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whimsimille · 5 months ago

Text

Our Bond Reaper

Minsung x Fem!Reader

Soulmate AU

Words: ~8000

contains mentions of 18+ content, sex, drug use, abuse of substances, nsfw undertone, established relationship (jisung x minho), oral (f and m receiving), piv, mxm, threesome, overstimulation, handjob, dry humping,

a/n: should i continue?

Chapter 1: Jack Daniels

Hook. Straight to the jaw. Side dodge. Low kick. Uppercut.

Boxing isn't easy. Sweat trickles down the temple, runs down the neck and soaks the tank top, clouding the mind. Raw skin protests every time an impact occurs, and knuckles burn beneath the bandages. Purple bruises appear along his arms, and his muscles shake from the strain of maintaining his vigilance. Nonetheless, if Minho didn't have this outlet for all the accumulated pressure of idol life—the endless travels, exhausting recordings for the new comeback, and the imminent move from the dorm he shares with Jisung—he probably would have imploded or smoked until his lungs turned to coal. Boxing is his purification ritual, his way of breathing when the world gets too heavy.

Yet, not everything can be that simple.

Light switches are predictable—flip them up, darkness dies. Simple physics, no philosophy required. But soulmate bonds? They're like someone took his brain's wiring and twisted it into art. Every time Jisung's thoughts leak through their connection, it's electricity dancing across Minho's synapses. Right now, his soulmate has colonized the space beside the punching bag, sprawled out like some blue-haired cat claiming its territory, completely oblivious to the fact that this is supposed to be Minho's escape room, not his personal reading nook.

Crumbs from Minho's protein bars (the ones he specifically labels "DO NOT TOUCH HAN JISUNG" in angry red Sharpie) dot his oversized hoodie as he devours yet another dusty tome.

Sweet fucking Psyche, Minho thinks, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. It's not that he isn't grateful for his soulmate—for Jisung's heart-shaped smile, the manhwa labyrinths across their bedroom floor, even those 3 AM trot concerts that drive the neighbors mad. Yet, just like you know hitting a switch will flood a room with light, Minho knows that every time he steps into this gym, Jisung's thoughts will flood his mind. His complaints about chalky protein bars, his excited rambling about dusty tomes, and his constant mental chatter—it's all there, derailing Minho's focus from the punching bag that's practically begging to be hit, unstoppable even if he slams the switch.

"Min," Jisung pipes up, his tongue darting out to catch the crumbs while his fingers tap a rhythm on the book's spine. "You ever wonder if maybe... maybe they haven't told us everything about soulmates? Like, what if there's more to it?"

Minho's fist freezes mid-trajectory, his heart stumbling over its next beat. "Han..."

"No, shut up for a second," Jisung sits up straighter. "I had this dream last night—we were somewhere old, like ancient-ancient, and there was this feeling in my gut. Like... you know when you're doing a puzzle and you're missing the centre piece? That kind of incomplete."

"For fuck's sake, we're not starting with this story again."

Here's what everyone knows about soulmates: they're as rare as winning the cosmic lottery, as unpredictable as Seoul's summer storms, and about as controllable as a sugar-high toddler. Whether you are cleaning your cat's litter box or running for coffee in the morning, the bond can strike at any age. Some couples are so emotionally invested in one another that they can tell when their partner is having a rough day from across the globe. Finding your soul mate, though? And three souls? That's fairytale territory, kind of bedtime story parents tell wide-eyed kids before tucking them in—right up there with dragons and honest politicians.

What Minho didn't tell anyone—not even Jisung, especially not Jisung—was how that whole soulmate business terrified him. In his 25 years of life, he had witnessed enough to understand that love was a force.

When the news leaked—three blurry photos of him and Jisung sharing that characteristic glow of soulmates during a rehearsal—it was as if a bomb had exploded in the middle of K-pop. The hashtags #MinSung and #SoulmateDuo dominated social media for weeks. Fansites shut down in protest. Other groups began canceling appearances at the same events as Stray Kids. JYP almost dissolved the group, citing "public image concerns.".

It was Chan who saved everything, planting himself in front of the CEO like a human wall and swearing he would resign from his position if anyone was forced to leave.

And now Jisung comes with this story about medieval dreams and a third person? As if the chaos of two men discovering they were soulmates in an industry that sold the illusion of eternally single and available idols wasn't enough. As if Minho didn't already spend sleepless nights trying to decipher why fate had chosen precisely him—pragmatic, cynical, broken—to complete someone as brilliant as Han Jisung.

"The dream was different this time," Jisung insisted, sitting up and letting the book fall to the floor with a dull thud. "We were wearing heavy clothes, like robes and cloaks. The river was freezing—I could feel the water on my feet, Min. And we were shouting for someone... a woman. I couldn't hear the name, but the feeling..."

Minho closed his eyes, his hands falling heavily at his sides. The problem wasn't not believing Jisung—it was believing too much. Because if there really was a third person, if those dreams were more than just his partner's hyperactive imagination... well, history had proven time and time again that love rarely came without its dark twin: destruction.

"I..."

"No, wait. Come see this." Han patted the space beside him with that infectious enthusiasm that made his eyes sparkle like city lights reflecting off the Han River at midnight. “Please? I swear it's important this time."

The older one gave in—because that's what he always did when Jisung deployed that specific tone, pitched somewhere between a whine and urgency. Similar to a fishhook stuck deep in his stomach, their soul bond yanked, and Minho found himself sliding down next to him.

Their knees brushed—just the lightest touch of skin against denim—and Jisung shuddered visibly. Minho was still drenched in sweat from training, the gray tank top clinging to his body.

"Holy shit, you smell like a CrossFit demon had a baby with a sauna," Han teased, his nose scrunching up in that way that made his cheeks bunch up adorably, but Minho noticed how he actually leaned closer.

"Fuck off. You're the one who invaded my training session like some kind of blue-haired gremlin."

"Technically," Jisung drawled, gesturing expansively with his free hand. "This gym belongs to the dorm. So it's ours. Collective. Communist. Like our hearts, you emotionally constipated fool."

"For the love of—" Minho fought back a smile. "Just show me the damn thing before I change my mind and go back to beating the shit out of that punching bag."

Laughing, Jisung folded back a page of the tome. For a heartbeat, Minho's breath caught in his throat—there was something hauntingly familiar about the illustrations sprawling across the yellowed pages, like déjà vu in ink and parchment.

"Look at this."

The illustration seemed to pulse with its own life—the kind of arcane artwork you'd expect to find in some medieval witch's forgotten grimoire, tucked away in a basement. The page edges were singed, as if someone had tried to burn away its secrets. Two soulmate marks intertwined—waves in a tempest, the other dancing like flames. In his abdomen, where his own mark rested just below his ribs, Minho felt an answering tingle. His fingers itched to trace the familiar patterns—identical to his and Jisung's marks, the latter's etched onto the soft skin of his side like a divine signature.

Minho's nose wrinkled as his eyes tracked over the strange characters crowning the page, his brain struggling to make sense of the alien script. "This title is wrong. It doesn't match what I'm seeing here. It looks like... like Latin got drunk and hooked up with something even older."

