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stllmnstr · 11 months ago

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every fragile thing

pairing: park sunghoon x f reader

genre: enemies to lovers, figure skating au, college/university au

word count: 12.3k

warnings: alcohol consumption, jealousy, non graphic descriptions/depictions of injuries, use of the american (usa) university system, a kiss or five

soundtrack: get him back! / brutal / jealousy, jealousy / good 4 u / the grudge / bad idea right? / drivers license - olivia rodrigo

After an ankle injury lands you in mandated physical therapy sessions instead of on the ice where you should be training for nationals, you're absolutely certain you must be the most frustrated, emotionally volatile figure skater on the planet. Park Sunghoon proves you wrong.

or,

every fragile thing has one of two choices: become stronger or shatter into a million pieces.

note: hi hello yes this is me on a new blog with the same name. I deleted my old one and wasn't sure if I planned on remaking/reposting but here we are! if you've read this before, then I hope you enjoy just as much this time around. and if you haven't, I hope you love figure skater sunghoon just as much as I do! happy reading ♡

Silence. One word, two syllables. A fairly straightforward term with a meaning that can be easily deduced from a quick scan of its Merriam-Webster definition.

But unlike many words, silence is one that’s typically learned through experience. Through stilted moments, pregnant pauses, dreamlike moments in the dead of night while the world around you is at a standstill.

In the moments just before the music starts, when it feels as if the audience around you is holding their breath. And you stand at the center of it all, blades of your tightly laced skates against ice, chest rising and falling in time with your heartbeat, mind spinning with possibility. In those moments, your long trained muscles take over, following the memory of countless repetitions as your body prepares to do what it knows best.

There’s a question in that silence. One that’s asked with baited breath.

Will I land this skill? Will I go home with a medal around my neck, cold weight a familiar comfort against my skin? Will this be my best performance yet? Will they love it? Love me?

That, as you’ve come to learn, is your favorite kind of silence. The kind that’s filled with endless possibility, with the promise of something beautiful or disastrous or some odd mix of the two to come.

The feeling of freedom, of flying as blade cuts through ice, as your body defies gravity with every jump, every spin.

But that is very much not the kind of silence that greets you where Dr. Min eyes you warily over the top of his pristine clipboard, a crease forming between his dark eyebrows. Frowning, he glances at the paper once more before returning his gaze to you.

“You’re sure you’ve been resting? No weight on the fracture at all?”

It takes a good chunk of your willpower not to roll your eyes. Mostly because you’re lying through your teeth, but who’s keeping track?

“Yes, I’m sure.” Gesturing to the thick black boot the lower part of your left leg and foot have been imprisoned in for the better part of a month, you add, “This thing’s still coming off in two weeks, right?”

Two weeks is pushing it, but you’ve done more with less. Two weeks puts you exactly three months out from regionals, which gives you exactly ninety-one days to pull together the most jaw dropping program you or the judges have ever seen. One that’s certain to land you on the podium and secure a spot at nationals.

Once again, you thank your lucky stars for Coach Lee. She’s been with you since you were still struggling to lace your own skates, and there’s no one else you’d trust to have you ready for regionals in such a short time frame. No one else you’d bet your fate on like this.

“That was our original time frame, yes…” Dr. Min trails off, avoiding your gaze in a way that has your stomach dropping unpleasantly.

“And we’ll be sticking to it, I’m sure.” You hate the way the end of your phrase turns up like a question.

Dr. Min sighs. “Look, ___, our original time frame was ambitious to begin with, and I hate to tell you this, but your ankle is not healing as well as we’d hoped. Fractures don’t heal overnight, and the best thing for you right now is rest.”

The argument is already forming on your tongue. “But—”

“I know it’s hard to believe, but I’m not trying to ruin your life, ___. Truly. I’m saying this to you as the parent of an athlete and a former athlete myself. Pushing yourself now will only lead to reinjury in the future and will also very likely shorten your career. Your ankle needs to heal before you skate on it again. It needs to heal before you so much as put weight on it. And you need to let it heal completely.” The sincerity in his voice is hard to stomach when he says, “Believe me when I tell you that you’ll regret it for the rest of life if you don’t.”

And logically, you know he’s right. Know that this will be nothing but a minor setback if you allow it to run its course. If you follow his advice to rest and heal. But skating has never been something you’ve done with the logical parts of yourself. And Dr. Min doesn’t get it. You tell him as much. “You don’t understand what you’re asking me to do. Regionals are in less than four months, and—”

“I hear you. Believe me, I do. But this is your third year of university, which means you have another shot at nationals next year. If you push it and try to skate before you’re ready, you may very well lose that chance too.”

“So I’m supposed to do what? Sit around and do nothing until my ankle decides to cooperate?” Even voicing the possibility has you suppressing a grimace.

But Dr. Min has different thoughts. “Yes. That is exactly what you need to do.”

You don’t avert your gaze. Neither does he. Finally, after a moment, he sighs. “My recommendation at this point is still rest, but—”

“But?” Your excitement is impossible to contain fully.

Dr. Min levels you with a cautionary look over his clipboard. “But, if you’re going to do anything, our athletics department does also run a physical therapy program, which I think could be beneficial. It would help to retain flexibility, mobility, and agility in the areas of your leg that support your ankle. It could help get you back on the ice faster and maintain the leg strength you’ve built. There’s a group session that runs on Tuesday afternoons—”

“Yes,” you nod, not bothering to hear the end of his statement. “Yes, I’ll do that.”

“I… okay.” As much as you want to hate him for it, Dr. Min has a point. And while you doubt physical therapy will be anywhere near as grueling as your usual workouts, it sounds a hell of a lot better than doing nothing.

…

You’ve never liked hospitals. The odd juxtaposition of white, lifeless sterility and a culmination of some of life’s most painful moments has always left an unpleasant taste on your tongue.

It’s one that has you double checking the address Dr. Min forwarded to you as you enter the oddly cheerful building that is apparently home to a renowned athletics physical therapy facility. Despite the medical purpose, there’s a distinct liveliness that envelops the space.

The woman at reception informs you that this is indeed the right building and the session you’re attending has just begun in the room to your left.

Pausing at the door, you’re struck with a sudden timidness. A physical therapy group for athletes will obviously be filled with, well, athletes. And although you can’t speak too harshly on that particular subsect of people, being one yourself, they can be intimidating. It must be the competitiveness, you think. The drive to push, succeed, win that gives off such a distinct aura.

Steeling yourself with one last breath, you remind yourself that’s why you’re here. To get back to that version of you that has everyone else feeling a little shier. That version of you that eats, breathes, and sleeps with ice skates laced on your feet and visions of the top of a podium driving your every decision.

With determination straightening your brow, you push open the door.

And immediately find yourself grateful for the mental preparation as three heads snap in your direction.

Hitching your bag up an inch on your shoulder, you try not to melt under the sudden awkwardness. Thankfully, one of them is better at breaking ice than you.

“Hi,” the boy closest to you is the first to fill the silence. He’s all smiles where he gives you a friendly wave, moving a stray hair out of his eyes with a flick of his head as he tells you, “I’m Jungwon.”

You offer your name in return, trying on a smile to match his friendliness. You have a feeling it comes more naturally to him than it ever will to you, though.

Regardless, he offers an equally cheerful, “Nice to meet you.” Glancing over to where the second boy is moving through a series of stretches, Jungwon makes eye contact, silently telling him he’s up next.

Even mid-stretch, he acquiesces. “I’m Niki,” the second boy follows.

“And I’m Jake.” The last boy doesn’t need any prompting from Jungwon. Nodding towards the walking boot that covers the bottom half of your left leg, he glances at a similar one that he wears on his own. “Looks like we’re twins. Tore up my achilles pretty bad in my last soccer match,” he explains. “What about you?”

