his knuckles turning white again.

"And then I get sick," he whispers, the truth finally spilling out of him because the darkness feels safe enough to hold it. "My own body completely short-circuits. I can't even breathe without a plastic tube shoving air down my nose, and some doctor who doesn't even know me tells me my lungs are incurable. It’s like... what's the point? Why did I work so hard just to end up here?"

He waits for it then. The inevitable pity. The soft, sympathetic eyes. The 'I'm so sorry, Martin, that must be incredibly hard.' He braces himself for it, his shoulders tensing, his jaw locking.

But you just keep looking at the purple sky.

"Yeah," you say, your voice flat and completely devoid of emotion. "It sucks. It’s a total ripoff."

Martin blinks, turning his head to stare at you. "What?"

"I said it’s a ripoff," you repeat, shifting your weight to look him dead in the eye. You don't look sad for him. You look almost annoyed on his behalf, like you are validating a complaint about a bad meal at a restaurant. "You got screwed as fuck, Martin. There’s no poetic lesson in it, and there’s no silver lining. You worked your ass off for years, you got the contract, and then your DNA decided to throw a tantrum. It’s completely unfair."

Martin stares at you, his mouth slightly open. It was like someone had finally walked into his dark room and flipped the light switch, revealing the mess exactly as it was, without trying to organize it or put a pretty blanket over it.

He doesn't need a lecture on positivity. He doesn't need his friends pretending he's going to be fine, and he doesn't need his mom crying at the foot of his bed. He needs someone to look at the wreckage of his life and say, 'Yeah, that’s a total disaster.'

"You're not gonna tell me to keep my chin up?" Martin asks, a faint, disbelieving smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

"Nah. Why would I tell you that?" you scoff, leaning your head against your IV pole. "Your chin is fine where it is. If you want to be pissed, be pissed. I’d be throwing things if I were you. In fact, if you want to smash that IV bag you brought up here against the wall, I’ll act as your lookout again."

Martin lets out a laugh—a loud, barking sound that doesn't catch in his throat this time. It feels clean. It feels like the first real breath he’d taken in a month. The tight band around his ribs loosens just a fraction more, the pressure evaporating into the cold night wind.

"I don't need to smash anything," he says, his shoulders dropping as he relaxes against the brick ledge. "The music loop was enough."

"Good," you say, turning back to the view. "Because Mr. Kang just painted that stairwell, and I reallyyy don't wanna get our privileges revoked on our first night."

You stay out there for another hour. You don't talk about diagnoses, or medications, or cell counts. Martin talks about his favorite synth plug-ins, and how Seonghyeon had once accidentally deleted a whole week's worth of vocal stems because he’d spilled an entire energy drink onto the external hard drive.

You listen, matching his rambling with your own dry commentary, treating his past life not as a tragic memory, but as a cool story from a guy who knows what he's talkinggabout.

If he cared a little less about what you think of him, he might've dropped to his knees and started thanking you. Crying, too. The whole nine yards.

When the chill in the air finally becomes too much for your thin hospital gowns, you make the slow, quiet trek back down the stairs and through the restricted doors, your IV poles squeaking.

Martin slips back into Room 306. But as he pulls the thick, cloud-like pillows under his head and closes his eyes, the sound of his canister doesn't feel like a prison sentence anymore.

You're in his dreams that night.

The morning after the excursion, Martin expects things to just keep rolling along in that same weird way life does here. But the hospital has a way of reminding you exactly where you are, usually right when you start to forget.

Two weeks fly by, or maybe they crawl. It is hard to tell the difference anymore. Time in the youth ward doesn’t move in a straight line, rather, it moves in cycles of medication rounds, temperature checks, and the occasional stolen hour at the end of the hall. Somewhere in those weeks, his heart beats a little different when he thinks of you.

Martin stops thinking of you as just the weird girl who draws on her clothes and starts looking for your oversized black hoodie in the lounge every time he leaves his room. He cares. It’s an annoying realization that hits him during a random Wednesday lunch, but it’s there. He actually cares about what happens to you. Too much.

Which is exactly why today feels like a punch to the gut.

It’s just past 1:00 PM when Martin rolls his IV pole down toward Room 304. He’s holding a packet of sour gummies he managed to trade a physical therapist for, fully intending to argue with you about whether thick or thin crust is better for pizza. He doesn't even knock—you’ve officially grown that close. Crazy, right?

He pushes the door open, a joke already on the tip of his tongue, and immediately freezes.

The room is completely different than normal. The warm amber fairy lights you usually have strung up are turned off, uncoiled, and dead on the windowsill.. The blinds are pulled tight, shutting out the afternoon sun and leaving the space dim and gray.

And you're stuck in the center of it.

You aren't sitting up. You aren't customizing a gown or sorting through an absolute mess of colorful fabric markers. You're lying completely flat against the stiff hospital mattress, looking incredibly small beneath a heavy green thermal blanket.

A massive monitor is wheeled right up to the side of your bed, its screen flashing numbers in bright, frantic yellows and reds that Martin doesn’t know how to read. A thick plastic oxygen mask is strapped tightly over your nose and mouth, fogging up with every shallow, rapid breath you take.

There are lines running into both of your arms now—not just the single, neat IV Martin has, but three separate tubes tracking into a central port near your collarbone.

Martin’s grip tightens on the cold metal handle of his pole. His heart does that stupid, erratic thump against his ribs again, but this time it isn't because he's thinking about your smile. It's pure, unfiltered dread. His stomach drops so fast he feels genuinely dizzy.

"Hello?" he speaks, his voice coming out much smaller than he intends.

A nurse—one of the strict afternoon shift workers he usually tries to avoid—steps out from behind the curtain, holding a syringe. She looks at Martin, her expression softening just a fraction before she shakes her head.

"She’s having a rough day, Martin," the nurse says quietly, capping a line on your port. "Her oxygen saturation took a dip this morning. We’re doing a heavy medication cycle to get things stabilized. She needs to rest."

Martin feels like he should leave. His default instinct is to back away, to return to Room 306 and pretend he didn't see the reality of what this floor actually does to people. He doesn't want to see you vulnerable. He wants the mayor who steals coffee and knows the security blind spots.

But before he can take a step backward, your head shifts slightly on the pillow.

Your eyes find him through the depressing light. They look tired. Deep, dark purple bruises running underneath them. But the second your gaze locks onto him, your eyebrows twitch upward.

You lift a weak hand, your fingers trembling slightly from the medication, and give him a tiny, two-finger wave.

Through the clear plastic of the oxygen mask, Martin can see your cheeks move. You're smiling. It isn't a full grin, but it’s real. It’s that same completely unbothered expression you gave him when he was being an absolute jerk to you on night one.

The nurse sighs, adjusting the blanket around your feet. "Ten minutes, Martin. That's it. Don't make her talk."

"I won't," Martin promises, his voice shaking slightly.

He rolls his pole over to the opposite side of the bed, his slippers sliding softly over the linoleum. He carefully sets the packet of sour gummies on the over-bed table, right next to a thick paperback book you’ve left face down.

He sits in the plastic armchair and just looks at you.

You don't try to pull the mask off. You know the rules on a bad day. Instead, you reach over with your left hand, your fingers draggig across the scratchy sheet until they poke the edge of his gray sweatpants. It’s your way of checking in. 'I’m still here,' the gesture says. 'Don't freak out.'

Martin looks from your trembling hand up to the massive monitor hum-clicking away by your head. The machine lets out a sudden, high-pitched chime, a warning about a fluid rate, and a nurse from the hallway quickly steps in to silence it before disappearing again.

The room drops back into that quiet. But you don't look miserable. You actually reach over, pick up your paperback book with a slow, deliberate effort, and open it to a dog-eared page. You turn your head slightly toward him, showing him the cover. It’s some stupid, cheesy romantic comedy novel Juhoon probably would’ve clowned on for three hours straight.

You tap the cover, look at him through the plastic mask, and roll your eyes so hard Martin thinks they might get stuck.

He lets out a breathy, quiet laugh, resting his elbows on his knees. "Yeah, I know. High literature, Mayor."

You give a weak nod, your eyes crinkling at the corners as you return to your page. You lie there for the next hour, slowly flipping a page every few minutes, the sound of your high-flow oxygen mask filling the space between you.

Martin doesn't leave when the ten minutes are up. The nurse comes back in twice, looks at him sitting silently in the chair, and decides to leave him alone. He stays until the shift changes, until outside turns dark, just watching the steady rise and fall of your shoulders.

He expects to feel that rage again. He expects to look at you—trapped under three separate IV lines, breathing through a plastic dome—and feel that familiar anger at the sheer unfairness of the universe.

But as the minutes tick by, the anger doesn't come.

Instead, a weird, yet oddly crystal-clear realization starts to settle over him, cutting through the fog.

He looks at your hand resting on the book. He thinks about how he spent his first fortnight here screaming into his pillows, tearing up staff paper, and wanting to smash every monitor in Room 306 because his body had broken down.

He’d thought he was angry about the music. He’d thought he was mad because the label contract was gone, because the studio was gone, because his friends were out there dropping half-seconds off their swimming times while he was stuck in a box.

But watching you right now, reading a dumb book with a smile while literally tethered to a machine that’s keeping you alive, he realizes he was wrong.

It wasn't about the music. It was about control.

In his basement, behind his MIDI keyboard, Martin was the god of his own little universe. He could tweak a frequency, drop a baseline, or delete a mistake with the click of a mouse. He had absolute command over every single detail.

And when he got sick, that control didn't just slip away.

It was ripped out of his hands by his own lungs. He’d been pitching a massive, childish tantrum because he couldn't choose the arrangement of his own life anymore.

But look at you. You don't have control either. You can't choose your oxygen levels, you can't choose when the medication gives you tremors, and you can't choose to just walk out the front doors of Floor 4.

Yet, you chose the fairy lights. You chose the silver eighth note. You chose to smile through a piece of clear plastic because a book was funny. You chose him. You didn't have control over the track, but you were still choosing how to listen to it.

Martin’s chest feels tight, but for the first time, it’s a clean sort of pressure. It’s like a chord change that finally resolves after miles of tension.

Around 5:30 PM, a night-shift nurse finally comes in with a tray of medication and looks at Martin with a firm, professional expression. "Alright, 306. Shift change. You need to head back to your own room so we can do her evening assessment."

Martin stands up, his knees popping in the quiet room. He looks down at you. Your eyes are half-closed now, the heavy sedative medications finally winning the battle against your stubborn brain.

"I'm leaving," he whispers, leaning over the bed ledge slightly. "Don't die while I'm gone."

You don't open your eyes, but the corner of your mouth twitches upward under the mask. A tiny, faint nod.

Martin grabs his IV pole, unlocks the wheels, and rolls himself out into the hallway. The walk back to Room 306 feels different tonight. The floor doesn't feel endless. It's new, but nice.

