Part 1: Time (1/1)

“Wake up now Daehyun — your parents are here to take you home!” That statement echoes in his left ear in an explosive manner, causing the dishevelled boy to rise immediately from his slumber. He descends with incredible speed, messing up the walkway in his advancement. A clutter of upturned chairs and trodden clothes greet his feet, tilting the partially glazed-eyed individual forward and the stairs eagerly sketches his sleepy face. The danger of rolling down the flight of stairs — albeit sounding extremely comical — is avoided as his hand instinctively grabs the coated railing. Instead, Daehyun allows himself to groan at the considerable injury, rubbing his eyes lethargically before continuing with the same blinding speed, if not more. Another eventual slam on the laminated floorboards reminds him that he is definitely no graceful swan in the mornings. Even so, he is gladdened that he has finally arrived on the ground level. That means that the entrance door would not be that excruciating far. Grinning with delight, he resumes a nearly dignified posture as his frame occupies the entryway. “Good morning, dad and mom,” greets Daehyun helplessly, held captive by his bubbling emotions. Though he usually pauses in deference to his parental figures, the lack of response forces a frown to surface on his expression. His filmed eyes struggle to complete a pictorial depiction, but he is able to descry some flecks of greenery and withered flowers when something grey defiles his vision. The boy ends up on the floor for the third time that morning, perplexed at his abrupt predicament but the ring of cruel laughter easily crimps his heart. A rough cough escapes his throat, inevitably annoyed. Daehyun realizes that he should have known that it was too good to be true. With callused fingers that dig the flooring, he lifts his head to meet the man’s dark gaze. They belong to the social worker’s. The collared shirt man who is approaching his early forties crosses his long-sleeved arms, with one of them holding the daily newspaper. Bleakly, the boy concludes that was the weapon which earned him a spot on the floor like ordinary dirt. “Daehyun, how dare you come down in such an insolent manner?” questions the man venomously. “Act like your age! All the younger ones here are less taxing than you are.” His hard eyes negate any notion of reasoning, reflecting the dreadfully messy state that the boy is in. Daehyun knows that even if he speaks of their trickery, it would only sound like a poor excuse. Glaring as long as he dared to at the troublesome twins, the boy lifts himself to a standing position before executing a perfunctory bow. “My deepest apologies,” is what he expresses with a somber demeanour. “I will make sure that this doesn’t happen again, Mr Jung.” The murmur of apology feels like a disgusting lie on his reluctant tongue. Mr Jung’s scorn is still evident, most likely entangled with disbelief. The man takes a fistful of Daehyun’s russet hair, strands of it trapped in his bony fingers. The boy doesn’t raise his head or voice. Pulling him upwards so their eyes would meet once more, the sneer is distinct in the older one’s words. “Looks like it’s been a while since the last punishment,” comments Mr Jung with cold dissatisfaction. “Show me if you can still do some mental equations. Multiply your age by two and five tenths and add ten to it.” An ill mumble slips out of the boy’s mouth, and a sharp slap stings his right cheek. A nearly impertinent and disinterested laugh threatens to vocalize from Daehyun’s being. This whole procedure is too sickening familiar like a game. And he did not particularly enjoy such pointless pursuits. “Since your senior isn’t going to answer, I would like someone to prove their worth to me,” remarks Mr Jung with a sinister smirk, his eyes scanning the crowd of people that is surrounding them. The age group varies from a mere six up to fifteen, some wearing curious expressions, some terribly entertained at this misfit. The social worker chooses one of the twins, which incurs Daehyun’s irritation, responding with a gleeful sum of sixty. Smiling disparagingly, Mr Jung’s attention returns to the sour-faced boy. “It’s time you remembered what happens to people who don’t follow the rules,” is all he warns with a wicked glint in his soulless eyes, dragging the twenty year old by the hair into a nearby room. The thick door bars shut with a haunting resonance, and Mr Jung tosses Daehyun carelessly like dead weight. He stifles from grimacing, clutching his suspiciously damp forehead. He wonders if he is injured already, because that would never do. Regardless of that detail, the twenty year old stands on his feet rigidly to face the man squarely. By then, Mr Jung had already equipped himself with his favourite weapon — the coarse leather belt. The tousled haired