"Min..." Jisung’s hand crept up Minho's thigh like a curious spider. "You've always been absolute shit at dead languages. Remember that time you tried to help me with Ancient Greek and somehow translated 'divine wisdom' as 'cosmic chicken'?"

"Go to hell." Minho swatted away the wandering fingers, ignoring how his skin tingled. "Fine, they're our marks. Now unfold the rest before I lose what's left of my patience." He crossed his ankles, right foot bouncing in the air.

A third mark appeared from the yellowed folds of the page as Jisung unfolded it. It was a spiral of leaves and flowers entwined with the other two, so complex that it hurt your eyes to try to follow its pattern.

"What the hell is this?" Minho backed away as if the book were a snake about to strike, his tongue clicking against the roof of his mouth. "Where did you dig up this crap? No, wait, don't answer. I don't want to know."

"At the national library," Jisung answered anyway. "Had to bribe three employees and promise a private show to the librarian. Even autographed her planner, can you believe it?" His eyes shone with that familiar intensity, like a child who discovered where the candy was hidden. He leaned forward, closing the space between them until Minho could count every microscopic freckle on his nose. "Min, aren't you connecting the dots? It's exactly like the dreams! The same curves, the same patterns we see every night!"

"Don't start."

Minho stood up as he returned to the punching bag. Lactic acid burned in his muscles like tiny fires, protesting the abrupt movement.

Sweat trickled from the tip of his nose and clouded his vision, and the punches had become unpredictable and uncontrollable.

"Damn it, Jisung." Punch. "Can't we just accept that it's the two of us and that's it?" Hook. "Do you have to keep digging up old stuff?" Uppercut. "You're like my grandma rummaging through family albums. Always looking for stories where there aren't any."

"You become such a fucking coward when you're scared, Lee.”

Goosebumps ran up his arms as the air conditioner hummed against his hot skin. "If I could have a straight talk with Psyche right now, you know what I'd say? Go fuck yourself. Because tying me to this hard-headed lunatic wasn't enough torture, right? Had to make up more drama. Had to keep pushing and pushing until everything breaks."

Jisung launched forward. Through their bond, he could feel exactly where Minho's defenses were weakest. His hands found the older one's shoulders, spinning him around with enough force to send Minho stumbling back, his spine hitting the punching bag.

"Look at me, you stubborn piece of shit."

"Get off me, Jisung."

"Lee Minho."

"Han Ji-fucking-sung."

Their mouths crashed together like waves breaking against cliffs. It was not kind; Minho dragged his teeth along his tongue in retaliation as Han's tongue pushed past his lips, causing their teeth to clank.

"I'm not just some fucking complication you can file away in that brain of yours. I'm your damn soulmate. Your other half. The flame to your tide." Jisung’s thumb brushed over Minho's swollen bottom lip, pressing just hard enough to sting where he'd bitten earlier. "And if there's someone else out there… Well, you'll have to swallow that truth too, darling. Because I'm not going to stop looking.”

Deflated, Minho lowered his forehead to Han's shoulder. Sweat mixed with that Dior perfume that Jisung insisted on wearing—Sauvage, he always corrected, saying it with a French accent just to irritate—in a sickening way. Moving to Minho's nape, Jisung's fingers played with the wet hair there.

"I just wanted some peace, damn it," Minho mumbled against the fabric of his soulmate’s shirt. "Is that too much to ask? I'm starting to feel like a Mexican soap opera protagonist. Any minute now, La Usurpadora's theme song will start playing in the background."

With his nails lightly scratching Minho's scalp, Jisung laughed. "Peace? With us? Make me laugh, darling. As if you don't know me after all these years of sharing a dorm. Peace is for the weak. And you," he gently pulled Minho's hair, forcing him to look into his eyes, "have never been weak a day in your life."

"I want to be fucking weak right now. Just... just for a moment."

Jisung's humming vibrated against Minho's throat as he pressed open-mouthed kisses there. With his fingers tightening on Han's hips, the older man's breath caught. This kiss was different—slower, deeper, Jisung controlling the pace while Minho made these desperate little sounds that he'd deny later. Hands mapped familiar territory, one sliding down to press against the small of Minho's back while the other traced the line of his jaw.

"Look at you," Han murmured against his mouth, teeth catching Minho's lower lip. "Already trembling. Your skin's so hot I could burn myself."

"I swear to god, Han Jisung, I will end you." But Minho's head fell back against the punching bag, exposing the long line of his throat.

"You're wound so tight, hyung. Let me help you forget for a while."

"Han—"

"Shh," Han breathed against his skin, "just let me take care of you."

And Minho surrendered, because that's what always happened with Han. He felt like that antique music box from his grandmother's shelf that haunted his childhood memories—a delicate ballerina spinning on worn gears, twirling gracefully until the mechanism wound down. The melody promised "eternal dance," but the dancer always ended up frozen mid-pirouette, her mechanical grace failing until someone wound her up again. Staring at the ceiling, feeling Han's heartbeat against his chest, Minho couldn't help wondering if this mysterious third person from Jisung's dreams would be the missing piece that could make him function properly, or if they'd be the force that would finally make his gears crack and splinter.

-----------------------------------------------------------

2 weeks later

"Unnie, holy fucking shit!" Bora bursts through the door. Doc Martens squeak against the freshly waxed linoleum, leaving zigzagging scuff marks that'll make the cleaning lady curse tomorrow. She doubles over, gasping, her hand shaking. "I need the special ink. The one in the red bottle. The heavy-duty stuff."

"Define your emergency," you murmur without looking up, wiping away crimson droplets from your client's hip.

Bora always gets like this—dramatic, overflowing with empathy she can barely contain. Unlike Mina, Bora explodes. She paces, she curses, she stress-eats entire packages of banana milk cookies. Even so, both of them try to shoulder burdens they weren't meant to carry, attempting to ease suffering through temporary tattoos when neither has the cursed gift of truly breaking bonds.

On the table, Jiyeon lies face-down, her designer crop top pushed up to expose pale skin. Mascara-stained tears drip onto the leather cushioning while her fingers trace the edges of the fresh tribal design—thick black lines and sharp angles now covering what was once a vine pattern, her soulmate mark. The same mark that tied her to Seo-yeon. After Jiyeon discovered that Seo-yeon was organising a spring wedding with her ex—the jerk who left her arms with bruises resembling cigarette burns—she stopped responding to her texts.

You don't comment on the crying. Several years of breaking bonds, and you've witnessed enough shattered connections to understand Psyche's judgment weighs heavier than any earthly pain. That ancient, otherworldly voice that scrapes against your skull like broken glass, whispering condemnations that echo through time itself. Every fucking day you hear it too.

Destroyer. Defiler. Burner of destinies. How dare you sever what the goddess has joined with her own hands?

"Stop touching it," you say, your voice softer than usual as you gently bat away Jiyeon's exploring fingers. Placing your palm over the fresh tattoo, you feel it.

Rainbow-colored boba pearls explode between teenage teeth. Clumsy fingers weave friendship bracelets during marathon study sessions. Graduation caps soar toward summer sky while joined hands squeeze promises of forever. Then reality shatters—screenshots of late-night texts between Seo-yeon and Eunkwang flood Jiyeon's phone. "He's changed," Seo-yeon insists while Jiyeon traces finger-shaped bruises blooming across old photographs. A wedding invitation arrives in a rose-gold envelope.