“Fractured my ankle,” you return, a rueful smile dragging your lips up. “Figure skater.”

“Ah, man.” Jungwon winces. “That sucks.”

You shrug, forcing a nonchalance you don’t feel. “No worse than a busted achilles.”

“That’s cool that you skate though,” Jake offers. “Kind of a funny coincidence, actually. There’s another—”

Whatever it is, he doesn’t get to finish the thought. At that moment, the door opens again, this time revealing a middle aged woman in a white physician’s coat. Her name tag reads Dr. Kim, and she introduces herself as such to you.

“Looks like everyone’s here, including our new members.” She gives another cursory nod in your direction. “Welcome again.” Glancing around, the instructor pauses. “Oh, wait. Except for—”

“I’m here, I’m here.” For the second time in the span of a minute, the door behind you opens. You don’t miss the glance that passes between Niki and Jake. You turn to face the new arrival, but his back is to you as he sets his bag down and begins the process of switching his shoes.

The way the new member enters with a dismissive wave of his hand and lack of proper greeting has you thinking tardiness is not an uncommon trait of his. Even from behind, you can feel the waves of arrogance he exudes. That seems to align more with your preconceived notions of athletes.

Studying him for another second, a sinking feeling of dread begins to build in the pit of your stomach. Long, dark hair. Unnaturally graceful movements, even if all he’s doing is digging through his bag. Tall stature, broad shoulders, long legs.

An athlete’s build through and through. Perfectly suited for the ice.

“Great.” Despite the statement, Dr. Kim’s tone is flat. “Well, we were just getting started and introducing ourselves since we have someone new joining us today.”

“Hi,” he offers, still fixated on his bag, yet to offer as much as a glance in your direction. If anything, it only serves as a confirmation of his identity. “I’m—” You don’t even need to hear him say it.

“Sunghoon?”

At that, he does finally look up.

Gaze locking with yours, a moment of confusion is quickly replaced by a furrow in his brow, the slight downturn of his lips. He’s not thrilled to see you either.

A beat passes.

Two.

Neither of you break eye contact.

The silence extends to the point of discomfort for all four onlookers, each of them hesitant to break the tension that’s rising by the second.

Finally, Dr. Kim takes a knife to the tension. “Do you two know each other?”

Park Sunghoon. Renowned figure skater at your rival university. Someone with such a natural knack for carving lines through ice that whispers of prodigy have been shadowing his footsteps since the minute he put them on a rink.

Someone with his head so far up his own ass you’re not sure how he can see half the time, much less keep his hair looking so perfect.

Oh, you know him alright.

“___?”

And it would seem he remembers you as well.

It also answers Dr. Kim’s question well enough.

“Ah, good.” It sounds like a question, like she’s hoping your acquaintance will be a positive thing instead of a disaster. You don’t have the heart to tell her otherwise. “The figure skating community is tight knit, I suppose.”

You suppress a scoff. That’s one word for it, you guess.

You remember when it felt that way to you, too. Before tight knit became too small. Back before university, when it felt like it was you and Park Sunghoon against the world, instead of against each other. Back when the two of you didn’t skate for opposing teams but instead were members of the same club. A time when you took the ice together, skated as partners until he—

You force your thoughts to stop in their tracks. Your blood pressure has spiked enough in the last few days, and thinking back on long days spent with Park Sunghoon will only send it skyrocketing again.

If anything, you’ll use this opportunity to practice perfecting your poker face for when you inevitably run into him at future competitions.

And future competitions means you need a healed ankle, not a bruised ego. And certainly not an unpleasant trip down memory lane.

Turning away from Sunghoon, you’re the first one to answer when Dr. Kim asks if you’re ready to get started.

“Yes,” you tell her, determination written across your brow, in the set of your shoulders, and perhaps most noticeably, in the way you avoid Sunghoon’s wandering gaze for the next two hours.

…

Without the rink, days are quick to meld into one another. It may be concerning, considering that you still have a set schedule of classes and homework to follow, but your life has revolved around training for so long that it’s hard to tell Mondays from Wednesdays without a set practice schedule.

Thankfully, you do still make it back to the clinic at the right time on the right day, this time for another session with Dr. Kim and your fellow band of broken athletes.

Including him.

Aside from the glaringly obvious exception, you’re not as bothered at the thought of returning as you feared you might be.

Jungwon, Niki, and Jake have proven themself pleasant enough company, and Dr. Kim seems to have built an understanding of how difficult it is to be forcibly removed from the sport you love. As such, she’s one of the least aggravating medical professionals you’ve spent time around.

“Hey,” Niki greets when you arrive. “Did you have a good weekend?”

You shrug. “Good enough. Mostly just catching up on homework.” Setting your bag down and switching out your shoes, you join him on the mat, beginning the series of warm-up stretches Dr. Kim instructed you through last week. “What about you?”

“Not too bad. I got some good news from my doctor, actually.” He switches legs in his stretch, and you’re almost envious of his flexibility. He’s a dancer, and an exceedingly good one at that. One with an unfortunate knee injury at the moment. “My x-rays are looking a lot better. He thinks I might be able to start easing back into regular use by next month.”

“That’s great,” you smile, even as a pang of jealousy stabs somewhere near your gut. “I’m really happy for you, Niki.”

“A month still feels like forever, though, doesn’t it?” He sighs. “I can’t remember the last time I was out of the studio for this long.”

Jungwon slides down onto the mat next to you, joining in on the stretch routine. “Consider yourself lucky, man. They told me at my last check-up that I probably won’t be able to do any jumping or kicks again for at least three months even though the fracture is already mostly healed.” He shakes his head. “No jumping or kicking,” he echoes, sarcasm dripping from every word. “You know, things that are super easy to avoid in taekwondo.”

“If it’s any consolation, I just got told that I’m gonna have to sit out of regionals this year. Which means I’ll have no way of qualifying for nationals.” You wonder how many times you’ll have to admit that particular reality to yourself before the sting starts to fade.

“That sucks.” Jake agrees, coming down to the mat and occupying the spot next to Niki. “I’ll probably have to sit for this entire season, too. I love my team, but it’s so frustrating watching them play when I know I could be an asset on the field.”

“That’s true.” You’re struck by a sudden wave of sympathy. “At least skating is an individual sport, so the only person I have to disappoint is myself.”

“Speaking of skating,” Jungwon sounds hesitant as he approaches the subject. “Do you and Sunghoon, uh…” he pauses for a moment in search of a neutral way of framing the unmistakable tension that surfaced the last time he saw the two of you together. “Do you two know each other?”

Grimacing internally, you suppose an explanation was bound to be solicited after your icy reunion. “We skate for rival universities.” Your gaze fixes on a spot on the ground. “And before college we used to, uh, we used to skate for the same club.”

The three boys share a glance. It’s hardly an explanation for the venom you said his name with but before they can press you further, the subject in question enters the room.

Again, he takes his time setting his bag down, getting his things ready. This time, he also pulls out an obnoxiously big pair of headphones, secures them over his ears before he bothers to turn around. Despite the fact that all three boys offer him friendly smiles and waves, he returns the gesture only with a tight smile, making his way to the mat on the opposite side of the room before he begins his stretch routine.

It’s a message that rings loud and clear. A frown passes between Jake, Jungwon, and Niki. It’s obvious to you, then, that you’re the reason he chose to set himself up as far away as physically possible.

So be it, you think, letting the slight roll right off of you. It’s not the first time he’s given you the cold shoulder for something he plays an equal part in, and you doubt it will be the last.