boy could only blink apathetically at the sight of that damaging accessory. He allows his eyes to temporarily wander, noting the deceptive setting of this area. A stranger would find this place comfortable, fit with snug cushions and rounded furniture whereas he finds it a dull sea of hidden weaponry. Chill blades beneath seat covers and woollen rope acting as curtain fasteners. How terribly inviting. It is the first blow on his left shoulder that robs his focus. Had it been any lighter, it would have seemed like a knighting ceremony, but it is certainly not. A heartless laughter taints Mr Jung’s appearance. “You do remember how your punishments proceed, right?” he asks rhetorically. “Be a good boy now…” Curling his hands into shaky fist balls, Daehyun curses inwardly before relenting. Buttons are unhooked as he turns around ever so slowly; removing the white shirt he is wearing the night before. Years before, he may have attempted in lashing out at the man, or even expounding the fact that the twins trapped him into this, but no — he submits quietly. With a bitten lip that bleeds because Daehyun realizes with utmost clarity that in spite of their unlikable nature, he wouldn’t want them to bear the horrific torture that scarred from the inside out. Dabbing his tongue at the hurt spot, he frowns at his own virtues that only brings more unnecessary trouble and affliction. While Mr Jung deals terrifying blows on his patched back, the sullen twenty year old starts out extremely silent. Every loose skin that unhinges itself from him invokes the great need to cry out; beg for intangible mercy, but it will not happen. Not within the initial twenty strokes, that is. Expert flicks ghosts the surface of his neck and Daehyun’s knees give way, crumpling onto the ground in an ungainly manner. He suffers to a crawling position, but his weakened state would not permit him to rise to a dignified stance at all. Mr Jung accosts him sharply to shout louder in his agony, or else the searing injuries would be heightened to another degree of alarming proportions. The shirtless boy loosens his tongue at last, screaming bloody murder at the man who he detests so much that the red liquid on the floor would curl. Mr Jung laughs with a sick sense of triumph, happy to continue the remaining forty strikes with delayed pleasure. Daehyun feels impossibly useless, hoping to find anything to hold onto while he drowns in such unfair suffering. His bloodied fingers grab something sleek, and his heart catches at his throat upon realizing that it’s Mr Jung’s black boot. Only he is permitted to wear shoes in the house. The brown-haired boy squeezes his eyes shut before feeling the gravitational pressure that suffocated his offending limb. “How many more?” is what Daehyun weakly rasps unintentionally with erratic breathing, lying down on the ruined floor. The leather belt swings into his clouding vision and a deceiving chuckle mentions ten. That would mean fifteen. He didn’t know if he could take it any longer. Today, Daehyun sighs painfully and curls into a defensive ball, gaining Mr Jung’s disgust at such inadequacy. After all, he has run out of advantageous options a very long time ago. Time skips like a forgiving blur as the man roughly sketches the boy’s lean face, with metal engravings on the collarbone and other creative methods. Mr Jung is fearfully skilled, able to inflict spurts of pain at will with the most skimming trace of a blunt apparatus. The iron taste floods Daehyun’s mouth and he assures himself with deadly resolution that this moment of submission will not be in vain. As long as anger is coursing through his veins, there will be no inner rest. Perhaps some would describe the twenty year old as patient — and he would, too. For patience is a caged animal that is honing its claws in disguise while it presents a mask of compliance. The very notion paints a smirk on his battered self. By the time the last blow is delivered, he is writhing on the floor with immeasurable anguish. He swallows a big gulp of air before colliding into the ground. With closed eyes, Daehyun imagines the day where he could free himself from these chains of torture. It sounds quite unlikely for the time being, but he knows that he will achieve it. Even if death is required to complete his goal. “Time’s up, Daehyun,” mentions Mr Jung with a nonchalant mien. “Just some patching up and you’ll be fine as always.” The honeyed voice appals him, but even he is aware that some reactions have to be discarded. Mentally nominated as the worst sadist ever, Daehyun does not cringe to benefit the man when the antiseptic skates across his abused skin. Potential tears are blinked away rapidly before the evidence of the uncouth disciplinary act is fully removed. The unlocking of the door leads to the twenty year old bolting up the stairs to properly dress