Under your touch, the soul bond flickers like a dying lightbulb. An once-vibrant pink glow that represented Jiyeon's side of the connection has faded to a sickly rose, the golden cosmic threads unraveling.

"Two days," you whisper, more to the universe than to anyone in the room. "Maybe less."

"Fuck me sideways," Bora hisses through clenched teeth, her lip piercing clicking against her canine. She paces the room. "The guy out front, Y/N... it's bad. Like, soap opera bad. Caught his mom fucking his soulmate in their family vacation house. He tried to burn the mark off with fucking bleach. Chemical burns everywhere. And my machine picked today of all days to shit itself, and you know I can't—"

"Out of ink," you cut her off, dragging your forearm across your eyes. It leaves another streak of black around them but it doesn't compare to how they're burning from three sleepless nights of the same recurring dream—a viscous sensation of seaweed wrapped around your ankles, invisible chains pulling you to the bottom of the river, voices distorted by water calling your name with a familiarity that makes you nauseous.

Punishment from your ancestors, who must be turning in their underwater graves.

"Damn, the guy's really messed up, Unnie!"

With a sigh, you pick up a bottle of lukewarm water from the table. Cleaning gel sticks to the plastic. "Tell him to come back tomorrow. I'm going to the supplier tonight, after the last client." The bottle is empty in four gulps. "If he's really struggling, there's Jack Daniel's in the bottom drawer. New bottle. Offer him a double shot; he'll need it."

As Bora leaves your room muttering a litany of creative curses at deities you didn't even know existed, Jiyeon finally gets up from the table. The movement is slow—like someone testing a broken bone. Her high-waisted jean shorts barely cover the bandage.

"You're kind of bitter, aren't you?" she murmurs. "Cold. Full of... walls. The true Bond Reaper. That's what they call you out there, you know? In the Telegram groups, on the forums..."

You shrug, already starting to dismantle your machine. "And what else do they say in those little groups?"

"That you charge in dollars. That you only take... complicated cases. That you almost died when you burned your mark. They say your heart stopped for seven minutes."

Shit...

Every Sunday morning, you still recall your father kneading dough while humming old Beatles songs, the flour sprinkling his dark hair like early snow. How your mother's sewing machine would provide percussion to his off-key rendition of "Hey Jude," guiding fabric through the needle. The way three-year-old Hyewon would toddle around the kitchen in her yellow polka dot dress, stealing bits of cookie dough when Dad wasn't looking. Despite Mom's objections, you were fifteen at the time, sitting on the counter and assisting Dad in measuring ingredients while daydreaming about your soulmate mark.

Then came that Tuesday in March. The sound of your father's belt when your mother used it to hang herself, three days after he ran away with his "true" soulmate, a yoga instructor. Following the dull thud of the body striking the bathroom tiles, there was the creaking of leather against the rusty metal railing. Hyewon's screams from her bedroom, where you'd locked her in with her stuffed rabbit when Mom started acting strange.

Then came your aunt Soo-jin, who was dying in her flat because her soulmate had wrapped his Mercedes around a lamppost in Manchester. Then came your high school friend Min-ji, who swallowed a bottle of sleeping pills after finding her soulmate in bed with her twin sister. When her mark turned ash-gray, indicating her husband's death in a fishing accident, your neighbour Mrs. Kim just stopped eating.

To keep Hyewon in school, you worked double shifts at convenience stores for three years, cleaned office buildings at night, and slept on newspaper-wrapped park benches when you could not afford rent. Somewhere between cleaning toilets at two in the morning and paying for Hyewon's school uniforms with your mother's cherished sewing machine, your sunny personality died.

Since then, you prefer your days fueled by weed from Park in 302 and bottom-shelf vodka from Mrs. Lee's corner store. Your nights are filled with casual sex with people who don't ask about the elaborate tattoo between your breasts.

Form, structure, and physical boundaries were desperately needed in the world to contain the primordial chaos that this soulmate nonsense threatened to unleash at any moment.

Much as a jellyfish was forced to develop an exoskeleton to survive on solid ground, you transformed your curse into art, your pain into livelihood. Just as precisely as they create beauty, your hands can break divine bonds. It was inevitable to succumb to the need for containment, to the visceral dread of remaining undefined, so you chose your own chains and forged your own prison with ink and needles. And if Psyche wanted to curse you with the gift of destruction, well... you would make this curse your masterpiece.

"Bitter? Die? Me? No way! They're just stories, dear. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to prepare the room for the next client. Mina handles payment at reception—cards, transfers, divine favors... hell, she'd probably accept your firstborn if Psyche deemed it worthy."

Jiyeon's fingers twist the strap of her designer purse. "Thanks... and thanks for listening too. Not many people understand the whole..." She swallows hard. "Best friends who were soulmates thing. And then with her marrying my ex..."

"Honey, I've seen bonds between twins shatter. Marks appearing on corpses.” You grab a fresh needle, testing its weight. "Your story? It's Tuesday afternoon in my world."

"The aftercare..."

"Right. Lukewarm water, mild soap, three days." You demonstrate the cleaning motion in the air. "No direct water contact. Healing ointment—the expensive kind, not the corner store garbage."

"And no swimming or gym," she mumbles, shoulders hunched forward like she's trying to make herself smaller.

"For two weeks minimum." The machine whirs to life in your hands, its familiar buzz drowning out the voices for a blessed moment. "If it gets infected or your friend starts fighting the severance—and trust me, she will—come straight back here. Don't play doctor with drugstore remedies."

Jiyeon shifts her weight from one foot to another, her expensive heels clicking against the floor tiles. "One more thing? How... how do you do it? Day after day, hearing these stories? The goddess's gift... is it real? The voices everyone talks about... do they..." She gestures at her head.

In the pocket of your apron, your fingers locate the pack of cigarettes. "Psyche's not some benevolent matchmaker—she's a cosmic chaos agent with a sick sense of humor. Some get marks, some don't. It's a divine lottery where everyone's ticket is already rigged. And some of us?" Your free hand unconsciously moves to your chest. "Some of us are born marked but spend every day wishing we weren't. As for the voices and that whole near-death drama? Just stories people tell to make sense of their broken hearts."

Words die before they reach Jiyeon's lips as her mouth opens and closes like a landed fish.

"Save your breath.” Once, twice—the metal wheel scrapes against your calloused thumb. Third time's the charm, and the flame dances to life. Destroyer. Defiler. Burner of destinies. Smoke billows out of your nostrils and you fancy yourself some ancient dragon, not hoarding gold but guarding a collection of bonds. “Just take care of that tattoo. And when you need another cover-up..." Before it falls and scatters on the floor, the ash column grows dangerously long. "You know where to find me. I'll be right here, giving the middle finger to destiny."

The door clicks shut behind her.

As soon as you feel safe and lonely enough, you trace the outline of the mark through your shirt. That cursed patch of skin that refuses to forget. Trembling between your fingers, the cigarette hovers closer to your chest. Closer. The heat seeps through the cotton, a promise of pain, of release. Just one quick press and maybe... Your breath hitches. Maybe this time...

When something—or someone—slams against the front door with enough force to make the ink bottles on their shelves dance akin to inebriated soldiers, the studio erupts in chaos. The cigarette slips from your startled fingers, landing on your thigh. "Son of a fucking—" Pain explodes across your leg as the ember burns through denim and finds flesh. Your fingers scramble to brush it away, skin blistering against hot ash.

Through the thin walls, Bora's voice rises like a war cry: "Oi, shitstain! Try that again and I'll rearrange your face so badly your own mother won't recognize you at Chuseok! Some of us weren't raised in a goddamn circus!"

"Christ on a cracker," you mutter, picking gray ash from your jeans.

It didn't work. Again. It never does. You’re too coward to burn the skin only to see it intact a few weeks later.

"Well, well, if it isn't my favorite agent of chaos." Mina materializes in your doorway like an urban legend, all dramatic timing and knowing smirks. From the recent burn on your trousers to the spot where your hand is still hovering over your chest, just above that cursed mark, her dark eyes dart. She clicks her tongue against her teeth. "That murder-suicide energy you're radiating could power half of Gangnam, and Bora's about to commit a felony in the waiting room. You know how she gets when entitled assholes treat this place like their personal fight club. The vibes in here?" She wrinkles her nose. "More fucked than that time Park Jin-young tried to cover up his ex's name with a portrait of his cat. Want me to tell your next client to fuck off? Park-ssi's been around long enough to know the drill. Wouldn't be the first time you've needed space to..." She waves her hand vaguely, "Process your shit."

Lavender incense—the kind she religiously buys from that ancient grandmother with milky eyes at Gwangjang Market every Thursday—weaves through the air. It combines with the sting of ink and your personal scent to create a mood that veers between a crime scene and a temple.

She moves through your space like water finding its level, the hem of her thrifted black dress whispering secrets against legs covered in Korean mythology. Dragons chase tigers across her calves, while dokkebi dance around her ankles.

There's always been something otherworldly about Mina, but today it pulses stronger, like a radio picking up signals from another dimension. Every word of your conversation with Jiyeon must have reached her ears through the paper-thin walls of this dilapidated building. And Mina, sweet, cursed Mina, has never learned how to shut off that cosmic antenna of hers, picking up pain frequencies that should stay buried in the static.

It's her fucking birthright after all—this ability to absorb others' emotional garbage like some metaphysical recycling bin. Psyche's golden child. The unofficial therapist of Seoul's walking wounded.

"I said I'm fucking fine," you snap, but your hands betray you, trembling worse than that time you tried to quit smoking cold turkey—another souvenir from that night in the burned-out palace gardens, when Psyche decided to make you her cosmic janitor. " Just... drained. This week's been absolute shit wrapped in more shit. Five bond severances back-to-back, and that perpetual disaster Park Jin-young showing up again wanting to tattoo what's-her-face's name over his chest. For the fifth fucking time! Fifth! I swear to god, that man's skin is more crossed-out names than actual skin at this point."

"And those dreams are back, aren't they? About the voices underwater?" Mina twirls one of her purple-dyed dreadlocks around her finger, a habit she's had since that rainy night four years ago when she crashed into your life—quite literally—by falling through your apartment's window while chasing what she swore was Psyche's spirit animal.

You remember how she sat there, surrounded by broken glass and your sister's scattered Barbie dolls, blood trickling down her temple, looking at you with those huge doe eyes and announcing, "The goddess sent me to find you."

She takes another step forward now, her collection of silver anklets jingling softly. "I heard you last night. Screaming about chains and seaweed and something about a book." She pauses exactly two steps away—close enough that you can smell her bubble tea, far enough that you won't feel cornered. "Listen, my cousin Seo-yeon—you remember her? The one who caught her ex trying to burn down her apartment? She's a therapist now. Specializes in post-severance trauma cases. Got her master's in Soul Psychology from that university in Bangkok—"

"No." You stand up abruptly, your thighs hitting the metal table hard enough to knock some needles that clatter against the floor. "I don't need therapy, honey. I don't need anyone else trying to get inside my head. I just need..."

"Just need what, unnie?" Mina's hand lands on your shoulder.

"I need you to stop trying to save me like I'm another one of your divine charity projects. I'm not a lost soul for you to rescue, dammit."

"What if I don't want to stop?" Mina challenges, lifting her chin stubbornly. "What if this is my purpose? My destiny? To heal what you break?"

Prior to your protest, she leans in and presses a soft kiss to your forehead, right where your third eye would be—according to her endless spiritual babble. It's quick, almost chaste, almost sacred, a profane blessing. The kind of gesture she started making when she first noticed how the souls' voices wouldn't quiet in your head, how they screamed louder with each bond you severed.

"Psyche brought us together to be soul sisters, remember?" She murmurs against your skin. "Light and shadow. Healing and destruction. Yin and yang."

In some ways, kindness has always hurt more than cruelty, so you pull away as though her touch burns.

Your knees protest as you bend down to pick up the needles from the floor. "I just need to work, okay? The busier I stay, the less time I have to think about..."

"About how you still feel the bond even after burning it? About how Psyche cursed you in that garden, giving you the gift you feared most? Or about how you secretly like this gift because it gives you a perfect excuse to keep everyone at a safe distance?"

As if your own body were betraying you, you keep picking up needles from the floor, ignoring the fact that your hands are shaking more and more and that your fingers do not seem to be able to grasp the metal.

"Here's what I'm gonna do," Mina says, fishing her phone from the pocket of her dress. Her nails tap against the cracked screen. "I'm getting us coffee. That fancy shit from the place near Hongdae, not the vending machine piss you've been choking down."

"Don't waste your time, Min."

"See, that's your problem right there," she cuts in, already backing toward the door. Her fingers find the obsidian amulet she hung above your door last full moon—"for the dark energy," she'd said, while Bora rolled her eyes and muttered about superstitious girlfriends. "You think every kind gesture is a waste, every connection is a trap waiting to spring." One boot is already in the hallway when she stops. "News flash, unnie— Some people stick around because they want to, not because they have to. Some bonds heal instead of hurt. But your thick skull is too busy building fortresses to notice the difference."

Some bonds heal instead of hurt, you repeat mentally, but how can you know which ones are safe when even your own soul can betray you?

---------------------------------------------------------------

"When will I see you again, love?"

"When I run out of ink, Junho." You slide off his lap, adjusting your lace. "And that might take a while; I just got a new shipment."

"Are you kicking me out?" He laughs, that deep, husky laugh that makes your stomach do a treacherous flip. His fingers fish out a cigarette from the crumpled pack on the nightstand. On his bare shoulders, the old lamp's yellowish light dances. "I thought we had something special. You know, after that thing you did with your tongue..."

You roll your eyes while searching the bedroom floor for your shirt. Finally, you find the fabric under a stack of old sheet music, still damp with sweat, sticking uncomfortably.

"The only special thing here is your ability to not take a hint." A bottle of soju is half-empty when your fingers find it. The liquid burns down your throat, already hoarse from earlier moans. "Don't complicate what's simple, guitarist."

"Simple?" Junho exhales smoke slowly as he forms perfect circles in the stale air. "You call this simple? Three months of late-night meetings, coded messages, and nail marks on my back? The way you tremble when I touch—"

Bile rises in your throat, acidic and familiar. You know this tone, have heard it from others before him—that possessive edge that creeps in like poison ivy. It would be easier if this was just about dramatic choices, lightsabres, and villains to defeat. Real life, however, is not a film with definite heroes and villains. Small decisions like accepting a second date, letting someone stay until morning, or acknowledging that the warmth in your chest is not just the soju talking are what can ruin you. These mundane decisions are the ones that can shatter your walls, and unlike a seatbelt click or a dramatic battle scene, there's no manual for protecting your heart from the slow poison of attachment.

"You don't even feel anything," you mutter, more to yourself than to him, as your fingers finally locate your combat boots under his vintage armchair—that hideous moss-green velvet monstrosity he swears came from some artist's estate sale in Hongdae. Still wrapped in its brown paper, your knuckles brush against a new bundle of inks and needles as you touch the top of it.

"What did you say?" Junho's voice carries that puppy-like eagerness that makes your stomach turn. He's too invested, too hungry for validation, for connection.

"Nothing. Just thinking about my next appointment with Lee Jiwoo. That cover-up piece won't ink itself."

"Come back to bed," he purrs, patting the twisted sheet. "I could reschedule my morning practice with the band. We could order that spicy tteokbokki you like!"

"What you're doing is pathetically obvious," you cut him off, yanking on your left boot. "The constant questions about my clients. The 'accidental' glimpses at my phone when you think I'm sleeping. Those calls you take in the bathroom." Your laugh is a broken thing. "What's the going rate for information about the bond reaper these days? Or did Detective Park promise to clear your assault record from that bar fight in Itaewon instead?"

Junho's face drains of color faster than soju spilling on concrete, his fingers clutching the bedsheet like a shield. "Jagi, I don't—you're not making any—"

"Spare me the stuttering act." You stand, ignoring how your knees crack from kneeling too long on his cheap laminate flooring. "You're not the first to try gathering intel between the sheets, and hell, you won't be the last. But here's some free advice: next time you're playing undercover cop's lapdog, don't keep your burner phone in the same jacket pocket as your guitar picks. Amateur move."

That carefully constructed puppy-dog sweetness melts away as his expression contorts. Something darker emerges, something that was always there, lurking beneath his gentle musician facade. "You went through my fucking things?" His voice cracks on the last word. "You paranoid psycho—"

"Oh, baby," you drawl, watching his jaw clench at the pet name he once begged you to use. Your lips curl into something that might look like a smile but feels like a wound. "I've been going through your things since that first night at the jazz bar. The police reports stuffed in your guitar case? Sloppy. Those surveillance photos under your mattress? Embarrassing. But those encrypted messages to Detective Park about my 'suspicious late-night clients' and 'possible illegal modifications of soul bonds'?" You trace a finger along your bottom lip. "Now that was some riveting bedtime reading."

With the coordination of a drunken toddler, he lunges forward, but you are already subconsciously affected by six years of street survival. Your elbow finds his solar plexus—right where that hideous compass tattoo points perpetually north—and he crumples. A puddle of regret and cheap tobacco forms as the Chamisul smashes against the floor and mixes with his dropped cigarette.

"Fucking—" he wheezes between gasps, one hand pressed against his stomach where tomorrow's bruise is already blooming, "—crazy cunt."

"See?" You retrieve your ink bundle from the chair, careful not to step in the growing puddle of soju. "That honesty suits you better than all that 'jagiya' bullshit." At the door, you pause, not bothering to look back at him sprawled among the wreckage of his failed operation. "Oh, and Junho? Next time Detective Park wants to investigate suspected bond modifications, tell him to send someone who can at least fake sincerity. This?" You wave vaguely at the rumpled sheets where you'd wasted three months letting him think he was getting close to proof. "This was just embarrassing. Even that rookie he sent last spring—Kim Minseok, wasn't it?—at least knew how to forge a convincing backstory."

As you descend the stairs of his shithole apartment building, past the perpetually broken vending machine that dispenses warm Sprite and the wall where someone spray-painted 'dreams die here' in neon pink, you don't feel anything. Not betrayal, not anger, not even disappointment. Sex had been decent, and his connections for rare inks had been useful. That's all it ever was. All it could ever be in a world where burning soulmate marks is whispered about in dark alleys, where even the suggestion of being the infamous "bond reaper" could get you disappeared into some government black site.

-------------------------------------------

When you get home, the low sound of some Korean drama—seems to be True Beauty from the theme song playing—leaks through the door. Mina and Bora are on the couch, a tangle of limbs and soft sighs. Bora, with her hair spread like a fan across Mina's thigh, has a thread of drool running onto her girlfriend's silk shorts. The caramel popcorn bag is tipped over on the Persian rug.

"Unnie!" Mina's voice is thick with sleep as you drape the blanket over them. Her fingers fumble with the remote, pressing random buttons. "Tell me everything about guitar boy. Did he do the thing with his tongue and the cigarette smoke again? We closed early just for your date, you know."

"Your concealer's smudged all over your chin," Bora interrupts, face still buried in Mina's thigh. "And you've got that look again—the one where you just crushed someone's soul into dust and maybe enjoyed it a little too much." She snorts, finally cracking one eye open. "Poor Junho-oppa. Bet he thought he was being so smooth with his undercover act."

"Both of you, sleep," you whisper, pressing a kiss to Mina's forehead. Her skin is warm, slightly sticky from the face mask she never properly washed off. When you kiss Bora's temple, she swats at you with the precision of a drunk cat, nearly knocking over the soju bottle. "We can dissect the train wreck that is my love life tomorrow, after I've had at least three shots of espresso and maybe some soju."

Bora mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like "You're just scared of feelings," but her words dissolve into soft snores before you can argue.

When you first arrive at the flat, you are met with its familiar chaos, which is the inevitable outcome of living with two artists who view organization as a suggestion and an eight-year-old whose life's work is to collect every piece of Stray Kids item ever made. You hang the jean jacket in the hallway closet, wincing as the floorboard under your left foot lets out a betraying creak. The living room floor has transformed into an obstacle course of your sister’s scattered toys—plushies, abandoned coloring books, and what looks suspiciously like Felix photocards arranged in a perfect circle ("It's for summoning him!").

In the kitchen, yesterday's ramyeon bowls still crowd the sink like ceramic mushrooms, and a stack of bills—mostly from Mina's black card adventures at Gucci and her newfound obsession with some obscure Japanese streetwear brand—threatens to avalanche off the dining table.

Your eyes catch on the newest masterpiece stuck to the fridge—Hyewon's latest attempt at capturing Felix's essence. Despite the wobbly lines and questionable proportions, there's something endearing about how she captured his signature heart smile. The messy hangul beneath reads "The prettiest boy in the world!!!" with at least seven exclamation points. Next to it, held by that ridiculous rabbit magnet Bora won at some arcade in Hongdae, Mrs. Jung's neat handwriting reports, "Hyewonnie cleaned her plate today! Even asked for extra kimchi (progress!). Oh, parent-teacher meeting tomorrow at 2PM—talent show preparations.”

Gently, you fold the note and slide it into the pocket of your torn jeans.

In her room, the bedside lamp is still on. Hyewon sleeps hugging the official SKZOO pillow, and her long black hair, identical to yours, is spread across the pillow.

"Mom?" Hyewon's voice cracks with sleep, her small fingers rubbing at her eyes. She started calling you that when she was three, after your mother died. Back then, she'd cry herself hoarse asking for "mommy," and somehow, between midnight feedings and endless diaper changes, the word stuck to you like honey. "Is that... wait, ugh, why do you smell like an ashtray?" Her nose scrunches up. She pushes herself up on her elbows. "And that's definitely Uncle Junho's cologne."

You sink onto the edge of her bed and your fingers find their way to her hair, working through a stubborn knot near her temple. "Hey, detective squirrel, enough with the interrogation." You try to keep your voice light, but something must slip through because she tilts her head, studying you with that perception that makes her seem older than eight. "Tell me about your day instead. That dance routine you were working on..."

"Wait, no, this is way more important!" Sleep vanishes from her face like magic. She jolts upright, her knee catching the edge of her water glass. It wobbles dangerously before you steady it. "Mrs. Jung told me I could finally tell you! She made me do the super special pinky promise with the thumb press and everything!"

She scrambles out of bed, her feet barely touching the floor as she moves. There's a moment where she trips over her giant Wolfchan plushie, arms windmilling, but she catches herself with that natural grace you never inherited from your mother's side.

"Look, look, look!" She slides across the hardwood floor, coming to a stop at her desk. Under the soft glow of her star-shaped night light, four VIP tickets gleam. "Mrs. Jung got them as an early birthday present! They're not just regular tickets—they're VIP! Front row! We could actually see Felix's freckles!" Her words tumble out faster than her breath can keep up. "Can we go? Please? I'll do all my math homework first try! I'll even eat the green parts of the kimchi!"

The paper feels expensive under your fingertips—thick, textured, with a hologram that catches the light just so. These tickets probably cost more than what you make in a week covering soulmate marks for trainees and politicians with secrets darker than their coffee. Your thumb traces the embossed date, mind already calculating risks and escape routes.

"Hyewonnie..." you start, watching her bounce on her toes. Her small fingers twist the hem of her oversized sleep shirt. She's practically vibrating with hope, and something in your chest aches. "Baby, you're only eight. These concerts... they get pretty wild. People push and shove, and sometimes—"

"NINE!" she corrects indignantly, her voice rising an octave as she straightens her spine and cheeks puff out. "I'm turning nine in exactly—" she counts on her fingers, lips moving silently, "—forty-three days! And Mrs. Jung confirmed she's going with us! She even said we can bring Mina unnie too! They're the ones who made me become a Stay! They showed me the 'God's Menu' video seventeen times in one day!" Her voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper. "Please, Mom? Pretty please?”

You sigh, watching as she squeezes her pillow so tightly that poor Wolfchan's ears stick out at odd angles. The truth hits you like a brick—your baby sister, this tiny human who still can't reach the top kitchen shelf even on tiptoes, has been completely and utterly converted into a Stay by your chaotic roommates. She learned the names of eight boys before she could properly write her own name in Hangul.

"Mrs. Jung really thought of everything, didn't she?" You smile despite yourself, sliding the tickets into the desk drawer. They disappear beneath a scattered constellation of photocard. "We'll have a proper talk about this tomorrow, okay? Right now it's way past little Stays' bedtime."

"But you'll think about it? Like, really think about it?" She burrows under her blankets. "Chan oppa would be so disappointed if I didn't go... and his dimples get all sad when he's disappointed... and then I'd feel terrible forever and ever..." Her voice trails off into a yawn that she tries to hide behind her hand.

"Unnie will think about it. Promise. Sleep well, my little Stay." You press a kiss to her forehead.

Through heavy eyelids, she mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like 'I love you.'. Her small fingers—still sticky from the candy she definitely wasn't supposed to have before bed—curl around the hem of your shirt. It's the same instinctive gesture she's had since she was a baby, as if making sure you won't disappear while she dreams.

She was so small, impossibly small, like a sparrow that had fallen from its nest too soon. You remember how her fingers, no bigger than guitar picks, had latched onto your old Nirvana shirt with surprising strength, as if she already knew you were all she would have.

In the hallway, you trace the marks on the wall—each line a complete story, each number a small revolution. "Look, unnie, I grew two centimeters!" Her voice echoes in your memory, bouncing on her tiptoes to appear even taller. The last mark, made just two weeks ago during a lazy Sunday morning, shows she's already past your elbow. Soon she'll be your height, maybe even taller.

"For fuck's sake," you mutter when your phone vibrates again. The blue-tinted screen illuminates the dark hallway. The photo—you and Junho at Namsan Tower—feels like a lifetime ago.

His voice message arrives, that infuriating little 'ping' that makes your jaw clench: "Listen, jagiya,” . The ice cubes in his whiskey glass (probably his third) clink against each other. The familiar jazz from Sol Music Bar—where he first tried to impress you with his terrible English pickup lines—bleeds through his words. "I know you hate when I do this shit, but we need to talk about what went down today. You can't just—"

Delete. Block. Your thumb hovers over the screen for a moment before choosing both options.

"Unnie?" Bora's leaning against the doorframe like a ghost from a Joseon painting, platinum blonde hair creating a halo around her face. "Got any soju left? That fucking dream again... the one with the blood and the—".

"Bora-yah," you whisper, gathering the fallen blanket from the floor. "You have work tomorrow. The exhibition at Seoul Arts Center, remember? The one you've been preparing for months?"

"But, unnie..." She rubs her eyes with her knuckles, smearing what's left of her eyeliner across pale skin. Her bottom lip trembles—just slightly, but you catch it. "I saw Mina again. In the dream. She was wearing that stupid hanbok, the one from the palace, and her hands were covered in—"

"We'll talk about your not-so-prophetic dreams tomorrow, okay?" You guide her back to the couch, where Mina's sleeping form creates a perfect curve.

"They're not prophetic," she mumbles, voice muffled against Mina's shoulder. Her words slur together. "They're memories. From before. When we were—when you were—" She doesn't finish, already half-asleep.

You watch as they gravitate toward each other, even in sleep. Mina's fingers find Bora's wrist instinctively, tracing the outline of their matching marks—twin sunflowers, eternally blooming, stems intertwined in an endless dance.

Your phone buzzes again—once, twice, three times. The vibrations travel through your pocket and into your bones. You switch it off completely, watching the screen fade to black.

In your room, where half-finished tattoo designs and anatomical sketches create a wallpaper of controlled chaos, you sink into the desk chair. Old wood protests under your weight, a familiar creak that sounds like an old friend's greeting.

Lifting the sketchbook—that lovely, awful thing with its tattered black cover and sin-thick pages—from the drawer, your hands tremble. Another of Mina's gifts because she always seems to know exactly what you need before the thought fully forms in your mind. The pencil moves across the paper with a will of its own, like a Ouija board planchette guided by unseen hands.

An ancient castle rises from the depths of memory. Its towers pierce a clouded sky, stone walls holding centuries of secrets. In your mind's eye, you can hear the echo of footsteps—your footsteps—bouncing off corridors. Air fills with the musty sweetness of black mold and the sharp tang of melting wax, so real you can almost taste it on your tongue.

"Quick, quick!" you whisper to yourself, your words ricocheting off the damp walls. A rebellious strand of hair escapes from the linen scarf that holds your locks. Your fingers press the breadbasket against your chest as you descend the spiral stairs of the royal kitchen. The thick apron brushes against your ankles.

In the street, under a sky that begins to lighten at the edges like a burned parchment, the line is already forming—dozens of thin, pale faces, sunken eyes shining with a hunger that goes beyond the physical. The cold dawn wind makes tattered clothes dance around bodies too fragile, too worn by the Lunaris kingdom's misery.

It pains your heart, knowing that even when Chrysalis delivers their crops after the marriage ceremony in two moons, the distribution will be anything but fair. As a Solaris baker, you are left with few choices in a castle where people mock the loss of your kingdom. You were saved by the kindness of two soldiers whom the captain trusted when the others had been too eager to kill you and your infant sister. Still, you persist in your small acts of rebellion. Mina and Bora, bless their souls, run interference when the head chef notices your absence, their quick tongues spinning tales of errands and duties that never existed.

"By the old gods, look who's here!" Mrs. Jung's weathered hands reach out. The finest weaver in the Lunaris Kingdom, now reduced to threadbare clothes and hollow cheeks. "Our Solaris angel, bringing warmth to our cold mornings."

"Careful with those words, Mrs. Jung," you murmur, pressing the still-warm loaf into her hands. Your fingers linger on hers, trying to share what little warmth you possess. "The castle has ears, even at this hour."

More children emerge from the shadows like spirits. Against the cold cobblestones, their feet, encased in strands of fabric ripped from old clothing, produce an eerie cadence. You recognize the makeshift bandages as pieces of the royal banners that once flew proudly over the gates.

"Unnie!" Soo-yeon's teeth chatter as she tugs at your apron. "Jin-ho's here today. His first time." She points with her chin toward a boy who's pressed himself so far into the shadows that only the gleam of his eyes gives him away. The military coat he wears—his father's, you'd bet your last copper on it—hangs off his frame like a tent, the sleeves rolled up six times just so his hands can peek through. "His mama caught the winter fever."

"Come here, little soldier," you beckon to Jin-ho, watching how his fingers drum an anxious rhythm against his thighs. You extract an extra portion wrapped in cloth. "This one just came from the ovens. The crust might burn your tongue if you're not careful, mind you. Small bites, like a proper nobleman."

You catch Min-ah trying to inhale an entire roll like a snake swallowing its prey. Her cheeks bulge impossibly wide, crumbs dusting her chin. "Saints above, sunshine! Did the orphanage run out of plates?" Your hand shoots out to pat her back as she makes a sound between a laugh and a choke. "Remember what happened with Bora last week? Poor thing went whiter than the palace sheets when you started turning blue."

Your attention splits as Soo-yeon shuffles closer against you, drawn by the warmth radiating from your body. Your fingers find her hair, working through knots that would make a sailor weep. "And what's this mess, my little star? These braids look like they've been through a war." Your thumb brushes away a smudge of dirt from her temple. "Where's that pretty ribbon I gave you? The blue one?"

"Lost it," she mumbles, eyes downcast. Her lower lip quivers. "During the guards' raid. They—they tore through everything looking for—"

"Shh," you cut her off gently, cupping her chin. "Visit my compound later, after the morning bell. We'll fix these braids properly." You lean in close enough that your breath stirs the wisps of hair around her face, voice dropping to that special whisper that never fails to make her eyes sparkle like dewdrops in sunlight. "And if you can sneak past that grumpy old Master Lee without making a sound, we might just find some honey cakes that survived the night. Enough to share with Hyewon too, if you’re feeling generous."

Between the frost-covered windows of the castle, your eyes dart. Usually, the guards sleep until the sun rises high enough to break their stupor, their bellies full of wine and meat from the feast last night celebrating the impending union of Lunaris and Chrysalis. But Commander Jung, that snake in armor, has grown suspicious. Just last week, his eyes followed your movements through the corridors. His thin lips curved into that knowing smirk that made your blood run cold, the same expression he wore when he ordered the burning of the Sun Temple.

Suddenly, there’s smoke curling around your feet and you no longer see their faces.

The ornate room feels like a gilded cage, suffocating in its opulence. The Venetian mirror reflects three souls caught in an impossible web—one small figure and two tall ones.

"Your Grace, please try to steady your breathing." Your hands adjust the formal attire. The familiar scent of mint leaves, coffee beans, and something uniquely him—like summer rain on hot stones—wraps around you.

"Does it pinch here?" Your fingers trace the embroidered seam along his shoulder blade, feeling the way his muscles twitch beneath the fabric. When he shakes his head—a movement so slight you almost miss it—you catch sight of his eyes in the mirror. They're swimming with unshed tears, and something in your chest splinters. Those eyes, god, those eyes. You can't remember his name or the exact shape of his face, but those eyes are burned into your memory—the same ones that danced with mischief as you three raided the kitchen's sweetmeats at midnight, the same ones that grew soft and liquid while reading poetry by candlelight in the library's hidden alcove. "My l—"

"Don't." His fingers spasm toward yours but retreat. "Please. Not—not today. I'll shatter if I hear that word from your lips."

Across the room, he—the other he, your morning star to this one's evening moon—paces like a caged beast. His teeth worry at his bottom lip until you see a bead of blood well up.

As you hold him, servants flit about with ribbons and flowers as the wedding preparations whirl around you like some hideous funfair.

"Your Grace," a maid's voice pipes up, "the bride is ready."

Time crystallizes like honey in winter when she enters. Her wedding dress ripples like liquid moonlight against marble floors that reflect her silhouette in fractured pieces. Red roses tumble from her hands; you watch a single petal break free, spiraling down in lazy circles until it kisses the marble floor like a drop of blood. The sight makes your stomach lurch.

A shudder runs through him, his breath hitching against the curve of your neck, warm and damp and desperate. "Can't—can't breathe. Why does it feel like we're conducting a funeral instead of a wedding?"

Without a word, you simply draw him farther into the shadows where the tapestries provide cover. The guards won't see their war captain like this, won't witness how his knees almost buckle when another wave of perfumed air carries the scent of roses. For God’s sake, in mere minutes, he'll have to represent the military! Kneeling before their next queen and king with a face carved from stone.

And there, at the altar draped in Lunaris silk, the crown prince stands like a man facing his executioner.

However, there's happiness too, isn't there? Memories as sweet as honey wine: lazy afternoons in secret clearings where the grass grew tall enough to hide three bodies. His head in your lap—dark hair spread like ink on your skirts, cat-like eyes half-closed in contentment—while the other's fingers trail patterns on your arm. Wildflower branches woven through dark hair while the summer sun painted everything gold.

"That crown suits you better than any other, my sunny queen." A playful tug on a flower stem sends petals cascading around your shoulders.

"Shut up and pass me another daisy," you mutter, but your voice trembles slightly. Your hands fidget with the stem, weaving it into the growing crown.

"He's right, you know?" The other one shifts closer, his knee brushing against yours. "You were born to wear crowns. Even if they're made of wildflowers." His thumb brushes your bottom lip, the calluses from years of swordplay creating a delicious friction. "Though I prefer you in the morning, wearing nothing but sunlight. Solaris blood really runs in your veins—you practically glow."

By the riverside, where the air smells of herbs and magic, ceramic pots bubble with mysterious concoctions. Steam rises in spirals, carrying the scent of crushed moonflowers and dragon's breath herbs. Your hair curls in the humidity, becoming wild and untamed.

"Be careful with that one, kitten; it might explode!" He lunges forward, muscles tensing beneath his thin shirt. His hand reaches for the pot, but you swat it away.

"For the love of the old gods," you hiss through clenched teeth, your fingers still tingling from the contact. "I know what I'm doing. I've been brewing potions since before you learned to hold a sword properly. My kingdom actually specializes in that, if you've forgotten."

"Of course you do, our little sun." The other one laughs. His feet dangle in the river, creating ripples that distort his reflection into fragments. He leans back on his elbows, dark hair falling across his forehead in a way that makes your heart stutter. "Remember when she turned your hair green for a week? You looked like a walking garden." His shoulders shake with suppressed laughter.

"That was an accident!" you protest, but your lips twitch traitorously. "Besides, the color brought out your eyes."

"It brought out something alright," the first one grumbles, running his fingers through his hair as if checking it's still the right color. "The castle guards couldn't look at me without laughing for months."

"Oh please," you roll your eyes, adding a pinch of crushed starflower to the mixture. The potion turns a deep violet, exactly as it should. "You loved the attention. You practically strutted around like a peacock."

"Speaking of attention," the second one's voice drops lower, more intimate. He catches your wrist gently, thumb pressing against your pulse point. "That merchant's son couldn't take his eyes off you at the market yesterday. Should we be concerned?"

"Jealous?" You arch an eyebrow, trying to ignore how your skin burns under his touch. "Of a boy who still trips over his own feet?"

"Never," they say in unison, and the synchronicity makes something warm unfurl in your chest. The first one moves behind you, his chest pressed against your back, while the other tugs you forward by your captured wrist. You're caught between them, like always, like destiny.

One pair of honey-golden hands, calloused from wielding swords and scaling castle walls to get to your window, always gentle when wiping tears from your face, are the hands you remember like a prayer. The other pair, pale as ivory, stained with ink from writing poetry and royal decrees, skilled at braiding your hair in the traditional style of his homeland.

Remember sleeping squeezed in the middle of a too-large bed, even though you hated being in the center (you always preferred the edges, or even the floor, much to their amusement). One would whisper poetry in your left ear while the other sang softly in your right, old lullabies from the Lunaris provinces."

"I hate you both," you'd lie, voice muffled by silk pillows, trying to hide your smile.

"No, you don't." They'd say in unison, making you laugh despite yourself. Then one would start tickling your feet while the other stole your pillow, and the serious moment would dissolve into childish wrestling.

Suddenly, there's fire—so much fire it steals the air from your lungs. You try to burn an ancient book, its yellowed pages curling and blackening as flames lick at your own clothes. The smoke stings your eyes, or maybe those are tears. The leather binding crackles and pops.

"I can't let them find out!" Your voice breaks on the words. "They'll hurt you both. They'll—" A cough interrupts you, smoke filling your lungs. "I have to protect you. Even from yourselves."

Then you're drowning, being pulled into the depths of dark and icy waters. The cold bites through your clothes, into your bones. Hands—those same hands you know better than your own—extend desperately, trying to reach you. Their faces blur above the surface as you sink deeper.

"Don't let her sink!"

"Hold my hand, love, please!"

When you finally blink, returning to reality in your Seoul apartment, you realize you've covered twenty pages with the same intertwined marks: turbulent waves like a stormy sea swallowing whole ships, dancing flames shaped like fire serpents, and an intricate spiral of black roses and sharp thorns connecting the two in an infinite pattern.

"Shit," you whisper to the empty room, letting the pencil roll across the desk with a metallic tinkle. "Shit, shit, shit."

The pain is sudden and overwhelming. Like lightning cutting through your chest, the sensation burns between your breasts with an intensity that makes you drop the notebook and slip from the chair. The impact with the cold floor makes your teeth clash. Your fingers tremble as they tear at your shirt buttons, desperate to understand what's happening, your nails leaving red marks on your skin.

Love, is there any pie left? I woke up hungry. That apple one you make, with extra cinnamon.

Where is he? Did he go to war? He promised he'd return before the solstice!

I have a duty before love. You knew this from the beginning! The crown weighs more than my heart.

Please, don't make me choose between you. It's like tearing pieces from my own soul.

The roses are dying in the garden without you here.

And there it is—beneath the covering, beneath the old burn that marked the breaking of the bond, your soulmate mark pulses with a life of its own. The pink scar tissue glows with its own light, as if something were trying to emerge from within your skin. You close your eyes, fingers brushing the sensitive area, and see: lines green as springtime vines, pink as the dawn sky, and purple as amethysts intertwining, restitching something that should be permanently broken.

"No, no, no." Hot tears stream down your face as you plead into the void, knees hitting against the wooden floor: "Psyche, my lady, please, stop. Why are you doing this to me?"

The goddess cursed you, didn't she? Condemned you to keep breaking bonds while dealing with the voices of ancestors and the loss of your soulmates. The echo of her laughter haunts your nightmares and you can still see her furious face, beautiful and terrible, when you tried to burn the mark without divine permission. Why now? Why rebuild the bond? Could this be your true punishment—making you remember everything you lost?

The pain is so intense that you barely register the moment Mina bursts through the door, her own eyes wide with panic, hair still messy from sleep. The air seems to vibrate with static energy around her. Of course—she would feel it too. Your soul sister, designated by Psyche herself to keep you in check, to heal the souls you leave behind like breadcrumbs on a dark path.

"Unnie!" She kneels beside you, cold hands against your feverish face. The lavender scent of her night cream is almost sickening. Her fingers tremble when they touch the pulsing mark, and you see the exact moment she understands—her eyes widen even more, color draining from her face. "What did you do? The bonds... they're..."

"I didn't..." Your entire body convulses, muscles spasming as if trying to reject your own skin. Sweat makes your clothes cling uncomfortably, and you taste copper on your tongue where you've bitten the inside of your cheek. "I didn't do anything, I swear by the old gods and new. It's... it's coming back on its own. They're coming back, Min. All of them."

The last thing you saw before consciousness slipped through your fingers like water was Mina's face, contorted in a silent scream, and Bora's figure sprinting down the corridor, her gold hair streaming behind her like a comet's tail.

"Hey! Y/N!" Their voices seem to come from underwater, distorted and far away.

And then, your mind plunged into a darkness so complete it felt solid, the deep resonating toll of ancient temple bells echoing in your skull like a funeral dirge.