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eclipsaria · 4 months ago

Text

Pairing:

Fiance! Mark x fiancee! Y/N

Warnings:

Strong angst, fluff, reader being too sensitive, takes too seriously and stubborn af

Side characters:

NCT DREAM Jeno and Jaemin

W/C:

10255

@stvrrylove @sol3chu

NCT Dream Masterlist

Song:

“You’re so tired of this?” you snap, your voice sharper than you intended. “And you think I’m not?”

Mark runs a frustrated hand through his hair, his eyes flashing with irritation. “Oh, and you think I’m not? You always act like you’re the only one who’s struggling.”

You scoff, crossing your arms. “That’s not what I’m saying, but you never listen, do you?”

His jaw clenches. “Maybe because you’re always picking a fight over the dumbest things!”

“That’s because you never take anything seriously!”

The argument spirals out of control so fast you’re not even sure how it started anymore. The room feels suffocating, filled with words neither of you really mean but keep throwing anyway. Mark's face is flushed with anger, and you can feel the heat rising in your own.

Then, just when you think there’s nothing left to say, he snaps.

“You know what? Just disappear from my life already.”

Silence.

The words hit harder than any yelling ever could.

Your throat tightens, but you refuse to break down in front of him. Without another word, you turn around and walk straight to your bedroom. The moment the door shuts behind you, your knees give out, and you crumble onto the floor, burying your face in your hands.

You know he didn’t mean it.

But it still hurts.

You press your forehead against your knees, your chest rising and falling unevenly as you try to steady your breathing. But no matter how much you tell yourself that Mark was just angry, that he didn’t mean it, the words loop over and over in your mind.

"Just disappear from my life already."

A choked sob escapes before you can swallow it down. You dig your fingers into the fabric of your sleeves, gripping tightly as if that will somehow hold you together.

Minutes pass. Maybe longer.

You don’t know how much time has slipped by when you hear a faint knock on your door. It’s hesitant, uncertain—nothing like the anger that filled the room earlier.

“...Hey.” Mark’s voice is quieter now, rough at the edges. “I—” He pauses, sighing heavily. “I didn’t mean that.”

You don’t answer. You can’t.

Another pause. Then, a small, almost guilty knock.

“I know you’re upset,” he continues, his tone softer. “And you have every right to be.”

You close your eyes, willing yourself to stay silent.

“I was an idiot,” he mutters. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

A shaky breath leaves you. You want to believe him, want to open the door, but the weight in your chest keeps you in place.

Mark doesn’t say anything else. For a moment, it seems like he’s about to leave—but then you hear him slide down against the other side of the door.

He stays there.

And for now, that’s enough.

"Just disappear from my life already."

The words refuse to leave your mind, echoing in every corner of your thoughts. No matter how many times you remind yourself that Mark apologized, that he didn’t mean it, they still feel real. Too real.

Before you know it, your body moves on its own. Slowly, silently, you rise to your feet, wiping away any remaining tears with the sleeve of your shirt. The room is dark, lit only by the faint glow of the streetlights outside, casting long shadows on the walls.

You walk toward the closet, pulling out your suitcase. The zipper’s soft hum fills the room as you open it, and with careful, practiced movements, you begin packing. Clothes, essentials, anything that belongs to you. No hesitation. No second thoughts.

You aren’t leaving out of anger. You aren’t storming out because of some argument.

You’re leaving because, deep down, you believe him.

Maybe he didn’t mean those words in the moment, but what if a part of him did? What if he’s just holding back out of guilt, not wanting to admit that things between you two have run their course? You don’t want to stay somewhere you’re not wanted.

You glance at the clock. A few more hours until morning.

Mark will leave for work, like always. He wouldn’t skip work for you. You’re sure of it.

By the time he realizes you’re gone, you’ll already be far away.

You sit on the edge of your bed, staring at the half-packed suitcase in front of you. The room feels unbearably quiet, but inside your head, the noise is deafening.

You know Mark didn’t mean it. People say things they don’t mean when they’re angry. You’ve done it before, too. But still… the thought lingers.

Would life be better for him if you two had just never met?

If you had never walked into his life, never gotten close enough to fight like this, would he be happier? Less frustrated? Maybe he wouldn’t have to deal with all these pointless arguments. Maybe he’d be free of whatever weight you’ve unknowingly placed on his shoulders.

A bitter smile tugs at your lips.

It’s a dangerous thought. One you shouldn’t entertain. But right now, it feels impossible to ignore.

Your fingers tighten around the fabric of your shirt, the ache in your chest growing heavier.

Maybe leaving isn’t just for you. Maybe it’s for him, too.

You never sleep. You couldn’t.

No matter how many times you shut your eyes, exhaustion never wins over the whirlwind of thoughts in your head. The dim glow of the bedside clock keeps reminding you of the slow, creeping hours.

1 AM.

3 AM.

5 AM.

Before you know it, the sky begins to lighten. The soft hues of dawn filter through your window, casting everything in a pale, muted glow. Your suitcase sits by the door, ready. You should feel ready, too. But you don’t.

Then, faintly, you hear it.

A soft knock.

Mark’s voice—quiet, almost hesitant—seeps through the door. “I’ll be gone for work.”

A beat of silence.

Then, even softer, like a confession he isn’t sure you’ll hear—

“…And I love you.”

The words barely reach you before the sound of the front door opening and closing follows.

Then, the distant rumble of an engine.

And just like that—he’s gone.

But let’s just say you got out of him—where would you even go?

Your parents died two years ago. There’s no family waiting for you anywhere. No safety net to catch you.

Except for Mark.

But you don’t want to be his burden anymore.

With your suitcase in one hand and your phone in the other, you step outside, the cold morning air biting at your skin. The streets are quiet, the world still waking up, but your mind is loud. Without thinking, you dial a number.

Jaemin picks up after a few rings, his voice groggy with sleep. “...Hello?”

You hesitate for a moment before exhaling. “I need to tell you something.”

Jaemin listens as you spill everything—your fight with Mark, the words that won’t stop echoing in your head, the decision you made in the dead of night.

“So,” he murmurs, his voice laced with concern. “You want to stay at my house?”

It’s an offer. A kind one. But you already know the answer.

“No.” You swallow hard, gripping your phone tighter. “Mark will barge in the second he realizes I’m gone.”

A beat of silence. Then, your voice, quieter but firm—

“I want to live overseas and pretend I’m dead.”

Jaemin doesn’t respond right away. Maybe he’s processing your words, or maybe he’s trying to figure out how to talk you out of it. But you’re serious.

You don’t just want to leave.

You want to disappear.

The moment you hang up, you take a deep breath, steadying yourself. There’s no turning back now.

You sit on a bench near the bus stop, pulling out your phone and searching for the next available flight to America. Your fingers tremble slightly as you scroll through the options, but you force yourself to stay focused.

"One-way ticket."

You find a flight departing in a few hours. The price doesn’t matter. You click confirm without hesitation, filling in your details and making the payment. When the confirmation email arrives, you stare at it for a moment, letting the reality sink in.

You’re really doing this.

You’re leaving everything behind—Mark, this city, the life you built. And once you step onto that plane, there’s no coming back.

The bus to the airport arrives, its doors sliding open with a quiet hiss. You grip your suitcase tighter, take one last look at the empty streets, and step inside.

The bus ride is silent, save for the hum of the engine and the occasional announcement. You sit by the window, watching the familiar streets pass by, knowing it’ll be the last time you see them.

Mark’s voice still lingers in your mind.

"Just disappear from my life already."

It shouldn’t hurt anymore, not after you’ve made up your mind. But the ache in your chest refuses to fade.

Your phone buzzes. Jaemin.

Jaemin: Are you sure about this?

Jaemin: You don’t have to go this far.

You stare at the messages but don’t reply. What is there to say? This is the only way.

By the time you reach the airport, the sun has fully risen, painting the sky in soft oranges and pinks. You check in, go through security, and sit at your gate, gripping your boarding pass like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

People move around you—business travelers, families, couples. Everyone has a destination, a purpose. You wonder if any of them are running away like you.

The final boarding call for your flight echoes through the speakers. You stand up, suitcase in hand, and take a deep breath.

This is it.

No turning back.

You step forward, heading toward the plane. Leaving behind the life you once knew.

You walk down the jet bridge, your footsteps steady but your heart unsteady. The closer you get to the plane, the heavier everything feels. Your suitcase, your thoughts, the weight of what you’re doing.

As you step inside, the flight attendants greet you with polite smiles, but you barely register them. You find your seat near the window, placing your bag in the overhead compartment before settling in.

Outside, the city stretches far and wide, bathed in the golden glow of morning. The place you called home for years—now just another spot on the map you’re leaving behind.

You turn your phone on airplane mode, staring at the last few notifications.

Jaemin: Call me when you land.

Jaemin: Please.

There’s nothing from Mark.

Not that you expected anything. He’s probably at work by now, unaware that you’re already gone.

You lean back in your seat, gripping the armrest as the pilot announces takeoff. The plane begins to move, rolling down the runway, picking up speed. Your fingers tighten instinctively as the wheels lift off the ground.

And just like that, you’re in the air.

The city shrinks below, buildings becoming specks, roads turning into thin lines. It feels surreal.

You should feel relieved.

But instead, as the clouds swallow the view of home, an unsettling emptiness settles deep in your chest.

The flight is long, but you don’t sleep. Your thoughts refuse to quiet down, and the hum of the plane does little to soothe the heaviness in your chest. Hours pass in a blur of in-flight meals, quiet conversations from other passengers, and the occasional turbulence that reminds you you’re really doing this.

And then, finally—

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to America.”

The announcement barely registers as the plane begins its descent. The moment the wheels hit the runway, a shiver runs through you. This is it. You’ve landed.

You step off the plane, the foreign air greeting you as you make your way through immigration and baggage claim. The airport is massive, filled with strangers speaking a language you understand but feels distant in your ears.

Your phone buzzes the second you turn it back on. A flood of messages, mostly from Jaemin.

Jaemin: Did you land safely?

Jaemin: Please don’t ignore me.

Jaemin: Mark’s looking for you.

Your breath catches.

Mark’s looking for you.

Your hands tighten around your suitcase handle. You shouldn’t care. You shouldn’t. But a part of you wonders—how did he find out? How is he reacting? Is he just mad? Or… does he actually regret what he said?

You don’t reply. You can’t.

Instead, you pocket your phone, gripping your passport a little tighter as you step forward, blending into the crowd of strangers.

From now on, you don’t exist.

You pull your suitcase through the bustling airport, stepping outside into a city that feels too big, too unfamiliar. The air smells different, the people move differently, and for the first time, the reality of what you’ve done starts to settle in.

You don’t belong here.

Not yet.

Pushing the thought aside, you pull out your phone and search for nearby hotels. You filter by price—not too expensive, but not run-down either. Eventually, you settle on one a little outside the city center, far from crowded areas where you might run into someone you don’t want to see.

After booking a room, you hail a taxi, giving the driver the hotel’s address. The ride is quiet, save for the faint hum of the radio. You stare out the window as the city passes by, neon lights flashing against glass buildings, unfamiliar streets weaving into each other.

By the time you arrive, exhaustion weighs heavily on you. The hotel lobby is quiet, the receptionist polite as they check you in.

“Room 408,” they say, handing you a key card.

You nod, taking the elevator up.

The moment you step inside your room, you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. It’s small but clean. A bed, a desk, a window overlooking the city.

You drop your suitcase by the door, shrugging off your jacket before sitting on the edge of the bed. The silence is deafening.

For the first time since you left, you’re alone. Truly alone.

And you don’t know if that’s a good thing or not.

You sigh, running a hand down your face. The hotel room is quiet—too quiet. The weight of everything presses down on you, and no matter how much you try to push it away, guilt creeps in.

Jaemin.

You’ve been ignoring his messages since you landed, but he’s probably worried sick. You left without telling anyone except him, and even then, you dropped your decision on him without warning. He doesn’t deserve to be ignored.

Pulling out your phone, you open your messages.

You: I’m fine.

You: Landed safely. Checked into a hotel.

The response is instant.

Jaemin: THANK GOD.

Jaemin: Do you have any idea how worried I was?

Jaemin: Mark’s been calling me nonstop. He went to your place and saw your stuff gone.

You freeze for a second, fingers hovering over the screen.

You expected Mark to find out eventually, but hearing that he actually looked for you—that he noticed your absence so quickly—makes your chest tighten.

Still, you can’t let that change anything.

You: Don’t tell him anything.

You: Just say you don’t know where I went.

Jaemin hesitates. You can tell by the silence.

Then—

Jaemin: Are you sure?

Jaemin: He sounded… different.

Different?

You shake your head, refusing to dwell on it.

You: It doesn’t matter.

You: Please, Jaemin.

Another pause. Then, finally—

Jaemin: ...Okay. I won’t say anything.

Jaemin: Just promise me you’ll check in with me every now and then. Let me know you’re safe.

You exhale, a small, tired smile forming despite everything.

You: I promise.

It’s the least you can do.

The hotel room is only temporary. You knew that from the start.

But now that reality is sinking in, you realize you can’t keep spending money on a hotel forever. If you’re really going to stay in America, you need a more stable place to stay. Somewhere that isn’t tied to your past life.

That’s when a name comes to mind.

Lee Jeno.

One of Mark’s long-time clients. You’ve never been close to him—not even friends, really. Your interactions were brief, just occasional nods or polite exchanges whenever he came around. Still, he knows you. And more importantly, he’s not someone Mark would immediately suspect to be involved.

Would he even let you stay with him?

You aren’t sure.

But you don’t have many options.

With a deep breath, you pull out your phone and search for his contact. It takes a moment before you find it—saved under a name you barely remember typing in.

Your fingers hover over the call button.

Then, before you can second-guess yourself, you press it.

The line rings once. Twice. Then—

“Hello?” Jeno’s voice comes through, casual but slightly confused. He wasn’t expecting your call.

You swallow, gripping the phone tighter. “Hey, it’s… me.”

A brief pause. Then, recognition. “Oh. Mark’s—” He stops himself. “Uh, what’s up?”

You take a deep breath. “I need a place to stay.”

Silence.

It stretches for a moment before Jeno speaks again, slower this time. “Wait… you’re in America?”

You nod, then realize he can’t see you. “Yeah.”

More silence. Then—

“What happened?” His voice is more serious now, as if he’s starting to piece things together.

You hesitate. “It’s… complicated.”

Jeno doesn’t push. Not yet.

Then, after a beat—

“…Where are you?”

You give him the name of the hotel.

Another pause. Then, finally, he sighs. “Alright. Stay there. I’ll come get you.”

Relief floods through you. You weren’t expecting him to agree so quickly.

“Thanks, Jeno,” you murmur.

“Don’t thank me yet,” he replies, voice dry but not unkind. “I have questions.”

You figured he would.

And when he arrives, you’ll have to answer them.

You sit on the edge of the hotel bed, staring at your phone screen long after the call ends.

Jeno is coming.

You don’t know what to expect—what kind of reaction he’ll have when he sees you, when he hears whatever explanation you can manage to give. He didn’t ask for details over the phone, but you know that won’t last.

He has questions.

And you… don’t know if you have answers.

The minutes crawl by. You keep glancing at the door, half-expecting him to text and say he changed his mind. But then, a notification pops up.

Jeno: I’m here.

Your heart jumps.

Grabbing your suitcase, you take one last look at the hotel room—the temporary sanctuary that kept you hidden for a short while. Then, without another thought, you step out.

The lobby is quiet. Outside, parked by the entrance, you spot him.

Jeno leans against his car, arms crossed, looking at his phone. The glow of the streetlights casts a sharp contrast on his face—calm, unreadable. But when he looks up and sees you, his brows furrow.

You swallow, tightening your grip on your suitcase as you walk over.

“…Hey,” you say, hesitant.

Jeno pushes off his car, eyes scanning you like he’s trying to figure something out. “Hey,” he echoes. Then, after a beat—“You look like shit.”

A dry chuckle escapes you. “Thanks.”

He sighs, opening the trunk and gesturing for your suitcase. You lift it in, and as he shuts it, he finally asks—

“You gonna tell me what’s going on?”

You hesitate. “It’s complicated.”

Jeno doesn’t react right away. Then he opens the passenger door. “Get in.”

You do.

The car is silent as he starts driving. The city lights blur past, but your mind is stuck in the past.

Jeno doesn’t press, but you can tell he’s waiting.

So, eventually, you take a deep breath and begin.

“…Mark and I had a fight.”

Jeno hums, eyes fixed on the road. “A fight bad enough for you to run away to a different country?”

You let out a shaky breath, watching the city blur past the window. “Yeah.”

He doesn’t respond immediately, but you can tell he’s thinking. His grip on the wheel tightens slightly. “What did he do?”

You hesitate. The words feel heavy on your tongue, like saying them out loud would make everything more real. “He told me to disappear from his life.”

Jeno exhales through his nose, shaking his head. “And you took it literally.”

You don’t reply. What else is there to say?

After a moment, Jeno glances at you. “You know he didn’t mean it, right?”

“I know.” Your voice is quiet. “But… I still left.”

Jeno taps his fingers against the wheel, seeming to weigh his next words. “So, what now? You planning on hiding here forever?”

You shrug. “I don’t know. I just… needed to be away.”

Another silence stretches between you. Then, Jeno sighs. “Alright.”

You blink, looking at him. “That’s it?”

He smirks slightly. “What, you want me to tell you you’re being dumb? You already know that.”

You huff out a weak laugh, but the ache in your chest doesn’t go away.

Jeno pulls into a quiet street, parking in front of a modest but nice-looking apartment complex. He cuts the engine and looks at you seriously.

“I don’t know what happened between you and Mark exactly, but if you’re staying with me, you need to figure out what you want.”

You nod, gripping your sleeves. “I know.”

Jeno watches you for a moment before sighing. “Come on. Let’s get inside.”

You follow him, dragging your suitcase behind you. For now, this is your new reality.

And for the first time in a while, you don’t feel completely alone.

Jeno’s apartment is neat—minimalist but lived-in. He kicks off his shoes at the entrance and gestures for you to do the same before leading you inside.

“You can take the guest room,” he says, nodding toward a door down the hall. “Bathroom’s next to it. Kitchen’s open if you need anything.”

You nod, feeling a bit out of place as you step inside. Everything feels too calm, too normal compared to the storm inside your head.

Jeno watches you for a second before sighing. “Look, I don’t know how long you plan to stay, but just… make yourself at home.”

“…Thanks, Jeno.”

He waves off your gratitude, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge before plopping onto the couch. “You hungry?”

You shake your head. Your stomach feels too tight, too unsettled to handle food right now.