himself for the day, rushing down in the speed that would orchestrate the ascension of paperwork. Minutes later, Daehyun arrives into the crowded kitchen with the rest of the orphans without a smile. It is terrible enough to think that they are to express their gratitude verbally to the double-faced Mr Jung, so amiability isn’t exactly the brown-haired boy’s priority. Still, customary greetings protrude the atmosphere. “Good morning,” is the poor excuse that scratches Daehyun’s windpipe, and equally superficial murmurs are returned. Mr Jung enjoys a jovial ambience on the most part. Both parties seat themselves at the assigned corner of the rectangular mahogany table, with food already served by a quirky twelve year old spectacled boy. In this household of variant personalities, they too have shifts when it concerns chores. A bare compliment is given to the aforementioned boy, who grins in delight, while the russet-haired boy only shakes his head at the other’s ignorance. People could be so deluded, be it with words or the slight difference of a bodily reaction. A sneaky tap involuntarily jerks Daehyun’s right hand, feeling numb. “Your day must have been rather eventful,” assumes an eleven year old girl who always wears checkered dresses. With a shudder, the twenty year old jacketed boy surmises that the social worker may have a somewhat creepy fetish. He peers at her knowingly. “Very,” he mutters with a hidden sigh, digging his fork into the prepared breakfast. Later, whilst most of them are midway in their consumption, a ring on the doorbell draws Mr Jung’s utmost attention. “Excuse me,” is all he says — for manners are something important regardless of the other person involved — before leaving his food unfinished to address the visitor. A closing door; the gruff tone that speaks beyond the institution quarters. The fusillade of speech ensues. Latest gossips regarding a top-secret runaway from the Jung household fill the air, of obsolete escape paths and the rumour of the social worker’s son are the few topics that permeate. The energetic chatter is contagious and unexpected for the bright-eyed Daehyun. Though the lack of manners bothers him to a slight notch, but he is almost relieved that he has not been the only one that is thinking of outwitting Mr Jung’s institution. However, their freedom of speech mars his forehead with a salient frown, fully aware that in spite of how he wanted to join in carelessly with their speaking, every moment of this continuous exchange would endanger all of them to certain judgement— The brown-haired boy opens his mouth and the voice that enunciates is not his. “What a terrible set of children,” mentions Mr Jung disapprovingly by the doorway, having returned from attending to the visitor. “Have you not any manners? No more unnecessary banter at the breakfast table, please. Here — the milkman delivered some bottles today.” With a chorused apology of varying pitches, the twelve year old spectacled boy takes the goods from the man and evenly serves the others. The prompt finish of eating breakfast delivers an irrefutable request to the twenty year old. The man expresses that there are several grocery items that are required to be bought, plus some inconsequential details. With a nod that signifies his acknowledgement, a thin smile demeans the social worker before more specific requests are expounded to a few more people. “Thank you for breakfast,” says Daehyun dryly to no one in particular before pocketing essentials into his carrying compartments. “I promise to honour my freedom to move and thus, abide by the curfew.” The obligatory oath is listened by some, digested by none but the shrewd man. After wearing his dark sneakers, Daehyun pulls the hood of the navy blue jacket over his russet head and heads down the hill. His slim figure jogs towards the nearest bus stop, waiting for the said transportation which speed exceeds his best capability effortlessly. He need not wait long. The faint rumble of the wheels denotes its impending appearance, causing the people who lived on the outskirts to access the towns easily. With a hidden sigh, the wary boy gives the priority to the elderly and young mothers. Only then does he board the bus, where a grim conductor temporarily halts his entry. The intentionally quiet boy passes his social security card and other complementing documents to the man, when a flicker of interest manifests. “What’s your name, young boy?” questions the conductor. The jacketed boy blinks once in extreme speculation for his name is already stated on the aforementioned card. With a knowing crease of the brows, a firm, “Daehyun,” is all he says. A mean smile dominates the conductor’s countenance. “Surname please,” inquires the man. The boy’s eyes dilate. “… Jung,” he verbalizes through gritted teeth and partially clenched fists. “I’m sorry? I