He shuts his heavy wooden door behind him, the latch clicking home with a solid, definitive snap. The room is dark, save for that familiar green glow of his own vitals monitor. Hiss-click-hiss.

Martin doesn't lie down. He doesn't look at the seventy-two ceiling tiles.

Instead, he walks straight over to his bedside table. He ignores his laptop, but his eyes land on the stack of books Juhoon had left behind. Tucked inside the cover is a fresh, clean notebook—one his mom had left on his first night, completely untouched until now.

He grabs it. He fishes a cheap plastic ballpoint pen out of the drawer, moves back to the edge of his mattress, and sits down.

His hand is shaking a little bit. The fear is still there, lingering at the back of his mind. But as he clicks the top of the pen, he looks out the window at the expanse of Seoul.

He places the pen against the crisp white paper.

He doesn't have a keyboard. He doesn't have his software or his basement LED strips. But his fingers still know the shapes. His brain still feels the music. And it's enough. You taught him that.

He draws five lines across the top of the page, quick and rough. Then, right at the start of the staff, he sketches a clean, silver treble clef.

The rhythm hits him instantly, bubbling up from that hollow space behind his ribs where the anger used to live. It’s a beat that feels like a midnight run down a dark stairwell. It feels like a double-tap against a concrete windowsill. It feels like what he feels for you, whatever that may be.

He starts writing the notes down, his pen scratching furiously against the paper. He doesn't have a title for it yet, but as the melody starts to take shape on the page—sharp, beautiful, and completely unapologetic—he writes a single phrase across the top of the sheet in bold, messy lettering:

WHAT YOU WANT

He writes for two hours straight. He writes until his wrist aches, until his eyes blur under the harsh green light of his monitor, until the ink on the page is a dense, beautiful map of everything he’s been trying to say since the basement floor tilted away from him.

When he finally stops, his breath is shallow, but his chest doesn't hurt. Not really.

Martin lets out a long, quiet sigh, capping the pen and leaning his head back against his cloud-like, stolen pillows. He closes his eyes, the image of a blue cotton gown with a tiny silver note dancing behind his eyelids. He still doesn't know what tomorrow looks like. He still doesn't have a release date.

But as he falls asleep, the track in his head is louder than the machines have ever been.

It takes another ten days before you're allowed out of your room, and by the time you finally reappear in the hallway, Martin is practically pacing holes into his slippers.

When you do show up, you look a little thinner, and you’re rocking a brand-new purple line on your gown from a stray marker spill, but your posture is just as stubborn as ever. You find him sitting in the recreation room, which is a space usually reserved for half-broken board games, a television that only plays reruns of old game shows, and an ungodly amount of dust.

But today, Martin has hijacked the corner table.

Juhoon had come through again. After a week of Martin aggressively texting him via a tired nurse's desk phone under the guise of an "emergency thingy," his friend had managed to smuggle in his smaller, twenty-five-key MIDI keyboard. It was currently hooked up to his laptop, drawng power from a wall outlet right behind a stack of ancient puzzles.

Praise the lord. Or Juhoon.

When you slide the door open, the low clickingg of your IV pole announces your arrival. Martin’s head snaps up instantly. The sight of you out of bed, even if you’re moving a bit slower than usual, makes a ridiculous wave of relief wash over him.

"Look who decided to rejoin civilization," Martin says, his tone hitting that comfortable note of dry sarcasm. But his eyes betray him, scanning your face to make sure you're actually okay. "I was about to pass a bill through the coalition to impeach you, Mayor."

"Please," you scoff, rolling your pole right up to the plastic table and dropping into the chair next to him with a dramatic sigh. "The public would revolt. I am the people's choice. What is all this?"

"A work in progress," he says, suddenly feeling a little self-conscious. He clears his throat, shifting the laptop slightly so you can see the screen. "I actually... I wrote something down after last week. A rough draft."

You lean forward, resting your chin on your hand. Your proximity does that stupid thing to his pulse again—that quick beating that has absolutely nothing to do with his condition. "Is this the one from the notebook? The one you wouldn't let me see when I was on bedrest?"

"Maybe," he mutters, his fingers hovering over the plastic keys of the controller. "Don't get your hopes up. It’s not that great. I mean, I recorded it at night while trying not to get caught by the night shift nurses."

"Play it, Park," you say softly, your eyes locking onto his with that same kind voice that always manages to disarm him. "Stop stalling."

Martin swallows hard.

MEP_What You Want.

He taps a key on his laptop, initiating the playback loop, and then his hands move to the keyboard.

It’s the first time he’s played a live melody since entering Floor 4. The sound comes through the cheap laptop speakers, filling the empty recreation room. It's clean. It has something that feels less like a struggle and more like a decision to keep moving.

He doesn't look at the screen while he plays. He looks at you.

You're completely silent, your eyes focused. There’s no pity in your expression—there never is—but there’s a quiet sort of pride that makes Martin’s chest feel incredibly warm.

The silence of the recreation room returns, save for the low hum of the vending machine down the hall.

"Well?" Martin asks, his thumb tracing the edge of the spacebar. "Too much?"

"It sounds like you," you say simply. You turn your head to look at him, a small, genuine smile pulling at your lips. "It doesn't sound like Room 306. It sounds like Martin. I love it, Mars."

He lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding, a faint flush creeping up his neck. "Yeah, well. The muse was alright, I guess. Even if she wears terrible clothes."

"Hey! This purple stain is abstract art," you argue, nudging his shoulder with yours. Then, the weight of his words catches up to your brain. You pause, the playful defense melting away as you replay what he just said in your head. The muse. "I was your muse?" you ask, your voice dropping, a little breathless.

A soft heat climbs up your neck and settles squarely on your cheeks. You look at him.

Martin’s posture locks up. His eyes dart from your face down to the keyboard, then back up to your eyes, looking completely caught off guard by his own mouth. He rubs the back of his neck, the red tint skin creeping all the way to the tips of his ears.

"Oh. Yeah. I mean, I guess," he says, his voice losing all of its usual sarcastic bite. It’s quiet. Soft. He clears his throat, shifting his weight in the plastic chair. "Who else would it be? You're the only one who doesn't look at me like I'm made of glass, Mayor. Kind of hard not to write something after that."

It isn't a grand, cinematic declaration. It’s a non-confession kind of confession, wrapped up in the quiet of a dusty recreation room, but it makes the air between you feel entirely different. Jarring, but completely safe.

You try to find a witty comeback, something to restore the status quo, but the genuine look in his eyes completely derails your thoughts. Instead, you just let out a small, quiet laugh, your smile turning shy as you look down at the table.

"Well," you murmur, your voice barely louder than a whisper. "The track is great, Park. So I guess I'm doing a good job."

"Don't let it get to your head," he murmurs back, though the corner of his mouth twitches upward in a look that is entirely too fond.

The physical contact between your shoulders feels a little warmer now. Sitting this close to him in the dim light of the rec room, the smell of the hospital’s soap completely overridden by the faint scent of your shampoo, makes the whole universe feel okay again.

He knows it’s inconvenient. He knows that having feelings for someone in a long-term youth ward is a terrible choice—a high-stakes risk with a deadline hanging over both of your heads. But looking at you under the fluorescent light, he realizes he doesn't care. He’d choose the risk every single time.

You reach over, your fingers brushing against his wrist as you grab a pair of white tangled earbuds lying next to the laptop. "What else is on here? Show me the old stuff. The tracks that almost got you the big contract."

"Yeah, yeah," he says, but he’s already untangling the cord. He plugs the jack into the side of the computer, splits the wire, and hands one of the plastic buds to you.

You take it, slipping it into your ear, while Martin puts the other one in his. He slides the laptop closer to the center of the table, your shoulders pressing together as you both lean in toward the screen.

For the next hour, the rest of Floor 4 completely ceases to exist. Martin clicks through his digital archives, pulling up old basement demos, half-finished hooks, and vocal chops that Martin had recorded while completely sleep-deprived.

Every time a track plays, you both catch each other's eye, laughing quietly at the errors or nodding along to a particularly clean drop. At one point, a track plays where Sean can clearly be heard shouting about a missing shoe in the background of the mic line, and you laugh so hard you have to lean your forehead against Martin’s shoulder to keep from coughing.

Martin freezes for a second, his heart doing something erratic against his ribs as he feels the warmth of your head against his sweatshirt. He doesn't move. He doesn't want to move. He doesn't want you to move, either.

"Your friends are absolute idiots," you whisper into his shoulder, your voice vibrating right through his clothes.

"The biggest," Martin agree, his voice dropping an octave as he looks down at the top of your head. "But they mean well."

You lift your head, your face now only inches from his. You look at his laptop, then back to his eyes, your smile turning into something softer, a little more personal.

"Thanks for sharing it with me," you say quietly, the earbud string swinging slightly between you. "The real stuff."

Martin looks at your lips, then back up to your eyes, his hand resting on the table just an inch away from yours. "Thanks for making me play it, Mayor."

He extends his pinky finger, just a tiny, silent gesture on the faux-wood surface of the table. You don't hesitate, you just hook your own pinky around his, the small point of contact feeling warmer than any baseline he’s ever mixed. The timeline outside this room doesn't matter right now. The monitors don't matter.

You're just two teenagers sitting over a laptop, sharing a single pair of headphones.

The shift from the quiet of Floor 4 to the absolute hurricane that is Martin’s friend group happens on a Saturday afternoon.

You're currently sitting in the single armchair in Room 306, your legs tucked up into your oversized black hoodie while you flip through a magazine that was on Martin's tray table. Martin is sitting on the edge of his mattress, watching you with that relaxed, half-amused expression he only ever wears when it’s just the two of you.

Then, the door practically flies off its hinges.

"The king has returned!" Sean bellows, stepping through the doorway first.

He isn't even looking at Martin; he’s trying to balance a small cardboard box on his head. Right behind him are Juhoon, Keonho, and James, their voices instantly bouncing off the sterile walls and completely shattering the quiet hum of the vitals monitor.

"Shut up, the nurses are going to murder us before we even sit down," Juhoon mutters, shoving Sean out of the way.

"Dude, your security down there is a joke," Sean says, dropping the cardboard box straight onto the floor with a loud thud. "Some lady in a white coat asked me if I was a visitor, and I just told her I was here to deliver an essential medical device. She didn't even look inside."

"Chill, that 'lady' was probably the department head, you fuckin' idiot," Martin says, but a genuine, massive grin breaks across his face as he stands up from the bed. His hand automatically grips the metal handle of his IV pole, the wheels letting out a small squeak as he takes a step forward. "What did you even bring?"

"The cure for hospital boredom," Sean announces proudly. He rips open the top of the box, pulling out a mini-plastic basketball hoop and a small, neon-orange rubber ball. "We’re setting up a three-point contest right over your vitals monitor. Keonho’s says he's gonna win, but I think the wind resistance from your oxygen machine is gonna throw off his arc."

