13 souls scattered around the mortal world, all with that empty feeling that a big part of their life was missing. They don't know when it started, but suddenly, they all noticed very mysterious patterns in their life. Until one of them, Seungcheol, woke up to a torn paper beside his pillow.
Across realms, a girl locked up high in a tower is trying her best to wait, but is starting to lose hope.
𓏲𝄢 ot13 x reader [poly]
𓏲𝄢 fluff, mystery, angst, supernatural, fantasy, soulmates au, depictions of violence, death (no mc deaths), comfort, fem!reader, (mostly) set in a made up fantasy world, no plans of making it nsfw for now but we'll see
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
...
all dividers will be by @/cafekitsune
comment, message, or send an ask if you want to be tagged !
❀࿐ notes from the florist: fem! reader, heavily cheol centric (like literally), only a few mentions of mc and other members, cursing, small descriptions of violence (there are bad guys already), yes that is hyungwon of monsta x, seungcheol thinks he's crazy, maybe he is, he is confused throughout the whole chapter pls save him, i promise the rest of the chapters would be longer than this lmao i just cut it there for the suspense, if i missed anything that should be here do tell me !
❀࿐ summary: 13 souls scattered around the mortal world, all with that empty feeling that a big part of their life was missing. They don't know when it started, but suddenly, they all noticed very mysterious patterns in their life. Until one of them, Seungcheol, woke up to a torn paper beside his pillow. Across realms, a girl locked up high in a tower is trying her best to wait, but is starting to lose hope.
❀࿐ word count: 2.2k
❀࿐ masterlist
“Seriously, a few more days of these and I’m really going to see a professional.”
Seungcheol never even thought this day would come, but he genuinely believes he’s going crazy.
“Man, if I were you, I would’ve gone to a doctor years ago. Seriously, the random occurrences part could just be some really cool coincidences that the universe thinks would be a good prank for you, but dreaming voices ever since you were a teen? I would go insane,” his friend, Hyungwon, said, voice easy like he was talking about the weather. He flipped through the menu without really looking.
Seungcheol can only vaguely remember the first time a dream like that occurred, since it was so long ago. At first, only darkness was seen. Within that void were various voices, those of children. There were too many voices for him to even bother to count. Among these voices, the one where he was most intrigued with was the faint voice of a girl. He thinks that might be the only girl among the children. The dreams were like that for a while until light slowly crept in. It wasn’t dark anymore — hey, at least there was improvement — but they were all blurry, all happening in a very grainy perspective, up until now.
They all also seem to be different scenarios, from what he could understand. Most of the time, the children would be playing. Sometimes, eating. Sometimes they would even fight with each other. There were even talks of royalty and even magic between these voices. Seriously, is my body switching to another dimension while I’m asleep? Seungcheol thought one time.
Somehow, the universe must’ve seen him as a walking comedy film. Because if that wasn’t enough, he has been noticing some strange coincidences in his life lately. Everything around the world seemed to unconsciously follow his words. It was yesterday that he realised how many of the pieces fit together. That’s what sent him to the pastry shop on Sunday, instead of staying home and doing nothing on the only day off he had. He invited Hyungwon because he needed someone to laugh at him or tell him he was losing it. Hyungwon was good at both.
The first time it happened was actually with Hyungwon himself. Both of them were part of their company’s Product Management team, with Seungcheol being the Department Head. They were chattering about the company’s new app, and it escalated into an argument as they quarreled about their differing opinions.
“Forget it. Let’s not dwell on it much.” Seungcheol had muttered, feeling slightly lightheaded.
“… on what?” he heard Hyungwon mumble.
“Huh?”
“Let’s not dwell on what?”
“The launching of the new app..?”
It started to escalate from there. Small incidents at work: he told an intern to “take a break,” and the intern pushed his chair back and walked away ten minutes later like it was a command heard from authority. He half-joked to a junior about finishing a report in a day, and it appeared the next morning, neat and formatted, like someone strapped motivation on and ran. Brainstorming sessions turned his offhand comments into direction. People agreed. Things lined up when he said they would.
“Oh, were we talking about that?” he genuinely hadn’t felt more mortified in his life.
Someone in HR once told him, serious and a little awed, “You have this voice that makes people listen.” He laughed it off at the time. It sounded flattering, awkward. But after the printer untangled itself, the morning he banged it with the edge of his hand and muttered “work,” and after a red light turned green right as he thought come on, nothing felt funny anymore.
Just remembering all these is making his head throb. Hyungwon can only watch his friend in pity, not really knowing how to actually help him with this. The slowly increasing noise inside the shop is definitely not helping as brunch time starts to come. People were in small clumps, phones out, laughing. The noise felt like it was pushing on his skull.
“Too loud,” Seungcheol muttered, automatic, more to himself than anyone. Hyungwon blinked. Conversation dropped a notch, then another. It wasn’t silent, but the whole room shifted into easier tones. Hyungwon glanced around, surprised in that way that made his eyebrows lift.
Later that night, Seungcheol closes his eyes and rests, anticipating yet another vague vision and the bubbly giggles of the children, which, as much as he tries to deny, he has grown quite fond to.
Seungcheol swallowed and felt like crying and laughing at the same time.
However, this night was different.
This time it wasn’t the usual soft grain. When he opened his eyes, there was smoke. Thick, hot, the kind of smoke that makes a person cough even just remembering it. The smell sat in the back of his throat and made his eyes water.
He was small again — small and hollow-eyed and hiding behind something carved and too shiny for kids to touch. The place felt like a house and like a palace at once: polished wood, heavy curtains, high ceilings. It didn’t look like the city he knew. It looked older, older than the oldest building downtown.
“Seungcheol!” a voice called. It cut under the other noises, a child's call, urgent and familiar.
Wait… Seungcheol?
His name was being said in that voice. In a place he’d never been. The voice was one of the others from the dreams. For the first time, the names matched words in a dream meant for him.
The voice from outside the doors calls out again. The voice was familiar, and he surmised that it must be one of the children in his dreams. Suddenly, the door burst open. In came a middle-aged woman dressed in the most expensive-looking silk Seungcheol has ever seen. She was holding two crying children with him, a boy and a girl, with a few knights scattered around them.
“Seungcheol?” the woman muttered worriedly once she saw him. He couldn’t control himself as he felt his body stand up, running towards them.
Just as he was about to reach them, a big explosion was heard, and from outside of the shattered windows of the room, in came a horde of people in black cloaks. Their clothes sucked in shadows, or they carried smoke with them. They moved differently; there was no hesitation. He remembers thinking, They aren’t human, before the pain arrived.
Everything that followed that was a blur. It all felt like a haze when Seungcheol felt an agonizing pain coming from deep within him. His little knees trembled as he fell down. Beside him, the other children seem to feel the same as they all wail in torment.
“Jun! N-no, the princess-”
“Ah, there she is. The princess…” a deep, spine-chilling voice echoed across the hall.
“No..” the woman mumbled as he gazed at the man.
“The divinity is now in our control, and the king and queen have fallen. No more use keeping you lot then, huh?” he then turns to his men, “Get the princess. You know what to do with the rest.”
“J-Jun! Y/N!” Seungcheol hears himself shout, although very childlike.
“Seungcheol!” was the last thing he heard before everything started to fade.
Y/N!
Y/N…
He snapped awake back in the pastry shop. Light and clink and the familiar roar of the coffee machine filled the world. He sat up too fast and his head spun.
Y/N?
“Hello? Earth to Seungcheol?” Hyungwon is in front of him, waving his hand around.
… what the fuck?
“What’s going on?” Seungcheol mutters, more to himself.
“What was that?”
“Was I sleeping?”
“You were spacing out.”
That definitely did not help at all.
He looks around. Something doesn’t… feel right. He glanced around the shop, searching for something unusual, and yet he failed to do so. Same pastries in the case, same barista moving with practiced motions, the same couple in the corner pretending to be smug about their date. But he couldn’t shake the lingering feeling around him.
Something is definitely wrong.
“You seem troubled,” Hyungwon asks him calmly.
“Well that’s one way to put it,” he mumbles as the other just chuckles in reply.
Did I just imagine all that?
“Hey, this isn’t a dream, right? You’re real, right?” he asks worriedly. Hyungwon watched him for a beat and chuckled in reply, “Why do you ask?”
“It’s just… I was already in bed, or well, at least I thought I was, and then I had a dream…”
“Like your usual dreams?”
“No- I mean, yes. But this time… This time, everything was clear. And it was like I was actually experiencing it. I was a child, and another boy called me my exact name… It’s as if I were in-”
“A memory?”
“Exactly.” Seungcheol sighs in bewilderment.
Hyungwon sipped his coffee, his gaze wandering to his friend. The way he watched now had a tilt to it, like he was trying to guess which direction a glass would fall before it slipped.
“Were you able to smell the fire?”
“Ye-” Seungcheol suddenly froze.
…huh?
“Sorry, what was that?”
“… I said, were you able to smell the fire?”
To say that Seungcheol was confused is an understatement. It didn’t register at first. Then the word landed, and he felt his stomach drop.
“I never said anything about a fire, Hyungwon.”
He feels the air around them has shifted. He looked at Hyungwon; the man’s smile was the same smile he’d seen a hundred times. But when the smile didn’t reach the eyes, something in Seungcheol tensed.
Seungcheol stared at him. “How do you know about that?”
Finally, Hyungwon met his eyes, too calm, too certain. “You’ve been dreaming of them for years. You just never really realized.”
His throat went dry. “Hyungwon, what are you-”
“Funny thing about memories,” he cut in, smiling faintly. His voice was soft, but there was an edge. “You think they belong to the past. But sometimes, they’re just waiting for you to catch up.”
As if on cue, everything around them became silent. Seungcheol looked around.
No one was there. No customers, no baristas, even the hands of the clock were frozen. Just him, and the man across the table, watching.
He turned back.
“Who are you?” he asked quietly. It was the only question he could think to utter.
The “person” in front of him chuckles, “Who I am does not matter, child. The more befitting for this question is you. Who are you, Choi Seungcheol?”
Seungcheol’s pulse quickened. His name sounded strange coming from that mouth. He bristled at the word child. He is not a child. “What do you mean, who am I?”
The figure tilted their head, watching him with something unreadable in their expression. “It’s strange, isn’t it? Living a life that doesn’t quite feel like yours. You go through the motions, say the right words. But somewhere deep down, it still feels like you’re just… not where you’re supposed to be. Like a worn glove not meant for your hand.”
He frowned. “What are you talking about?”
Hyungwon—or whoever it was—smiled faintly. “You keep thinking it’s the world acting strange, but it’s you who keeps bending it. A word, a thought, even a whisper, and everything listens.”
“Listens?” Seungcheol repeated quietly. “What do you mean?”
“The air. The people. The silence between your thoughts.” Their tone was calm, too calm. “You’ve always had a way of making things happen just because you said so.”
This was starting to sound like nonsense. But he couldn’t say it without feeling the truth in a dozen moments replaying in his head. The little coincidences that had leached into his life and stuck.
His throat tightened. “You’re not making sense.”
“If I weren’t, you wouldn’t be so afraid,” they murmured.
The city outside the café window was still frozen, mid-motion, mid-sound, mid-life. The spoon in his untouched cup of coffee floated faintly, as if weightless.
“Why are you showing me this?” he managed.
“Because you keep hearing them.”
Seungcheol blinked. “What?”
“The voices,” they said. “The ones that follow you into sleep. The laughter. The crying. The children calling out to someone who never answers.”
His breath caught.
They didn’t answer, only watched him with that same calm certainty that made his stomach twist. “You think they’re just dreams, Seungcheol. But dreams don’t call your name. And voices that persistent, they don’t belong to strangers.”
Their words lingered in the air, almost too heavy to breathe in.
“Then what do they want from me?” he asked hoarsely.
“To remember,” they said simply. “That’s all they’ve ever wanted. That’s all she has ever wanted.”
He blinked. She? He didn’t know for sure, but the word skidded into place with the rest. The girl’s voice. The small presence in the dreams.
A fissure ran a half second across the man’s face, like a bad video feed. For a moment, “Hyungwon”’s features rippled and something under his skin glowed faint and warm, then snapped back.
“W-wait!” he felt stupid and childish saying it, but it came out anyway, “Are you… Y/N?”
This seems to make “Hyungwon” pause, as they stare right through him. Then, they chuckled, “You’re good at perceiving… Close, but wrong.”
“Want to know the answers to your question? Listen closely, child,” they murmured as the world around them began to fade. “If you wake with the weight still in your chest, look beside where your dreams rest. You’ll find those that are meant to stay. Bon voyage, child. Find them, and may you all fulfill your long-awaited fate.”
He woke up panting in his bed. The apartment smelled like the detergent he left in his sheets, not smoke. He lay there for a second, hands splayed, heartbeat trying to find normal. The headache had crawled back to the base of his skull.
And before Seungcheol could respond, the shop dissolved into darkness.
He sat up and glanced around like anyone who’d just had an acid flashback. Nothing seemed different. The blinds let in light. A stray towel from laundry hung over a chair. His phone buzzed somewhere, but he didn’t reach for it.
Then he saw it. A folded piece of paper, sticking out just beside his pillow.
He frowned, blinking at it. He didn’t remember putting anything there. Carefully, he pulled it out. It looked old, as if it had been burned at the edges and pieced back together. The texture was strange, soft like cloth but fragile like dried leaves.
And the handwriting. Elegant, looping strokes that didn’t belong to any modern pen. It read:
The days blur together now. The moon rises and falls, and still, the tower stands silent. I’ve long stopped counting how many mornings I’ve greeted with trembling hands.
Sometimes I think I hear their voices. Faint, like echoes caught between worlds. I wonder if they remember me, or if time has swallowed me whole. It hurts. Everything hurts…
Still, I wait. Even when hope feels thin, I wait. Because if I stop, then what else is left?
To my dearests… wherever you are, please, don’t forget me. Please…
He stared at the words. Dearests.
Something in his chest tightened. He didn’t know why, but the word felt… familiar. He turned the page around. There was something written faintly on the back, like the ink hadn’t fully decided to stay. Only one name stood clear, as if it was freshly written.
Lee Jihoon.
The rest were barely visible, scattered shadows of letters that refused to form.
Seungcheol blinked hard, his pulse quickening. He didn’t know anyone by that name. But even just reading it out loud made his throat feel tight, like he should.
The page hummed faintly in his hand. Just for a second, he thought he heard it — a distant voice, soft and far away.
❀࿐ notes from the florist: fem! reader, this part is just short lore explanation basically so no warnings yet, the creator's a woman fr
❀࿐ summary: 13 souls scattered around the mortal world, all with that empty feeling that a big part of their life was missing. They don't know when it started, but suddenly, they all noticed very mysterious patterns in their life. Until one of them, Seungcheol, woke up to a torn paper beside his pillow. Across realms, a girl locked up high in a tower is trying her best to wait, but is starting to lose hope.
❀࿐ masterlist
Once upon a time, long after the formation of humans and the mortal realm, a great goddess had an extraordinary idea in mind. She wanted to create a duplicate of the mortal world, a world that is the exact same, but also, completely different. Sky spun from her breath, land molded with her hands, and life kindled from a single spark in her chest.
But what made this world different from the other one? Magic. The creator wanted to make different beings that are all made based off of her magic. Mages, that’s what she called them. And to watch over this new realm, the creator took off a fragment of her own divine essence, a piece of her power, and sealed it within the first being of magic: the First Mage.
The First Mage, a woman born of light and will, became the realm’s heart. Through her, magic flowed freely, pure and untamed. Her power kept every spell in harmony, every creature in balance. And when her time came, that divine fragment was passed to her heir: a daughter. Born not of command, but of affection.
For only love could carry the Creator’s light.
Generations passed, and with each First Heir, the magic of the world endured. As long as one lived, the supernatural realm would never fall to chaos.
But peace is never eternal. When envy grew, darkness rose against the empire. They came not to destroy the princess, the newest bearer of the Creator’s gift, but to claim her. And the palace fell.
Her protectors, the destined soulmates, were thought to be dead as they vanished without a trace. And the princess, too young to fight and too sacred to kill, was imprisoned in a tower, a cage that fed upon her light.
Years have passed, and the empire remains in the hands of the ill-minded. Meanwhile, in a different dimension, thirteen hearts begin to stir, their souls echoing with names they can vaguely remember.
❀࿐ notes from the florist: fem! reader, mc isn't here again pt. 2, suggestive, kissing, making out but nothing extreme, a whole chapter for the minwon arc hell no, can you tell who my fav duo is, not proofread, if i missed anything that should be here do tell me !
❀࿐ summary: 13 souls scattered around the mortal world, all with that empty feeling that a big part of their life was missing. They don't know when it started, but suddenly, they all noticed very mysterious patterns in their life. Until one of them, Seungcheol, woke up to a torn paper beside his pillow. Across realms, a girl locked up high in a tower is trying her best to wait, but is starting to lose hope.