couldn’t quite catch your name.” That statement sends the boy over the edge. “My name is Jung. Dae. Hyun,” snaps the twenty year old with a glare. With a satisfied smile, the conductor merely asks him for a thumbprint scan and bids him a good day. What a farce, in his opinion. The hooded boy pockets the necessary items once again and chooses a seat by the window. The people subtly move away from his immediate area of vicinity. A poor groan itches his throat as he stares at the outside world, falling into a strange mix of smudged colours when the bus picks up the pace. More than ever, there is more plausible reasoning than detesting the fact that both he and Mr Jung are sharing the same surname.Discrimination of the parentless run amok in this current society, so much that the previous law enforces that these orphans — be it the effect of a war or any other means that leaves their offspring helpless — to be put to death, for children are not of substantial use in the development scheme. He is more than aware that people like him would have been given not a second chance at life if a board member at the juridical court had not chosen to intervene in the chancellor’s decision-making. A compromise had been enforced, to which the member’s suggestion of planting institution for such desolate younglings on the outskirts of the clustered towns. It is then decided that all social workers are to refer themselves as Mr or Mrs Jung, whichever honorific that suffices, and that all the orphans under their care to inherit the surname. But Daehyun is not certain as to whether it is better to obtain such an opportunity after all. Having a life like an abused apple isn’t exactly the most lovely or desirable. Also, the free discrimination towards the Jungs by the majority of the citizens is not a pressure that everyone could handle. It is partly because of that dilemma that allows people like himself to venture outside, brave enough to deal with the onslaught of social imparity. Nevertheless, the brown-haired boy much rather keep his identity hidden by donning the hood over his outward appearance at all times, if possible. His eyes stray to his dull wristwatch — gifted by Mr Jung most courteously after an unexpected beating — countlessly, each second proving to be precious because other than running errands, he is definitely no drone. During these periodic getaways from the house on the hill, he is searching for a way to escape his future predicament, one that absolutely felt like a governmental imprisonment in disguise. For the recent years upheld diplomacy as a dominant factor, and while the law denotes the Jungs’ basic right to live under a surrogate’s care, reaching the adult age of twenty-one is the end point of such mindlessness. Those left uncared for at this point of time will become a part of the colossal governmental system, to which the boy does not want at all. The only way out that is quite impossible for he is to be adopted into a willing family. However, he thinks almost nothing of that idea, for the twenty year old has been the longest member in that hilly residence, sad to say. A family would only adopt an aged teen if they needed an immediate heir for the dying. With acquired knowledge, Daehyun is sure that Mr Jung has definitely submitted some bad reviews on him especially to leave him to suffer at the hands of the government that exploited him in the first place. Exploitations are made in the form of ridicule, beatings and reports being second-classed; less valid. Reports by good-hearted people are falsified; and the social workers of the orphan project would file a case of defamation. Eventually, people shut their mouths about rumoured mistreatments. The Jungs in general also arrive into families with several conditions endorsed by the authorities, sickening the jacketed boy to the very core. Thus, the possibility of a successful adoption is rare, and that kind of luck is not something that travelled with Daehyun by chance. In his mind, he would affirm that this act of apparent kindness is only veiling their future intent to implement child labour and young adult employment. As the bus steadily pursues its destination, the boy leans against the side of his chair and recalls a distant yet vivid memory. A young girl of eleven who he fondly referred to as Snowflake is recently adopted by a kindly couple. He remembers the tripped laces of her shoes, her speech impediment that made her a target for mockery. The way her eyes welled up at the disparaging comments and her inability to fend for herself in the institution. Tiny hands that hugged the keepsake scarf whenever tears fell, and how warm they felt as he wiped her sorrows away with his fingers. They were an inseparable pact over a short time of two years, for they have similar qualities, yet it is not her mere existence that is causing