"You're an absolute moron," Martin chuckles, shaking his head. "Just saying shit, bro."

"Hey, we brought actual food too," Juhoon says, stepping past Sean and setting the convenience store bag onto the edge of the mattress. His eyes drift over to the corner of the room, finally registering your presence. He pauses, his expression shifting from a relaxed smile to a curious look. "Oh. Hey. Sorry, we didn't know Martin had company."

The entire room goes dead silent for a fraction of a second. Sean freezes with the plastic backboard in his hands, Keonho blinks, and James looks over Juhoon's shoulder. Martin’s face instantly turns a deep, burning crimson, his grip tightening on his pole, though hding it is entirely useless against his childhood friends.

"Uh," Martin clears his throat, his voice dropping into a slightly awkward register. "Guys, this is her. The girl I told you about. She’s... she’s down in 304. Mayor, these are the idiots I told you about."

"Hi," you say, dropping your legs over the side of the plastic chair and offering a bright, completely unbothered grin. You wave two fingers at them, your oversized hoodie sleeves swallowing your hands. "I’ve heard a lot about your inability to maintain an audio track, Sean."

Sean’s jaw drops, his eyes darting from you to Martin, then back to you. An evil grin slowy spreads across his face. "Oh, wow. Martin, you didn't tell us the mayor was a savage. I like her. She’s automatically cooler than you."

"Shut up, Sean," Martin snaps, though the red tint on his ears is spreading down his neck.

Juhoon steps forward first, offering a relaxed, respectful nod. He doesn't look down at your gown or the lines running to your arm; he just looks you dead in the eye with a genuinely friendly smile. "Nice to meet you. I’m Juhoon. Thanks for keeping this grumpy jerk from jumping off the roof. We were genuinely worried he’d have a permanent scowl locked onto his face by week three."

"It was a close call," you agree, leaning back in your chair and crossing your arms. "But a steady diet of stolen honey-butter chips and light vandalism really turns a person's perspective around."

"Stolen chips?" Keonho’s ears perk up instantly as he moves into the room. He stops right next to your IV pole, tapping the metal structure with an index finger. "Wait, you guys sneak around this place? That’s sick. Hey, Marty, how much does this rolling rack weigh? Like, ten pounds?"

"Don't touch the pole, Keonho," Martin warns, rolling his eyes.

"No, seriously," Keonho says, giving the metal grip a tentative lift. "Hey, Mayor, do you mind if I try to benchpress your IV thingy? I feel like I could get a solid fifteen reps out of this thing."

You let out a suprised laugh, the sound bright and completely filling the small room. "Go for it, muscle head. Just don't break anything. Nurse Choi will literally use your head as a basketball if she sees you messing with the equipment."

"Challenge accepted," Keonho grins, though he wisely steps away from the pole, content to instead start assembling Sean's mini-basketball hoop using the top of Martin's bathroom door as a anchor.

While Sean and Keonho immediately begin arguing about the legal regulations of a hospital room court, Juhoon pulls up a small plastic stool and sits down near your IV tray table. He looks at the neatly organized markers, then glances up at the ceiling hallway outside the open door.

"So," Juhoon says, leaning his elbows on his knees. "Martin told us you’ve basically been running this floor. What’s the actual trick to surviving the weekend shift around here? Because the staff downstairs looked completely checked out when we walked in."

You let out a giggle, tapping a blue marker against the plastic table. "The weekend shift is all about timing. If you want the good snacks or an extra blanket without getting a lecture, you have to wait until exactly 3:30 PM. That’s when the shift managers swap out, and there’s a fifteen-minute blind spot where nobody is checking the halls. If you want to sneak down to the courtyard or the vending machines, that’s your window."

Juhoon’s eyes light up, an appreciative grin breaking across his face. "You’ve got the actual shift changes mapped out? Martin, where did you find this girl? She’s an absolute legend."

"She’s a menace," Martin mutters from the edge of his bed, but his eyes are fixed entirely on you.

There's a soft, quiet warmth in his expression that he doesn't even realize he’s displaying. He watches the way you effortlessly slide into his world, the way you aren't intimidated by Sean’s loud mouth or Keonho’s... Keonho. It makes his heart do that strange, fluttery thing again—the one he’s completely given up trying to blame on his condition.

He’s crazy about you.

It’s an inconvenient, terrifying reality, but watching you laugh at something Juhoon just said, he knows there’s absolutely no turning back.

James stays near the back for the first twenty minutes, a quiet presence. He eventually wanders over to the mattress, sitting down next to Martin and offering a soft nudge to his shoulder.

"The track sounds incredible, by the way," James whispers, keeping his voice beneath the loud clatter of Keonho missing a three-point shot and hitting Sean's head. "Juhoon played the rough file you sent him over the phone line. Martin... it’s the best thing you’ve created. I don't think I've ever heard anything that real before."

Martin looks down at his hands, his fingers flexing against his sweatpants. "Yeah. Well. I had some inspiration." His eyes automatically flick across the room to you, where you are currently showing Juhoon how to use a marker cap to pry open the faulty latch on the over-bed table drawer.

James tracks his gaze. His expression softens, a wave of understanding crossing his face, but it’s quickly followed by a shadow of genuine concern. James has been by Martin’s side since they were eight and ten years old

He was the one who rode in the ambulance with him, the one who watched the doctors use words like chronic and incurable. He knows exactly how fragile the floor beneath their feet actually is.

"Hey," James says quietly, tapping Martin’s knee. "Come to the vending machine with me? I need a drink, and Sean’s about to break your ceiling light if he tries another dunk. I don't wanna be around for that"

"Yeah, alright," Martin says, standing up. He looks over at the table. "Hey, Mayor. Don't let Keonho break my ceiling light while I'm gone."

"No promises, Park!" you call out without looking up. "Go get your soda."

Martin lets out a short laugh and slips out the door, James following closely behind him.

The hallway is quiet compared to the absolute circus inside Room 306. Martin pushes his IV pole with an easy, practiced familiarity now, the metal wheels clicking softly against the floor seams. James walks beside him in silence until they turn the sharp corner, entering the narrow service corridor where the vending machine is.

James stops against the cool drywall, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He doesn't look at the snack machine. He looks straight at Martin, his face serious, his eyes full of a loyalty that defines their entire friendship.

"Martin," James starts, his voice dropping into an urgent whisper.

"If you're gonna tell me I shouldn't be eating the spicy chips, the doctor already gave me a lecture on sodium," Martin says, trying to deflect .

"I don't care about the chips," James says, not biting. He steps closer, his expression intense but incredibly gentle. "Man... she’s amazing. Seriously. She's is incredible. She’s funny, she’s sharp, and the way she looks at you... it’s like she actually sees you, not just the tubes or the gown. I get why you like her. I really do."

Martin pauses, his hand hovering over his IV pole’s metal grip. The deflection dies in his throat. "But?"

James lets out a long breath, his shoulders dropping. "But... are you sure about this, Mars? You’re already dealing with so much. Every single day here is a battle for you just to keep your numbers stable. And she’s... she’s long-term too, right?"

James takes a half-step forward, his voice cracking slightly with pure fear for his best friend. "If something happens to her... or if something happens to you... it’s going to destroy you, man. You’re already carrying a mountain of grief over the music contract. If you let yourself fall this deep for someone who is just as sick as you are, the fallout is gonna be devastating. I just... I don't want to see you break completely."

The words hang in air. It’s the reality Martin has been running from for weeks. It’s the hard truth that lives behind the fairy lights and the marker drawings. Two kids with failing bodies, trying to build a universe in a place where the walls are designed to isolate them. The statistics aren't on their side. The biology isn't on their side.

James is just being a good friend. He’s trying to build a shield around Martin’s already fractured heart.

Martin looks down at the linoleum floor. He hears the low hiss of his cannula. He thinks about the image of you flat on your back, breathing through a plastic dome, looking so thin and fragile under a green thermal blanket. He thinks about the terrifying dread that had filled his stomach that afternoon. James is right. The risk is astronomical.

But then, Martin thinks about your trembling hand reaching across the scratchy bedsheets to poke his sweatpants. He thinks about the way your eyes crinkle when you roll them at a cheesy book. He thinks about the tiny silver eighth note that's still inked onto your sleeve, and the happiness he felt when you linked your pinky with his.

He lifts his head. His jaw is set, his posture squaring as he looks James straight in the eye. The default bitterness is completely gone, replaced by an absolute certainty that makes him look older than nineteen.

"I know," Martin says, cutting his friend off before James can say anything more. His voice is steady, firm, and completely devoid of doubt. "I know exactly what the risk is, James. I think about it every single time I look at her."

He takes a deep breath, the clear tubes under his nose flaring slightly.

"But before I met her, I was just sitting in that room counting the ceiling tiles," Martin says, his voice softening but losing none of its weight. "I was a ghost. I was alive, but my brain was completely dead. I was waiting for the clock to run out because I couldn't control my own life anymore. She changed that. She didn't give me my lungs back, and she didn't fix my contract, but she reminded me that I’m still the one who chooses how to live with what I've got."

He steps closer to James, resting a hand on his friend's shoulder.

"If something happens down the line, then it happens," Martin whispers, a faint, beautiful smile touching his lips. "It’s gonna hurt like hell. Who knows, it might completely break me. But I’d rather have a brief, burning light with her than spend the rest of my life sitting in total darkness. I'm choosing the risk, man. Every single time."

James stares at him for a long, silent moment. He searches Martin’s face, looking for any trace of the angry, cynical kid who had entered Floor 4 almost two months ago. He doesn't find him. He just finds a man who has finally found something worth fighting for, even if the battlefield is a hospital ward.

Slowly, James let out a breath, a small, proud smile breaking through his concern. He reaches up, clapping his hand over Martin’s on his shoulder. "Alright, dude. Alright. Just... make sure you win the three-point contest later. Keonho's already talking trash you."

"Please," Martin scoffed, the familiar, comfortable armor sliding back into place as they turned back toward the main hallway. "Keonho couldn't hit a basket if the hoop was the size of a wholeass swimming pool."

When they walk back into Room 306, the chaos has reached peak capacity. Keonho has somehow managed to hang the mini-hoop from the ceiling light fixture instead of the door, and Sean is currently mid-air, attempting a dramatic, slow-motion layup while Juhoon rolls his eyes at them both.

You are sitting right in the center of the madness, holding the neon rubber ball in your lap, cheering loudly as Sean misses entirely and crashes onto Martin’s bed.

The second the door clicks, your head snaps up. Your eyes lock onto Martin’s, bright and completely full of life under the harsh fluorescent tubes. You offer him a small smile, a silent question in your eyes. 'You okay?' the look asks.