“Alright,” he says, twisting the cap off his water. “Then get some rest. You look like you haven’t slept in days.”

He’s not wrong.

With a quiet nod, you pick up your suitcase and head to the guest room. The space is simple but comfortable—a bed, a desk, a window overlooking the quiet street below.

You set your bag down and sit on the edge of the bed, staring at nothing. Your phone buzzes in your pocket, but you don’t check it.

You already know who it’s from.

Mark.

Your fingers hover over your phone, but in the end, you place it face-down on the nightstand and lie back, staring at the ceiling.

For now, you just need to breathe.

A Few Years Later

The office is buzzing with the usual morning energy—phones ringing, keyboards clicking, conversations humming through the space. You take a sip of your coffee as you scan through emails on your computer, barely noticing when someone leans against your desk.

“Still a workaholic, I see.”

You glance up to see Jeno smirking down at you, arms crossed.

“I learned from the best,” you say, arching a brow.

He snorts, shaking his head. “Don’t blame me when you burn yourself out.”

It’s been a few years since that night in his car, since he let you stay at his place with no questions asked. What was supposed to be temporary became permanent. You found stability, and when Jeno offered you a job at his company, you took it.

Now, you’re one of his most trusted employees—handling projects, attending meetings, building a life you never thought you’d have.

Jeno tilts his head. “By the way, don’t forget the client meeting later. They asked for you specifically.”

“Got it.” You nod, typing a quick note on your schedule.

He lingers for a moment before sighing. “You’ve really settled in, huh?”

You pause, then smile faintly. “Yeah, I guess I have.”

Jeno studies you for a second, like he’s thinking about something. Then he shakes his head and straightens up. “Alright, don’t work too hard. And eat lunch today.”

“No promises.”

He gives you a pointed look before walking off, leaving you alone with your thoughts.

You glance at your phone. No messages. No missed calls.

Mark stopped looking for you a long time ago.

And maybe that’s for the best.

Even though that is the case, the ring on your ring finger doesn’t go away.

The engagement ring—the one Mark slipped onto your finger years ago—still sits there, untouched. You never took it off.

Not when you left. Not when you built a new life. Not even when Mark eventually stopped searching for you.

It should have lost its meaning by now.

And yet, every time your fingers brush over the band, a dull ache settles in your chest.

You wonder if Mark ever took his off.

Did he move on? Did he resent you for leaving? Or did he still hold on to the ghost of a future that never happened—just like you?

You don’t know.

And after all these years, you’re not sure if you even want to.

You couldn’t help but wear it.

Mark had chosen this ring for you after much thought—after carefully considering every detail, making sure it was perfect for you. You remember how nervous he had been when he proposed, how he had fidgeted with the box before finally getting the words out.

"Marry me."

It was supposed to be the start of forever.

And yet, here you are, in a life far removed from the one you had planned together. The ring still sits on your finger, as if it refuses to acknowledge that things have changed.

Maybe it’s foolish. Maybe it’s a form of self-inflicted pain.

But even after all these years, you can’t bring yourself to take it off.

Days turn into weeks, and the ring remains on your finger, just as the memories of Mark remain in your heart.

You tell yourself you’ve moved on. You have a stable job, a life that doesn’t revolve around him anymore. You don’t wake up expecting to hear his voice, and you don’t check your phone hoping for messages that never come.

And yet, some nights, when the city lights outside your window blur into nothingness, you find yourself tracing the ring absentmindedly. Wondering if Mark still thinks about you.

Wondering if he ever regretted telling you to disappear.

You shake your head, trying to push the thought away. It doesn’t matter anymore.

But fate, it seems, has other plans.

One afternoon, while going over documents in your office, your phone buzzes with an incoming call. You glance at the screen, expecting it to be Jeno or a client.

But the name that flashes makes your breath catch.

Mark.

Your fingers freeze over the desk. Your heartbeat pounds in your ears.

It’s been years. Years of silence. Years of pretending that chapter of your life was closed.

And now, just like that, he’s calling.

You hesitate, your thumb hovering over the screen.

Should you answer?

You know that even though Mark stopped looking for you—believing Jaemin’s lie that you were dead—he never truly let you go.

Because despite everything, he still kept messaging you.

Every few weeks, without fail, a message would arrive. Not asking where you were. Not begging you to come back.

Just… talking.

Like he was writing in a diary that only you could read.

"Hey… Today was one of those days. I woke up thinking I’d hear your voice, but of course, that didn’t happen. Stupid, huh?"

"Jaemin’s different now. He doesn’t laugh as much. He doesn’t even talk about you anymore. I think he’s afraid I’ll break."

"I miss you. I miss us."

"Do you think, if things had been different, we would’ve been happy?"

Each message hit like a punch to the gut.

You never replied.

You couldn’t.

But you read every single one.

And now, staring at his name flashing on your screen, you realize—

Mark never moved on.

And neither did you.

A Few Years Later

Life continued.

You built your career, became someone independent, someone who no longer needed Mark to survive. And yet, despite the years that passed, despite the distance you created, the engagement ring never left your finger.

Mark’s messages never stopped either.

Even though he believed you were dead, he never stopped talking to you through unread texts—telling you about his days, his struggles, his regrets. His love for you never wavered, even in silence.

And you never replied. Not once.

It was easier that way.

Until one day, fate decided to throw you into the one situation you had desperately avoided.

A business event. High-profile clients. And among them—Mark.

You froze the moment you saw him.

Time had changed him, but not in the way you expected. His hair was a little shorter, his suit fit him better, and there was an air of quiet maturity about him. But his eyes—the same eyes you fell in love with—looked… tired.

Empty.

And then, as if feeling your gaze, he turned.

Your breath caught.

Mark’s entire body went rigid. His eyes widened slightly, confusion flashing across his face before something deeper, something raw, settled in.

He took a step forward.

And for the first time in years, you felt like that scared person from the past—the one who ran, the one who left without looking back.

But now, there was no more running.

You inhale sharply, steadying yourself as Mark takes a step closer. His lips part slightly, his eyes searching—filled with something you can’t quite name.

Then, he speaks.

Your name.

The name you haven’t heard from his lips in years. The name you longed to hear, and yet, the name that no longer belongs to you.

You bow politely, keeping your expression neutral. You don’t know him. That’s the act you have to maintain.

So, with a small, professional smile, you extend your hand.

“Ah, I believe we haven’t met before. I’m [New Name]. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Mark stops mid-step, his breath hitching as his eyes darken with something unreadable.

A beat of silence stretches between you.

Then, barely above a whisper, he says—

“…What?”

You smile, keeping your act intact despite the way Mark’s expression shifts—confusion, disbelief, something dangerously close to heartbreak flashing in his eyes.

Before he can say another word, a familiar voice cuts through the air.

“(your new name)!”

You turn just as Jeno strides toward you, his presence grounding you in the moment. He places a hand on your shoulder, his gaze flickering to Mark for the briefest second before focusing back on you.

“We need to discuss something with the clients,” Jeno says smoothly, ever the composed businessman.

You nod, grateful for the escape. “Of course.”

Mark is still standing there, unmoving. His hands clench at his sides, his jaw tightening.

You meet his gaze one last time, offering a polite nod before stepping away with Jeno.

And even as you walk further, even as you force yourself to breathe, you can still feel Mark’s eyes burning into your back. When you're out of Mark’s earshot, he leans in, voice low.

Jeno sighs, shaking his head. “You do realize that Mark and I know each other, right?”

You tense. “I know.”

“Then you should also know that he’s not going to just let this go,” Jeno whispers. “Mark’s stubborn as hell. Once he gets an idea in his head, he won’t stop until he finds the truth.”

You swallow hard, keeping your gaze forward. “That’s why I need you to back me up. If he asks, I’m not the person he’s looking for.”

Jeno stops walking, grabbing your wrist gently but firmly. You finally meet his eyes, and they’re filled with something between frustration and concern.

“Do you think lying to him is really the best choice?” Jeno asks. “After all these years, after everything, don’t you think he deserves—”

“I can’t,” you cut him off, your voice barely above a whisper.

Jeno studies you, his lips pressing into a thin line. After a moment, he sighs, letting go of your wrist.

“Fine,” he mutters. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

You nod in silent gratitude before turning away, pretending your hands aren’t slightly trembling.

Because deep down, you know Jeno is right.

Mark isn’t going to let this go.

Jeno was right.

Because even though Mark didn’t belong in America, he definitely stayed longer than he should have.

His business here should have been wrapped up within a few days. A week, at most. Yet, days turned into weeks, and he still hadn’t left.

And it wasn’t just that—he started staying in the office longer.

At first, you tried to ignore it. You convinced yourself that it was just work, that it had nothing to do with you. But when you saw him lingering outside meeting rooms you were in, or passing by your office more often than necessary, the weight of his presence became impossible to brush off.

He was watching you.

Not obviously, not in a way that anyone else would notice—but you could feel it. The way his eyes lingered just a second too long when your paths crossed. The way he hesitated, as if waiting for you to slip, to acknowledge him in a way that proved you weren’t a stranger.

Mark wasn’t leaving.

And worse—he wasn’t giving up.

It starts small.

Late one evening, you step into the office elevator, exhausted from the long day. Just as the doors begin to close, a hand slips between them, forcing them open.

Mark.

Your breath hitches, but you recover quickly, schooling your expression into polite indifference. You step to the side as he enters, standing opposite you in the confined space.

Silence.

The numbers on the screen descend slowly. The air feels heavier with every floor passed.

Then—

"You remind me of someone," Mark suddenly says, voice quiet but steady.

You don't flinch. You don't react. Instead, you tilt your head slightly, feigning curiosity. "Oh?"

Mark’s gaze lingers on you, searching for something—anything. "Yeah," he exhales. "But I guess that would be impossible."

The elevator dings. The doors slide open. Without another word, you step out, leaving him behind.

You’re in the office break room when he appears again.

You don't acknowledge him as you stir your coffee, keeping your focus on the swirling liquid.

But Mark? Mark doesn’t look away.

"You take it the same way," he muses.

You pause for only a fraction of a second before taking a sip. "Excuse me?"

"Your coffee," Mark clarifies, leaning against the counter. "Black, two sugars. Just like—" He stops himself, swallowing his words.

Just like her.

Just like you.

You merely hum in response, placing your cup down. "Lots of people take their coffee like this," you say smoothly. "Maybe you’re overthinking."

Mark watches you, lips pressing into a thin line. “Maybe.”

You turn to leave, but as you pass him, he mutters under his breath—

"But I doubt it."

Your fingers tighten around your cup. But you don’t stop walking.

A company dinner. Business associates mingling, glasses clinking. You’re seated across from Mark at the table, forced to endure his presence as Jeno discusses partnerships.

Then it happens.

"Can you pass the salt, Y/N?"

Your blood runs cold.

The chatter around you continues, but to you, it all fades into the background.

Your hand, halfway to the salt shaker, freezes. Your throat goes dry.

Slowly, you lift your gaze.

Mark is staring directly at you. His expression unreadable, but his eyes?

His eyes tell you he knows.

And this time, he’s waiting for you to deny it. To prove him wrong.

You force a small, confused smile. "I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else," you say lightly, sliding the salt shaker toward him.

Mark doesn't break eye contact. Doesn’t even blink.

Then, lips curling slightly, he takes the salt.

"Yeah," he murmurs. "Maybe I have."

But the way he says it?

You know he doesn't believe that at all.

A few days later, Mark finally left.

No announcement. No goodbyes. One moment he was there, lingering in the same spaces as you, watching you with quiet suspicion, and the next—he was gone.

When you overheard Jeno mentioning that Mark had returned to Korea, you felt a weight lift off your chest.

Relief. A deep, consuming relief.

You could finally breathe again.

No more stolen glances. No more quiet confrontations. No more feeling like you were seconds away from being exposed.

One randome day, the door to your office swung open with force, slamming against the wall. You barely had time to look up before Jeno stormed in, his face tight with urgency.

“Come with me. Now.”

His voice left no room for argument.

Without hesitation, you pushed back your chair and followed him, your heels clicking against the polished floor. The air between you felt tense, thick with unspoken words. As soon as you stepped into the elevator, you finally spoke.

“What’s going on?”

Jeno sighed heavily, rubbing a hand down his face before looking at you with frustration and something else—something close to desperation.

“Mark is raging again.”

Your brows furrowed. “Raging?”

Jeno’s lips pressed into a thin line as he let out another sigh. “Whenever Mark has a meeting, even if one person calls out your name—whether it’s intentional or not—he destroys the company in one day.”

The words hit you like a sudden downpour, cold and unexpected.

You stared at Jeno, trying to process what he just said. Mark? Losing control at the mere mention of your name? You had been gone for years, living under a new identity, convinced that Mark had moved on. But now, this—this was something you never expected.

“Wait,” you started slowly, voice steady despite the turmoil rising inside you. ��You said again?”

Jeno didn’t answer right away. He exhaled, pressing a button on the elevator panel, watching the numbers change as if it would buy him more time to gather his thoughts. Then, he finally spoke.

“Ever since the year you left, he changed. Too much—in a bad way.” Jeno turned to face you fully, his eyes filled with a seriousness that made your stomach drop. “No one can stop him.” A pause. A weighty silence. Then, he added, “I guess no one except you.”

The elevator dinged, the doors sliding open.

But you couldn’t move.

Because for the first time in years, you were being forced to face the one thing you tried so desperately to leave behind.

You finally snapped out of your shock, your brows furrowing deeply as you followed Jeno through the building’s exit.

“Where exactly are we going?” you demanded, quickening your pace to match his.

Jeno remained silent, his grip tightening on his phone as he approached the sleek black car waiting at the curb. Without answering, he slid into the backseat.

But you didn’t move.

Your feet stayed firmly planted on the pavement, hands curling into fists at your sides. Something wasn’t right about this.

Jeno must’ve realized you weren’t following because he exhaled sharply before stepping back out of the car. He shut the door behind him, standing a few feet away from you with an exhausted expression.

“I need you to stop him,” he said, voice steady but carrying an edge of urgency. “As I said before, I can only guess that you appearing in front of him will make him lose his temper... or whatever he’s doing right now.”

Your jaw clenched.

Furious. That was the only word to describe what you felt.

Because how dare Jeno drag you into this?

You had spent years reconstructing your life, pretending Mark didn’t exist, pretending your past was dead and buried. You had chosen to disappear, to let him believe you were gone forever.

And yet, here Jeno was, standing in front of you, asking you to tear apart everything you worked so hard to build.

You took a slow breath, trying to keep your voice even. “And if I say no?”

Jeno didn’t even blink. “Then you’ll just be delaying the inevitable.”

The weight of his words settled over you like a crushing force.

Because deep down, you knew he was right.

You shook your head, your voice firm. “Mark already treats me as another person, Jeno. He doesn’t know who I am anymore.” You took a step back, as if putting distance between you and this situation would make it easier to refuse. “If I just show up in front of him now, it might mess up everything.”

Jeno exhaled sharply, tilting his head up toward the sky for a moment before looking back at you. His jaw was tight, his patience thinning. “And what exactly is ‘everything’ to you?”

Your lips parted, but no words came out.

Because what was everything? Your job? The new life you had built? The identity you carefully crafted to make sure Mark would never find you?

Jeno scoffed, running a frustrated hand through his hair. “You think staying hidden has solved anything? Look around, look at what’s happening. He’s still breaking things, still losing control at the thought of you. You didn’t erase yourself from his life—you just left behind a ghost.”

His words hit you hard, digging into wounds you thought had long since healed.

You crossed your arms tightly over your chest. “That’s not my fault,” you muttered, though even to yourself, your voice sounded weak.

“I never said it was.” Jeno’s tone softened, just slightly. “But whether you like it or not, you’re the only one who can stop this.”

Silence stretched between you, heavy with the weight of unspoken emotions.

You could feel your pulse in your throat, your mind racing. If you did this, if you stepped into Mark’s life again, you might lose everything you worked for.

But if you didn’t…

In your mind, you knew you shouldn’t go.

You had spent years running, carefully constructing a life where Mark Lee was nothing but a distant memory. Returning now—after all this time, after all the pain—was a mistake.

But your heart said otherwise.

Because despite everything, despite the years of pretending and the walls you built around yourself, the thought of seeing Mark again made something deep inside you ache.

And so, here you were.

Sitting in the backseat of a car beside Jeno, the city lights flashing by as you headed toward the airport. The weight of what you were about to do sat heavy in your chest.

You were going back.

Back to Korea.

Back to the place where you were supposed to be dead.

Back to where everything started.

Jeno didn’t say much during the ride, but his presence was grounding, a silent reminder that this was real. That you were about to face the one thing you had spent years avoiding.

As the car pulled up to the airport, you exhaled slowly, trying to quiet the pounding of your heart.

There was no turning back now.

The airport buzzed with the usual chaos—passengers rushing to their gates, the low hum of announcements echoing through the terminal, the distant sound of luggage wheels rolling across polished floors. But none of it registered in your mind.

Your focus remained on the boarding pass in your hand. One-way ticket to Korea.

Jeno walked beside you, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his coat, his expression unreadable. He had barely spoken since you left your office, only offering you silent glances as if he knew words wouldn’t help.

Because what could he say?

You were willingly stepping back into a life you had abandoned.

Back to Mark.

Back to the man who had once been your whole world—the man you had broken, the man who still, after all this time, carried your ghost with him.

The thought made your fingers tighten around your ticket.

You shouldn’t be doing this. You had spent years convincing yourself that leaving was for the best, that Mark would heal, that time would erase the love you once shared. But Jeno’s words kept replaying in your mind.

"You didn’t erase yourself. You just left behind a ghost."

You exhaled sharply, pushing away the hesitation threatening to consume you.

As you approached the gate, Jeno finally spoke.

“You don’t have to do this, you know.” His voice was calm, but there was an edge to it—like he knew what your answer would be.

You swallowed hard. “I know.”

But even as you said it, your feet didn’t stop moving.

Because the truth was, you had already made your choice.

The moment you stepped into Mark’s office, you felt the shift in the air.

The tension was suffocating.

Your eyes immediately landed on him—Mark, standing at his desk, his expression twisted in anger as he glared down at an employee. His voice, sharp and unwavering, cut through the silence of the room.

“I don’t care what your excuse is,” he snapped, his hands pressed against the desk. “One more mistake, and you’re done here. Do you understand?”

The employee—who looked no older than his mid-twenties—nodded frantically, his face pale as he stammered out an apology before practically running out of the room.

You stood frozen in place, unable to process what you had just witnessed.

Mark… wasn’t like this.

At least, not the Mark you knew.