him to remember her now on the bus ride. In fact, it is something more questionable. “Daehyun,” she once whispered to him during one of their distancing periods from her bullies. “Why do you keep getting picked on by mister? Why are you getting bullied like me, too?” Wide eyes, the innocent tug on the hemline of his shirt and the natural, adorable drag on his second syllable, the brown-haired boy had cheerfully dismissed the short girl’s opinion. But now that she has been whisked into her happily ever after, Daehyun realizes that her words are germinating in the back of his mind. With immense pondering, his mind wanders. A brief word of thanks is articulated as he hurries down the steps after his usual submission to the respected group, his hooded figure weaving through the crowds fantastically to get some grocery shopping done. Hands grab the needed condiments, eyes scanning the plethora of stocked shelves and legs found themselves running towards the counter after a triumphant finish. Having rushed so much in his life, Daehyun did not tire easily. It serves as an advantage, of course. The twenty year old hands his social security card to the cashier, who deducts the points from the account and shoots him a dirty look, but nothing more. Taking a deep breath to regain his wavering composure, he leaves the store with one plastic bag each per hand. Planning to occupy the rest of the time he has fruitfully before the curfew drags him back to the wretched household, his heart does a mini somersault at the notion of the things ahead of him. The tinkling bell signals the owner that a customer has arrived, a jacketed boy who deployed the hood over his brownish bangs; an entry made possible by forcing his back against the glass door for his hands are engaged. A small laugh is heard, and instantaneously stifled. The lady of the shop, ranging in her late twenties to early thirties, looks to him with great interest. “Why, hello there young man,” she greets amiably with a placid smile. “Have you anything that you are going to buy today?” Blinking passively, he nods. The occurrence is rare, for Mr Jung is not one to favour sweetened delicacies such as regular pastry or candies, but today proves to be differing. He sets the two plastic bags of shopping at the broad counter before carrying a tray to place some bakery items on it. After a brief contemplation, he picks a chocolate doughnut that Snowflake would love. He knows that she will not receive it, but he surmises that it is the thought that counts. “Here,” presents Daehyun with a customary smile; indisputably stiff. A mild slap on his shoulder is what he earns for that lack of friendliness. “Oh, you,” points out the lady as she handles his items. “Have you forgotten my name already, Daehyun? Pass me your card, please.” An unamused expression tilts the corners of his mouth as the card exchanges its holder. The hooded boy’s eyes hold a flicker of emotion. “I have not, Miss Cher,” assures the twenty year old tersely. Miss Cher smiles in evident delight, processing his items quite quickly. Keying the respective numbers into the digital machine, more points are reduced and the pastries are packed into a simple box packaging. The twenty year old frowns petulantly at the thought of managing two plastic bags and a boxful of baked edibles all the way back to the Jung household. It is almost maddening. He stares blankly when he realizes that Miss Cher is looking at him expectantly, withholding his card and items. A slight chuckle rolls off his tongue when he sees her inquiring look. “You don’t miss a thing, huh,” is what Daehyun murmurs softly under his breath. Discreet glances are executed before the hooded boy carefully unzips his jacket and retrieves a shiny compact disc from a secret compartment within the deceiving fabric. Like a pair of scissors beneath a tableful of cloth. Smoothly leaning across the counter with a notable smile, the twenty year old speaks. “How does eight thousand sound to you, Miss Cher?” is the offer made as the compact disc lands neatly on the surface with another differing card alongside it. A rich laugh broadens her complexion. “I don’t know, Daehyun,” says the lady in a careless manner, not hiding her deep interest. “Making money by selling the things in your household is no honourable task.” A purposeful rhythmic tapping on the rough corner displays his doubt. “Miss Cher, Miss Cher, how quite contrary,” he mentions shortly. “Be rest assured that the money will be put to good use.” He wants to add the fact that she has helped him before, and that this banter is unrequired, but play by the rules he must. For money is of proper importance. Jung Daehyun has been earning a substantial amount of money over the years by sneaking some items out of the institution, with a disposable and supposedly untraceable card. It possesses a