Martin doesn't answer with words. He just rolls his pole back over to the side of your chair, dropping back onto the edge of his mattress. He extends his right hand across the faux-wood table, his pinky finger extending just a fraction of an inch toward yours.

You don't hesitate. You hook your pinky around his. It's the closest to home he's felt in this hopsital.

He's still scared of the future. But as Martin looks at your smile, listening to his friends argue about the rules of a dumb, plastic basketball game, he figures it won't be all that bad.

It’s nearly three weeks later when the topic comes up, completely by accident.

The two of you are sitting on the floor of the physical therapy wing’s auxiliary storage room—a place you discovered has excellent Wi-Fi reception because it sits right above the administrative offices. Martin has his laptop balanced on his knees, scrolling through an old digital photo library his mom had uploaded to a cloud drive for him.

An image pops up on the screen, dated from the previous spring. It’s a group shot of Sean, Juhoon, Keonho, and James standing in a driveway, all wearing slightly ill-fitting black tuxedos. Sean has a bright pink bow tie on, and Keonho looks like he’s about to fight his jacket. Martin is right in the middle, looking intensely uncomfortable but pretty damn sharp, his hands shoved into his suit pockets.

"Wait, is that your prom?" you ask, leaning your chin on his shoulder to get a closer look at the screen.

"Yeah," Martin mutters, a faint, embarrassed smile hitting his face. "The guys basically dragged me to it. I didn't want to go. I was in the middle of mixing a three-track EP for a local contest, and Sean literally showed up at my house with a rented jacket that smelled like mothballs and threatened to carry me to the limo if I didn't get dressed."

"Did you have a date?"

"Nah," he says, clicking to the next photo, which shows Sean attempting to do a handstand on a banquet table while a teacher glares at him from the background. "It was so last minute, I didn't have time to ask anyone. Plus, I wasn't exactly the social type in high school. But honestly? It was great. We just ate a ridiculous amount of cheap catering food and clowned on each other's dance moves the entire night. It was better than sitting in my basement alone."

You look at the bright, flashing lights in the background of the photo, the blurred shapes of students laughing on a gymnasium floor. A faint shadow crosses ur face before you can stop it.

"Must be nice," you murmur softly, your eyes tracking the edge of the laptop screen. "I never got to go to mine. My treatments got moved up right around the end of senior year, so I spent my prom night hooked up to a saline drip while my mom tried to make me feel better by ordering a large pizza."

Martin’s fingers freeze on the keyboard. He turns his head slightly, his eyes dropping to your face. He looks at how the glow of the laptop screen catches the curve of your cheek, and an ache hits his chest.

He doesn't say I'm sorry. He knows better than to give you that empty currency.

Instead, he shuts the laptop lid halfway, the screen dimming. "You didn't miss much on the food front. The chicken was like rubber at mine."

"Yeah, but I wanted the dress," you say, a small, self-deprecating laugh escaping your lips as you nudge his knee with your sneaker. "I wanted the stupid corsage, and the terrible slow dancing, and the pictures that look ridiculous ten years later. It’s the principle of the thing, Mars."

Martin doesn't answer right away. He just stares at the dark screen of his computer, his thumb tracing the edge. But inside his head, he's already planning.

It takes four days, a massive amount of coordination via the nurse’s station desk phone, and a borderline bribery ring involving Juhoon smuggling high-end pastries into the building for the night-shift staff.

It's just past 8:30 PM on a Thursday when Martin knocks on your door.

When you open it, you immediately blink in utter confusion. Martin is standing in the doorway, gripping his IV pole with one hand, but he isn't wearing his usual gray sweatpants and oversized hoodie.

Well, he is wearing the sweatpants, but over them, he has a crisp, perfectly pressed white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and a black silk tie knotted neatly at his collar. His messy hair is brushed back.

"What... what is happening right now?" you ask, your mouth slightly open.

Martin clears his throat, a bright, unmistakable crimson creeping up his neck as he holds out his free hand. Resting on his palm is a small, slightly crooked flower arrangement made entirely out of purple medical tape, green gauze wrapping, and a tiny plastic clip he’s stolen from the pediatric play therapy room. It looks completely ridiculous, but it’s shaped unmistakably like a corsage.

You could literally cry.

"Your carriage awaits, Mayor," Martin says, his voice morphing into something British to mask how incredibly fucking nervous he is. It doesn't work well. At all. In fact, he immediately regrets doing it. "Put some shoes on. We have an appointment."

"Martin, if we get caught by Choi—"

"Choi is the one who pressed the shirt," Martin cuts you off. "Juhoon brought her a box of traditional walnut cakes from downtown, and James promised to wash her car next weekend. The night shift has officially declared a non-intervention policy for the next two hours. Now go get ready."

Ten minutes later, you step out into the hall. You’ve kept your leggings on, but over them, you’ve pulled on a simple sundress you’d kept in the back of your closet for family visits. Your hair is down, falling around your shoulders, and you’ve pinned the corsage directly over your collarbone.

It's probably the ugliest little thing you've ever seen, but you'll cherish it for the rest of your life.

When Martin looks at you, his breath hitches in his throat. His heart skips at least three beats, and for a second, he entirely forgets the sterile smell of the corridor. You look beautiful.

He could literally cry.

"Not bad, Park," you say, your voice a little soft as a matching flush hits your cheeks. "You clean up okay for a producer."

"Let’s go before I lose my nerve," he mutters, though his eyes don't leave yours as he turns his pole toward the back elevator.

He guides you down to the lower level, past the closed cafeteria, and straight into the main physical therapy room. Normally, this place is loud and smells like sweat and rubber mats, filled with patients.

But tonight, the overhead fluorescent lights are completely shut off.

The entire room is illuminated by the soft, warm glow of your amber fairy lights, which Juhoon and Sean had untangled and strung across the metal wall bars. In the center of the linoleum floor, a small plastic table has been covered with a white hospital sheet, topped with two paper cups and a single, unlit battery-operated candle they’ve lifted from the chapel down the hall.

Martin’s laptop sits on a high therapy stool near the corner, its blue indicator light blinking in the shadow.

"Martin..." you breathe, voice breaking, your hands flying to your mouth as you look around the transformed space. "You didn't."

"You said you never got to go to prom." Martin says, rolling his pole over to the stool and opening the laptop lid. "So... I'm bringing prom to you, pretty girl."

He taps the spacebar.

The sound that fills the the room is familiar. It’sthe finished version of What You Want. He’s spent the last four days refining it, making it as perfect as he can for you.

Martin walks back to the center of the room, leaving his IV pole parked safely against a table. He stands in front of you, his hands slightly awkward at his sides, before he extends his right arm.

"Can I have this dance, Mayor?"

"You're an idiot, Martin Edwards Park," you whisper, but your smile is the brightest thing in the room.

You step forward, closing the small distance between you. You place your left hand gently on his shoulder, your fingers brushing against the crisp fabric of his shirt, while your right hand slides into his palm. Martin’s other hand settles on the small of your back, his grip firm and steady.

Martin’s chest feel completely tight, but in a way that makes him feel more alive than he’s ever been. He can feel the subtle rise and fall of your shoulders, the faint warmth of your breath against his neck, and the light weight of your head as you rest your cheek against his chest.

"You're a really good dancer," you murmur into his shirt, your fingers tightening slightly on his shoulder. "For a guy who spent all his time in a dark basement."

"I'm just following your lead," he says softly, his chin resting against the top of your hair. "You're the boss of this floor, remember?"

"Always," you laugh quietly.

Slowly, you lift your head from his chest, looking up into his face. Your eyes are beautiful. They're wide and unguarded, and in this moment, he decides there's nothing he loves more.

Martin stops moving. His hand stays resting on your waist, his fingers flexing against the green fabric of your dress. He looks at your lips, then back up to your eyes, his pulse racing so fast he wonders if the nurses downstairs are getting an alert on their central monitor. He doesn't care if they are.

"Hey," he speaks, his voice thick. "I'm not... I'm not good at this future stuff. I don't know what next week looks like, and I don't know what this place is gonna do to us."

He steps just a fraction closer, his chest pressing against yours.

"But I know I want to be with you," he whispers, his eyes full of that absolute certainty he’d shown James in the hallway. "I don't care about the risks, and I don't care about the rules. I'm choosing this. I'm choosing you."

A soft, breathy sigh escapes your lips, your eyes crinkling at the corners as that wonderful smile returns. "I choose you, too, Martin."

You lean up on your toes, your hands sliding up his neck to cup the back of his head. Martin bends his head down, closing the remaining distance, and presses his lips to yours.

It's not a perfect kiss. Your nose bumps against his, and your teeth clink. But it's everything. It's real. It's you and him. It's a promise against the white walls and the plastic wristbands. You two are here, you're fighting, and you're in control of how you love.

When he finally pulls back, just an inch, his forehead rests against yours. His breath's coming a little ragged, but his eyes are completely clear.

"So," Martin murmurs, a faint grin tugging at his lips. "Are we official now?"

"Hell yeah," you whisper back, your fingers gently tracing the collar of his shirt. "You're stuck with me, Martin."

"Good," he says, pulling you back against his chest as the loop on his laptop starts to play from the beginning again. "Because you make that sound like a bad thing."

The chance comes gradually, and then all at once. At this point, one would think Martin's gotten used to it. He hasn't. He really, really hasn't.

But he's pretty good at faking it.

You're sitting cross-legged at the foot of his bed, leaning against the metal footboard with a plastic cup of sweet tea in your hand. Martin is propped up against his pillows, watching Sean and Keonho move around the small room.

"I’m telling you, the guy from the regional basketball scout team doesn't even look at the rest of the roster," Sean says, gesturing wildly with a half-eaten chicken wing. "He walks straight up to the coach after the final whistle. He explicitly mentions my pacing during the fourth quarter. He says my court vision is elite tier. That's a pretty good fucking tier!"

"Because I practically dragged your heavy ass to the gym every morning during summer," Keonho snorts, leaning his massive shoulders against the wall. Unlike Sean, Keonho’s jacket has a swimming club logo stitched onto the chest.

He looks over at Martin, a massive grin split across his face. "But seriously, dude. The university representative for the state swim program gave me his direct card after the hundred-meter qualifiers. If I keep my times down through the winter invitationals, I’m looking at a full ride. Training facilities, the state athletic track, the whole nine yards."

Martin listens to them go on.

A month ago, a conversation like this would've made him want to curse them all out. He would've looked at Sean’s basketball stats and Keonho’s bright grin and felt a suffocating wave of envy.

He would've retreated into his scowl, torn up his staff paper, and spent the rest of the night wishing they would just leave so he wouldn't have to look at the massive futures they got to keep while his own was buried under medical charts.

But today, as he watches Sean accidentally drop a piece of chicken onto the floor and scramble to pick it up before Nurse Choi sees it, the anger doesn't come.

