CHARACTERS

There were lessons even stories could not teach, and Beom knew that well. Even so, he read tales about the gods who dwelled high on the mountain’s peak, hidden behind layers of fog some called a magicked barrier, others a wretched curse. He read and read and read—runic myths, cryptic legends, and dusty history tomes alike. But he learned nothing he didn’t already know.

Sometimes, he walked around the mountain, waiting for something he could not quite name. Still, he always had an excuse for his mother. 

Searching for rare herbs, he told her one day. Waiting for a friend, he said the next. His mother only scoffed. She saw through his lies. He had no friends. But preparing for the winter was a cause for greater concern. He could prance around all he wanted to—through the mountains, in the rivers, around all of Joseon and back—as long as he returned by nightfall.

Nothing could touch him in the mountains. At least, that was what his father always said, pointing to a talisman over the front door of their hut, the red runes seemingly glowing under the glare of the sun. 

When his father brought home rice from the village down the mountain or, even better, a boar from hunting, he would tell Beom stories by the fire. These were tales passed through generations, immortalized as warnings whispered around campfires and funeral pyres, reminders to even the strongest of men that they must heed the law of the gods. 

Beware the wrath of the mountain god, his father whispered, raising his arms above his head to mimic the height of a monster, letting out a mock roar. After hearing the tale for the hundredth time, Beom was unfazed.

There were no gods. Beom was certain. He had explored every inch of the mountain, survived the most dangerous circumstances. If there was a god, he would have seen one by now. 

And he still couldn’t see one. 

He was light on his feet as he passed the mound of pebbles he had stacked by a pine tree one summer when he was bored, the torn remains of his hanbok he had lost after falling off a tree, and the billowing silks and ringing bells encompassing the area he was never supposed to step foot in. 

On second thought, he hadn’t explored every inch of the mountain.

The brass bells rang in the swaying breeze, warding evil spirits and warning wanderers away. But Beom wasn’t afraid. Nothing could touch him in the mountains.

The night quickly swallowed him, and the last gleams of the sun were obscured behind the mountain. He should have turned around and found his way back home, brush this little journey aside, but he felt, inexplicably, down to his bones, that someone was waiting for him.

Winds blew like a tempest, howled like wolves. Every rustle was a warning, every whir of insects a threat, every low growl a death sentence. Nothing could touch him in the mountains. 

Now, standing at the mouth of a cave, listening to the drip-drip-dripping of water, it felt like a dirty lie.

He had never explored the cave—didn’t know it existed—but as he stared into it, goosebumps prickled over his neck. Something was staring back. He couldn’t discern it at first. It was a fragile creature with thin limbs twisted at awkward angles, a mask crooked on his face. 

Beware the wrath of the mountain god. 

Beom stepped back. The masked creature crawled closer, closer, closer—

Beom ran—down the mountain, through the trees, over the creeks and rocks and boulders. He didn’t look back, not even once. If that—that thing was chasing after him, then may the gods take pity on his stupid, stupid soul. 

In the end, he never told his parents what had happened that night. It was a secret for him and him only. And if the talisman hanging over the front door mysteriously tore, if he heard whispers when he traveled through the mountains, and if he glimpsed masked shadows with twisted limbs in his peripheral vision, then that was only for him, too.

Long, long ago, there was a village past the small prairies south of a great river. The residents of this village were humble farmers who spent their every waking moment laboring in the fields, planting potatoes, and raising livestock. Nothing unusual ever happened there, so much so that the village was known to have the most ordinary people in the southern prairies.

However, these sentiments did not deter the villagers from cultivating a loving, tight-knit community that adhered to the belief a small gift can bring joy to a whole family. To share sorrow and happiness was a rule of thumb, was for the community’s prosperity.

When a villager met an unfortunate end, it was a custom to send them away in a large gathering with sorrowful cries and shouts tailing the winds carrying their ashes somewhere beyond the green grass and the blue sky. When a villager had their birthday, the village would hold an extensive celebration for everyone to attend and feel the community’s love. But these celebrations did not compare to that of when a child was born.

The birth of new life came with a promise of a week’s worth of ceremonies that introduced the new villager to the community and implanted the wonderful mentality of the collective. It was one of the most important celebrations for every villager, so to hide a child’s existence and skip the tradition was a criminal offense worthy of being burned at the stake. And that thought haunted Adaline as she held her silent child close to her chest and ran from the village to the well situated in the nearby grove.

Her child was unnatural. It was a beast, a monster. The doctor had said it was born dead, but Adaline was quick to learn that was not the case. Her child had survived, but at a cost: it had an insatiable hunger. No matter how much she fed, it demanded more and more, and without the guidance of her late husband, Adaline feared being named the mother of the devil’s spawn. So eventually, to evade suspicion, she snuck her child out of the village and threw it into the well.

With fear blinding her, it was an easy task, and she did not return for a long time until the uncertainty of her child’s faith spurred her to check whether it still lived. 

The grove was dark the night she returned. Bars of moonlight breached the fissures of the trees and flitted over the wooden bucket hanging crookedly over the well. Adaline placed some leftover pork in the bucket before lowering it into deep darkness. After a moment, she raised the bucket, and when she saw it was empty, she had to clamp down on a scream. Her child was still alive.

Out of pity, for the next few months, she fed the child dead pigs and cows. One time, she tried to feed it potatoes, but when they remained untouched, she opted to bring only meat. Years passed this way, and for a time, Adaline truly believed her child could live off scraps before dying of natural causes. It was a solid plan—one that never came to fruition because a drought hit the southern prairies, destroying the farmland.

Without potatoes, the villagers and animals dropped dead one by one, and for the fortunate survivors came a plague from the outer lands. When most of the villagers died, the remainders fled, and though Adaline wished to leave with them, she could not bring herself to completely abandon her child—monster or not. Soon, she was the last villager, then the last human in the southern prairies. 

The animals were dead. The crops were ruined. The land was devastated. Adaline saw it as a sign from God, a punishment for giving birth to a hideous beast, and she knew how to repent for her sins. 

When her food stock depleted, she returned to the well in the grove once more. This time, she did not carry any meat. Using the rope, she lowered herself into the well, and once she reached the bottom, she saw her child curled up in the darkness. Embracing her child, she waited for it to grow hungry and eat her as punishment for bringing the devil to life.

She wept and prayed to God, begging for forgiveness for the havoc her child had wrought. When her child finally moved, she closed her eyes, fully expecting a slow and torturous death, but instead, it wrapped its arm around her and held her close.

“It is warm,” it said, speaking for the first time. “Mother, you are very warm.”

The lone deserted hallway had no one but the wind as its visitor. Trees rustled outside, and cheers and thunder roared with distant glees and applause from the school auditorium. 

The city had lightning caution the gloaming sky of an unpredicted storm invading its territory. Though, it wasn’t compatible with the one seething inside a desolated boy weeping to mend his broken heart in a confined cubical box of a restroom. 

His bloodshot eyes were sore, and the salty water trickling down his cheeks burned his inflamed skin. The excruciating pain constructing his insides hindered his efforts to level his labored breath.

He coiled his trembling fingers around the thin fabric covering his chest and caressed his thumping heart. It did not seize the anguish away but helped equalize its palpitations along with his ragged breathing slowly coming to ease.

His tired lids abruptly shut as he leaned back.

A sigh escaped his parted lips as he combed his fingers through his disheveled hair, then dragged them down to brush away his stray tears.

The eerie silence enclosing him invited his mind to wander to when he ran away like a weakling instead of facing the catastrophe.

He knew the girl he adored, for whom he was entitled as the knight in shining armor, would always belong to her prince in the end. But even the foresight of a happy ending could not give him the courage to endure witnessing his love being kissed by someone else. The constant reminders and the distance he kept for days all faded to dust when his heart ripped in two. Unable to bear the stabbing ache, he fled.

Tiny sniffs escaped him, and water drops blurred his vision as the pain returned and hit him tenfold, prompting rage to take over and scorn his cowardice.

A bitter growl resonated in the air as bile cramped the back of his throat. His knuckles that once turned white were now crimson red as he smacked loud bangs against the hard exterior before him. Landing one last punch, he screamed into the void until his senses twisted in agony.

Panting heavily, he slammed his face in his palms and let time lament his weeping scars.

He didn’t realize how long he shut the world out until he heard tap water seeping into a ceramic sink and the restroom door squeaking open.

Growing aware of his surroundings, he suddenly felt apprehensive and thought it was better to leave the room. But his anxious hand around the knob froze when a female voice screeched, “Don’t!”

He stopped dead in his tracks, contemplating the possibility of the word being directed toward him since the woman seemed familiar, but another man’s voice pulled him out of his stupor.

“Hear me out for once. Please.”

“I don’t need your explanations. The damage had been done long ago, and I’ve made terms with it over the years.”

He didn’t wish to pry, but with each statement, the woman unknowingly enticed him to unlock the door and take a peek.

“It’ll hurt no less to know if you yearned for me then or now.” Her harsh gulp and glistening eyes overshadowed the slight creak of the door’s wooden frame. “So it’s better for us—for you to let it go.”

A tug in his heart made his lashes flutter the first time his glance caught a speck of the white Hepburn dress he chose for the same woman back at home this afternoon.

He knew her.

Raising his gaze, he saw those vivid doe eyes he greeted every morning. But the mirth he usually carried was replaced with suspicion for the new person in the picture. The narrow gap between the door barely allowed him a glimpse of the stranger’s hands firmly gripping her arms.

The stillness that ensued for a moment had his stare zeroed on the black ink tattoo on the guy’s wrist—a beautiful heart with a semicolon sketched as its other half.

He blinked a few times to draw himself out of the haze the unique design compelled him into just to be welcomed by another pair of fragile wrists quivering their way towards his face.

Flabbergasted, he grabbed one and reached out to brush away her hair dampened by the pouring rain and the blood stuck on her forehead.