special coding, but the twenty year old better not lose it or else another user would be able to access the accumulated sum. Plus, he earned this particular weapon the hard way — pretending to lose the grocery shopping’s receipt one day and so the credited money by Mr Jung into his social security card would have no evident documentation, allowing a sly buy on the black market to manifest — which delivered its set of harsh beatings and devaluation. To be honest, Daehyun doesn’t really know if the card is the real deal, but it’s better than nothing. Also, Miss Cher is one of the few individuals who actually treated him with obliged cordiality. So while he attempts at this risky trade, she is a customer who he did not intend to fall out of favour from. Her lips purse into a thin line. “Deal,” she confirms with the hooded boy. Placing the compact disk into the drawer and swiping the cards involved for the following transaction, she lifts her eyes to meet his undaunted ones. Aware of the sent signal, he leans forward to kiss her right cheek with as much sincerity and feeling that he could muster. Daehyun squeezes his eyes completely shut to ignore the fact that he is becoming just like a Casanova like Mr Jung. The notion infuriates and suffocates, but he performs it to remain in her favour. As much as he hates it, he is extremely aware of a female’s response to a male’s touch. And if that would permit him the chance to a better life, he would take it unsparingly at the stake of his own comfort. Daehyun backs away immediately, eyes opening with apparent disconcertment when he felt Miss Cher moving. A frontal approach to the lips would be most horrifying and eligible to induce a heart attack. Descrying the amiable lady from a dignified distance by the counter, the worry in his eyes slowly dissolves. Horribly amused, she only ruffles his hair intimately before marking him briefly on the jawline. Turning him rubescent, she hands him his items personally and bids him farewell most easily. Hopelessly stuttering, he expresses his thanks before leaving in a rather hurried fashion. A few more unwanted experiences with biased older women and a quick lunch consisting of delicious baked wraps are digested. A listless gaze at the wristwatch shows the hour hand drawing to the third number. Nodding encouragingly to himself as he walks down the busy street, the navy jacketed Daehyun assures himself that today would be the day that he manages to find an ultimate solution. The brown-haired hooded boy thinks to himself with raw emotion as he weaves through the throng of people that surely each hour he has been investing to find a way out will be worth it soon enough. The twenty year old knows that with each step, he is getting closer and closer to the outcome he desires— The feeling of falling backwards without a single warning, especially one that related to an accidental impolite bump by a herculean stranger, is not uncommon to one like he. As gravity draws him so much closer, the boy only sighs quietly and closes his eyes, bracing the impending impact on his body. He has always known the need to submit to things he could not alter. Thus, extreme astonishment travelled intravenously when the shortest albeit failed attempt to grab his wrist is made. Crashing into the floor, Daehyun only allows himself to wince for a few seconds before identifying the uncommon individual. Keeping a tight grip on the plastic bags, he stares up at the person. The one who intended to assist turns out to be a boy who seems to be about his own age — twenty — and possesses thick layers of brown hair, covered by a regular beanie which suits his beaming face. He is wearing a pale shirt and his hair tickles the top section of the firm collar. With a grin, he speaks. “I say!” mentions the seamed cap boy. “That was quite a horrific fall. Come on, we’ll get you up and running soon enough.” Daehyun looks him sceptically. It is rather rare for one to help someone around here, more so the fact that he too, is a male. Usually people only extended their support to one of opposite gender because of certain benefits. He would plead guilty to that if it concerns his money-making business. He figures that if he stays wordless, the other would be annoyed and leave. After all, he did not have much power in himself to entertain others while his goal is ticking continuously. Yet the other person appears serious about the proposed statement because smilingly, he offers his hand. The rumpled twenty year old boy blinks at it, taking in the detail of his smooth palm, unlike his faintly hurt ones. The difference feels painful somehow. Stuck in his thoughts, it is the other’s articulated insistence which brings him out of the box. “Alright then…” suggests the beanie-wearing boy after a pause. “If you think it’s that awkward to take my hand or something, you