Instead, he looks at his childhood friends, and he realizes something. Their success isn't a reminder of his failure. It is just life, moving forward, fast and free. And for the first time since he got sick, he doesn't want to drag the world down into the dark with him.

He wants them to fly.

He genuinely, deeply wants them to win every single race and game they play.

"That's incredible, man," Martin says softly, his voice cutting through the bickering.

Sean blinks, stopping mid-argument with Keonho, a little surprised by the total lack of sarcasm in Martin's tone. "Yeah? You don't think the state program is gonna be too corporate?"

"Who cares if it is?" Martin says, a small, genuine smile pulling at the corner of his lips. "You're faster than all of them anyway. Go take the ride. Play until they have to invent new timers for you."

Keonho lets out a low whistle, looking at Juhoon. "Wow. Who put the happy juice in his IV line today? He’s being almost pleasant."

"Don't get used to it," Martin mutters, though his eyes drift over to you at the foot of the bed

You're watching him with an incredibly proud look that tells him he doesn't hide the change in his heart nearly as well as he thinks he does. You know exactly what it takes for him to say that. You know the weight of the wreckage he has to clear out of his chest to make room for that genuine wish.

You offer him a tiny, reassuring nod, your pinky finger twitching against your knee in that silent way that belongs entirely to the two of you.

By the time the evening shift change rolls around, the guys are kicked out, leaving the room quiet again. You head back to Room 304 for your scheduled medication round, leaving Martin alone in Room 306.

Martin doesn't slide into his usual routine of staring at the ceiling tiles. He lifts the laptop from his bedside table, balances the small keyboard on his knees, and plugs in his headphones. His fingerss slide over the keys, but he isn't thinking about a dark basement or a broken contract anymore.

He starts a new project file, dedicating it to his friends. The melody feels like a joyride down an open road with no traffic lights and no destinations.

He works through the night, the music pouring out of him with a fluid, effortless ease. He titles the file: JOYRIDE.

The bomb drops three days later, during a routine Tuesday morning check-up.

The afternoon sun is streaming through the blinds of Room 306, cutting long lines across the linoleum. Dr. Kang stands at the foot of the mattress, a thick, blue medical folder tucked under his arm, his expression unusually heavy as he looks at Martin.

You sit on the edge of the radiator unit in the corner, your fingers tracing the edge of your oversized black hoodie, having snuck into the room under the guise of borrowing a pen before the rounds start.

(The same excuse you always use. The nurses have given up on trying to get you and Martin to listen. It's proof that not listening to authority figures and risking consequences always ends well, by the way.)

"Your recent lung function stats are stabilizing nicely, Martin," Dr. Kang begins, his tone measured and professional. "The current medication rotation is doing exactly what we hoped it would. The inflammation in the lower lobes is manageable."

Martin nods, resting his hands on his lap. "So we just keep this routine going through the winter?"

Dr. Kang hesitates, his fingers tapping against the blue folder. He looks at Martin, his expression softening into something genuinely sympathetic. "As a clinical routine? Yes. But logistically, we have a transition approaching. Martin, you are turning twenty next month." He turns his head slightly to look at you in the corner. "And, your nineteenth birthday is three weeks after his."

You freeze, your fingers tightening against the fabric of your hoodie. Martin’s grip on his bedsheet tightens, a spike of dread hitting his stomach.

"What does that mean?" Martin asks, his voice dropping into a low, defensive tone.

"It means you are both aging out of pediatric and youth ward care," Dr. Kang explains gently. "The policy for this facility is absolute. Once a patient hits twenty, they must be transitioned into the adult healthcare network. We cannot keep you on Floor 4 past the end of the current fiscal quarter."

"Okay, so we just move to the adult wing downstairs," Martin says, his jaw locking as he tries to force the logic into place. "The chronic care unit on Floor 2. We just swap rooms."

"I wish it were that simple," Dr. Kang sighs, opening the folder to reveal a stack of authorization forms covered in dense, red bureaucratic stamps. "Because your conditions are long-term and require specialized regional funding, your care is managed by separate provincial insurance networks. Martin, your adult assignment is routed to the specialized respiratory center in Daegu. The facilities there are top-tier for adult chronic management."

You blink, trying to piece the words together. Martin’s breath catches in his throat. Daegu. That’s hours away from Seoul. It’s an entirely different city.

"And her?" Martin’s voice cracks slightly, his eyes darting frantically to Dr. Kang, completely abandoning any attempt to look unbothered. "Where is her network routing her?"

Dr. Kang looks down at the papers, his voice quiet. "Because of her specific criteria and her family's primary residential coverage, her transition paperwork is already processed for the adult facility in Incheon."

What?

Incheon and Daegu.

Completely opposite sides of the map. Different networks, different facilities, different schedules. The system doesn't care. The system doesn't care about the silver eighth note on your sleeve or the medical tape corsage tucked safely in your drawer.

To the hospital, you aren't Martin and the Mayor. Just two identification numbers, moving along an assembly line.

Martin looks across the room at you.

You haven't moved an inch from the radiator. Your eyes aree wide and fixed blankly on the blue folder in the doctor's hands. You look small. You look just as scared as he is.

"The transfers are scheduled for the first week of next month," Dr. Kang says, his voice full of a genuine regret. "We begin the preparatory paperwork tomorrow."

Martin doesn't hear the rest of the conversation. He doesn't hear Dr. Kang stepping out into the hall. The door clicks shut.

Martin slides his legs over the edge of the mattress, his slippers hitting the cold floor with a dull thud. He doesn't grab his IV pole. He takes three shaky, unassisted steps across the linoleum until he stands right in front of you.

You lift your head, your eyes instantly filling with tears that you fight to keep back.

"Martin," you whisper, your voice trembling so hard his name barely clears your lips.

Martin doesn't say anything. He reaches down, his hands sliding inside the massive sleeves of your black hoodie until his fingers find your wrists. He pulls you up from the radiator, drawing you into his chest with a desperate strength. He wraps his arms completely around your shoulders, burying his face into the soft curve of your neck, his grip so tight it almost hurts.

You wrap your arms around his waist, hiding your face against his shirt, your shoulders shaking as the first sob breaks through your chest.

"They can't just do that," you cry quietly, your fingers tearing at the fabric of his clothes. "We just... we just found each other, Mars. It's not fair. It’s a total ripoff."

"I know," Martin whispers into your hair, his own eyes burning with furious tears. The default anger tries to return, the blinding rage at the absolute unfairness of his own DNA and this world that keeps trying to tear his life into pieces.

But as he holds you close, he remembers the choice he made under the fairy lights of the physical therapy room.

He pulls back just an inch, his hands moving up to cup your cheeks, his thumbs gently wiping away the tears tracking down your skin. He looks into your eyes with determination.

"They can move the rooms, Mayor," Martin says. "They can change the cities, and they can split the networks. But they don't get to arrange the track. We’re the ones in control of this, remember? You taught me that, don't forget it now."

He presses his forehead against yours, his breath shaky but eyes focused.

"I don't care if Daegu is hours away," he whispers, his thumbs sweeping across your cheekbone. "I don't care what I have to do. It doesn't matter. We are not going back to the dark. I'm staying with you, baby. I don't care what the system says."

Through the tears, a small, watery version of your stubborn smile finally breaks through your face. You reach up, your fingers locking tightly around his wrists.

"Okay, Park," you whisper, your voice cracking but full of that same resilient energy. "I choose you."

"I choose you, too," he murmurs, before he leans down and presses his lips to yours.

The table in the corner of the recreation room, once reserved for a MIDI keyboard and stolen snacks, becomes a complete mess of paper.

For five straight days, you and Martin do nothing but fight the decision. Juhoon prints out piles of hospital guidelines, insurance rules, and appeal forms, smuggling them in past the front desk like they're state secrets.

(Or worse. Let's be honest, they're worse.)

You sit side by side at the plastic table, as you circle paragraphs and scribble notes in the margins of official documents.

"Look at this section," you say, your voice heavy from lack of sleep as you slide a heavy packet of papers toward him. Your finger taps a highlighted line. "It says right here that exceptions can be made for personal stability if a transfer causes severe distress to long-term patients. We can use that. We can argue that separating us messes with our recovery baseline."

Martin leans forward, rubbing his temples. He squints at the dense text, his thumb tracing the edge of a plastic pen. "We need a signature from a department head to even get the board to look at it, though. I already tried talking to the case worker during my morning vitals check, and she practically treated me like an interruption."

"What did she say exactly?" you ask, leaning closer, searching his face for any sign of hope.

Martin lets out a short, dry laugh, but there's no humor in it. "She didn't even look up from her tablet. She just said the regional allocations are fixed three months in advance based on bed availability and equipment funding. She literally told me, 'Mr. Park, the network code for your respiratory tier doesn't exist in the Incheon facility.' Like I'm a piece of old software that won't run on their computers."

You lean back, rubbing your eyes, and let out a dry snort. "Honestly, one of us could just pretend to be completely losing it. Go full dramatic. Throw a tray or something."

"I'm already crazy," Martin says, his face completely unreadable.

You tilt your head, blinking at him in genuine confusion. "What?"

"I'm crazy for you," he says, a tiny grin finaly breaking through his serious expression.

You roll your eyes so hard it practically hurts, but a genuine laugh escapes your lips anyway, breaking the heavy tension in the room. You nudge his shoulder with yours. "Oh my god, shut the fuck up. No, seriously! We could threaten a whole Romeo and Juliet thing."

Martin lets out a short laugh, shaking his head. "Let's skip the poison part, Mayor. I don't think Nurse Choi would let that slide on her watch. She'd probably ground us from the recreation room for eternity."

"I'm serious, though," you say, your smile fading a bit as you look back down at the highlighted pages. "There has to be a loophole. What if we get Sean or Keonho to find someone in administration? Or James? James is good at talking to adults without sounding like he wants to set the building on fire."

"Juhoon is already looking into the regional board members," Martin says, his fingers lightly tapping a rhythm against the table. "He's trying to see if there's someone who handles patient advocacy. But everything goes back to the insurance network. If the money stays in one province, the body stays in that province."

"Then we find a way to break the money," you mutter, a hard, stubborn line forming on your jaw. "We're going to make them read the appeal, Mars. I'll wheel myself down to the director's office if I have to."

The next morning, you actually try.

You meet Martin by the elevators at 10:00 AM sharp, both of you wearing the closest things you have to formal clothing—which, for you, means your favorite clean hoodie, and for Martin, means a dark flannel shirt over his sweatpants. You have the folded envelope containing your official handwritten appeal clutched tightly in your hand.

"Are we really doing this?" Martin asks, his hand resting on the metal handle of his IV pole as the elevator doors open.

"Unless we have a better option, I guess not," you say, stepping into the elevator and pulling your pole behind you. "Press level five. Administration."