The Mark you once loved was patient, kind, the type of person who would offer guidance instead of threats. But the man standing before you now—the one with cold, hardened eyes and a suffocating presence—felt like a stranger wearing his skin.

Mark let out a frustrated sigh, rubbing a hand over his face before finally looking up.

And that was when he saw you.

His entire body stiffened. His eyes widened, and for a split second, raw emotion flickered across his face. Shock. Confusion. Hope.

Then, just as quickly as it appeared, it vanished.

Mark's sharp gaze locked onto yours, his voice low but shaking with restrained emotion.

"Who really are you?"

Your breath hitched.

"Because you actually drive me crazy," he continued, stepping closer. His fingers curled into fists at his sides, as if holding himself back. "You look exactly like my dead wife, but you are not. You act like my dead wife, but you are not… It’s confusing me."

The room felt colder, the distance between you and him shrinking, yet an invisible wall separated you.

Your lips parted, but no words came out. What were you supposed to say?

That you were his so-called dead wife? That you had run away, abandoned everything—including him—just to escape the pain?

Mark let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Every damn time I think I’m over it, you show up again. In my head. In my dreams. And now, right in front of me.” His eyes were darker than you remembered—filled with exhaustion, torment. "Why do you exist? Are you here to haunt me?"

Your heart twisted painfully.

You did this to him.

You left, thinking it would make things better, but all you did was destroy him.

“I…” Your voice came out weaker than you intended. “I’m not—”

Mark exhaled sharply, cutting you off. "Stop lying." His tone was low, dangerous. "You're not her, right? Then prove it."

His gaze burned into yours, waiting for an answer.

But could you really lie to his face again?

You took a shaky breath, your hands clenched at your sides. There was no point in lying anymore. No point in running.

So you told him everything.

From the moment you left.

From the night you packed your bags and walked out of his life, leaving only a ghost behind.

From the years you spent pretending to be someone else, convincing yourself it was for the best.

From the pain of knowing he would never move on because you had never truly left him.

You told him about Jaemin. About Jeno. About how you watched from afar, how you read every message he sent to the number he thought belonged to a dead woman.

And through it all, Mark stood there, silent.

His face was unreadable, his hands curled into fists at his sides.

You finished with a whisper. “I never stopped loving you, Mark. But I thought… maybe you’d be better off without me.”

The words hung in the air.

For a long moment, nothing happened.

Then, suddenly—

Mark’s hands shot out, gripping both of your arms tightly.

“You thought what?” His voice was raw, filled with an emotion you couldn’t decipher. His fingers tightened, almost shaking. “You thought I’d be better off?”

His chest rose and fell rapidly, his breaths uneven. His grip was firm, but not painful—just desperate.

His anger burned hot, but underneath it, there was something else.

Something breaking.

“You ruined me,” he whispered harshly. “You broke me, and you thought I’d be fine?” His voice cracked, and suddenly, the fury drained from his face.

His hands trembled. His shoulders slumped.

And then—

Tears.

Silent at first, but then his entire body shook.

He let out a quiet sob, his forehead falling against your shoulder as his arms wrapped around you, holding you so tightly it hurt.

“I thought I lost you forever,” he choked out. His grip tightened, as if letting go meant losing you again. “I looked everywhere… I never stopped looking. I never—” His voice broke again, another sob escaping.

You froze for a moment before your hands hesitantly came up, resting against his back.

“…I’m here,” you whispered.

And for the first time in years, Mark clung to you like he was afraid you would disappear all over again.

Mark’s grip didn’t loosen. If anything, he held you even tighter, as if the moment he let go, you’d vanish into thin air again. His body trembled, his cries muffled against your shoulder.

“I—” His voice broke between sobs. “I missed so many Valentine’s Days with you.”

You felt his fingers dig slightly into your back, desperate, aching.

“I bought you gifts every year,” he continued, his words tumbling out in a mess. “Roses. Chocolates. Even wrote stupid letters I never sent. But you weren’t there to receive them.” He let out a breathless, bitter laugh. “I left them at your—at our old place. Just in case you ever came back.”

Your heart clenched painfully.

Mark’s voice was hoarse, thick with emotion. “Do you know how many times I sat alone at a restaurant on February 14th, pretending you were across from me? How many times I imagined what it’d be like if you never left?”

You squeezed your eyes shut.

You had thought leaving would set him free.

But instead, it had chained him to a version of you that no longer existed.

“I hated you,” he admitted in a whisper. “But I loved you more.”

Your breath hitched.

Mark pulled back slightly, just enough to look at you. His eyes were red, his face wet with tears, his expression so open, so vulnerable, that it shattered whatever was left of your resolve.

“You’re real, right?” His voice was barely above a whisper, his hands coming up to cradle your face. “You’re really here?”

You nodded.

Mark let out a shaky breath, his thumbs brushing your skin gently, as if afraid you’d disappear.

“I can’t lose you again,” he murmured. “Not after this.”

You inhaled deeply, your heart still racing from everything that had just happened. Mark’s hands were still cradling your face, his touch hesitant, like he was afraid you’d slip away again.

But this time, you wouldn’t run.

Slowly, you turned your gaze toward Jeno, who had been silently watching from a few steps away. He hadn’t said a word since you and Mark had broken down in front of each other, letting the past finally catch up to you both.

You searched Jeno’s face for any sign of protest—any hint that he wanted to pull you away from this mess.

Instead, he simply smiled.

With a knowing look, he lifted his hand and made a small shooing motion, as if to say, Go. This is where you belong.

A soft chuckle escaped your lips, a mixture of relief and gratitude filling your chest.

You smiled back at him, nodding. Thank you.

Jeno gave you one last nod before turning around, walking away without another word. He had done his part—now, the rest was up to you.

You turned back to Mark, who was watching you anxiously, waiting for your answer.

And then, you spoke the words that changed everything.

“I’m staying.”

Mark’s breath hitched, his grip on you tightening for a second before he let out a shaky exhale.

“You mean it?” His voice was barely above a whisper, as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

You nodded.

This time, when Mark pulled you into his arms again, it wasn’t out of desperation.

It was out of relief. Out of love.

Valentine’s Day was approaching—a day that once held only bittersweet memories, but now, it had a chance to mean something again.

Mark had proposed to you years ago, sealing a promise of forever. But that forever had been put on pause when you left. Now that you were back, you wanted to be the one to ask this time.

If he had been strong enough to wait for you, then you would be strong enough to ask him to take that step forward again.

To finally get married.

With Jeno’s and Jaemin's help (because, of course, they had to be involved in this), you planned a quiet yet meaningful proposal. Mark wasn’t one for grand gestures—what mattered was the sincerity behind it.

So, you chose a place that meant something to both of you: the old café where you had shared countless dates, quiet mornings, and late-night talks. The same place where Mark had first held your hand, nervous yet determined.

On the evening of February 14th, you told him you had made dinner plans. But instead of a restaurant, you led him to the café, now reserved just for the two of you.

Mark looked around, eyes widening as he recognized the place. “Wait… why here?”

You simply smiled, guiding him inside. “Just trust me.”

The lights were dimmed, candles flickering softly on the table. A small bouquet of roses sat at the center—just like the ones he had left for you every Valentine’s Day when he thought you were gone.

Mark turned to you, brows furrowed in confusion, but you could see the glimmer of emotion in his eyes.

And then, before he could ask another question—

You got down on one knee.

Mark froze.

His lips parted slightly, his eyes widening in shock as he stared down at you.

You took a deep breath, steadying yourself before speaking.

“You once asked me to be yours forever,” you began, voice soft but firm. “And I should have said yes sooner. I should have never left. But despite everything, you waited. You loved me even when I wasn’t there. And I—” You swallowed, your heart pounding. “I don’t want to waste any more time. I don’t want another Valentine’s Day to pass without knowing that you’re mine in every way possible.”

You pulled out a small velvet box, opening it to reveal the simple but elegant band inside.

“Mark Lee,” you whispered, your eyes locking onto his. “Will you marry me?”

For a moment, Mark didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

And then, just like before, tears filled his eyes.

A choked laugh escaped him, followed by a watery smile as he crouched down, pulling you up into his arms.

“You idiot,” he murmured against your hair, voice shaking. “Of course, I’ll marry you.”

You let out a breath you didn’t even realize you were holding.

As he pulled back just enough to kiss you—soft, deep, and full of years’ worth of love—you realized something.

As Mark held you close, the world outside seemed to blur and fade away, leaving only the two of you. The past, with its pain and misunderstandings, had slowly unraveled into something more beautiful—a second chance.

You had your faults.

Yes, Mark had made his mistakes too—saying things in anger that no one should ever hear. But you couldn’t deny that you had your share of blame. You had been the one to walk away. You had been the one to leave without a word, thinking it was for the best, but all it did was push you both into a spiral of lost time. You had abandoned him when he needed you most.

And now, you couldn’t help but feel the weight of it all.

It was childish. Immature.

But in your heart, you knew one thing for sure: You were lucky that Mark never stopped loving you.

“Hey,” he whispered, pulling you even closer. “You don’t have to feel guilty. I’m not perfect either, you know.”

You sighed, lifting your head from his chest to meet his gaze. “I know, but... I am. I made all the wrong decisions back then. I shouldn’t have left you like that.”

Mark smiled softly, brushing a lock of hair from your face. “The past is gone. All that matters now is that you’re here. With me.”

You blinked back the tears that threatened to fall. “I don’t deserve you.”

He shook his head gently. “You’re wrong. You don’t need to be perfect. I love you the way you are. I always have.”

And in that moment, you knew—this was your home. Mark, with all his flaws, and you, with yours, were finally in the right place. Together.

As he kissed you again, you realized something else too: No matter how much you had messed up, no matter how long it took to get here, Mark had chosen to love you. And that was more than enough.

You were finally home, and this time, you weren’t going anywhere.

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mostlysignssomeportents · 5 months ago

Text

Petard (Part I)

Few things are more wrong than "if you're not paying for the product, you're the product." Companies sell you out when they can, which is why John Deere tractor milks farmers for needless repair callouts and why your iPhone spies on you to provide data to Apple's surveillance advertising service:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/11/14/luxury-surveillance/#liar-liar

When a vendor abuses you, that's not punishment for you being a cheapskate and wanting to use services for free. Vendors who screw you over do so because they know they can get away with it, because you are locked in and can't shop elsewhere. The ultimate manifestation of this is, of course, prison-tech. A duopoly of private equity-backed prison-tech profiteers have convinced prisons and jails across America to get rid of calls, in-person visits, mail, parcels, libraries, and continuing ed, and replace them all with tablets that charge prisoners vastly more than people in the free world pay to access media and connect with the outside. Those prisoners are absolutely paying for the product – indeed, with the national average prison wage set at $0.53/hour, they're paying far more than anyone outside pays – and they are still the product.

Capitalists, after all, hate capitalism. For all the romantic odes to the "invisible hand" and all the bafflegab about "efficient market hypothesis," the actual goal of businesses is to make you an offer you literally can't refuse. Capitalists want monopolies, they want captive audiences. "Competition," as Peter Thiel famously wrote, "is for losers."

Few lock-in arrangements are harder to escape than the landlord-tenant relationship. Moving home is expensive, time-consuming, and can rip you away from your job, your kid's school, and your community. Landlords know it, which is why they conspire to rig rents through illegal price-fixing apps like Realpage:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/02/27/ai-conspiracies/#epistemological-collapse

And why they fill your home with Internet of Shit appliances that pick your pockets by requiring special, expensive consumables, and why they tack so many junk fees onto your monthly rent:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/10/01/housing-is-a-human-right/

Tenants aren't quite as locked in as prisoners, but corporations correctly understand that you can really fuck with a tenant over a long timescale without losing their business, and so they do.

Ironically, monopolists love each other. I guess if you loathe competition, a certain kind of cooperation comes naturally. That's why so many landlords have forged unholy alliances with internet service providers, who – famously – offer Americans the slowest speeds at the highest prices in the rich world, trail the world in infrastructure investment, and reap profits that put their global cousins in the shade.

Many's the apartment building that comes with a monopoly ISP that has a deal with your landlord. Landlords and ISPs call this "bulk billing" and swear that it reduces the cost of internet service for everyone. In reality, tenants who live under these arrangements have produced a deep, unassailable record proving that they pay more for worse broadband than the people next door who get to choose their ISPs. What's more, ISPs who offer "bulk billing" openly offer kickbacks to landlords who choose them over their rivals – in other words, even if you're paying for the product (your fucking home), you are still the product, sold to an evil telco.

Under Biden, the FCC banned the practice of ISPs paying kickbacks to landlords, over squeals and howls of protests from industry bodies like the National Multifamily Housing Council (NMHC), National Apartment Association (NAA), and Real Estate Technology and Transformation Center (RETTC). These landlord groups insisted – despite all the evidence to the contrary – that when your landlord gets to choose your ISP, they do so with your best interests at heart, getting you a stellar deal you couldn't get for yourself.

This week, Trump's FCC chair Brendan Carr – who voted for the ban on kickbacks – rescinded the rule, claiming that he was doing so to protect tenants. This is obvious bullshit, as is evidenced by the confetti-throwing announcements froom the NMHC, NAA and RETTC:

https://arstechnica.com/tech-policy/2025/01/fcc-chair-nixes-plan-to-boost-broadband-competition-in-apartment-buildings/

Reading Jon Brodkin's Ars Technica coverage of Carr's betrayal of millions of Americans, I was reminded of a short story I published in 2014: "Petard: A Tale of Just Desserts," which I wrote for Bruce Sterling's "12 Tomorrows" anthology from MIT Tech Review. It's a fun little sf story about this same bullshit, dedicated to the memory of Aaron Swartz:

https://mitpress.mit.edu/9780262535595/twelve-tomorrows-2014/

Realizing that there were people who were sounding the alarm about this more than a decade ago was a forceful reminder that Trumpism isn't exactly new. The idea that government should serve up the American people as an all-you-can-eat buffet for corporations that use tech to supercharge their predatory conduct has been with us for a hell of a long time. I've written a hell of a lot of science fiction about this, and sometimes this leads people to credit me with predictive powers. But if I predicted anything with my story "Radicalized," in which furious, grieving men murder the health industry execs who denied their loved ones coverage, I predicted the present, not the future:

https://prospect.org/culture/books/2024-12-09-radicalized-cory-doctorow-story-health-care/

Likewise in my story "Unauthorized Bread," which "predicted" that landlords would use "smart" appliances to steal from their poorest, most vulnerable tenants:

https://arstechnica.com/gaming/2020/01/unauthorized-bread-a-near-future-tale-of-refugees-and-sinister-iot-appliances/

It's not much of a "prediction" to simply write a story in which "Internet of Things" companies' sales literature is treated as a straightforward idea and writing about how it will all work.

The same goes for "Petard." The most "predictive" part of that story is the part where I take the human rights implications of internet connections seriously. Back then (and even today), there were and are plenty of Very Serious People who want you to know that internet service is a frivolity, a luxury, a distraction:

https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2010/10/04/small-change-malcolm-gladwell

They deride the idea that broadband is a human right, even after the pandemic's lesson that you depend on your internet connection for social connections, civic life, political engagement, education, health and employment:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/03/30/medtronic-stole-your-ventilator/#fiber-now

Writing sf about this stuff isn't predictive, but I like to think that it constitutes an effective rebuttal to the people who say that taking digital rights seriously is itself unserious. Given that, I got to thinking about "Petard," and how much I liked that little story from 2014.

So I've decided to serialize it, in four parts, starting today. If you're impatient to get the whole story, you can listen to my podcast of it, which I started in 2014, then stopped podcasting for four years (!) before finishing in 2018:

https://archive.org/details/Cory_Doctorow_Podcast_278

https://archive.org/details/Cory_Doctorow_Podcast_292

https://archive.org/details/Cory_Doctorow_Podcast_293

https://archive.org/details/Cory_Doctorow_Podcast_294_-_Petard_04

It's not that I wanted to make the elf cry. I'm not proud of the fact. But he was an elf for chrissakes. What was he doing manning — elfing — the customer service desk at the Termite Mound? The Termite Mound was a tough assignment — given MIT's legendary residency snafus, it was a sure thing that someone like me would be along every day to ruin his day.

"Come on," I said, "cut it out. Look, it's nothing personal."

He continued to weep, face buried dramatically in his long-fingered hands, pointed ears protruding from his fine, downy hair as it flopped over his ivory-pale forehead. Elves.

I could have backed down, gone back to my dorm and just forgiven the unforgivably stupid censorwall there, used my personal node for research or stuck to working in the lab. But I had paid for the full feed. I needed the full feed. I deserved the full feed. I was 18. I was a grownup, and the infantalizing, lurking censorwall offended my intellect and my emotions. I mean, seriously, fuck that noise.

"Would you stop?" I said. "Goddamnit, do your job."

The elf looked up from his wet hands and wiped his nose on his mottled raw suede sleeve. "I don't have to take this," he said. He pointed to a sign: "MIT RESIDENCY LLC OPERATES A ZERO-TOLERANCE POLICY TOWARD EMPLOYEE ABUSE. YOU CAN BE FINED UP TO $2000 AND/OR IMPRISONED FOR SIX MONTHS FOR ASSAULTING A CAMPUS RESIDENCE WORKER."

"I'm not abusing you," I said. "I'm just making my point. Forcefully."

He glared at me from behind a curtain of dandelion-fluff hair. "Abuse includes verbal abuse, raised voices, aggressive language and tone –"

I tuned him out. This was the part where I was supposed to say, "I know this isn't your fault, but –" and launch into a monologue explaining how his employer had totally hosed me by not delivering what they'd promised, and had further hosed him by putting him in a situation where he was the only one I could talk to about it, and he couldn't do anything about it. This little pantomime was a fixture of life in the world, the shrugs-all-round nostrum that we were supposed to substitute for anything getting better ever.

Like I said, though, fuck that noise. What is the point of being smart, 18 years old and unemployed if you aren't willing to do something about this kind of thing. Hell, the only reason I'd been let into MIT in the first place was that I was constitutionally incapable of playing out that little scene.

The elf had run down and was expecting me to do my bit. Instead, I said, "I bet you're in the Termite Mound, too, right?"

He got a kind of confused look. "That's PII," he said. "This office doesn't give out personally identifying information. It's in the privacy policy –" He tapped another sign posted by his service counter, one with much smaller type. I ignored it.

"I don't want someone else's PII. I want yours. Do you live in the residence? You must, right? Get a staff discount on your housing for working here, I bet." Elves were always cash-strapped. Surgery's not cheap, even if you're prepared to go to Cuba for it. I mean, you could get your elf-pals to try to do your ears for you, but only if you didn't care about getting a superbug or ending up with gnarly stumps sticking out of the side of your head. And forget getting a Nordic treatment without adult supervision, I mean, toot, toot, all aboard the cancer express. You had to be pretty insanely desperate to go elf without the help of a pro.

He looked stubborn. I mean, elf-stubborn, which is a kind of chibi version of stubborn that's hard to take seriously. I mean, seriously. "Look, of course you live in the Termite Mound. Whatever. The point is, we're all screwed by this stuff. You, me, them –" I gestured at the room full of people. They all been allocated a queue-position on entry to the waiting room and were killing time until they got their chance to come up to the Window of Eternal Disappointment in order to play out I Know This Isn't Your Fault But… before returning to their regularly scheduled duties as a meaningless grain of sand being ground down by the unimaginably gigantic machinery of MIT Residency LLC.

"Let's do something about it, all right? Right here, right now."

He gave me a look of elven haughtiness that he'd almost certainly practiced in the mirror. I waited for him to say something. He waited for me to wilt. Neither of us budged.

"I'm not kidding. The censorwall has a precisely calibrated dose of fail. It works just enough that it's worth using most of the time, and the amount of hassle and suck and fail you have to put up with when it gets in the way is still less than the pain you'd have to endure if you devoted your life to making it suck less. The economically rational course of action is to suck it up.

"What I propose is that we change the economics of this bullshit. If you're the Termite Mound's corporate masters, you get this much benefit out of the shitty censorwall; but we, the residents of the Termite Mound, pay a thousand times that in aggregate." I mimed the concentrated interests of the craven fools who'd installed the censorwall, making my hands into a fist-wrapped-in-a-fist, then exploding them like a hoberman-sphere to show our diffuse mutual interests, expanding to dwarf the censorware like Jupiter next to Io. "So here's what I propose: let's mound up all this diffuse interest, mobilize it, and aim it straight at the goons who put you in a job. You sit there all day and suffer through our abuse because all you're allowed to do is point at your stupid sign."

"How?" he said. I knew I had him.

Kickstarter? Hacker, please. Getting strangers to combine their finances so you can chase some entrepreneurial fantasy of changing the world by selling people stuff is an idea that was dead on arrival. If your little kickstarted business is successful enough to compete with the big, dumb titans, you'll end up being bought out or forced out or sold out, turning you into something indistinguishable from the incumbent businesses you set out to destroy. The problem isn't that the world has the wrong kind of sellers — it's that it has the wrong kind of buyers. Powerless, diffused, atomized, puny and insubstantial.

Turn buyers into sellers and they just end up getting sucked into the logic of fail: it's unreasonable to squander honest profits on making people happier than they need to be in order to get them to open their wallets. But once you get all the buyers together in a mass with a unified position, the sellers don't have any choice. Businesses will never spend a penny more than it takes to make a sale, so you have to change how many pennies it takes to complete the sale.

Back when I was fourteen, it took me ten days to hack together my first Fight the Power site. On the last day of the fall term, Ashcroft High announced that catering was being turned over to Atos Catering. Atos had won the contract to run the caf at my middle school in my last year there, every one of us lost five kilos by graduation. The French are supposed to be good at cooking, but the slop Atos served wasn't even food. I'm pretty sure that after the first week they just switched to filling the steamer trays with latex replicas of grey, inedible glorp. Seeing as how no one was eating it, there was no reason to cook up a fresh batch every day.

The announcement came at the end of the last Friday before Christmas break, chiming across all our personal drops with a combined bong that arrived an instant before the bell rang. The collective groan was loud enough to drown out the closing bell. It didn't stop, either, but grew in volume as we filtered into the hall and out of the building into the icy teeth of Chicago's first big freeze of the season.

Junior high students aren't allowed off campus at lunchtime, but high school students — even freshmen — can go where they please so long as they're back by the third period bell. That's where Fight the Power came in.

WE THE UNDERSIGNED PLEDGE

TO BOYCOTT THE ASHCROFT HIGH CAFETERIA WHILE ATOS HAS THE CONTRACT TO SUPPLY IT

TO BUY AT LEAST FOUR LUNCHES EVERY WEEK FROM THE FOLLOWING FOOD TRUCKS [CHECK AT LEAST ONE]:

This was tricky. It's not like there were a lot of food trucks driving out of the loop to hit Joliet for the lunch rush. But I wrote a crawler that went through the review sites, found businesses with more than one food truck, munged the menus and set out the intersection as an eye-pleasing infographic showing the appetizing potential of getting your chow outside of the world of the corrupt no-bid edu-corporate complex.

By New Year's Day, 98 percent of the student body had signed up. By January third, I had all four of the food-trucks I'd listed lined up to show up on Monday morning.

Turns out, Ashcroft High and Atos had a funny kind of deal. Ashcroft High guaranteed a minimum level of revenue to Atos, and Atos guaranteed a maximum level to Ashcroft High. So, in theory, if a hundred percent of the student body bought a cafeteria lunch, about twenty percent of that money would be kicked back to Ashcroft High. They later claimed that this was all earmarked to subsidize the lunches of poor kids, but no one could ever point to anything in writing where they'd committed to this, as our Freedom of Information Act requests eventually proved.

In return for the kickback, the school had promised to ensure that Atos could always turn a profit. If not enough of us ate in the caf, the school would have to give Atos the money it would have made if we had. In other words: our choice to eat a good lunch wasn't just costing the school its expected share of Atos's profits — it was having to dig money out of its budget to make up for our commitment to culinary excellence.

They tried everything. Got the street in front of the school designated a no-food-trucks zone (we petitioned the City of Joliet to permit parking on the next street over). Shortened the lunch-break (we set up a Web-based pre-order service that let us pick and pre-pay for our food). Banned freshmen from leaving school property (we were saved by the PTA). Suspended me for violating the school's social media policy (the ACLU wrote them a blood-curdling nastygram, and raised nearly $30,000 in donations of $3 or less from students around the world once word got out).

Atos wouldn't let them re-negotiate the contract, either. If Ashcroft High wanted out, it would have to buy it's way out. That's when I convinced the vice-principal to let me work with the AP Computer Science class to build out a flexible, open version of Fight the Power that anyone could install and run for their own student bodies, providing documentation and support. That was just before Spring Break. By May 1, there were 87 schools whose students used Ftp to organize Atos alternative food-trucks for their own cafeterias.

Suddenly, this was news. Not just local news, either. Global. Atos had to post an earnings warning in their quarterly report. Suddenly, we had Bloomberg and Al Jazeera Business camera crews buttonholing Ashcroft High kids on their way to the lunch-trucks. Whenever they grabbed me, I would give them this little canned speech about how Atos couldn't supply decent food and were taking money out of our educational budgets rather than facing the fact that the children they were supposed to be feeding hated their slop so much that they staged a mass walkout. It played well with kids in other schools, and very badly with Atos's shareholders. But I'll give this to Atos: I couldn't have asked for a better Evil Empire to play Jedi against. They threatened to sue me — for defamation! — which made the whole thing news again. Stupidly, they sued me in Illinois, which has a great anti-SLAPP law, and was a massive technical blunder. The company's US headquarters were in Clearwater, Florida, and Florida is a trainwreck in every possible sense, including its SLAPP laws. If they'd sued me in their home turf, I'd have gone bankrupt before I could win.

They lost. The ACLU collected $102,000 in fees from them. The story of the victory was above the fold on Le Monde's site for a week. Turns out that French people loathe Atos even more than the rest of us, because they've had longer to sharpen their hate.

Long story slightly short: we won. Atos "voluntarily" released our school from its contract. And Fight the Power went mental. I spent that summer vacation reviewing Github commits on Ftp, as more and more people discovered that they could make use of a platform that made fighting back stupid simple. The big stupid companies were whales and we were their krill, and all it took was some glue to glom us all together into boulders of indigestible matter that could choke them to death.

I dropped out of Ashcroft High in the middle of the 11th grade and did the rest of my time with homeschooling shovelware that taught me exactly what I needed to pass the GED and not one tiny thing more. I didn't give a shit. I was working full time on Ftp, craiglisting rides to to hacker unconferences where I couchsurfed and spoke, giving my poor parental units eight kinds of horror. It would've been simpler if I'd taken donations for Ftp, because Mom and Dad quickly came to understand that their role as banker in our little family ARG gave them the power to yank me home any time I moved out of their comfort zone. But there was the balance of terror there, because they totally knew that if I had accepted donations for the project, I'd have been financially independent in a heartbeat.

Plus, you know, they were proud of me. Ftp makes a difference. It's not a household name or anything, but more than a million people have signed up for Ftp campaigns since I started it, and our success rate is hovering around 25 percent. That means that I'd changed a quarter-million lives for the better (at least) before I turned 18. Mom and Dad, they loved that (which is not to say that they didn't need the occasional reminder of it). And shit, it got me a scholarship at MIT. So there's that.

Network filters are universally loathed. Duh. No one's ever written a regular expression that can distinguish art from porn and no one ever will. No one's ever assembled an army of prudes large enough to hand-sort the Internet into "good" and "bad" buckets. No one ever will. The Web's got 100-odd billion pages on it; if you have a failure rate of one tenth of one percent, you'll overblock (or underblock) (or both) 100,000,000 pages. That's several Library of Congress's worth of pointless censorship — or all the porn ever made, times ten, missed though underfiltering. You'd be an idiot to even try.

Idiot like a fox! If you don't care about filtering out "the bad stuff" (whatever that is), censorware is a great business to be in. The point of most network filters is the "security syllogism":

SOMETHING MUST BE DONE.

I HAVE DONE SOMETHING.

SOMETHING HAS BEEN DONE.

VICTORY!

Hand-wringing parents don't want their precious offspring looking at weiners and hoo-hahs when they're supposed to be amassing student debt, so they demand that the Termite Mound fix the problem by Doing Something. The Termite Mound dispenses cash to some censorware creeps in a carefully titrated dose that is exactly sufficient to demonstrate Something Has Been Doneness to a notional weiner-enraged parent. Since all the other dorms, schools, offices, libraries, airports, bus depots, train stations, cafes, hotels, bars, and theme parks in the world are doing exactly the same thing, each one can declare itself to be in possession of Best Practices when there is an unwanted hoo-hah eruption, and culpability diffuses to a level that is safe for corporate governance and profitability. #MissionAccomplished.

And so the whole world suffers under this pestilence. Millions of times every day — right at this moment — people are swearing at their computers: What. The. Fuck. Censorware's indifference to those minute moments of suffering is only possible because they've never been balled up into a vast screaming meteor of rage.

"Hey there, hi! Look, I'm here because I need unfiltered Internet access to get through my degree. So do you all, right? But the Termite Mound isn't going to turn it off because that would be like saying 'Here kids, have a look at this porn,' which they can't afford to say, even though, seriously, who gives a shit, right?"

I had them at 'porn," but now I had to keep them.

"Look at your tenancy agreement: you're paying twenty seven bucks a month for your network access at the Termite Mound. Twenty seven bucks — each! I'll find us an ISP that can give all of us hot and cold running genitals and all the unsavory religious extremism, online gaming, and suicide instructions we can eat. Either I'm going to make the Termite Mound give us the Internet we deserve, or we'll cost it one of its biggest cash-cows and humiliate it on the world stage.

"I don't want your money. All I want is for you to promise me that if I can get us Internet from someone who isn't a censoring sack of shit, that you'll come with me. I'm going to sign up every poor bastard in the Termite Mound, take that promise to someone who isn't afraid to work hard to earn a dollar, and punish the Termite Mound for treating us like this. And then, I'm going to make a loud noise about what we've done, and spread the word to every other residence in Cambridge, then Boston, then across America. I'm going to spread out to airports, hotels, train stations, buses, taxis — any place where they make it their business to decide what data we're allowed to see."

I whirled around to face the elf, who leapt back, long fingers flying to his face in an elaborate mime of startlement. "Are you with me, pal?"

He nodded slightly.

"Come on," I said. "Let 'em hear you."

He raised one arm over his head, bits of rabbit fur and uncured hides dangling from his skinny wrist. I felt for him. I think we all did. Elves.

He was a convincer, though. By the time I left the room, I already had 29 signups.

All evil in the world is the result of an imbalance between the people who benefit from shenanigans and the people who get screwed by shenanigans. De-shenaniganifying the world is the answer to pollution and poverty and bad schools and the war on some drugs and a million other horribles. To solve all the world's problems, I need kick-ass raw feeds and a steady supply of doofus thugs from central casting to make idiots of. I know where I can find plenty of the latter, and I'm damn sure going to get the former. Watch me.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/01/30/landlord-telco-industrial-complex/#captive-market

#pluralistic #aaronsw #science fiction #big cable #telecoms #isps #net neutrality #boston #mit #fcc #National Multifamily Housing Council #NMHC #National Apartment Association #NAA #Real Estate Technology and Transformation Center

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of-fear-and-love · 1 year ago

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Computers from The Net (1995)

#the net 1995 #90s tech #90s computers #laptops #90s office #office #sandra bullock #irwin winkler #jeremy northam #apple macintosh #powerbook #apple computers #macintosh #90s technology #technology #hacking #techno thriller

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reasonsforhope · 2 years ago

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"A net-zero power system is closer than we think.

New research, published by RMI, indicates that an exponential surge in renewable energy deployment is outpacing the International Energy Agency’s most ambitious net-zero predictions for 2030.

That’s right: Surging solar, wind, and battery capacity is now in-line with net-zero scenarios.

“For the first time, we can, with hand on heart, say that we are potentially on the path to net zero,” Kingsmill Bond, Senior Principal at RMI, said. “We need to make sure that we continue to drive change, but there is a path and we are on it.”

And that’s really good news.

Exponential growth in renewable energy has put the global electricity system at a tipping point. What was once seen as a wildly daunting task — transitioning away from fossil fuels — is now happening at a faster pace every year.

Based on this new research, conducted in partnership with the Bezos Earth Fund, RMI projects that solar and wind will supply over a third of all global electricity by 2030, up from about 12% today, which would surpass recent calls for a tripling of total renewable energy capacity by the end of the decade.

Global progress in the renewable energy sector

China and Europe have been leading the way in clean energy generation, but the deployment of renewable energy has also been widely distributed across the Middle East and Africa.

Research from Systems Change Lab shows that eight countries (Uruguay, Denmark, Lithuania, Namibia, Netherlands, Palestine, Jordan, and Chile) have already grown solar and wind power faster than what is needed to limit global warming to 1.5°C, proving that a swift switch to renewable energy is not only feasible — it’s entirely achievable.

In order to make that switch, globally, wind and solar need to grow from 12% to 41% by 2030. Denmark, Uruguay, and Lithuania have already achieved that increase in the span of eight years.

Meanwhile, Namibia, the Netherlands, Palestine, Jordan, and Chile have grown solar and wind energy at sufficient rates for five years...

The economic impact of climate progress

Not only is this an exciting and unprecedented development for the health of the environment, but this rapid transition to clean energy includes widespread benefits, like jobs growth, more secure supply chains, and reductions in energy price inflation.

This progress spans both developing and developed countries, all driven to accelerate renewables for a number of different reasons: adopting smart and effective policies, maintaining political commitments, lowering the costs of renewable energy, and improving energy security.

And with exponential growth of clean energy means sharp declines in prices. This puts fossil fuels at a higher, uncompetitive cost — both financially and figuratively.

RMI suggests that solar energy is already the cheapest form of electricity in history — and will likely halve in price by 2030, falling as low as $20/MWh in the coming years. This follows previous trends: solar and battery costs have declined 80% between 2012 and 2022, and offshore wind costs are down 73%."

-via Good Good Good, July 12, 2023

Let me repeat that:

For the first time in history, we are on an actual, provably achievable path to net zero emissions

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gideonisms · 5 months ago

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When I want to know who a beautiful video game woman is and what's her deal so I send her to my video game women correspondent for further analysis

#your network is your net worth #to kris i am like a grandpa trying to figure out modern technology

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disk28 · 1 year ago

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#disk28 #cyberpunk #technology #cyber city #the net is vast and infinite

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boymanmaletheshequel · 4 months ago

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As we enter back into an era where technology is used primarily as a weapon against you by the United States and Russian governments, (welcome back 1980s! 😍) let’s go over some tips to consider if you are a queer, bipoc, or otherwise an “enemy from within” as trump so lovingly and hypocritically put it, to protecting your identity and privacy through the internet so that you can continue to resist this cultural shift safely and resiliently!

• stop posting identifying information on social media like your full name, place of residence, and pictures of yourself or other at risk people, and go back and delete posts in which you might’ve already.

• disable location tracking services and camera and mic access to apps, services, or websites that you know to be compromised by the influence of shady overseers, such as X, Instagram, Facebook, Google, and TikTok. I know it’s convenient to use these but it’s a MAJOR security hazard.

• Turn your phone COMPLETELY off when discussing sensitive subjects with friends or when you are making plans of resistance and gathering your communities, or when you are discussing personal feelings on such subjects with family, friends, or a doctor/therapist. Basically all mobile phones now have live mics that are constantly listening to you.

• Create a new email under a fake name if you haven’t already to use as your primary email address, in order to further protect your true identity.

• use an alternative browser like DuckDuckGo or brave in place of google, preferably with a VPN on top of it to even further secure your browsing history and to bypass potential IP blocks of websites from the government.

• if you want to watch YouTube and don’t want a recording of your watch history, log out of your account and watch that way, preferably you would just delete your account entirely but I understand why some might not want to.

• pirate content from streaming services via piracy websites, again so that your watch history can’t be used to make assumptions about you if that data were ever sold to the government.

These are obviously just some of the ways to bypass data collection and ti protect your real identity online, but there are many others I’m sure I’m not aware of. Please add to this if you can, and stay safe out there, because anything you say can and will be used against you in the future of this country. But: We have survived this kind of shit before, we can again, if we are careful. Loose lips sink ships, and that goes for the internet as well.

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meret118 · 6 months ago

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The latest fallout from a Supreme Court ruling against regulatory power is a major win for internet providers

A federal appeals court struck down net neutrality on Thursday, ending the widely popular regulatory doctrine that mandated internet service providers to treat all internet traffic equally.The ruling from the 6th Circuit Court of Appeals ends a federal rule prohibiting broadband providers from throttling internet speeds or blocking traffic to specific sites.

The pro-consumer policy of net neutrality was implemented by President Barack Obama and gutted during Donald Trump's first term. It was reinstated in April of last year by the Biden administration. The now-defunct policy holds that internet carriers are akin to telecom providers and must comply with common carrier regulations governing those services.

Telecom giants like Verizon and AT&T have opposed the policy for nearly a decade, spending big money to back anti-regulation candidates.

The ruling, handed down on Thursday from three Republican judicial appointees, cited the Supreme Court’s recent overturning of the long-held precedent of "Chevron deference," which asked lower courts to defer to federal agencies' interpretation of the law.

Conservative federal courts have spent the last several years rolling back regulatory protections and the administrative state, with cases limiting the powers of the Environmental Protection Agency, pushing back against the Department of Education's authority to cancel student loans and blocking a Biden administration ban on trans healthcare discrimination.

More problems, just what you needed.

You glanced sideways.

Mister Lee Donghyuck was still peacefully asleep, one arm sprawled over the blanket like he had no care in the world. His hair was a tousled mess, lips slightly parted, chest rising and falling in a rhythm that irritated you for some reason. Maybe it was because he looked too calm while you were having a mental breakdown.

Your eyes trailed down to yourself again. The hotel gown. You groaned quietly.

Marriage certificate… missing clothes… hotel bed… and this damn bathrobe.

You didn’t need to be a genius to piece things together. Something definitely happened after the alcohol took over. You didn’t want to think about it, didn’t want to confirm it, but it all pointed to the very thing you were trying to avoid.

You exhaled sharply, gripping the certificate tighter in your hand. Your head throbbed again in response.

"Great," you muttered bitterly, staring at the ceiling. "Just great."

As if things weren’t bad enough… you were married to a stranger. And not just any stranger—one who was naked in your bed, and now had a name that somehow made it all feel more real.

Lee Donghyuck.

This was going to be a mess.

Donghyuck stirred, groaning lightly in his sleep as his body shifted under the blanket. For a moment, you thought he might sleep through this mess, but that thought was quickly crushed when his eyes fluttered open, blinking in the bright light.

And then, just like that, the calm, peaceful stranger you’d been staring at screamed—a high-pitched, girlish squeal that made your headache flare up even more. His arms flailed, knocking the blanket off of him as he scrambled backward and hit the floor with a thud.

You stared at him, unamused, eyes narrowing. "Are you done screaming?"

He froze on the floor, face flushed with embarrassment as he scrambled to sit up, looking around in a panic. His chest was still bare, and his face had the same bewildered look that you felt inside.

He finally stopped screaming and nodded quickly, like he was trying to process the chaos happening.

You sighed, rubbing your temples. It was almost impressive how much more dramatic his reaction was compared to yours. But then again, you weren’t in the mood to appreciate that right now.

The pounding in your skull wasn’t helping either.

You glanced at him again, deciding to give him some space to clear his mind. You waited for the inevitable questions to pour out, knowing he’d be just as lost as you were.

He blinked at you, his eyes flicking between you and the room. He opened his mouth, looking confused, but all he managed was a pointed gesture from you to him, then back to you. Finally, his eyes widened in realization. He gasped.

He had figured it out. It was almost as if he understood the situation just by seeing your attire, and his naked body.

You held up a hand, cutting him off before he could go any further into his overactive imagination. You waved the document in front of him. “Let’s settle this first,” you said, your voice steady despite the internal chaos. You pushed the paper toward him, not giving him a chance to protest.

His eyes went wide as he took the marriage certificate, blinking at the bold text on it. You watched him as he processed it.

"We still have time to get a divorce before my father finds out about this," you added, trying to sound calm, though your headache wasn’t making it easy.

He opened his mouth like he was about to say something, but then he paused. His eyes flickered down at the clubbing outfit you were still wearing. His lips parted again, but this time, he only shook his head, clearly deciding not to get lost in questions just yet.

"We really need to change into something before this conversation continues," he said finally, his voice a little calmer but still strained.

You blinked at him, realizing he was right. You couldn’t have a serious conversation in these clothes, especially with all the drama still lingering in the air.

"Right," you said, standing up and brushing the wrinkles from your gown. "Let’s go."

He stood up too, the blanket still hanging off his body. You grabbed your things from the floor, quickly slipping on your shoes, and then you both made your way out of the hotel.

It didn’t take long before you hailed a taxi. The ride was mostly quiet, neither of you knowing what to say. The only sound in the car was the occasional rumble of the tires on the pavement.

Once you reached Donghyuck’s house, you followed him inside, trying not to overthink everything that had happened. The place was nicer than you expected, reflecting his wealth and success. The interior was sleek, modern, and minimalist, with large windows that allowed natural light to pour into the space.

He led you straight to the living room, where you took a seat on the couch, feeling the weight of everything still pressing on your chest. Donghyuck disappeared for a moment, returning with a fresh T-shirt in hand.

"You can wear this for now," he said, handing it to you with a faint smile. You took it from him gratefully, glad to be able to change out of your clubbing outfit for a more comfortable one.

As you changed into his T-shirt, Donghyuck set down a glass of water and a few pills on the coffee table in front of you. "I thought you might need this for the headache," he said, sounding a little more relaxed now that you were both in a less chaotic environment.

You took the pills with a sigh of relief, swallowing them down with the water. The coolness of the glass against your hand felt oddly comforting, but the reality of the situation still weighed heavily on your mind.

"Thanks," you muttered, glancing at the marriage certificate in your hand once more, still trying to process what had happened. Donghyuck sat down next to you, his posture casual, but you could see the flicker of confusion in his eyes as he waited for you to speak.

You sat there for a few moments, trying to collect your thoughts. The headache was beginning to dull, thanks to the medicine, but the whirlwind of last night still had your mind spinning. Donghyuck sat beside you, his silence inviting you to speak first.

Finally, you broke the silence, glancing at the marriage certificate in your hand. "Okay, so… what now?" you murmured. "We can't exactly just pretend like this didn’t happen, right?"

Donghyuck nodded slowly, his gaze focused on the document as well. "Yeah, I think the best thing we can do is figure out what happened last night. We need to make sure we don’t do anything we’ll regret more, and we have to keep this between us—for now."

You sighed, still trying to come to terms with the chaos. "We need to get a divorce. I can't keep this from my dad, or my family. If they find out, this could destroy everything." You glanced at Donghyuck, hoping he'd agree.

He nodded, leaning back into the couch. "Agreed. But before we do anything, we need to figure out what actually happened last night—exactly what we did, and if there’s anything more we need to deal with."

"Right," you muttered. You were about to say something more when you remembered that you hadn’t even checked your phone since the night before. With everything that happened, you’d completely forgotten to turn it back on.

You grabbed your phone from your purse and hesitated for a moment before powering it on. The screen lit up, and as it booted up, you noticed the flood of notifications.

A wave of dread washed over you as you unlocked your phone. Dozens of missed calls from your family and—your red flag boyfriend.

Your heart sank as you scrolled through the endless messages. There were calls from your family, likely trying to get in touch with you to see if you were okay. You knew you hadn’t exactly explained what happened last night to anyone, and now your absence must be causing them to worry.

But then there were also texts from him—your boyfriend. Each message grew more frantic and possessive as the hours passed. His messages were filled with accusations, questions, and demands. "Where the hell are you?" "Are you ignoring me?" "Why aren’t you picking up?""

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes in frustration. He was always like this, but now it felt like even more of a burden. The last thing you needed right now was more drama from him.

Donghyuck noticed the shift in your mood and leaned forward, his expression curious but concerned. "Everything okay?" he asked quietly, though you knew it wasn’t really okay at all.

You sighed deeply, showing him the screen, with your boyfriend’s red flag messages staring back at you. "My boyfriend… he’s freaking out. And my family, too. This isn’t going to be easy."

Donghyuck glanced at the messages, then back at you, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. "Do you want me to take care of this? I can talk to him if you want."

You hesitated, then shook your head. "I don’t know. I don’t even know what to say to him. I think I just need some space from everything."

"Well," Donghyuck said, leaning back, "I think it's important we focus on this first, right? We need to handle this marriage certificate, figure out how to get out of it, and make sure no one finds out until then."

You nodded, but the tension in your chest didn’t ease. You needed to think, but your phone kept vibrating with the constant stream of messages from him. You were already feeling the weight of having to deal with it all over again.

"You should probably call your family first," Donghyuck suggested softly, his voice gentle. "Let them know you're safe. They’ll probably be worried."

You nodded again, still holding onto your phone. "I will. But the last thing I want to do is deal with my boyfriend right now. He’s the last person I want to talk to."

Donghyuck gave a slight smile, though there was an understanding in his eyes. "Yeah, I get that."

You pressed your phone to your ear, still reeling from everything that had unfolded. Your parents' voices came through the speaker, loud and frantic, barely giving you a chance to explain.

"Why are you married?!" your mother shouted, her voice high with panic. "Why on earth would you get married without telling us first?"

You froze, confusion clouding your thoughts as you tried to process what she meant. "What are you talking about?" you asked, struggling to make sense of the situation. "I don't understand."

"Didn’t you hear?" Your father’s voice cut in, filled with disbelief. "The news about you and... Donghyuck? You two got married, and now it's all over the place. The media has been talking about it!"

Your jaw dropped as your eyes slowly shifted to Donghyuck. He hadn’t made a sound since your phone call started, but now his eyebrows furrowed as he caught the shock on your face. He seemed completely unaware of what you were hearing.

The shock hit you like a freight train. News? How could anyone know? You hadn't even figured out what happened yet, let alone let anyone know. You scrambled to explain to your parents, your words coming out in a rush.

"I— I don't remember how it happened," you stammered, "I woke up this morning, and... and there's this marriage certificate, and Donghyuck is here, and I don't remember anything from last night. We were both drunk, and now we're—married, apparently!"

There was a long pause on the other end of the line, then your father spoke up, his tone now more measured. “Wait, hold on. So, you’re telling me you don’t remember a thing?”

"Yeah," you replied, feeling the weight of it all sinking in, "nothing at all."

Suddenly, your father let out a sigh, like he’d been expecting something along these lines. “Well, if that’s the case, it’s already out in the open. You and Donghyuck are married now, so there’s no turning back.”

You blinked, trying to process the absurdity of it all. "Wait, what do you mean by that? We can’t just get a divorce?"

You took a deep breath, clutching your phone tightly as you tried to piece your thoughts together. After the shock of everything—getting married to Donghyuck, the unexpected reactions from your parents, and the headache that just wouldn’t quit—you knew you had to tell them the truth about your boyfriend. You hadn’t mentioned it yet, but now was the time.

"Hold on, wait," you said into the phone, your voice a bit more steady now. "I—there’s more to it. You’re asking me to stay married to Donghyuck, but I need to tell you something about my boyfriend."

Your parents were quiet on the other end, their impatience palpable. You let out a shaky breath, pushing the dread aside. "He—he said some awful things about me last night, right in front of his friends. Behind my back, he... he basically made fun of me, talked down about me, and acted like I was some sort of burden."

There was a stunned silence on the line before your father sighed heavily, his voice more thoughtful now.

"I see. Well, if that’s the case, you need to make sure you don’t stay in that relationship," your father replied firmly. "Not if what you say about your boyfriend is true."

Your heart skipped a beat as you heard the shift in your father’s tone. “Donghyuck’s family is close to ours. He’s worked for us for a long time. He’s not just ‘any worker’—his family is well-established, rich like us. If what you said about your boyfriend is true, maybe you should consider sticking with Donghyuck. He’s a good person, and honestly, he’s better than that guy you were with.”

Your mouth went dry as his words sank in. You glanced at Donghyuck again, who had been listening carefully, his expression unreadable. "What?" you said in disbelief. "You—he’s..." Your mind raced with the information you were getting, trying to piece together what your father had just told you. Donghyuck was rich? His family was friends with yours? It didn’t make sense. You’d never known this side of him.

"Dad, wait, hold on—why would you say that?" you asked, the confusion bubbling in your voice. "We just—barely know each other. I don’t even remember how I ended up getting married to him! How can you even suggest this?"

"Because," your father’s voice softened, "not only will it affect your relationship with him, but the reputation of both your family and his will be tarnished. And I know you don’t want that. This marriage, even if it was unexpected, might turn out to be a good thing for you. If your boyfriend is really like that, then maybe it’s time to consider this seriously."

You felt your heart race as you processed your father’s words. Was he really telling you to stay married to Donghyuck? Even though you were both strangers and had no memory of how this happened?

The weight of his words hit you hard, and you fell silent, the headache from last night still pulsing faintly in the background. You barely had time to digest what your father was saying when Donghyuck, who had been quiet throughout your phone call, leaned in and whispered, "I need to take this call."

You gave him a quick nod, signaling him to go ahead, your mind too foggy to process everything all at once. You could feel the tension in the room as Donghyuck stepped away, heading toward a corner of the room to make his call.

"Are you saying... you want me to stay with Donghyuck?" you asked cautiously, your voice small.

"Yes," your father said firmly. "If it’s true that your boyfriend treated you like that, then yes, I want you to stick with Donghyuck. His family is close to ours, and I trust him. You can’t just divorce him now—it will create more problems. You’ve got to make this work."

Your mind spun with everything your father was saying. You hadn’t expected this response. You thought they’d be angry, disappointed, or at least sympathetic to your situation, but instead, they were encouraging you to stay married to Donghyuck—someone you barely knew. But the weight of what your father said about reputation and family was hard to ignore. If you divorced now, it would not only affect you, but it would affect both families in ways you couldn’t fully anticipate.

"Listen," your father continued, his voice now more measured, "I know this is a lot to process, but you need to think this through. If you really can’t remember, then maybe it’s time to let things settle. No divorce for now, alright?"

You wanted to protest, to fight back against the absurdity of the situation, but your father’s words were final. "Do it for the family’s sake, and for your own peace of mind. I’m sure Donghyuck is a good match for you. He’s more reliable than that boy of yours."

Your heart sank, a mix of confusion and frustration rising in your chest. You didn’t want to hear this. You hadn’t even processed everything yet, and now you were being told what to do by your own family?

"Okay, fine," you finally muttered, defeated. "I’ll figure it out."

Your father gave a gruff, satisfied sigh. "Good. Take care of yourself. And don’t do anything rash."

The call ended, and you lowered the phone from your ear, still in disbelief. You stared at it for a moment, the world feeling like it was spinning.

Donghyuck stepped back into the living room, his presence filling the space with an odd tension. The air seemed thick, the weight of the situation bearing down on both of you. Neither of you spoke at first, simply standing there, the silence growing uncomfortable.

Finally, you both spoke at the same time.

"You first," you said, almost reflexively.

"No, you first," Donghyuck replied, his tone equally hesitant.

There was a brief pause before Donghyuck sighed and broke the silence. "My family knows about the marriage," he said quietly, his voice filled with reluctance. "They’re not rejecting it. In fact, they’re... they're not letting me divorce you."

You blinked, feeling the weight of his words. You didn’t immediately respond, your thoughts racing as you tried to make sense of the bizarre situation.

Donghyuck glanced at you, waiting for a reaction.

"My family’s the same," you finally said, your voice quieter. "They aren’t letting me divorce either."

The room lingered in an awkward silence, both of you taking in the weight of the situation. The air felt thick, like everything you said now would somehow make the reality of it all hit harder.

Donghyuck cleared his throat after a beat, but neither of you seemed to know what to say next. You glanced at him, seeing the same confusion mirrored on his face, his shoulders tense.

"So... we’re stuck with each other, huh?" Donghyuck finally asked, breaking the silence again.

You nodded slowly, the gravity of it all sinking in deeper. "Seems like it," you muttered.

Donghyuck let out a breath, leaning back slightly against the couch, a small, dry laugh escaping him. "Well, this is... not how I imagined my morning going."

"Yeah, me neither," you replied, rubbing your temples, the headache still throbbing behind your eyes.

Both of you sat there for a moment, the silence between you not feeling as uncomfortable as before, but still heavy. Neither of you had the answers yet—just the reality that you were now bound by something neither of you had planned for.

And in the back of your mind, you couldn’t shake the thought: Your parents were probably already planning the wedding.

—

The days passed in a strange, detached rhythm. You, as the successful entrepreneur, immersed yourself in the grind of managing your company. You had a myriad of projects to oversee, meetings to attend, and decisions to make. Life felt like it was going on as it always had, with the demands of your business filling up your days and distractions keeping you occupied.

As for Donghyuck, he continued his work at your father's restaurant, just like before. However, neither of you made any effort to interact outside of the basic, casual exchanges you shared at work. You didn’t have his phone number, and he didn’t have yours. The lines of communication were non-existent, and it seemed like you were both trying to put the whole marriage fiasco out of your minds. It was as if the strange, drunken mistake that had bound you together was something neither of you wanted to acknowledge.

You kept to yourself, buried in your work, and Donghyuck did the same, managing his duties at the restaurant. There were no texts, no calls, no casual conversations. The awkwardness was mutual but unspoken. It was like the world around you continued on, and you both had decided to just move along with it, never mentioning the reality of your marriage.

Neither of you addressed what had happened, nor did you make any effort to. It was easier this way—keeping things strictly professional, treating each other like strangers despite the shared history that was now yours. The more you focused on your business, the less you thought about it. The less you had to deal with it.

Donghyuck, for his part, seemed content to let things lie. He was still the same at work, still the dependable, capable chef that everyone knew him to be, but outside of that, he kept his distance. There were no awkward run-ins, no small talk—just the routine of daily work that didn’t involve any personal interactions.

It was almost as if you were both trying to erase the memory of the bizarre night that had changed everything. And maybe that was for the best—for both of you to just go on with your lives, pretending that nothing had happened. But deep down, you both knew it was impossible to truly forget.

A whole month had passed since the chaotic night that led to your unexpected marriage, and honestly, you had managed to suppress the memory. The marriage certificate was tucked away in your room, hidden from sight and out of your mind, almost like it didn't exist. Your life continued, as did Donghyuck's, each of you going about your business, keeping your distance from the awkward reality that tied you together. But today, that would all change.

You received a call from your parents asking you to come home early, their tone insistent yet calm. You didn’t think much of it, figuring it might be some family event or another. After all, you’d been so caught up in work that you hadn't even checked in with them properly lately.

So, you parked your car outside your family’s house, not expecting anything out of the ordinary. However, there were two unfamiliar cars parked in front of the house, which made you furrow your brow slightly. You shrugged it off. Maybe a business associate or a friend of your parents had come by. You removed your heels, adjusting your outfit as you made your way inside.

When you stepped into the living room, the sight before you made your heart stop.

There, sitting on the couches like they belonged, were Donghyuck and two people you didn’t recognize. Judging by their composed, authoritative presence, they must’ve been his parents. Your parents were there too, looking unusually calm. The sight was enough to make your mind go blank for a moment.

And then it hit you.

The marriage certificate. The one you had completely forgotten about. The one you thought would stay hidden, buried away from your mind. But now? Now it all made sense.

This—this was it. This was the moment when you realized the entire farce wasn’t over.

You stood frozen for a moment, your thoughts racing as the reality of the situation settled in. There was no way this was real. This had to be some kind of cruel joke.

You blinked, trying to process what you were seeing, but all that came to mind was:

Please, tell me it’s April Fools' Day.

You barely heard your parents’ voices calling you to sit down, their words muffled by the ringing in your ears. You couldn’t tear your gaze away from Donghyuck. The weight of everything suddenly pressed down on you, and you felt the familiar headache from that night creeping back, just from the thought of the situation escalating.

This couldn't be happening.

You took a hesitant step forward, your thoughts still spinning from the sight of Donghyuck and his parents sitting there with your own family. You were barely aware of your parents greeting you, their words falling flat as they gestured for you to sit.

Donghyuck’s eyes met yours for a split second, and you could see the same calm, yet knowing expression on his face. He was already aware of what was going on—his parents and your parents had clearly been in communication about the marriage preparations before you were even called here. He wasn’t as surprised as you, but there was still an air of quiet uncertainty about him, likely because this whole situation was moving faster than either of you had anticipated.

"Sit down, dear," your mother said, her voice unusually calm, almost too calm for your liking.

You slowly took a seat next to Donghyuck, still in disbelief that you were now face to face with your parents and his, all because of a marriage. You looked at him, and for a brief moment, you could see the hesitation in his eyes—he was trying to figure out the same thing as you. You weren’t the only one feeling lost.

Before you could gather your thoughts, your mother spoke up again. "We’ll start making arrangements for a ceremony soon. I’m sure you two will want to discuss the details, but rest assured, we’ll make this as smooth as possible."

"Ceremony?" you repeated, your voice rising slightly in disbelief. "You’re really planning to go that far?"

Your father’s eyes softened, but there was no sign of hesitation. "Of course. It’s important for both of you to start this properly, and that means a proper wedding. You’ll get used to this arrangement, I’m sure."

You stared at your parents, trying to process their nonchalant attitude toward the whole situation. Meanwhile, Donghyuck’s parents exchanged looks of approval, as if this was all just a formality to them.

"This is insane," you muttered under your breath, barely able to believe that your life had somehow become a tangled mess of marriages, families, and expectations.

— ♬ ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ♬ —

The days blurred together as the wedding preparations took full force. Despite your initial shock and reluctance, the constant pressure from both families made it clear that this was happening, whether you were ready or not. The wedding plans moved quickly, with your parents and Donghyuck’s parents coordinating every detail, while you and Donghyuck remained largely passive observers of the process.

In the weeks leading up to the big day, there was an endless stream of phone calls, fittings, meetings with event planners, and discussions with photographers and caterers. It was overwhelming, and you found yourself retreating into work whenever possible, hoping to avoid the chaos that was unfolding around you. But no matter how hard you tried to ignore it, the wedding loomed closer each day.

Donghyuck, on the other hand, seemed oddly calm throughout it all. He attended every meeting with his parents, nodded through all the planning, and kept to himself mostly. Occasionally, you’d find yourself locked in brief, awkward conversations with him, but there was a sense of quiet understanding between you. He wasn’t happy about the situation, but he was playing along, just as you were.

The day before the wedding, you stood in front of a mirror, dressed in the elaborate wedding gown your mother had insisted on, the soft fabric hugging your body perfectly. You stared at your reflection, trying to absorb the surreal reality of it all. This wasn’t how you imagined your life to be—being married to a stranger, someone you barely knew beyond the surface level.

But then you thought back to the night of the hotel, when you had drunkenly signed the marriage certificate. The confusion, the panic, the way you both seemed to be swept into something that neither of you had planned. Now, here you were—about to marry him in front of everyone.

Your phone buzzed, snapping you out of your thoughts. It was Donghyuck, his name flashing across the screen. You hesitated before answering, not sure what this conversation would bring.

“Hey,” his voice came through the speaker, low and calm as always.

“Hey,” you replied, your voice tight.

There was a brief silence, and then he spoke again. “Look, I know this is... all a bit much. But I just want to say that, whatever happens tomorrow, we’ll get through it. I’m not expecting anything from you. I just want to get this over with, like you do.”

You couldn’t help but let out a small laugh, a dry, bitter sound. “Yeah. I just want it to end, too.”

“We’ll make it work,” he added quietly. “For both of our families, at least.”

You agreed with a soft sigh, your mind running through a million thoughts at once. There was nothing more you could do. Tomorrow was inevitable.

— ♬ ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ♬ —

The day of the wedding arrived, and it felt like a blur. You didn’t have time to process anything, as everything moved too quickly. The ceremony was beautiful, and although you barely felt like you were present, everything went as planned. The guests arrived, the flowers were in place, the music played softly in the background, and the vows were exchanged.

When you stood across from Donghyuck at the altar, you couldn’t help but notice how calm he looked. There was no emotion, no joy, and certainly no love between you two, but there was something oddly peaceful about it. You had no expectations of him, and he seemed to have none of you, either. You weren’t sure whether that made the whole thing better or worse.

The priest spoke, and before you knew it, you were pronounced husband and wife. The rings were placed on your fingers, the kisses exchanged, and the applause rang out from the guests. Everything was happening so fast that it was hard to truly comprehend.

After the ceremony, there was a reception. You had to smile and make small talk with relatives, acquaintances, and friends, but inside, you felt like a stranger in your own life. Your parents beamed with pride, while Donghyuck’s parents looked on with quiet approval. The whole affair felt like a show, a performance for everyone around you, and you were just going along with it.

As the night wore on, Donghyuck and you exchanged a few words here and there, but nothing meaningful. The both of you were still strangers in many ways, and it seemed that this marriage was just another step to fulfill obligations that you had no control over.

At the end of the night, when the last guests had left and the music had died down, you found yourself standing next to Donghyuck on the balcony, looking out at the stars.

“Well, that’s that,” he said, his voice surprisingly light.

You nodded, feeling the weight of everything hit you all at once. “Yeah. That’s it.”

“You’re not upset?” Donghyuck asked, his gaze on you.

You shrugged. “I don’t know what to feel. It’s just... done. No going back now.”

He sighed and leaned against the railing. “Yeah. No going back.”

For a moment, the silence stretched between you two, comfortable yet strained.

“Well,” Donghyuck said, straightening up, “tomorrow is another day. I guess we’ll figure out what comes next.”

You looked at him, and for the first time in a long while, you weren’t angry, frustrated, or confused. It was a strange feeling, but it was there—something like acceptance.

— ♬ ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ♬ —

Time passed in a blur after the wedding. Days seemed to run together as you settled into an unexpected routine. Living with Donghyuck felt more like sharing space with a roommate than living with a husband. The communication between the two of you was polite, almost clinical, but there was no emotional bond, no intimacy. You both operated in separate spheres, rarely discussing anything too personal or meaningful. The house felt quiet, distant, as though the weight of the marriage was hanging over both of you without ever being addressed.

Donghyuck kept to himself most of the time, working long hours, coming home late, and retreating into his own world when he wasn’t busy. You, on the other hand, had your business to manage, which kept you occupied, but even in those moments, there was a lingering discomfort at the back of your mind. This was supposed to be a marriage, but it felt more like two people trying to avoid the glaring truth that neither of them had asked for this, nor wanted it.

But one thing still remained constant in your life: your ex-boyfriend. Despite the wedding, despite the fact that you were now legally married to Donghyuck, he refused to let go. The harassing texts, the calls late at night, and the occasional appearance at your office—he was relentless. He still thought he had a chance, and each time you blocked his number or changed your contact information, he found another way to reach you. It wasn’t so much about love anymore, but about control and manipulation.

You never told Donghyuck about it. There was something about the situation that felt too messy, too complicated to involve him. After all, you weren’t really a married couple. You weren’t in love. Your marriage, as you both knew, was the result of a clumsy, drunken night. Telling Donghyuck about your ex might complicate things, and you didn’t want to do that. The last thing you needed was more drama.

But the harassment didn’t stop. It escalated, as it always did with him. Late-night calls filled with demands for your attention, texts asking why you hadn’t come back to him. You had long stopped responding, but it didn’t stop him. You could feel the anxiety rising within you, the tightness in your chest every time you checked your phone and saw his name. You tried to push the thoughts aside, but it wasn’t easy.

One evening, after another round of relentless messages from your ex, you sat on the couch, staring at your phone, weighing your options. You could block him again, change your number for the fifth time, but it didn’t seem to matter. He always found a way back. You didn’t want to involve Donghyuck, not when he seemed to have his own burdens to bear. But there was a part of you that just couldn’t carry this weight alone anymore.

You looked over at him, sitting at the kitchen counter, working on his laptop. He was lost in his task, completely unaware of the turmoil brewing inside you. The silence between you two felt thicker than ever, but you couldn’t ignore it any longer.

You took a deep breath and stood up, walking over to where he sat. He glanced up as you approached, a hint of curiosity in his eyes.

"Hey," you said, your voice almost a whisper, "I... I need to tell you something."

Donghyuck raised an eyebrow, his attention now fully on you. "What is it?"

You hesitated for a moment, unsure of how to frame the words. The thought of bringing up your ex seemed strange, out of place, but you knew it was something that couldn’t stay hidden any longer. He deserved to know, even if the truth felt too complicated.

You took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the situation hanging between you. "It started right after the wedding, honestly," you explained, your voice a little shaky as you remembered the constant messages and calls. "My ex wouldn’t let it go, even though I blocked him. He kept finding new ways to get in touch, through email, social media, everything. It’s like he can’t accept that it’s over. The last straw was last week when he showed up at my office, demanding to talk to me. I didn’t let him in, but... I don’t know. It’s just been wearing me down."

Donghyuck’s expression darkened as he listened. He seemed to process your words for a moment before he spoke, his voice firm but not angry. “How long has this been going on?”

"Almost a month now," you replied, rubbing your forehead. "I didn’t want to tell you, honestly. I didn’t want to complicate things... especially when this marriage is already so messy."

Donghyuck’s gaze softened, and he stepped closer to you, his tone more serious than ever. "You should’ve told me sooner. But it’s not too late now. From now on, if he harasses you again, tell me. I don’t care if this marriage isn’t what we expected, but you don’t have to deal with this alone."

You blinked, surprised by the calmness in his voice, yet there was an intensity to it. "I don’t want to cause you any trouble. It’s not... it’s not that serious."

"It is serious," he said, shaking his head. "No one should have to put up with that kind of behavior, especially not someone close to me. I’ll take care of it."

You felt a slight shift in your chest—something you hadn’t expected. You had never considered Donghyuck as someone who would actually care about what you were going through. You nodded, though still hesitant. "I don’t know how you’ll handle it. I’m not sure what he’s capable of."

"Leave that to me," Donghyuck said with more conviction than you anticipated. "If he shows up again, if he calls or sends more messages, let me know immediately. We’ll handle it. You’re not in this alone, even if this isn’t the kind of marriage you wanted."

You swallowed hard, feeling a bit of warmth spread through you at his words. It wasn’t love, but it was something real, something you hadn’t expected to feel in this situation. A small part of you was grateful, even though you hadn’t known how to ask for help.

"Okay," you said quietly. "I’ll tell you next time."

Donghyuck gave you a small, reassuring nod. "Good. We’ll deal with it, together."

You weren’t sure where this would go, or what this marriage would become, but for the first time in a long while, you felt a little less alone in it. It wasn’t perfect, but it was something. And for now, that was enough.

— ♬ ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ♬ —

It was a normal Saturday afternoon, and you and Donghyuck decided to go shopping for ingredients together. The two of you had been getting along well, despite the awkwardness that lingered from your unconventional marriage. You’d grown used to living with him in this strange, roommate-like dynamic, and, for the most part, things were calm. It had become part of the routine—shared meals, trips to the grocery store, and casual conversations that never felt too personal.

Today, the store was a little busier than usual, but it was nothing out of the ordinary. You were scanning the shelves in the aisle, trying to decide between two brands of olive oil when you heard Donghyuck call out from a few aisles over.

You grabbed what you needed, pushing the cart slowly toward his voice, when suddenly, you heard a man’s scream, sharp and high-pitched. You froze for a second, wondering what was going on.

Turning around, you saw Donghyuck—faster than you'd ever seen him move—racing toward you. Before you could even ask what was happening, he was right next to you. Your heart skipped a beat as you followed his line of sight, and there, in the middle of the aisle, was your ex-boyfriend, looking completely caught off guard.

Donghyuck moved quickly, grabbing your ex’s wrist and locking it in a way that made him yelp in pain. The next thing you knew, your ex was on the floor, flat on his back, with Donghyuck standing over him, still holding his wrist in a firm grip.

The entire store seemed to pause as people stared in disbelief. You quickly approached, your mind racing. "Donghyuck, what the hell?" you shouted, your voice filled with both surprise and panic.

Donghyuck didn’t even acknowledge you at first, his focus entirely on your ex, whose face was twisted in pain and humiliation. "You think you can just keep harassing her?" Donghyuck’s voice was cold, his grip tightening slightly. "You’re going to regret this."

Your ex, still trying to get up, glared up at Donghyuck. "You think you can tell me what to do? Who the hell are you to interfere in my business?" he sneered, his voice dripping with disdain.

Donghyuck stepped closer, his eyes darkening with fury. "I’m the guy who’s going to make sure you stay the hell away from her," he replied calmly, his tone sending a shiver down your spine.

You stepped forward, a little too stunned to react. "Donghyuck, stop!" you said, your voice trembling slightly. "Let him go!"

Donghyuck didn’t seem phased by your words, his gaze still fixed on your ex. He raised an eyebrow, unfazed by the scene he was causing. "You’re lucky I’m not doing more than this," he said, his voice low and dangerous.

The tension was thick, and you could feel your heart racing. You hadn’t seen this side of Donghyuck before. Normally laid-back and easygoing, now he looked like someone entirely different, someone who was willing to go to great lengths to protect you. And for the first time, you realized just how serious things were between you and him—whether you wanted to admit it or not.

Your ex, now on the ground, still struggling to get up, shot you a look of frustration.

"Next time," Donghyuck said with finality, his voice firm, "don’t make me repeat myself."

You watched your ex scramble to his feet, now more than embarrassed, and make a hasty retreat. You could hear the murmurs of other shoppers around you, but you were too rattled to care.

Donghyuck turned to you, his expression softening just slightly, though there was still a hard edge to his demeanor. "Are you okay?" he asked, his voice low and concerned.

You nodded, though your heart was still racing from the encounter. "Yeah, thanks," you murmured, glancing down at the spot where your ex had been moments ago. "I didn’t expect that to happen."

Donghyuck just shrugged, a faint smirk playing on his lips. "Neither did I," he said. "But I don’t want him bothering you again."

You couldn’t help but feel a mix of emotions—surprised by Donghyuck’s protectiveness, confused about where you stood in this strange marriage, but also grateful for his support in a way that you hadn’t expected.

After returning home from the store, your mind couldn't help but replay the events of the day. You kept thinking about Donghyuck—how quickly he had acted, how he had taken charge when things had escalated with your ex. He had always been charismatic in his own way, but today, something had shifted. The way he had stood over your ex, calm and confident, like he wasn’t afraid to defend you no matter what, made you see him in a different light.

As you unloaded the groceries, your thoughts wandered, and you found yourself constantly coming back to the same conclusion. Donghyuck had this undeniable presence about him. His features, which you had often taken for granted, seemed sharper now, more striking. His eyes, usually playful, were intense today—full of fire when he’d confronted your ex, but also a quiet, protective warmth when he’d turned back to check if you were okay.

You couldn’t stop noticing how handsome he suddenly seemed, even though you had seen him countless times before. The way his clothes fit him just right, the way his hair fell effortlessly into place, the way his smirk made your heart flutter despite how irritating it had been at first—everything about him had started to feel different.

You shook your head, trying to focus as you arranged the groceries in the kitchen. What was happening to you? You had always known that Donghyuck was attractive, but this? This was something else entirely. Your mind kept replaying the scene in the store—his quick reflexes, his confident movements, and how he had protected you without hesitation. It was something you hadn’t expected to admire as much as you did.

As you turned to face him, who was still putting the bags away with his usual nonchalance, your gaze lingered for a moment longer than it should. His back was turned, but you caught the muscles in his shoulders as he moved. Why had you never noticed how... appealing he was before?

You quickly snapped your eyes away, feeling a blush creep onto your cheeks, hoping he hadn't caught you staring. The last thing you needed right now was to let him know how his mere presence could make your heart race in ways you weren’t ready to acknowledge.

Donghyuck, still humming a random tune as he moved around the kitchen, glanced at you and flashed that signature smirk of his. "You good?" he asked, his voice casual, though there was an underlying hint of concern, as if he could sense something was off.

You blinked, forcing your attention back to the present. "Yeah, just... a little distracted, I guess." You let out a nervous laugh, trying to brush it off.

Donghyuck raised an eyebrow, sensing your unease, but didn't push it. Instead, he continued what he was doing, his movements fluid and confident. But you couldn’t shake the thought that kept repeating itself in your head: Donghyuck is really, really handsome.

It wasn’t long before the feeling came back again. You were working from home, the rhythmic sound of typing filling the quiet atmosphere, when the front door opened. The familiar sound of Donghyuck’s voice echoed through the hallway, and you heard his footsteps grow louder as he entered the living room, his wet hair dripping slightly, a faint scent of shampoo and fresh sweat lingering in the air.

You didn't think much of it at first; you knew Donghyuck’s routine well enough by now. Every week, he would go to the gym, come back, take a shower, and go about his day. You had gotten used to it, even if the sight of him walking back in after a workout sometimes made your heart race a little. Today, however, was different.

You looked up from your laptop as Donghyuck walked in, his gym clothes clinging to his toned frame, his hair damp and sticking slightly to his forehead. For some reason, seeing him like this—sweaty, fresh from a workout, and slightly disheveled—made your heart flutter in a way that had nothing to do with routine. It felt different.

Was it because of what had happened with your ex? The way Donghyuck had stepped up and defended you so fiercely, so protectively? Or was it just the natural aftermath of being in close proximity to him, living with him, and having shared so much together in such a short period? You couldn’t tell. Maybe both.

Donghyuck tossed his gym bag casually to the side before heading toward the bathroom, his damp hair falling in strands around his face. He caught your gaze, giving you one of his usual, carefree smirks. "Just got back from the gym," he said, wiping his face with the back of his hand. "You know the drill by now."

You nodded, forcing a smile, trying to keep the fluttering in your chest at bay. "Yeah, I know." But even as you said it, your thoughts weren’t on the gym routine. They were on him—his body, the way his muscles flexed under the tight fabric of his shirt, the water droplets on his skin that made him look so... raw, so real. You had never noticed how appealing his natural state could be before.

It wasn’t until he disappeared into the bathroom that you realized how long you had been staring at him. You snapped yourself out of it, shaking your head and focusing back on the work in front of you. But your mind kept wandering back to him.

Was it just the stress of everything lately? Was it because of the way he handled the situation with your ex? You kept asking yourself that, but the truth was, you weren’t sure anymore. It wasn’t the first time you had seen him come back from the gym, but today—today, everything felt different.

It wasn’t just the way he looked or the way he acted. It was how he made you feel, and it was starting to make you question everything.

Your thoughts were interrupted as Donghyuck came back from the bathroom, now dressed in a simple t-shirt and sweatpants, his hair dry but still a little messy. He flashed you a grin, catching your eye. "How’s work going?" he asked, as casual as ever.

You forced a smile, but your heart was still racing. "It’s fine," you said, a little too quickly. "Busy, you know."

He raised an eyebrow, clearly sensing something was off. "You sure?"

You nodded, but deep down, you knew. It wasn’t just work that had you distracted. It was him. And for some reason, it felt like everything was starting to shift in ways you couldn’t explain.

— ♬ ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ♬ —

Days passed by with more subtle moments that caused your heart to flutter. It wasn't just his presence anymore, but the way he would do small things that seemed so ordinary to him but felt extraordinary to you. The way he would reach out to grab something from the top shelf, his shirt stretching across his back, making you glance away quickly. Or the way his eyes would meet yours when you caught him looking, as if he was already aware of what was on your mind, yet he never mentioned it.

One evening, you were in the kitchen, chopping vegetables, when he walked in, wearing a relaxed smile, his hair still damp from the shower. You felt that familiar flutter again in your chest, and you didn’t try to hide it this time. It was getting harder to ignore the feelings you had for him, even if you still didn’t know what to make of them.

He leaned casually against the counter, watching you with a playful glint in his eyes. "Need any help?" he asked, his voice light but with a touch of something more, something you couldn’t quite put your finger on.

“No, I’m fine,” you replied, trying to focus on the vegetables in front of you. You felt your cheeks heat up when he chuckled, not helping the growing warmth in your chest. The sound of his laugh, so carefree and genuine, sent a wave of something you didn’t expect to feel.

As the days went by, there were more little moments—him making you coffee in the mornings, asking how your work was going, offering to take care of things around the house when you were busy. Each one, a simple act, but it chipped away at the walls you had built around your heart. It was all so natural, so easy with him, and yet there you were, feeling a weight you hadn’t felt before—a desire to be closer, to not just be roommates or strangers who happened to be married.

It hit you one afternoon when you were sitting together on the couch, both lost in a movie. His arm brushed against yours, and without even thinking, you leaned into him, your body naturally finding comfort in the small space between you. He didn’t pull away, but instead, his arm gently shifted, and you ended up resting your head on his shoulder. You both stayed like that for a while, the movie forgotten, the only thing that mattered being the quiet, shared moment.

That’s when it hit you. You liked him. You liked him more than just as the guy you were married to out of a drunken mistake. You liked him in ways you hadn’t fully understood until now.

When you finally pulled away, you looked up at him, and for the first time, you didn’t feel awkward. His gaze was soft, and there was something in his eyes that made your heart beat a little faster. You could see it now—there was no mistaking it. You weren’t the only one feeling something more.

"You okay?" he asked, his voice low, a slight smirk on his lips.

You smiled, your heart skipping a beat. "Yeah," you replied quietly, your gaze meeting his. "I’m more than okay."

And just like that, you knew—this wasn’t just some fleeting, heart-fluttering feeling anymore. It was something deeper, something that had been quietly growing between the two of you, something you were finally ready to admit.

—

It was your one-year wedding anniversary, and you had decided to do something special for Donghyuck, something that felt right. After all the time that had passed, the growing feelings, and the quiet moments that made your heart race, it felt like the perfect time to finally let him know how you felt. The cake you were baking had the perfect words written on top, "I like you," followed by a question, "Do you like me back?" You spent the afternoon decorating it, carefully piping frosting onto the cake and trying to make everything just right.

The house was filled with the sweet scent of the cake, and you couldn’t help but smile at the final result. It looked perfect. The decorations around the house were simple but cozy, and you were proud of what you had done to make the day feel special.

Your heart raced. You quickly looked down at your flour-stained T-shirt and realized you had to change. You dashed into your room and just as you were taking off your T-shirt, you heard his voice echo through the house.

"Hey, I’m back!" he called out, his voice bright and casual.

You gasped, startled that he had come home earlier than expected. Quickly, you grabbed the dress you had prepared for the occasion, a soft, flowing fabric that seemed to match the romantic mood you were going for. You pulled it on and tried to quickly tie your hair, but it was a bit messy from the rush. Regardless, you didn’t want to waste any more time and rushed out of the room to greet him.

Donghyuck was standing in the living room, already eyeing the cake you had so carefully decorated. His gaze moved from the cake to you, and suddenly, you felt so embarrassed. Your hair was a little messy, and you had rushed to get dressed. The small part of you that had hoped everything would be perfect now felt insecure, but Donghyuck didn’t seem to notice.

He was already smiling at you, his gaze soft and warm. You could feel your face turning red from the way he was looking at you. It was then that he let out a small giggle, and with a playful glint in his eyes, he stepped toward you.

Without saying a word, he reached for the cake, and with his index finger, he scooped up a small bit of the frosting and gently placed it on your lips. You blinked, unsure of what he was doing, but before you could react, he leaned in close, his breath warm against your skin.

His whisper was low, only for you to hear. "Yes, I like you back."

And then, with that sweet frosting still on your lips, he kissed you. It was gentle at first, but when his lips touched yours, it was as if everything you had been holding inside of you finally broke free. The cake, the confession, the nervousness, and the feelings you had kept hidden all this time—it all melted away in that moment, leaving only the warmth of his kiss and the undeniable truth of the way you felt about him.

You didn’t need to say anything more. The answer was already clear.

After the cake, the two of you sat together on the couch, your hands intertwined naturally. The soft glow of the television illuminated the room, but it was the warmth between you and Donghyuck that filled the space. You couldn’t help but feel a sense of peace, like this—this was what home felt like. After a year of unexpected twists and turns, this was the place you’d both found together.

Donghyuck’s hand was still resting in yours as you watched the screen, the comfort of his presence making everything feel so right. A sudden thought popped into your mind, and you turned to him, curiosity getting the better of you.

"Hey," you started, your voice a little shy, "since when did you like me?"

Donghyuck gave you a playful glance, a mischievous grin tugging at his lips. "You really want to know?"

You nodded, eager to know the answer, your heart racing just a little. It was hard to imagine that someone as confident and collected as Donghyuck had been nervous about you at one point.

He paused, as if considering his answer, before giving you a knowing smile. "It was when you killed that cockroach for me."

You blinked, momentarily speechless, before bursting out laughing. "What? The cockroach? Are you serious?"

He laughed along with you, his gaze never leaving yours. "Yeah. You were so brave—completely fearless, and you handled it like it was nothing. That’s when I started to think… maybe she’s pretty cool."

You couldn’t help but laugh harder at his explanation, but there was a warmth in your chest, a flutter of realization that maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t just joking around. Donghyuck continued, a little sheepish now, his voice low.

"Brave women are really cool, you know? It made my heart flutter in a way I didn’t expect."

The simple sincerity in his words made your heart skip a beat. You looked at him, your eyes soft, feeling an overwhelming sense of affection that had been growing over time. How strange it was, that something as simple as killing a cockroach had been the turning point in your relationship. But, somehow, it made sense. It was these little moments, these unexpected things that made your connection real.

With a contented sigh, you leaned back into the couch, still holding his hand, your heart light. "I guess you could say that our strange marriage turned out beautifully after all."

Donghyuck chuckled, his fingers gently tightening around yours. "Yeah, I think so. Who would’ve thought?"

And as the two of you sat there, hands entwined, you realized that this strange, unexpected marriage—born from a drunken mistake—had turned into something more than you could have ever imagined. It was more than just a contract; it was a partnership, full of laughter, support, and, yes, love.

Sometimes, the most unexpected of circumstances could lead to the most beautiful endings. And this, you realized, was just the beginning of a new chapter.

@stvrrylove @sol3chu @firstclassjaylee @cherry-zip

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mostlysignssomeportents · 5 months ago

Text

Petard, Part III

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/02/01/miskatonic-networks/#landlord-telco-industrial-complex

Last week, Trump's FCC chair Brendan Carr reversed a rule that banned your landlord from taking kickbacks in exchange for forcing you to use whatever ISP was willing to pay the biggest bribe for the right to screw you over:

https://arstechnica.com/tech-policy/2025/01/fcc-chair-nixes-plan-to-boost-broadband-competition-in-apartment-buildings/

Corporate fascists and their captured regulators are, of course, that most despicable of creatures: they are plagiarists. Like so many of our tech overlords, they have mistaken dystopian sf as a suggestion, rather than as a warning. I take this personally, because I actually wrote this as an sf story in 2013, and it was published in 2014 in MIT Tech Review's Twelve Tomorrows, edited by Bruce Sterling and published in 2014:

https://mitpress.mit.edu/9780262535595/twelve-tomorrows-2014/

I adapted it for my podcast, in four installments:

https://archive.org/details/Cory_Doctorow_Podcast_278

https://archive.org/details/Cory_Doctorow_Podcast_292

https://archive.org/details/Cory_Doctorow_Podcast_293

https://archive.org/details/Cory_Doctorow_Podcast_294_-_Petard_04

And, given the new currency of this old story, I thought it was only fitting that I serialize it here, on my blog, also in four parts.

Here's part one:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/01/30/landlord-telco-industrial-complex/#part-one

Here's part two:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/01/31/the-blood-speech/#part-two

And now, onto part three:

One of the early Ftp code contributors was now CTO for an ISP, and they'd gotten their start as a dorm co-op at Brown that had metastasized across New England. Sanjay had been pretty important to the early days of Ftp, helping us get the virtualization right so that it could run on pretty much any cloud without a lot of jiggery and/or pokery. Within a day of emailing Sanjay, I was having coffee with the vice-president of business development for Miskatonic Networks, who was also Sanjay's boyfriend's girlfriend, because apparently ISPs in New England are hotbeds of Lovecraft-fandom polyamory. Her name was Kadijah and she had a southie accent so thick it was like an amateur theater production of Good Will Hunting.

"The Termite Mound?" She laughed. "Shit yeah, I know that place. It's still standing? I went to some super sketchy parties there when I was a kid, I mean sooooper sketchy, like sketch-a-roony. I can't believe no one's torched the place yet."

"Not yet," I said. "And seeing as all my stuff's there right now, I'm hoping that no one does for the time being."

"Yeah, I can see that." I could not get over her accent. It was the most Bostonian thing I'd encountered since I got off the train. "OK, so you want to know what we'd charge to provide service to someone at the Termite Mound?"

"Uh, no. I want to know what you'd charge per person if we could get you the whole Mound — every unit in the residence. All 250 of them."

"Oh." She paused a second. "This is an Ftp thing, right?"

"Yeah," I said. "That's how I know Sanjay. I, uh, I started Ftp." I don't like to brag, but sometimes it makes sense in the context of the conversation, right?

"That was you? Wicked! So you're seriously gonna get the whole dorm to sign up with us?"

"I will if you can get me a price that I can sell to them," I said.

"Oh," she said. Then "Oh! Right. Hmm. Leave it with me. You say you can get them all signed up?"

"I think so. If the price is right. And I think that if the Termite Mound goes with you that there'll be other dorms that'll follow. Maybe a lab or two," I said. I was talking out of my ass at this point, but seriously, net-censorship in the labs at MIT? It was disgusting. It could not stand.

"Damn," she said. "Sounds like you're majoring in Ftp. Don't you have classes or something?"

"No," I said. "This is basically exactly what I figured college would be like. A cross between summer camp and an Stanford obedience experiment. If all I wanted to do was cram a bunch of knowledge into my head, I could have stayed home and mooced it. I came here because I wanted to level up and fight something tough and even dangerous. I want to spend four years getting into the right kind of trouble. Going to classes too, but seriously, classes? Whatever. Everyone knows the good conversations happen in the hallway between the formal presentations. Classes are just an excuse to have hallways."

She looked skeptical and ate banana bread.

"It's your deal," she said.

I could hear the but hanging in the air between us. She went and got more coffees and brought them back along with toasted banana bread dripping with butter for me. She wouldn't let me pay, and told me it was on Miskatonic. We were a potential big account. She didn't want to say "But" because she might offend me. I wanted to hear the "but."

"But?"

"But what?"

"It's my deal but…?"

"But, well, you know, you don't look after your grades, MIT'll put you out on your ass. That's how it works in college. I've seen it."

I chewed my banana bread.

"Hey," she said. "Hey. Are you OK, Lukasz?"

"I'm fine," I said.

She smiled at me. She was pretty. "But?"

I told her about my talk with AA, and about Juanca, and about how I felt like nobody was giving me my propers, and she looked very sympathetic, in a way that made me feel much younger. Like toddler younger.

"MIT is all about pranks, right? I think if I could come up with something really epic, they'd –" And as I said it, I realized how dumb it was. They laughed at me in Vienna, I'll show them! "You know what? Forget about it. I got more important things to do than screw around with those knob-ends. Work to do, right? Get the network opened up around here, you and me, Kadijah!"

"Don't let it get to you, you'll give yourself an aneurism. I'll get back to you soon, OK?"

I fished a bead out of my pocket and wedged it into my ear.

"Who is this?"

"Lukasz?" The voice was choked with tears.

"Who is this?" I said again.

"It's Bryan." I couldn't place the voice or the name.

"Bryan who?"

"From the Termite Mound's customer service desk." Then I recognized the voice. It was the elf, and he was having hysterics. Part of me wanted to say, Oh, diddums! and hang up. Because elves, AMR? But I'm not good at tough love.

"What's wrong?"

"They've fired me," he said. "I got called into my boss's office an hour ago and he told me to start drawing up a list of people to kick out of the dorm — he wanted the names of people who supported you. I was supposed to go through the EULAs for the dorm and find some violations for all of them –"

"What if they didn't have any violations?"

He made a sound between a sob and a laugh. "Are you kidding? You're always in violation! Have you read the EULA for the Mound? It's like sixty pages long."

"OK, gotcha. So you refused and you got fired?"

There was a pause. It drew out. "No," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "I gave them a bunch of names, and then they fired me."

Again, I was torn between the impulse to hang up on him and to hear more. Nosiness won (nosiness always wins; bets on nosiness are a sure thing). "Nicely done. Sounds like just deserts to me. What do you expect me to do about it?" But I knew. There were only two reasons to call me after something like this: to confess his sins or to get revenge. And no one would ever mistake me for a priest.

"I've got the names they pulled. Not just this time. Every time there's been any kind of trouble in the Termite Mound, MIT Residence has turfed out the troublemakers on some bogus EULA violation. They know that no one cares about student complaints, and there's always a waiting list for rooms at the Termite Mound, it's so central and all. I kept records."

"What kind of records?"

"Hardcopies of emails. They used disappearing ink for all the dirty stuff, but I just took pictures of my screen with my drop and saved it to personal storage. It's ugly. They went after pregnant girls, kids with disabilities. Any time there was a chance they'd have to do an air quality audit or fix a ramp, I'd have to find some reason to violate the tenant out of residence." He paused a moment. "They used some pretty bad language when they talked about these people, too."

The Termite Mound should've been called the Roach Motel: turn on the lights and you'd find a million scurrying bottom-feeders running for the baseboards.

I was going to turn on the lights.

"You've got all that, huh?

"Tons of it," he said. "Going back three years. I knew that if it ever got out that they'd try and blame it on me. I wanted records."

"OK," I said. "Meet me in Harvard Square, by the T entrance. How soon can you get there?"

"I'm at the Coop right now," he said. "Using a study-booth."

"Perfect," I said. "Five minutes then?"

"I'm on my way."

The Coop's study booths had big signs warning you that everything you did there was recorded — sound, video, infrared, data — and filtered for illicit behavior. The signs explained that there was no human being looking at the records unless you did something to trip the algorithm, like that made it better. If a tree falls in the forest, it sure as shit makes a sound; and if your conversation is bugged, it's bugged — whether or not a human being listens in right then or at some time in the infinite future of that data.

I beat him to the T entrance, and looked around for a place to talk. It wasn't good. From where I stood, I could see dozens of cameras, the little button-sized dots discretely placed all around the square, each with a little scannable code you could use to find out who got the footage and what it's policy was. No one ever, ever, ever bothered to do this. Ever. EULAs were not written for human consumption: a EULA's message could always be boiled down to seven words: "ABANDON HOPE, ALL YE WHO ENTER HERE." Or, more succinctly: "YOU LOSE."

I felt bad about Bryan's job. It was his own deal, of course. He'd stayed even after he knew how evil they were. And I hadn't held a gun to his head and made him put himself in the firing line. But of course, I had convinced him to. I had led him to. I felt bad.

Bryan turned up just as I was scouting a spot at an outdoor table by an ice-cream parlor. They had a bunch of big blowing heaters that'd do pretty good white-noise masking, a good light/dark contrast between the high-noon sun and the shade of the awning that would screw up cameras' white-balance, and the heaters would wreak havoc on the infra-red range of the CCTVs, or so I hoped. I grabbed Bryan, clamping down on his skinny arm through the rough weave of his forest-green cloak and dragged him into my chosen spot.

"You got it?" I said, once we were both seated and nursing hot chocolates. I got caffeinated marshmallows; he got Thai ghost pepper-flavored — though that was mostly marketing, no way those marshmallows were over a couple thousand Scovilles.

"I encrypted it with your public key," he said, handing me a folded up paper. I unfolded it and saw that it had been printed with a stegoed QR code, hidden in a Victorian woodcut. That kind of spycraft was pretty weaksauce — the two-dee-barcode-in-a-public-domain-image thing was a staple of shitty student clickbait thrillers — but if he'd really managed to get my public key and verify it and then encrypt the blob with it, I was impressed. That was about ten million times more secure than the average fumbledick ever managed. The fact that he'd handed me a hardcopy of the URL instead of emailing it to me, well, that was pretty sweet frosting. Bryan had potential.

I folded the paper away. "What should I be looking for?"

"It's all organized and tagged. You'll see." He looked nervous. "What are you going to do with it?"

"Well, for starters, I'm going to call them up and tell them I have it."

"What?" He looked like he was going to cry.

"Come on," I said. "I'm not going to tell them where I got it. The way you tell it, I'm about to get evicted, right?"

"Technically, you are evicted. There's a process-server waiting at every entrance to the Termite Mound doing face-recognition on the whole list. Soon as you go home, bam. 48 hours to clear out."

"Right," I said. "I don't want to have to go look for a place to live while I'm also destroying these shitbirds and fixing everyone's Internet connection. Get serious. So I'm going to go and talk to Messrs Amoral, Nonmoral and Immoral and explain that I have a giant dump of compromising messages from them that I'm going public with, and it'll look really, really bad for them if they turf me out now."

It's time for a true confession. I am not nearly as brave as I front. All this spycraft stuff, all the bluster about beating these guys on their home turf, yeah, in part I'm into it — I like it better than riding through life like a foil chip-bag being swept down a polluted stream on a current of raw sewage during a climate-change-driven superstorm.

But the reality is that I can't really help myself. There's some kind of rot-fungus that infects the world. Things that are good when they're small and personal grow, and as they grow, their attack-surface grows with them, and they get more and more colonized by the fungus, making up stupid policies, doing awful stuff to the people who rely on them and the people who work for them, one particle of fungus at a time, each one just a tiny and totally defensible atomic-sized spoor of rot that piles up and gloms onto all the other bits of rot until you're a walking, suppurating lesion.

No one ever set out to create the kind of organization that needs to post a "MIT RESIDENCY LLC OPERATES A ZERO-TOLERANCE POLICY TOWARD EMPLOYEE ABUSE. YOU CAN BE FINED UP TO $2000 AND/OR IMPRISONED FOR SIX MONTHS FOR ASSAULTING A CAMPUS RESIDENCE WORKER" sign. You start out trying to do something good, then your realize you can get a little richer by making it a little worse. Your thermostat for shittiness gets reset to the new level, so it doesn't seem like much of a change to turn it a notch further towards the rock-bottom, irredeemably shitty end of the scale.

The truth is that you can get really rich and huge by playing host organism to the rot-fungus. The rot-fungus diffuses its harms and concentrates its rewards. That means that healthy organisms that haven't succumbed to the rot-fungus are liable to being devoured by giant, well-funded vectors for it — think of the great local business that gets devoured by an awful hedge-fund in a leveraged takeover, looted and left as a revolting husk to shamble on until it collapses under its own weight.

I am terrified of the rot-fungus, because it seems like I'm the only person who notices it most of the time. Think of all those places where the town council falls all over itself to lure some giant corporation to open a local factory. Don't they notice that everyone who works at places like that hates every single moment of every single day? Haven't they ever tried to converse with the customer-service bots run by one of those lumbering dinos?

I mean, sure, the bigs have giant budgets and they'll take politicians out for nice lunches and throw a lot of money at their campaigns, but don't these guardians of the public trust ever try to get their cars fixed under warranty? Don't they ever buy a train ticket? Don't they ever eat at a fast food joint? Can't they smell the rot-fungus? Am I the only one? I've figured out how to fight it in my own way. Everyone else who's fighting seems to be fighting against something else — injustice or inequality or whatever, without understanding that the fungus's rot is what causes all of those things.

I'm convinced that no normal human being ever woke up one morning and said, "Dammit, my life doesn't have enough petty bureaucratic rules, zero-tolerance policies, censorship and fear in it. How do I fix that?" Instead, they let this stuff pile up, one compromise at a time, building up huge sores suppurating with spore-loaded fluids that eventually burst free and beslime everything around them. It gets normal to them, one dribble at a time.

"Lukasz, you're don't know what you're doing. These guys, they're –"

"What?" I said. "Are they the mafia or something? Are they going to have me dropped off a bridge with cement overshoes?"

He shook his head, making the twigs and beads woven into the downy fluff of his hair clatter together. "No, but they're ruthless. I mean, totally ruthless. They're not normal."

The way he said it twinged something in my hindbrain, some little squiggle of fear, but I pushed it away. "Yeah, that's OK. I'm used to abnormal." I am the most abnormal person I know.

"Be careful, seriously," he said.

"Thanks, Bryan," I said. "Don't worry about me. You want me to try and get your room back, too?"

He chewed his lip. "Don't," he said. "They'll know it was me if you do that."

I resisted the urge to shout at him to grow a spine. These assholes had cost him his home and his job (OK, I'd helped) and he was going to couch-surf it until he could find the rarest of treasures: an affordable place to live in Cambridge, Mass? Even if he was being tortured by his conscience for all his deplorable selloutism, he was still being a total wuss. But that was his deal. I mean, he was an elf, for chrissakes. Who knew what he was thinking?

"Suit yourself," I said, and went and made some preparations.

Messers Amoral, Nonmoral and Immoral had an office over the river in Boston, in a shabby office-block that only had ten floors, but whose company directory listed over 800 businesses. I knew the kind of place, because they showed up whenever some hairy scam unravelled and they showed you the office-of-convenience used by the con-artists who'd destroyed something that lots of people cared about and loved in order to make a small number of bad people a little richer. A kind of breeding pit for rot-fungus, in other words.

At first I thought I was going to have to go and sleuth their real locations, but I saw that Amoral, Nonmoral and Immoral had the entire third floor registered to them, while everyone else had crazy-ass, heavily qualified suite numbers like 401c(1)K, indicating some kind of internal routing code for the use of the army of rot-fungus-infected spores who ensured that correspondence was handled in a way that preserved the illusion that each of the multifarious, blandly named shell companies (I swear to Cthulhu that there was one called "International Holdings (Holdings), Ltd") was a real going concern and not a transparent ruse intended to allow the rot-fungus to spread with maximal diffusion of culpability for the carriers who did its bidding.

I punched # # #300# # # on the ancient touchscreen intercom, its surface begrimed with a glossy coat of hardened DNA, Burger King residue and sifted-down dust of the ages. It blatted like an angry sheep, once, twice, three times, then disconnected. I punched again. Again. On the fourth try, an exasperated, wheezing voice emerged: "What?"

"I'm here to speak to someone from MIT Residences LLC."

"Send an email."

"I'm a tenant. My name is Lukasz Romero." I let that sink in. "I've got some documents I'd like to discuss with a responsible individual at MIT Residences LLC." I put a bit of heavy English on documents. "Please." I put even more English on "Please." I've seen the same tough-guy videos that you have, and I can do al-pacinoid overwound Dangerous Dude as well as anyone. "Please," I said again, meaning "Right. Now."

There was an elongated and ominous pause, punctuated by muffled rustling and grumbling, and what may have been typing on an old-fashioned, mechanical keyboard. "Come up," a different voice said. The elevator to my left ground as the car began to lower itself.

I'd expected something sinister — a peeling dungeon of a room where old men with armpit-stains gnawed haunches of meat and barked obscenities at each other. Instead, I found myself in an airy, high-ceilinged place that was straight out of the publicity shots for MIT's best labs, the ones that had been set-dressed by experts who'd ensured that no actual students had come in to mess things up before the photographer could get a beautifully lit shot of the platonic perfection.

The room took up the whole floor, dotted with conversation pits with worn, comfortable sofas whose end-tables sported inconspicuous charge-plates for power-hungry gadgets. The rest of the space was made up of new-looking worksurfaces and sanded-down antique wooden desks that emitted the honeyed glow of a thousand coats of wax buffed by decades of continuous use. The light came from tall windows and full-spectrum spotlights that were reflected and diffused off the ceiling, which was bare concrete and mazed with cable-trays and conduit. I smelled good coffee and toasting bread and saw a perfectly kept little kitchenette to my left.

There were perhaps a dozen people working in the room, standing at the worksurfaces, mousing away at the antique desks, or chatting intensely in the conversation pits. It was a kind of perfect tableau of industrious tech-company life, something out of a recruiting video. The people were young and either beautiful, handsome or both. I had the intense, unexpected desire to work here, or a place like this. It had good vibes.

One of the young, handsome people stood up from his conversation nook and smoothed out the herringbone wool hoodie he was wearing, an artfully cut thing that managed to make him look like both a young professor and an undergraduate at the same time. It helped that he was so fresh-faced, with apple cheeks and a shock of curly brown hair.

"Lukasz, right?" He held out a hand. He was wearing a dumbwatch, a wind-up thing in a steel casing that was fogged with a century of scratches. I coveted it instantly, though I knew nothing about its particulars, I was nevertheless certain that it was expensive, beautifully engineered, and extremely rare.

The door closed behind me and the magnet audibly reengaged. The rest of the people in the room studiously ignored us.

"I'm Sergey. Can I get you a cup of coffee? Tea? Some water?"

The coffee smelled good. "No thank you," I said. "I don't think I'll be here for long."

"Of course. Come and sit."

The other participants in his meeting had already vacated the sofas and left us with a conversation pit all to ourselves. I sank into the sofa and smelled the spicy cologne of a thousand eager, well-washed people who'd sat on it before me, impregnating the upholstery with the spoor of their good perfumes.

He picked up a small red enamel teapot and poured a delicious-smelling stream of yellow-green steaming liquid into a chunky diner-style coffee-cup. He sipped it. My stomach growled. "You told the receptionist you wanted to talk about some documents?"

"Yeah," I said, pulling myself together. "I've got documentary evidence of this company illegally evicting tenants — students — who got pregnant, complained about substandard living conditions and maintenance issues, and, in my case, complained about the network filters at the Termite Mound."

He cocked his head for a moment like he was listening for something in the hum and murmur of the office around him. I found myself listening, too, but try as I might, I couldn't pick out a single individual voice from the buzz, not even a lone intelligble word. It was as though they were all going "murmurmurmurmur," though I could see their lips moving and shaping what must have been words.

"Ah," he said at last. "Well, that's very unfortunate. Can you give me a set and I'll escalate them up our chain to ensure that they're properly dealt with?"

"I can give you a set," I said. "But I'll also be giving a set to the MIT ombudsman and the The Tech and the local Wikileaks Party rep. Sergey, forgive me, but you don't seem to be taking this very seriously. The material in my possession is the sort of thing that could get you and your colleagues here sued into a smoking crater."

"Oh, I appreciate that there's a lot of potential liability in the situation you describe, but it wouldn't be rational for me to freak out now, would it? I haven't seen your documents, and if I had, I can neither authenticate them nor evaluate the risk they represent. So I'll take a set from you and ensure that the people within our organization who have the expertise to manage this sort of thing get to them quickly."

It's funny. I'd anticipated that he'd answer like a chatbot, vomiting up Markov-chained nothings from the lexicon of the rot-fungus: "we take this very seriously," "we cannot comment on ongoing investigations," "we are actioning this with a thorough inquiry and post-mortem" and other similar crapola. Instead, he was talking like a hacker on a mailing list defending the severity he'd assigned to a bug he owned.

"Sergey, that's not much of an answer."

He sipped that delicious tea some more. "Is there something in particular you wanted to hear from me? I mean, this isn't the sort of thing that you find out about then everything stops until you've figured out what to do next."

I was off-balance. "I wanted –" I waved my hands. "I wanted an explanation. How the hell did this systematic abuse come about?"

He shrugged. He really didn't seem very worried "Hard to say, really. Maybe it was something out of the labs."

"What do you mean, 'the labs'?"

He gestured vaguely at one cluster of particularly engrossed young men and women who were bent over screens and worksurfaces, arranged in pairs or threesomes, collaborating with fierce intensity, reaching over to touch each others' screens and keyboards in a way I found instantly and deeply unsettling. "We've got a little R&D lab that works on some of our holdings. We're really dedicated to disrupting the rental market. There's so much money in it, you know, but mostly it's run by these entitled jerks who think that they're geniuses for having the brilliant idea of buying a building and then sitting around and charging rent on it. A real old boys' club." For the first time since we started talking, he really seemed to be alive and present and paying attention.

"Oh, they did some bits and pieces that gave them the superficial appearance of having a brain, but there's a lot of difference between A/B splitting your acquisition strategy and really deep-diving into the stuff that matters."

At this stage, I experienced a weird dissonance. I mean, I was there because these people were doing something genuinely villainous, real rot-fungus stuff. On the other hand, well, this sounded cool. I can't lie. I found it interesting. I mean, catnip-interesting.

"I mean, chewy questions. Like, if the median fine for a second citation for substandard plumbing is $400, and month-on-month cost for plumbing maintenance in a given building is $2,000 a month, and the long-term costs of failure to maintain are $20,000 for full re-plumbing on a 8-10 year basis with a 75 percent probability of having to do the big job in year nine, what are the tenancy parameters that maximize your return over that period?"

"Tenancy parameters?"

He looked at me. I was being stupid. I don't like that look. I suck at it. It's an ego thing. I just find it super-hard to deal with other people thinking that I'm dumb. I would probably get more done in this world if I didn't mind it so much. But I do. It's an imperfect world, and I am imperfect.

"Tenancy parameters. What are the parameters of a given tenant that predict whether he or she will call the city inspectors given some variable setpoint of substandard plumbing, set on a scale that has been validated through a rigorous regression through the data that establishes quantifiable inflection points relating to differential and discrete maintenance issues, including leaks, plugs, pressure, hot water temperature and volume, and so on. It's basically just a solve-for-x question, but it's one with a lot of details in the model that are arrived at through processes with a lot of room for error, so the model needs a lot of refinement and continuous iteration.

"And of course, it's all highly sensitive to external conditions — there's a whole game-theoretical set of questions about what other large-scale renters do in response to our own actions, and there's a information-theory dimension to this that's, well, it's amazing. Like, which elements of our strategy are telegraphed when we take certain actions as opposed to others, and how can those be steganographed through other apparent strategies.

"Now, most of these questions we can answer through pretty straightforward business processes, stuff that Amazon figured out twenty years ago. But there's a real risk of getting stuck in local maxima, just you know, overoptimizing inside of one particular paradigm with some easy returns. That's just reinventing the problem, though, making us into tomorrow's dinosaurs.

"If we're going to operate a culture of continuous improvement, we need to be internally disrupted to at least the same extent that we're disrupting those fat, stupid incumbents. That's why we have the labs. They're our chaos monkeys. They do all kinds of stuff that keeps our own models sharp. For example, they might incorporate a separate business and use our proprietary IP to try to compete with us — without telling us about it. Or give a set of autonomous agents privileges to communicate eviction notices in a way that causes a certain number of lawsuits to be filed, just to validate our assumptions about the pain-point at which an action or inaction on our side will trigger a suit from a tenant, especially for certain profiles of tenants.

"So there's not really any way that I can explain specifically what happened to the people mentioned in your correspondence. It's possible no one will ever be able to say with total certainty. I don't really know why anyone would expect it to be otherwise. We're not a deterministic state-machine, after all. If all we did was respond in set routines to set inputs, it'd be trivial to innovate around us and put us out of business. Our objective is to be strategically nonlinear and anti-deterministic within a range of continuously validated actions that map and remap a chaotic terrain of profitable activities in relation to property and rental. We're not rentiers, you understand. We don't own assets for a living. We do things with them. We're doing commercial science that advances the state of the art. We're discovering deep truths lurking in potentia in the shape of markets and harnessing them — putting them to work."

His eyes glittered. "Lukasz, you come in here with your handful of memos and you ask me to explain how they came about, as though this whole enterprise was a state-machine that we control. We do not control the enterprise. An enterprise is an artificial life-form built up from people and systems in order to minimize transaction costs so that it can be nimble and responsive, so that it can move into niches, dominate them, fully explore them. The human species has spent millennia recombining its institutions to uncover the deep, profound mathematics of power and efficiency.

"It's a terrain with a lot of cul-de-sacs and blind alleys. There are local maxima: maybe a three-move lookahead shows a good outcome from evicting someone who's pregnant and behind on the rent, but the six-move picture is different, because someone like you comes along and makes us look like total assholes. That's fine. All that means is that we have to prune that branch of the tree, try a new direction. Hell, ideally, you'd be in there so early, and give us such a thoroughgoing kicking, that we'd be able to discover and abort the misfire before the payload had fully deployed. You'd be saving us opportunity cost. You'd be part of our chaos-monkey.

"Lukasz, you come in here with your whistleblower memos. But I'm not participating in a short-term exercise. Our mission here is to quantize, systematize, harness and perfect interactions.

"You come in here and you want me to explain, right now, what we're going to do about your piece of information. Here's your answer, Lukasz: we will integrate it. We will create models that incorporate disprovable hypotheses about it, we will test those models, and we will refine them. We will make your documents part of our inventory of clues about the underlying nature of deep reality. Does that answer satisfy you, Lukasz?"

I stood up. Through the whole monologue, Sergey's eyes had not moved from mine, nor had his body-language shifted, nor had he demonstrated one glimmer of excitement or passion. Instead, he'd been matter-of-fact, like he'd been explaining the best way to make an omelet or the optimal public transit route to a distant suburb. I was used to people geeking out about the stuff they did. I'd never experienced this before, though: it was the opposite of geeking out, or maybe a geeking out that went so deep that it went through passion and came out the other side.

It scared me. I'd encountered many different versions of hidebound authoritarianism, fought the rot-fungus in many guises, but this was not like anything I'd ever seen. It had a purity that was almost… seductive.

But beautiful was not the opposite of terrible. The two could easily co-exist.

"I hear that I'm going to get evicted when I get back to the Termite Mound — you've got a process-server waiting for me. That's what I hear."

Sergey shrugged. "And?"

"And? And what use is your deep truth to me if I'm out on the street?"

"What's your point?"

He was as mild and calm as a recorded airport safety announcement. There was something inhuman — transhuman? — in that dispassionate mein.

"Don't kick me out of my place."

"Ah. Excuse me a second."

He finished his tea, set the cup down and headed over to the lab. He chatted with them, touched their screens. The murmur drowned out any words. I didn't try to disguise the fact that I was watching them. There was a long period during which they said nothing, did not touch anything, just stared at the screens with their heads so close together they were almost touching. It was a kind of pantomime of psychic communications.

He came back. "Done," he said. "Is there anything else? We're pretty busy around here."

"Thank you," I said. "No, that's about it."

"All right then," he said. "Are you going to leave me your documents?"

"Yes," I said, and passed him a stack of hardcopies. He looked at the paper for a moment, folded the stack carefully at the middle and put it in one of the wide side-pockets of his beautifully tailored cardigan.

I found my way back down to the ground floor and was amazed to see that the sun was still up. It had felt like hours had passed while Sergey had talked to me, and I could have sworn that the light had faded in those tall windows. But, checking my drop, I saw that it was only three o'clock. I had to be getting home.

There was a process-server waiting ostentatiously in the walkway when I got home, but he looked at me and then down at his screen and then let me pass.

It was only once I was in my room that I realized I hadn't done anything about Bryan's eviction.

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