could always pass me the pastry box. I don’t mean to upset you, but the contents are probably spilled…” By then, the hood which contributes to Daehyun’s anonymity had fallen off, and his messy hair encompasses his facial features. Hastily lifting the lid of the pastry box, the other’s prediction proves to be accurate. All of them save for Snowflake’s supposed doughnut survived the fall. Daehyun could not restrain from feeling rather saddened by that. He closes the lid and sighs. Noticing the fallen one’s downcast expression, the corners of the beanie boy’s mouth stretches to a wider grin. “Don’t be that upset,” he adds cheerfully. “I’ll treat you to some dessert and tea in exchange for that ruined baked item.” Daehyun displays a strained laugh at his absurdity, scratching the back of his neck rigidly. It is most doltish of another to offer compensation when they are not at fault, surely. “Who are you — some philanthropist?” comments the twenty year old with a sudden, temporal smile. The beanie boy’s eyes widen with wonder then. “You look really handsome when you do that,” says the boy approvingly before laughing at his apparent label. “Goodness, no — I’m just good old Yoo Youngjae though. Call me Jae if you wish.” Three seconds secures the jacketed boy’s answer. A slight, “Alright then, Youngjae…” is remarked with a hint of disquiet before he finally gets up on his sneakered feet. He passes the pastry box reluctantly to Youngjae, wearing the jacket’s hood over his head once more before picking up the two plastic bags of grocery. A low sound indicates Youngjae’s dissatisfaction. “Take it off,” he demands straightforwardly, gesturing towards the hood. Surprise dominates Daehyun’s face instantaneously. He protests subtly, but his acquaintance blankly speaks of harming the pastry box unless he complies. “You better not regret this, Youngjae,” mentions the twenty year old with a salient scowl as eyes narrows in the beanie boy’s direction. “Be careful of what you wish for.” Removing the hood, a permanent barcode is seen on the back of his neck; a reminder that a Jung member is always bought at a price. It is awful. The people near them, upon spotting that disgraceful mark, either made fun of him or opted for avoidance. Walking down the street, the twenty year old speaks once more. “Is this something you were searching for?” he questions dryly, knowing that if only he wears the hood or if only he is permitted to grow his hair longer, this need not happen at all. “You must be quite the masochist then.” Have he any choice, Daehyun would not be keeping this overly preppy guy company at all. “I’d much prefer walking beside a decent guy than some hooded fellow,” responds Youngjae with an infectious grin. “So tell me, Mister Jung — what does your name happen to be?” Involuntarily smiling at him in return, he actually gives it away. “Daehyun,” he whispers softly, and the breeze that cuts their cold skin carries his syllables away. On the most part, the journey to the dessert shop provides a sufficient room for mindless chatters. Being quite sharp-eyed, Youngjae had been laughing to himself uncontrollably. When Daehyun asked why out of curiousity, he wished he had never done so. “You must be quite popular with women,” he teases shortly, pointing at his jawline. The jacketed boy turns a florid red, realizing that Miss Cher had kissed him there. The incident felt so impossible. Using a free tissue that he had received to wipe the stain off, he asks Youngjae awkwardly if there are any more markings. Wrong move, obviously. “Ooh,” coos the boy with a glint in his eye. “You are quite frivolous. Be careful now.” Daehyun is certain that he is rendered speechless. Though Youngjae proves to be an amiable companion, his constant chatter is beginning to wear the jacketed boy out. The trip to the dessert shop suddenly feels so long, and the fact that his curfew hour is approaching vexes him too. Questions, they are surplus in number. Daehyun is beginning to feel peculiarly numb to such notions. Incidentally, some children are playing nearby. Their simple game of rock-paper-scissors expires and they decide to have a running competition instead. Noticing a young kid who is nearing a metal pole, Youngjae’s free hand instinctively shoots out to protect the girl’s forehead if she collides with it. She does, but most of the pain is transferred to him. A twitch is all he allowed before resuming their journey. “I’m sorry?” remarks Youngjae upon noticing Daehyun’s stare. “You… do you have younger siblings?” he inquires abruptly, referring to his random act of assisting a child. A knowing beam washes over Youngjae’s face as he shakes his head. “I’m the only one,” he echoes. “It must be nice to be you, having people at the institution that can be likened to siblings. Even at nineteen, I’ve always wanted to have a brother or