❀࿐ word count: 4.5k
❀࿐ masterlist
Tokyo welcomed them with warmth — the sunset rays shimmering against the haze, the airport buzzing with overlapping voices and rolling suitcases. The city breathed around them, alive in a way that made everything feel just a little sharper, a little more possible.
They didn’t have to look long.
Mingyu spotted them first, waving from a few steps away. Tall, easy to find in any crowd, looking like he had been standing there longer than he would ever admit. His smile stretched slow, hesitant at the edges, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to be this excited until they were finally close enough to touch.
“There you guys are,” he said, stepping forward.
The hugs came naturally — warm arms, soft laughter, the familiar-but-not-familiar squeeze of people who should not feel this comfortable with one another yet… but they did anyway. Mingyu held on for a beat longer each time, subtle but noticeable, as if anchoring himself after weeks of drifting through schedule after schedule. It’s a great coincidence that today is one of the few days when he gets to have a day of no work slipped between days of tight schedules.
“You look like a human golden retriever,” Soonyoung said, patting Mingyu’s back once the final hug ended. “Did Tokyo finally propose to you or what?”
Mingyu rolled his eyes, cheeks pink from the chill and the teasing. “I’m just… glad you’re here. You know, more friends. It’s been a long week.”
He didn’t elaborate further, and he didn’t need to. Something in his expression — softened eyes, the way his shoulders dropped — made it obvious. Jihoon snorted, adjusting his backpack. “A long week? Try being dragged around Seoul by him.” He jerked his thumb at Soonyoung. “There wasn’t a day that we didn’t almost die.”
“You almost died,” Soonyoung corrected proudly. “I was thriving.”
Seungcheol chuckled under his breath, feeling the tension he’d been carrying since Seoul slowly lift, replaced by something gentler. A warmth not from Tokyo’s lights, but from the three people standing with him on the curb.
It struck him, quietly, how natural this was. How wrong it should be, flying to another country for someone they barely knew, and yet, how right it did.
Mingyu tugged his mask down and gave them a sheepish grin. “Are you guys hungry? I found this good katsu place near my hotel. You booked the same hotel as mine, right? We can go there after checking in your bags.”
“Lead the way,” Seungcheol said before anyone else could respond.
After eating, they wandered through Shibuya, swallowed by the crossed currents of people and lights. The scrambled crossing flashed with enormous screens and headlights reflecting on the rain-damp pavement, and somehow the four of them kept falling into step with each other — shoulders brushing, hands swinging close, steps matching unconsciously.
At a taiyaki stall, Mingyu insisted they try the custard-filled ones. Jihoon’s eyes widened the second he bit into it, and Mingyu grinned, pleased in a soft way. “You like it,” Mingyu murmured, the words sounding just a little too full for such a simple observation.
Jihoon didn’t look at him, but his ears turned pink. “It’s… good.” Soonyoung barged between them, dramatically sniffing. “Jealous,” he announced, then shoved a mochi donut at Jihoon’s mouth. “Try this.” Jihoon laughed around the food, and even Seungcheol found himself smiling into his drink, warmed by something he couldn’t quite name.
As they walked, Mingyu told stories — about the ramen shop that saved his life after a 14-hour shoot, the café where he once fell asleep while waiting for his interview to start, the first rooftop he fell in love with the city from. He spoke with his hands, with bright eyes, with a softness around his edges that made it hard not to lean closer just to hear him better.
At one point, they paused on a small bridge lit with string lights. The reflection shimmered on the water below, and all four of them stood there quietly for a moment, shoulder to shoulder, not saying anything.
“This city always feels like it’s waiting for something,” Mingyu said softly. “Or someone.”
The three others exchanged a glance. No one says anything aloud, but everyone understands. Maybe Tokyo had been waiting for this. For them.
They headed to the arcade next and it was chaos, noise, laughter. Soonyoung dominating the rhythm games with flair, Mingyu nearly crying from laughing too hard, Jihoon winning claw machine plushies with uncanny skill, and Seungcheol getting dragged from machine to machine like a tired dad.
At the basketball hoop, Mingyu and Seungcheol got so competitive that made bystanders pause and watch. Mingyu’s sleeve brushed Seungcheol’s arm each time they get a new ball, but neither moved away.
When Jihoon placed the cat plush he’d won earlier onto Mingyu’s lap, he murmured, “You looked like you wanted it more than I did.”
Mingyu froze for half a second, surprised and touched, heart going soft. “Thanks, Jihoon. Really.”
Jihoon nodded, avoiding his eyes. “Don’t make a big deal out of it.” But it already was. Not romantically. Or not yet, at least. But it was something. As Jihoon walked away to look for the others, Mingyu took the time to pause and think, his confusion spiking up as the hint of longing seeps into his heart yet again. A feeling he’s all too familiar with.
They ended the night on a rooftop bar overlooking the city; dim string lights, wooden stools, and soft music humming beneath the chatter of patrons. Tokyo glittered below them — an ocean of warm windows, headlights drifting like fireflies, neon signs blinking lazily against the sky.
But unlike earlier, where the four of them were loud and tangled in laughter and movement, now their energy settled into something calmer. The kind of quiet that only exists when everyone is comfortable enough not to fill the silence. Soonyoung draped himself over his chair like he’d melted into it. “My legs are dead,” he announced dramatically.
“You were the one who sprinted across the arcade because a child beat your high score,” Jihoon replied, sipping his drink.
“He disrespected me,” Soonyoung said with a scowl. “He was eight.”
Mingyu snorted into his glass. “Bro, he didn’t even look at you.”
“That’s even worse!”
Their laughter drifted into the night air. Seungcheol leaned back, watching the three of them bicker quietly, the city reflecting in his eyes. Something in his chest loosened, like an exhale he hadn’t realized he’d been holding for months. Or maybe, years.
After a while, they drifted toward the edge of the rooftop one by one, leaning on the railing as the wind carried the faint scent of ramen shops and cigarette smoke from the streets below. Mingyu was the first to break the silence, not dramatically, not all at once. Just a soft observation as he looked out at the glowing buildings stretching across the horizon.
“Tokyo looks different when you’re not alone.”
Seungcheol hummed. “What do you mean?”
Mingyu shrugged, the motion small. “When you’re here for work, you only see what’s in front of you. Studios, fitting rooms, schedules. You don’t… take it in.”
“So today was taking it in?” Jihoon asked.
“Yeah… I didn’t realize how much I missed just… being around people who feel easy.”
The others didn’t respond immediately, not because they were uncomfortable. But because the words landed softer than they expected.
Soonyoung nudged him lightly. “You’re nostalgic already? You only met them yesterday.”
“I meant-” Mingyu started, flustered, then gave up with a helpless laugh. “You know what I meant.”
And he did. They all did. But no one said the big, dramatic things aloud. No supernatural talk. No magic. Nothing heavy. Just a quiet sentiment settling between them like a shared blanket.
This feels good, feels right. It feels like the beginning of something…
Seungcheol took a slow breath, the cold air filling his lungs. “It’s nice,” he murmured. “Being here with all of you.” Jihoon clicked his tongue but didn’t pull away when Soonyoung slung an arm lazily around his shoulders. “Don’t get sentimental on us, hyung.”
“Too late,” Soonyoung said, already grinning. “He’s in his feelings.”
But the teasing only made the warmth deepen, not dissolve.
Because in that quiet rooftop glow — four silhouettes against the Tokyo skyline — they weren’t strangers bound by coincidence anymore.
By the time morning came, sunlight pooled over the hotel floor, and the three gathered around the small table with mugs of instant coffee. Jihoon placed the paper on the table, not dramatically, but with enough gravity that all movement in the room seemed to pause. There was a new name.
Jeon Wonwoo.
Later, that night, after another round of being a people pleaser, Mingyu headed to their room.
“Mingyu, do you know him?”
Silence answered first. A long, stretching silence that made even Soonyoung look up from his phone.
Mingyu froze. Initially, in surprise. But it turned to something closer to recognition laced with an emotion he clearly didn’t want to revisit. His eyes didn’t move from the name written in neat, dark strokes, as if seeing it transported him somewhere else entirely.
“…Yeah,” he finally said, voice quieter than usual. “I know him.”
He cleared his throat once, twice, as though that would steady it. It didn’t.
“He was… part of the same fashion film I worked on last year,” Mingyu began slowly. “The one where Soonyoung helped choreograph the dance scene. Wonwoo… was the video producer. One of the best their company had, honestly.” A small, almost fond smile flickered on his lips before it faltered. “He was always behind the monitor, quiet but focused. Really cared about how everything turned out.”
Soonyoung raised a brow. “And you two… were close?”
Mingyu inhaled, deep and shaky.
“More than close,” he admitted. “We were… something.” A laugh slipped from him, small and broken at the edges. “We never labeled it, but it was… good. Easy. Like we just understood each other without trying too hard. He wasn’t loud. He wasn’t clingy. He just—fit. We fit.” His voice softened. “We hit it off during that shoot, and after that… it just kept going.”
Jihoon, who rarely reacted to anything, looked up. “May we… ask what happened?”
Mingyu swallowed.
“His company moved to Singapore. He didn’t want to leave, but he didn’t really have a choice. And I…” He shook his head slowly. “I told myself I couldn’t do long distance. I thought it’d be easier to end things before it got painful. Except it still got painful anyway. For both of us, I guess.”
Silence draped over the room like a heavy blanket.
Mingyu forced a smile — the kind that didn’t reach his eyes at all.
“I always convinced myself that I was over it,” he said softly. “But I guess, he was too… alluring.”
The others didn’t say anything. They didn’t need to. The weight of Mingyu’s confession hung between them, settling into the room.
And somewhere in Singapore, among the busy lanes of Orchard Road, the man Mingyu had tried so hard to forget was about to walk back into his life. Because fate, or whatever force was guiding that mysterious paper, wasn’t done with either of them.
They knew there was no avoiding it. Wonwoo’s name sat on the paper like an uninvited memory — quiet, clean handwriting, but loud in meaning. The room fell into a thick, contemplative silence. They kept rereading the name, as if expecting the letters to rearrange into someone else entirely.
“So,” Jihoon said eventually. “We contact him?”
“Yes,” Seungcheol answered, steady and decisive.
“I’ll do it,” Soonyoung volunteered.
“Come on, I’ll do it,” Jihoon countered, crossing his arms.
Seungcheol raised a hand. “Guys. I’ll message him. He might ignore the both of -”
“I’ll…” Mingyu cuts off.
They all turned toward the source of the voice. He had been quiet since the name appeared — too quiet. His fingers were curled around the edge of the paper, knuckles pale, jaw set in tension. Finally, he exhaled through his nose.
“It’s fine.” Mingyu looked up, meeting each of their eyes in turn. “It has to be me.”
None of them had the heart to argue. Something about the way he said it — careful, fragile — made it clear this wasn’t about pride or responsibility. It was about closure. Or maybe, the lack of it. And so they let him.
Mingyu stared at Wonwoo’s contact name for a long, long moment. The others stayed quiet around him, watching without intruding, as if the air itself understood that this wasn’t a decision anyone else was allowed to touch.
Finally, finally, Mingyu typed:
I know this is abrupt, but can I call you? It’s something urgent.
He hit send before he could stop himself. Then he sat there, phone balanced against his knee, feeling his pulse echo in his palms. It took only a minute for Wonwoo to reply, but the minute felt like a stretched, trembling lifetime.
You can call.
Mingyu inhaled sharply. “I’ll… take this outside.” No one stopped him. He stepped out onto the small balcony of his hotel room, sliding the glass door shut behind him as if sealing himself into a space where the past and present could collide. Tokyo glowed below him — quietly alive, like it always understood people who were a little lost.
With fingers that didn’t feel like his, he pressed call. The ringback tone felt too loud in his ear.
And then…
“Mingyu?”
Wonwoo sounded cautious. Softer than Mingyu remembered. Or maybe Mingyu had just forgotten how soft he could be.
“Hey,” Mingyu breathed out. “Um. Hi.”
There was a tiny laugh on the other end. Not mocking — just surprised. “Hi. It’s… been a while.”
“Yeah.” Mingyu swallowed, trying to steady himself. “Sorry for the abrupt text. I just… I didn’t know how else to do this.”
“It’s okay,” Wonwoo said gently. “When I saw your message, I got scared for a second. I thought something happened to you.”
The sincerity of that hit more deeply than it should have. “No, no. I’m okay,” Mingyu said quickly. “Nothing happened to me. I mean, things happened, but not… like that.”
Those words landed a little too warmly inside Mingyu’s chest.
They exchanged a few awkward how-are-yous, but only because they weren’t used to speaking to each other anymore. Of course, not because they didn’t want to. There were pauses where Mingyu could hear Wonwoo’s soft breathing through the speakers, steady and grounding and painfully familiar.
Finally, Mingyu exhaled and said, “Okay. So. There’s no non-insane way to explain this, but I’ll try.”
And he did, starting from the dreams, the names, the paper, how he suddenly found himself connected to three strangers who didn’t feel like strangers anymore. He told Wonwoo about Seungcheol, Jihoon, Soonyoung. About the list. About how Wonwoo’s name had appeared this morning.
Wonwoo was almost silent through it all, listening so attentively that it made Mingyu’s heart yearn. When Mingyu finally finished, Wonwoo asked quietly, “Why didn’t you ever tell me about your dreams? Back then, I mean. When we were… talking.”
Mingyu let out a small, embarrassed laugh. “Honestly? I thought they were weird. Like, too weird. And I didn’t want you to think I was being dramatic or… I don’t know. Delusional.”
“Woah,” Wonwoo said, very softly. “That’s exactly why I didn’t say anything, either.” Mingyu blinked. “So I guess… you had them too?”
“Yeah,” Wonwoo admitted. “Same kinds of images, same people I didn’t recognize. I kept waking up feeling like I was missing something important. But it all felt so bizarre. I didn’t want to scare you off.”
“You wouldn’t have,” Mingyu whispered before he could stop himself. Then quieter, “You didn’t have to hide that from me.”
There was a heartbeat of silence.
“You didn’t have to hide it from me either,” Wonwoo replied, voice gentler than the night air around Mingyu.
Mingyu leaned against the railing, closing his eyes. “I’m sorry, Won.”
He seldom used the nickname anymore. The second the word left his mouth, he felt his throat tighten. Wonwoo inhaled — a sound so small, so fragile, Mingyu nearly missed it.
“You don’t need to apologize,” he said, but his voice held a tremble Mingyu hadn’t expected. “It was… complicated and abrupt. We didn’t know how to say the things that mattered.”
“Still,” Mingyu whispered, “I hurt you.”
Wonwoo took a moment before answering. “But you got hurt, too. It wasn’t exactly a one-sided thing, Mingyu.”
Mingyu didn’t trust his voice enough to answer. A moment passed, quiet, gentle, heavy. Finally, Wonwoo exhaled shakily. “Okay. About the list…”
“Yeah?”
“I’ll fly to Tokyo.”
Mingyu’s eyes snapped open. “What? Wonwoo, are you -”
“I want to.” His tone was firm now, but emotional beneath it. “For whatever this is — for the dreams, the paper, the… potential powers, I guess. And also…” A pause. “…because we need to talk. Properly. Not like this.”
Mingyu’s breath caught in his throat. Wonwoo continued, voice quiet but certain, “I’ll file an absence at work. I’ll get the soonest flight I can. I think it’s time I stop running from the things that keep finding me.”
The line fell silent for a long moment. And then Mingyu whispered, “Okay. Come to Tokyo.” … Come to me.
As soon as he said it, something in his chest eased — like a knot finally loosening.
Wonwoo let out a shaky breath. “I’ll see you soon, Mingyu.”
“Yeah,” Mingyu said, almost smiling despite the burning in his eyes. “See you soon.”
When the call ended, Mingyu stared at his phone for a long moment, breathing in air that suddenly felt too full. Inside, he could hear the others talking softly — waiting for him, trusting him, giving him space. But for a moment, he stayed alone on the balcony, letting himself feel all of it: the relief, the regret, the tenderness, the fear, the hope.
And the quiet ache of something that had never truly ended.
Two days passed before Wonwoo finally set foot in Tokyo.
He emerged from the arrivals gate with a backpack hanging loosely off his shoulder, his hood pulled up, and glasses framing eyes that looked both tired and alert. He scanned the crowd slowly, almost cautiously, until his gaze landed on three strangers — strangers who didn’t feel entirely like strangers. Something in the air tugged faintly, like an invisible thread pulling taut the moment he saw them.
Seungcheol was the first to step forward, lifting a hand in a confident but gentle wave. “Wonwoo?” Wonwoo nodded, offering a small bow. “Yes. Hi. You must be Seungcheol.”
“And I’m Soonyoung,” Soonyoung said, leaning in with a grin far too warm for someone who had just met him. “Welcome to Tokyo.”
Jihoon gave a curt but polite nod. “Jihoon. Nice to meet you.”
Wonwoo smiled back — soft, reserved, but sincere. “Thank you for coming. Really.”
“We wanted to make sure you wouldn’t feel awkward on your first day here,” Seungcheol said, taking one of Wonwoo’s heavier bags before he could protest. “Mingyu couldn’t come. He’s stuck at a shoot, but he kept texting us reminders to take care of you.”
Wonwoo’s cheeks flushed slightly. “Of course he did.”
The group laughed lightly, the tension melting in slow degrees. The ride back to the hotel was easy — easier than Wonwoo expected. Soonyoung kept the conversation alive with stories about his chaotic rehearsals. Jihoon threw in dry comments that made Wonwoo laugh unexpectedly hard. Seungcheol asked him thoughtful questions, the kind that made him feel seen without being interrogated.
When they finally reached the hotel, Wonwoo excused himself to take a short rest, promising to meet them in the lobby after freshening up. He disappeared to his room, and when he returned more than half an hour later — hair slightly damp, wearing a simple sweater and jeans — something subtle shifted among the three waiting for him.
It wasn’t that he was dressed up. But Wonwoo carried a quiet presence that drew attention like gravity. A gentleness that settled into the space around him, warm and unobtrusive, but impossible to ignore. The three couldn’t help but stare at him in awe.
“Ready?” Seungcheol asked, pushing off the lobby couch.
Wonwoo nodded. “Let’s go.”
They spent the afternoon wandering through Tokyo’s narrow streets, woven between towering buildings and glowing signboards. The city buzzed with life, but around the four of them, there was a bubble of ease, of new, tentative connection. They shared tempura, bowls of udon, and tiny plates of pickled vegetables brought out one after another. Soonyoung insisted that Wonwoo try everything. Jihoon attempted to hide his amusement each time Wonwoo’s reaction turned unexpectedly delighted. Seungcheol kept the conversation flowing, attentive in a way that made even quiet moments feel comfortable rather than strained.
By the time they stopped for coffee, Wonwoo felt like he’d slipped into a rhythm that had been waiting for him. They talked about work, interests, the strange dreams they all shared. When Mingyu inevitably came up, the atmosphere shifted — not uncomfortably, but with a new softness.
“So,” Soonyoung said with a twinkle in his eyes, leaning back in his chair. “Can we address the elephant in the room? You and Mingyu…?”
Wonwoo froze mid-sip. “Oh. We weren’t -”
“It’s okay,” Jihoon cut in gently. “He didn’t say anything bad.”
Seungcheol added, “Just that there was… something. But life got in the way.”
Wonwoo looked down at his hands, turning his cup slowly between his fingers. “Yeah… you could say that.”
The three didn’t pry. They let the silence settle naturally, not awkwardly. And Wonwoo found himself grateful, deeply grateful, for their gentleness.
Evening descended, and with it came a message from Mingyu:
Just wrapped. I’ll head to the hotel.
When he finally walked into the Seungcheol’s hotel room — hair slightly messy from the shoot, shoulders broad beneath a fitted jacket — he stopped in his tracks at the sight of Wonwoo waiting there.
Wonwoo looked up slowly as Mingyu swallowed. The air between them thickened.
Jihoon whispered, “We should go.”
Seungcheol placed a hand on Mingyu’s shoulder as he passed, silent encouragement etched into his touch. Soonyoung gave Wonwoo a not-so-subtle thumbs-up.
And then the two were alone.
Mingyu didn’t speak at first. He just stood in the doorway of the room, shoulders rising and falling, breath too shaky to hide. The dim light from the hallway drew a faint outline around him, as if he were trying to step out of a storm and into something gentler.
Wonwoo looked up from where he sat on the edge of Seungcheol’s bed. “Mingyu,” he said softly, almost like he’d been expecting him. “Come here.”
The moment Mingyu crossed the threshold, his composure cracked. “I’m sorry,” he said, voice thick. “I just… everything tonight — I couldn’t stop thinking about you. About us.”
Wonwoo’s expression softened, the kind that made time move slower. “What;s wrong?”
Mingyu sat beside him, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped tightly together as if they were the only things keeping him grounded. “I kept pretending I was fine. That I could handle it alone. But when you called… when I heard your voice…” He swallowed hard. “I realized I didn’t want to be strong by myself anymore.”
Hesitantly at first, Wonwoo reached out, gently cupping Mingyu’s cheek with his palm. “You don’t have to be,” he whispered. “Not with me.” Mingyu leaned into the touch, eyes closing for a moment like he was finally letting himself breathe. “I was scared,” he admitted. “Scared I’d push you away with everything I’m feeling. But you answered the call, and you went here. And that meant more than you know.”
Wonwoo’s thumb brushed across his cheek — slow, reassuring, deliberate. “Mingyu,” he murmured, “you never push me away. Even when you think you do.”
Mingyu opened his eyes, gaze glassy, vulnerable in a way he rarely allowed himself to be.
“I need you,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “I think… I’ve needed you for a long time.”
Wonwoo’s breath hitched, but he didn’t look away. Instead, he moved a little closer, knees touching Mingyu’s. “Then stop running from me.”
Something in Mingyu broke — or maybe it finally clicked into place. His hand found Wonwoo’s, fingers threading through like they belonged there.
“I’m not running anymore,” he said.
And the way he said it — steady, sure — felt like a promise.
Wonwoo leaned in, resting his forehead against Mingyu’s. Their breaths mingled in the small space between them, warm, uneven. Mingyu’s hand slid up to the back of Wonwoo’s neck, thumb stroking lightly as if memorizing the shape of him.
“Can I?” Mingyu asked, voice hushed.
Wonwoo nodded. When their lips met, the kiss was slow — not rushed, not desperate. It was the kind that spoke in quiet sentences, in confessions too tender to put into words. Mingyu kissed him like he was afraid to break something precious, savoring the closeness, the warmth, the absolute reality of Wonwoo in front of him.
Wonwoo’s fingers curled into the fabric of Mingyu’s shirt, pulling him closer with a soft exhale. The kiss deepened naturally, their breaths syncing, their touches growing more sure but still careful, still soft. Mingyu tilted his head, brushing his lips against Wonwoo’s again and again, each kiss a little fuller, a little braver.
Wonwoo’s hand traced the line of Mingyu’s jaw, then moved to his chest, feeling the rapid beat beneath his palm. “You’re shaking,” he whispered against Mingyu’s lips.
Mingyu let out a quiet laugh at that. “Because this feels… real,” he murmured.
Wonwoo kissed him again, slow and tender. “It is.”
Mingyu wrapped his arms fully around him then, pulling Wonwoo into his chest as they continued kissing — unhurried, wrapped in warmth and softness. Every touch felt like reassurance, every kiss like an answer to questions they had both been too afraid to ask.
It wasn’t rushed. It was two people finally letting themselves feel what they’d been holding back for far too long. And in that moment, nothing else mattered.
Meanwhile, in Soonyoung’s room where the three sat eating convenience store snacks and pretending to watch TV, the paper lay on the table beside them. It remained still until, abruptly, letters began to darken into existence — slowly at first, then with unmistakable clarity.
Chwe Hansol
The three exchanged glances, the weight of the name settling over them.
Jihoon sighed softly. “And here we go again.”
Soonyoung leaned back on his hands. “We should probably tell them tomorrow.”
Seungcheol nodded, staring at the newly appeared name. There was something in his expression — anticipation, unease, determination. “Yeah. Let tonight be theirs. Tomorrow… the story continues.”
And outside, Tokyo glowed beneath the night sky, unaware of the quiet unfolding of fate inside one hotel.
❀࿐ notes from the florist: fem! reader, not proofread, cursing, kissing, a small sprinkle of angst, i didn't intend for boochan's relationship to be like that at first but i'm so glad i did that, if i missed anything that should be here do tell me !
❀࿐ summary: 13 souls scattered around the mortal world, all with that empty feeling that a big part of their life was missing. They don't know when it started, but suddenly, they all noticed very mysterious patterns in their life. Until one of them, Seungcheol, woke up to a torn paper beside his pillow. Across realms, a girl locked up high in a tower is trying her best to wait, but is starting to lose hope.
❀࿐ word count: 5.4k
❀࿐ masterlist
Seungkwan arrived in Tokyo just as the city was waking up.
The airport lights were too bright for the hour, reflecting off polished floors and glass walls that made everything feel larger than it really was. Outside, the sky hovered in that uncertain shade between night and morning, pale and thin, as if dawn itself was still stretching. When Seungkwan finally stepped through the arrival gates, his hoodie slightly wrinkled and his bag hanging low on one shoulder, he looked tired in theory, but his eyes were sharp, alive, scanning the crowd with unmistakable anticipation.
It took him only a second to find them, to find him.
“Oh, there you are.”
The relief in his voice was immediate, almost unguarded. He waved, quickening his steps, and before anyone could react properly, Mingyu was already there, wrapping him in a hug that was so firm it was like it wasn’t their first time meeting.
“You look way too awake,” Mingyu said, laughing into his shoulder.
Seungkwan pulled back, grinning. “I slept on the plane. And I was nervous. That kind of energy doesn’t let you stay tired.”
Soonyoung was next, clapping Seungkwan on the back like he needed to confirm he was real. Jihoon greeted him more quietly, but his smile lingered longer than usual. Wonwoo nodded at him, eyes warm but thoughtful.
And then Seungkwan saw Vernon.
The way his expression softened was subtle, but unmistakable. He crossed the distance between them without hesitation, arms sliding around Vernon like it was muscle memory, like the weeks apart had only been a technicality.
“You again,” Seungkwan said softly.
Vernon laughed, a little breath caught in it. “It’s me again.”
They stayed like that for a moment longer than strictly necessary, and no one commented on it. Seungcheol noticed anyway, the ease, the closeness, the way Vernon’s hand stayed at Seungkwan’s back even after they pulled away. There was something settled there, something already shaped by time and shared work and understanding.
It stood out, especially now.
They left the airport together, the world slowly widening as Tokyo opened up around them. Morning crept in gradually, the city stirring rather than erupting. Seeing as they all have energy at the early morning, they dropped Seungkwan’s stuff at the hotel and went out again. Streets were quieter than expected, storefronts half-open, steam rising from food stalls as if the city itself was exhaling.
They walked without much direction, letting hunger decide where to stop. Breakfast blurred into something closer to brunch, plates and bowls spread across a small outdoor table, the air cool but comfortable. The conversation drifted easily, from Seungkwan’s flight, to Vernon’s recent projects, to nothing in particular at all.
And yet, beneath it all, something pulsed.
Seungcheol felt it most clearly when he stopped trying to ignore it.
The way Mingyu laughed made his chest feel unexpectedly light. Sitting beside Jihoon brought a quiet calm he hadn’t realized he needed. Soonyoung’s energy, usually overwhelming, felt stabilizing instead, like fire contained just enough to give heat without him burning. Even Wonwoo, quiet and observant, held his attention longer than usual, his presence oddly reassuring.
It didn’t make sense.
Attraction wasn’t supposed to work like this. Not fragmented. Not layered. Not directed at so many people at once without losing its meaning.
And yet it felt real.
Unsettlingly so.
He wasn’t the only one struggling with it. He saw it in the way Soonyoung’s attention flicked from person to person, brows knitting together like he was trying to solve an internal equation. Mingyu grew uncharacteristically quiet between bursts of laughter, gaze lingering in places it hadn’t before. Even Jihoon seemed distracted, fingers tapping absently against the table as if something unseen was tugging at him.
Then he noticed, Vernon and Seungkwan looked anchored. Not unaffected, but it was certain. Like whatever confusion existed around them had already been sorted through, shaped into something steadier.
By the time afternoon rolled in, they retreated to one of the hotel rooms, shutting out the city and letting the quiet settle. Shoes were discarded near the door. Someone adjusted the curtains just enough to let light spill in without being intrusive. Bottled drinks were passed around, condensation gathering on plastic as the room filled with shared presence.
It was Wonwoo who finally broke the silence.
“I think something’s happening to me,” he said, voice low but firm, as everyone turned toward him.
He spoke slowly, choosing his words with care. He described the dream first. The way the darkness didn’t threaten him, but welcomed him. How the shadows bent toward him instead of away. Then he talked about waking up somewhere unfamiliar, the confusion sharp and immediate, the realization that it wasn’t a dream at all.
Wonwoo didn’t say it right away.
He stared at the floor for a long moment, like the answer was still there, tangled between the tiles, refusing to come up. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter than before, rough around the edges.
“I couldn’t see my body,” he said. “At all.”
His fingers curled slightly in his lap, as if remembering the sensation. “No hands. No feet. No weight. But I knew I was there. I could think. I could notice things. I could feel the space around me, like I was… stitched into it.”
He let out a breath through his nose. “It didn’t feel like disappearing. It felt like becoming something else.”
The room had gone unnervingly still.
Jihoon’s shoulders stiffened almost imperceptibly, his mind racing ahead of the words. “You were in my room,” he said. Not a question. A statement. “That night, I felt something. Like the lights dimmed, but not visually. Like the air around me shifted- I don’t really know how to put it into words, but it felt strange.”
Wonwoo looked up at him, surprised, then nodded. “I didn’t mean to go anywhere. I swear. One second I was standing there, trying to figure out what was happening, and then,” His gaze slid, hesitant, toward Mingyu. “...then I wasn’t there anymore.”
Mingyu blinked.
“…You were in my room?”
“Briefly. You were showering, I think.”
Mingyu let out a sharp breath, staring at the ceiling like it might explain something. “Wow,” he said flatly. Then, after a beat, “You really picked the worst possible timing.”
Wonwoo huffed out a small laugh, shoulders loosening just a little, like he’d been holding them too tight for too long. The tension cracked, softening just enough that the room felt livable again.
Seungkwan, who’d been unusually quiet, shifted closer to Vernon. His knee bounced once before he stopped it, fingers twisting together as he gathered his thoughts.
“I think…” He paused, then started again. “I think I have something too.”
Everyone turned to him, immediately attentive.
“It’s not like what you guys described,” he said quickly, almost apologetic. “No disappearing. No elements. It’s… internal.” He touched his chest lightly. “Emotional.”
He took his time now, voice slowing. “Sometimes I know how someone’s feeling before they open their mouth. Not guesses, like I just know. Like it’s already settled in my body. And when someone lies…” His brow furrowed. “It feels wrong. Like something bends where it shouldn’t. And there are moments when people calm down around me. I don’t try. I don’t say anything special. They just kind of… settle.”
The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was thick, weighted, pressing in from all sides. Seungcheol felt it hit him square in the chest. He swallowed, the familiar ache tightening behind his eyes. “Then,” he said carefully, “it really isn’t just me.”
When he spoke about his own ability, he didn’t dramatize it. He talked about the way words sometimes latched on, how people listened too closely, obeyed too easily. How heavier commands left him drained, head pounding, chest tight like he’d run miles without stopping.
By the time he finished, it felt like they were all standing on the edge of something vast and unnamed. Soonyoung broke the quiet first, arms crossed but eyes bright with restless energy. “We can’t pretend this is a coincidence anymore,” he said. “My fire. It’s… It’s getting stronger, like it wants to be used. I think the same might happen to all of you.”
Mingyu nodded, jaw set. “If we don’t understand it, it’ll control us instead.”
“…Oh God. This sounds too cringe, but we should train.” Seungcheol said.
All of them chuckled at his words, but no one argued. They pushed the furniture aside, awkward and clumsy, bumping into each other, laughing softly when someone almost knocked over a lamp. Mingyu volunteered first, mostly because he couldn’t sit still anymore. He hovered his hands over the floor, brow furrowed, breathing unevenly as he tried to remember the sensation, the pull, the answering weight beneath his skin.
“Wait… Shouldn’t he practice his abilities on the ground? Like, not high up in a hotel bui-” Just as Jihoon was about to finish his sentence, they felt the floor slightly shake.
Mingyu’s eyes widened. “Okay,” he muttered. “Okay, that’s… that’s real.”
—
By the time they finally stopped, it felt like the day had quietly slipped past them without asking permission. The room bore the soft evidence of what they’d been doing, a lingering warmth in the air, the faint scent of smoke and dust, the sense that the space itself had been nudged out of its ordinary shape and hadn’t quite settled back yet. Curtains fluttered even though the windows were closed. Shadows pooled a little too thickly in the corners. Even the silence felt different, like it was listening.
They gathered themselves slowly. Mingyu dropped onto the floor with his back against the couch, legs stretched out, staring at his hands as if he half-expected the floor beneath him to crack again. Soonyoung paced once, restless energy still buzzing through him, then finally stilled when Seungkwan handed him a bottle of water. Wonwoo sat near the edge of the room, close to where the light faded, eyes distant, expression unreadable. Vernon and Jihoon, who both have no clues about their abilities yet, or even if they do have abilities, just watched the others with amusement, and maybe a tad bit concern.
No one spoke right away. It wasn’t awkward. It was careful. Like they all understood that whatever they said next would matter more than small talk ever could. Seungcheol stood near the table, fingers resting against its edge, grounding himself in the solidness of it. His chest felt tight, not painfully so, but full. Crowded. Like there were too many things pressing up against his ribs all at once.
“I had a dream,” he said. His voice wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. Everyone looked up.
Not startled, but attentive, instinctively so, as if some deeper part of them had already been waiting for those words.
“I didn’t bring it up earlier,” Seungcheol continued after a beat. “I wasn’t sure if it was… relevant. Or if it was just another fragment trying to pretend it was more important than it actually was.”
He exhaled slowly, eyes drifting away from the room and toward something only he could see. “But it’s been sitting with me. Ever since it happened.”
“I was a kid again.” The words hang there, unexpected but not unbelievable. Somehow, they make sense. “I was in the palace gardens,” he says. “And I didn’t question it. That’s the strange part. I didn’t wonder how I got there, or why I knew the place so well. It just felt… familiar. Like a memory I’d always had.”
He shifts his weight, fingers curling slightly against the edge of the table. “It smelled like early spring. Cold earth. Fresh leaves. That kind of air that feels clean when you breathe it in, like it’s undoing something heavy inside you.”
His gaze drops, unfocused. “And… I wasn’t alone.” The pause stretches, deliberate.
“There was a girl,” Seungcheol says quietly. “Small. But it seemed like we were both the same age.”
He lets out a faint, incredulous breath. “And we were holding hands.” Something in his chest tightens as he says it aloud, as if naming it makes it more real, or perhaps, more dangerous.
“It was me,” he goes on. “I knew that instinctively. I was still me. Just… smaller. And I was walking a little ahead of her, like I was guiding her somewhere.” His lips curve almost imperceptibly. “She told me I was walking too fast.”
A few of them smile without meaning to. “I remember slowing down immediately,” Seungcheol says. “Not because I thought about it. Just because the idea of leaving her behind felt wrong.”
He lifts his head slightly. “She asked where we were going. I told her it was the best part of the garden. That she hadn’t seen it yet.”
“She said she’d been sad that day.” Seungcheol’s throat tightens. “She asked me if I could fix sadness.” The room feels smaller somehow, like the memory itself is taking up space.
“I told her I could try,” he says. “And I meant it. I didn’t think it was a big promise. It just felt… obvious. Like that was my job.” His fingers flex. “I led her to this clearing. Trees arching overhead, leaves filtering sunlight into soft patches on the ground. There was a stream nearby. I could hear it even before I saw it.”
He pauses, then his eyes lift, faintly bright.
“And there were fireflies… Dozens of them,” Seungcheol says. “Floating in the air. Glowing. In the middle of the day.” He shakes his head slightly, a breath of wonder still clinging to the memory. “She said they weren’t supposed to be there yet. That it was too early.”
A quiet smile touches his mouth. “I told her maybe they came anyway. Maybe for her.” His voice drops. “I don’t know why I said that. I didn’t understand what I meant. But it felt true.”
He looks down at his hands. “I cupped one of them gently. And when I opened my palms…” He gestures faintly, fingers parting. “It flew straight to her.”
The image settles into the room, vivid and warm, like everyone can see it.
“She laughed,” Seungcheol says. “And the fireflies got brighter. Like they were responding to her happiness.” His chest tightens again, the sensation unmistakable even now. “I remember watching her. Feeling… relieved. Proud. Like I’d done what I was supposed to do.”
A soft, almost disbelieving exhale. “I told her I could fix sadness.”
“She stepped closer to me,” he continues, voice barely above a murmur. “Looked up at me like she believed me completely.”
His jaw tightens. “She said she’d stay with me forever.”
No one moves.
“I didn’t hesitate,” Seungcheol says. “I didn’t laugh it off or tell her it wasn’t possible. I just said okay.” His eyes lift to meet theirs, steady but vulnerable. “Like it was the simplest promise in the world.”
The fireflies swirl in his memory, bright and weightless. “When I woke up,” he says, “I didn’t feel confused. I didn’t feel shaken.”
He presses a hand briefly to his chest. “I felt… homesick.”
The word lingers, aching.
“I don’t know who she is,” Seungcheol admits. “But that dream didn’t feel symbolic. It didn’t feel like my mind making things up.” He looks at each of them in turn. “It felt like something that already happened. Like something the universe refused to let go of.”
After a few seconds of silence, Jihoon’s brows drew together slightly. “Did you recognize her?”
Seungcheol shook his head. “No. But it felt like I should have.”
That was the part that unsettled him the most. The familiarity without context. The certainty without explanation.
For a moment, the only sound was the city outside, distant traffic, the faint echo of life continuing on.
And then, the paper reacted.
At first, it was subtle, a soft glow seeping into the fibers like light through thin skin. Then it brightened, warmth spreading outward in gentle waves, illuminating the table and their faces in pale gold.
Everyone moved at once.
Chairs scraped back. Someone sucked in a sharp breath as they all anticipated the addition of a new name.
Lee Chan.
The light faded just as smoothly as it had appeared, leaving the name behind.
Silence crashed down harder this time.
Seungkwan hadn’t moved. His eyes were locked onto the paper, wide and disbelieving, his mouth parted slightly like he’d forgotten how to close it.
“…You’ve got to be kidding me,” he whispered.
Seungcheol turned toward him immediately. “You know him.” It wasn’t a question.
He rubbed a hand over his face, a laugh escaping him that sounded more breathless than amused. “We grew up together. Became friends ever since middle school. Same neighborhood. Same cracked sidewalks. Same corner store we’d hang out in after school.”
Vernon glanced at him, surprised. “You never mentioned him before.”
“I didn’t think…” Seungkwan’s voice faltered, then steadied. “I didn’t think he’d ever come back into my life like this.”
Seungkwan’s fingers drummed nervously against the table, the hotel room quiet except for the faint hum of the city outside. He drew in a slow breath, as if bracing himself for the memory he was about to open. The others watched quietly, sensing the depth of what he was about to reveal.
“Lee Chan…” Seungkwan began, voice low and almost fragile. “We weren’t just close friends. Not just collaborators. He was… my anchor. The person who made me feel understood even when nothing else did. He knew me better than anyone, and I knew him. We shared dreams, projects, and… our lives, in a way.” He paused, swallowing hard. “But then… there was this one night, and I can’t…”
He looked down at his hands, tracing invisible lines along his palms. “Chan had been going through a lot even before that night. His parents… they weren’t always the most supportive. And his older brother, who he relied on… was sick, couldn’t be there. He was already dealing with a storm inside himself, pressures I couldn’t even fully see at the time. And he… he was counting on me.”
A bitter laugh escaped him, almost swallowed by the quiet. “I promised him I would be there. I promised I wouldn’t let him face that night alone. He was in a competition, something that mattered to him more than anything, and he needed me. He needed me to show up, to stand by his side, to help him through it. But…” His voice faltered, choked by guilt. “I didn’t. I made the choice to do something else, something I thought was important for my own growth, something I thought would help him too in the long run. I thought I was doing the right thing.”
Seungkwan’s chest tightened, memories crashing over him in sharp waves. “I left him alone. I left him when he needed me most. And that night… that night, he sent me a message. Three simple words, but they hit me harder than anything ever could: ‘I trusted you.’ Three words, and everything we had… everything we built… felt like it shattered.”
He ran a hand over his face, breathing shallow and quick. “I tried to explain afterward. I tried to tell him why I made that choice, why I went with something else, how much I never wanted to abandon him. But my words didn’t reach him. They weren’t enough to bridge the gap I created, the pain I caused.”
Seungkwan’s eyes glistened as he continued. “I kept checking, hoping he’d answer, hoping he’d forgive me, but the silence stretched on. Days turned into weeks, weeks into months, months into years. Every time I thought about reaching out, I remembered the look on his face, the hurt that I caused. And I couldn’t… I couldn’t face it. I didn’t know if I deserved to be forgiven, or even to see him again.”
He exhaled slowly, trying to release the weight of guilt that had been pressing on him for years. “It wasn’t just an argument. It wasn’t just a fight. I broke his trust. And all I could do was wait… and carry this weight with me, every day. Until now.”
Seungcheol leaned forward, voice gentle but steady. “And now you have a chance to make things right. To face him, to tell him everything. And if it takes time, you wait. Because that bond… that trust… it’s worth every second of effort.”
—
It took them a while, but eventually, they managed to track Chan down. His social media presence was subtle, just enough to give hints of his life as a freelance dancer, performing in big and small shows. He wasn’t the type to post everything, but enough to confirm that he was out there, still moving to the rhythm of the world he loved.
The group crowded around Soonyoung as he hovered over the phone. There was a quiet understanding among them: Seungkwan shouldn’t be the one to reach out first. His history with Chan ran deep, tangled with emotions that could make a simple conversation complicated. They needed someone neutral, someone who could approach without triggering old wounds. Soonyoung, with his reputation in the dance community, seemed like the perfect bridge.
He typed carefully, the words flowing from his fingertips as if choreographing a small, delicate routine. “Hi, Chan! I know this is out of the blue, but I need to talk to you about something important. Can we chat?” He paused before sending, double-checking the phrasing to make it sound casual, approachable. Then he hit send, and the group waited in that stretched-out silence that seemed to make every second last longer than it should.
By the next morning, Chan had replied. The conversation began smoothly, polite and measured, the way people speak when meeting someone new yet familiar. Chan confirmed that he had been having dreams, vivid, strange, impossible dreams that stayed with him long after waking. And then, in a quiet, almost shy revelation, he admitted he had abilities too. Lightning, he said. A flicker of electricity seemed to dance just beneath his words, thrilling and dangerous, just like him.
For a while, the messages flowed like gentle waves, easy and unguarded. Then Soonyoung hesitated, fingers hovering over the keyboard. Finally, he typed, careful but casual.
“Also… there’s someone else in the group,” he wrote. “Seungkwan. Maybe you’ve met him before?”
There was a pause, long enough to make the waiting man fidget quietly. Then Chan’s reply came, slower than before.
“I know him,” he admitted, the words short, clipped. “Why is he involved?”
Soonyoung took a breath and typed again. “It’s not about anything bad. He’s part of this because… well, because you’re all connected now. Dreams, abilities, he’s in the same situation. He’s someone we trust.”
Chan’s fingers paused over the keyboard. “I see,” he finally replied, almost a whisper in text form. “I didn’t expect this. It feels weird.”
“I get it,” Soonyoung typed, careful not to push. “I know you two have history. No one’s trying to… stir anything up. We just want everyone together. That’s all.”
Chan’s response came after a moment, hesitant but softening. “It’s not that I’m angry. I just didn’t know how to feel. It’s strange seeing him mentioned like this. After everything.”
“So, you’re nervous?” Soonyoung asked, adding a touch of humor to ease the tension.
Chan’s reply carried a tiny smirk, even through text. “Maybe. A little.”
“Hey,” Soonyoung typed gently, “it’s okay. Just… trust me. We’re not here to make things worse. We just want you all safe and together. That’s it.”
Chan paused, then sent one last message. “Okay. I’ll… I’ll think about it. I just need a little time.”
Soonyoung lets out a quiet breath in relief. It wasn’t perfect, and it wasn’t resolved, but it was a start. And sometimes, a start was all that mattered.
—
After his last message — I’ll think about it — the chat went quiet. No typing bubbles. No polite follow-ups. Just silence stretching thin across the rest of the day, then the night, then the morning after. Soonyoung didn’t push. None of them did. There are some things you don’t chase, you just wait to see if they’d come to you on their own.
Two days later, a new message appeared.
I booked a flight. I’ll be there tomorrow.
It was short. No explanation. No emotions attached. But it was enough to make the room shift, like the air itself had taken a cautious step forward. Seungkwan read the message twice before he reacted. Then a third time. His fingers curled into the sleeve of his hoodie, knuckles whitening slightly, before he forced himself to breathe. He didn’t smile. He didn’t look relieved. If anything, his expression tightened, as if something long-buried had been stirred awake, stretching sorely after years of sleep.
“So,” Mingyu said gently, breaking the silence. “He’s coming.”
Seungkwan nodded once. “Yeah.” And then, quieter, almost to himself “He really is.”
—
Chan arrived the evening of the following day.
The airport was busy, bright with artificial light and the low murmur of travelers coming and going, but when he walked through the gates, it felt like everything else faded just a little. He looked older than the last time Seungkwan had seen him—not in a dramatic way, just in the subtle lines of someone who had learned how to carry things alone. His shoulders were broader. His hair longer. His expression guarded, like he was bracing himself for impact even as he stepped forward.
Soonyoung spotted him first, waving a little too enthusiastically. Mingyu followed, offering a polite smile. Seungcheol nodded in greeting. Vernon lifted a hand in a small, awkward wave.
Seungkwan stayed where he was.
Chan’s eyes found him anyway.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Then Chan bowed slightly, habitually rather than intentionally, and said, “Hi.”
Seungkwan swallowed. “Hi.”
It wasn’t angry. It wasn’t cold. It was… careful. Like both of them were standing at the edge of something that could crack open if they leaned too hard.
They didn’t talk much on the ride back. Chan answered questions politely. He laughed once at something Mingyu said, and listened more than he spoke. Seungkwan stayed quiet, hands folded in his lap, eyes fixed on the passing lights outside the window. He felt sixteen again in the worst possible way — small, unsure, carrying a promise he hadn’t been able to keep.
—
Later that night, after everyone had settled in, Chan knocked on Seungkwan’s door. It was soft, almost hesitant. Seungkwan froze when he heard it. He stared at the door for a long moment, heart pounding, before forcing himself to stand. When he opened it, Chan was there, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket, shoulders slightly hunched.
“Can we… talk?” Chan asked.
Seungkwan stepped aside immediately. “Yeah. Of course.”
The door closed behind them with a quiet click. For a while, they just stood there. Then Chan exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “I didn’t know if you’d want this,” he admitted. “But I couldn’t sleep. And I figured… if I didn’t do this now, I’d just keep putting it off.”
Seungkwan nodded. “I’m glad you came.”
Chan laughed softly, humorless. “You always say the right things.”
“That’s not-” Seungkwan stopped himself, then tried again. “I mean it.”
Silence settled between them, thick and familiar.
Finally, Chan spoke. “I was really messed up back then.”
Seungkwan’s chest tightened.
“My parents were fighting constantly,” Chan continued, voice low. “My brother was sick. I was training nonstop, barely sleeping. And you were the one thing I thought was stable. The one thing I thought I could count on.”
Seungkwan’s hands curled into fists. “I know…”
“You promised,” he said, voice low, steady in a way that made it hurt more. “You said you’d be there.”
Seungkwan didn’t deny it. He nodded slowly, eyes fixed on his hands. “I know.”
There was a pause. Chan’s fingers curled into the fabric of his sleeves. “So why weren’t you?” he asked. “I don’t need excuses. I just want to know what was important enough to make you choose something else.”
Seungkwan drew in a long breath, the kind that felt like it scraped his lungs on the way down. “I got accepted into a trainee program,” he said quietly. “Not just classes. A full program. They only took a handful of people. Vocal training, performance, networking, everything.”
Chan’s expression stilled.
“It was out of town,” Seungkwan continued. “Far enough that if I said yes, I had to leave immediately. No delays. No rescheduling. They told me straight up, if I didn’t take it then, I’d lose the slot.”
The silence thickened. “And that was the same day,” Chan said slowly. “The recital.”
“Yes.”
The word felt heavy in Seungkwan’s mouth.
“I stood there for hours,” he went on. “I kept checking the time. I kept thinking I could maybe make both work, but the schedules overlapped completely. If I went to you, I’d miss the audition confirmation and the orientation. If I went there…”
“You’d miss me,” Chan finished.
Seungkwan’s throat tightened. “I told myself it was just one night,” he said. “I thought, this could change my whole future. I thought if I worked hard enough, if I became successful enough, I could come back and say, Look. I did this. I didn’t waste it. It was worth it.”
He finally looked up then, eyes glassy. “I even convinced myself it would help you too,” he admitted. “That one day, I could support you. Open doors for you. Be someone you could lean on.”
Chan let out a quiet, humorless laugh. “So you chose a future version of me over the one standing there.”
Seungkwan flinched. “I chose wrong,” he said immediately. “I see that now.”
Chan stood, pacing once, then stopping near the window. His reflection looked unfamiliar, sharper around the edges.
“That recital,” he said softly, “wasn’t just a performance. It was the first time my dad said he’d come see me dance. He didn’t. My brother was sick. I was already falling apart. And you were the one person I was sure would be there.”
Seungkwan’s breath hitched.
“I waited,” Chan said. “Even after it started. I kept checking the door.”
“I’m sorry,” Seungkwan whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
“I’m not angry,” Chan said, turning back to him. “That’s the worst part. I was just… embarrassed. I felt stupid for believing I mattered more than an opportunity.”
Seungkwan stood too, closing the distance between them. “You mattered more than anything,” he said. “I just didn’t understand yet that choosing growth doesn’t mean abandoning the people who love you.”
The words hung between them, fragile but honest. “I didn’t reached out because I was ashamed,” Seungkwan continued. “Every time I thought about reaching out, I remembered that I chose something else. And I didn’t know how to face you after that. When I heard weeks later that you were moving out, I felt guilty — God, I felt so guilty.”
Chan exhaled slowly, eyes lowering. “I thought you forgot me,” he said.
“I never did,” Seungkwan replied. “I just didn’t know how to live with what I did.”
Chan sighed. Then, with a low voice, “I never… stopped thinking about you either.”
The space between them felt charged, fragile. Seungkwan stepped closer without realizing it, but Chan didn’t move away. Their foreheads touched first, barely. A breath shared. A pause that asked is this okay? without saying it out loud.
Then, without further ado, Chan leaned in.
It was slow. Careful. Like both of them were afraid of breaking something precious. Seungkwan’s hands found the front of Chan’s jacket, gripping tight, as if grounding himself in something real. Chan’s thumb brushed gently along Seungkwan’s jaw, reverent, like he was relearning something he’d never truly forgotten.
They pulled back only when breathing became necessary.
“This doesn’t fix everything,” Chan murmured between his breaths.
“But… it’s a start?” Seungkwan replied.
Chan nodded, eyes shining. “Yeah. It is.”
Meanwhile, across that hotel room, Jihoon leaned on the sofa of his room, papers and a pen scattered in front of him on the table as he rested his eyes to try and rack his artistic brain to generate more flowery lyrics, unavoidingly falling asleep. He completely missed the way the mysterious paper in front of him glowed once again, carving out dark letters that started the formation of yet another name.
❀࿐ notes from the florist: fem! reader, mc isn't here again, cursing, there are feelings evolving (and feelings that already evolved?), everyone is confused, uhm i think there's not much warnings here, if i missed anything that should be here do tell me !
❀࿐ summary: 13 souls scattered around the mortal world, all with that empty feeling that a big part of their life was missing. They don't know when it started, but suddenly, they all noticed very mysterious patterns in their life. Until one of them, Seungcheol, woke up to a torn paper beside his pillow. Across realms, a girl locked up high in a tower is trying her best to wait, but is starting to lose hope.
❀࿐ word count: 4k
❀࿐ masterlist
Seungcheol stared at the paper as if it might vanish if he blinked too hard. It didn’t, and he doesn’t know if that’s fortunately or not.
It just lies there beside his pillow, the edges frayed, handwriting so delicate, the words sinking into him slowly.
His heart had jumped when he first saw it — a genuine spike of fear shooting up his spine — but after the initial panic, something almost embarrassingly calm settled in him. It was like his heart decided on its own that this is fine. That this is normal. He isn’t sure if that is comforting or terrifying.
He flips the paper over and over and over again. The list looks like a tired author had started writing but then gave up halfway. Everything is smudged. The ink is dragged out, the letters are either missing or half-erased, except for one line that was inexplicably clear.
Lee Jihoon
No other name was readable. Just that one.
Seungcheol exhales, his fingers tightening slightly around the paper. He can’t comprehend everything that has happened over the last 10 hours and every time he forms a question, another one pops up.
Who is this Lee Jihoon? Who wrote this paper? Why is this beside my pillow? Why is their handwriting so good? Why did a scary figure pretending to be Hyungwon tell me to find them? Who are “they”? Is Hyungwon even real? Am I even real?
His prefrontal cortex tried. It really did.
This is insane, it said. I have work. I have deadlines. If I disappear for days, I’ll get fired. I need my job. I need my paycheck. I’m not some main character in a fantasy manhwa doing a quest run-
But there was a big, deeper part of him that refused to listen. He was going to find this Lee Jihoon. Even if he didn’t fully understand why. Even if, for some inexplicable reason, the name alone made something in his chest shift.
Finding Jihoon, ironically, was not as impossible as he expected. A quick search online told him enough: music producer, composer, works under a big entertainment label. There weren’t much photos of him online, only those from a few award shows. Seungcheol can tell that he must love his job with how he’s always holding a trophy in every picture. Seungcheol can apparently also tell that this guy’s really cute as he stares at the images and feels his heart skips a bea- Wait, what? That is besides the point, we’re not doing this today.
Anyway, that should’ve been the end of it — message him, meet up, talk this out.
Except Jihoon didn’t respond.
Not to the email, not to the DM, not to the follow-up DM when Seungcheol tried to rewrite it to sound less like a scammer. He considered messaging again, but he’s thankful that he still has enough dignity to stop him. Which meant he needed another way.
After completing another hellish Monday at work, Seungcheol tries to rack his brain to think of another solution right as he gets home. Thankfully it worked as that’s when another memory gradually resurfaces. Months ago, during one of their Thank God It’s Friday nights out, Hyungwon had mentioned a friend. It was offhand, a background detail in a story about rehearsal, probably something he shared while shoveling food into his mouth. Something about a performance director working in the exact same label as Jihoon.
Soonyoung.
They’d met only once, a chaotic, too-bright dinner after one of Seungcheol’s overtime shifts. He remembered being exhausted, practically sleepwalking beside Hyungwon, who insisted he “needed real food before he died.” Soonyoung had joined them midway, bursting into the restaurant like a highly catnipped cat, or well, a tiger, apparently. Seungcheol remembered thinking, Oh. This is what raw energy looks like when it grows legs.
Soonyoung was loud, yes. Like really, really loud. But he was also warm, genuine, and very, very passionate about the things he loves. Seungcheol couldn’t keep up, but he didn’t hate it. No, in fact, it made him like him more. Honestly, how could he hate it when, for some reason, all his heart felt was giddy and warm as Soonyoung spent a full five minutes explaining why the 30-degree angle of a hand in a 0.5-second dance step was “emotionally crucial.” He’d chalked the warmth up to exhaustion, but really… he wasn’t so sure. Talking to Soonyoung felt oddly easy. Natural. As if he’d known him far longer than one chaotic dinner.
And then he’d said, grinning through a mouthful of noodles, “If you ever need anything related to the industry, just hit me up! I basically live at the company anyway.”
Back then, Seungcheol had laughed, because why would he ever need anything “related to the industry”? And now, he clung to that line like it was a divine intervention.
So he opened his phone.
Found the chat.
Typed. Deleted. Typed again.
And sent the message before he could lose his courage.
Barely 3 minutes later, the reply came in with a: “Hyungwon told me ur not weird so okay, what do u need??”
There are so many questions he wanted to ask about that sentence, but there is no time.
On the afternoon of the next day, Seungcheol finds himself power-walking across the city, clutching his coat against the cold while silently negotiating with the universe. The wind is sharp and every step he takes feels like he’s venturing deeper and deeper into something that he wasn’t ready for.
He spotted Soonyoung immediately in front of the company building. Well, rather, Soonyoung spotted him, waving both arms as if he was signaling a ship.
“Hey! Wow, yeah, you look stressed. Are you stressed? You definitely look stressed.”
“I’m fine,” Seungcheol lied in the flattest tone possible.
“Great! So, uhm, Lee Jihoon, yeah?” Soonyoung leans closer. Something about the proximity made the back of Seungcheol’s neck warm. “In all our years of being friends, I haven’t seen anyone look for Jihoon outside of work relations. This is a first. I’m kind of honored to witness it.”
“…That might be the worst reassurance I’ve ever heard.”
“He’s not scary. Just… uh, intense. Music goblin energy.” What is that even supposed to mean? Then after a beat, “Okay, maybe a little scary. But don’t worry! You’ll be fine.”
Before Seungcheol could back out, Soonyoung had already grabbed his hand and guided — no, smuggled him into the building. He moved with the confidence of someone who had illegally snuck many people into many places before.
“So, uhm… If I may ask, why are you looking for him… urgently? Do you like him?” That definitely caught Seungcheol off guard as he choked on his own saliva, “U-uhm, nothing of that sort… I think”
“Oh, alright, cool! Anyway, I asked him yesterday about his schedule today. Right now, he should be done with a meeting and is probably all locked up in his studio again.”
Seungcheol didn’t miss the little softer shift in Soonyoung’s voice when he mentioned Jihoon.
They finally stopped after navigating a maze of hallways and elevators and a strict set of rules (“Don’t look suspicious. If someone asks, we’re doing a ‘quick evaluation,’ whatever that means.”) Soonyoung knocked on a door, where there was a sign that said Universe Factory.
“Jihoon! Are you busy? Please say no. Someone’s ‘urgently’ looking for you!”
A muffled, irritated, “no.”
Soonyoung grinned, whispered “He’s always lying,” and opened the door anyway. There was a fondness there too—a fondness that didn’t really match the exasperation in his words.
The first thing that Seungcheol sees is the sea of stars projection illuminating the whole room. The room has a couch with some pillows on it, a coffee table, and some chairs. The rest of the space was filled out with a bunch of instruments and musical extravaganzas that he can’t exactly tell what their purposes are. And then his eyes dropped to the man himself.
Lee Jihoon looked exactly like the photos. Or maybe more tired and significantly more done in life. He was surrounded by a computer, a music sheet, an empty ramen cup, and what looked like three unfinished thoughts scattered across his desk. He glanced up, eyes immediately going to Soonyoung first, a soft gaze flickering in his expression for half a second before he looked towards the stranger in his studio. “... Who are you?”
Seungcheol instinctively straightened, suddenly aware he was standing in the lair of someone else. Someone who probably had better things to do than listen to a story that sounded like a conspiracy theory. Still, he managed to force out the only words that popped up in his head. “Hi. I know this might sound strange, but, have you… been having dreams?”
That got Jihoon’s attention more than anything else could have. His gaze sharpened, shoulders stilling like an animal sensing a shift in the air. “…Dreams,” he repeated, carefully blank. “Don’t everyone have dreams?” he mumbled, eyes questioning Seungcheol.
“Not normal ones,” Seungcheol said. “Dreams that feel… too real. The kind that stay with you when you wake up. Dreams with only the voices of children. Dreams that have… things you shouldn’t know.”
Jihoon inhaled slowly, almost imperceptibly. “How do you know that?” he asks after staring at the other for a few seconds.
Before the weight of that could settle, Soonyoung—who had been idly picking at the sleeve of his hoodie, leaning on the wall—jerked upright. “Hold on,” he said, staring between them. “You guys have those dreams too??”
Seungcheol spun toward him. “Wait. You have them as well?”
“Yeah!” Soonyoung replied, baffled. “I just thought my subconscious was being dramatic again. You know. Artist problems.”
Jihoon stared at his friend for a while, squinting his eyes, “Why don’t I know this?” he murmurs, as if he didn’t want anyone to hear, but Soonyoung did. “Well, you didn’t ask. And why am I supposed to spread that I’ve been having the same dreams for years now? Besides, you didn’t say anything as well.”
While the two were bickering, Seungcheol pulled out a paper from his pocket. The list. He hadn’t looked at it since earlier—not with the same clarity he saw it now as he flattened it against Jihoon’s desk. The brown paper crackled softly, like something ancient waking up again. His breath caught as the other two moved closer to him to see what it was. Their shoulders brushed. And something in him steadied, quiet but certain. Like the three of them fit together in a way he didn’t yet understand.
“What in the world…?” he hears Jihoon mumble.
Their breaths were caught up as they witness how the lines were forming on the paper, like the letters were writing themselves as if someone from Hogwarts had waved their wand and enchanted a spell on the paper. What was only one name written had now been multiplied by 3.
Choi Seungcheol
Lee Jihoon
Kwon Soonyoung
“Wait, wait… WAIT,” Soonyoung said, pointing aggressively at his name. “Why am I there? Why are you there?? Why is he there?? What is this, a ghost roll call?!” Jihoon wasn’t any calmer. He was staring at the page like it had personally insulted his mixing skills.
“Explain,” he said, voice low. “All of it. Now.”
That’s how they ended up sitting in the studio. Jihoon in his battered office chair, Soonyoung sprawled on the couch with the posture of a man who didn’t fully understand boundaries, and Seungcheol perched on the edge of a stool like someone expecting the floor to give way beneath him.
He started from the beginning. He told them about the dreams that had haunted him for years—not nightmares, not fairytales, but maybe something in-between. Vague children running through corridors he didn’t recognize. A world that flickered like a half-forgotten memory.
He explained how, over time, things in his waking life began shifting. People obeying his accidental commands. Strangers reacting to him as if he holds authority that he didn’t ask for. Instructions slipping out of his mouth and embedding themselves into someone else’s mind.
He told them about the dream of the burning castle—the way the heat licked at his skin, the sound of collapsing stone and screams, the panic that didn’t feel like fear… but grief. And then he went to the other dream. The pastry shop. Someone wearing his friend’s skin like a disguise, speaking to him in riddles, urging him toward something, or someone, that he didn’t understand. They had to briefly calm Soonyoung down as he shrieks “Hyungwon isn’t real?!” after hearing about it.
And then waking up to the paper beside his pillow.
When he finally fell silent, it felt like the room itself was holding its breath. Jihoon leaned back, brow furrowed, processing everything with so much intensity. Seungcheol couldn’t help noticing how pretty Jihoon looked when concentrating. He immediately hated himself for the thought. Now was not the time. Soonyoung looked overwhelmed for exactly two seconds before curiosity overtook him again.
“That’s… a lot,” he says. “So you’re saying your voice has, like, Jedi powers? Mind tricks?”
“I don’t want it,” Seungcheol mutters. “It just happens.”
“So,” he looks at both of them. “Have either of you experienced anything like that? Not dreams—something physical. Weird but real.”
Jihoon shakes his head immediately. “No. Just the dreams.”
Then, Soonyoung lifts his hand, “I mean… I don’t know about telling people what to do with your voice,” he said, “but I can do this.”
A spark flicks above his palm. Small at first, then it blooms into a soft flame that danced just above his skin. Not burning him. Not even touching him. It was obeying him.
The firelight reflected in Jihoon’s wide eyes as Seungcheol’s mouth fell open. Soonyoung looks down at the flame like it was an old friend. “It started happening recently. Freaked me out once. Well, more than once actually. Then it looked cool, so I practiced until I figured it out.” The flame curled around his fingers like it was alive. Jihoon watches him with this soft, almost helpless expression—gone in an instant when Soonyoung looked up again. Seungcheol didn’t miss that though. Oh. Oh.
Interesting.
The flame eventually dims, folding back into Soonyoung’s palm as if it was bowing before it disappears. The three of them stares at his now-normal hand, the air still warm with the faint smell of something electric. For a moment, nobody speaks.
Then, “…I feel like I should clap,” Seungcheol mutters. Soonyoung beams. “Right?! It’s cool, right?”
Jihoon smacks the back of his head. “You could’ve burned the couch, idiot.”
“You say that like you don’t sit in here eating ramen with paper towels as coasters,”
Jihoon glares. Soonyoung glares back. Seungcheol watches the exchange, faintly dazed. Not by the bickering, but by the strangely gentle way Jihoon’s irritation softened the longer he looked at Soonyoung. And how Soonyoung’s smile, despite pretending to be offended, always grew a little brighter when Jihoon spoke to him.
Okaaay. Really interesting.
He pushes that thought aside quickly, though. Because now Jihoon turns back to him with sharp, evaluative eyes—eyes that somehow made Seungcheol straighten his posture like he was being graded.
“So,” Jihoon said slowly. “We’re connected… somehow.”
“I guess so,” he replies. His chest tightens with that same sinking feeling he kept getting around both of them. Like a string tugging him toward something he didn’t know yet, but instinctively wanted.
Soonyoung hums thoughtfully, crossing his arms. “Well, three of us are having the same dreams. Two of us have weird powers. And now our names magically show up on some… supernatural group chat list. So, what now?”
That was the question Seungcheol had been avoiding. He looks at them and something inside him clicked. “We keep going,” he said. “We find whoever else is supposed to be on this list.”
Neither of them argued.
Jihoon leans back in his chair, fingers tapping restlessly against the armrest—a habit that Seungcheol realizes feels familiar, almost comforting, even though they'd just met. Soonyoung had flopped back onto the couch, legs spread, head tossed over the armrest as if he’d claimed the entire studio as his personal throne. He looks oddly content for someone whose name was magically written on a cursed piece of paper ten minutes ago.
Seungcheol tried to shake off the weird thoughts stirring inside him. He really did. But Jihoon’s quiet presence felt like gravity. And Soonyoung’s laugh made his chest warm too fast. And Seungcheol wasn’t stupid—he noticed the way Jihoon kept glancing at Soonyoung when he thought no one was looking.
If this isn’t a cosmic disaster waiting to unfold, he doesn’t know what it is.
Still, the room slowly drifts into something almost calm. Comfortable. A strange, unspoken bond weaving between them while they sat in the soft glow brought upon by the faux stars.
Jihoon suddenly sits up straight. “Wait,” he said, frowning at the paper still lying open on the table. “Earlier, you said other names were smudged, right?”
“Yeah,” Seungcheol answers cautiously.
Jihoon leans closer, squinting. “Then why does this part,” he points at a section under Soonyoung’s name, “look darker now?”
Soonyoung shoots up from the couch, nearly tripping over his own foot. “Is someone else joining the group chat?? Did they pay the membership fee?!”
The paper trembles slightly as the ink shifts like something is awakening. A new line began emerging. Slowly, the letters formed.
Kim Mingyu
Seungcheol’s breath stalled in his lungs. “Kim Mingyu?”
Soonyoung blinks. “Huh. I know him.” Seungcheol turns to him sharply. “You know him?”
“Sort of,” he says, scratching his cheek. “He’s a fashion model. Tall, pretty, the type stylists cry over because he can wear anything without trying. We worked together once. I choreographed for a fashion film he modeled in.” He swipes through his phone until he finds a clip. “This shoot.”
Jihoon squints at the video. “Wow, he’s tall.”
“That’s your takeaway?” Soonyoung sighs. “Well true, he’s tall. And stupidly photogenic. Look at his face, bro. That’s genetic cheating.”
“But do you have his number?”
“…No. I didn’t save it. The whole thing was rushed. Most communication went through the director.”
“So how do we reach him?” Jihoon asks, crossing his arms. Soonyoung lifted his phone like a man accepting his fate. “What do you think? I’m sliding into his DMs like a civilized stalker.”
He opens Instagram, types a message, deletes it, types another one, and deletes that too.
“Why are you nervous?” Jihoon asks flatly. “Because he has seventeen million followers, Jihoon. He’s not going to see this unless God personally delivers it.”
“God seems to be involved already.”
Finally, Soonyoung types, Hey, Mingyu! It’s Kwon Soonyoung. Sorry if this is so sudden but I need to talk to you about something important. Are you free?
It isn’t until the afternoon the next day when Soonyoung came barging into Jihoon’s studio. Not without almost tripping on an amp cord.
“He replied-” Jihoon jumps, “Warn me next time! I almost threw my laptop at you!”
“You wouldn’t dare,” Soonyoung says, already shoving his phone into the other’s hands.
Sorry for the late reply! I’m in Tokyo for schedules right now, so things are hectic. What’s up?
“Tokyo?”
Soonyoung types quickly, It’s better to talk in a call.
Five minutes later, they got:
Sure. Call me tonight. Around 9PM? I’ll be in my hotel by then.
The trio gathered at Soonyoung’s house. If Seungcheol had to describe it, he’d say it’s half-clean, half-chaotic, smelling faintly of takeout and fabric softener. The mysterious paper rested on the table beside them, its edges curled slightly like it had been waiting.
When Soonyoung hit “Call,” the silence that followed was tense enough to crack. Mingyu answers with a soft, slightly breathless, “Hyung? Soonyoung-hyung?” If they’d listen closely, they would hear that he sounds tired.
“What’s up? You sounded serious.”
Seungcheol introduces himself and Jihoon, then begins explaining everything:
the strange dreams, the castle, the voices, the unexplained power incidents, the paper.
He talked for a long time, longer than he meant to. The story spilled out of him like a stream finally finding its path. Mingyu didn’t interrupt once. When Seungcheol finally finished, the line was quiet.
“I’ve been having dreams too,” they hear him mutter softly from the other end.
“I don’t remember all the details,” Mingyu admits. “But… the emotions feel real. Sometimes I wake up shaking. Sometimes it feels like I know the people in the dream, even though I’ve never met them.”
Soonyoung rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah. That sounds familiar.”
“As for powers,” Mingyu continues, “I don’t think I have any. I mean, I’ve never made anything weird happen.”
A beat later. “…Except once.”
The three of them sits up straighter. “It was a few days ago,” he says. “I was outside the hotel. There was a lot going on in my head because of work. I was staring at a little pile of rocks near the walkway. And they… moved.”
“Moved?” Seungcheol echoes.
“Just a small shift. Like something nudged them. I thought I imagined it or that I was just exhausted.”
The three decided not to keep Mingyu for too long after he told them that he still has a week worth of schedules to do in Japan before he’s able to go home, so they ended the call around half an hour later. As they sit in silence after the call, surmising what kind of anime-shit is happening in their lives right now, Seungcheol realizes something.
“Every person we find seems to have some link to the next one. You guys work under the same company, while Mingyu did a project with Soonyoung. Maybe it’s not random?”
Then they all turned to the paper, but the bottom remained blank. They stared at it, as if a fairy godmother would take pity on them and wave her wand for the next name to appear. Sad to say, it didn’t happen.
For minutes. Hours. Overnight. By evening the next day, it hadn’t changed at all.
Jihoon drums his fingers thoughtfully. “Maybe the next name won’t appear unless Mingyu is physically with us. The paper reacted before only when all of us were in the same place.”
“That… makes sense,” they admit.
On the phone, Mingyu groans, “Hyung, I want to help, I really do, but I’m stuck here. My schedules in Tokyo are packed for the next few days. There’s no way I can fly back yet.”
The three exchanged looks. Resigned looks. Tired looks. Then, like a light switch, Soonyoung straightens.
“Well,” he declars with the certainty of a man who makes reckless decisions regularly, “then we go to Tokyo.”
This made the other two choke, “Huh-”
“We go to Tokyo!” Soonyoung repeats, already pulling up flight websites on his phone. “I need a break. You need a break. Seungcheol definitely needs a break.”
“I won’t deny that.”
He picks up the paper again, staring at Mingyu’s name etched in dark ink. “If the next name won’t show until we’re all gathered,” he says, voice low, “then we move toward him!”
Jihoon crosses his arms but didn’t argue. After a while, he nods his head which made Soonyoung clap loudly. “Great. Perfect. Pack your bags. We’re going to Tokyo.”
❀࿐ notes from the florist: fem! reader, not proofread, cursing, seungcheol going through shit oh my poor boy, some of the scenes MIGHT be a bit fast paced for some of yall whoops, 50% of this chapter is written while i am stressed tf up but honestly this is one of the chapters so far that i really like story-wise, if i missed anything that should be here do tell me !
❀࿐ summary: 13 souls scattered around the mortal world, all with that empty feeling that a big part of their life was missing. They don't know when it started, but suddenly, they all noticed very mysterious patterns in their life. Until one of them, Seungcheol, woke up to a torn paper beside his pillow. Across realms, a girl locked up high in a tower is trying her best to wait, but is starting to lose hope.
❀࿐ word count: 5.2k
❀࿐ masterlist
The morning sunlight over Tokyo had a soft vibe, pale gold filtering through the thin clouds, warm enough to feel gentle on the skin. It made everything seem calmer than the night before, as if the world itself was granting them a brief moment to breathe.
Mingyu left early, slipping out of the hotel with his hair barely dried and a shy, sleepy smile. He murmured a quiet goodbye to Wonwoo then disappeared into the elevator. The latter laid there for a few seconds after the doors slid shut, staring at the hotel ceiling like he could still feel Mingyu’s presence lingering in the room.
Wonwoo closes his eyes contentedly after a while, planning to go back to sleep, when the door opened and in came the three, who nudged him lightly. “Come on,” Seungcheol said. “We’re getting breakfast. You, especially—you look like you didn’t sleep.”
Wonwoo blinked. “…I didn’t sleep much.”
Soonyoung snorted. “Yeah, we kinda figured.”
“Shut up,” Wonwoo muttered, but his lips curved.
They headed toward a small brunch spot Seungcheol had found online, a quiet cafe tucked between a bookstore and an old stationery shop. The sign outside was hand-painted, the windows warm with amber-toned light, the air carrying the faint smell of toasted bread and roasted coffee beans. It was the kind of place where conversations softened and time slowed down.
The four of them slid into a booth by the window. Jihoon sat beside Wonwoo, stretching his arms with a groan as Seungcheol ordered and Soonyoung debated out loud whether he wanted pancakes or something “with more personality.”
When they finally settled into the rhythm of eating, Soonyoung leaned forward.
“So,” he began, tapping his spoon on his plate, “let’s talk about the new name. Chwe Hansol.”
The name dropped between them like a pebble into still water — small, but sending ripples.
Wonwoo paused mid-bite. His brows drew together slowly. “…Hansol,” he echoed softly.
His voice had that searching tone, the kind someone uses when they feel something tugging at the back of their mind, faint but persistent. He stared at his plate, but his thoughts were clearly miles away.
“It sounds familiar,” he admitted after a long moment. “Like… I think I’ve heard it..? But I can’t remember where.”
“That’s fine,” Jihoon said, sipping his drink. “Don’t rush it.”
“Yeah,” Seungcheol agreed. “Memories don’t always show up when you call. Sometimes they show up when you stop calling.”
Soonyoung frowned. “Okay but what if—”
“Shh,” Jihoon cut him off.
Wonwoo huffed a quiet laugh. “Thanks… I’ll try to let it come naturally.”
After eating, they were wandering without much direction, letting the sunlight pull them through side streets and small markets. The group all split into different directions, gravitating to their own interests when Wonwoo slowed in front of a tiny indie shop squeezed between a music bar and a thrift boutique. The shop’s window was cluttered with film merchandise — old posters, limited prints, shelves lined with enamel pins and handmade zines. Of course, as someone who is part of the film industry himself, Wonwoo had to pause and look. But what really caught his attention was a single poster hanging near the entrance. It was an animated picture of a space station, that somehow felt oddly familiar. At the bottom of the poster were Korean letters representing the title of the film and some more, smaller letters underneath.
They shifted to lighter topics after that, giving Wonwoo space without making it obvious. They talked about the food, about how Soonyoung once accidentally ordered raw horse meat thinking it was a salad, about Jihoon’s crusade to find a proper music store in Tokyo. Wonwoo found himself smiling at the easy banter, at how naturally they made room for him. It felt… warm. Strangely warm for people he’d only known for a few days. He didn’t say it, but he liked it. He liked them.
“If there was a use-by date on love, then there’s no meaning to life for me…” Wonwoo heard Soonyoung mumble beside him, reading the words engraved at the bottom of the poster. The former didn’t even hear or realize that someone else was beside him, but he couldn’t care less. He stepped closer before he could stop himself. His chest tightened in that strange, quiet way that memories often return. He found himself tracing the air just above the poster, eyes narrowing as the image clicked into place inside him. He heard Seungcheol and Jihoon stopping near them, the former asking Soonyoung what’s up.
Wonwoo exhaled, long and uneven, as the memory unfurled with clarity he hadn’t expected. “Several years ago…” he murmured. When the others turned to him, he didn’t look away from the poster. “Several years ago, when I was still working in Seoul, I was part of a creative film contest team. I was one of the collaborators, organizers for the event. There was this short film, the one that won the grand prize…”
“It followed the story of a group of friends surviving an apocalypse, reuniting in a space station. Out of everyone in the world, only the thirteen of them survived. Before the world ended, they managed to get a lot of notes that contained the wishes of the people who weren’t able to survive including theirs. And there was this room in the space station that could change it’s interior so they can fulfill their wishes, and the wishes of others. But then the ship started malfunctioning, as it too, was reaching it’s end. The final wish to be scanned on the room read, to be happy with everyone and for this feeling to continue on forever, but it made an error, since the wish is not possible.” He swallowed lightly.
“The creator’s name was Hansol. Chwe Hansol.”
The three exchanged glances, noticing each other’s slightly glossy eyes as they took in Wonwoo’s story. Seungcheol stepped closer beside him, looking at the poster with him rather than at him. “You remember it vividly.”
Wonwoo nodded, embarrassed by how much emotion had crept into his voice. “Some works just stay with you,” he admitted quietly. “His did. I never forgot it, even after the contest ended.”
“Then it’s definitely him,” Jihoon said, his tone firm but gentle. Soonyoung nudged Wonwoo’s shoulder lightly. “Good job, detective. See? Letting the memory show up on its own worked.”
Wonwoo tried not to smile, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him.
By the time they returned to the hotel later that evening, Mingyu had already finished his schedule and was sprawled dramatically across the couch like a man who had been wronged by the concept of work. He perked up the moment he saw Wonwoo walk in. “Hey,” he said, and the word carried something soft and unmistakably fond.
Wonwoo didn’t trust his face not to give him away, so he simply nodded as Seungcheol explained everything that had happened. Mingyu sat straighter with each detail, his expression shifting from curiosity to certainty.
And when they began looking for Hansol online, the entire room seemed to lean toward purpose. But the search was slow and frustrating. Under Chwe Hansol, there were barely any traces, just an ancient, inactive account and a few records from old events. No social media presence. No current contact.
“It’s like he vanished,” Soonyoung muttered, frowning at the screen.
“I don’t think he was trying to be famous,” Wonwoo said thoughtfully. “But this feels… too quiet.”
Soonyoung typed it in immediately, and within seconds, they found a minimalistic portfolio site — digital art, motion graphics, music visualizers, short conceptual films. All clean lines, muted palettes, and emotional undercurrents that felt unmistakably like the boy Wonwoo remembered from years ago.
They would’ve hit a wall if Jihoon hadn’t turned to Wonwoo with a sudden spark in his eyes. “The poster earlier… Are you certain it’s his?” The latter shrugged, “Possibly, why?”
“If it is, and we assume that he might have released the same film… Then it’s possible that he uses a different name. At the bottom-right corner of the poster, A film by VERNON was written in English…”
“That’s him,” Wonwoo whispered. “I know it.”
“Then we contact him,” Mingyu said, voice steady but eyes flicking toward Wonwoo with a quiet trust. “And… maybe it’s better if you’re the one who does it.”
Wonwoo nodded, heart thudding as he opened the email link. He took his time crafting the message, clear but gentle, honest but cautious. He explained the situation without sounding insane, mentioned the dreams and the paper and the strange coincidences, and asked if Hansol, or Vernon, would be willing to talk.
When he hit send, the room felt suspended. The city lights outside glowed against the glass, resting in a calm, expectant hush. There was no dramatic shift, no thunder, no realization crashing down—just a soft, heavy silence full of the understanding that something important had been set in motion.
Three days passed before Vernon finally replied.
Now, all they could do was wait.
The message came in the late afternoon, while the four were gathered in the living room. Seungcheol and Soonyoung arguing over a movie choice, Jihoon half-asleep on the couch, and Wonwoo absentmindedly scrolling through articles he didn’t actually read. His phone buzzed once, quiet and unassuming, but the moment he saw the name “Vernon Chwe” appear on the screen, his chest tightened.
In the message, Vernon confirmed everything. The dreams. The same feeling of being pulled toward people he didn’t know but somehow recognized. And, just like Jihoon and Wonwoo, he admitted he didn’t know anything about powers, nor has he been experiencing any weird patterns lately. Or none that he knows of, at least.
They exchanged long messages until the evening. Vernon, careful with his words but honest. Wonwoo, slow to respond but steady. Jihoon occasionally taking the phone to add clarifications.. Soonyoung reading over Wonwoo’s shoulder despite being told not to. And eventually, after everything was laid out, Vernon said he would come to Tokyo too.
“If this is really happening,” he wrote, “then I’m not letting you guys deal with it alone.”
While waiting for Vernon’s arrival, the days felt strangely heavy around Wonwoo. It began with a dream. But it wasn’t the usual dream about the children, no. It was quite a peculiar dream. He wasn’t standing in a room or reliving a memory this time. He was something else, something weightless, slipping through dark corners like a shadow that had somehow learned how to think. He remembered the sound of his own heartbeat echoing from somewhere far away, remembered knowing he could move without walking, remembered feeling the outline of things rather than seeing them.
Wonwoo didn’t realize he had been smiling until he saw the notification of a text from Mingyu, asking him where they were. He found himself mentally face palming at whatever thought about Vernon just crossed his mind.
Wonwoo eventually woke up, but the feeling didn’t leave.
The next incident happened the day after that. Wonwoo blinked awake, expecting the familiar stuff scattered around his hotel room, only to find himself staring at an identical version of his hotel room but with entirely different objects. He recognized some of them as Jihoon’s things, and then his gaze went to the man himself. Jihoon was asleep at the foot of his bed, face buried in a pillow, completely unaware that Wonwoo was there in a corner of his room.
Except, he wasn’t standing. Wonwoo looked down and saw nothing. No hands. No legs. No body. Just the shape of the room warped by a presence he somehow knew was him.
For a second, he wondered if he was still dreaming. But the cold draft from the window brushed against something — some invisible surface where his arm should’ve been — and the sensation was too real.
Before he could even process it, something tugged him forward, and suddenly he was somewhere else. Mingyu’s room. The bathroom door was closed, and the sound of running water echoed from inside. Wonwoo felt panic curl in his chest — or wherever panic could exist if one didn’t have a body — and tried to step back, only for the world to bend around him again.
Vernon arrived in Tokyo on a cloudy afternoon, the kind where the sky felt unusually low, pressing softly against the tops of buildings. Wonwoo spotted him first at the arrival gate. Vernon stood still for a moment, scanning the crowd with a kind of quiet hesitance, as if he wasn’t sure he belonged in the picture he had just stepped into. He carried only a single backpack, worn at the edges, and the way his fingers tightened on the strap betrayed nerves he was trying to hide.
He didn’t fall. He didn’t move. He simply shifted… and landed back in his own room, gasping as his hands reappeared in front of him, trembling.
But when his eyes finally landed on them, everything in his expression softened. Wonwoo felt it immediately — that strange, warm pull that had linked all of them. Another thread clicking into place.
Once he confirmed it was him from Wonwoo, Mingyu waved first, loud and unmistakable, and Vernon let out a small laugh that seemed to lift the heavy air around him. By the time he walked closer, the awkwardness had melted enough for Soonyoung to throw an arm around him like they’d known each other for years. Wonwoo didn’t say much, but he didn’t need to. Standing near Vernon felt like recognizing a melody he’d heard once in a dream and had been unconsciously humming ever since.
Meanwhile, Wonwoo wasn’t the only one feeling a little sentimental during that moment. Seungcheol took a step back once he introduced himself to Vernon and let the others handle all the talking for now. His mind had drifted the moment he felt this giddy, ticklish feeling inside him when Vernon offered them a small but genuine smile. Honestly, it wouldn’t have been a problem if he hasn’t been feeling the exact same sensation with the other guys. It left him asking the universe whether this is the right path to take and just how many guys he would be going through.
This is wrong, he thought, This is very wrong. But when Mingyu pulled him out of his thoughts with a smile that read Is everything alright?, he gradually felt his worries fading.
That night, the Seungcheol’s hotel room was warm with voices, messy laughter, overlapping conversations, and the kind of comfort that came quickly but settled deeply. Vernon sat cross-legged on the floor beside alongside the others. He talked about his life in Seoul, about freelancing, about nights spent editing visualizers until sunrise. He spoke quietly, thoughtfully, like someone who weighed each sentence before releasing it. Sometimes his voice faltered when he mentioned the dreams — how they had started years ago, how he tried to convince himself it was nothing, how familiar faces appeared that he didn’t know but somehow felt.
Fuck it. If this is what destiny wants to happen, then who is he to object? If doing this is actually the very purpose of his life and is the only way for him to feel truly belonged and appreciated, then why would he oppose? Seungcheol would find every name appearing on that wretched paper if it means being able to find his real self at the end.
Every time he hesitated, Mingyu would lean forward with gentle curiosity, or Soonyoung would offer reassuring comments, or Seungcheol would remind him they had gone through the same thing. It wasn’t long before Vernon’s shoulders loosened, his laughter became more frequent, and a faint spark returned to his tired eyes.
It happened shortly after midnight. The conversations had quieted into softer tones. Jihoon was half-asleep against Seungcheol’s shoulder. Soonyoung was lying on the carpet and insisting it was comfortable. Mingyu had pulled his hair into a messy bun, eyes still bright from the stories Vernon had shared.
Wonwoo was just about to suggest calling it a night when he noticed a subtle glow from the table. All of their breaths stilled. Immediately, Soonyoung reached out for it and laid it down on the carpet in the middle of all of them. One by one, the letters formed, delicate strokes of light lingering in the dim room.
Boo Seungkwan
The room fell silent. No one moved. The glow bathed them in soft warmth, but there was a heaviness beneath it, another life being pulled toward theirs, another story about to unfold.
“Oh..?” Vernon was the first to react. He was staring at the paper like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. His lips parted, and his eyes darted from the paper to Wonwoo, to Mingyu, to Jihoon — searching for confirmation that it was real.
“You know him?” Mingyu asked.
“He’s… a friend,” he finally whispered.
“He’s a vocal coach,” Vernon continued slowly, “and an indie singer. We worked together just a few weeks ago. I made a visualizer for his new track. That’s how we met and got close.”
His voice grew quieter, tinged with something thoughtful. Then he looked up at them again but with a spark. “He’s a great person, swear. I have his number.”
For a moment, no one spoke, almost as if they were collectively absorbing the weight of the newest connection forming in front of them. Then Mingyu leaned forward, tone gentle. “Do you want to call him?”
Vernon didn’t answer right away.
He looked at the namel again, at the way it shimmered like it carried a pulse. His fingers curled around his phone, not out of panic, but out of anticipation, maybe. Or fear of how this would change all of their lives again.
“I could… Actually, yeah, I think I should,” he murmured.
They watched him dial the number, the tremor in his hand barely noticeable but undeniably there. The room felt impossibly quiet as the phone rang — each ring stretching just a little too long, stretching something inside all of them.
Once. Twice. A click.
And then, a soft, confused, sleepy voice, “Hello? Vernon? Why are you calling me at this hour?”
The tower was quiet in the way abandoned places were quiet — too still, too deliberate, like silence held its breath around you. You had stopped counting the days. Time in the sky didn’t behave the same way it did on land: sunlight came in slivers, moonlight in pale ribbons, both slipping through the arched windows as though afraid to touch you.
“Hey, Kwan,” Vernon said, voice gentle. “Sorry if I woke you up. I know this is sudden, but… something’s happening. And I think you’re part of it.”
You were sitting on the stone floor again, your back against the cold wall, your knees drawn up beneath you. The air here always smelled faintly of storm clouds — sharp, metallic, like rain that never arrived. Your fingers traced the threads of the thin blanket around her shoulders. You had grown used to the cold, or maybe you no longer had the strength to feel it fully.
Your power, once humming warm beneath your skin like a heartbeat, was now quiet. Muted. Some days you wonder if it was still there at all. Grief had hollowed you out in ways you didn’t know grief could. Loss had carved room inside your body where power should have been, leaving you aching and unsteady, like you were held together only by memory.
You don’t think you had never been this weak before.
And they knew it. They relied on it.
A soft sound echoed down the spiraling stone staircase outside the door — not footsteps yet, but the promise of footsteps. Your body tensed immediately. You know who it is. He had a way of announcing himself without meaning to, a certain rhythm in the air, like the tower braced for him.
The lock clicked. Slowly. Almost gently, as though he didn’t want to frighten you. Then the door opened, letting in a flood of pale morning light and the faint scent of cedarwood.
“Princess,” he said, voice steady and warm — too warm, like sunlight that burned if you stood beneath it too long.
Myungsoo, the son of the man who destroyed your world stepped inside, closing the door behind him with careful hands. He always moved carefully around you — slow, deliberate movements, as if you were a wild thing that could bolt, or break.
He carried a tray today. Food you wouldn’t eat, tea you wouldn’t drink. You had learned that resistance didn’t anger him; it only made him softer, which somehow frightened you more.
“You haven’t touched breakfast,” he murmured, setting the tray down beside you. “You need strength.”
You didn’t reply. He crouched beside you, lowering himself until he was at your eye level. He never forced you to look at him, but you felt his gaze on you anyway — heavy, searching, hungry in a way you wouldn’t even dare to name.
“You worry me.” he said quietly.
Worries him. The thought made something cold settle beneath your ribs. You stayed silent, eyes fixed on the window, the clouds drifting past, white against endless blue. You wonder if anyone could see this tower from below, or if the magic cloaked it entirely. You wonder if anyone was searching for you. Hoping. Feeling the same strings of destiny tugging at them.
You wonder if they could still feel you.
He followed your gaze. “You’re thinking again,” he murmured. “Wondering about them.”
Your heart faltered at the word — them. He tilted his head slightly, studying your face like it was a riddle. His voice dropped lower, as though secrets might spill out if he spoke too loudly.
“You don’t have to,” he said. “They can’t reach you here. No one can.”
You feel the air tightening. He must have felt it too, because his expression softened even further, turning almost tender.
“Princess… I’m not your enemy.”
You let out a breath, small, sharp, exhausted. “Your father is.”
His jaw tightened for the first time. Only for a second. Then the softness returned like a practiced mask. “My father is ambitious,” he said carefully. “But he isn’t wrong about everything.”
You finally turned your head to look at him, and the moment your eyes met, something flickered in his expression — something unstable, almost feverish. You hated the way he looked at you. Hated that it wasn’t cruelty. It was something far more dangerous.
He reached out, slowly, his fingers brushing a piece of your hair from your cheek. You flinch, but only barely. “You don’t have to fear me,” he whispered. “I’m not here to hurt you.”
“You already are,” you said, not being able to stop yourself, voice quiet but steady. “Every day.” His breath hitched, the smallest, strangest reaction. Almost like your pain hurt him too. Almost like he cared. And maybe he did.
But obsession was not the same as love.
His hand hovered near your cheek again, hesitant, trembling just a little. “If you would just let yourself talk to me,” he murmured, “you’d see I’m trying. I know what’s expected of me, what they want from us. But I won’t force you. I… I want you to want me too.”
You feel your stomach twist. The expectation wasn’t new. He was meant to make you fall for him, to bind your future, your kingdom, your power to theirs through a child that would never exist. But hearing him say it, in that voice softened by longing, made you feel sick.
You close your eyes. “Please. Don’t.” He exhaled shakily, pulling his hand back. For a moment, he stood and walked toward the window, shoulders tight, hands clasped behind him like he was holding something fragile inside himself.
“You still long for them,” he said softly. “Don’t you?”
Your breath caught.
He turned his head just enough for you to see the faintest smile, very sincere in all the wrong ways. “You whisper names when you sleep.”
The air around you stilled. You hadn’t realized that. You hadn’t realized you spoke in your dreams at all, trapped in dreams of faces you don’t fully remember but felt entirely connected to.
“I don’t blame you,” he whispered. “Soulmate bonds are… powerful. Difficult to break.”
Your blood ran cold.
“How would you-”
He turned fully now, stepping closer, his expression unreadable but intense. “I study you,” he said simply. “Everything about you. The way the aura around you shifts when you dream. The way your heartbeat changes when you think of them.”
Your breath trembled. “You shouldn’t-”
His voice softened again. “I can’t help it.”
He knelt beside you a second time, closer now, his knee brushing your blanket as his hand hovered near yours. “I know you’re hurting,” he whispered. “I know what you’ve lost. I know that grief weakens you. And I know they will come for you eventually, because that bond… it’s stronger than fate itself.”
Your heart thudded painfully.
He leaned in, his voice barely above a breath.
“But I will get to you first.”
Fear pulsed through you, sharp and electrifying. But beneath that fear was something else: the tiniest, faintest spark flickering deep in your chest. He didn’t notice. His eyes were fixed on you in quiet devotion, like you are a prophecy he was determined to claim.
He exhaled shakily and stood again. “Rest. I’ll return tonight.”
He walked to the door, paused, and looked back, his silhouette outlined by the bright window beyond him. “I hope someday,” he murmured, “you’ll see that I’m the one who understands you best.”
The door clicked shut. The silence that followed wasn’t gentle anymore. It pressed in around you, tight and suffocating. You wrapped your arms around yourself, breath trembling, mind spinning. His words echoed like a curse.
Soulmate bonds are powerful.
They will come for you eventually.
Your heart stuttered.
Would they?
Could they?
You don’t know. But for the first time in weeks, something inside you reached, towards the sky, towards the world below.
Towards them.
You feel your head spin, aching, so you laid down again and did what you do best, reminisce. Remembering memories that you want to remember. One specific memory in particular captured your mind.
You were small again. The air around you smelled like early spring, cold earth and blooming leaves. You remembered the way the palace gardens looked back then: endless green stretching past your feet and sunlight draping everything in soft gold. Your little hand was wrapped securely around someone else’s.
Seungcheol’s.
He was only a boy then, but already steady that made people trust him. He walked a step ahead of you even though your hands were linked, as though guiding you somewhere hurriedly.
“You’re walking too fast,” you had complained, but with no real frustration, only breathless effort. He slowed immediately, cheeks flushing the slightest pink. “Sorry. I just- I want to take you to the best part.”
“The best part of what?”
“The garden,” he said, as though it were obvious. “I don’t think you’ve seen that area yet, and you said you were sad today. So I’m fixing it.”
Child-you frowned. “You can fix sadness?”
Seungcheol looked back at you, brown eyes earnest, bright in that unguarded way children have when they genuinely believe in something. “I can try.”
You had always remembered him as dependable, hopeful, almost brave in his determination to make you smile. He led you to a small clearing you had never seen before. Trees arched above, leaves forming a canopy that filtered sunlight into gentle dapples across the grass. A stream trickled nearby, shallow and clear, its soft sound filling the silence.
But what caught your eye were the fireflies.
Dozens of them, tiny sparks drifting lazily through the air, glowing like floating stars in the afternoon light. You gasped, your hand tightening around his.
“They’re not supposed to be here yet,” you whispered. “It’s too early in day!”
Seungcheol beamed. “But they came anyway. Maybe for you?”
“That’s not how fireflies work.”
“It could be,” he insisted. “Anything can happen around you.” You didn’t know what he meant. Not then. But you knew that you felt giddy when you heard it then.
He let go of your hand only to step closer to the fireflies, cupping his palms gently. One settled in the space between his fingers, its tiny light glowing bright.
Seungcheol turned to you, soft-eyed, smiling. “I’ll give this one to you.”
He opened his palms slowly.
The firefly drifted toward you without hesitation, landing on your sleeve. Its glow touched your skin, warm and alive. You laughed, the sound bright enough to make the fireflies pulse brighter in response. Seungcheol watched you, shoulders relaxing, lips curling in quiet triumph.
“Told you,” he murmured. “I can fix sadness.”
You took a step toward him, looking up sincerely. “Then I’ll stay with you forever.”
His breath hitched. For a moment, neither of you moved. Then Seungcheol nodded, shy but certain. “Okay.”
The fireflies swirled around the two of you like a constellation slowly forming. You didn’t know it then — how could you? — but this memory would become a tether. A point in time the universe would fold itself around.
You feel yourself smile at the memory, eyes still closed, until you feel the familiar wetness forming on your lashes. You didn’t know it was possible to still be able to produce tears with how much you’ve been crying averagely in a week, but here you are. Right now, hope and love are the only forces keeping you from insanity.
Meanwhile, back at Tokyo at exactly 2 in the morning, Seungcheol jolted awake. His chest rose and fell in unsteady breaths, his hand pressed over his heart as though trying to contain something that had been torn open inside him. The room was dark, lit only by city glow leaking through the curtains. Soonyoung, who insisted on sleeping beside him the night before, groaned and shifted at the disturbance before turning to the other side and falling back asleep.
Seungcheol lifted his hand to his face, brushing away a tear he didn’t remember shedding, as his breath trembled. Was that… really me? Is it a memory? Why that memory? And why… now?
A hollow, electric weight settled in his chest, the unmistakable sense that something in the world had shifted. That something was calling to him. That someone was waiting. His lips parted, barely a whisper escaping them.
“…Princess?”
The moment the word left him, his room’s lights flickered. The air shifted around him as the AC turned off then on again.
❀࿐ notes from the florist: fem! reader, not proofread, i don't think there's any warnings here tbh, if i missed anything that should be here do tell me !
❀࿐ summary: 13 souls scattered around the mortal world, all with that empty feeling that a big part of their life was missing. They don't know when it started, but suddenly, they all noticed very mysterious patterns in their life. Until one of them, Seungcheol, woke up to a torn paper beside his pillow. Across realms, a girl locked up high in a tower is trying her best to wait, but is starting to lose hope.
❀࿐ word count: 4k
❀࿐ masterlist
Seungkwan fell asleep with the weight of too many feelings still resting in his chest. The room was dark and quiet after old wounds have been opened and left tender but breathing. Chan lay asleep beside him, steady and warm, and Seungkwan thought, just before drifting off, that for the first time in a long while, his heart felt… lighter. Not healed. Not whole. But lighter than it had been in years.
That was when the dream took him.
At first, he thought he was awake. The air was cool, carrying the scent of damp soil and blooming leaves, sharp and clean in a way dreams rarely managed. Soft light filtered through towering trees, their branches arching overhead like cathedral ceilings woven from green. Somewhere nearby, water murmured — a stream, he guesses — and the sound threaded itself gently through the silence.
Seungkwan stopped walking.
He knew this place. But it’s not only because it looks familiar. Rather, it feels familiar.
“This is-” he murmured, voice catching in his throat.
The palace gardens. Expansive and alive, untouched by ruin or grief. Sunlight spilled across the grass in gold-dusted patches, fireflies hovering faintly even though it was too early for them. The air thrummed with something deeper than magic, something emotional, resonant, like a memory the world itself refused to forget.
He took a step forward. Then another. The further he went, the stronger it became, a pull. A gentle insistence, like a hand at his back guiding him onward. His ability stirred instinctively, emotions blooming around him like invisible colors. Loneliness, grief, hope.
And then there she was.
You stood near the edge of the clearing, turned slightly away, dressed not as a child but as you were now — older, carrying the quiet weight of everything you had lost. Your hair caught the light as you moved, fingers brushing the leaves of a low-hanging branch as though grounding yourself in something real.
Seungkwan’s breath left him in a slow, stunned exhale as you turned.
At first, your eyes held confusion, searching his face like a puzzle missing too many pieces. For a few heartbeats, you simply stared at him, brows knitting faintly, as though trying to place him in a story you almost remembered.
Then your eyes widened.
“…Seungkwan?”
Hearing his name in your voice did something to him. Something deep and immediate. His chest tightened, emotion rushing in so fast he had to steady himself.
“You know me,” he said, not quite a question.
Your expression softened, relief bleeding through the confusion. “Of course I do,” you said gently. “It just took me a second. You’re… not usually the first one I see.”
“The first one?” he echoed.
You hesitated.
He felt it instantly, the careful restraint, the deliberate pause. Not secrecy born of fear, but of protection. You were measuring how much to give, how much he could hold. So he did the only thing he could think to do.
“It’s okay,” Seungkwan said softly. “You don’t have to tell me everything. I just- I just feel like I was meant to be here.”
Your gaze sharpened at that, something warm and sad flickering behind your eyes. “You feel things,” you said slowly. “More than most.”
He nodded. “I read emotions. Sometimes I… carry them.”
You stepped closer, cautious but curious, as though drawn by the same invisible thread that had led him here. The closer you came, the louder your feelings became to him. Pain braided with resilience. Fear tempered by resolve.
“You’re dreaming,” you said. “But not the way the others do.”
“Are you?” he asked.
You smiled faintly. “No. This isn’t a dream… Rather, a manifestation of my memories, from what I could remember.”
That hurt more than he expected.
“I won’t stay long,” you continued, voice quiet. “This place… it takes a lot out of me to reach. And I shouldn’t be speaking too freely. There are things watching. Waiting.”
His stomach tightened. “You’re not safe.”
“No,” you agreed simply. “But I’m alive.”
The words were spoken with such careful emphasis that he understood immediately — alive was something you had to actively hold onto.
“Seungcheol dreamed of this place,” he said carefully. “This garden, with fireflies, something about promising to make you happy. A memory from when you were children.”
“I know,” you replied. “That memory was never sealed properly.”
He frowned. “Sealed?”
You gestured for him to sit with you on the low stone bench nearby. When he did, you didn’t hesitate, as if you had already decided how much to tell him.
“You and the others don’t remember your past because your memories were intentionally suppressed,” you said plainly. “Not erased, but locked. Broken into pieces so none of you would carry enough information to be traced or used.”
His chest tightened. “Used by who?”
“The people who are holding me now,” you answered. “And the faction they belong to. They are not ruling the kingdom openly,” you continued. “They control it by controlling succession. Bloodlines. Power inheritance. And I was a problem to them.”
“Because of your powers,” Seungkwan said.
“Yes,” you said, “but more importantly because I refused to let those powers be passed down the way they wanted.”
You clasped your hands together, grounding yourself.
“My abilities… They were designed to be shared, distributed through bonds. Trust, loyalty… and love. That’s why you mattered. All of you.”
Seungkwan’s heart began to race. “So we weren’t just… protectors.”
“No,” you said. “You were anchors. Each of you stabilized a part of my power. Without you, it becomes unstable. Without me, yours manifests without context.”
That explained too much at once.
“And when they realized they couldn’t separate you from us,” he said slowly, “they separated us from ourselves.”
You nodded. “Exactly.”
Silence stretched between you, heavy but not uncomfortable.
“Why haven’t we remembered yet?” he asked. “If we were that important, why leave us blind?”
“Because remembering everything at once might destroy you,” you said honestly. “You went through betrayal, loss, and violence that none of you were meant to carry alone. The memory locks were a mercy, not a punishment.”
He swallowed hard.
“And me?” he asked. “Why am I here now?”
You looked at him fully then, eyes steady.
“Because your ability isn’t just emotional perception,” you said. “It’s regulation. You are the one fated to help others process what they feel when things start to fall apart. You ground them. You keep them human.”
That hit harder than anything else.
“Which means,” you continued, “you’re the safest one to start remembering first.”
The garden dimmed slightly, as if time was thinning.
“There’s something else you need to know,” you said. “About the people hunting you now.”
Seungkwan leaned forward instinctively.
“They are aware that fragments of my power still exist outside the tower, where they keep me,” you said. “They don’t know exactly who or where you are in the mortal world yet — but they know someone is out there. They know you are starting to remember. The abilities I left outside the tower, they have managed to find and connect to yours. That’s why your abilities are awakening more rapidly. That’s why the group keeps being drawn together.”
“So everything that connects us isn’t just coincidences,” he said quietly.
“No,” you replied. “It’s the beginning of recovery.”
“When you wake up,” you said gently, “tell the others this much: we knew each other, we trusted each other, and what we lost was taken — not abandoned. Tell them the past isn’t gone. It’s just waiting.”
The garden began to blur, edges dissolving.
“And Seungkwan,” you added quickly.
He looked up.
“I’m not asking you to save me, not yet,” you said. “Before that, I’m asking you to please help yourself and them to remember without any of you breaking.”
Seungkwan stepped forward instinctively. “Will I see you again?”
Your expression softened, something almost fond flickering through the exhaustion. “You don’t need to see me to hear me,” you said. “You’ll know when I’m close.”
As the world began to fade, your voice lingered.
“Thank you,” you whispered. “For being here.”
Seungkwan woke with tears already slipping down his temples, heart pounding with an emotion he couldn’t name yet, but he knew, without question, would change everything.
The hallway outside the rooms felt suspended in time, even with the sun already out. Seungkwan walked beside Chan, both of them quiet, their pace unhurried. There was no rush to get anywhere, no urgency pressing down on them, just the shared understanding that they were going to Jihoon’s room because that was where everyone inevitably gathered.
Seungkwan knocked once and opened the door immediately. Inside, the room was already occupied in full. Seungcheol leaned casually against the desk, coffee in hand. Mingyu sat on the bed with his legs folded beneath him, phone forgotten in his lap. Soonyoung hovered near the window, peering outside as if Tokyo might suddenly do something interesting just for him. Vernon sat in the armchair, posture relaxed but eyes sharp. Wonwoo stood near the curtains, hands tucked into his sleeves, gaze distant but attentive. Jihoon lingered near the door, looking unsurprised to see them.
Chan stopped just inside the doorway. “Did we miss something?”
Jihoon stepped aside to let them in. “No. They all just… ended up here.”
That explanation seemed sufficient for everyone.
Before the room could slide into anything serious, Soonyoung clapped his hands together, the sound sharp in the quiet space. “Okay, hold on. Before anyone starts saying serious words-”
He pointed at the phone on the bedside table.
“Breakfast first.”
The suggestion was immediately accepted.
Room service arrived not long after, and with it came a brief shift in the room’s atmosphere. Plates were passed around. Coffee was poured. Mingyu commented on how hotel portions never matched their prices. Vernon stole food without asking. Seungcheol reminded everyone to actually eat instead of just poking at their plates. The conversation stayed light, circling harmless topics, the kind that didn’t require much thought.
It felt almost normal.
Eventually, the plates were cleared, cups empty, and the room settled back into quiet. Seungkwan sat on the edge of the bed, fingers loosely intertwined, posture relaxed rather than guarded.
“I had a dream,” he said, voice even. Everyone looked his way, but no one interrupted.
“It wasn’t like the others,” he continued. “I wasn’t watching from the outside. I was actually there.”
Seungkwan spoke without embellishment, but the picture he painted lingered longer than his words. He described the palace gardens first. Paths curved where they were meant to, trees stood where they had likely stood for decades, and even the open spaces felt planned rather than imagined. It wasn’t a place born from dreams, he explained, but one that existed only for the eyes who longed to see nature’s beauty.
As he went on, the similarities to Seungcheol’s dream became impossible to ignore. The same arching trees. The same way the air felt heavy with stillness rather than silence. The same sense of being guided toward something without knowing why. The details aligned too precisely to dismiss as coincidence, too cleanly to chalk up to shared imagination.
He told them about seeing you there. About how how he knew who you were without ever having met you. It wasn’t overwhelming or emotional, he clarified. It felt close to receiving information and forming a connection, like being handed context that should have belonged to him all along. The conversation itself hadn’t been cryptic or symbolic. If anything, it had felt structured, deliberate, almost careful.
Seungkwan paused briefly, then added that you spoke plainly.
You told him that their memories were fragmented. That what they were experiencing now — the dreams, the abilities — weren’t accidents or sudden awakenings, but remnants resurfacing. You didn’t explain everything, and you didn’t try to. You gave him enough to understand the shape of the truth without forcing him to carry its full weight.
And when he mentioned the enemies, his tone shifted just slightly. Not toward fear, but clarity. You had told him they weren’t monsters in the traditional sense. Not creatures driven by chaos or cruelty for its own sake. They were strategists. Calculated. Focused on control rather than destruction. People who needed you alive, intact, and contained.
By the time Seungkwan finished speaking, the room had grown quiet. No one rushed to fill the silence. No one reacted dramatically. It wasn’t shock that settled over them, but something closer to quiet processing, as if each of them were mentally adjusting pieces they hadn’t realized were misaligned until now.
Jihoon was the first to move.
Without saying anything, he reached into his bag and pulled out the paper. He unfolded it slowly, smoothing it against the desk with deliberate care, as though making sure it lay completely flat mattered. The others watched him, attention drawn not by urgency but by habit. This paper had earned their attention by now.
“There’s another name,” Jihoon said finally.
He turned the paper toward them.
Wen Junhui
The name sat there for a moment before anyone spoke.
Seungcheol leaned forward slightly, instinctive and quiet, eyes scanning the characters as if they might rearrange themselves. “Does anyone recognize that?”
Mingyu straightened where he sat, recognition flickering across his face almost immediately. “Yeah. I do,” he said. “If I remember correctly, he’s an actor. Chinese. A rising actor, at that. I’ve seen him in a couple shows.”
That information settled into the room without resistance. It fit easily, like a piece of puzzle that slid into place without force.
Then Chan stopped moving.
It wasn’t abrupt or dramatic. Just a pause. His focus drifted inward, attention pulled somewhere else entirely. After a moment, he reached for his phone and carefully slid the case off. From behind it, he pulled out a folded piece of paper, worn thin along the creases, the edges softened like it had been unfolded and refolded more times than necessary.
He unfolded it slowly.
A phone number.
And beneath it, written hastily in Korean, slightly slanted, unmistakably rushed:
준
Chan held it there for a second longer than needed before speaking. “This might be… relevant.”
He explained without urgency. Turns out, he was actually in Shenzhen for a dance workshop he was invited to before flying to Japan. He collided with someone while turning a corner too quickly, his coffee spilling everywhere. The person who bumped into him, who referred to himself as Jun, had insisted on compensating him, scribbling his number down on the nearest scrap of paper and pressing it into his hand before rushing off.
They met again a few days later. A café this time. Jun paid for everything, and even brought him a new shirt to replace the stained one. Mentioned, almost casually, that he’d been in a hurry earlier because he thought a fan had been following him. Nothing dramatic. Nothing alarming.
When Chan finished, Soonyoung tilted his head, brow furrowing slightly as a new question occurred to him.
“I have a question,” he said. “How did he know you were Korean?”
Chan hesitated, then shrugged. “Maybe because …I cursed in Korean?”
The pause that followed was brief, but seemingly effective as everyone chuckled with the unexpected reply.
Chan didn’t come back into the room immediately after ending the call. The screen went dark in his hand, but for a long moment, he didn’t move. He stayed standing by the window, phone pressed loosely against his palm, staring out at the city without really seeing it. The streets below pulsed with motion — the slow rhythm of morning traffic, the soft rumble of a distant train. Chan, meanwhile, felt as though the world had paused, giving him space to digest what he had just learned.
Finally, with a slow exhale that seemed to push the city back into place, he stepped away from the window and made his way back into Jihoon’s room where the others are. The room was quiet, almost reverently so. No one spoke. Their eyes followed him naturally, each pair of gazes reflecting a mixture of curiosity, relief, and that quiet tension born from understanding the gravity of what was happening.
He set his phone gently on the table next to the paper with the names. The small object, so simple in its form, now held so much weight. The paper had become more than ink on a page; it was a map of connection, a growing network of people bound together by something larger than themselves, and Chan knew it was only going to get more complex from here.
“Okay so… Jun has them too,” Chan said, his voice calm, measured, but carrying the weight of certainty. The room, despite itself, seemed to shift slightly at the words. The kind of shift that makes a person lean in a little, hold their breath just for a moment, because they sense the world expanding just beyond the walls of the room.
“The dreams,” Chan added after a pause, letting the silence hang long enough for the others to feel it. “Exactly the same. Same patterns. Same places. Same… repetition.”
Seungcheol leaned back in his chair, hands clasped together on the table. There was relief there, yes, but also the weight of expectation. Another person had joined the circle, another piece of the puzzle had snapped into place — and with that clarity came responsibility. The air in the room felt heavier, not in a suffocating way, but in a way that made every breath feel deliberate, as if they were all collectively bracing for what came next.
“And,” Chan continued slowly, choosing his words as if carefully threading a needle, “he also has an ability.”
That drew attention immediately. Every head turned slightly, subtle movements betraying their curiosity and anticipation.
“Water,” Chan said simply. “Controlling water, moving it, shaping it. He said he’s been aware of it for a few weeks now and has been practicing it. He learned how to understand it, manipulate it, and trust it.”
Chan’s gaze flicked toward the paper, as though checking that the ink still held the truth of what he had just conveyed. “When I told him about the paper, about the way each new name seems connected to the last, he didn’t hesitate. He said he might already know who comes next.”
The words hovered in the air. The implication was clear, but it wasn’t dramatized. There was no fanfare, no sudden spike of tension. Just inevitability, the quiet sense that the next step was already forming, waiting for them to notice.
“Lee Seokmin,” Chan said at last. The name landed softly, yet firmly, and the weight of it lingered. “He’s a close friend of Jun’s. Met through a mutual acquaintance a while back.”
Chan leaned back against the edge of the table, his eyes not on anyone in particular. He let the room absorb the name before continuing. “Apparently, one night Seokmin got really drunk. Not careless or dangerous, just… uninhibited. You know that way people get when their thoughts are too crowded and their tongue finally lets a few slip. He started talking about the dreams. About the places, the details, the repetition. How vivid they were. How he couldn’t explain them but couldn’t ignore them either.”
Mingyu huffed softly, a small smile tugging at his lips. “That tracks,” he said lightly, but there was a note of understanding beneath the humor. They all knew that feeling, the helpless awareness of a phenomenon they could not yet control.
Chan nodded. “Apparently, Jun didn’t interrupt. Didn’t argue. He just listened. He could tell by the way Seokmin spoke, by the urgency in his words, that this was… important. That this was part of something larger. And he knows that because, well… He experiences them as well.”
Seungcheol’s fingers flexed against his knees. He didn’t speak, but his posture reflected careful attention. He had always been the one to notice patterns, to catch threads others might miss, and even he felt the gravity of the moment pressing in gently but persistently.
“And there’s another name,” Chan said after a breath. “Joshua Hong.”
The room tilted into a heavier silence. No immediate recognition, no quick reaction. Just that pregnant pause that said they understood intuitively, the moment required a measured reception, not a flurry of responses.
“Jun’s never met him,” Chan clarified, voice low. “But Seokmin has.”
Chan allowed himself a small pause, leaning further back against the table, letting the story breathe. “A few years ago, Seokmin was in Los Angeles. In a vocal workshop. He didn’t know many people, so he wandered and explored to kill time. One evening, he stumbled across Joshua playing guitar in a small café. Apparently Joshua did it during his free time.”
“They talked a little. Met again, briefly. It was… intense in that fleeting way people feel things when they know it won’t last. Like a summer storm, electric and sudden. Seokmin and Joshua both realized that the other had dreams too, experiences that mirrored their own. But it ended quietly. No fights. No hurt talks. They just… separated.”
Chan’s voice softened, almost reflective, as if he were sharing a personal observation rather than a report. “They haven’t spoken since.”
The silence that followed was thick, yet it carried no weight of judgment. It was thoughtful. Each of them understood, without needing to say it aloud, that connections had limits and lives had detours — but here, now, the paths were converging again.
Jihoon’s hand reached instinctively into his bag. He pulled out the paper, placing it flat on the table. Smoothing it gently, carefully aligning the edges as though every crease mattered. The names, written plainly in ink, seemed to settle into the room along with them.
“There’s another complication, in case Jun is right and the two of them will be the next ones on this paper,” Chan said, a measured caution in his tone. “Joshua lives in Los Angeles. While right now, Seokmin is there temporarily and won’t be back in Korea for weeks.”
The words lingered. They weren’t panic-inducing. They were logistical, practical—but heavy in their implications. The connections weren’t just emotional or mystical; they were tangible, spanning oceans and time zones.
“Okay, so that leaves us with two choices,” Seungcheol said, voice quiet, deliberate. His words were heavy, tempered by the steady patience he always exuded. “We either convince both of them to come to Japan — which, from what Jun said, doesn’t seem possible anytime soon…”
“…or we go to them,” Mingyu finished, a hint of pragmatic decisiveness in his tone.
The implications settled in the room like an invisible current. Oceans to cross. Schedules to untangle. A growing network of people to coordinate. But there was no fear. Not yet. Only awareness, and the quiet, steady resolve that they had already crossed impossible edges before.
The paper stayed where it was, inked names awaiting the next steps. The connections that had begun as lines on a page were now unmistakably taking shape, weaving together people who had not yet met, experiences that had not yet converged, and powers that had not yet been fully understood.
Chan finally let himself exhale fully, allowing his shoulders to drop. Outside, the city continued, unaware. But inside, the group had reached another threshold. A threshold of knowledge, of coordination, of readiness. They had another journey ahead, another ocean to cross, another layer of connection to build — and the first threads had already been woven.
The silence in the room was no longer emptiness. It was awareness, anticipation, and the quiet, unspoken agreement that whatever came next, they would face it together. And far away, beyond the reach of their current understanding, the next lives waited, ready to step into the circle they were only beginning to comprehend.