When the doors open on the second floor, the atmosphere is completely different from Floor 4. There are no colorful marker drawings on the walls, no fairy lights, and no nurses laughing at the front desk. It is all pale beige drywall, closed wooden doors, and the aggressive sound of keyboards clicking behind glass partitions.

"Real fun up in here, huh?" Martin mutters.

You march straight up to the glass window of the main reception area, Martin right beside you, the wheels of your poles squeaking loudly against the pristine tile.

"Hello," you say, putting on your best, most polite voice. "We're here to submit an emergency care-plan appeal directly to the director's office."

The woman behind the desk looks up, her eyes scanning your oversized hoodie, your hospital wristbands, and the IV poles. Her expression immediately settles into a look of professional boredom. "Appeals must be submitted through your assigned social worker on your specific floor."

"Our social worker told us the system doesn't have a code for us," Martin steps in, his voice dropping into that steady tone he uses when he's trying not to get angry. "We wrote it out ourselves. We just need it placed in the director's physical inbox."

"I can't accept unauthorized documents from patients," she says, her voice completely flat as she turns back to her computer screen. "Everything must go through the proper digital portal. If your floor assignment has already been authorized by the regional board, the decision is final."

"It's not just an assignment," you say, your voice rising slightly, your fingers tightening around the paper envelope. "You're sending him to Daegu and me to Incheon. We've been under the same care plan here for months. Separating our clinical support system is going to cause a setback."

"I understand your frustration," she says without looking up. "But the adult network functions differently. Please return to your floor before the morning headcount."

Martin reaches out, his hand gently grasping your elbow. "Baby. Come on."

"No, wait," you say, turning to him, your eyes wide with a sudden, desperate frustration. "We can't just leave it like this. Tell her about the baseline stats. Tell her about—"

"She doesn't care," Martin says quietly, his grip on your arm firm but incredibly gentle. He looks at the woman behind the desk, then back to you. "She doesn't even see us, Mayor. Let's go."

The official rejection comes down on Friday afternoon in a crisp white envelope left on Martin’s tray table. It isn't signed by a person; it’s stamped by an office. The appeal is denied because the facility routing can't be changed for personal relationships. That is what the system calls the two of you. A line item that doesn't fit into the paperwork.

Martin stares at the paper for a long time, his jaw working silently. He doesn't tear it up. He just folds it neatly, places it inside his drawer, and shuts it with a finality that pains him.

When he turns around to look at you, the look in his eyes changes. The defiance is gone, replaced by a realization that hits you right in the chest.

The fight is over. The panic sets in.

The tone of Floor 4 shifts entirely. The lighthearted, bittersweet bubble you inhabited for months pops, leaving behind a countdown.

Not even three weeks. Seventeen days.

The number hangs over every single conversation. You stop talking about the future. You stop joking about what you're going to do when you leave, and you stop making fun of the reruns on the recreation room TV. Every single second becomes incredibly valuable, and neither of you wants to waste a single fraction of it. It turns into a frantic obsession to memorize each other.

On Monday, you spend three hours just sitting on the floor of Room 306, watching Martin organize his digital music files. Neither of you says a word for the first forty minutes. The only sound is the steady hiss-click of his oxygen machine and the occasional tap of his fingers on the laptop trackpad.

"Hey," you say softly, breaking the silence.

Martin stops his fingers, looking down at you from the edge of the mattress. "Yeah?"

"Move your hand," you say, reaching up from your spot on the floor.

He lowers his hand, and you slide your fingers into his palm, turning it over to look at his fingertips. You trace the tiny, thin lines on his skin with the tip of your finger, trying to memorize the exact texture of his touch.

"You're acting like you're trying to take an impression for a mold," he murmurs, though he doesn't pull his hand away. Instead, his fingers curl around yours, holding on tightly.

"Maybe I am," you say, looking up at him through your eyelashes. "What if Incheon doesn't have good music rooms? I need to make sure I remember what a producer's hand feels like."

Martin’s face softens, a raw, painful look crossing his eyes before he hides it behind a short nod. "They have some nice ones in Incheon. I checked the facility brochure Juhoon found. They have a recreation space on the third floor."

"So, what? It won't have your files on it," you say. "It won't have the rough draft of the track you wrote for me. It won't have you," you add softly.

"I can send it to you," he says, his voice dropping into a whisper. "I'll mail you a flash drive. Every time I finish a loop, I'll put it in an envelope and send it to your room number."

"You better," you say, leaning your cheek against his knee. "If I don't get at least one track a week, I'm gonna... well, I don't know what I'm gonna do yet, but you won't like it. Oh, a kiss ban!"

"Hey, let's not get so rash now," he frowns, sitting up straight.

Soon, the countdown drops to eleven days.

The weather turns colder, with an autumn wind rattling the glass panes of Room 306. You're sitting on the wide windowsill, your knees pulled up to your chest inside your black hoodie, watching the gray clouds move across the Seoul skyline. Martin is standing right next to you, leaning his shoulder against the window frame, his eyes fixed on your profile.

"Your hair is getting longer," he says out of nowhere.

You turn your head, a faint smile touching your lips. "Is it? I haven't really noticed."

He reaches out, his fingers gently catching a stray lock of hair near your cheek and tucking it behind your ear. His fingers linger there for a second, brushing against your skin, before his hand moves down to rest on your shoulder. "It is. It looks good. My pretty girl."

"You're just trying to distract me because you cheated in the card game yesterday," you joke, trying to lift the tension, but your voice breaks slightly at the end.

Martin doesn't laugh. He just steps closer, his chest pressing against your knees as you sit on the sill. He reaches up with both hands, cupping your face, his thumbs gently rubbing cirlces on your cheekbones. "I'm not trying to distract you, baby. I'm trying to make sure I don't forget the exact color of your eyes when the sun hits them through this stupid frosted glass."

Your breath hitches in your throat, your hands automatically reaching up to grip his wrists. "Martin..."

"Eleven days," he whispers, his forehead coming down to rest against yours. His breath is warm against your skin, a contrast to the cold glass behind you. "Every time I close my eyes at night, that's the only thing I see. The calendar."

"Then don't close your eyes," you whisper back, tears threatening to spill over your lashes. "Stay awake with me. We can steal the coffee from the staff lounge tonight."

"We'll get caught," he murmurs, though his lips are already brushing against yours, soft and hesitant.

"Let them catch us," you say against his mouth. "What are they gonna do? Transfer us?"

The bitter joke disappears as he pulls you into a real kiss. It's a desperate hunger that has nothing to do with the hospital or the schedules. His hands slide back into your hair, holding you against him like he’s trying to anchor you to the room, while you cling to his shirt, pulling him as close as physically possible.

When he pulls back, his breathing is a little shallow, his eyes entirely focused on you. "Seventeen days was better," he mutters, his thumb sweeping away a single tear that escaped your eye.

"Eleven is plenty of time to cause trouble," you say, trying to force your voice to sound strong.

The final week arrives like a sudden drop in a bad audio track. Seven days left.

The friends come back on Sunday, but the vibe in Room 306 is completely different from their basketball-and-chicken visit.

Unsurprisingly.

Sean is unusually quiet, sitting on the small plastic stool with his hands shoved into his jacket pockets. Keonho stands by the door, his shoulders hunched, while Juhoon sits at the table. James sits on the edge of the mattress next to Martin, his expression full of a protective sorrow.

James hurts so much for Martin. They all do. He's one of their own, and there's absolutely nothing they can do for him.

"We looked at the train schedules," Juhoon says, his voice calm but completely serious as he taps a piece of paper. "From Daegu to Incheon, it's about a three-hour run if you take the express link. If Martin gets weekend leave authorized by his new doctor, he can make the trip down on a Saturday morning."

"The insurance networks don't usually approve cross-district travel for chronic residents," James points out quietly, looking at Martin. "But we can write the requests for you. If we spam the administration office with visitation forms every single month, someone is going to sign them just to make us stop."

Martin can't tell if that's a joke or not. None of them do, not even James, and hell, he's the guy who said it.

"I'll drive him," Sean says suddenly, his head snapping up. "Once I get my license back next semester, I'll just borrow my brother's car. I don't care about the toll roads. We'll just show up at the Incheon lobby and tell them we're her brothers."

"You don't look anything like her, you idiot," Martin says, but his voice is thick, a faint smile breaking through his pale face. He looks at his friends, his eyes moving from Sean to Keonho, then to Juhoon and James. "Thanks, guys. Seriously."

You sit at the foot of the bed, your fingers twisting the string of your hoodie. You look at the map Juhoon drew, the thin ink line connecting two points that feel like opposite sides of the universe. It looks so simple on paper. Just a line. But you know the reality of the adult wards. You know the restrictions, the hours of treatments, the days where you are too tired to even ask the nurses for a phone call, let alone get on a train.

After the guys leave, the room drops back into that familiar feeling of dread.F

You catch Martin staring at your sleeve where the silver eighth note is drawn. The marker has faded over the weeks, turning into a light, blurry gray against the dark fabric. He reaches out, his index finger tracing the faded lines on the fabric.

"I'm going to record a new loop tonight," Martin says out of nowhere, his eyes still fixed on your sleeve.

"About what?"

"The sound of your pole," he says, a faint smile touching his lips, though his eyes remain heavy. "The specific rattle the wheels make when you turn the corner by the nurse's desk. It has that uneven bounce because the left wheel is slightly loose. I can identify it from three doors down. I'm going to sample it."

You let out a soft, breathy laugh, leaning your head against his arm. "You're a freak, Park. Who samples a hospital appliance?"

"A good producer uses what he's got," he murmurs, his hand sliding up your arm to cup the back of your neck, pulling you into him. He kisses you fiercely, his lips pressing against yours with a desperation that tells you everything his stupid, sarcastic mouth refuses to say.

He kisses you like he’s trying to leave a permanent mark, making sure that no matter what facility they send you to, you will still belong to him.

You kiss him back just as hard, your fingers tightening against the fabric of his shirt, pulling him down until there is absolutely no space left between you. The rules don't matter. The monitors don't matter.

"Hey," he whispers, pulling barely an inch back.

"Yeah?"

"I love you. I know—I know it's early. Or... maybe it's not? I don't know, uh, I haven't done this before." Martin pauses, trying to find the right words, but you get it. You always do.

You just shake your head, "It's not. I love you, Park. We're sick, dude. Who knows how long we have? I don't think 'too early' is an issue for us."

"...Don't call me dude."

Outside the window, the autumn wind blows a few dry leaves across the glass, a cold reminder that the seasons are changing, the quarter is ending, and the world is moving forward without a single glance back.

But inside Room 306, you decide to ignore it just for a little longer.

Eventually, the day come that you can't ignore it any longer.

By 10:00 PM, the hallway outside Room 306 is completely dead. The nurses are unusually lenient, turning a blind eye when you slip out of Room 304 in your socks, pulling your IV pole along as quietly as possible.