sister.” He grins brightly at Daehyun, and his heart turns cold. He is aware of the beanie boy’s message, but the thought of disparagement and abuse disheartens him. So with a crisp tone, he implies heavily to speak of another topic. They do. Fifteen minutes to four in the evening, they arrive. A table is chosen and menus are promptly placed before them. Glancing at his wristwatch frequently with growing dismay, he mentions that he’ll take anything that will present itself quickly. “Come on Daehyun, loosen up a little,” quips Youngjae enthusiastically. “It’s my treat, after all.” In the end, the nineteen year old orders the special dessert of the day and black tea for his Jung acquaintance, which would take the most time to make. Daehyun is having trouble in managing his frustration. This boy, does he not listen to someone else’s urgent need or something? How distressing. Since he is already at his breaking point, his usual manners are discontinued. His eyes are mostly unfocused, hands clenching on the comfy chairs in the shop. His attention drifts to the wristwatch incessantly, with many thoughts impaling his brain system at once. This precious amount of time is something he desperately wants to use to research his getaway plan. Because in spite of the fact that money is going to help him, he knows that he probably needs to do something distinct to escape the authorities. Attempting to break free would be the riskiest thing that he has ever done, but he had to. He has no wish to be a governmental servant at all, imprisoned by the laws and the chancellor’s orders. Thus, the plan is to escape once successfully. And that feels like the worst possible joke in the universe. For the social security card is undeniably useful, able to track the user if they happen to verify their thumbprint at any station. Not using it at all could be quite futile, in the sense that money is stored in it. Being so absorbed into the difficult riddle, Daehyun sincerely did not realize that he has been ignoring Youngjae’s words at all. After all, the serious brown-haired boy has a tendency of drifting into his own space over the years to cope with the pain. A cycle he wishes to break before it’s too late. A chiming noise on their table causes the jacketed boy to glance, descrying a round object that displays that the order is ready for pickup. “I’ll… be getting it,” says Youngjae with a reserved smile. As he leaves for the counter, Jung Daehyun is struck with horror at his horrible thoughts. “Take your chance and leave him now,” is what the thought insists. “It’s not like you owe him anything. Tell him you’re sorry and just go. You can live without his companionship.” He pauses, noting the truth of it. “If it’s too difficult, leave him without a word,” adds another thought. His throat suddenly feels parched, and he means to interject something milder to negate the statement but then his heart falls flat at the next line. “Do you not want to leave this forsaken life of yours behind?” Groaning inwardly, the jacketed boy knows what his heart and mind intends to do. Glancing ahead, Yoo Youngjae is already returning with the order, carrying the tray carefully so that no spills would transpire. “Youngjae, I…” almost stutters the twenty year old with a guilty stab at his heart. He places the tray on their table noiselessly before sitting across him, wearing a solemn expression. “Yes, Daehyun?” questions Youngjae with the imperceptible tilt of the head, his eyes depicting a sense of acknowledgement. His eyes, they look full of unspoken understanding. Staring, the jacketed boy is aware that his companion has been watching him attentively to a fine degree. “Ah,” is all Youngjae contributes after a beat of silence, fidgeting with his beanie subtly. “Do continue.” All of a sudden, Daehyun feels gripped with conviction that his cruel act of leaving this person behind would be immoral; wrong. Taking in a deep breath, he slowly turns his wristwatch into a position that he will be unable to take the ticking time any longer. The face of the wristwatch settles beneath his wrist. With this, he has decided that he will stay with him after all, regardless of his great want to discover the craved path of the one who once escaped, if the person really exists. “It’s nothing to worry about, Jae,” he finally whispers on a soft note, taking up the metallic fork to purchase a piece of the crumbly cake. In the perpetual rush of his life, Jung Daehyun realizes that there is time, after all. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- This chapter is exceedingly lengthy. I have no idea as to when I will have the time to write the next two, but I hope you have enjoyed this piece. Like I said before, it can be treated as a oneshot as well.Thanks again for reading this. May you be left satisfied with the first chapter of With Severity. (: