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₊˚ · Come Home With Me | Say That You’ll Hold Me Forever · ˚₊

707 | Luciel Choi x MC · · Hadestown Inspired

Summary ~

Luciel is a poor boy who recently receives the good news of a week off. However, a chance break-in and an oddly familiar stranger sets something far more exciting in motion.

Warnings ~ Very brief mention of torture.

Word Count ~ 7.3k

read on ao3, playlist, series masterlist

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You wanna talk to her?

Yes.

Go on. … Luciel?

Yes?

Don’t come on too strong.

“Oh, I could just make out with you right now~!”

“I’m going to throw up.”

Seven grins wildly at the grimace plastered across Vanderwood’s face. The tall person standing in his office doorway crosses their arms, their broad shoulders draped in that ever-familiar leopard-print-lined leather jacket. It’s heavy, almost rebellious—which is a funny contradiction worn on his strict superior. (He used to wonder how that jacket stayed on those squared-off shoulders. After all, despite the insane amount of fieldwork they do, it never budges. With enough probing questions from the redhead and receiving either some scolding or a fun little jolt of electricity to his person, he decided to take matters into his own hands. That is until he snuck up behind them, grabbed onto the jacket, and pulled with all his might. Vanderwood fell directly onto Seven, and they both came crashing to the floor. That day Seven found out that his burly, tough Vandy had sewn their jacket to their shirt. Vanderwood didn't check up on Seven for a few days.)

“What? That's a perfectly respectable reaction! You just told me I don't have any work for the rest of the week.” Seven’s voice is sing-songy, dancing with melodramatic glee, matching the shit-eating grin painted on his face. Despite it being evening and the man being holed up inside for the night, his face always seems to glow with energy. His amber eyes flicker with mischief like two twin golden suns, his hair reflecting that same fiery intensity. The way his locks are tousled messily adds to the flame-like effect, giving him a uniqueness akin to a comic book character. (Vaguely, he remembers many times finding himself staring in front of a mirror. There is a certain identifiable way to his appearance. The way his hair sticks out as bright crimson, the way his eyes gleam with a golden shimmer, the way his nose slopes to a more defined point. It makes him memorable, and he hates that. As much as something within him yearns to be different, he has to fit in. To stay unnoticed. To survive—)

“Listen, you freak, I’m just your informant. Go track down the higher-ups and make out with them.” Vanderwood responds flatly, voice edged with the usual tint of disapproval. Seven looks up at the towering figure behind signature red-and-yellow-rimmed glasses. He realizes that his smile has slipped a little, and with the intake of a breath, he slowly reassumes his sly smirk.

“Well, if you insist…” Seven purrs, drawing the words out with a dramatic flair. He tugs on the drawstring of his hoodie, eyelashes fluttering coyly as he pulls the string slowly with a burlesque-type of pace. He has to stop himself from giggling as Vanderwood’s face contorts with disgust.

“I can’t deal with you right now, Zero Seven.” Vanderwood pinches at their nose, exasperated, glancing around the room as if to justify their want to leave. Their gaze falls on the multitude of chip bags and cans discarded on the floor, the tinfoil reflecting the neon blue of Seven’s computer lights. A few soda cans are balanced precariously on the top of his PC, likely an activity he decided to indulge in instead of working.

Vanderwood rolls their eyes, exhaling sharply through their nose. Speaking of sharp—that’s exactly what they are. A body composed of sharp features: collarbones that could cut glass, shaggy choppy hair probably cut with a razor, a chiselled jaw, and defined cheekbones. However, there’s still an air of androgyny surrounding the informant, one that rarely got questioned unless you wanted to be met with the end of a taser.

“I’m going. And I will be enjoying my week-long break from you and cleaning the pigsty you live in.” Vanderwood’s voice is clipped and short, as if wanting to end the conversation with a clean, precise cut. However, they know that nothing involving Seven ever ends cleanly. Their sharp eyes flick once more over the chaotic mess that is Seven’s ‘office,’ barely passing as a workspace, and a room in the bunker Vanderwood refuses to clean. They pinch the bridge of their nose with a sigh, combat boots making a satisfying thunk as they turn around to leave.

“Your service will be missed, Madam Vanderwood!” Seven salutes mockingly, giving a little wink not unlike an idol would. Vanderwood takes a sharp breath, pausing in the doorway for a few moments, fingers twitching at their sides. For a moment, they look like they’re going to turn around—Seven almost expects it—before they sigh and continue leaving. Seven concurs that they ultimately decided that there’s no point trying to argue with his teasing, letting him have the last word instead of indulging in whatever nonsense he—absolutely— had in store.

Vanderwood’s footsteps echo throughout the bunker before slowly dissolving into the ambience of his workspace. The low hum of computer fans and the faint sound of his air conditioner. His eyes linger on the doorway, his body still thrumming with an underlying tenseness. He almost expects Vanderwood to come right back, with a scowl and a stern order, breaking the illusion of a work-free week. When nothing happens, and he’s instead met with the buzz of a roomba he tinkered on passing by his door, he melts into his chair. The wheels make a squeak in protest as he swings slightly, his limbs sprawling in every direction. He stretches out over his seat like a cat claiming his territory. (Oh, his beautiful Elly! He has time to pay her a visit now! Isn’t that a gift?) Despite the new freedom, he finds himself fidgeting, unsure of what to do.

He spins lazily in his chair. Once. Twice. The third time, he kicks a stray Honey Buddha bag under his desk. It crinkles against the wood, landing amongst a collection of wires and work-in-progress inventions. (He picked up the hobby when he was sent to America for high school. The American high school experience was definitely…different. Especially for a Korean kid learning English while simultaneously being enrolled in all the AP academic classes. He was a loner, most of the time just bringing his laptop around to practice his coding. There was this one kid in his AP physics class who saw him coding and asked if he had ever heard of the FIRST Robotics Competition. The casual offer ended up becoming an escape hatch. He joined an extracurricular club naturally called robotics, at first on the coding team. He excelled. Came out of his shell too. But in his last year, after getting fed up with coding after school and then coding for the agency, he asked to join the build team. He’s been tinkering ever since.) One of the little cat robots catches his eye—a project in mid-construction, the circuitry partially exposed beneath a rounded, cream-coloured shell. He picks it up, cradling it in his hands with the kind of affection usually reserved for Elly or sensitive circuit boards.

“Free from the shackles of work… for a week…” He mutters to himself, a lazy grin pulling at his lips. He gently places the cat robot down on the desk, stretching his arms above his head. A few of his knuckles pop, a common habit of his. For a moment, he just sits in the silence. However, silence isn’t good for someone like him. Silence makes room for memory, for those things he lets settle in the back of his mind to crawl back to the forefront. His brain is hardwired to always be moving, to always be distracted, whether with work, projects, driving—anything. So he fidgets. First with a pen, twirling it around his fingers. (Something one of those robotics kids taught him at a competition. He taught the same trick to Yoosung a few years ago.) Then he grabs a spare bolt. Then spinning in his chair again.

Eventually, with no actual pressing work assignments and no one to harass in person, he decides to leave anything productive for later. Seven wheels himself over to his desk, scanning the surface for his phone. He grabs the device, the glow of the screen washing over his face, glasses lighting up, reflecting the light as he types in his login credentials with practiced ease. He takes a moment to admire the UI he created, something that took him far longer than he’d hoped. (Graphic design is my passion.) The sleek black background has white speckles, imitating small stars. Smooth transitions between the interfaces, a little spaceship loading bar… Sure, he’d admit that he put in at least a few details that he fancied—but he did this for free, alright? There’s a momentary flicker of confusion that passes through his mind after the UFO zips across the bottom of his screen. There’s already a chatroom open, which isn’t surprising in and of itself, but the odd thing is that almost everyone is online. The moment he enters, a flurry of messages pops up, Yoosung’s chaotic enthusiasm already lighting up the chatroom like fireworks.

707 has entered the chatroom.

YOOSUNG: I’m going to eat an entire tub of dip. JAEHEE: What? YOOSUNG: It’s so good I might be addicted!!!! YOOSUNG: My mom stopped by earlier and brought some stuff and she gave me this dip called hummus. YOOSUNG: She grabbed it from Itaewon foreign food market and it’s actually so good!!!^ ^ ZEN: Oh it’s that dip they serve at Greek restaurants. ZEN: There was this one show I was in where the director was Greek, he took us out a lot to eat. JAEHEE: Was it the Hamlet production at the Seoul Arts Center? ZEN: Yeah it was!^ ^ JAEHEE: A very beautiful production indeed. Directed well, yes, but you did incredible as Horatio. ZEN: Thanks, Jaehee~ ZEN: Anyways, Yoosung isn’t wrong that hummus dip is actually really good. YOOSUNG: See you get it!! JUMIN: Please tell me you at least cleaned your room before your mother arrived. The last photo you sent of it was concerning, to say the least. YOOSUNG: SHE JUST RANDOMLY STOPPED BY!! YOOSUNG: I didn’t know;; So I didn’t clean;; JUMIN: Perhaps you should clean your room regularly so you don’t have this issue.

A giggle bubbles up in his chest, floating up through him like carbonation in a soda can. He loves the RFA. Truly. They’re people he would lay down his life for, that he would fight to protect. (A part of him knows how dangerous being part of the RFA actually is. Not necessarily for him—but for the other members. He’s lucky that Vanderwood hasn’t reported his involvement to the bosses yet. If the agency finds out that he’s working for another organization—even if it is just a fundraising one—they’ll flip.)

He interrupts his spiral with a laugh. A half-baked one, something that’s more muscle memory than real amusement. But it does its job—it reminds him of how he’s supposed to be acting and keeps him from falling too far into the rabbit hole. He glances back at the chatroom. Maybe it’s time to join in.

707: Did your mom yell at you lololol YOOSUNG: Yes;;;; 707: Sigh~ If only you were as lucky as me~~ 707: My lovely maid Ms. Mary Vanderwood 3rd cleaned my whole abode for me! ZEN: Anyone else smell something fishy…-_- 707: Meow~★ Ms. Vanderwood is very real, meow~★ JUMIN: Please refrain from impersonating the sweet sounds of cats and their meows. ZEN: Oh my god.

He loves the RFA. He really does, but sometimes—just sometimes—he gets just ever so exhausted. His eyelids droop slightly, a weight on his shoulders just heavy enough to keep him aware. It’s somewhat tiring to play the hyperactive hacker all the time to keep the balance of the group's dynamic. There’s a strain in his cheeks that doesn’t quite go away—but still, he wouldn’t trade it for anything.

JAEHEE: Hello, Seven. 707: Hiiii :3 YOOSUNG: Seven is your maid for hire?? YOOSUNG: Genuine question T_T

MC has entered the chatroom.

707: Unfortunately 707: Ms. Vanderwood is 707: very exclusive 707: lolol 707: Sorryyyyyyyy >_< JUMIN: Luciel, stop spamming. 707: lol No way JAEHEE: Wait. Hold on. ZEN: ??? YOOSUNG: Why? 707: what are yOH

His eyes catch on a message, one that spikes his heart rate with an odd sense of foreboding. “MC has entered the chatroom.” He whispers under his breath. That… doesn’t make sense. There shouldn’t be anyone else in the chatroom—he’s the one who set the whole app up, after all. He should know. He made it so he had to install it manually on each member’s phone! Nobody new could join and get access without his—and V’s—say so. Maybe somebody changed their profile name by accident…? It wouldn't be the first time Yoosung messed with the settings.

A frown tugs at his lips as he sets his phone down on the desk, booting up his desktop quickly. He navigates through the client version of the RFA application, his fingers flying across the keys. Walls of code and numbers splash across his screen as he digs through the app’s backend, scanning and searching for any anomalies.

And then—something. A trace. A line of event code that appears insignificant, but upon closer inspection he knows that’s not just from the normal RFA scripts. His stomach drops. He grabs his phone with a sense of urgency starting to seep into his bones.

“What the hell…?”

707: Someone entered the chatroom..???;; JAEHEE: I just noticed. JUMIN: MC…? ZEN: Wtf?? How is it in here? 707: Hacker!! YOOSUNG: oh mY GOD WHAT??? SEVEN DO SOMETHING YOOSUNG: I’VE ACTUALLY HAD NIGHTMARES THAT STARTED LIKE THIS SEVENNNNN PLS Zen: Caps lock, man -_-;; YOOSUNG: Oh oops;; 707: I’m lookin gimme a sec

His eyes narrow, focusing on the computer screen in front of him. He reroutes through proxy layers, overrides safety encryption protocols that he put in place, and forces a source on the new profile. His system resists—obviously—as he encoded each profile to be incredibly hard to trace. But then, he gets it.

Coordinates.

A string of numbers flashes across his screen, which he quickly highlights with his cursor. He wastes no time plugging the data into an online map. When it finally loads—his breath hitches. He cross-references the coordinates. Once. Twice. Because this can’t be right, it can't be real. However, no matter how many times he can recheck, the result is the same. That residential address that’s always been burned into his brain. A place that, for him at least, is the dead end for his grief. A ghost house.

Rika’s apartment.

He stares at the address proudly displayed on his screen, his heart beating so loudly in his chest that the sound eclipses the whirring of his fans. His fingers freeze above his keyboard, and for a moment, all he can do is just…blink. There are only two people who know the location of that apartment, and neither of them even knows the password. The only woman who ever did took that secret with her. Wherever she is now. He breathes in shakily. Something is really wrong.

ZEN: Someone maybe downloaded the app on two phones? YOOSUNG: Not me! 707: Don’t think so. IP’s coming from Rika’s apt. JUMIN: What??

He snaps himself out of his stupor, reminding himself that he has an obligation to protect everyone. His body moves faster than his mind, quickly pulling up his camera system client. He navigates through the tons of live footage, managing to grab the data from the cameras he installed.

(These are a lot of cameras, Rika… he’s muttering aloud, unpacking the bags of gear he unloaded from the elevator. Rika smiles at him, soft and sweet, tilting her head slightly as she does. She’s standing in front of the large window, the shining sun backlighting her form, giving her the effect of a glowy halo outlining her hair. She laughs slightly, under her breath, so casual that it makes him feel like his concern was stupid.

Of course, Luciel, I’m sure, she says. Waving him off with a flick of her wrist. He nods, grabbing a camera and walking over to the ladder he already set up. He glances over his shoulder at Rika. Her sundress is embroidered with delicate dandelions, swishing around her ankles. He adores her so much, he would do so much for Rika. He owes her so much.

But he can’t repay his debt now.)

707: Prob a hacker. Broke into Rika’s apartment and hacked the program. YOOSUNG: This is so scary… JUMIN: Reveal yourself, stranger. JUMIN: Or there will be consequences, and you will pay. ZEN: You will pay? Lmfao ZEN: omg~ so scary~ JUMIN: Stop shitting around.

He drags a hand over his face, sighing. He just needs to see who’s in the apartment so he can assess what the hell is going on and—

Oh. Oh.

The black and white picture flickers once, buzzing softly with static. Then, it sharpens—like a lens coming into focus, melting the fuzziness away. It’s not that the picture itself changes, but more like it blooms. Like the screen in front of him suddenly burst into colour, the noise receding and just leaving her. He can see her. Truly see her.

There’s a girl standing in the middle of the apartment. Hesitant. Unsure. Hands curling and unfurling from fists, as if she can’t decide whether she should stay or bolt. Her eyes scan the room, taking in every detail. When her gaze passes over the camera unknowingly, it feels as if she’s staring right at him—even though it's impossible. His heart jumps into his throat, slowing his breathing. It’s not just that she’s beautiful (though God, she is). It’s something far deeper. Something instinctual. Teetering on the tightrope that’s drawn between déjà vu and familiarity and sending prickles down his spine.

Seven leans in closer, that ethereal pull drawing him in closer and closer. It’s like gravity; he can't stop. He’s never met this woman in his entire life, but something in the pit of his stomach insists otherwise. That feeling bubbling in his stomach makes him forget that she’s an intruder, possibly a hacker, a stranger. No. He wants to know her. He wants to protect her. He wants to flirt, he wants to dance, he wants to—

MC: Hello..??

He exhales sharply.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “I need to call V.”

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“V, this is insane.” Seven’s voice is breathy, filled with genuine disbelief. His hand pushes his glasses further up his nose, the striped frame bunching up his bangs. He rubs at the dip in his nose with his fingers while soothing the strain in his eyes at the same time. A sigh leaves his lips as he pulls his hand away from his face, flexing his tired fingers before readjusting his glasses. His hands return to his keyboard, settling into the place they would consider home.

The phone shoved between his shoulder and neck has been digging into the underside of his jaw for the better part of twenty minutes. Seven’s been relaying V’s thoughts to the chatroom, becoming a middleman he wasn’t exactly fond of being. He hisses from the built-up strain in his neck, pausing his typing in order to grab the phone. A balmy sense of relief paints over his muscles as he rolls his head to the side. His eyes flutter closed for a few moments, giving them a short reprieve from the blue light. When he cracks his eyes open, he’s met with the sight of a beautiful little button labelled ‘speaker’ on his phone. (God, Seven. Use your brain!)

“I know, I know—but you know Rika… she… she had a lot of things she kept to herself.” V’s voice comes through the line broken, amplified in spots because of the speakerphone, but completely muted in others.

“You’re breaking up—where did you say you were again?” Seven jumps in at the tail end of his glitchy sentence. He refocuses on his monitor, tabbing over to where he compiled all the recent public Wi-Fi networks this ‘MC’ has used. It doesn't take long for him to access the records of websites she visited while on each public network. Which, thankfully, none of them flagged as anything of any concern in his head. (A part of him that has been strung taut relaxes at the fact that she’s a tiny bit more trustworthy. Because a part of him trusts her fully already. He’s not sure how he feels about that. About how he feels that he knows her, and he doesn’t even know her yet.)

“Sorry, sorry. I’m out in nature, it’s somewhere pretty remote.” The volume of V’s voice fluctuates as he speaks, as if he’s moving around. (An image pops up in his mind. One of V with a camera in hand, the lens reflecting flecks of moonlight from between the leaves. The trees are densely packed, pretty birds fluttering between branches. The image catches him slightly off guard—V hasn't picked up a camera since Rika died. A part of him hopes that’s what he’s doing out there. The logical part of his brain tells him he doesn’t have time to dwell on it.) He switches tabs to the chatroom.

JAEHEE: The work Rika did before… 707: Yeah, he means hosting parties. ZEN: Rika’s party… YOOSUNG: Do you really think… that Rika planned this? YOOSUNG: That she made that decision when she was alive… JUMIN: I’m honestly not sure how to feel about this.

“Fine, okay, but everybody’s getting antsy. I can’t keep relaying for you.” Seven explains while his fingers flick across his keyboard again, his right hand briefly interrupting its typing in order to move the mouse around. He pulls up those website logs again, managing to delve further into them and grab her specific searches. There’s a growing tension in his spine that starts to mirror his tone of voice. “Can you please log on as soon as you get internet?”

“I will, I promise.”

The trackwheel spins under his finger as he scrolls through her search history. He doesn’t see anything that would indicate that she knew about Rika’s apartment before today. There are no previous searches about the area, other than when she plugged the address into Maps to get the bus route. There’s nothing that could point to her knowing about the RFA or planning a break-in… However, just to be sure, he tabs over to his camera program, trying to grab a couple weeks of footage from the area around Rika’s complex.

“So you’re saying that Rika knew this ‘Unknown’ hacker guy and led her to the apartment?”

“I believe so. You and I both don’t know the password, but she obviously told someone. I think it’s a sign.”

Seven leans back in his chair, threading his fingers together and stretching them out in front of him until they let out a satisfying ‘pop.’ His chair squeaks a little beneath him, and he hooks his foot underneath his desk to keep himself from rolling across the room. His elbows come to rest against the armrests, and a tiny bit of a frown tugs against his lips. “...Okay. Okay, sure.” His eyes scan the camera footage that he set to fast forward, checking for anything unusual. There isn’t. No sight of MC before today.

JAEHEE: If I may say so, I think that we should verify what MC has said. JAEHEE: For all we know, MC could have simply made up that ‘Unknown’ person.

“Jaehee’s saying that MC could’ve made up the hacker.” He reports, relaying the information from the chatroom that he picked up with a quick glance.

“I don’t know… I really think she’s telling the truth. If it turns out she’s lying, we can deal with that when it comes.” V’s voice softens slightly. “You’re collecting everything you can on her, right?”

707: I’m compiling info rn, V says if she’s not trustworthy we can deal with her later.

“Don’t even need to ask.” A slight grin blooms on his lips as he leans back into his desk.

YOOSUNG: This is so frustrating! Why can’t V just come on here and explain himself?!? JUMIN: Luciel said he doesn’t have internet, Yoosung. This is the best he can do.

The new window he pulls up makes him pause. Health records are always something that starts feeling a little invasive, even for a hacker. He can’t help the hitch in his breath as his eyes scan over the contents. Hospitalizations and a couple psych ward admittances. His hand slows on the mouse. It’s okay, she’s not… crazy. He decides not to pry further.

MC: Who the hell is Rika? ZEN: Rika is… ZEN: V’s old girlfriend, and the person who created this chatroom.

“She’s asking about Rika.” Seven’s voice softens involuntarily at the mention of Rika’s name, a thing he always finds himself doing when talking about her.

“So she really doesn’t know her then…” There’s a hesitancy to V’s words that has plagued his speech ever since Rika died. “That’s alright. Let them explain.”

YOOSUNG: Rika hosted parties regularly for a good cause. YOOSUNG: She organized a group called RFA to plan the party and manage participants.

“Remind her that it’s best not to touch anything in the apartment. We don’t want the…” he sighs, voice lowering with knowing. “You know—we don't want the whole system to go off.”

“Yeah, that would be bad—got it.” He grimaces—he would rather die than let it go off.

707: MC! btw don’t touch anything, or the alarm will ring and that would be a whole mess, okay? :D MC: What the fuck.

He glances over at his second monitor that has the CCTV feed of Rika’s apartment displayed. A snicker breaks past his lips as he watches the image of MC jump back from the plush chair she was about to sit in.

“Okay, I’ve got a file on her now. I’m going to start working on the hacker.”

“Thank you, Luciel.” There’s a beat. “I’m going to call Jumin, I should talk to him.”

“Okay. Just try and log in when you can, Yoosung’s probably gonna have an aneurysm.”

“Fair.” V sighs out a breathless chuckle. There’s a quiet understanding underpainting his voice, one that Seven knows. V knows he’s being unfair to Yoosung, and as much as Seven trusts him, he doesn't understand why. “I think you should call her after this all blows over. Help ease her worries.”

The offer lingers in the air a bit longer than it should. (His gut is telling him to hang up the call with V right this second and call her as soon as he can. His gut is churning with butterflies and fleeting feelings, ones that confuse him as much as they intrigue him.) Seven’s fingers go still on the keyboard, hovering just barely above the keys. He tilts his head back, leaning into the cushioning of his chair. He blinks up at the painted concrete ceiling, hoping that the answer to all his problems would be there, just etched into the inky blackness. That everything will be fixed by just hearing her voice.

“Yeah, yeah, I will.” There’s a silence that follows, not fully empty, but one where he can almost see the small smile that would form on V’s lips.

“Luciel?”

“Yes?”

“Just… don’t come on too strong.”

The line clicks dead, and Seven can’t help but laugh, letting out a breath he didn’t even know he was holding. The silence in his room feels louder now, even with the humming of his PC. For a second, he doesn’t care about the uncertainty or the oddness of the situation. He just thinks about her. That girl, who makes something in him yearn so intently that he can barely think. There’s an irrational hope that he’s clinging to. That MC is everything his gut wants her to be, even though he knows better than to want anything at all.

707: Jumin? JUMIN: ? 707: V’s gonna call you. JUMIN: …Okay.

He gets back to work, and the data piles up. Social media footprints, log-ins, app usage, health records, video footage from cameras around the city—he pauses at the family records. He delves deeper. It’s…not much. An introduction to the foster system when she was 8. 4 different placements since then. (He wonders if things would be different if he ended up in foster care. An impossible scenario, but he can’t help but wonder. Would they have been better off? Would it have been easier? Would he still be there, side by side with—)

He shakes that thought off. There’s still data to sort, a hacker to track, and registration to be completed. There’s no time to get sentimental. Not now, at least.

JUMIN: MC. JUMIN: All we are trying to do is host parties, raise funds, gather people… and things like that. JUMIN: Our organization has done a lot of good so far. JUMIN: …You will never regret joining. YOOSUNG: I thought Jumin was against her. Why the sudden change? JUMIN: I’m only respecting V’s decision. I’m on the phone with him now. ZEN: He’s doing it cuz we’ll finally have a pretty face around here~ 707: You don’t even know what she looks like lol ZEN: Send the photo. 707: No. ZEN: Damn.

Seven lets out a short laugh and leans back. It’ll be easy enough to make a few tweaks to her app—just subtle changes, mirroring the layout Rika once had. Make it so she can answer emails and hold guest info.

MC: Fine. MC: I’ll join. JUMIN: Well then, I suppose that’s settled. JUMIN: Welcome to the RFA.

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It’s not even funny how badly that girl is occupying his mind. So badly, in fact, that he didn’t even realize he spilled Phd Pepper on the white band of his shirt collar before it stained. He was just staring blankly at the CCTV footage, watching the static move in waves projected over her form. So now he’s here, with a stray paper towel Vanderwood left behind bunched up in his hand, scrubbing aggressively at his collar.

A groan leaves his chest, and the side of his lip twitches a little in frustration. The logical part of his brain is berating him right now. The part of his brain that thinks in Python and C++, that keeps him breathing during missions, and that packages away those things he doesn’t need to be remembering into a neat little box. That part of his brain is screaming, “Get it together, Seven!” And when his eyes flit over to where his phone sits in front of his computer screen, his logical mind yells, “She’s a random—very suspicious—girl!”

His head’s starting to hurt a little from how hard he’s been knitting his brows together. He throws the balled-up paper towel into the trash. (Somewhere in his mind, Yoosung’s looking at him with a confused expression after he yelled ‘Kobe!’ when getting his can in the garbage.) His other hand comes up to push his glasses down. He rubs at the juncture of his nose and eyebrows, letting out a frustrated huff.

“It wouldn’t hurt to just call her, right?” he says under his breath, as if talking to nobody will help him puzzle out his dilemma. He slowly pulls his hand away from his face, staring at his fingers for a few moments. (He knows what actually hurts. He’s barely twenty, and yet he’s been on dozens of missions by now. However, this was a first. The singular light hung above the table is astonishingly bright, making him squint—which makes him realize he doesn’t have his glasses. His hand is on the table, laid out and tied down, with not even the tiniest bit of leeway for movement. He can’t speak. Well, he can, but he won’t. God knows the agency would do worse. He bites the inside of his lip, staring at the wall instead of the masked figure. At least he can control his gaze. That’s something. His finger stretches. You’re doing it for him. You’re doing this all for S–)

Nope. No. The logical part of his brain takes that memory with a gentle hand and slowly stows it away in some far corner of his mind. Amongst other Pandora’s boxes he dares not open. He pushes his glasses back up his nose and cracks his knuckles. Getting rid of the odd sensation he had for a moment there in his left hand.

He purses his lips slightly. It’s just a call—he bets good money that no one else has even called her yet! Jumin’s too suspicious, Jaehee does not like her, Zen… probably already has, and Yoosung wouldn’t call; he’d send a text! (He’s trying to stifle his giggles. Yoosung invited him over for this? He’s barely holding it together as Yoosung rambles on and on about the best way to contact his assigned study partner. When Yoosung turns around to show the message—a ‘hi’ with about 10 different emojis—he dies laughing.) He can call to welcome her to the RFA. Be a nice, courteous, and friendly member. Do what V asked of him.

So he swallows his hesitation and tries to calm his heart palpitations, which doesn’t go too well. His eyes meet her figure on the computer screen, ever so slightly pixelated but still making him take a pause. The image flickers, static washing over it like a rising tide, and he’s met with the reflection of himself. And God, does he look stupid. The pupils of his golden eyes are blown out, his cheeks are dusted with a hint of rosiness, and his hair is even askew from how much he’s been tousling it. The logical part of him is yelling again, shrieking this time, “Get it together, Seven! This is totally pathetic!”

Staring at his reflection, he steels his nerves, blinking hard to try and squeeze out the boyish nervousness. He reaches for his phone, quickly navigating to her contact. His eyes meet his own on the computer screen again. He looks over his face before putting on a huge grin, one where his canines almost poke at his lip—one he’s grown accustomed to using. With a newfound excitement bubbling in his gut, he presses the call button.

“Brrrrrring. Brrrrring.” It’s stupid; he’s fully aware of this fact as he rolls his r’s dramatically to imitate the ringing. It’s not that he’s specifically trying to make himself look silly, but he just really, really wants to hear her laugh. See her smile—anything other than the way her lips have been pursed and brows have been furrowed for the last hour. He takes a quick breath and puts on the best telemarketer voice he can muster.

“Hello. Your bank account has been hacked for a prank, I believe.” He tacks on that last part quickly, not wanting to cause any actual stress over a dumb phone call. (He did once forget to mention something he did was a prank. A snicker leaves his lips as he just waits for Jumin to find the silly ransom note he left behind. It was harmless, just saying that someone kidnapped Elly, and they demanded a ransom of 100 bags of Honey Buddha chips! What he didn’t expect was for Jumin to just glaze over the contents of the note after reading ‘Elizabeth the Third’ next to ‘taken.’ To which he promptly freaked out. Oops.) With a quick glance, he checks on her reaction, and when he sees her head tilted slightly in confusion, he continues. “Ahem—were you aware of this? I assume not. I just need to verify that your phone number matches your identity. There is only one process for us to verify—”

“Who are you?” She questions, her voice rather deadpan, but still he swears he can feel his face heat up.

“The bank, obviously, Miss.” He stresses the word ‘obviously,’ rolling his eyes as he dramatizes with a grin. “Now to confirm your identity and recover your account, please answer ‘I do’ to the following question.” Seven turns towards the flickering CCTV footage, staring intently at her standing there. He wants to see how she reacts. God, he wants to see her smile. With a massive grin and the dopiest lovesick voice he can muster, he asks, “Will you marry me?”

There’s a brief moment of silence. Then…

She laughs. A real, genuine laugh. Seven’s eyes widen at the way she lights up in the footage, and the butterflies in his stomach flutter at the fact that he was the reason she was happy. Her laugh is beautiful, giving him a high that he knows he’ll be chasing for weeks. He just wants to keep her happy. Ease the tension shown by that crease right above her nose. (The last time he felt that way, he was nine. The spring breeze is cool as it brushes past his fingers, not to mention the stream of freezing blue dripping down his hand. The sunset is painted across the sky, its golden yellows reflecting both his own eyes and the boy across from him. The mirror image of himself looks confused at the twin blue popsicles stuck together, as if he couldn’t puzzle out why this gargantuan thing has two sticks. But when Seven directs him to hold the opposite stick and pull—the laughter that followed had him smiling wider than he ever had before. And he swore the sun burned brighter.)

“Are you always like this, 707?” Her voice brings him back from the memory, her voice, which is decorated with a teasing lilt. He hangs onto the way she says each syllable of his name—of his codename—and relishes in the way she elongates the ‘oh’ so prettily. For a moment, he feels like he’s gone stupid. That a huge error screen is plastered across his mind as he tries to recover from her simply saying his name.

“…Yes.” His voice is sheepish, and a hand comes up to rub at the back of his neck, trying to ease some of the heat rushing to his head. She laughs again; this time it’s soft and under her breath. He takes a sharp inhale before using a goofy, dramatic tone to cover up how flustered he is. “Oh no!! This scammer has been defeated by cuteness! Your laugh is too cute!”

“A flirt, is that what you are?” She responds cheekily, with a hint of sass in her tone.

“I’m just complimenting—that’s all. I try to compliment everyone.” He doesn’t, really—but he doesn’t want to come across as a creep. A hand comes up to run through his hair absentmindedly.

“Mmm, so a player, too? I’ve met far too many men like you.” The words leave her lips underneath her breath, laid on top of a giggle. Seven glances over to the CCTV, looking at her holding the phone with one arm and the other resting on top of her bicep. Even while on the phone, she still manages to half-cross her arms.

“Hey!” A breathy chuckle from the other end of the line follows his exclamation. His heart beats a little quicker in his chest—he’d hate to have her think he’s an asshole. She probably could see the way he’s smiling dopily just by his voice. “I promise I’m not like that.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be tracking down the hacker?” He can hear the eye roll she does through the phone, the way she feigns exasperation with him. He can’t help but grin at how he can picture her expression, a mix of playful teasing and sass. His heart flutters again.

“Can’t a guy do two things at once?” Seven’s voice is casual, but there’s an undercurrent of genuineness beneath his teasing that he hadn’t used for a long time. For a moment, he actually forgot what he was supposed to be working on. (Bzzzt! Bzzzt! He shivers involuntarily at the thought of Vanderwood’s taser.) He swivels in his chair, rolling over to his computer with a small squeak of the wheels. He taps a few keys with a grin, pulling up the RFA messenger on his desktop. His fingers move faster than his thoughts as he scrolls back to where she entered the chat room, quickly scanning through the source code for any sign of entry by the hacker.

“What, be a flirt and cryptic?” He hears her laugh again, this time more muted, lightly gracing the tail end of her sentence. But it’s still there, a soft thing that cuts through the underlying tension of the situation like a sunbeam through dark clouds. It’s oddly comforting. It makes him feel like despite the threats, he’s just a guy talking to a cute girl. But he isn’t. So he keeps typing.

“No, trying to keep a girl safe.” He adds, half as a reminder for himself as much as it is for her, his words slightly muffled by the tiny bit of static through the phone. “I’m workin’ on it. In the meantime, try and settle in.” He flicks a glance back at the footage of her, seeing her tense up a little. He leans closer to the screen; it’s strange how he’s come to care for her in so little time. It’s strange how a part of him feels like he knows her, but they’ve barely even talked yet. For now, at least he can keep her distracted. Keep her safe.

“Come again?”

“Uh, try and settle—”

“How? I was tricked into an apartment, there’s a hacker stalking me, and now I’m part of a shady organization.” She speaks with a deadpan tone, and when he looks over at the CCTV, she’s straightened up now.

Seven blinks slowly. There’s a subtle weight in her voice—one that cuts through the banter. It’s not heavy, but it has enough genuine weight to make him pause.

He runs a hand through his hair, sobering up a bit from the fun he’s been having talking to her. “I know it’s… weird. All of it. But I promise I’ll do everything I can to make you feel safe. If something’s broken, I’ll fix it. If something’s off, I’ll bring it back in tune. You’re not alone, not while I’m around.” He tries to keep his voice light, to not stray too far into coming off as too much. “And I’ll always try to make it fun. That’s kind of my whole thing.” A smile tugs at his lips, the kind he usually pulls, where his canines poke at his lip and his cheeks push up his glasses. “Scout’s honour.”

A laugh. (He swears the moon shines brighter.)

“Aren’t you eager?”

He grins, letting out a soft chuckle. “Well, I am 707, Defender of Justice. You can be my Agent 606!”

“Ohhh, so you are crazy,” she drawls, but there’s amusement dancing in her tone. (Absentmindedly, he wonders how she’d dance. If he could dance with her. Maybe it would just be fun, joking around, and he’d show off his incredible skills at breaking it down. Or maybe, maybe they would dance slow and sweet. Hand in hand and—) “And why exactly should I entertain you, Defender?”

Seven leans back in his chair with a shaky breath, eyes scanning the footage of her smiling—really smiling—and something in his chest pulls taut. For once, the underlying anxiety that boils in his gut isn’t louder than the sound of her laughter.

“Maybe…” He speaks slowly, sincerity curling under every word, along with a teasing lilt, “because it’ll make you feel alive.”

A beat. Then silence. He can see her chest rising and falling slowly.

“Alive?” she echoes, her voice softer now. There’s a genuine consideration that seeps into her tone. As if the only way she’s lived is by being half-dead. As if she’s never heard of truly being alive. “That’s worth a lot…”

Seven holds his breath. (God, he doesn’t know what he’s praying for, but please.)

“…Okay, Agent 707,” she says at last, a grin practically audible. “What else you got?”

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#mystic messenger #luciel choi #mysme #mysme 707 #mystic messenger 707 #707 x mc #707 x reader #mysme mc

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mimisie · 2 months ago

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₊˚ · Any Way the Wind Blows | Say That You’ll Hold Me Forever · ˚₊

707 | Luciel Choi x MC · · Hadestown Inspired

Chapter One

Summary ~

MC is a runaway from everywhere she's ever been. Recently staying in Seoul, she gets a text from a stranger, and finds herself unable to resist fate.

Warnings ~ Implied suicidal ideation, angst, MC is mentally ill, brief mention of bugs.

Word Count ~ 5k

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A hungry young girl. A runaway from everywhere she’s ever been. She was no stranger to the world—no stranger to the wind.

The first time her phone buzzes in her pocket, she’s standing on the ledge of a rooftop. The buzzing is different than normal—it isn’t one of her usual notifications she gets, but then again, she doesn’t get many. ( Not even when she was a kid, with a twitch in her fingers and a lopsided grin. She reaches out a wanting hand and is met with stares glinting in mockery. Snake in the garden. Hungry young girl.) For now, she’s perfectly content with staring out into the distance, high above any of the crowds and people, in her penthouse in the sky.

It’s not that she’s going to jump, she thinks, as Seoul glimmers beneath her. The streetlights are somehow brighter than the light of day—at least to her. She never liked them—too intense, feeling like they’re shining straight through her. Illuminating her body, as if it were cellophane, revealing the disgusting and horrible things that she’s made of. ( It must be maggots that make up her body. It must be maggots that worm their way into her flesh and make her want to tear her skin off. Or maybe it’s a parasite, using her carcass like a puppet. A feeling in her gut tells her that’s wrong, that she’s wrong, that she’s the parasite controlling a body that isn’t hers. Snake in the garden. Snake that needs to burn. To hurt. To disappear. To-)

It’s not that she’s going to jump, she thinks. It’s just nice to stare. It’s nice to peer over the ledge at the cold concrete an eon away, way down below. There’s a wave of security that comes over her, and it’s somehow comforting to know she has the option. The whispering wind nips at her nose and fingertips, the early-spring chill settling in her bones. It doesn’t help that the cold goes right through her sweater, goosebumps forming across her arms. At least it’s fresh air, instead of the stuffy, suffocating atmosphere of her apartment—always too hot or too cold and keeping her on edge. ( She’s stuffing a rolled-up towel into the crack beneath her bedroom door, shoving a blanket into the crevices of her window. It’s not that her apartment is badly insulated; it’s just that the slightest draft touching her skin makes her freeze. Makes her body think that someone’s there. That something is there. Hungry young girl.) Her phone buzzes again. A sigh leaves her chest as her hand comes up to fish out the strands of hair blown into her mouth by the wind. She digs around in her pocket and pulls out her phone.

Absent-mindedly, she taps and lets the screen flicker to life. She scans quickly over her pop-up notifications. A couple of emails, a few reminders, no texts. Never texts. However, there was one that stuck out to her. A message from an app with an icon she only vaguely remembers. ( It was late last night when she downloaded it. The short description on the store stated it’s an “app to socialize with strangers.” … Vague. With a curiosity that one only gets that late into the evening, she downloaded it. If it was daylight, she would’ve rejected the idea. She’s perfectly fine holding her own. That doesn’t stop the ache, though. Hungry young girl. ) She clicks on the message, loading into the app.

UNKNOWN has entered the chatroom.

UNKNOWN: …Hello…?

Her brow twitches in confusion as the app glitches out. Was it meant to do that? Maybe it’s just the matching process, she thinks. However, she doesn’t remember entering any information to get matched or opening it in the first place. Before she can think about it too hard, her fingers are already typing a response.

MC: Hi? UNKNOWN: Can you see this? MC: Why wouldn’t I be able to see this?? UNKNOWN: Finally connected, thank god… UNKNOWN: Well, I just thought you’d be surprised. UNKNOWN: It’s not every day you get a text from a stranger.

Another wave of skepticism hits her. Is that not what the app is for? Talking to strangers? With a crinkle in her nose and a heightened sense of anxiety, she focuses back into the conversation to see the man had sent a wall of messages.

UNKNOWN: I’m confused too, don’t worry. I found this phone on the subway, and weirdly it only has this messenger app. UNKNOWN: I’ve been trying to find the owner, but I’m guessing they’re not very good with technology, because there’s almost nothing on here. UNKNOWN: No contacts or call records…. UNKNOWN: I found some notes with some important-looking numbers and an address, but that’s about it. UNKNOWN: I would go to the address, but I’m currently out of the country entirely. ^ ^; UNKNOWN: I’ve been sending out texts on this app with no reply. Call it crazy, but at least I managed to connect with you. MC: So… You decided to use an app that connects you with strangers to try and get someone to help you return a phone, in an entirely different country, to someone that you haven’t even met. UNKNOWN: Yeah, that’s the gist.;; UNKNOWN: I know it’s weird to have a stranger ask a favour like this. UNKNOWN: But still… UNKNOWN: I’d really appreciate it if you could help. ^ ^

Distrust pangs in her gut, sharpening her instincts before settling in her bones. A gust of chilling wind blows by. ( Someone’s there. Breathing over her shoulder. Must be dead from the freezing cold breath. Maybe it’s someone she once knew. Maybe they’re waiting to strike. Hissing at the snake in the- ) She inhales a sharp breath, squeezing her eyes closed for a moment. Tentatively, her gaze flicks over her shoulder, and she’s met with the sight of cold concrete and the sky.

The sunlight catches her eyes the wrong way, causing her to hiss, turning back into the shade and to her phone screen. This ‘Unknown’ guy is… an odd one. Too kind, too bright, light far too blinding for her eyes. Those people don’t exist; they always strike her as phony. Everybody is a fair-weather friend. No one’s going to stick around when the storm closes in. And she won’t either. ( Hungry young girl. )

MC: Why should I? Do I get a reward? UNKNOWN: A reward? Oh. UNKNOWN: I understand that this can seem odd to normal people… UNKNOWN: But, to be completely honest, I have a religion. UNKNOWN: My religion says that you should never miss an opportunity to do good, no matter how small and no matter the reward or consequences. UNKNOWN: Some people say it’s too much or nosy, but I’m not like normal people. UNKNOWN: You aren’t either.

There’s a sense of exposure from that sentence that makes her feel like this ‘Unknown’ can see right through her. That despite being a stranger, he knows who she is and what she’s made of. ( It must be maggots that make up her body. It must be maggots that worm their way into her flesh and make her want to tear her skin off.) There’s a twisting feeling in her gut that, despite the anonymous messages being obviously sketchy, she believes them. Or at least, she believes she should.

MC: What are you asking me to do? UNKNOWN: Uhm… I’d love it if you could go to the address that was in the notes. UNKNOWN: I saved it here. UNKNOWN: I’ve been there before, it’s a really nice place. Super safe. UNKNOWN: It’s downtown, so it’s pretty crowded too. UNKNOWN: If you feel unsafe, you can turn around. It’s a developed area, I promise. UNKNOWN: Please?

Hesitancy washes over her. Her eyes flit over the ledge, staring down at the world far below. ( She’s falling. It’s nice, even though the wind has finally caught up with her. The breeze envelops her form; the breeze makes her think that despite the asphalt, she’ll have a soft place to land. The world goes black. Now, she gets to lie down forever. ) But it’s not that she’s going to jump. In fact, surprising herself, she finds herself stepping back and her gaze returning to her screen.

MC: Fine. I’ll start heading there, but if it feels sketchy, I’m turning around. UNKNOWN: You trust me… UNKNOWN: Thank you! ^ ^ MC: Trust is a strong word. UNKNOWN: Just a sec. I’ll send you a link to the address on maps…

If this is a trick, like she thinks it is, then she doesn’t know why her body betrays her. Why her feet are moving further away from the ledge, why her hands pull out her coin purse for the bus. She doesn’t know why she’s doing this act of goodwill, but her mind is barely controlling her body. ( She’s sobbing, vision blurry as she stares at the bags being thrown at her. They land with a thud against the dead grass beneath her. She wants to scream, to yell, to say that they can’t just throw her out. But she can’t; the shriek in her head never reached her mouth. A parasite losing control of the host. Snake in the-)

UNKNOWN: Found it.

( Something's coming. Hungry young girl. )

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The wheel of the bus rumbles below her feet, the vibrations holding her down just enough to stop her from drifting far away. That seat—the one just above the wheel well—is her favourite, the one she finds herself sitting in again and again. It’s become a strange form of home for her, even though she’s always said she doesn’t have one. ( It’s cold. Freezing. She’s been walking down the streets of Seoul for hours now, heavy bags in tow. Her shoulders ache from the straps—despite switching what side she carried her bags on. Her head is fuzzy, feeling like someone’s grabbing and squeezing her skull. She wants to stop. To give up. To lie down forever. But she keeps walking. A runaway from everywhere she’s ever been. Hungry young girl. ) The wheel well rumbles under her feet again, dragging her down from the machinations of her mind. A sigh leaves her, muscle memory moving her to lean against the cool glass of the window as if pulled by a gravitational force. She loves this seat. Close to the window, out of the way but not all the way in the back, shielded. Safe. Safe enough.

There’s a comfortable silence that washes over her. A far cry from the overwhelming sound of downtown crowds— of rushing footsteps, of grating voices, of loud cars— an experience that scrapes around her skull like nails on a chalkboard. Being around people does that to her, puts her on edge. As if her body has a switch that gets flipped as soon as she can spot more than five people. ( They surround her. Their heads aren’t turned towards her, but they’re still watching. Not with their eyes, perhaps with their souls. Staring at the impure heart walking by them. Snake in the garden. ) She picks at her nails absentmindedly, a feeling of resignation blooming in her chest.

She’s made peace with loneliness. Made peace with the ever-present ache in her heart and the want buried deep in her brain. She’s gotten so used to it, in fact, that she can only function when alone. Silence is a sweet thing—wrapping around her like a heavy blanket during a storm. Vacant environments keep her chest from tightening and keep her words from getting caught in her throat. Sure, she’s lonely, but she doesn’t mind. Everybody is a fair-weather friend, anyways.

UNKNOWN: Stop…;; I promise I’m not creepy! UNKNOWN: Haven’t you ever heard the saying “you get a treat if you listen to older men?” MC: Be so serious right now. UNKNOWN: Sorry. I was just kidding.^ ^;;;;;

A disbelieving huff leaves her mouth. This guy’s an odd one for sure, she thinks. A guy, no doubt about it—Unknown has to be a man. No woman would have this amount of audacity. And yet, her gut still trusts him. For reasons she can’t exactly understand.

The bus rocks to a stop, and her eyes are immediately glued to the door. Subconsciously, she pulls her bag impossibly closer to her, the metal hardware digging into her chest. The man who stepped onto the bus is talking to the operator—but she can’t hear them. Their voices are slow and garbled, as if the sound is trying to reach her far underwater. She doesn’t know why her body does this—makes her either hyper aware or far gone at the sight of other people. All she knows is that her body and she herself are fine with holding her own. And that’s all she can want.

UNKNOWN: Hey, you okay? You disappeared for a bit there. MC: Yeah I’m fine. I’m just making sure I don’t miss my stop. UNKNOWN: You’ve got that vibe that you just zoned out lol. It’s okay. I do that too, sometimes. UNKNOWN: Not in a weird way, just when I feel like I’ve been “too much,” y’know? MC: You really don’t have to keep making small talk with me. I’m not there yet. UNKNOWN: Oh, sorry. UNKNOWN: I just thought you’d want someone to talk to. UNKNOWN: I know that evening buses over there can get strangely lonely. UNKNOWN: Especially when you’re just… floating from one place to another. MC: I guess. UNKNOWN: Have you ever ridden the bus when it’s empty? UNKNOWN: Like 3 am empty.

(Her heart is pounding in her throat. She knows her laces must be disgusting by now, untied blocks ago and being pounded into the wet asphalt ever since. Her chest burns with a lack of oxygen, tears forming on her lashes as she pushes her body to just keep running. The bus shelter slowly comes into view, and a quick glance over her shoulder confirms her need to continue running. A loud whoosh pierces her ears as the tires on the bus decompress, coming to a halt a few feet ahead of her. The doors open, and warm orange light spills out the entrance, illuminating the stark darkness of the world around her. She pushes past her discomfort, the way her chest heaves without oxygen following suit, and runs faster.

It’s odd how the last few feet before a goal become the hardest to trek. Adrenaline is barely enough to push her past the ache in her bones, the stabbing in her chest, and the panic in her head. She can see the doors—those damn doors, which now shine bright and beautiful like gold—slowly beginning to close. Despite the pain, despite the imposing atmosphere of the dead of night around her, she makes it. Standing on that platform, staring down at her shoes, sputtering and coughing. The world is spinning, her grimy shoes and the weird sandpaper quality of the buses’ entry platform the only things she can see. She was right. Her laces are disgusting. )

UNKNOWN: Sterile lights inside and nothing but darkness past the window. UNKNOWN: It’s just you and the humming of the engine.

(Her head is pounding from the lack of oxygen, vision finally beginning to come back into focus. With trembling hands, she rummages in her pockets. Her eyes flit to the bus operator in front of her. He’s imposing, sitting on a throne far above her, looking down upon the poor girl at his feet. His eyes are eclipsed by the brim of his hat, and his expression is unreadable. The blank canvas of the man’s expression made it far too easy for her mind to project undesired images onto. She knows he’s watching her, a tremor wracking her hands as she fishes out two five-hundred won coins from her sweater. The coins are dropped into the fare slot with a click.

You’re two-hundred won short, he says. Her heart drops out of her throat and down to her stomach. The man nods, both affirming his own statement and rubbing the facts in her face. Her lips tighten into a straight line as shame begins to pool in her belly. The engine is still thrumming with life, the sound like cicada’s wings. With a hardened expression, one that masks her embarrassment and shame, she drops to her knees. The humming fills her ears as she slings her bag to the sandpaper-like ground in front of her and dredges through her bag. Her hands fruitlessly survey her belongings. She can feel insects down there against the canvas, but she reasons with herself, knowing it's just the buzzing tricking her senses. When she finally rises again with two one-hundred won coins grasped in her hands like a lifeline, she swears the man is laughing at her from his throne. )

UNKNOWN: Feels like limbo. Feels kinda peaceful. UNKNOWN: And those people you meet in that in-between? UNKNOWN: I guess I started believing that they’re always put there for something. UNKNOWN: That it’s fate or whatever.^ ^

(She’s sitting in her usual seat, trying to stop herself from retching as she tries to tie her soggy shoelaces. The bright lights of the bus contrasted with the stark black beyond the window strain her eyes as she tries to focus on this damn knot. She knows she must look a mess, eyes probably red and puffy, sweater damp, and bag dirty. She vaguely registers someone talking to her, holding out a phone hesitantly. They’re asking if she wants to call anyone, she thinks, and her lips pull into a frown. She tells the stranger she’s fine. She stops herself from retching. )

MC: The more you talk, the more I’m getting the sense that you’re a creepy religious fanatic. UNKNOWN: I’m not a fanatic! I understand that you think I’m odd— UNKNOWN: I am a bit odd to be honest…;; UNKNOWN: But again! I’m not creepy! MC: What religion do you even follow? What are you, one of those American Jehovah’s Witnesses? UNKNOWN: That’s a crazy guess. MC: You said you were overseas, it’s plausible. UNKNOWN: I guess, haha.^ ^ UNKNOWN: My religion is just very small, so I don’t normally mention it by name. UNKNOWN: We just believe that every good deed matters.^ ^

A small scoff leaves her lips. She never really understood religious people or the idea of karmic justice. To her, that kind of thinking was illogical, far too dreamy. People can have their principles when their bellies are fed and feet are warm, but hunger has its way with people. God can’t save you from starving.

UNKNOWN: It’s fate that gives us those opportunities. UNKNOWN: Think about it for a second. I’m talking to you now, right? UNKNOWN: Two complete strangers at two completely different places… It’s a miracle we’ve connected. UNKNOWN: Must be fate, right? MC: I don’t know. Still creepy. UNKNOWN: Think what you want, I guess. UNKNOWN: Just remember you’re still doing what I asked anyways.^ ^

A sharp pang of adrenaline stabs her in the gut. She doesn’t trust him, but for some reason her body does. The bus is slowing to a stop now, rocking her forward and then back into her seat. She stands, her limbs moving with barely a thought. ( Maybe it’s a parasite. Using her carcass as a puppet.) She grabs her bag, pulling it onto one shoulder and moving to the back doors. Her hand hovers over the seam as she stares at the plastic. The doors open, and she steps onto the concrete, not knowing that fate was always close behind.

MC: I’m here.

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If there was a physical representation of crossing the wealth gap, it has to be this. She steps carefully onto the pretty marble tile, her banged-up shoes sticking out like a dark stain on the pure white floor. It’s painfully bright inside the lobby, with lightbulbs installed everywhere: under the clerk’s desk, in plants, and within individual shelves. As if they’re trying to snuff out any possible instance of shadow. Trying to say that darkness isn’t welcome in their beautiful homes. The lights are suffocating, and she feels like they shine right through her. ( It can’t be a parasite. Perhaps it’s a disease. Maybe multiple, all with conflicting wants and objectives and tearing her apart in the process. Rotting her flesh away and-)

“May I help you, ma’am?” Her head whips around to the clerk's desk, meeting polite yet narrowed eyes. A wave of resignation washes over her as the man’s gaze drags slowly down her body. She knows she isn’t meant to be here—that anyone who looks like her isn’t meant to be here. If this lobby is a sterling star, then she is the stark black sky, unwanted.

“I’m good, thanks.” Her voice has an unintentional edge to it—it always does. Her lips curl up into a barely half-baked smile, cocking her head to the side a little with a small hint of mocking. The clerk nods, as if affirming his own presumptions. Teeth dig into her bottom lip as she turns on her squeaky sneaker heel.

She crosses the pristine, sparkling floor, each footstep reminding her of her intrusion, and presses the button for the elevator. The metal doors slide open with a soft hiss, welcoming her into a smaller, colder kind of silence. As she steps inside, the hum of the lights follows her in, and for a moment she feels like she’s being sealed into a display case. ( The clerk is staring, and as she stares back, his form shifts. A vulture is staring back at her. They surround her, and she knows they’re waiting for the kill.) The doors begin to close, slow and deliberate, as if giving the building one last chance to spit her out. She doesn’t belong here—but for now, she’s rising anyway.

MC: This is fancy. UNKNOWN: Is it? It is a pretty developed area so it makes sense that it’s kinda bougie. MC: You can say that again.

A sharp ring of a bell rips her away from her phone, her eyes landing on the doors in front of her. As the heavy doors slide apart, something in the air shifts. She can’t pinpoint it; all she knows is that it puts a tick in her brow and a tenseness in her muscles. Her fists clench, and she finds that the rubber of her soles has melted into the ground, sealing her firmly in place. ( She can’t move. She’s tugging and pulling at her feet, but they’re stuck to the floor. Maybe if she breaks her ankles, which she tries. Whipping around and hitting and pushing and screaming. She doesn’t know what she’s trying to escape from, but she can’t help the feeling that it’s inevitable.) Realizing the doors are closing, she gathers enough willpower to break out of her stupor, reaching a hand into the gap.

UNKNOWN: Are you there?^ ^ See? Nothing strange. UNKNOWN: Is there a password lock on the door?

It doesn’t take her long to find the apartment in question—the floor she arrived at only having three doors. A quirk that only seems to be shared by these high-end housing buildings, she’s found. ( She should’ve known this was going to be a whole ordeal by the way the kid rocked on his feet. If this were anyone else, she would’ve laughed in their face at the absurdity of their request. Breaking into your parent’s work office while they’re away on vacation? As if. But when her eye catches the sparkling of that little gold crown set in on the face of his watch, she finds herself nodding before her head even knew it.) She steps cautiously over to the middle of those three doors, with the numbers that match what ‘Unknown’ sent engraved beautifully into the door frame.

Her eyes flit around, uncertainty seeping into her form. Something in her wants to run, something in her knows this isn’t right, but her body keeps her frozen in front of that door. A faint blue light illuminates her hand as she hovers above the number pad installed beneath the door handle.

MC: Yeah…? UNKNOWN: I’ll send you the digits for the password. Try it. UNKNOWN: 2 4 6 0 1

(She’s down on her knees. The fancy and lush carpet somehow gives her rug burns as she strains to look at the numbers. She’s shining a black light onto the numerical door lock, one that she ‘borrowed’ from the science labs at school. Some of the numbers light up neon blue, and she stares, trying to puzzle out which one was pressed the most to determine the first number of the sequence. Thankfully, it’s only a four-digit code.

What the fuck are you even doing, the kid asks. She rolls her eyes, trying to ignore the way he’s hovering over her, as if not fully trusting her. She doesn’t blame him. Part of her knows how demeaning this is, but her mind can’t get rid of the image of that little golden crown. With a bit more sleuthing and deduction—and mostly guessing—she unlocks the door with a beep. The kid’s eyes widen in surprise. A grin takes over her face. Snake in the garden.)

MC: …I’m going to ring the doorbell first. UNKNOWN: Oh, you’re so right! UNKNOWN: Sorry, that idea completely slipped my mind. UNKNOWN: Then ring the doorbell.

She presses the button to ring the doorbell, hearing a synthetic ding echo from behind the door. No answer comes, and a sigh rips through her chest. She stands there for a second, a mixture of disappointment and slight dread dripping into her stature. She should've expected an answer—it was a long shot anyway—but as she stares at the door, she knows there will be no reply.

(Another rap on the door. Her knuckles are dry and split from the force. She keeps throwing glances over her shoulder—god—fate’s always close behind. It’s only her standing on that stupid, worn-out welcome mat, the one with ‘Beware of tired parents: we bite!’ plastered across it in that overused script font. Despite knowing that, she still feels like someone or something is there. She knocks again. No answer. They never answer—even when she’s living in the same damn house. A sob escapes her throat. Hungry young girl.)

MC: No one’s home. UNKNOWN: That leaves us with no choice then. UNKNOWN: The place must be empty… UNKNOWN: So why don’t you press the code? MC: Okay… fine.

With a shaky hand, for which she’s not entirely sure of the cause, she pushes the numbers, entering in the password. The door clicks, a faint beep coming from the lock. ( She hates this stupid sound. The computer the secretary is furiously typing away on clearly must be old, beeping every couple of seconds as the fan works overtime. A testament to how much the government cares about these facilities, she guesses. Her eyes are glued to the polished white tile, looking at her reflection—a girl who hasn’t quite grown into her features—and frowning. She doesn’t dare to look her most recent guardians in the eyes, already mad enough by the fact they brought her here. She was doing well, she thinks. Apparently not well enough. The beeping keeps going. She swears she’s almost biting through her lip now. )

MC: It’s open. UNKNOWN: Good. Why don’t you go inside?

(It must be that alien disease. The one that makes your nerves move your limbs without the interference of your brain. She must have that disease, plus those maggots. Everyone knows she’s not made of anything pretty. Snake in the garden.)

MC: I guess I will.

With a deep breath, she steps inside. The air is different here, heavier. It’s not disgusting, but it feels like a bottled perfume, capturing the essence of someone long gone. It’s disturbingly quiet, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath. ( Keep your head low. Hold your breath. Make yourself unseeable, unknowable. Like a whisper of wind against the pavement. Survive. Hungry young girl.)

The door slams shut behind her, and her pulse skyrockets. She doesn’t know why it does—it’s an apartment door, of course it closes automatically. Even still, she finds herself spinning around as soon as the sound registers. Her breathing quickens, panic starting to leak in through the cracks of her barely held-together demeanour. ( She’s fourteen again. Eyes red and breathing laboured as she bangs against the steel door. She hates it here—in that itchy blue gown and badly fitting socks. No one hears her banging, or worse—no one cares. The darkness overtaking her is overwhelming, and despite the fluorescent lights, she finds the room dimmer and dimmer.)

She blinks hard, squeezing her lids closed for a few more seconds than usual to snap her out of it. She’s back in the apartment, but that feeling hasn’t left. Her muscles twitch, and she finds herself looking around the room for an answer.

UNKNOWN: Th UNKNOWN: ank UNKNOWN: you…

And despite everything, it settles. The fear, the dread, settles somewhere deep in her gut and makes way for an eerie, crystalline type of understanding. Understanding that this was always meant to happen. This was always going to happen. Every decision she made, every step she took, and every whim of the wind somehow led her here.

As the app glitches out, a cacophony of text and corrupted UI gracing her screen, she sighs. There’s a strange sensation that trickles into her chest now. Not exactly calm or relief, but something far more primal. Of placement. Of importance. Of fate.

UNKNOWN has left the chatroom.

( Snake in the garden. Hungry young girl. )

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series masterlist, next chapter

#mystic messenger #mysme #mystic messenger x reader #mysme 707 #mm 707 #707 mm #mystic messenger 707 #mystic messenger mc #mysme mc #707 x mc #707 x reader #luciel choi #saeyoung choi #yall i dont know how to tag tbh #first fic baby!!!!!! WOOOOOOOOOOOOO

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