“H-How?” His pupils dilated at her delicate body lying on the road.

“Jungkook. . .” Choi Areum whispered, a single tear cascading down her pale cheek before she gasped and succumbed to nothingness.

His limbs grew cold as oxygen strangled his lungs, his untamed heartbeats going berserk until a gentle pat on his shoulder retrieved him from deep lethargic slumber and yanked him wide awake.

I stand in a gray spectrum. On my right is black. On my left is white. At the center is a mirror.

Some days, I walk right. Other days, I walk left. Every day, I return to the center—the mirror. In the glass, there is no reflection, only color. Great, vibrant hues of magnificent blue, red, and yellow coalesce into a splatter that trumps the works of mother nature’s rainbows.

Looking at the grimed mirror, I cock my head. The colors morph into an outlandish reflection of me—sometimes horned, sometimes sharp-toothed, sometimes alien, sometimes beast, all times human—a colorful human, dimensional, layered. It smiles at me—a flat, monochrome block of cardboard—but I do not return the gesture. I can’t.

The reflection laughs and taunts, derides and ridicules, berates and scolds. “Who are you?” it incessantly sings. “I am emotion. I am personality. I am the world of my choosing, yet you are blank, flat, and chained to your spectrum.”

With indignation, I run right with no plans of returning, drowning in oceans of black, of waves of never-ending valor. Deception. Strife. Struggle. Bitterness. Selfishness. Complexity. Morality. Towards the end, with the last of my anger simmering away, I find myself back at the center, facing right.

My reflection beckons at me, goading, seducing, cajoling. Looking at the cracked mirror, I raise the corner of my lips in a mock imitation of a smile, and my reflection claps with glee. 

“Who are you?” it squeals again. “I am expression. I am culture. I am the person of my choosing, yet you are impassive, indifferent, and trapped in your cardboard form.”

In curiosity, I run left, basking in infinite skies of white, of clouds of wistful contentment. Happiness. Peace. Tranquility. Humility. Benevolence. Complexity. Morality. Towards the end, the final wisps of my curiosity answered, I find myself back at the center, facing left.

The mirror shatters, and colors reach beyond the frame. My reflection is still there, studying me with an amused grin. A lone finger points at me. 

“Who are you?”

Approaching the mirror, I stand before my reflection and answer, “I am you. I am emotion, personality, expression, and culture. I am the God of my own life and choosing.”

“Correct!” my reflection cries as it fades, the tails of its laughter echoing. I dare to touch the color seeping into the gray spectrum, to feel the onrush of striking emotion. My skin buzzes, my head throbs, and my heart bangs. Symphonies play in my ears, and emotions flare within me as vivid hues paint the gray spectrum, blessing it with distinctive culture and personality.

Joy reverberates through me. As the colors thicken, my narrow world expands into a vast universe, where trillions of lives combine and interact. Behind me, I feel the heat of my reflection’s attention on my neck. Wheeling around, I stare at myself, at my humanity. 

And I genuinely smile.

There was a dragon in the capital.

Its long, black talons reached over the crowd, hovering above the masses like a shadow of death looming over the horizon. Its tail slithered behind the path, curling over the rocks and cobblestone that bumped and bumped and bumped. Cheers clamored, hollow yet soothing, fearful yet welcoming, everything expected at the arrival of the king of Asborough.

The new dawn of war and tumult shattered twelve generations of peace, but no one felt the weight of the destruction when victory clouded judgment and blinded them from the base fear of reality. Perverse as it was, the dragon was a reckoning, the might of a forlorn hero, for wherever it trod, it paved paths of gold from crimson like magic, a sleight of hand.

Confetti danced like colorful wisps of falling snow, landing on my hair and tickling my nose. I sneezed, but the sound went unheard, meaningless amongst the high adrenaline sparking from the flint and steel that braved our enemies’ front lines.

“Long live the king! Long live the protector of the realm! Long live the Dragon of the East!”

Ahead on his golden armor-clad stallion, my father smiled and waved—so different of a mien than the one I grew accustomed to. His silver hair was greased back with sweat, and despite the wrinkles creasing his face, his looks maintained his boyish luster that charmed everyone he met. The tailed ends of his cape fluttered in the dying winds, billowing and flapping, almost like the wings of a great dragon. 

Azure powder burst in the air, flaunting the color of our nation. Stragglers joined the excitement, shoving and reaching towards their king, raising their children as if one touch was a blessing from God himself. They only saw what the eyes of their desire commanded; they only saw a pristine king making conquest through the realm. They never saw the blood, nor torture, nor death. They only basked in the prospect of saccharine triumph, not a single thought wasted on the sacrifices made.

We all knew: the soldiers behind me, ahead of me, beside me. But we sealed our mouths shut, for there were more menacing threats to consider before foolishly easing the ire in our souls. To my chagrin, my father deluded himself in his blood-tinged rewards, skillfully concealing his sharp fangs and passing yet again as the king of Asborough.

* * *

The dragon’s presence coiled around me like a snake, suffocating, dominating. Every huff from its flaring nostrils boiled the air, scorched my exposed skin, and not even the southern breeze could abate the sweltering heat.

Below, the Kingdom of Asborough reveled in its subsequent successes. Rolling hills stretched over the vast southern landscape that was dyed red under the setting sun, and flocks of birds from the war-torn south traveled north, passing overhead in high-pitched caws and screeches as they followed the gusts of the autumn wind that wafted the stench of the malodorous harbor.

From the balcony overlooking the kingdom, I watched the city thrive. The throng of commoners thinned as the moon ascended, casting a spell of silence over the land. But countless merchants and sailors still wandered the docks, carrying goods and wares to the markets for the next sale.

The flourishing city pulled me from the bitter truth of reality for a fraction of a second until my father clapped my shoulder. His cursed presence weighed me down, anchoring me like chains shackled to my limbs. He extended his arm, gesturing for me to look.

“This is your legacy, Son. Our legacy.”

The dragon was back. Every breath it took burned my nape, and for fear of death, I wordlessly nodded. My father glorified the beautiful landscape, pointing at the luscious trees and glimmering lakes, but his voice faded as my eyes landed on the horizon.

Everything eluded me—my father’s gloats, the crows gathering like black clouds, the first glints of the bright constellations in the east. Far, far away, my eyes trained on a plume of smoke devouring the southern skies.

* * *

Though thousands died in the raids, the dragon’s bloodlust was not sated. Its pointed tail sliced the air and pounded the marbled ground in aggravated impatience. Soft growls from its throat ignited bursts of flame so intense that firelight seeped through the fissures of its scales. Occasionally, the ominous clacks of its talons reverberated through the palace halls, carrying centuries’ worth of threats.

While I could not stomach even looking at the food lavishly set on the long table, my father engorged himself with detestable glee.

“We won,” he had said on the balcony many days ago, his iron grip on my shoulder toeing the edge of pain. “We are victorious.”

We are monsters, I had nearly retorted, but there was no amnesty for traitors, not even for a prince. 

As always, the streets commenced celebration, rousing lively spirits in the taverns and inns that boomed with animated chaos. Dusk to dawn, dawn to dusk, the merriment persisted, ignorant to the screams and bloodshed miles away at the border. So close, yet so far.

I remained in my seat like a forsaken puppet loose on its strings, deaf to the cheers but aware of the iron-tang scent of blood layered beneath the duplicitous aroma of sweet ale. People were dying. Mothers holding their children. Fathers daring to dissent. Soldiers burning in flames. A nation decimated at its core.

“Eat,” my father commanded, tearing into his chicken thigh.

I gritted my teeth. What I wanted to do was throw my goblet and slam my palms on the tabletop. What I wanted to do was fling my knife at my father and revel in his screams as blood gushed from his forehead. What I wanted to do was smash my father’s head with a metal plate, and strangle him with my bare hands, and feel his pulse diminishing under my fingertips as he fruitlessly struggled. What I did was cut a portion of my pork and eat it, repulsed by the vile blood each chew rewarded.

Tearing another chunk of meat, my father looked satisfied. I was on the verge of curling into a ball and retching, but the dragon pressed against my shoulders with unrelenting pressure, a reminder of what was to happen should I object.

As I swallowed, the wrangled meat clawed at my throat like human nails slowing their descent to the pits of hell. Each blazing scar was a cry, a demand: “Why do you slaughter next to that beast?”

For them, I had no answer. But for me, their anguish grew louder, stronger, faster, harder. “Why!?” the torrents screamed, shredding my throat raw, parching it faster than an inferno would a puddle. “Why do you slaughter next to that beast!?”

Dust hung heavy in the smoky air, glittering like white stars in the bars of sunlight that burst behind the swelling drapes. The dragon breathed, colored the room with soot, and wrapped its barbed tail around me. With shaky hands, I reached for my goblet. A warped reflection of my paled face stared at me and tilted its head without my consent.

“Why do you enjoy slaughtering next to that beast?” my reflection asked. I silenced it with my hand and drained the wine, ignoring the red lines it drew over my chin. Quelling my rapid breaths constricted in the grasp of a demon, I excused myself with a smile and raced to my chambers, not bothering to wait for the servants trailing behind. Locked in the pretense of privacy, I coughed up the meat, leaving the bitter sting of acid on my tongue.

Scarce patterns of the moonlight danced across my skin. The stars were alight, glimmering their mockeries in the dead silence, praying on my weakness and servitude. Smoke still clouded the south, and faint screams resonated over the rolling hills—whether reality or my imagination I did not know.

Chatter and laughs slighted the pain Asborough wrought, the truth everyone blatantly ignored, while clacks of the dragon’s talons ticked one by one, counting the seconds to my unbidden revelation. Fiery breaths surrounded me, blurring my thoughts, buzzing in my ears, blindsiding my fear, and I let it wash over and through me like sand in an hourglass, each granule a stolen life.

Slowly, ever so slowly, I raised my head to the blackened skies, felt my puppet strings grow taut. As the son of a tyrant, a monster, a dragon, no longer would I remain idle.

* * *

The apothecary called it a concoction that must not be named, a practice rooted in sacrilege and iniquity, a poison brewed from the flesh of a slain dragon. In its vial, the liquid shone a crimson akin to the blood of fallen soldiers. And like blood, it spilled gracefully into my father’s goblet until the last drip, the last ripple, and the doors of the great hall burst open in celebratory fervor.

That night, as the generals and advisors enjoyed a feast befitting gods and blinded themselves in the charms of pretty women, my father drank every last drop of his wine. I honored my victory in disguised laughter with the concubines and relished the prospect of the Dragon of the East falling at the hands of his own kin.

* * *

Colorful flowers of all shapes and sizes graced the gardens despite the whips of winter tailing the razor-edged winds. As I strolled through the gardens with my father, servants followed a distance away to allow the illusion of privacy, the crunch of their steps joining the chitters of the last insects and the chirps of the birds flocking north. Ahead, my father staggered, paused, and continued walking.

A fortnight had passed since the last embers of celebration had died in the city. Since then, the grave haste of wartime unease had settled like a dense fog, like an invisible beast waiting to pounce when least expected. Normally, I would be among those who frequented the war rooms and the barracks to mitigate my discomposure, but with the king at the precipice of his inexplicable ailment, I could not afford to divide my attention.

My father stumbled and retched, bracing his stomach as he coughed bursts of scarlet that colored the yellowing grass. I offered my hand, accustomed to the routine. Despite being unfit to leave his chambers, my father opted to show his face in public, to hold his head high and his shoulders broad, to boast our nation’s strength for all to behold.

I gripped his shoulder. To him, it was a sign of gentle reassurance. To me, it was a barrier to suppress my exhilaration. The dragon was wailing, its breaths dwindling, its presence no longer guarding the halls. Its once-mighty wings beat the ground, too debilitated to take flight, and when its bones groaned and cracked under its undulating scales that grew duller and duller, my father fell unconscious.

The servants were the first to cry in horror. I stood beside my father’s crumpled form, unmoving, embracing the tears blurring my sight. Guards raced to our aid, and I sank to my knees, weeping like a child. But my sobs were that of joyous delight, for the dragon was finally dying.

* * *

The throne was laden with emeralds and rubies, spoils of past wars and conquests. They shone like rays of light in the dimmed throne room, bouncing off the grim walls and painting a myriad of colors on my father’s face.

His silk robes swept across the marbled floor as he paced, whispering unintelligible thoughts, his thumping footfalls uneven. A haze had settled in his grayed eyes, and his body, though fully present, was doomed without a captain, a lost boat at sea. Mindless, he shuffled as he scratched clean marks on his reddening neck. I kneeled before him, studying his pitiful state, tapping my fingers to his steps.

One. Kill him.

Two. Kill him not.

One. Kill him.

Two. Kill him not.

One—

My fingers twitched, itching to grab my sword resting at my side, but I refrained. Killing him was mercy. My father draped himself over his throne, his pants echoing. One hand covered his face, while the other played with the crown by his side.

I lowered my head in deference and said, “The enemy draws nearer, Father.”

“I did not summon you for your counsel.”

“I merely state a fact. Rumors carry the word that the Dragon of the East has fallen. Once our enemies hear of our weakness, they will surround us.”

With a pained scream, my father threw his crown against the ground. It clattered and bounced down the steps of the dais, rolling to a rattling stop beside my left knee. Blankly, I stared at it—my glorious birthright, my legacy—and blinked, holding back a grimace.

“Send our strongest men to the southern border!” my father bellowed, digging his nails into his arm. Perspiration doused his brow, and the wrinkles on his face deepened with every breath he took as if he was aging decades each second.

Hiding a smirk, I bowed. “As you wish, Father.”

* * *

Blood and fire rained on Asborough like a silken veil smothering the city. Worn and drenched soldiers paved the way through the muddied streets, dragging the thick chains around their wrists and ankles. Their blue uniforms were tattered, and the sigils of the Azure Dragon etched onto their backs were stained after the grisly waltz of battle. Through the silence, past the mothers shielding their children, past the commoners watching the advancing army in terror-stricken awe, a banner showcasing the Vermillion Bird stormed the capital.

Our soldiers sent to the south were quickly dismantled, for a young general had risen through the ranks of the southern forces. He was a phoenix—one that had flown from the depths of the ashes, had dared to face the almighty Dragon of the East.

My father was perched on his golden throne atop the hundred stone steps, looking down at the general with the most disgust his enfeebled body could muster. At his side, I waited for his surrender, but his order never came. And that marked the start of an encore of bloodshed.

Our surviving soldiers were beheaded, and the capital was doused in malignant flames of bright red and blue. All the while, the general smiled, donning the face of a man who had tasted pure vengeance. With a torch in hand, he took the first step up the stone stairs, then another, and another until he stood before my father, looking down at him with all the pride his youth could muster. 

Two beasts roared, and I, though close, observed from afar, ignorant to the screams and death below. The general glanced from me to my father, who had lapsed into another coughing fit, heaving through wave after wave of blood and acid. I gripped his shoulder, but he still fell limp in his throne, breathing his death sentence.

There was no mercy in the general’s gait as he set fire to the scrolls and books in the great library, letting the explosive blaze evolve into an inferno that engulfed the palace. Ashes fell like snow on a peaceful winter morning, and red shadowed the blue sky. As I threw my sword to the side and kneeled in submission, my father drew his sword and approached the general on trembling legs.

“I will not lose to the likes of you, boy,” my father said, wheezing. Before he could raise his sword, his legs gave out and he crumbled to his knees. 

The general spat. “Surrender, lest the Dragon of the East should fall to the hands of the Vermillion Bird of the South.”

With a shake of his head, my father sealed his demise. The general threw the torch on my father’s silk robes, and red flames licked my father’s skin that melted like wax on a candle, every drop of flesh repentance for the havoc he had wreaked. Leaving my father to writhe, the general drew his sword and rested it under my chin.

“Do you surrender, Prince of Asborough?”

With a nod, I sealed my fate.

Sparing me, the general stood atop the stairs for the kingdom, the world, to behold and raised his sword, shouting a chant of triumph. Behind him, the dragon squirmed with the last ounce of life, and once it stilled forevermore, from the chaos, the shouts of men filled the air. It was the trumpet of victory, the song of angels, the fall of a kingdom, and the death of a dragon.

* * *

The great halls of the palace rumbled in memory of that day many years ago as I opened the charred doors crooked on their hinges. Gleams of sunlight filtering through the splinters in the wooden walls shone on the clouds of ash that flurried as I limped towards the throne, glimpsing shadows of my childhood running in my peripheral vision.

An infant evading the snare of the servants’ grasps as the king and queen laughed. A child sitting beside the king with his head held high as he listened attentively to the processes of a council. A boy mourning under the thunderous boom of a storm as the king sobbed from his throne. And a prince kneeling before the king, pondering whether to execute death.

The mirages evanesced as I ascended the steps of the dais and faced the once-golden throne marred with scorch marks. Without its owner, the den was hollow, but still, I brushed the grime and debris and uncovered the crown resting beside the throne. Somewhere in the deep recesses of the palace, roars shook the earth, and flapping wings sent gales of wind swirling like a tempest.

Grabbing the crown, I blew the surface clean, stared at my aged reflection, and smirked.

There would be a dragon in the capital again.

As most people believe, the beginning of the week can be a time of critically needed relief or a period where you’re the busiest. As for me, my school days sort of ran together in a huge train at full speed with no brakes and a half-conscious conductor. It was far from being the safest, but it was moving, nonetheless. It’s gotten to the point where I haven’t a clue about where on earth the train is heading anymore, and each Monday, it gets increasingly obvious.

Right now, as I planted my feet firm on the red concrete of my high school’s track, I couldn’t feel more exposed. Not only am I forced to wear gym shorts and an ugly gray T-shirt that people could spot sweat stains on from a mile away, but I’m also outside in the balmy spring sun and its near-deadly pollen-infused air with thirty-five other suffering students at no later than 10 AM. Our coach, Ms. Lee, who has a horrible habit of scaring people with her clumpy mascara and cakey foundation, likes to make us run at least 10 laps around the track at the beginning of our class.

As of today, this was the slowest and most cautious I’ve ever been outdoors. Considering the fact that I was nearly able to rob a house a few days back, the emptiness and shame harbored in my soul should be light work. The feeling of soreness in my legs, calves, and hips from a night of passion shouldn’t be such a bitch to endure. Yet I hadn’t gotten over it. The idea of my now-non-existing innocence—a snowflake in the whirlwind blizzard that was my life—stood out like bleeding ink on a perfectly penned poem. However, I underestimated the post-sex feeling by a long shot. So far, I’ve only been able to run two laps without my thighs submitting to a painful ache with every half-step that caused me to walk off to the side.

My silver strands were already pinned back with a headband, but the heat and redden hue that mulled my face and skin over wasn’t disappearing. I groaned, unbelievably exhausted, as I spectated from the sidelines and witnessed the try-hard athletes of the class sprint as if their lives depended on it. If I had even half the energy I would on a usual day, I’d slip out a knee-slapping laugh at their efforts. But I decided against it when the burning sensation of Coach Lee’s eyes struck me from across the track. Her short stature and ballerina-bun hairstyle may have seemed hilarious during freshman year, but as time told, she was no toy to fiddle with.

A rubber-band ball of sweat and fury, capable of snapping when yanked by the teasing fingers of gawking teenagers.

Inhaling with the intent to fan out my overheated mind, I made sure to stretch out my arms and legs properly before starting out on a light jog. Just as I progressed forward, my vision did the same. The closer my legs brought me to the opposite of the track, the more my gaze locked in. I had to do just enough to pass by, just enough to feel accomplished, and just enough to appear focused when Coach Lee was within arm’s length.

I hummed once I was halfway through my lap, only seconds away from passing the Coach. Of course, when I closed our gap, my calves strained to keep pace. I pushed past my will to collapse right there on that field, letting her piercing stare melt my plastic shell as I passed her. My chest is a charring furnace, rising and falling naturally, while I ground my teeth against one another. The hollowness within me was stuffed with the grit to finish my final lap in time. Somehow, I felt it would boost my energy if I at least made it to the limit.

At least.

But today wasn’t a usual Monday.

Today wasn’t a fresh start.

It was a continuation of last week’s episode.

A god-awful re-run.

The ear-impaling shrill of the Coach’s whistle blew behind me like the distasteful smoke of a missed train. The pit of my stomach plummeted as my legs were giving out, as my throat burned with severed determination. I hadn’t finished my lap; it shredded me like ripped notebook paper. I had the urge to fold in like origami, an art beautifully crafted but filled with creases and intersecting lines too confusing when unfolded. I was unraveled, where my bends and crinkles were under a microscope in broad daylight.

Glued in place, I had nowhere else to look but ahead as the rest of the class vacated the track and into the school building.

I was stuck with no choice but to throw my attempt in the trash as I exited the field along with my fellow classmates.

There was a distinct imbalance I felt as I ambled beside the others, this slithering and pestful shockwave of emotions circulating the mood on our embark to the gym doors. My skin prickled furiously with eyes stapling to my body as I travelled along. It was a strange sense I never thought to experience in my high school days—the feeling of shame and regret, once again, beginning to scissor itself into my conscience.

I was, by no means, proud of what I’ve done in my life, and I pondered about this endlessly. There was nothing more I wanted to do than grab another sheet of paper and begin again. The serene thought thrummed through my mind, a song that echoed the sweet feel of forgetting, the sound of freedom. A tune that transformed into background noise against the bustling sounds of reality; inside was the hardest thing to differentiate, imagination versus action.

Thinking, hoping, and praying to cross the finish line, cover up creases, and leave the past behind wasn’t enough.

I needed to bite the bullet instead of preparing for a dodge.

Of course, the people who may stare at me don’t know what I’ve done outside of the track, but sheering it temporarily would never erase the memory of the judgmental, dilating pupils when they landed their sights on my blotched thighs. The pale skin on my legs and stomach were covered in marks from a night of rued seduction and desperation of. . . something incredibly intangible and irreplicable. 

It was true. No one knew my virginity was gone. Although I willingly gave it away, there was something else missing from my configuration when I tried to fold myself back up.

As I set my eyes on the back of Coach Lee’s head, my line of vision unblurred.

I was deprived of more than a night of kisses and breathlessness that expelled such a dirty meaning but also beautiful, longing grace.

There was something written inside of my paper folds, a small list composed of pride, and pride only that had completely disappeared.

Fresh spring air blew through Kim Taehyung’s light, turquoise-coloured hair as he walked along the quiet sidewalk. The midday sun in the cloudless sky shone brightly upon the lone boy. The light from its rays highlighted strands of his bouncy, fluffy hair, which gave the boy a breathtakingly angelic look to any passers-by. His big brown eyes scanned the tall, stone walls with neatly-kempt green ivy that hung down its length.

The familiar walls he walked along made up the boundary of his home away from home: the town’s Traditional Korean Gardens. Nearly every day—despite rain, shine, hail or snow—Taehyung would visit the gardens and spend his time roaming the grounds at a leisurely pace. With the amount of time he had spent there, he could probably walk around the entire place blindfolded and not once step on any plants, run into structures, or fall into any ponds.

Since Taehyung had been a little kid, he had walked the same ten-minute route to the Korean Gardens. While he may walk the same path alone these days, he knew in spirit and in soul he was never alone. And although he missed his grandparents being by his side with him in the beautiful gardens, he knew they both were in a much better place. As he looked upon the entrance in the far distance, happy memories resurfaced of his times spent there with them.

Taehyung’s bright, brown eyes looked up at the hands of his grandparents holding each of his tiny hands. Laughter filled the quiet sidewalk as the trio walked side by side. The low voice of his grandfather as he softly explained the importance of someone taking care of the gardens for future generations. The kind words his grandmother told him as she gently ran her hand through his soft hair while he laid his head on her lap. The last smiles he ever saw his grandparents give as they sat shoulder to shoulder in their wheelchairs while overlooking the last sunset they were to ever witness at the very same place they had met.

The Traditional Korean Gardens held a special place in Taehyung’s heart. It was one of the only things he looked forward to in his lonely life. A soft sigh left his pink-tinted, slightly plump lips as he allowed those treasured memories to fade. His brown eyes travelled along the ivy-covered stone wall once more as a small smile tugged at the corner of his lips. Soon, he would cross the entrance and be filled with a calmness only this place could give him.

In the distance, not too far off from the entrance, Taehyung saw a small group of eight boys heading in his direction. His heart instantly dropped, and his palms grew sweaty. He knew exactly who they were and what was about to occur. The group pounced on any opportunity to gang up on him. They had never been kind to him, and nothing he had done changed for them to leave him alone.

Taehyung grasped the strap of his black messenger bag tighter in his hold. The cool spring air seemed to disappear while the sunlight bore down upon him in hot waves. His inner anxiety swelled as his eyes locked with the leader and main initiator of the group. The taunting cheers from the group filled the previously quiet streets. The horrifying sounds oppressed his will to run away in the opposite direction; instead, they beckoned him towards the only safety he knew.

“Well, well, well,” sneered Lee Ji-Hoon, the leader, as he sauntered up to Taehyung until he was face-to-face with him. His light brown eyes sparkled with joy as he thought about how he would soon be inflicting pain on his victim. “Who do we have here? Guys, look who wants to have some fun with us.”

“Leave me alone,” Taehyung said weakly with his tearful eyes locked on the concrete pathway below his feet.

“Awe, does the little queer flower boy want to be left alone?” Ji-Hoon jeered at the top of his lounges, and the group around him laughed just as loudly.

“I’m not queer!” Taehyung yelled as his head snapped up at the familiar taunt. It didn’t matter how much he would deny the mocking remark. They would always call him that. “Just leave me alone, Ji-Hoon. Go find someone else to pick on today.”

As Taehyung went to step around the group, two arms grabbed him from behind and held him firmly in place. A hot breath brushed against the back of his neck as he squirmed in the grasp, desperate to get away, but he ultimately failed against the strength. The other seven boys surrounded him, trapping him in a circle. It was a cruel stark reminder of how outnumbered he truly was in this situation.

“Now, now,” Ji-Hoon lowly tsked directly into his ear, his hold slightly relaxed once Taehyung had stopped resisting. “That’s no way to treat your Hyungs, now is it? Be a good little flower boy today, and we won’t be here long. We’ll be on our way, and you can return to being the little loner you are.”

“Over here, gay boy,” a voice of one of the lackeys called out.

Ji-Hoon forcefully turned Taehyung in his arms to face the short, overweight kid who had spoken a moment ago. Instantly, Taehyung’s body became tense as he waited for the oncoming blow from the other boy. He had been through this many times to know each of them would get a few punches in before leaving him alone with their sick satisfaction fulfilled for the time being. And sure enough, a mere second passed before the lumpy fist connected with his clothed stomach.

The force from the punch almost left him breathless. It obviously had landed on something it shouldn’t have. Another right-handed punch came before he had a chance to recover, one of many more to come. This time it landed upon his left cheek. The blow had enough force that it sent both Taehyung and Ji-Hoon stumbling backwards a few steps. Only the taunting laugh of the entire group filled his ears as he was once again forced to turn towards another one of the boys.

Punch after punch hit him, and each blow took a piece of his heart. His body ached from the physical abuse as he tried to endure it for a little longer. His mind focused on the beautiful ground a few metres down from them. The thoughts of being in the gardens kept him from giving in to the cruelty and breaking down in tears. And ultimately, it was that thought alone that pushed him to finally make his move to freedom.

Taehyung could feel Ji-Hoon’s arms relax and fall away from his body. Now free from his captor, he took the opportunity to do something he had never done in all the years he had been the victim of this group. He fought back. Taehyung turned on his heel and swung his own fist with as much force as he could muster. His knuckles connected in a sickening crunch squarely on Lee Ji-Hoon’s nose.

Everything around Taehyung seemed to slow down as the leader stumbled back with his head held in his hands. All the sounds around him disappeared, while time froze completely as his wide eyes stared at Ji-Hoon’s bent form in shock. All seven of his lackeys suddenly gathered around their leader to help him tend to his bleeding nose. Taehyung didn’t waste another second. He turned on his heel and ran with every fibre of his being toward his sanctuary.

“Yeah! You better run, fucking faggot! We’ll get you next time!” yelled Ji-Hoon, his voice quickly fading the further the distance between them.

Heavy footsteps, pounding heartbeat and laboured breaths dominated his hearing as Taehyung ran as fast as he could towards the entrance of Korean Gardens. He did not dare turn to look at his tormentors, afraid he would either see them coming or that he would fall and they would capture him again. Even above his panting, he could still hear all eight boys jeering and taunting him. Tears swelled in his eyes, and he fought to hold them back. So close. He was so close to his safe place.

The second Taehyung passed under the curved, red-tiled archway that connected the stone walls, a sense of serenity washed over his aching body. His tear-filled eyes roamed the calmingly still grounds as he came to a halt a few meters inside his safe haven. He wiped away the slight sweat that had built up on his eyebrows. The chill spring breeze returned, cooling his overheated body and entering his burning, oxygen-deprived lungs.

Disbelief and shock ran rampant in his mind. Never before had he fought back. He had always been so compliant in their beatings, relenting to his fate. He didn’t know he had that side in him. Part of him couldn’t believe he had been so brave to finally give them a taste of their own medicine. But another part of him, a much larger one, knew he would pay big time for laying a hand on Ji-Hoon.

Taehyung’s body automatically moved on its own while his mind lingered on what had just transpired. It took him down one of the many gravel paths on the grounds. His eyes wandered the picturesque landscape before him. The trauma from moments ago began to be erased the further he walked in the calming gardens. He smiled as he walked past one of many ponds. This particular one happened to be filled with tones of large koi fish of all colours.

A large Beot-Kkot tree with light pink flowers loomed above the peaceful pond. Taehyung watched as a few of its flowers drifted downward, carried gently by the soft breeze, to settle upon the surface of the water below. A smile graced his lips from the tranquillity of his surroundings. Nothing but the sounds of nature filled his ears while he continued to walk along the gravel trail.

His eyes wandered along the beautiful rows of white, pink, red, orange, yellow and purple coloured tulips. The flowers were well-maintained by the groundskeepers, proven so by the stench of the freshly laid fertiliser mixed with soil that suddenly filled his nostrils. On the other side, opposite the tulips, were Maehwa trees after Maehwa trees lining the edge of the path. Its long branches filled with both partially and fully bloomed flowers. The light pink petals reminded him of the popular Korean Plum Liquor tasting drink named Maehwasu.

Taehyung spent another ten minutes leisurely wandering the pathways of the gardens. He stopped to smell the delicate scent of some Magnolia flowers and the fresh aroma of some Gaenari, or Forsythia Koreana, petals. He briefly rested under the old stone structures covered in rows of neatly-maintained green ivy. He crossed the red-railed, wooden bridges over a few ponds and stopped to stare into the calm water below. His entire body, from head to toe, had become relaxed and filled with calmness; the soreness erased from his mind for now.

He made his way over to one of his favourite places in the gardens; a secluded Beot-Kkot tree on top of a small hill. Taehyung lowered his body until he sat with his back against the firm wood of its base. He took a moment to wipe away the remainder of his sweat and bathe in the pure serenity the Korean Gardens fed him. His soul slowly became rejuvenated and replenished after such an intense interaction.

Sparkling brown eyes overlooked the grounds below him. He could see the bloomed yellow Sansuyu trees, the tips of the branches reaching high into the air. The short Royal Azalea shrubs—differing in pink, white and purple—grew in small patches amongst the grounds. And the bright yellow flowers of the Yuchae trees towered over many of the small flowers and shrubs in the far distance. This was home, his home, his safe place.

After he soaked in the soothing sight and sounds for a couple of silent minutes, Taehyung took off his messenger bag and opened it. He fished out his notebook and pen before he pushed the bag to the side. He flipped open the notebook and shifted through the many filled pages until he came to the next empty one about halfway in. A small smile graced his lips as he re-read the last part he had written, remembering why he had started to write that story.

‘His dyed light pink, shoulder-length hair was sprawled out amongst the luscious, green grass. The most carefree smile crossed his chiselled face, the same face that must have been perfectly crafted by god himself. Bright, blue eyes twinkled breathtakingly from the light that shone on us. And when he lazily turned his head towards me, those same breathtaking twinkles in his blue eyes instantly captured my heart from where I, too, laid sprawled out alongside this angel sent to earth.’

Not only two days ago had the most captivating, most stunning, most astonishing stranger walked along the paths of these gardens. The entire time, Taehyung had silently sat and observed him. He had wished he had the confidence to talk to such a breathtaking stranger. But instead, he watched from a distance until he had left the gates, likely to never return again. With that image burnt in his mind, Taehyung continued to write.

‘Neither of us could speak a word as our eyes stared deeply at each other. My heart danced around in my ribcage from the sight before me. It felt like those perfect eyes were discovering every aspect of my soul without needing to hear any words. A shiver ran over my entire body like a river flowing downstream. He was affecting me, had my every nerve on edge, and not a single touch was needed.’

A soft sigh left Taehyung as he imagined the scene in his head. He looked upon the grounds below him and envisioned the stranger and himself, enacting what he had written down near the Koi pond he had first stopped at. An action he’d never dare perform himself, for he was in deep denial. But one in which he could freely write about and not feel guilt since he had long ago convinced himself it was merely for the creative writing course he partook in.

However, his moment of daydreaming was interrupted by three familiar faces swiftly walking through the Korean Gardens. His breath caught in his throat as his eyes widened in fear. Ji-Hoon and two of his lackeys seemed to be heading in a beeline straight toward him. Taehyung forced his eyes down to his notebook, his blank eyes staring at the page, and his mind raced with anxious thoughts. Perhaps Ji-Hoon had sought him out to get revenge for what he had done earlier. Perhaps the leader couldn’t wait until the next time after he was humiliated in front of his group.

“Yah! Flower boy!” angrily boomed Ji-Hoon’s out-of-breath voice as soon as he got within earshot.

Fear-filled eyes snapped up to lock on Ji-Hoon’s angry, contorted, red face. Taehyung grabbed his messenger bag as he hastily stood. He fumbled with the zipper before he shoved his precious notebook and pen away. Before he could even think of running, the three boys had sprinted up to corner him against the trunk of the Beot-Kkot tree.

“Where do you think you’re going, flower boy?” Ji-Hoon breathlessly sang before he clicked his fingers. The boy to Taehyung’s right pounced forward and forcefully snatched his messenger bag. The boy chucked the bag towards the leader, who caught it with a dark smirk on his face. “Why, what do we have here? Huh? Anything important I should know about?”

“There’s nothing in there. Just stop, Ji-Hoon Hyung, please,” Taehyung pitifully pleaded despite knowing his pleas would fall on deaf ears.

“Did you hear that, boys? The queer said please,” mocked Ji-Hoon before breaking out in a laugh alongside his two lackeys.

“Please,” he desperately begged as he took a step forward.

The moment he moved, the two other boys took two threatening steps toward him. Their taller stature left him feeling insignificant and powerless. With his head bowed to hide his fear, he stood still and waited for whatever was to come next. Ji-Hoon and his group had never touched any of his personal artefacts. They had only ever taunted him with words and beat him up. This. . . This was uncharted territory he knew would leave him distraught on a whole new level.

“Do you boys feel like hearing what flower boy has written in his notebook?” asked Ji-Hoon with a vindictive tone.

“Yeah!” the one to the left of Taehyung replied instantly.

“No! Please don’t!” Taehyung pleaded once more with tears that quickly formed in his eyes.

“The most carefree smile crossed his chiselled face, the same face that must have been perfectly crafted by god himself,” Ji-Hoon read aloud in a professor-like tone. “Wow. I was only joking when we called you queer. Didn’t realise you actually were!”

“I’m not,” Taehyung stiffly retorted.

“Your writing begs to differ, flower boy.” Ji-Hoon and his two lackeys laughed. “Listen to this, boys. You’ll never believe what he wrote after that. A shiver ran over my entire body like a river flowing downstream. He was affecting me, had my every nerve on edge, and not a single touch was needed. I don’t know about you boys, but that sounds something a faggot would say, right?”

“Right,” replied the boy on the right.

“One hundred percent something a faggot would say, flower boy,” jeered the boy on the left.

“I’m not gay!” yelled Taehyung as the hot tears that stung his eyes finally fell on his flushed cheeks.

“Sure, keep telling yourself that,” said Ji-Hoon as he rolled his eyes. He lazily flipped through the notebook before he stopped, grabbed a page and ripped it out. “I’ll keep this for another day.”

“Stop!” Taehyung desperately cried as he watched Ji-Hoon pocket his work.

Ji-Hoon ignored his words as he continued to flip through the notebook with a contemplative look on his face. His eyes lit up as he stopped on another page. Again, he ripped the page from the book. Instead of pocketing it as he had done with the previous one, he tore it up into small pieces. The entire time he had an evil smirk plastered on his face as he sprinkled them over the grass.

Each tear ripped Taehyung’s heart apart as the process was repeated with three more pages. Tears steadily streamed down his face while he watched all his hard work over the last year be destroyed in a matter of seconds. A burning heat started to overtake his body as anger settled in. Without a thought, his body lunged forward towards his main tormentor. His sight narrowed with rage, and the only thing on his mind was to stop the emotional abuse Ji-Hoon inflicted upon him.

Two sets of arms harshly gripped him and pushed him back against the tree trunk. Taehyung’s ears rang slightly after the back of his head hit the wood with force, and his already tear-impaired vision became even cloudier. His ears were filled with the sound of paper being torn as he finally let out his first sob ever in front of the group. His breath hitched in his throat before another gut-wrenching sound escaped him.

“Wow boys,” remarked Ji-Hoon with surprise. “I think we finally broke flower boy. After eight long years. . . we, yes, we finally broke our little queer flower boy.”

Taehyung closed his eyes in defeat as he stood pinned to the tree listening to the haunting words and agonising sounds of his work being destroyed. Sobs wracked through his tired body, much like how Ji-Hoon tore through his precious writing. He was essentially witnessing his heart and soul being dismantled before his very tear-filled eyes. And there was not a thing he could do to stop it.

“Huh, who knew that flower boy really liked to write about boys,” mused Ji-Hoon as he stopped to read yet another work from the notebook. “Is anyone else as shocked as I am that flower boy is a queer through and through?”

“I’m not surprised,” spat the boy on the left, his hold on Taehyung’s arms tightening painfully. “I can practically smell the gay rolling off of him.”

“I’m. . . Not. . . Gay. . .” Taehyung managed to force it out in between distraught sobs.

“So you’ve said,” huffed Ji-Hoon with annoyance as he discarded the notebook and bag on the ground behind him. “You’ve said that a million times, yet the evidence is stacking against what you are saying. Just admit you’re gay. There’s nothing wrong with it. It’ll just help me sleep better at night knowing I was right about it all this time.”

“You’re a sick bastard,” whispered Taehyung as he began to control his sobs, his anger bubbling closer to the surface as he stared into cold, brown eyes.

“What did you call me,” harshly whispered Ji-Hoon as he advanced like a hunter on the kill, his eyes dark and his face shrouded in shadows. “Say that again. I dare you.”

“You’re,” despite the shiver of fear that ran down his spine, Taehyung repeated in an angry whisper, “a sick bastard.”

As expected, a punch landed on his stomach a mere second later. Ji-Hoon’s light brown eyes had grown dark with anger. There was a glint of something dangerous that swirled within the brown. It sent a wave of fear through Taehyung’s body as nothing had ever done before. Blow after blow followed, barely a second in between each hit. All he wanted to do was fold in on himself and drop to the ground, but he was held firmly in place by the two boys as they watched their leader go to town with sick smirks on their own faces.

Hot tears rolled down Taehyung’s face the longer the relentless attack went on, impairing his vision. It quickly became a struggle to draw in a decent breath of air. The force of the punches dispelled any air that entered his body, leaving him gasping pathetically. The bark of the Beot-Kkot tree dug painfully into his clothed back and where his arms were pinned against it by the two lackeys. He was sure he’d be left with many bruises, possibly even cuts, by the end of this bashing.

“Get off of him!” a voice suddenly yelled from not far away.

The two sets of hands that had held Taehyung in place withdrew without hesitation. His tired body fell to the ground the instant his weight was no longer being supported. Through his gasping breaths, he heard heavy footsteps rushing in his direction. As Taehyung curled up into a small ball with his hands cradling his tender stomach, he wondered who could have possibly come to his rescue.

Through tear-filled vision, Taehyung managed to distinguish the silhouettes of six men as they sprinted up the small hill. The strangers came to a halt directly in front of Ji-Hoon and his two lackeys. All nine boys stared at one another, their chests heaved from physical exertion and pure adrenaline, and even from where he lay on the ground, he could feel how thick the air was with tension.

“Come on, boys,” Ji-Hoon huffed cockily. After eyeing the strangers up and down, he began to walk away with a smirk. He turned around with a satisfied look and eerily said, “See you next time, flower boy.”

Relief flooded through Taehyung as he simply lay on the ground and watched the trio walk away. But the feeling was short-lived. He was harshly reminded of what had transpired when a piece of torn paper got picked up by the wind and floated towards him. A soft sob left him as he reached a hand out to his precious, destroyed work. He squeezed his eyes shut tightly as more tears flowed down his cheeks. His heart felt like it had been ripped, much like the paper. He had paid the ultimate price for trying to protect himself.

“Hey, are you okay?” a gentle voice asked, followed by footsteps.

Taehyung flinched as a hand tenderly brushed against his arm. He opened his eyes slowly and stared at the person, who was now crouched in front of him. His breath hitched as his eyes landed on a familiar face. The same shoulder-length, pink hair. The same perfectly hand-crafted face. And even though the stranger no longer had the blue contacts, Taehyung could tell they were the same eyes, just now full of worry. He stared in shock at the stranger he had only minutes ago been writing about.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. Are you okay? Are you hurt?” the most beautiful sounding voice said softly to Taehyung. It was as if the stranger spoke cautiously to not scare him like he was a fragile doe in the wild. “Here, can you sit up?”

The stunning stranger outstretched his hand for Taehyung, who looked directly into those worry-filled, beautiful brown eyes. Hesitantly, he reached out his hand, and with a slight shake, his hand touched the other boy’s warm one. An instant wave of electricity shot through his entire arm. At that moment, Taehyung couldn’t look anywhere but at those captivating brown eyes right in front of his face. The stranger simply stared back at him. Neither boy moved, time around them seemingly frozen.

“Is this your work?” a voice behind the beautiful stranger asked. “Did those boys destroy it?”

Both boys snapped out of their daze as Taehyung was finally helped to be sat up straight. He wiped the dried tear stains with his shirt while he looked at the one who had spoken. The dark blue-haired boy was squatting beside all of the scattered paper. In his hand was a single torn piece, twisting it as he inspected it. Taehyung tried to hold back more tears as he, too, picked up the piece of paper that had drifted towards him.

“Y-Yeah, they ripped up some of my writing,” he said softly with a slight quiver.

“I’m so sorry,” the pink-haired stranger whispered before gently placing his hand on Taehyung’s right shoulder.

The rest of the group stared down at him in a mixture of pity, shock and concern. The one who held the piece of paper began to pick up more of the scattered work. And soon enough, all five of the boys were collecting the torn paper while Taehyung and the pink-haired boy sadly watched on. The cool spring breeze made the task difficult for the group; in any other circumstance, Taehyung would have laughed at the comedic scene before him.

His heart painfully dropped. It felt like it had been split between the sorrow of his tarnished work, the uneasiness and fear of Ji-Hoon returning to finish what he had started, and the gratitude for these kind strangers. He felt like he could cry from pain. But, at the same time, he felt like he could cry from gratitude. He had been through so many different emotions in the past hour that he couldn’t even begin processing the events from earlier.

Tears began to fall rapidly, no matter how hard he tried to hold them back. Ashamed to cry in front of complete strangers, Taehyung buried his face in his hands as he felt a soft squeeze from the pretty pink-haired boy beside him. It had all been too much. Years of torment led him to this moment, bruised-bodied and broken-hearted. He was at the mercy of these strangers, all of his trust fully in their hands.

“Hey, it’s okay,” the sweet voice quietly coaxed him to calm down. “You’re safe now. We are here. Those boys are gone.”

Hearing those words strangely comforted Taehyung. Through the burning pain in his lungs, he forced himself to take long, deep breaths. With the back of his sleeves, he wiped his weeping eyes and the fresh tear tracks. A shiver ran down his spine as the boy beside him slowly dragged his hand up and down his back. His red, puffy eyes finally turned to the side to lock eyes with the sad brown eyes.

“Aw, you poor thing.” The boy crouched beside him shifted to kneel instead. “Come here.”

With one knee behind Taehyung’s back and one knee touching the side of his leg, the pink-haired boy used his free hand to wipe the remaining tears away. The hand that had been caressing his back moved to the back of Taehyung’s neck and gently pulled him against the firm chest. Two strong arms wrapped around him as his head nestled under the boy’s chin.

“Everything will be okay, I promise,” whispered the other boy as he tightened his hold.

“Let the boy breathe, Jimin,” an amused voice said before another equally handsome, brown-haired boy squatted before him. In his hands were Taehyung’s notebook and black messenger bag.

“He needs a hug, Jungkook. Leave us be for a second,” said the boy that Taehyung now knew as Jimin.

“Of course.” The handsome Jungkook warmly smiled directly at Taehyung. “Just give me a signal, and I will drag him off of you.”

Taehyung smiled at the wink directed his way and couldn’t help the small chuckle that left him as Jimin reached over to playfully hit Jungkook on the arm. At that moment, as he watched the two strangers interact, an intense wave of familiarity and calmness washed down his entire body. Chills ran over him, causing goosebumps to rise. The hair on the back of his neck and his arms stood straight.

“You’re such a brat,” huffed Jimin in feigned annoyance before he turned his attention back to Taehyung. Jimin wrapped his arm around him once more and rested his cheek upon the top of Taehyung’s soft, turquoise hair. “Don’t mind him. He’s just jealous.”

“Am not.” Jungkook rolled his eyes, and a fond smile formed on his face, a twinkle in both his brown eyes.

“Would you two behave for a few minutes?” sighed the dark blue-haired male as he walked up to the trio. In his hands were every piece of paper the group had collected. “Sorry about them. Here, we managed to grab all of it.”

With hands held out, the new male carefully transferred the torn paper into Taehyung’s shaking hands. Jimin pulled back from him slightly and squeezed his shoulders as a supportive gesture. Even though sorrow filled him as he looked at his work, he could feel a strong collective sense of agony from all six strangers at what had transpired. And knowing that he wasn’t alone helped Taehyung bravely reach forward and slide the pieces of paper into his messenger bag Jungkook had opened for him.

A soft and shaky exhale left his lips as he watched the pieces fall into the dark abyss of his bag. It would never be the same. He could never rewrite the ruined work in the exact same way. His precious work that he’d spent hours on, while not entirely lost, would be forever lost in its original form. And that was what hurt him the most. Not the physical or mental abuse those boys had subjected him to but the emotional abuse of destroying something so valuable and dear to him.

“What’s your name?” the dark blue-haired boy softly asked, his eyes full of pity.

“Taehyung. I’m Kim Taehyung,” he quietly replied as tears brimmed in his eyes. It was hard for him to take his eyes off of his bag.

“I’m sorry about everything that has happened to you, Taehyung. But it’s nice to meet you. My name is Kim Namjoon,” the dark blue-haired boy said before outstretching his hand.

“Thank you,” said Taehyung as he reached forward and took the offered hand. “Thank you all for your help.”

“No need to thank us.” Jimin smiled as he pulled back, stood up and stretched his arms. “I’m just glad you are okay.”

“Y-Yeah,” whispered Taehyung as he sadly looked down at his lap.

“Can you stand up? Do you need a hand?” asked Jungkook with a slight tilt of his head.

“I’ll be fine,” Taehyung reassured before he hoisted himself up from the ground and brushed off the grass from his pants and shirt. “Thank you again.”

“It’s okay, honestly,” Namjoon said as he and Jungkook stood. The silence continued as Jungkook simply stared at Taehyung. Namjoon rolled his eyes and shoved Jungkook slightly to prompt him to hand over the bag and notebook. “Jungkook, give Taehyung his stuff back.”

“Ah, sorry, here you go.” Jungkook blushed as he handed the two items over.

“Thanks.” Taehyung bowed as he grabbed his stuff.

“Would you like to come and hang out with us for a little?” asked Namjoon kindly.

Taehyung blushed from the kind offer. “Oh, no. No, I don’t want to impose on you guys. I should probably go home and get some rest.”

“Of course, we understand.” Namjoon nodded and smiled in return.

“It was nice to meet you all. Thanks for helping me. I hope you all have a good day,” Taehyung respectfully said as he bowed profusely despite how sore his body felt from the earlier onslaught of abuse.

Taehyung smiled as all six of the boys bowed in return. He slung his bag around his shoulder, safely stored his notebook away and turned around after he directed one last smile toward both Jimin and Jungkook. He had only made it a few steps away from the kind group of strangers when he froze mid-step in complete and utter fear. His body felt numb, his breath left his entire being, and his eyes widened at the sight that had caused such a powerful reaction from him.

“Wait!” cried out one of the males who hadn’t spoken yet.

“What’s wrong, Jin Hyung?” another unfamiliar voice asked.

“Taehyung, those are the boys who hurt you, right?” the voice supposedly belonging to Jin asked.

Still frozen in fear, all Taehyung could do was nod in response. Jimin and Jungkook immediately walked over to him and placed each one of their arms around him. His body was forcibly turned around by the two, but his eyes were still locked on the sight of Lee Ji-Hoon and his two boys as they smirked up at him from afar. A wave of dread washed over his body, causing him to shiver slightly. The memory of the attack was still so fresh in his mind.

“Ignore them,” whispered Jimin as the two led Taehyung back to the group. He squeezed Taehyung’s arm tightly as a silent reminder they were there for him. “You’re okay. You are with us.”

“O-Okay, yeah,” Taehyung whispered. Tears filled his eyes again. “If that’s alright with you all, can I stay with you?”

“Absolutely! Of course!” said Jungkook before anyone else could reassure Taehyung.

“We were just about to sit at one of the Koi ponds before we saw what was happening to you,” Jin said as he walked closer, coming to a stop beside Namjoon. “Would you like to go hang out with us there? Get comfortable and rest for a bit?”

“Sure.” Taehyung numbly nodded as he fought away the tears.

The two arms around him stayed in place as the group of seven began to walk down the hill. Namjoon and Jin silently led the way, while the rest followed, equally as quiet. Lucky for Taehyung, his body was being guided by Jungkook and Jimin as his mind was far from the present moment. He was completely consumed by the faces of his tormentors, their image carved and burned into every dark crevasse of his mind, not a single place unmarked by their terror.

“Hey, I’m Jung Hoseok,” a voice said suddenly, bringing Taehyung out of his mind and back to the present. “It’s nice to meet you, Taehyung.”

To his left, walking beside Jimin, was a blond-haired boy with a bright smile and beautiful brown eyes. When Taehyung looked into Hoseok’s eyes, he felt an instant connection with him. Within those sparkling brown eyes, he could see the genuineness and caring nature of the male plain as day. The longer he looked into those eyes, the more he felt safe. The more he felt protected. The more he felt he could say anything to this stranger without a single judgment ever being made.

“Likewise,” Taehyung said.

“I know this may be a bit of a sore spot right now,” Hoseok hesitantly began to say with a slightly sheepish look, “but I was wondering what you were writing? I saw a few words as we were cleaning it up, and I have to admit, I am intrigued.”

“Oh.” To say Taehyung had been taken aback by the question would likely be the most accurate statement anyone could ever make. “Well, I mainly write short stories, just about anything that comes to mind really. Inspiration finds me easily here in the serenity of these gardens. It’s always so peaceful and quiet. Well, it was until today.”

“I’m so sorry that happened. I could only begin to imagine what you’re going through. I was also wondering if you’d let us read some of your work that wasn’t damaged? A few of us write as a hobby, and some of what I saw seemed so captivating.”

“Uh, sure. I guess that would be okay,” Taehyung replied as a light pink colour stained his cheeks.

“You’re so cute when you blush,” cooed Jimin as he removed his arm that had been protectively holding Taehyung and reached up to pinch his rosy cheek.

“So cute,” agreed Jungkook as he reached up and ruffled Taehyung’s turquoise-coloured hair.

“T-Thank you,” Taehyung said as he hung his head from the embarrassment of the attention. He could practically feel his cheeks burning as they continued to walk in silence. Both arms returned to protectively hold and guide him.

The group came to a stop moments later on the grass beside the very same Koi pond Taehyung had admired after he first stepped inside the walls of his sanctuary. And as he looked back on how much things had changed since he was last there an hour ago, it sent a wave of gratitude coursing through him. He had met two clingy strangers who gushed over him, three down-to-earth males, and one quiet, black-haired, unnamed boy whose help did not go unnoticed or unappreciated.

As the group stood still, overlooking the Koi pond, Taehyung finally felt safe and protected for the first time in a very long time. While some uncertainty and awkwardness still hung in the air from Taehyung’s side of things, he could already feel the acceptance and warmth from the six boys surrounding him. Part of him dreaded to think what would come of him once he ultimately left their company, likely to never cross paths with them again. Surely he would continue to fall victim to Lee Ji-Hoon and his lackeys.

“Let’s get comfortable,” Namjoon said with a content sigh, already moving to sit on the ground. “I’m sure you are tired and sore, right, Taehyung?”

“Yeah,” he quietly said, nodding and sitting.

The group had formed a small semi-circle as they settled down. Namjoon sat at the end, closest to the Beot-Kkot tree that loomed above the pond, with Jin sitting close beside him. The black-haired boy sat next to Jin with Hoseok on his other side. Taehyung sat between Hoseok and Jimin, with Jungkook completing the semi-circle next to Jimin. Some of the boys remained cross-legged, while others leant back on their palms and stretched their legs out in front of them.

As Taehyung took off his messenger bag, a light pink petal from the Beot-Kkot tree caught his attention. The petal mesmerisingly drifted from side to side as the gentle spring breeze brought it to rest in the middle of the group. A small smile graced his lips as he fondly looked at the lone petal surrounded by such kind-hearted and genuine people. He amused himself with his thoughts, likening himself to a flower petal, despite the hatred behind the taunt of being called ‘Flower Boy’ by his bullies. Perhaps he could reclaim and reinvent the meaning of the nickname.

“So, has that ever happened to you before? Those boys ganging up on you? It sounded like they knew you,” Jimin asked after the silence stretched a little too long for his liking.

“Yeah, I know them pretty well.” Taehyung sighed as he looked at his lap in shame. “Ever since high school, they have been targeting me. You only saw three of them, but there are usually eight. Ji-Hoon, the one who spoke, is like their leader. A-And the reason those three came after me was I punched Ji-Hoon earlier to escape from all eight boys on my way here.”

“Jesus, you mean they had already ganged up on you before we saw what those three were doing to you?” asked Hoseok with shock written over his face.

“Yes,” whispered Taehyung with a slight nod, his eyes never leaving his lap.

“You must be purple and blue all over, right? Are you in pain?” Jimin shifted closer and swept some of the turquoise strands from Taehyung’s face.

“I’ll be fine. I always am,” he said, his voice shaking. He tried so hard to fight back the tears as he sent a sad smile toward Jimin, unconsciously leaning into the hand that still cupped his face. “Today, they took it to a whole new level by touching my notebook. That is the thing I worry will be hard to recover from. The physical pain does not equate to how unbearable the emotional pain is.”

“And has anyone ever stood up for you? At school? Out in the streets?” asked Hoseok. He, like the others, was afraid they already knew the answer to that question.

“No, never. I’ve never had friends. I haven’t even had acquaintances, if you could believe that.” Taehyung laughed at how pitiful he sounded, even to his own ears. “No, you guys are the first people to ever step in and help me.”

“I’m so sorry. That’s horrible. You shouldn’t have to go through that.” Sorrow laced Jungkook’s quiet voice as he looked at him with sad, brown eyes.

“Don’t feel sorry for me. It’s okay. That’s just the way my life is.”

“Whoa, you’re so strong,” whispered Jimin, his eyes shining with admiration as he reached forward and caressed the back of Taehyung’s neck.

“I wouldn’t say that but thank you,” he shyly whispered, the earlier blush returning in all its glory.

“No, Jimin is right. You are really strong,” Namjoon said as he watched the interaction with hidden interest.

Taehyung blushed harder at the attention. He hung his head as he heard them chuckle from his evident signs of embarrassment. Beside him, Jimin cooed and shuffled over so that they sat side-by-side with their hips touching. The pink-haired boy slung his arm around his shoulders and quietly cooed at him.

“Do you come here often?” curiously asked Jin to break the silence.

Taehyung nodded in response. “Almost daily.”

“Wow! Really?” Namjoon couldn’t believe his ears. “Well, it was lucky Jimin brought us here today. Even if some,” the blue-haired boy shot a look towards the unfazed black-haired boy, “weren’t so keen on visiting. Jimin only found this beautiful place two days ago.”

“Yeah, so lucky.” Taehyung nervously gulped as he looked at the ground, guilt creeping up behind him at having known this information already.

“Since you have never had a friend, do you always spend your time by yourself here?” Hoseok asked as he cocked his head to the side.

“Yes,” he answered with a strained smile.

“Do you ever explore other places?” asked Jin with a frown. “I know you must like it here, but there are so many more places to visit and hang out in this town.”

“No, not really. I like to stick to this place. I call it my home away from home. I’ve seen this place grow and change over the years. I’ve always felt at ease and safe here, so why bother going elsewhere? Especially when I’ll be alone, anyway.”

“Well, from now on, I’m going to drag you to new places,” Jimin said, pulling Taehyung closer. “And you can drag me here any time you’d like.”

“Yeah, come hang out with us,” Namjoon said. “At least promise you’ll meet with us five times at five different places. If you get sick of us, we’ll leave you alone.”

“You just seem like a nice guy, and we don’t want you getting left behind or forgotten, especially with people like that Ji-Honey guy or whatever around. It would hurt us to know something bad happened to you,” Jin sincerely said, his face also sporting a genuine smile.

“I-I promise.” Taehyung relented to the pressure, a part of him swelling with pride for being brave and trying new things out of his comfort zone.

“You won’t regret it. I promise you,” Jimin whispered as he briefly squeezed his arm tighter around Taehyung, then settled down with his head resting lightly upon Taehyung’s shoulders.

The pair stayed in that position as the group around them began to talk amongst themselves. Taehyung blushed at the constant physical contact between himself and Jimin. It felt oddly satisfying to have someone to actually lean on instead of usually being by himself 24/7. His light brown eyes scanned the group, and he frowned as his eyes landed on something he hadn’t noticed. His heart skipped a beat before it began to pound wildly in his chest.

“Do you mind if I look at some of your work?” Jimin suddenly asked, startling him from his trance.

“Huh?” Taehyung asked as he turned his wide eyes to Jimin. “Oh, yeah. Sure.”

As Taehyung reached into his messenger bag and fished around for his notebook, his eyes couldn’t help but travel back to the two boys holding hands and quietly gazing into each other’s eyes. His fingers brushed against the familiar material before he grabbed it and pulled it out. Almost reluctantly, he handed his precious work over to the angelic pink-haired boy.

“Jungkookie, come here,” Jimin softly called as he patted the ground beside him.

Taehyung barely registered what was happening beside him as his eyes stayed glued to Namjoon and Jin. The two sat with their hands interlocked, leant against one another, as they deeply stared into each other’s eyes. His heart loudly pumped in his ears, his mouth hung open slightly in wonderment, and his eyes were wide with surprise.

“I know, gross, right?” The black-haired boy tsked, which brought Taehyung out of his daze. “Yah! You two, knock it off! No one here wants to see your disgusting public displays of affection.”

“Oh, shut up, Yoongi!” Jin rolled his eyes as he turned to glare at the black-haired boy. “If it was you and Hoseok, you’d rip my ear off for even saying such a thing. Treat your Hyung with respect and mind your own business. I’m sure your boyfriend would love some attention instead.”

“Jin Hyung has a point, Yoongi.” Hoseok chuckled as he shifted sideways and laid down, his head falling on the black-haired boy’s lap. “Pay attention to your boyfriend.”

“Brat,” huffed Yoongi in annoyance as he tilted his head towards the sky, but nonetheless, reached a hand forward and softly stroked Hoseok’s hair.

“Sorry, you probably weren’t expecting that,” Namjoon said with a sheepish smile as he looked over at the red-faced Taehyung. “Jin and I are in a relationship. So are Yoongi and Hoseok. And Jimin and Jungkook. Hopefully, that won’t be a problem.”

“Oh,” said Taehyung, his heart dropping as he listened.

Why did his heart drop at the new information? Why should Taehyung care about a stranger and who they were dating? He shouldn’t. And that was the problem because he did care. His heart felt like it had been broken all over again as he looked at the pair beside him. Both Jimin and Jungkook looked up at the mention of their names.

“Huh? What was that, Hyung?” Jimin asked with a tilt of his head.

“I was just telling Taehyung how we are all in relationships. He looked surprised when he saw Jin and me,” Namjoon explained to the pink-haired boy.

“Ah, okay.” Jimin smiled before leaning towards Taehyung, his lips hovering inches away from Taehyung’s ear, his hot breath glossing over the sensitive skin. “Those four are in exclusive relationships, whereas Jungkookie and I are open to. . . shall we say. . . others?”

Taehyung watched with a surprised expression as Jimin pulled back with a grin. His face flushed even more when he witnessed before his very own eyes as the other boy confidently sent a wink his way and merely turned around to keep reading through the notebook. He continued to stare at the pair beside him as he processed the information and his confusing feelings.

His heart shouldn’t be beating a million miles an hour from those words sinfully whispered to him. But it was. He shouldn’t have had goosebumps when he felt the warm breath tickle his neck. But he had. His mind shouldn’t have gone blank after the flirtatious act directed at him by another male. But it had. Yes, he had written about such things in his notebook, such things including the stranger now known as Jimin, but that didn’t mean it reflected how he truly felt. Right?

“Pink hair and blue eyes,” Jungkook mused, catching Taehyung’s attention.

Panic flooded him as he helplessly watched Jimin and Jungkook read the very last story written in his notebook. Sweat formed on his hands as his body started to burn with an intense heat. The seconds seemed to drag on before the pair finally lifted their eyes to him. Both had identical, knowing smiles on their faces before Jimin reached out to him and engulfed him in an enormous hug that ended up pushing them both to the ground.

Taehyung laid flat on his back, his breath taken by the stunning silhouetted angel that hovered above him. Jimin shifted the messy turquoise hair out of Taehyung’s eyes. His fingers lightly traced the sides of his face before his small hand cupped the bright, rosy cheeks. Unconsciously, Taehyung’s tense body relaxed at the soft, warm touch, his eyes fluttering close briefly.

“Don’t hurt him,” Jin said from somewhere to the side, yet the voice sounded far from Taehyung.

“I would never hurt him,” whispered Jimin, his brown eyes roaming Taehyung’s face, making him feel bare and exposed. “I would never hurt something so beautiful.”

Time slowed as the gap between Taehyung and Jimin seemed to grow smaller. His heartbeat rapidly pounded in his chest as he stared between those intoxicating eyes and pink, plump lips. His eyes fluttered as the distance was closed, and the softest touch he had ever felt grazed his right cheek. Electricity shot through him at the contact, causing him to quietly gasp. He didn’t dare open his eyes as he felt movement near him, and suddenly, the second pair of lips brushed against his left cheek.

“Absolutely perfect.” Taehyung barely registered Jimin’s whisper as he felt him lean back, the weight on top of him disappearing.

“Utterly precious.” The second pair of lips withdrew, and he heard shuffling nearby.

Two different hands grabbed onto each of his hands. Jimin and Jungkook squeezed his hands, coaxing Taehyung to sit up. But they didn’t know he was currently in a state of utter bliss. Everything, for the first time, felt right. Nothing about what had just happened felt wrong or dirty. At that moment, he came to the realisation he was indeed gay.

All of Taehyung’s suppressed emotions and thoughts broke free as he accepted who he was. All his internalised homophobia slowly faded into the background, the lingering electricity a stark reminder of how right it was. It was okay that he liked boys. It was okay that he wrote about boys. It was okay that these two male strangers made him feel flustered. Taehyung knew it would be okay now that he had come to accept himself.

“Are you okay? Did they hurt you?” Namjoon’s concerned voice floated to his now crystal clear hearing.

“I’m fine.” Taehyung opened his eyes and sat up slowly with help from the two beautiful people sitting on either side of him. A small smile spread on his face as he looked around the worried looks of the group. “I’m great.”

“I think we found a keeper.” Jimin hugged Taehyung tightly, while Jungkook nodded and rubbed Taehyung’s back soothingly. “He’s so cute, Kookie!”

The group laughed and relaxed back into what they had been doing before the small antics of the trio. Taehyung couldn’t help but bathe in the serenity. As he sat in the arms of the two clingy strangers, staring ahead at the Koi pond, he reminisced on how drastically his life had changed thanks to today. He had overcome some fears of his. He had stood up for himself. He had lost, and more importantly, he had gained.

Another stray petal from the Beot-Kkot tree fell towards the ground, and something suddenly clicked in place for Taehyung as he watched it fall—almost sending him straight into tears. Here, in this very spot, had been the place his grandparents had met. Here, in this very spot, had been the place his grandparents shared their last smiles together and watched the sunset for the last time. He felt the raw emotions resurface from that beautiful night and couldn’t help the happy tear that fell down his cheek as he realised one more thing.

Because it was here, in these very gardens, that he had been saved by these six kind-hearted men. It was here, in this very spot, that he found what he hoped would be lifelong friendships. It was here, in this very spot, that he came to accept who he was and was always meant to be, no longer afraid of the taunts. And it was here, in this very spot, that Taehyung may have found something more than friends for the first time.

And if this wasn’t destiny and fate, just like his grandparents, he didn’t know what was.

Humanity,
the Creator, the Destroyer.
What powers rest in your
wretched hands?

Chiseled from rough diamond,
forged in scorching flames,
hammered into fortified steel
to breed horrors and beauties alike.

The head of Holofernes,
reflected in tempered glass
a mirror of Saint Catherine
executed by the scythe of death.

Or the gentle touch of artisans
weaving tapestries of life,
painting art with blood
burning with the spirit of Caesar.

Whose right is it to uphold
the mantle of justice, of legacy?

Hands that persevere
when eyes say impossible.
Hands that fight
when eyes say surrender.
Hands that destroy
when eyes say linger.
And hands that create
when eyes say hopeless.

Humanity,
the Destroyer, the Creator.
How infinite the powers
your wretched hands behold.
A curse, a blessing, a shame,
yet all the same, is
nothing short of divine.

The whirring of a thousand bees,
the squeals of children—
it’s deafening.
Bare feet slap on concrete,
then jump on sturdy nylon
before bouncing in the air,
rebounding like a falling ball and
landing swiftly.
Danger—
it does not exist
in the starry-eyed gleam
of youth.

The house of infinite breaths
tilts—a game
until it isn’t.
There is only delighted shrieking
as bodies stack in a corner,
tipping the world off its axis.
Chests compress, bones
crack, air fades. . .
There is only delighted shrieking
as no one sees, too blind.
Death—
it does not exist
in the innocent mind
of youth

until it does, and
sound hitches to a silence.
Bodies shift. The world straightens.
Chests expand, bones
mend, air returns. . .
And there is only bewildered crying
as a child hugs her legs,
coughing and gasping
but very much alive.