Chapter Text
It's always a little unsettling, Chan thinks, talking to one of these.
It took him some time to figure out exactly why engaging with clones always gave him the chills, but eventually he realized they reminded him of Grandma Bang just before she passed. Same look. Monotone voices and frail, lifeless hair.
Grandma Bang went peacefully. Dementia didn’t have a chance to ruin her entirely, but Jeongin wears the same expression that she had at the end of her life. That thousand yard stare, signaling an early departure to another realm. It's just that Jeongin will never go. That's the thing about him. Never have the chance to decay or live out his days in peace. One day, once they deem him useless, they'll simply shut him off.
Jeongin's hair is the color of ash, and his eyes are like the deepest night of winter.
But as Chan sits there staring at him over the metal table that separates them, twirling the pen between his fingers, he realizes that talking to Jeongin has always felt different. Like a near-flawless imitation of sentience. At times, Chan thinks he can see something move behind the curtain. There'll be a streak of light, like a lone star crashing through the void in his eyes, and then burning out. But then it's gone. And also, mostly due to principle alone, and because of knowing his story, Chan absolutely refuses to call Jeongin Clone 143, the name in the documents from Bioseed Clones.
Saying his other name feels a little awkward, but it's also mentioned in the file that lays wide open on the table. Jeongin.
Jeongin, Jeongin. This Jeongin is a strange phenomena.
The sharp white light in here doesn’t do him any favors, really. He looks even more sickly pale. Unusually pale, pale. Pale, like the sun’s rays never even came close to touching his skin.
"So...Jeongin?"
"Yes."
Jeongin looks at him attentively, but without emotion. His hands are clasped in his lap, like he's a school boy reciting a prayer at church. There's a strip of mud running from his temple and down his cheek, but otherwise no one could guess he was occupied in anything unusual recently. The black waistcoat he wears is perfectly ironed, white shirt tucked neatly under it.
"What exactly happened today?" Chan clicks the pen, ready to take notes. Just a tiny hint of irritation bleeds into his voice at having to sit here at this hour, again. He could be at home, in bed, but he wanted to deal with this first.
"I don't really remember," Jeongin answers, dragging the syllables apart until they float into space. And then there’s nothing more.
"Why did you run away from Mr Choi’s mansion? You were disturbing traffic.”
"I…I think I took a wrong turn. I walked out the door, cause…cause I must have been confused. I was in the middle of doing laundry."
"You were…confused?"
"Yes. I just walked in the wrong direction."
Chan rolls his eyes at the vapid answers. The poor kid can't help it, but still. He never really thought about it, but Jeongin has a kind of distinctly foxlike appearance. Especially his eyes. They're elongated, and slightly tilted.
Definitely a fox.
It gives him an odd aura of mischief, a strange sign of life within the endless void. Cheekbones, high and marked. Hair, a little wavy.
"You were nearly hit by a car," Chan points out, unable to not sound condescending. But it’s not like the kid will pick up on it. "The driver had to make a sharp u-turn and hit a streetlight. Pedestrians were in danger of being harmed.”
They collected the kid just an hour ago, after receiving a call from the furious driver who nearly hit him. He followed willingly, not a word spoken in his defense, not a complaint filed. No communication whatsoever. Not until now.
"I'm very sorry for all the trouble I caused, officer,” he says in the same dry fashion, and Chan rubs his eyes with his knuckles. There's no awareness to be found here, so why is he wasting his time?
He focuses on the file in front of him again, the pages detailing the entirety of Jeongin's short life. Headshots, serial number. But no earlier convictions. Clones wouldn’t have convictions, anyway, because they’re bred to act like docile sheep. Docile sheep commit no crimes.
"You've been staying with Mr Choi for...a while now, right?" He stares at Jeongin’s headshot. The background is white and clinical and he looks like he’s made of wax.
"That's right,” Jeongin confirms with minimal interest. Chan stares at the picture, and then at Jeongin. He has made visits to the Choi residence a number of times over the years, just to check out some simple noise complaints, as well as a case of possible breaking and entering recently. While Mr and Mrs Choi freaked out over their maybe-stolen but probably just misplaced jewelry, Jeongin had hovered behind them with his head lowered. Like a shadow in the dark, easy to miss unless you know him to be there. Unnoticed, unseen. Chan's eyes had constantly wandered.
There was just something about him.
"Uhuh," he says, hearing how sardonic he sounds. It might just be frustration, because he really wants Jeongin to say something of value. "And what are your daily tasks at Mr Choi's house?"
"I cook, I clean. I do laundry. And I organize the wine cellar.”
"Ya-huh...and does Mr Choi treat you alright? Takes good care of you, doesn't make you work too hard?"
"Yes. Mr Choi is a very kind man.”
"Alright…good. You shouldn't leave your home without permission, you can get into some dangerous situations if you walk out alone. You know that, right?”
Chan knits his hands on top of the table and waits. The interrogation room is quiet and stuffy, and his coffee has gone lukewarm.
I’m very sorry," Jeongin says in his insufferable robot voice. "I promise to never misbehave or cause trouble again."
“You didn’t — eh, anyway, nevermind. I guess we’re done here. You can go home."
Mystified, Chan leans back in his chair, feeling his bed beckon him all the way from home. This conversation is fruitless. Opening the file again, he reads the same records, in hopes of finding the answers Jeongin won't give him. Clones do not run away from their homes. Ever.
It doesn’t take long until the metal door flies open, and Minho’s chestnut head peeks in.
"Hey," he says, his eyes scurrying to Jeongin, and then to Chan. "That Choi guy is here to collect the kid."
Several colleagues suggest the clone glitched and should be put down, which makes Chan's organs scream out in pure misery. Put down. That’s wrong on so many levels, like they're talking about a rabid dog, but he doesn't argue. He usually has the energy to, but not now. It's gone one AM in the morning, the rain pours down outside, and Choi Rian arrives to collect his runaway servant.
“Where did you find him?”
Chan glances at Jeongin, who stands obediently next to him in the lobby, his attention elsewhere. No reaction, no shift in mood. No signs of distress or aversion, either. Mr Choi sounds out of breath and smoothes out the wrinkles in his navy peacoat.
“We, uh...someone reported him," Chan explains with a curt nod. “He was roaming the streets and crossed a busy intersection. Then we found him in an alley nearby. It’s okay, really. He caused a bit of a commotion, but no one was hurt.”
“I must have left the door open. Sorry, I'm so sorry about the inconvenience," says Mr Choi, and bows politely. "I’ll take care of this, I really appreciate the police force's help. Come, Jeongin.”
The pair take their leave, and night closes in. Mr Choi’s large, ring-clad hand reaches around Jeongin's shoulder to escort him out.
From a distance, it might look like a protective measure, an interaction you would see between a parent and a child. A gesture of love. But Chan observes something different. That grip looks steel-wired and bruising, leaving absolutely no room for escape.
After all this, Chan might start to listen to his gut more often. When it knows, it knows, that’s what he always said. It knows when it’ll rain, and when pollution levels rise to unbearable and he should just stay home. Just, no one’s interested in listening. This city is like a dry wasteland where nothing grows, barely a flower, and definitely not kindness, hope or love, or any other things that are pure and innocent. That’s what he’s always said.
You set out for peace but got nuclear war
And bashed in the eyes of them all.
Focusing on work is impossible. The station is buzzing, all hands on deck as they recover from a short-staffed week of full hell. It’s Friday. It's the peak of winter, for christ’s sake. There’s drug lords and homicides and hysterical people calling about being snowed in, and needing the tow car, as if it’s their job to supply.
Chan doesn’t care about any of that shit, they can remain snowed in for the rest of the year, for all he cares. All he can think about is his own, very personal vendetta against the clone industry.
Because of his gut and all of the things that it knows. Because the police station received a report of a missing clone. And that clone is Jeongin.
Jeongin has been gone for three days. Three.
How is he not dead? Is he dead?
Chan is sure he's developed a stomach ulcer or something, and that the burnt coffee he chugs by the buckets isn't the only one to blame.
Jeongin could be laying dead in a gutter, face paling beyond what he ever thought possible. Snowflakes swivel down to cover his body, and then he’ll turn lifeless beyond what anyone ever thought possible. Not like that would take much. Clones have no innate tools to navigate the labyrinth of this debauched city on their own. They have no idea how to survive anything, let alone a blizzard. And why does Chan care anyway?
This kid is just…a clone. But there’s nothing just about that, and Chan is attached to him, and of course he cares, because that's a human and not a robot. Each time he studies Jeongin's headshot, he’s about to be sick. So he cares. He cares so much that nausea stirs his tummy into a frenzy, and today's lunch wants to come up again.
He leans heavily over the desk in his office, head hanging over the familiar, yellowing pages. Jeongin’s documents. New notes have been added, and they don’t make any sense.
Stole a gun.
Paperclipped to the front is another photo, only a few weeks old. The freshest photo of Jeongin. It shows a well-groomed young man, eighteen, with a facial expression that Chan can’t discern. It isn't a smile, not a frown either. It’s just apathy.
His smile was unearthly. In his previous life, he smiled more. Now he doesn’t have it in him to smile.
"Hey."
Minho enters abruptly like always. He uses Chan's office for many purposes; as a lounging area, and sometimes cafeteria, like now. Chan’s attention stays on the files. But he just reads them over and over, and it’s so useless.
Jeongin — Clone 143.
“They should be banned," he hears himself saying for the fifty-eighth time ever. He can feel Minho and his ham-sandwich breath as he leans in to have a look.
"Who should?"
“The damn clones.”
He flips to the picture on the next page. Mr Choi. A fine specimen of a man, wearing a suit just as spotless as his record. Side-combed black hair, his chin regally raised, eyebrows straight and thin. On his left wrist, Chan can make out a very expensive-looking watch. Minho coughs and chews and gets crumbs all over the floor.
"Chan…I know this is shit.” He sounds sympathetic, but blunt, in that typical Minho-escue way. “You know the rich pay for them, as long as there’s a market. You know that, and as long as there’s a supply of fresh DNA to use, they will keep being manufactured. They cost almost nothing to keep, don’t demand pay. You know we can’t do much about it except hope they're treated well.”
Chan grumbles that he knows that. Money over morals. Of course he knows that, that there's actually people willing to sign a paper and allow the clone companies to stop by to harvest a little skin sample because it pays good. But who would cash out on their newly deceased loved one for a quick buck, really?
Heartless degenerates, that's who. This city is destined for ruin.
The times he talks to clones he can count on one hand. Clones are not part of society, they're like inanimate objects, like phantoms in the homes of the wealthy, only stepping out for rare sightings. He nods stiffly.
"It just needs to stop. The whole industry, I'm telling you. It was the worst idea ever, to start creating these, I mean who in their right mind considers this even remotely okay? And it's about to go so horribly wrong. It already has, and no one gets it."
Can do much about it. He thought he'd be able to do a lot more, but turns out he's just a pawn in someone else's game, because the law is catering to the old and the greedy, and no one else.
"Couldn't agree more, I just don't know how to stop it," Minho says, and settles heavily into the chair across Chan’s desk. Minho actually looks deceptively irritated most of the time, like he’s fed up with everyone’s shit. But he's a softie. Chan knows that, because he’s known Minho for a long time now. He's one of those people who believe that they can make a difference, a real difference in the world, if he just stays on the grind. An optimist where some would call him naïve.
Chan doesn't judge him for that — in fact, he wishes he could be more like Minho. And he was, once. Easy to get along with, the friendly neighborhood cop who rescues kittens from trees, and helps old ladies cross the street. He might even have been called passionate, then. Not so much the things he is now, too cynical, grumpy, and crumbling under the weight of society. Always questioning everything, because why not?
“Why would a clone steal a gun anyway?"
Chan thinks out loud. He imagines Jeongin doing that, and it’s imagining the unimaginable. He doesn’t seem like the type, not a merciless killing machine gone rogue, by any means. "They’re supposed to be harmless. No ill intent. Like robots, no will of their own, just designed to do whatever is asked of them. Right?"
"They are," Minho confirms with dejection, and tosses the sandwich wrapper in the bin. Is it moral, no. Does anyone care? Also no.
Jeongin is only a few years old. He doesn't know that, of course, because he doesn’t really grasp the concept of time. He knows nothing, and sometimes, Chan wishes he was just as blissfully unaware. And then again, fuck no. It costs very little to grow a clone into a fully capable artificial human within a few days. Jeongin is not supposed to know anything, as per the design of his makers, just carry out his duties with tireless diligence.
Housekeeper, they call them. Chan calls them slaves.
“You look like you’re about to stir up mayhem again,” Minho comments innocently. Chan looks into his attentive doe eyes. Again.
Having an opinion is considered causing trouble in this town. He knows exactly where Minho is going with this, and doesn't want to hear it and come to grips with it at all.
“I’m not. Just want to find...him. Something about this stinks, I feel like there's foul play involved.”
“What do you mean? The guys are saying it's just a malfunction, something in his programming that flipped."
“You think it's that simple? He just turned from calm and totally oblivious of the outside world, to lethal, and took a hike? You know how they usually have this vacant stare, like they’re just empty vessels with nothing inside?"
Minho nods and winces in discomfort as he pictures it. It’s not right, he’s not one to disagree. Chan leans over his desk, closing his eyes until he can see stars. He’s developing a headache.
“Well every time I met the — him...I felt like...he...might be more conscious than they usually are.”
"Really?"
“Clones don't knock a big ass man down and steal a gun, and especially not this one," Chan concludes, his fingers curling around the front page of the folder. Suddenly he has an uncontrolled urge to go home. Lock all of the doors, barricade the walls, and tell everyone to fuck off for a while.
"Nope.” Minho bites his lip and swirls a lap in the chair. “No, they don't."
He gauges Chan’s reaction, deeming the tight-lipped silence fitting. Some practices have always been hard to wrap their minds around. But everyone around here, even the kind-hearted officers, just repeat “it is what it is” on a loop. If one questions that, one might land oneself in hot water.
“Chan, I know it's shit. I don't agree with it either, but don't try to argue with Beom, cause you know you'll end up —”
Exactly what or where remains a mystery. On Chan’s desk, the automatic notification system starts to go blink and go wild, drowning out Minho's voice.
“Ah, fuck. We have to go, and I know, Chan.” He points to the file, and then to his friend. “This shit is fucked but we have to go. Okay? Don't get yourself even further into your cold war with Beom, please. Don't cause a scene.”
Chan snorts incredulously. Him, a scene? Never would he dream of such a thing. He finds himself grabbing his belt and following Minho's lead out of the office. Through winding corridors and past cubicles and jaded police officers that all look the same. This disturbing case isn't all that pressing, it seems, what with all the drug dealing and illegal gambling plaguing the city. Chan is probably the only officer who thinks a runaway clone is a bigger deal.
Deputy chief Beom, a short, round man with a nasal voice, greets them in his usual pouty manner. Chan tried to tell him a joke, once, something about two cucumbers crossing a street. But it didn’t go down well. Deputy chief Beom considers jokes a waste of time, so therefore, he’s automatically at the top of Chan’s list of most uninspiring people ever. And therefore, even if he was talking about something new and exciting, Chan wouldn’t be paying attention anyway.
He zones out, rolls his thumbs, and pretends to listen to whatever unimportant details are being shared. But he’s just thinking about Jeongin. Jeongin, the clone, who is braving the elements outside as they speak, equipped with a gun.
“And if you find the clone, seize it,” deputy chief Beom finishes his briefing. He pauses to look at them like a stern school teacher, one by one. “Take it to the station. Mr Choi wants it investigated and potentially shut down.”
The rest of the officers glance at each other, but nod dutifully. Shut down. That's a sugar coat for terminated. They make it go poof. There's a little specifically brewed potion of doom that they inject into clones that no longer serve their purpose. No blood and guts and all, they just shut down, much like a machine. Chan already knew where this was going, and quite frankly sees little point in arguing. But has that ever stopped him before?
“On what grounds? Just like that, like pressing a button? That's a human, you know, and this is insane."
The deputy chief turns to him slowly, his little beady eyes already glimmering with menace.
"Not you again."
"Just asking a question.”
Chan’s fingers keep tap, tap, tapping at the tabletop. He doesn’t move a muscle. He does not care, not about Minho’s glare that tells him to shut up, or about a potential suspension . If no one pipes up, nothing changes. But now deputy chief Beom is in front of him, having turned tomato-red and all worked up in seconds. Christ almighty.
"It's not a human, it's a clone.”
"It has organs and a brain and shares our DNA, and it needs air and sustenance and rest to function. And it can feel things. I'd call that human."
“It doesn’t matter what you’d call it. It stole a gun, Mr Bang. It’s unheard of, and this is an unusual and potentially threatening situation, so do as you're told.”
"He stole a gun."
“Semantics,” comes the barked response. Chan feels like spitting some obscenities, so he studies his nails instead. It feels safer to look away while the little rant continues.
“Mr Choi owns the clone, he’s reported that it started behaving violently, knocked him down and ran out. There's something wrong with it. We don't know why, or what a clone with a weapon might be capable of. If you encounter it, you will bring it to the station. That is all."
Deputy chief Beom turns on his heel and marches off, the door rattling on its hinges as it flies open. The other officers in the room observe, but stay quiet. Looks of empathy reach Chan from all sides. But who are they to fight the establishment? They’re not the ones to blame, and Chan only feels more bitter, and feels just a little bit more resentment, as if there’s even room for more.
“Yes sir," he says to no one in particular, still staring at his fingers. He needs to trim his nails.
Minho walks up to him, and is met by a shrug. If he were to take a wild guess, Chan’s temper is going to murder him. Or get him sacked, which is basically the same thing. Without anything to occupy his days with, he'd go crazy anyway. The guy is a bit unpredictable. He has kind eyes and a kind smile, and a heart made of glass and a shell made of rock, and no patience for injustice. And this world is full of it.
“I know what Beom said, but don’t get yourself in trouble, I mean it,” he says as they walk out, becoming disgruntled at the chuckled reply. Chan just saunters off with the usual spring in his step, turning briefly to throw a wink over his shoulder.
“Wouldn't dream of it buddy. See you later.”
Him, getting himself in trouble. As if he would ever do such a thing.
It's easy to get oneself into trouble in this town.
It's a fun place, if you enjoy concrete, litter, and massive neon signs inviting you into questionable places for gambling, drinking, prostitution and decadence. There used to be trees, once. Chan knows that, because Grandma Bang told him. She talked about lush green forests and lakes with sparkling silver water in her youth. But now, the trees have been cut down. The atmosphere is all smog and sweat and cigarette smoke, unable to sustain life.
Chan only saw one in a picture — a tree. According to Grandma Bang, it’s why they installed massive air filters on top of buildings throughout the city. Clean the air, so they can breathe it. Trees would be better, she said. It’s all gone to shit, she said, and then she took her last breath, and traveled to greener pastures. Chan is inclined to agree, but such is a digression.
He backs out of the parking lot he was stalling in, the tires leaving deep slush marks in the snow and grinding it into gray sludge. If there’s anything positive to be said about the approaching snowstorm, it seems to have chased away all the crooks from the streets and into their caves for the night. He can’t spot a soul anywhere. Good for him, at least.
When Chan was younger, the idea of becoming a police officer felt more appealing. More magical, somehow. He entered the police academy with the idea that he could end up saving the world, or at least a block, but it didn’t really happen like that. All the years of too-early mornings and paper-cup coffee have left him a little more disillusioned.
What kind of trash world is this, and is anyone worth saving? Nothing grows here. The buildings all look identical and everything is synthetic. Even winter.
Surely, it had its charm once, but this winter is harsh, bringing out the worst in everyone, Chan included. He drives without counting the streets now, because he sees them in his sleep, in his past. He knows them in and out at this point, but without realizing it, his eyes flit back and forth across the dashboard with vigilance, even though there’s not much to see.
He doesn’t fully realize it, but he’s actually looking with clear intent.
He’s searching for Jeongin.
Jeongin, Jeongin, Clone 143. But where on earth would he go?
A clone has nowhere to go. No home beyond its assigned one, no family. No instinct or desire to go anywhere.
Snow starts falling diagonally as the wind picks up, and Chan’s windshield wipers work overtime to keep the windshield from freezing up. It’s getting late, and he stops at a gas station. The residents huddle with their mugs of tea and stale doughnuts, and chat about the same old things as always. The damn weather, the damn inflation, and someone's upcoming hip replacement surgery. Chan salutes them and steps out again with his own tea, and heads into less frequented territories, further and further into the night. The older side of town, where many have met their fate — users, alcoholics, prostitutes, orphans. The invisible citizens of society. Graffiti covers every wall, and unless the snow hid it, the mountains of trash would be visible. The older side of town is unsettling, but as he drives past the old public library building, he faintly recalls going there a few times as a child.
The library. It’s closed now.
The library closed down because no one is reading books anymore. They watch porn and gamble and lose it all, and fall into heavy debt. Everyone, everyone but the rich, with their fancy servant clones, and they keep getting richer. Chan’s grip on the wheel tightens as he looks out of the frost-tinted window. Now it’s just a desolate, forgotten chunk of history, no one in sight or mind. The flurries get thicker and stickier, and the notification screen in his car lights up in regular intervals, various announcements filtering in, but it can do that all it wants. None of it sounds too urgent. The most urgent thing is nowhere in sight.
It’s useless, and tonight will bring little, if any, action. So he might as well head back. Maybe to convene with Minho, to quiz him on any potential sightings. And maybe head for a drink at his place after their shift ends, to complain some more, and numb his mind. He takes a right turn, and then a left turn at an emergency signal that’s just flashing yellow. But then, he only gets about halfway.
Because there’s a heap.
There, just as he passes it, sitting along the doorframe of an old, boarded up strip joint, there’s a heap. Blanketed in a thin layer of powder snow, sure, but it’s clearly a someone.
The car jerks on the slippery street as Chan hits the brakes, and flings himself out of the car, leaving the keys in the ignition and the heating unit blasting. He can’t get out fast enough, but one thing is certain right away as he wades through the white dunes. He didn’t stumble upon a corpse. Because the pile moves, a little bit, he’s sure of it.
It’s difficult to see through the snowfall, but another thing is certain. It’s a person. With every step he grows more certain that it’s not just a person. But that it might actually be…
“Jeongin…kid?”
Chan’s heart skips at least ten beats when the pile moves again. He reaches for his handheld flashlight to click it on, squinting to see properly. But once the area is illuminated, he finds himself paralyzed. Not just that, but he’s staring into the barrel of a gun.
“Don’t come any closer.”
He nearly shits himself then. There's no trace of apathy now. Jeongin’s face is not lifeless anymore. This is not the face of a robot, no. The streetlight casts sharp shadows across his face, and his fingers clasping the handle of the gun so tightly that Chan can see the bones shift in his hand. Snowflakes keep swirling around them, while they just stand there, in a silent draw. Chan’s hands have already flown up on reflex, his voice ready to bargain and cajole.
“Take it easy."
“Leave."
This is so bizarre that he wonders if he stepped into his own lucid dream. Maybe he’s actually home in bed. Firstly, Jeongin sounds nothing like Jeongin. He sounds like a growling fox cub, and his excuse for winter wear is sad. An ill-fitting, gray coat, not nearly thick enough to protect him in sub-zero weather. A scarf that’s soaked, beanie with frozen clumps of ice stuck to it, no gloves. Frost sticking to the ends of his hair. Chan moves a little closer, making sure to keep his hands visible.
"Are you hurt?"
"I said leave. Just leave me alone."
Turning now that he finally located the runaway? No way in hell. But Chan stops, and looks down at Jeongin with polite interest, as if he's just encountered an old friend out on a stroll.
"What will you do if I leave, hm? You've been outside for days, it's doomsday cold out here. Where will you go?"
Chan hopes for the best. Little puffs of vapor escape from Jeongin’s nose into the cool air, and thin, long fingers curl around the gun like vines.
"You don't have to worry about that, just turn around and get out of here,” he croaks out, followed by a cough. His tongue sounds heavy and slow in his mouth, but he seems completely coherent. He also looks like he might have a pretty good aim. This could turn ugly.
“You don’t want to do this, believe me,” Chan warns, paying attention to what each one of his limbs is doing. Feet, hands, be still. No surprises. Can't make a wrong move.
“I really think I do,” Jeongin says flatly and cocks the gun. The sound unleashes a rain of memories in Chan’s brain. Shattered glass, blaring sirens. Close encounters with unstable individuals powered by mania, pure adrenaline, and sometimes drugs. But somehow, he can’t find it in himself to tremble. No attempt to reach for his own firearm, none. He's dodged many bullets, and even encountered a handful of cold-blooded killers. And this is no killer. It's just a lost kid. A frozen snow flower. He takes the smallest, smallest step forward.
“Do you remember me? From a few months back?”
There’s a sniff of recognition. The gun still hangs mid air, one pound of life-dismantling steel in the hands of someone very desperate.
“Of course I remember you. Officer Bang.”
“Yeah. You said things were fine then, with Mr Choi.” Chan speaks calmly, while he makes quick calculations. He's fairly sure he could grab that thing before Jeongin could react, but he can’t really be too sure. “Listen, I don't know what happened that caused you to run away. But whatever it is, we can fix it. I'll help you.”
A smile meets him then. A tiny, resentful thing, a pretty uncomfortable thing. And Chan is definitely not talking to a robot anymore.
"Nice speech, almost convincing. I know what happens if I go with you."
"You do, huh? I promise, though. Cops honor.”
“Cops honor." Jeongin's mean smirk grows in a way that makes the hairs in Chan’s neck rise. And his smile would be pretty, if it wasn’t so haunted and bitter. "What honor? You have no honor, no one in this city does. All you do is lie and manipulate and take advantage of the weak, you and your so-called protectors of society, and you don't give a shit about anyone but yourselves. You’re taking me straight to the station.”
"Jeongin, listen, I’m not.”
It’s a little rough around the edges, because in all honesty, it was the deal Chan signed up for. Collect the clone, drop it off for termination, as per the regulation that he despises and hates with every fiber of his being. Another life just callously taken. Mr Choi will place another order for a pliant housemaid, and another, and another. Perhaps he’ll file a complaint for a faulty product, and choose a double-checked, triple-checked, even-more-perfect specimen.
For sure. And it’ll be like Jeongin never even existed in the first place.
So what’s a guy to do then?
Well, break a few laws, possibly. Just a couple.
He stares at Jeongin, at his hands that shake, his voice that's broken into erratic pieces that color the snow black. The gun shakes in his hand, too, and Chan starts worrying that something hasty and reckless will happen for real.
"I promise," he tries again, but Jeongin doesn't want to hear it.
"I’m done playing around now, you're going to let me go, okay? So back off, leave to wherever you came from, and we’ll pretend you never saw me."
“Okay." The tone is familiar, like a fire alarm seconds from going off, so Chan lowers his head in instant capitulation. "Okay, alright, sure, we'll do that."
It sounds pretty convincing. And it’s shameless, but he has a knack for acting. He should have been an actor, cause that’s what Grandma Bang always said. It's not like he's about to just leave, but he really wants to give off that impression. So he backs off a few feet. Jeongin gets up on shaky legs, but he looks seconds from toppling over again. This weather leaves no one unscathed.
He struggles to catch his breath, all his attention on his revolting lungs, and Chan sees a window of opportunity. He’s fast, too. Gun wrenched out of the unsuspecting hands, and Jeongin whines in surprise as he's spun around. It's comically easy, like wrestling a child. Jeongin goes limp almost right away, as if he anticipated this but it doesn't feel right by any means. It feels dirty.
"What, you're gonna go all melted cheese on me now?" Chan mutters while he pulls the cuffs from his belt and Jeongin sags against the wall, just accepting his fate. "Kind of preferred the fire-spitting beast."
He observes the young man critically, then empties the gun's magasine of bullets and turns it over in his palm. It looks fully functioning but hardly used.
"Why did you steal his gun?"
Jeongin shifts on his feet, struggling to adjust to the restricted range of movement. He sounds congested and like he's given up on everything.
"Cause I knew people would be coming after me."
Right. Chan keeps his words tucked away behind his lips and pockets the emptied firearm. The wind keeps howling at them in regular intervals as if to tell them to get the hell inside, and fast. Jeongin’s arm has stilled in his grasp. And this, as it dawns on Chan, is now his responsibility.
Well, shit.
What to do now?
He stands there, grappling with himself, but it only leads him back to the starting point. Who is he kidding, exactly? This was the only outcome. The only acceptable route, despite the fact he’ll be harboring a fugitive, in technical terms.
“I'll take you home, to my place," he hears himself saying, as if it’s that easy. As if he's picking up a stray puppy. And it’s not as easy as just going, either. Not when Jeongin looks like he’s talking to filth that he wants absolutely nothing to do with.
“I don’t trust you,” he says, each quiver on his vocal cord audible. Sure, he doesn’t, that much was clear already.
“I don’t think you have much of a choice in that matter. I promise I won't hurt you, I just want to help you."
Promises. What do they mean? To Jeongin, they're just dust in the wind. He wants to argue further, but he interrupts himself, his voice becoming small and swallowed by a another wet cough.
"You have a cold too, huh, figures," Chan mutters, using his arm to steady the collapsing body. They need to get out of here, now. Jeongin’s coughs are the kind that sound painful to listen to, let alone endure. It makes Chan grit his teeth and wonder how long he’s been coughing like that.
“You’re okay, let’s go," he commands, tugging them forward. Jeongin has gone limp, deadweight that is quite easy to maneuver into the car. He doesn’t weigh much, and Chan decides he isn’t much of a threat now (as if he never was). So he uncuffs him again, before his arms have a chance to lose even more blood circulation.
It’s pitch black, and Minho has left him several messages, and even more calls. While Jeongin coughs and fades in and out of consciousness in the back seat of his cruiser, Officer Bang keeps his promise. Minho will kill him. So will everyone at the station. He should clock out since it’s the end of his shift, which he doesn’t, and they will all kill him, and then resurrect him to kill him again. But the thing is, he lives in the moment, and maybe in the past, a little. When everything was greener and better, and when Jeongin wasn't. But the original Jeongin was.
Jeongin mumbles some nonsense as they make the last sharp turn, something about needing to find someone, but without context it’s just little garbles of sound. Maybe he's developing a fever. Chan glances over his shoulder, hoping no one will see them. But the streets are as barren as before, so he mutters at the kid to just stay put.
The two bedroom apartment he calls home isn't exactly welcoming, by any means. It’s located inside a square block of concrete, just one in a row of many more blocks. The furniture is mostly gray and boring, too. Because Chan has no significant other, no one to tell him to add cushions with tassels, or a potted plant here and there, or something.
(He did have one, actually, but she packed her things and left. It's been over a year now, and a few days after her departure, Chan saw her in a nearby shopping mall, exchanging saliva with some toupee-wearing business class snob.)
It's just another reason why winter, has lost its charm. The Christmas trees at the market were synthetic, and everything else, too. If he ever sees a real spruce, god forbid, he might find it within himself to care again.
The place is as he left it. If he knew he’d have company, he would have tidied up. There are unwashed dishes in the sink, and beer bottles on the table, kindly left behind by Minho. But somehow, he has a feeling his guest cares little about the mess right now.
"Here we go, I'm setting you down on the couch, alright?"
Chan mumbles reassurances and dumps Jeongin on the couch as promised, tapping his cheek lightly. He’s a bit scared that he’s lost him already, that the life will just seep out of him and onto the floor any second now.
“Hey…Jeongin?”
It takes a while, but then his eyes open like blinds, blinking at Chan in slow motion. And there’s that calculating fox stare again. He seems to become aware they’re not outside anymore. A ceiling, bright white lamp, dark blue velvet curtains. So they're inside, which is an improvement, to be honest, no matter how unsure of this whole situation he is. He struggles to sit up and accepts the blanket handed to him, quickly burying his face in it. Basic first-aid training tickles the base of Chan’s brain. Treating hypothermia. They need layers.
“I’ll get you something dry to wear,” he grumbles and marches off to his bedroom in long strides.
What will even fit this kid? Nothing, everything he has is going to be a bit oversized, but that doesn’t seem like too much of an issue. Item after item ends up on the floor as he rifles through the closet. Sweatpants, two layers of sweaters. Woolly socks. Chan slides off his own cap and drags a hand through his head, noticing it’s sweaty and plastered to his head.
So maybe he was a little nervous then, after all. Tiny bit. Anyone would be when there's a gun pointing at them, but while he’s in here, he quickly changes out of the police uniform and winter coat. Some old sweatpants of his own, and a t-shrit with a printed bunny in the front, that he recognizes to be Minho's. Maybe the kid will be more partial to him if he looks more like a regular twenty-something, and a bit less like the scum of the earth he has been branded.
Jeongin’s cough is what makes him race back, clothes in his hands. He finds the kid horizontal, having doubled over as he heaves and hacks uncontrollably. God damn it. Chan curses out loud, and runs to get a glass of water, and then, nearly slipping on the floor on the way back.
“Breathe, come on. I don't need you to suffocate now, please, I don't want to have a corpse on my hands. Look at me and breathe, in, and out.”
He grabs onto Jeongin's shoulders just as he’s about to keel over again. Somehow, it works. His voice is hard, but gentle enough to make Jeongin recall why he’s fond of Chan in the first place. Why he smiles timidly each time Chan stops by Mr Choi’s mansion, even though he never noticed.
Chan always looked at him like he was a someone. Like he was seeing an old friend in passage, each time he took off his cap and nodded at Jeongin, too, when greeting the Choi’s. It’s so meaningful to Jeongin, the tiny bit of kindness that Chan shows to him.
"I'm okay," he presses out, shying away from Chan’s touch, and into the corner of the couch. His throat burns, but at least he can breathe again. The clothes are set down onto the seat next to him without theatrics.
“Here, change,” Chan encourages him, and nods to boot. Jeongin studies the little collection with hesitation. But it's like he can't ignore a direct order, it's like it’s weaved into his DNA, not to disobey authority. Moreover, he’s soaked to the bone. So he starts to work his coat off, and that’s Chan’s cue to leave for a moment to give him some privacy.
He hangs the drenched clothes to dry, and then finds himself in the kitchen, standing over the sink with his gaze locked on yesterday’s dirty dishes. The leaking tap. And then, the kettle. He should move things along, make himself useful. He fills the kettle with mechanical motions, and raids the cupboard for teabags. A sensible voice, filtering in through the chaos, tells him it’s a good idea. Maybe some crackers and fruit, too, he has to eat.
Jeongin has changed and sat up, his hands bundled into sweater paws and wrapped around his knees. He’s startled as Chan makes an appearance again. Somehow he's had managed to forget there’s two of them here. But he’s hushed, the table cleared, and the mug set down.
“Careful, it’s really hot.”
“What is it?”
“Just tea, don’t worry, not poisoning you. Peppermint.”
Whether or not Mr Choi ever treated Jeongin to hot beverages remains a mystery, but it doesn't seem like it. He casts suspicious glances at the mug, before he finally reaches to snatch it. Like a raccoon pocketing some stolen treats. And then, he retreats into his private corner again.
Chan can't help but snort a little at his odd mannerisms, before he flops down next to him. He figure's that safe to do. It's unusually quiet. Like the entire block has gone to sleep. Well, it has, it’s that late. It’s just the blizzard that rages on and turns deadly outside, with no signs of stopping. And what the hell should he do now, anyway?
If he had a plan, it only reached up to here, and not a second further. They’re warm, and out of harm’s way. And then what?
Jeongin takes cautious mouthfuls of his tea, and Chan watches him discreetly. The color that returns to his skin, little by little. The damp black waves of hair that flow down and lick at his cheekbones. His bony knees. Questions bubble to the surface, amplifying along with the hum of the heater that Chan has turned to max. Questions. It feels strange to talk to Jeongin, now that he’s within a few feet’s touching distance.
"How did you even know how to use a gun?"
He receives a quick side-eye. Jeongin looks to be caught in internal warfare again, wondering if he should really put his fate in this person’s hands. Well, it’s understandable. But the desolation in his mind and weariness in his bones wins. If he can’t trust Officer Bang, he can trust no one.
"I saw Mr Choi load and unload it. He has a whole collection."
"Does he really." Chan scoffs at that. Seems suspicious to say the least. "And where have you been staying for three days? It's freezing cold outside, and you must be absolutely starving."
"Well I…I crashed at an old factory," Jeongin reveals, shame dusting his pale cheeks pink. "And…I'm not exactly proud of it, but I shoplifted some food from a corner store."
He sounds genuinely apologetic, as if that’s a the scummiest of crimes. Not in this city, baby, not even close. It turns Chan’s heart to mush, a little.
"Well, don't worry,” he says, offering a genuine smile. “I won’t charge you for it, I’m just glad you survived. We have other things to worry about. Remember back at the station a few months ago, after you had left Mr Choi's, and I interrogated you? When you allegedly took a wrong turn out of the door in all your confusion.”
Jeongin glances up at him, his jaw muscles stiffening. Chan is certain he remembers, and that he was fully conscious back then, even though he managed to conceal it with impressive ease.
"Was all of that an act? Did you mean to escape his house then, but you were caught?"
"Maybe I did."
A barrier raises between them. It's clear he doesn't want to talk, and it's understandable. But maybe’s aren’t good enough. They don’t have time for cryptics right now.
"I really need to know what happened, why you did that.”
Needles of confliction tug at Jeongin's face. Chan waits. The wind presses its nose against the window outside, watching two peculiar characters interact in peculiar ways. But the hour just grows later. There's no answers, and Chan takes the empty mug from the kid's grasp.
“Hey, Jeongin,” he presses. “I need to know why you ran away from Mr Choi.”
It feels like history repeats itself, and he’s talking to a creature with zero communication skills again. But it's okay, Chan's patience is thick, and his voice softens.
"Jeongin. I can't stress this enough, it's really important that you tell me."
“I need to go find my friends.”
Red-ringed eyes turn to him, and he straightens out his posture, one of the cushions falling off the couch. Jeongin looks at him breathlessly. If Chan wasn’t scared before, when being faced with a gun and most-certain-death, he is now. Surely he must have misheard.
“Your —”
"My friends," Jeongin says again, with more emphasis, and there’s hiccups in time. Hiccups in Chan’s brain. His neurons bounce around like ping pong balls, unable to comprehend this. What the hell is happening? Should he have seen it coming, was this what he worried about subconsciously, ever since he learnt of the disappearance?
The mumbled sentences back in the car weren't just gibberish, and Jeongin is more conscious than anyone thought. And for the first time, Chan wishes that he wasn't.
“What…what are you talking about?”
“My friends, I need to find them. That's why I left."
“Jeongin,” Chan repeats like a broken record. This will turn absolutely turn ugly unless he saves it, and he scoots closer, but the kid shoots up then. Out of his reach, and onto the rug.
"I keep seeing them in my sleep,” he explains, tripping over the words, as if he can’t get them out fast enough. “And I remember things. Snippets, like really vague scenes from a flimsy film. I have all these memories that I didn't have before."
"What things?"
Chan swallows down the clump of bile, and keeps his eyes fixed on Jeongin. He walks back and forth, gripping his forehead. Back and forth on Chan’s rug, the coffee table separating them. His expression is focused, as if he’s trying to exorcize a demon.
“I don't know. It's foggy but I’ve been having dreams, about us. And I’ve been remembering their faces, their voices..." He stops then and turns to Chan, his eyes blowing into saucers. "I know that I was somewhere else before I started working at Mr Choi, cause I remember them. I needed to leave, cause my friends are out there. I just know they are."
He looks to the tall windows, at the churning storm outside. Outside promises nothing, it’ll eat him alive if he ventures out there. Chan is certain he’s the one pale as a ghost now. Jesus christ.
Two and two make four. This is all about to go to shit. He gets up, moving slowly, even slower than earlier. Just don’t let this happen, not this.
“You remember…them?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Jeongin confirms with enthusiasm, using his sleeve to stifle another cough. “I even remember their names, and I remember us living together…before, I just can't recall where, I can't recall any details. And Mr Choi wouldn’t let me leave, but I just know I need to." He stares down at his knuckles, skin cracked open by the cold, and then up at Chan. And then, counts on his fingers, name after name.
"Felix, Seungmin, Jisung, Hyunjin…I have to find them.”
So he can smile. Chan witnesses it. Like a sky lighting up with fireworks that fade too fast, because it'll be gone too soon. And this Jeongin has no braces, of course he doesn’t. Because he’s perfect. All those tiny flaws terminated in the process, at the moment of creation, no braces needed. Chan thinks and time ticks, and he knows he has to catch this situation before it spirals beyond what he can mend. The kid’s smile starts to sag already, the leaves on the flower start to wilt, and the petals loosen.
"Chan? I have to. They're out there somewhere and they must be looking for me too. Cause we’re best friends.
Nervous lines begin to form in his forehead when all he gets back is utter silence. He tries louder.
“Will you help me find them? Please.”
Chan kneads his chin with one hand until his jaw aches, and time has run out. How to express this? He can’t, and he has to. The stupid storm outside, and the stupid police force who will stop at nothing, and he has to. And it's then Jeongin becomes frantic in all his desperation.
“Please, please Officer Bang, I miss them."
"Jeongin, listen."
"If you won't help me, then I have to leave, I've been looking for days already."
Jeongin is standing on the rug, and then he’s not. Chan jerks around, following him to the front door, one step behind him. Is he about to fling himself out into the icy hell, without shoes, without anything?
"No, no, hold on. Hold on.”
He catches the hem of his sweater, gathering the fabric into a tight fist, and yanks. A little wrestling match starts, but ends quickly. Chan tries to soothe him, while Jeongin strains against him, repeating that he has to find his friends. It’s just awful.
"Listen to me —"
"Please just help me!"
“They're gone."
Chan’s words sound like a gunshot in his ears. And they put a stop to everything. The useless battle they’re fighting, cause Chan will win anyway, even though he doesn’t want to. But they also end the tiny spark of hope, and extinguish the fire in Jeongin’s eyes. He steadies himself against the door and swipes the bangs out of his forehead, sheer shock overtaking his features.
“What?"
His voice sounds miles away. Chan watches him, a flower that withers, the last one. This shouldn't be happening. He clears his throat, his fingertips still clinging weakly Jeongin’s arm.
“Do you know how clones are made, Jeongin? Do you know how you were created?”
All he gets is a head shake. Of course he doesn't, cause no one tells him anything, cause he's not supposed to question anything.
“No," he says roughly, his voice torn apart by anger and heartache. "And I don't care, cause that's not important, all I know is these memories are real.”
“They’re not,” Chan chops him off. “Well, they are, but they're not yours. You’re not supposed to remember any of this, or question anything about your existence. You’re not even supposed to have a long term memory. You were created to be a robot."
He feels like a devil, a destroyer of all things good and pure, for having to say this. Somewhere among the pile of clothes he left behind in the bedroom, his phone wails and begs for his attention. Jeongin looks at him with disbelief. And then, with simmering anger again, because that can’t be true. He backs up until he can’t anymore, bumping into the dresser behind him.
“How can I have them then, they’re real. I remember them."
"Listen to me." Chan tries to soothe him, while still having to discard the truth as fast as possible. It’s the only way. "Your body double, the kid whose DNA they harvested to create you…you’re a replica of him. It's his friends you’re remembering, his life, his past. It never happened. Not in your lifetime, at least."
"You're lying," Jeongin deadpans, but his crumbling expression doesn’t match the conviction. It’s too much to process, it’s too much. The anger boils over, and he pushes Chan with both hands, sending him toppling backwards.
"This is bullshit, cause I remember them clearly, they're my best friends! And they exist!”
Chan, seasoned enough as he is, recovers quickly. He grabs onto Jeongi’s arms, onto his wrists. They feel like twigs in his grasp. And he’ll remember this for long, this moment, as a haunting memory, because nothing could have prepared him for this, not waking at the crack of dawn to concern this morning, not the heated situation with the gun earlier. Nothing.
“They did,” he says, giving Jeongin a little sobering shake. “Once, not anymore, they're just past projections of another life. They don’t exist anymore, they're gone." He loosens his grip, and lowers his voice several tones, knowing that it won't help. "The people you remember…all of them were students. They lived together, and yeah. They were friends, the best of friends, spending almost every waking moment together. One night on the highway, a long time ago...they suffered a fatal car crash. No one survived.”
Jeongin winces in agony, his face tilting up to search Chan for clues of deception. Analyzing the sound of every inhale, the duration of each blink. His pupils scurry around in his eyes, his cracked lip twitching, mouth closing and opening.
"Are you lying?"
Chan wishes that he was. That this was some sick, cruel joke. But all the information about his origins, the original Jeongin and his ill-fated friends, is in Jeongin's file on his desk, supplied by Bioseed Clones. The file he knows at the back of his hand. And now, the brilliant eyes flood with tears, and he can’t do anything to stop it.
"Just tell me that you’re lying. Please tell me that."
"I'm so sorry," Chan whispers. And he truly is, he’s sorry on behalf of the people he despises, that it has to be like this. He’s about to offer something more, patch up what can be patched, but there’s no time.
All of a sudden, they’re fighting over the door again, but Chan uses a hand to keep it shut, his fingers spreading out to apply more pressure. He should lock it, he really should.
"Let me go," comes a hiss after a moment. Jeongin leans against the sleek wood, sounding defeated. But he looks ready to throw a punch or two, even in this weakened state.
"Where are you going?"
Jeongin's face is hidden from view, arms crossed over his head. He doesn’t know. Nowhere, now. No one wants him, misses him.
"Anywhere."
"You'll freeze to death out there,” Chan notes with sympathy. “If they don't have a chance to catch you first."
And then he'd be gone. All clones are human, there’s no doubt about it. He doesn’t care what anyone says, and yet they’re considered disposables. But this clone is more human than other clones, he has memories, sentience, for goodness sakes. So surely they would reconsider, they would have to? But in a world so wretched and immoral, can he really be sure?
Jeongin's back moves in sync with his lungs, like ocean waves. And Chan's hand shifts, his thumb running up between his shoulder blades, feeling his vertebrae through the sweater.
"I know this is shit. It's a…big pile of shit. Just…don't go out there. You're safe here, and you need to rest, eat, and not catch even more of a cold." He bites his tongue, not even wanting to name all the rest of the dangers lurking outside." Just…stay."
He strokes palm over his back, until Jeongin’s breathing starts to match his movements. He doesn't say a word. But eventually, through the lack of protests, they come to a silent agreement. Chan can take his hand and lead him back to his safe haven on the couch. He curls up into a ball, and Chan grabs the blanket from the headrest, draping it over him. Soon he can hear silent, muffled cries filtered through the fabric. Of course.
He places a gentle hand on what he assumes is Jeongin’s shoulder, and wants to say something. Anything. But what? It feels like every single word of consolation he could possibly conjure would fall short.
What is he to do, while Jeongin mourns the loss of a life that was at the tips of his fingers, but never his.
So he swallows his own tears, and after a while, he turns on the TV. And he checks his phone. There's so many messages from Minho, but he’ll deal with them tomorrow. It'll be Saturday. He needs a plan, and he has no plan. No idea what to do. The only thing he knows is that Jeongin out into the wild, to be hunted down or succumb to the cold, is not an option.
Jeongin doesn't take any note of him now. It's like he's given up. Whether that's good or bad, Chan isn't so sure. Maybe a bit of both. Having Jeongin here in his home, wearing his clothes on his boring gray couch, surrounded by his mess, isn't a reality he's really grasped yet. There’s no metal table between them. No titles, they're not officer and perpetrator anymore. They’re — what are they now?
He takes a seat, none the wiser, and pours all his worries into a massive exhale. Soon he notices activity from Jeongin’s side. He keeps peeking at the TV screen with one eye, surveying the characters with interest.
"I know this movie."
Chan turns his attention to the moving pixels. He recognizes the title fast. Now that he remembers it, he read something about a marathon of oldies that would be playing over the weekend.
"Schindler’s list?”
Jeongin nods, heaving himself up on an elbow. Recognition flashes in the tear-stricken face as he sees the monochrome figures pass on the screen, and the little girl in the flaming red coat. The only splash of color in a dreadful world.
"It was playing one night…back at Mr Choi’s. He’d fallen asleep already. I watched it."
"Really? It's almost a hundred years old.”
"Yeah.” He nuzzles into the blanket again, pulling it all the way up to his nose.“The nazis treated the jews horribly."
"That they did," Chan hums, his brows creasing at the introspection. That’s an understatement. He wonders if any more interesting comments will follow, but no. Jeongin is beyond exhausted, to exhausted for a verbal exchange. It doesn’t take long before he has drifted off to the soundtrack of John Williams.
He whines cutely in his sleep, his eyelashes fluttering now and then. He reminds Chan of a stubborn, sleep-deprived university student. It’s hard to ignore the fact that, at his core, it’s really all that Jeongin is supposed to be at his age.
For the first time today, Chan feels himself relax into the cushions, if only a little. Outside the tall windows, behind the velvet curtains, the sleet comes down sideways against a black backdrop. Not even a street lamp is on. Because they have to save electricity, they have to save everything, while they spend every ounce of humanity they have. A life costs nothing. This city was like a beautiful song, Chan thinks, with so much wasted potential. The melody grew forgotten as the chaos grew stronger, and now nothing remains but a pitiful echo.
"Chan."
He’s pulled out of his repose then. Chan. Chan. Mr Bang.
It’s the first time Jeongin has spoken his name with such tenderness, as if he’s addressing a long lost friend. Chan reverts all his focus on the Jeongin-bundle again, clearing his throat. It’s getting late — he needs to figure out accommodation for them, and tomorrow will arrive too fast. Christ almighty.
"Yeah, kid?"
“Will they kill me cause I ran away?”
Chan feels some color drain from his face, and the scene on the TV changes to a furious battle. Jeongin looks at him, not with fear. Just indifference. Like he doesn’t care, like he would accept a yes, no, maybe, obviously . Without a second’s thought, or question. Even Jeongin entertains no illusions about the reality in which he lives, like he’s heard that same forgotten melody, too. That he knows the instruments are broken and collecting dust, with no chance of salvation. Not this, not such questions. Not this.
"No," Chan says simply, with such impressive finality that he’s almost inclined to believe it himself.