The morning rules are absolute—the transport teams arrive at 5:30 AM, and patients are locked into their respective rooms for final vitals and discharge logging. There will be no morning wave, no final hallway conversation, and no goodbye at the elevators.

Tonight is the end of the line.

When you slide Martin’s door open, he is sitting on the very edge of his bed. His bags are already packed, sitting in two neat canvas duffels by the closet. The room looks stripped, bare, and terrifyingly sterile again, stripped of the loose papers and the laptop setups that usually clutter the space.

Martin looks up when the door clicks shut. He doesn't smile. He just shifts over on the mattress, making space for you.

"You're late," he says, his voice flat, though he immediately reaches out to take your hand the second you sit down next to him. His skin is cold.

"Choi was doing a final sweep," you say, leaning your shoulder against his. "I had to wait until she went into the breakroom to microwave her soup. How are you doing?"

"Really fuckin' terrified," Martin says bluntly. He doesn't try to hide it anymore. Not aroynd you. "My chest feels tight, and it's not even the lungs. It's just... looking at those bags."

"Don't look at them," you whisper, twisting your fingers through his. "Look at me."

He turns his head, his dark eyes fixed on your face. In the dim light, you can see the faint dark circles under his eyes. "I'm looking."

"We're going to be fine, Park," you say, though your own voice trembles so badly it ruins the confidence you're trying to project. "It's just a couple of different buildings. Some different nurses."

"It's three hours away, baby," he says, his grip on your hand tightening until it almost hurts. "Three hours on a good day if the trains are running right. If I get sick down there, you won't know. If you have a bad reaction to the new rotation in Incheon, I'm stuck in a different ward on the other side of the map. What if you... die? Or I do? What if we never see each other again?"

"No. We're gonna be fine, okay? Juhoon will text you," you say stubbornly. "I'll make him check on me every single day. And I'll call you. The second they give me my room phone privileges, I'm dialing your number."

Martin lets out a slow, heavy breath, leaning his head back against the wall. "They monitor long-distance calls in the adult chronic units. They have specific hours. It's not like here where we can just kick the doors open."

"Then we'll break the rules there, too," you say, shifting around so you're facing him completely. You reach into the deep pocket of your black hoodie and pull out a small, plastic object. You press it into his palm. "Here. Take this."

Martin looks down. Resting in his hand is your favorite fabric marker—the one with the frayed tip that he used to draw the silver eighth note on your sleeve months ago.

"Your marker?" he asks, looking up at you, confused.

"It's the good one," you say, a small, watery smile breaking across your face. "The ink doesn't wash out, even with the industrial hospital laundry. I want you to keep it. Every time you write a new melody or want to scratch out a lyric on your sheets, you use that. And you think of the Mayor."

Martin looks at the marker for a long time, his thumb tracing the smooth plastic casing. Then, without a word, he turns around and grabs a battered, black leather-bound notebook from his nightstand. The edges are completely frayed, and the pages are stuffed with loose scraps of staff paper. He places it firmly in your lap.

"What's this?" you ask, your fingers brushing the worn cover.

"My lyric book," Martin says quietly. "Everything is in there. The rough draft of What You Want, all three versions of Joyride, and all the stupid melodies I came up with when I couldn't sleep because I was thinking of my pretty girl. It's everything I've written since I got admitted."

Your eyes immediately fill with tears, and the book is suddenly heavy in ur lap. "Martin, I can't take this. This is your life. You need this for your music."

"You are my music," he says. "I know how to play the tracks in my head. I don't need the book for that. I need you to have it so you know I'm not stopping. Even if I'm stuck in Daegu, I'm still writing for you."

You swallow hard, gripping the notebook against your chest as the first tear spills over your cheek. "You're a real jerk, you know that? Making me cry right before lockdown."

"You started it with the marker," he mutters, though he reaches out and pulls you into his lap, his arms wrapping completely around your waist. He buries his face into your hair, holding you so tight you can feel the rapid, frantic thump of his heart against your ribs.

You cling to his flannel shirt, hiding your face against his neck. The stupid sterile smell of the hopsital room is still there, the one you've known your entire life, but right now, all you can smell is him—the faint scent of his laundry detergent and the soap from his evening shower.

"Martin," you whisper into his skin.

"Yeah?"

"Promise me," you say, pulling back just enough to look him in the eyes. You take his face in both of your hands, your thumbs catching the tears on his cheeks. "Look at me. No matter what the doctors say, no matter how long the transfer takes, and no matter how much paperwork they throw at us. We survive this. We do our treatments, we take the stupid meds, and we find each other. No matter what."

Martin covers your hands with his own, pressing his palms against yours.

"No matter what," he repeats, his voice absolute and certain. "We survive this, we find each other. I'll come to Incheon, or you'll come to Daegu. I don't care if I have to walk the track myself. I'm coming back to you, Mayor."

"Good," you whisper, before you lean in and kiss him.

It isn't a soft, romantic kiss. It's desperate, heavy, and full of terror that neither of you wants to voice. You hold onto his shoulders, and he holds onto your waist, both of you trying to stretch the remaining hours into a lifetime.

The morning arrives like a bucket of ice water, and that's to put it really damn lightly.

At 5:00 AM, the harsh fluorescent lights of the hallway snap on. The not-so-peaceful silence of the night is instantly shattered by the clatter of rolling gurneys, the loud squeak of transport luggage wheels, and the low, professional murmurs of unfamiliar voices. The adult transfer teams are here.

You're sitting on the edge of your stripped bed, your single suitcase sitting by the door. Your chest feels completely hollow. Every time a set of wheels passes your door, your stomach drops, your eyes darting to the hallway, praying for a glimpse of a dark flannel shirt or a messy head of hair.

But the door stays shut. The rules are being enforced.

If you could just see him one more time—

"All right, Park, let's get a move on," a loud, unfamiliar voice echoes from further down the hall.

Your heart stops. Park. You scramble out of bed, completely ignoring the nurse who is checking your discharge chart at the counter. You hurry to the small square glass window in your door, pressing your face against the pane.

Through the glass, you see them. Two tall men in dark blue transport uniforms are wheeling a large transport chair down the corridor. Sitting in it is Martin. He has his hoodie pulled up, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, his posture stiff and defensive. He looks completely closed off, retreating back into the angry, unapproachable boy he was the day he first arrived on Floor 4.

It makes your heart ache.

But as they wheel him past Room 304, Martin suddenly stops. He digs his sneakers into the linoleum, forcing the transport chair to a violent halt despite the operators' frustrated grunts.

He turns his head, his eyes locked onto the glass window of your door.

For one split second, everything's okay. He looks right at you, his expression raw, exposed, and entirely broken. He doesn't wave. He doesn't smile. But his right hand slowly comes out of his pocket, and between his fingers, he's holding your fabric marker tightly against the glass of his own window as they pull him away.

You press your palm against the glass, your vision blurring with tears as the dark blue uniforms push him around the corner toward the elevators.

The squeak of the wheels fades. The elevator bell dings in the distance.

He's gone. Just as quickly as he had come.

"Come on, sweetie," your assigned transport nurse says gently from behind you, placing a hand on your shoulder. "Your team is waiting downstairs. Let's get you to Incheon."

You wipe your face with the sleeve of your hoodie, feeling the hard, solid shape of Martin’s lyric notebook tucked safely into your bag. You take a deep, shaky breath.

The floor is empty. Daegu and Incheon. But as you step out into the hallway and follow the nurse toward the exit, you feel the weight of the promise resting heavily behind your ribs.

We survive this. We find each other. No matter what.

Some things were easier said than done.

It was two sick kids against the world. And when you’re sitting under the amber fairy lights of a pediatric ward, sharing a single pair of headphones and drawing marker notes on each other’s sleeves, promising the universe feels easy. You look at the white walls, you look at the plastic wristbands, and you decide that your baseline stats and your shared spite are enough to conquer logistics.

But the world outside Floor 4 didn't operate on spite. It operated on networks, funding tiers, and boundaries that didn't care about a lyric notebook or a crooked medical-tape corsage tucked into the bottom of a suitcase.

Six months.

Six months of a reality that chipped away at the grand, sweeping declarations made in the dark. Martin quickly learned that the adult healthcare system didn't have room for high-spirited rebellion. Not really. Not at all. In Daegu, there were no lenient night nurses who looked the other way when doors slid open past hours.

There was no recreation room with a shared piano or a view of the Seoul skyline. There was only a beige room, a rotating schedule of doctors who didn't bother memorizing his name, and the relentless, mechanical hum of an updated oxygen compressor that sounded entirely different from the one he left behind.

In the beginning, you both tried. You tried with a frantic desperation.

The text messages were constant, a rapid-fire stream of check-ins and inside jokes that crossed the three-hour geographic gap every single hour. Martin sennt voice memos of 10-second loops he built on his laptop during his morning nebulizer treatments.

He received shaky photos of the generic third-floor common area in Incheon, accompanied by dry, sarcastic complaints about the lack of decent snacks.

“The vending machine here only has unsalted crackers and warm barley tea,” a text reads from three weeks into the transfer. “I'm thinking of staging a coup. I'll need Juhoon to wire me some wire cutters.”

Martin replies instantly, sitting up in his unfamiliar Daegu mattress: “Don't start a riot without me, Mayor.”

But gradually, the system begun to push back.

It started with the schedules. The adult chronic units were tightly regulated, running on rigid clinical baselines that didn't overlap. Martin's intensive lung therapy was pushed to the afternoons, exactly when the Incheon facility scheduled the mandatory rest periods.

Phone calls shifted from spontaneous, late-night whispered conversations to highly formal, pre-arranged windows.

"I can't do nine tonight," you voice whispered through the receiver one Tuesday evening, sounding smaller, more tired than he remembered. "The night staff here is strict about the electronic curfew. They take the tablets at eight-thirty sharp."

"Then I'll call at seven," Martin said, his fingers gripping his phone tightly.

"I have the new contrast scans at seven, Mars. It takes two hours because the tech downstairs is always backed up."

"Then when?" Martin’s voice cracked, a sharp, bitter edge bleeding into the syllable. He hated how helpless he sounds. "When are you free?"

"I don't know," the reply came softly, followed by a faint sigh that sounded dangerously like defeat. "Tomorrow after the midday vitals? If my saturation stays up."

"Okay," he muttered, staring at his own bare white wall. "Tomorrow."

But tomorrow brought an unexpected feverr for Martin, a sudden spike in his inflammatory markers that put him on a strict isolation protocol for four days. The phone sat idle on his bedside table, the screen dark, while a fresh round of intravenous antibiotics dripped slowly into his arm.

By the time his charts stabilized, a minor infection swept through the Incheon facility, locking down the entire floor from outside communications for a week to prevent a ward-wide outbreak.

The distance wasn't just three hours of train track. It was every other struggle you didn't even account for.

Visits became an impossible luxury. Every time Sean promised to borrow his brother’s car, Martin’s white blood cell count fluctuated, or the Incheon network denied an out-of-district visitation request due to "patient vulnerability thresholds."

The insurance paperwork was a mountain of red tape that required signatures from three different regional boards just to allow a cross-province transfer for a single weekend.

The letters slowed down. The flash drives Martin printed out sat in a neat, orderly row on his desk, unmailed, because the postal room in the Daegu wing routinely flagged external media storage devices as potential contraband.

The promise began to feel wrong behind his ribs. It was a silver eighth note written in marker that had long since faded, leaving behind a faint, blurry smudge of the past. He started to wonder if they were just foolish. Two kids trapped in a temporary sanctuary, pretending they could dictate the terms of a world that viewed them as nothing more than identification codes. Numbers on a sheet.

The train station in Seoul is loud and entirely indifferent to the boy walking through the terminal.

Martin keeps his head down, the hood of his sweatshirt pulled low over his eyes to block out the afternoon light streaming through the glass roof. He carries his backpack slung over one shoulder, his left hand shoved deep into his pocket, his fingers tightly curled around the plastic cylinder of the fabric marker he keeps with him everywhere.

In his right hand, he holds a bouquet of flowers.

They're small, pale white lilies mixed with baby’s breath, wrapped in generic brown butcher paper with a simple twine knot. He bought them from a small kiosk outside the station, his hands shaking so violently as he counted out the paper bills that the cashier had given him a long, pitying look.

Martin tracks his reflection in the dark glass of the train windows as he waits for the commuter link. He looks pale. But then again, he's always been at least a little pale since he'd gotten sick. His jaw is set in that familiar, defensive line, but his eyes are wide and completely anxious. He looks like a boy heading toward an ending he can't stop.

He steps onto the train, the iron doors sliding shut with a hiss.

The ride is silent. He just sits by the window, the brown paper of the bouquet rustling against his knee with every slight bump of the tracks. His thoughts run in a frantic, unyielding circle, replaying every missed call, every delayed message, and every time you told each other "next time."

He keeps pulling his phone from his pocket, his thumb hovering over the screen, checking the address he copied from Juhoon’s last email. He just sent a map link with a single note: “The paperwork finally cleared. You can go now.”

You can go now. The phrase felt too big in the center of Martin's chest. It was only four words, though. Four words on the screen of his phone. He'd been through worse, logically, but this felt like the hugest thing.

Illogically.

His palms are slick with sweat. He wipes his hand against his jeans, his breathing shallow. He starts rehearsing what he’s going to say when he gets there, trying to find words that don't sound entirely empty after months of absence.

I'm sorry I couldn't get the leave approved sooner. I should've tried harder. I kept the marker.

Every phrase feels stupid. Every sentence feels like a clumsy attempt to patch a tear in a fabric that has already been completely ripped apart. There are no words that describe what he feels.

The train stops, the automated voice announcing the station in a flat, pre-recorded tone. Martin stands up, his knees feeling strangely weak beneath him. He grips the twine of the bouquet, adjusts his backpack, and steps out into the cold, damp air. From there, it doesn't take him long to get to where he needs to be on foot.

Incheon Medical Center.

The building is massive.

It stands like a monument of concrete and glass, completely detached from anything surrounding it. There are no colorful banners, no signs of life outside the perimeter, just a long, curved driveway and rows of glass panels.

Martin walks up the wide steps, his sneakers thudding against the stone

The automatic glass doors slide open. It’s that exact scent—the chemical bite of industrial floor cleaner, low-grade institutional soap, and the fucking lemons. It even smells like the fucking lemons. He can;t help but let out a soft laugh.

The lobby is big, but quiet. A few plastic chairs are lined up against the walls, but they're empty. The absolute silence of the space makes the sqeaking of Martin's shoes seem a lot louder than it actually is.

He walks toward the reception area, a circular desk surrounded by plexiglass partitions. Behind the counter sits an older woman in a pressed burgundy vest, her eyes fixed on a dual-monitor setup that throws a pale blue light across her face.

Martin stops a few inches from the glass. He swallows hard, his throat feeling all too dry, his heart hammering against his ribs so loudly that he wonders if the lady can hear it.

The woman looks up, giving him an entirely standard professional smile. "Good afternoon. Can I help you?"

Martin’s fingers tighten around the brown paper of the flowers, the stems groaning slightly under his grip. He tries to speak, but his voice catches in his throat. This is it. This is the moment he's been waiting for.

"I'm here to see someone," he says, his voice breaking already. He clears his throat, a faint dusting of pink on his cheeks.

She doesn't look surprised. She doesn't ask for details. She just taps her keyboard, the rapid, hollow clicks sounding like a countdown. "Name of the visitor, please?"

"Martin Park."

She types his name into the registry field. "And who are you here to see?"

Martin takes a slow, steadying breath as your name falls from his lips. "I'm... I'm her boyfriend," he adds, with a determined nod.

The receptionist pulls up a specific record from the regional network transfer logs. She reaches into a small plastic bin to her left, pulls out a white adhesive visitor’s badge, and slides it through a slot in the printer. The machine lets out a sharp, high-pitched whine as it stamps the data onto the paper.

She peels the backing off the label and hands it through the lower opening of the glass partition.

"Floor four," she says, pointing a manicured finger toward a set of doors to the left of the elevator bank. "Take the elevator."

Martin looks down at the white sticker in his hand. Printed in bold, black ink are the words: VISITOR AUTHORIZATION - RECOVERY SECTOR.

The elevator ride is a blur. He thinks about you. He thinks about what he'll say. He freaks out a little. Forces himself to stop thinking about you. Immediately starts thinking about you again.

When the doors slide open on Floor 4, Martin steps out into a corridor that feels like a hollow mirror image of the home they left behind in Seoul.

This Floor 4 isn't like the old one. There are no bright marker drawings tape-sealed to the doors, no colorful construction paper banners hanging from the ceiling tiles, and no warm, amber fairy lights anywhere to be seen.

It's all dull. There's no life to it. Just a place that makes people try to grow older. Or maybe it just seems like that because there are no fond memories of you and him engraved into the walls here.

Martin walks down the long hallway, his backpack shifting against his shoulder. His heartbeat gets louder, a frantic thumping in his ears that completely drowns out the occasional click of a keyboard or the distant chuckle of a staff member behind a breakroom door.

He checks the room numbers on the small plastic placards next to the frames.

401. 402. 403.

He stops outside Room 404.

The door is partially cracked, a narrow line of yellow light spilling out into the dull beige corridor. Martin stands there for a full minute, his body completely frozen, his breath hitching in his chest. He looks down at the white lilies in his hands, the brown paper crumpled from his grip, and a sudden, sharp wave of embarrassment hits him.

It was a stupid idea. What if you hated flowers? What if you hated his flowers, specifically? No, that was dumb. Unless it wasn't. Okay, much scarier thought: what if you hated him now? What if you were mad that things didn't work out the way you two had planned? That you didn't talk enough? Didn't stay in touch enough?

He raises his left hand, his fingers hovering over the wood, his knuckles trembling as he tries to force himself to knock.

"Are you gonna stand out there forever, Park?"

The voice comes from inside the room. It’s light, steady, and carries that exact same edge that used to echo through Room 306.

Martin’s hand drops. He pushes the door open, the hinges giving a low creak as he steps in.

It takes him maybe less than two seconds to start crying when he sees your very alive, very beautiful face. It's okay. You're crying, too.

You're sitting up in the middle of the bed, your back propped against two oversized white pillows. Your hair is longer, trailing over the collar of the fabric, and your eyes are bright and complletely fixed on him, as you swing your feet over the bed to stand.

Next to the bed, a familiar IV pole stands guard, the left wheel slightly askew. It looks the same as the one from Floor 4 in Seoul.

Martin stands at the foot of the mattress, his backpack still slung over his shoulder, his shoes planted on the floor. He doesn't say anything. He just stares at you, his chest heaving as if he’s just run a marathon. Or three.

No one says anything. He just stares at you, trying to memorize every new thing. Five seconds pass. Then ten. Then twenty.

You look down at his hands, your eyes tracking the brown butcher paper and the pale white lilies clutched against his flannel shirt. A grin breaks across your face, your eyes crinkling at the corners.

"Lilies?" you say, a soft, breathy laugh escaping your lips. "Seriously, Mars? What am I supposed to do with those? Put them in a plastic emesis basin?"

Martin looks at the flowers, then looks up at you, the suffocating fear that has been building inside his chest for six straight months suddenly disappearing.

Who gave a rat's ass about the flowers? What was he so afraid of? It was you. It was you and him.

A short, surprised laugh breaks through his throat, a sound that shakes his entire frame.

"They were the only ones at the station kiosk," he snorts, stepping around the footboard and tossing his heavy backpack onto the vinyl armchair in the corner. He approaches the side of the bed, immediately pulling you into his arms. He presses a soft kiss to the top of your head. "And you're welcome, by the way. Most people say thank you when someone brings them a botanical arrangement."

"I'm the Mayor," you say, tilting your head up to look at him. "I don't say thank you for logistical violations. I demand accountability."

You look him up and down, your eyes scanning his shoulders, his messy hair, and the dark flannel shirt that looks slightly more worn than it did in the spring.

He looks... healthy. Maybe not the same way he did during the photos from his prom he showed you, but still. He looks healthy. That alone makes you cry harder, burying your face in his chest, as if he'd vanish if you let go.

"You're still freakishly tall," you whisper, a soft smile pulling at the corner of your lips.

Martin lets out a low snort, leaning his hip against the edge of the metal bed frame. "What? Did you expect me to be short when we met again? Did you think the Daegu network was going to shrink my spine?"

"I was hoping," you say, reaching your right hand out of the massive sleeve of your hoodie. "It would make it easier to reach your face when I need to tell you to shut up."

"Uh-huh. Or kiss me."

Pulling away slightly, he reaches out, his calloused fingers instantly wrapping around your hand, his palm warm, solid, and entirely real against your skin. He pulls your hand up to his mouth, pressing a firm, lingering kiss against your knuckles, his forehead coming down to rest against your fingers as he lets out a long, shaky breath he feels like he’s been holding since the last time he held you like this.

"I kept the book," you murmur, your fingers twisting through his, holding on with that desperate strength from the night before the transfer. "I read the draft for Joyride every time they changed my medication rotation. For good luck, or whatever."

"I have three new loops on the flash drive in my bag," he says. He reaches into his flannel pocket with his free hand and pulls out the small, plastic fabric marker, holding it in front of you. "And the ink hasn't run out yet. I use it all the time, too. For good luck, or whatever," he grins.

You kiss him.

Martin Edwards Park isn't on the top of the world. He hasn't hit rock bottom, either. He's exactly where he fucking needs to be.

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