Besides, it will only make your sessions pass by quicker, if the burden of avoiding gazes and minimizing interactions falls on his shoulders instead of yours.

With nothing but a shrug, you adjust slightly, ensuring that the only view he has of you is of your back.

…

It’s a pattern that continues as physical therapy sessions start to become a regular routine in your week. Sunghoon, with his apparent disdain for anyone’s time but his own, is always the last to arrive. He also continues his habit of picking the spot in the room furthest away from you.

Despite the fact that you’d like to chalk it up to his social ineptitude alone, that explanation doesn’t track. Although there’s still a certain aura of aloofness that follows where he goes, it’s too often that you see him smiling at a joke cracked by Jake or sharing easy conversations with Jungwon and Niki.

Hell, he even interacts with Dr. Kim with a level of warmth you didn’t know was possible coming from him. If there’s any disdain in their conversations, he directs it all towards his right wrist. It’s why he’s here, you assume. Encased in a brace similar to the one you wear on your left ankle, his right forearm seems to be the reason for his attendance.

It’s hard to not be envious. While a wrist injury is nothing to scoff at, it doesn’t necessarily keep you off the ice. Not in the same way a fractured ankle does.

Refocusing your thoughts, you push the boy across the room firmly out of mind as Dr. Kim helps adjust you into the next stretch.

“How about now?” Dr. Kim pushes your spine a fraction of an inch further, pressure light but demanding. Before, this much flexibility would have been an easy request of your body, but lack of use has your muscles feeling tight. “Any tightness or pain?”

“No.” The bead of sweat on your brow begs to differ, as does the way the negation slipped through gritted teeth.

But you’re frustrated. Annoyed at the progress you’ve lost, at the new limits of your body, at the way you feel like a stranger in your own skin.

Across the room, you miss the flicker of annoyance that flits over Sunghoon’s features. Headphones on as always, you imagine you’re nothing more than a blip on his radar, a pesky intruder that’s easily ignored as long as he has his back to you.

“Hm,” Dr. Kim muses. “You’ve retained more flexibility than I expected.” She offers you a smile. “That’s a good thing, a sign of a quick recovery.”

You suppress a grimace. It should be a good thing. You should be recovering quickly. If only you could get your stupid body to cooperate.

Stealing another glance at the boy across the room, you can’t help the way a small burst of rage bubbles in your stomach. Prodigy. Why does he always get to be the anomaly, the exception to the rule? His injury is already less severe than yours, and he’s probably recovering quickly, too. Without even having to fake it.

Easing you out of the stretch, Dr. Kim jots down a quick note. “I’ll have Dr. Min run another x-ray at your next visit.” Nodding towards your ankle, she adds, “I think there’s a good chance that things are looking a lot better, and updated x-rays will help guide our next sessions.” She pauses for a minute. “I don’t want to get ahead of myself or get your hopes up, but I think we might be able to start putting some weight back on it soon. Start getting it stronger again.”

You’re hesitant to let your excitement grow too much. But it would be a lie if you weren’t already counting the days until your next visit with Dr. Min in your head. “Thank you,” you tell her. “I’ll hope those x-rays come back looking good, then.”

“Me too,” she smiles. “I’ll see you next week, then. Hopefully with good news.”

You nod, returning her smile before heading to the door to gather your things. Jungwon catches you on your way out.

“Hey, ___, hold on a sec.” When you turn back towards him, he tells you, “The rest of us are gonna grab lunch at a place nearby, if you want to join.”

Your uncertainty must write itself across your features, because he’s quick to add, “Don’t worry. Sunghoon won’t be there. He’s got a class right after this.”

Slightly embarrassed by the way he read you so easily, you nod. “Sure. Lunch sounds good.” Despite their friendliness with Sunghoon, you’ve come to like the three of them. And it’s been far too long since you broke up the monotony of class, homework, and medical appointments with something as simple as lunch with friends.

And as long as he’s not there, you imagine it will be nothing but pleasant.

It doesn’t take long for them to prove you wrong.

Niki barely lets you get one bite in before he asks, “So, what exactly happened between you two?” Even without the name, the question is obvious.

Still, after choking on the sip of water you’d been taking, you answer, “Who?”

Jake just gives you a look.

You sigh. “Like I said, we used to skate for the same club. We, uh, never really got along, I guess.” Avoiding eye contact, you add, “And now we skate for rival schools. I suppose it’s only natural to not like each other.”

Niki doesn’t miss a beat. “Yeah, that sounds made up.”

Jungwon swallows his bite, parts his lips like he has something to say. Internally, you heave a sigh of relief. If any of the three of them spare you, you have a feeling it would be him. “I mean, it does seem like something else must have happened.”

Or not.

“You don’t have to tell us,” he adds. “But it’s just… I mean, the two of you can’t even look at each other.”

Sighing, you suppose the circumstances do look odd from the outside. “There was… an incident. Back when we used to skate together.”

“What?” Jake asks. “Did he steal your skates right before a show or something?”

“No, no.” You shake your head. “It happened on the ice, actually. During a program.”

“Wait,” Niki interrupts. “You said you used to skate together. Do you mean like, as partners?”

The guilt on your face says it all.

“No way.” Jake says.

Jungwon’s eyes grow bigger. “What did he do?”

“Yeah,” Niki turns to face you fully. “Wouldn’t being his partner be a good thing? At least on the ice, I mean. I know he can be a little insufferable, but isn’t he some sort of prodigy—”

“Prodigy, my ass.” You’re so sick of that goddamn word. “Wasn’t a prodigy when he dropped me in the middle of our program at junior nationals, was he?”

The way all three or their jaws drop in unison is almost worth the admission.

But the thing is, he was. No accusatory fingers pointed in his direction after it happened. No one blamed prodigy Park Sunghoon for the mishap.

No, it was decided fair and square by the jury of public opinion that the mistake was entirely your fault, your burden to bear. And it’s not like you were immune to the criticism. Whispers followed where you went. And you always, always managed to hear them.

Maybe if you’d trained a little harder, completed the second rotation a little sooner, the skill would have gone off without a hitch, they mused. Hell, maybe if you’d stuck to your diet a little better, those last two pounds would have spelled the difference between a perfect landing and your ass on frozen ground, program music still crescendoing as onlookers watched with horrified fascination.

“Oh,” Jungwon grimaces.

“That’s rough,” Niki agrees.

And they don’t even know the worst of it. Don’t know that back then, at fifteen, you’d had a giant, soul crushing, earth shattering, massive crush on your skating partner. That you searched for his approval just as eagerly as you’d sought out your coach’s.

That you’d squeezed in as many extra practice sessions as physically possible for five months leading up to the routine just to make sure you were as close to flawless as possible, just to make sure you were chosen to be his partner on the ice.

That you giggled, giggled, when you saw the matching costumes the two of you would wear for the first time.

That you followed where he went with long sighs and lovesick eyes. That you looked forward to the grueling hours you spent on the ice with him, turning perfection into something even greater.

That your heart skipped a beat every time you ran through your program, every time he caught you with sure hands and a strong grip.

That Park Sunghoon never made a mistake, never let you fall, not once.

Not until a spotlight was spinning dreams into reality and you were already anticipating the secret smiles you’d share with matching gold medals around your necks.

Not until it all shattered in a single moment.

It was cold, as you laid there on the ice, sprawled out and unable to move from the sudden shock of it all. Luckily, you’d avoided any critical injuries. You had staggered off the ice with nothing but some bad bruising, the worst of it staining your ego and your heart.

And after it all, no matter how many times you passed him on your way to the locker room, shared the ice with him, or searched for the gaze he pointedly avoided across the room, Park Sunghoon never uttered the two words that just might have made you forgive it all.

Instead of an apology or even the decency of an explanation, you got a cold shoulder and a lost friendship you were too confused by to mourn.

In the end, you’d decided to turn it all into a blessing in a very thorough disguise. From that moment onwards, all of your time on the ice was dedicated to you and you alone. Never would you let anything but the sheer strength of your own will, your own goals, motivate you to become better, faster, stronger.

And you found that victory tasted even sweeter, when the full weight of it could rest on your shoulders alone. When no one could whisper behind their palms that the only reason you stood on the podium was a prodigy of a partner.

So fine. Park Sunghoon didn’t owe you shit. Not an apology, an explanation, or even a second glance.

And if he was a prodigy, an ice prince or whatever stupid title he’d earned alongside his medals, well, you’d just have to be even better.

But now, sitting across from new friends with a fractured ankle and a ruined shot at medalling this year, a quiet part of you admits for the first time that maybe, just maybe, part of that resolve is nothing but spite in disguise. Part of the anger you’ve clung to for so long isn’t directed at him, but at yourself.

That it was embarrassing to fall in front of a crowd, yes, but it was also humiliating to know that he was hearing all those little comments about your inferiority too. To realize that his silence meant he probably agreed. That you were a liability of a partner, unequal in both skill and importance. That he could move on from the incident, from you, completely unscathed.

That your little crush was entirely one-sided, just like the respect and admiration you’d once felt for him.

You stare at the half-eaten lunch in front of you, appetite suddenly completely gone.

“What a coincidence that the two of you ended up injured at the same time,” Jake muses.

“And in the same physical therapy group.” Jungwon nods.

“Yeah,” you echo hollowly. “What a coincidence.”

…

When Park Sunghoon speaks to you for the first time in five years, it’s completely by accident.

As the weeks have continued on, you’ve fallen into a perfect routine during your shared physical therapy sessions. A routine of avoidance, ignorance, and as much space between the two of you as physically possible. It’s become so easy that the two of you navigate it with the kind of grace only two elite figure skaters could ever manage.

If anything, it’s more awkward for the other members of your session than it is for the two of you. Jungwon, Jake, Niki, and Dr. Kim are the ones suffering as they try to stay friendly with both of you without icing out the other.

It must be why he doesn’t even bother to check who it is that’s standing right next to him as he reaches for his bag on the shelf near the front door at the end of another session. Must be why he says it in a voice so casual you don’t think it’s him at first. “How pissed do you think Dr. Kim will be if I’m late again next week?”

Even though the voice doesn’t quite fit, you half expect to see Jake standing next to you when you turn to the side.

Sunghoon realizes his mistake at the exact same second you do. You watch as shock flickers across his features, quickly replaced by something guarded, unreadable. Just as completely closed off to you as always.

It pisses you off, the way he’s so utterly and completely unaffected by you. The way he can brush you off as easily as a piece of dust. Insignificant. Unimportant. Unwanted. It has you freeing the reins on comments you should bite back instead.

“Hard to say.” Ice and resentment drip from every syllable. “Then again, I’m surprised you care about what she thinks. Doesn’t seem like something that would bother you.”

That at least earns you some of his emotion. Another bout of shock crosses his face before it shifts to confusion and falls finally to anger. You can see it in the furrow of his brow, the set of his jaw. The flare of heat in his eyes.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

If he falls to anger, you’ll rise above it. At least on the outside. There’s no accounting for the way your gut twists in rage. Still, you offer him a smile that’s almost as fake as it is sickeningly sweet. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out if you spend enough time thinking about it.” It’s patronizing, and intentionally so. You hope it annoys him enough to keep him up tonight.

Reaching for the front door, you take your exit first. The hallways of this building have become familiar over the weeks. Even with anger clouding your vision and a bad ankle, you trace a steady path to the parking lot. You’re halfway to your car when the sound of your name stops you in your tracks.

You freeze for a moment, turning the sound of it over in your brain, stuck on the way it almost sounds like a plea, a prayer coming from his lips. The sound of footsteps draws nearer. They fall quickly, as if he’s running. Your indecision still renders you immobile.

“Hold on a second. Did I… Did I do something to upset you?”

If you thought you were angry before, you’re surely seeing red now. How dare he.

Spinning around, you only hope you sound as outraged as you feel. “Is that supposed to be some kind of joke?”

“What? No.” His brow furrows. “I mean, I know our schools are technically rivals and all, but we haven’t really seen each other in years.”

“Right, because you’ve been so sunny and welcoming since I joined the group.”

“I was giving you space. You practically bolted like a scared cat when you saw it was me.” He runs a hand through his hair. You hate the way it falls perfectly back into place. And you hate the way he looks so good doing it. “But clearly you’ve got something against me.”

The audacity, the sheer, utter audacity. There’s no trace of humor when you say, “You’re hilarious, really.” And there’s no room for debate when you turn away from him again, continuing to walk towards your car.

“Wait,” he tries, but it falls on deaf ears. “God, ___, would you just hold on for a second, I—”

You turn. To do what, you’re not entirely sure. But before you can decide, the grip he has on his car keys loosens, the fingers of his right hand less dexterous than usual thanks to his arm brace. He still has his reflexes though. With his other hand, he manages to stop them from falling completely.

“Better take care of that.” You jerk your chin to where he awkwardly fumbles with his keyring, trying to find a better grip. “Wouldn’t want to drop those too.”

His gaze snaps to you, eyes wide, mouth slightly slackened. The keys fall from his grasp, metal clinking delicately on the pavement. A million questions swim across his features, none of which you’ll give the grace of answering.

Instead, you turn around once more. You make it all the way to your car, all the way out of the parking lot, all the way home.

And he never says your name once.

…

The following Tuesday, you are the last one of the group to arrive. And while you would usually never pass up the opportunity to best Sunghoon at anything, including being the latest arrival, competition is not the reason for your tardiness.

It’s avoidance. That, and the fact that you had to spend eleven minutes giving yourself a pep talk in the car before you could work up the nerve to approach the front doors of the clinic. In the end, it’s a glance down at the boot on your left foot that does it. You’ve let Sunghoon ruin your chance at a gold medal once, and you’ll be damned if you let him do it again.

Besides, your last visit with Dr. Min was a good one. Your ankle hasn’t healed quite as much as Dr. Kim suspected, but progress is progress, and you’re making plenty of it, according to your most recent x-rays.

You enter the session with an apology for Dr. Kim and concentrated efforts to not let your gaze wander to the back corner of the room as you make your way over to where Jake and Jungwon sit. Starting your stretches, you assume Niki is over with Sunghoon, but you can’t work up the nerve to confirm that.

Despite her initial annoyance at your tardiness, Dr. Kim is equally pleased at your latest x-ray results and gives you the green light to switch out the resistance bands you’ve been using for the next level up. Just as you’re reaching for the set of red bands on the shelf next to the treadmills, a set of obnoxiously smooth hands gets there first.

Turning to Sunghoon with narrowed eyes, you grab the end of the band set he just snatched out from under you, eyes ablaze.

The little fucker has the gall to roll his eyes. “What are you doing?”

You yank on the band. He doesn’t even flinch, grip steady. “I’m trying to follow Dr. Kim’s instructions,” you inform, tone flat.

This time when you yank again, he yanks back. Much to your annoyance, he’s able to exert enough force to have you stumbling forward. “You’re trying to provoke me.”

“And it’s working,” Niki whispers to Jake and Jungwon in the back corner of the room. Dr. Kim just shakes her head.

“Just take the green bands,” Sunghoon suggests.

“They don’t have enough resistance. I need these ones,” you argue. “Why don’t you take the green ones?”

“Pretty sure if one of us takes the lighter bands, it should be you.” Sunghoon tightens his grip. “Or are you seriously trying to claim that you’re stronger than me right now?”

“I’m using them for my legs, you absolute jackass. Which are definitely stronger than your forearms.”

Sunghoon cocks a brow. “Should we put money on it?”

“You are such a dick. Dr. Kim literally—”

“Has another set of red bands,” the woman in question interrupts. She levels the two of you with an exasperated look as she holds them out in front of her. “There’s another set of every color on the equipment shelf next to the door.”

“Oh, right,” you nod, pulling back a little on your end of the band before you release it, just to hear the small cry Sunghoon lets out when it snaps against the skin of his good wrist. “Thanks.”

And the satisfaction that comes from completing your usual number of reps with a higher resistance is almost as gratifying as when you see Sunghoon rubbing at the still reddened skin on his left wrist as you pack up to leave for the day.

“Those two are gonna kill each other,” Jungwon tells Jake and Niki as the three of them walk to their cars, brow creasing in concern.

“Or something,” Jake agrees.

Niki hoists his bag up on his shoulder. “My money’s on ___.”

A contemplative look passes between Jake and Jungwon before they nod in unison, “Yeah.”

…

You’re in the middle of passing a medicine ball back and forth with Jake the following week when he asks, “Are your school’s finals next week too?”

And although it’s hard to believe, first semester is already drawing to an end as the days get shorter and assignments get longer.

“Yeah,” you nod. “I’m up to my ass in essays right now.”

“Same,” Jake agrees. “Sometimes it makes me wonder how I do it when I’m training, too.” Although you agree, a pang of jealousy is the only thing his words inspire. Of the skaters on your team that are preparing to compete as you speak. That have already choreographed their routines and selected their music and are spending every waking moment perfecting each and every detail of their program.

It’s hard. It’s brutal. You’d be the first to admit that. But you miss it all the same, so much it hurts.

A moment passes before he continues. “Well, anyway, Jungwon, Niki, and I were thinking that since none of us are training right now, we should celebrate the end of the semester like everyone else does.”

You arch a brow. “You’re gonna have to be more specific than that.”

“Right, sorry,” he apologizes. “Consider this your formal invitation to get absolutely shitfaced with us next Friday.”

The laugh that bubbles in your throat is so unexpected you can’t quite bite it back. While you have your fair share of good, old-fashioned fun, he’s right. Every other semester, you’ve celebrated the end of finals season with a cup of hot tea and an early night in bed. Traded one source of stress for another as you woke up bright and early the next day to hit the ice.

You send him a smile, tossing the medicine ball back in his direction. “Count me in.”

…

The following Friday night finds you double-checking the address on your phone before tentatively knocking on the front door of what you hope is Jake’s apartment. In the middle of the university district across the city from your own, you can’t say you’re familiar with any of the buildings outside of the athletic complex, which you’ve only ever visited for a handful of competitions. It strikes you then that this is also the university Sunghoon attends. And, stomach dropping, that you never actually asked who all would be attending tonight.

Before you have the chance to spin on your heel and high-tail it down the stairs you just climbed, the door swings open. It’s not Jake.

“Oh,” you mumble. The boy who opened the door is not Jake, but he is very much attractive. “Sorry. I’m looking for Jake Sim’s apartment.” Your voice turns up at the end like a question.

“You’re in the right place,” he smiles, and it’s gorgeous. “I’m Heeseung, Jake’s roommate. You must be ___.” He opens the door wider, allowing you space. “Come on in.”

“That’s me.” You offer him a grateful smile as you enter, hanging your coat and sliding your shoes off.

The interior is surprisingly sophisticated, for a college boy’s apartment. It’s clean, for starters, and as you follow Heeseung down the hallway towards the kitchen, you can’t help but be impressed by their choice in decor.

“Help yourself to anything.” Heeseung gestures to the impressive spread of snacks on the table. “But first, can I get you something to drink?”

“Um…” Your lack of alcohol-related knowledge is apparent, and the uncertainty must be obvious, because Heeseung just smiles again.

“I’ve got you.” There’s an undertone of something in his words. Something playful, something bordering on flirty. But it’s too subtle to tell for sure, and you’re not one to bet on losing odds. He reaches for a glass and a handful of ice cubes. “Do you like fruity flavors?”

“Yeah,” you nod. “That sounds good.” Besides, it’s been a minute since you’ve been well and truly flirted with at a college party by a boy that looks like he could spell trouble in his sleep. This could be fun, you think.

Glancing towards the adjacent living room, you notice the usual familiar faces. Jake and Niki are sitting on the couch while Jungwon chats with a pair of boys you don’t recognize. Eyes tracing the perimeter, you feel your shoulders tense when they land on a familiar silhouette. Sunghoon has his back to you, but his identity is just as unmistakable as it was on your first day of physical therapy. Like Jungwon, he’s talking to another person you don’t know.

Oh, well. It’s too late to back out now and too early to make an exit. If you and Sunghoon can coexist in a room once a week without starting too many fires, you’re sure you’ll manage to get through tonight just fine.

Heeseung hands you a full glass. It’s cold where it meets your fingertips.

“Should we join them?” He inclines his head toward the living room and you nod.

Following in his footsteps, you wave a quick greeting to Jake before taking a seat next to Heeseung, enough space between you and Sunghoon for you to relax slightly.

“How do you and Jake know each other?” You ask, searching for something to fill the silence, to keep the conversation flowing. “Do you play soccer together?”

Heeseung shakes his head. “No, we’ve been friends since elementary school. But I am on the basketball team, which helps. I feel like student athletes just kind of get each other, you know?”

You do know, and you tell him as much. The crazy schedule, the unwavering commitment. It’s much easier to explain to someone that’s living through the exact same thing.

“Speaking of which, you’re a figure skater, right? For the university across town.”

You arch a brow. “I’m surprised Jake told you so much about you.”

“Not nearly enough,” he flirts, and this time it’s blatant.

You take another sip of your drink with upturned lips, weighing a response on your tongue. Before you can decide how many cards you’d like to show, you make eye contact across the room with the one person you were hoping to avoid.

Sunghoon looks equally—scratch that—even more displeased to see you. Jawline so taught you could cut your finger on it and lips drawn in a straight line, he’s pissed where he locks eyes with you from his seat. Sunghoon is the one to avert his eyes first. Throwing back whatever’s in his cup, he slices through the moment of tension with a knife.

If Heeseung notices the way your breath splutters, he doesn’t comment. Thankfully, Jungwon chooses the next moment to say his hellos and introduce you to the boys you hadn’t recognized earlier.

“Sunoo,” he nods towards the boy he’d been sitting with earlier, who offers a friendly greeting. “And that’s Jay, over by Sunghoon. And you’ve already met Heeseung.”

“And you all go to school here?”

“Yeah,” Jungwon nods. “Jay and I live together, and Sunoo is Niki’s roommate.”

“You’re deep in enemy territory,” Heeseung elbows you lightly, teasing. “What are we gonna do with you?”

You lift your now empty glass towards him, grinning. “Get me another drink, hopefully.”

Sending you a wink, he takes the glass from your outstretched hand before standing from the couch. “On it.” You watch his back retreat into the kitchen, oblivious of the second one that follows it a handful of moments later.

Jay, as it turns out, is not an athlete, but does play guitar for a local band your friend has been raving to you about for ages. He’s already promising you two sets of complimentary tickets to every one of their upcoming shows by the time you realize Heeseung’s been gone for a while. Too long.

Excusing yourself, you head toward the kitchen. And it’s just your luck that you find the person you’ve spent the evening avoiding, instead of the one you’re searching for. Even with the buzz of your first drink fading rapidly, your inhibitions are feeling low.

Sunghoon barely has the chance to register your presence before you’re laying out accusations.

“I know you don’t like me, but do you really have to spend the whole night glaring at me like that? In front of everyone?”

Sunghoon’s shoulders tense, a confirmation that he hears you, but he says nothing. Instead, he just swallows the remainder of his drink in one large gulp. His eyes are still flaring, and if you didn’t know any better, you’d think you did something to piss him off.

But it’s just like him, to avoid conversations he doesn’t want to have with the end of another drink. To treat you like someone not even worthy of a response. You don’t know why you expected anything different. Scoffing, you notice the full drink sitting on the counter. Heeseung must have had the chance to refill it before disappearing.

You move to step around Sunghoon and reach for it when he finally says, “I’m not glaring at you.”

The gaze you level him with is incredulous. “Do you think I’m stupid? I have eyes—”

“For all I know you are stupid!” Sunghoon sighs, drags an open palm down the length of his face. “I mean, are you really gonna let some guy you just met pour your drinks all night?”

“Heeseung?” You’re confused why all of his rage seems to be directed towards something so insignificant. “He’s Jake’s roommate”

“And a complete stranger to you.”

It’s infuriating, the way he assumes his opinion should hold any weight in your life. The way he thinks he has any say in your decisions. “So should I avoid all the food now too?” You’re being petty now for the sake of it. “I mean, since you’ve been in here unsupervised for quite a while now.” You take another step towards your drink and he moves, blocking your path with his body.

When you look up, you find his eyes already trained on you, and there’s no ice in them now. Just pure, unadulterated heat. Fire. Flames that lick the base of your spine. “You’re so fucking agitating, you know that?”

“I’m agitating?” You take another step forward, hoping the proximity will force him away. It doesn’t. If anything, he leans into it. Into you.

You reach for the drink again. This time, he stops you himself. Fingers of his unrestricted hand wrapping around your wrist.

“Yeah.” His words are low, voice a caress even as it drips venom. You feel his breath ghost across your cheekbone. “Real fucking agitating.”

Your eyes are still locked on his, and you search them for a hint of something coherent, something that makes sense. Every bone in your body drawn taught, it’s as if muscle memory reverts you to the last moment you were like this, the last moment he held you this close, body entwined with his own in a familiar embrace. Your wrist slackens in his grasp.

Last time, he dropped you. Sent you scattering across ice until the only thing you could taste was the bitterness of defeat and the sharp sting of humiliation.

Last time, he let you fall.

You have no idea what he’ll do now.

In the end, it’s the sound of approaching footsteps that has the two of you springing apart, your wrist falling from his grip. In the scramble, you remember your original target.

Despite the long melted ice, this drink feels even cooler in your grip, a stark contrast to the simmering heat just beneath your skin.

When Heeseung enters, he’s tucking his phone into his pocket with an apologetic look. “Sorry, I had to take a call. My brother gets chatty at the worst times.” Nodding to your hand, he smiles, “You found your drink.”

“Yeah, I did.” You take a step closer to the living room, closer to Heeseung. Further from Sunghoon.

Glancing between the two of you, there’s a hint of uncertainty when Heeseung asks if you want to rejoin the others in the living room.

You put his worries to ease and your questions to rest when you agree easily, not even bothering to give Sunghoon a second thought.

You do seek his gaze one last time, though, before you follow Heeseung back to the party. Looking directly at him, you raise your glass in a mock toast. Without breaking eye contact, you bring the cup to your lips, swallowing half the drink in one long sip. When you do finally turn away, it’s to find the empty seat next to Heeseung.

The rest of the evening passes in a pleasant blur, trading stories and laughs with the people around you while Heeseung keeps the seat at your side warm. Sunghoon does you the favor of disappearing from sight after your stand off in the kitchen.

It’s easy to relax into the company of everyone else, so much so that you don’t see Sunoo until you’re running right into him, the contents of his cup saturating the front of your shirt.

It’s a problem Heeseung is quick to solve, and the gray hoodie he offers you is cozier than any of your own with a scent that’s almost addicting.

He’s sweet, you think. Sweet and charming and forward in all of the right ways. It’s solidified when he offers to join you on the porch when you tell him you’re stepping outside for some fresh air. It’s cemented when he accepts your refusal with nothing but a smile and the request that you “come back quick.”

Stepping outside, it takes you a moment to realize that you’re not alone. It would appear that your earlier assumption that Sunghoon must have gone back to his place was wrong. There’s no drink in his hand, but the way he sways with the gentle midnight breeze makes you think he’s still working through everything he downed earlier.

Silently, you glance up at the cloudless night sky, at the way the stars seem to wrap around you. Gaze returning to Sunghoon’s back, you suppose the simplest course of action would be to leave before he realizes you’re here. You turn to do just that, to make good on your promise to Heesung, when the sound of your name stops you in your tracks.

Or at least, you think that’s what he says. It’s hard to tell, with the way his syllables and sounds slur together. Turning back towards him, you find him already looking at you. He repeats your name, and this time around, it’s a bit clearer.

His eyes trace a downward line from your face to your change in clothes. Something in his face crumples, withers.

“‘M sorry,” he slurs, words not lining up quite right through the inebriation.

“What?”

“That day.” The sudden onset of sincerity in his tone makes him seem more sober than he is. “I should have caught you.”

The stars in the sky suddenly don’t seem so far away. You must have heard him wrong. A crease forms between your eyebrows, eyes scanning over his features. They’re laid open in their honesty, no trace of deception.

“I wanted to catch you. I tried to.” He sighs. “Was my fault.”

“I…” You search for words, for the vindication you’d always imagined you’d feel at his admission. In its absence, you find only confusion and an odd pang of regret. “What?”

“I’m sorry,” he repeats.

“Sorry for what? Why are you bringing that up?”

He just shakes his head, eyes falling to his feet.

“I’m sorry,” he says again. Like a broken record. His pain is wrapped up in there too, trapped in a loop time has never quite let it escape.

When you return to the party, it’s with a jumbled excuse of needing to check on a pet cat you don’t have.

In the haste of it all, you forget to so much as exchange numbers with Heeseung. But you do find the time to pull Jake aside on your way out the door, to make sure that he helps Sunghoon get home safe.

…

The next morning greets you with a pounding headache and an unfamiliar hoodie draped over the back of your desk chair. It takes a moment of searching through hazy memories before recollection of that particular string of events finds you.

With a sigh, you head out in search of water and Advil, sending Jake a quick message that you’ll stop by his apartment later to return Heeseung’s hoodie.

Even a handful of hours later, you can’t decide if you hope Heeseung is home or not. It’s a Saturday afternoon after a long night, so you figure the odds are high. But you still can’t pinpoint whether that feeling in your gut is excitement or dread.

In an effort to delay the inevitable, you take a detour before visiting Jake’s apartment again. Your rival university’s sports complex is just as nice as you remember it, large, pristine buildings that hold everything an athletics department could dream of. Fondly, you remember the first time you skated in this stadium, back in middle school. It had felt so big, then, so special, to be skating for such a large crowd.

It felt even more special to be sharing the ice with someone who put dreams in your head and butterflies in your stomach. Still fairly new to pair skating, the two of you had put on a program with a less than favorable amount of deduction.

But still. It was yours. It was special. It was shared.

You wonder if he knew then, that one day he would be the reigning king of this very same rink.

Probably, you think. Park Sunghoon never had the habit of letting things feel impossible.

Looking down at the boot on your foot, you miss it, all of it, all at once. The late nights. The early mornings. The bruises and cuts and aching muscles. The determination after defeat. The elation after glory. The feeling of flying every time blade touches ice.

The sign posted next to the stadium is an advertisement, a reminder, of the upcoming regional championships. There’s a pang of loss, a moment of grief, for your program that will have to wait for next year.

But your x-rays are coming back better every time, and Dr. Kim is sure you’ll be back on the ice by the time spring comes.

For the first time in a long time, you think it’ll be okay. You know you’ll be okay.

In front of you, the stadium door opens, and you realize you’re standing right in front of the exit.

“Sorry,” you mutter, quickly moving to get out of the way, but then you take a closer look. “Coach Kang?” you ask, just as she says your name with the same air of disbelief.

It’s an odd feeling of synchronicity, to stumble into your childhood skating coach just as you’re reminiscing on the past.

“It’s been so long,” she beams, pulling you in for a warm hug. “What are you doing here?”

“Just visiting a friend. What about you?”

“Coaches’ meeting,” she explains. “Trying to see if I can get some of my junior skaters in to watch a few practices before regionals.” Nudging you with her shoulder, she adds, “speaking of which, how’s your program coming along? Are you getting excited?”

You shake your head. “I’m actually off the ice for this one.” Glancing down, you lift your booted foot in explanation. “Ankle fracture has me out for the rest of the season.”

“Oh, no.” Coach Kang places a consolatory hand on your shoulder. “I’m sorry. That has to be so hard.”

“It’s okay, actually.” You don’t know who’s more surprised, her at your admission, or you at the fact that you actually mean it. “Everything is healing up nicely, so I’m looking forward to an even better program next year.”

“Well look at you, all grown up.” She smiles. “I can say that thirteen-year-old you would not have had such a good attitude about it. Honestly, I’m surprised a fracture was enough to stop you. You were always so stubborn about things. You and Sunghoon.” She lets out a short laugh as your shoulders tense at the mention of him. “I was just thinking about you two the other day, actually. We had a skater fracture his tailbone and argue until he was blue in the face that he still wanted to compete.” Shaking her head, she adds, “It reminded me of that time Sunghoon insisted on skating even though he’d just sprained his wrist.” She shakes her head again, releases a small laugh. “Never could keep you two off the ice.”

It all checks out, the stubbornness, the determination even when it was stupid. But you’re hung up on one detail. You’re sure you could list every one of Sunghoon’s skating injuries just as thoroughly as he could. But before the current one, you can’t recall any wrist injuries. “What? When did he sprain his wrist?”

Coach Kang waves her hand flippantly, like the sinking feeling in your gut isn’t intensifying with every passing moment, like she isn’t about to confirm a realization you’re already dreading. “Oh, you remember. It was just a few days before nationals that one year.”

That one year. She skirts around it, for your sake probably. But you know exactly what she means, when she’s referring to.

And suddenly, you’re falling through air again, plummeting towards ice as a hand makes a desperate attempt to catch you. As sheer will alone is no match for injury weakened bones and ligaments and muscles. As you’re sliding across frozen ground and he’s gripping his wrist with pain on his face and terror in his eyes.

As your head spins, spots clouding your vision from the force of the impact. Before the world goes black, your eyes search for him.

And in those last few moments of consciousness, you watch as his mouth moves to form words you can’t hear.

“I’m sorry.”

…

Raising your fist, you pound at the door again. One, two, three times. At this rate, your knuckles will be bloody before you get a response.

But before you can start your assault on the wood in front of you again, the door swings open slowly, revealing a familiar frame.

“You absolute idiot.”

“Well hello to you too.” Rubbing at his eyes, you appear to have just woken him from a nap. If his head is feeling anything like yours was this morning, you almost feel sorry.

But there are more pressing matters at hand. “Were you ever going to tell me?”

“That I’m an idiot? Probably not.”

“That you sprained your wrist three days before nationals? That you skated anyway? That you attempted to catch a person quite literally spinning through the air with a wrist injury?”

A beat of silence passes.

And then another.

Sunghoon suddenly looks wide awake. “Oh.”

“Yeah, oh. What the hell were you thinking?” There’s fire in your eyes, an anger that’s directed towards him but not in the ways he’s used to.

He pauses for a moment, eyes searching your features for another beat. Finally, he sighs. “Would you have let me skate if I did?”

It’s not the answer you expect. And it’s just like him, to answer a question with one of his own. “I… what?”

“You heard me.” His eyes don’t leave yours. “Would you have let me get on the ice if you knew I was hurt?”

And what is it, him and his habit of asking ridiculous questions like they don’t have obvious answers. “What kind of question is that? Of course not. No one in their right mind would have let you do that program with a wrist sprain, much less your partner. And I love Coach Kang, but I’m about to file a negligence suit against her, because what the hell kind of—”

“Stop talking.”

“Excuse me?”

“Sorry,” he grimaces, and you’re still getting used to the way apologies sound on his lips. “That came out wrong. What I was trying to say was that you… Well, I… I mean…” He trails off for the third time, casts a tentative look at the way your eyebrows only raise higher and higher every time he stops a train of thought in its tracks. His gaze falls down, somewhere between your nose and chin. An exhale passes through parted lips. Something in his resolve slips. “Oh, fuck it.”

And then he’s kissing you.

Lips against lips and hands in your hair. It’s messy and awkward, and you can’t quite get the timing right.

Sunghoon pulls back a fraction of an inch, catching his breath and letting you do the same.

“What are you doing?”

There’s heat in his eyes and fondness too, a soft sort of expression that only melts further every time he looks at you. But now there’s anxiety in the mix, a crippling fear that he’s misjudged everything entirely, done something horribly wrong.

“I’m sorry.” Before today, you could count his apologies on one hand. Now, you’re running out of fingers. “Did you not want—”

This time, it’s you that pulls him down, hands lacing around the nape of his neck, exhaling a soft sigh against parted lips that sends his mind spinning.

And it’s only the second time, but it’s already better. Already a natural rhythm that the two of you seem to fall into with a little more grace.

The expanse of his door is cold against your back when Sunghoon pulls you into his apartment with his good hand, and he’s a quick study. Attempt number three is an even greater improvement as hands search for new skin to discover and things start to fall into place, one at a time.

Reaching for Heeseung’s forgotten hoodie, Sunghoon breaks the kiss only to toss it somewhere outside your current plane of existence. In this moment, you exist only within the space the two of you occupy, everything else an afterthought.

And you have the feeling attempt number four will be your best yet.

…

epilogue

“Are you ever gonna join me or do I just have to stay out here looking stupid forever?”

You don’t even take a moment to consider. “The second one.”

“Come on,” Sunghoon pleads, skating back towards you where you remain planted firmly to the bench on the perimeter of the rink. He moves towards you with a grace that used to inspire a raging, stomping green monster of envy. Now, you just admire the way he cuts across the ice with the agility of a dancer. “It’s fun out here, I promise.”

Avoiding his gaze, you let your eyes fall to your feet instead. They’re already laced up in your favorite pair of skates, black boot all but forgotten since you had it removed at your last visit to Dr. Min’s office. Since he gave you the green light to return to the thing you love most.

You had been ecstatic then. Brimming with so much extra energy Sunghoon had to physically intervene to prevent you from accidentally knocking over an elderly lady on your way out of the hospital. But now, with the opportunity you’ve been dreaming of for long, hard months at your fingertips, something in you hesitates.

Sunghoon says your name, and suddenly he’s serious. “This is all you’ve been talking about for months.” Sliding down onto his knees in front of you, you’re suddenly at eye level. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” He casts a doubtful glance. “Really, I just…” It’s hard, to speak your fears into existence, to let them take flight. Even if the boy in front of you makes it a little easier. “What if it’s not what I imagined?”

It’s a million little worries wrapped up in one. What if your ankle isn’t the same? What if it’s never the same? What if you’re not as good as you were? What if you’re not good enough?

Sunghoon hears them all, and puts them to rest with a smile, a gentle touch as he rests his forehead against yours. “You and that big brain. Always worrying about the wrong things.”

“Hey! I—”

“It won’t be what you imagined.” He draws back a few inches, and your eyes have nowhere to land but on his own. “It will be different. It will feel weird, and your legs will feel wobbly, your muscles will feel weak, and your ankle might give out.”

Your lips flatten into a thin line. “If you’re trying to make me feel better, you’re doing a terrible job.”

Sunghoon just pinches your cheeks together, forcing your lips to purse. “So you’ll show up. Over and over again. Every day until your skates start to feel like a second pair of feet and the ice starts to feel like home again. Until your ankle and your muscles and your stamina are all built back up, in a way that’s different from before but will feel familiar before you know it.” He presses a single, delicate kiss to the tip of your nose. “Until I’m dragging you off the ice instead of onto it, because your boyfriend needs attention and is feeling a little jealous of all the time you’re spending here instead of with him.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re so needy. It’s gross.”

Sunghoon only smiles. “Only for you.”

This time, when he gets back on his feet and extends a hand, you take it. You follow him onto the ice and headfirst towards your insecurities feeling a little bit like a newborn deer, a bike without its training wheels.

He laughs when you stumble and brushes hair out of your face when you pout.

After an hour, you’re already feeling more solid than before. After two, that feeling of flying is starting to return.

It’s somewhere just before hour three when Sunghoon says, “Remember how I told you earlier that you’re worrying about the wrong things?”

“Yeah.” You drag the word out slowly, not liking the hint of deviousness in his sudden grin.

“This is what I was talking about. Instead of worrying about getting back on the ice, you should be worrying about how long it will take you to be able to beat me on a lap around the rink.”

“You absolute asshole. I fractured my ankle!”

Already halfway around the rink, Sunghoon just laughs.

…

outtake—five years ago.

Sunghoon’s vision is blurry. It’s a terrible combination of things—the exhilaration of the spotlight, the pain in his wrist, the grief of an egregious error. The sudden onset of tears that sting in the corners of his eyes and fall without his permission.

Despite all of it, he finds his way back to his dressing room. Choking back a sob, he reaches for the glass of water he’d left out earlier. It tastes acidic on his tongue, burns like regret on the way down.

Stupid, he was so stupid. His hands tangle in his hair. He wants to pull it out. Wants to scream until his throat is raw and he can’t anymore.

It was a terrible enough decision to gamble his own fate on an unhealed injury, but as the reality of the situation comes crashing down around him, he realizes he’s done something much worse.

Eyes open, eyes closed. It doesn’t matter. All he can see is you, sprawled out on ice, limbs bent unnaturally, eyes dazed at the impact.

The unexpected impact. Because you trusted him. You trusted him so much that of course you’d never considered what you would do if his hands failed, if his wrist gave out. If he decided to risk your program, your fate, you, all on a whim, on an inflated sense of self-importance and a lack of regard for the injury he was so certain he could power through.

He couldn’t imagine it, three days ago. Telling you that he was injured, that he couldn’t skate the program. He couldn’t imagine watching as the features he bashfully considered so, painfully pretty twisted into disappointment. Into anger.

So he turned his shame into resolve, into determination. One that allowed him to catch you with a fractured wrist in every practice run, every time, except for the time that mattered. Biting back grimaces and cries of pain all for the fool’s hope of seeing you smile in a few days’ time, a gold medal around your neck.

Instead, he got to see you spinning through the air, slipping through his fingers, landing with a sickening thud. He wants to ask what hospital they took you to, wants to ignore the pain in his wrist a little longer and run there himself, just to make sure that you’re okay.

But then he imagines the way you’ll look at him when you see him. The way all that disappointment and anger he’d wanted to avoid so desperately will surely be all you have to offer him.

He understands. He does. He wouldn’t want to see him either.

Turning away from the mirror, he tucks away his shame for the future. But that only leaves his gaze landing on the bouquet of flowers sitting on the table. The one he’d spent nearly an hour agonizing over, the one his mother had assured him a dozen times you would love. The one he made sure had all of your favorite colors.

He snuck his own favorite in there too, in hopes of what exactly he can’t be sure, but he knows he likes the way they look together—your favorite color and the deep blue irises that represent his own.

It seems to stupid now. After everything, after this, he can’t imagine you want his flowers, and even less his favorite color. He can’t imagine that you want anything to do with him.

So he doesn’t seek you out. Not in the hospital that day, not when you’re cleared to practice and back on the ice again, not when chance has the two of you colliding five years later.

Not until he watches you walk away from him with all that anger and resentment and disappointment he’s been so avoiding for so long. Not until it strikes him in the face and he realizes that he can’t live with it, can’t let bygones be bygones and hope time and the absence of him in your life have healed you for the better when it still hurts to even look at you.

On a dressing room table, five years in the past, a bouquet of flowers wilts.

And Sunghoon learns that with love and patience and a little bit of sunlight, beautiful things, even the fragile ones, bloom when you water them.

.....

note: thank you for reading! as always, comments, reblogs, and asks are very much appreciated :D

#sunghoon fanfiction #enhypen fanfiction #park sunghoon #sunghoon #enhypen x reader #sunghoon x reader #sunghoon x you #enhypen x you #sunghoon imagines #sunghoon fanfic #sunghoon fluff #sunghoon angst #enhypen imagines #enhypen scenarios

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dakusan · 9 days ago

Note

Hi! I just read your post about what happens when you grow old and they don’t. Does the bond change at all once you’re turned? Like does the feeding experience become more intense since the human is now also a vampire? How would it affect the dynamics between the two? Is there any situation where the newly turned human would have a different soulmate bond or is it set in stone that they’re soulmates? Would they still crave the blood of a human or would their soulmate still satisfy them?

Please let me know your thoughts! I’m loving this series! Remember to sleep and eat well!

-🫧

🫧BUBBLE ANON!!

thank you so much for this ask. i adore this ask, and i am thrilled to answer it.

also! before diving in — i'm combining your question with another very related one about what happens if someone is turned at an older age, so we can explore this in more depth: biology, bond evolution, cravings, soulmate dynamics, and that moment you open your eyes as something eternal, beside someone who already was.

Ready? Set. GO

· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────

🧬 1. Does the bond change once the human is turned?

Yes... and no. The soulmate bond is soul-bound, not species-bound. That means once you're turned, the bond doesn’t vanish or break—but it evolves.

When one partner is human, the bond has limits. It allows emotional syncing, some dream-sharing, physical craving, and soul recognition. But when both are vampires? That bond gets amplified like a blood-lit wire.

Emotional sync becomes visceral — they can feel flashes of each other's urges, memories, even phantom sensations.

Feeding becomes euphoric — it's not about survival anymore. It's pure communion.

Sex + blood sharing? Transcendent. They literally become each other's anchor, their only drug, the thing that keeps them sane in eternity.

⏳ 2. What if the human is older when turned? Do they stay aged?

Now here's the real science. Turning doesn't just stop the clock — it rewinds it. But how far? Depends on:

Age at time of turning

Health of the body

Strength of the vampire who turns you

Depth of the bond

The turning phase will rewind you. Rebuild you. The older you are at the time of turning, the more aggressive and volatile that biological reversal becomes.

🩸 THE BIOLOGICAL EVENT HORIZON

The moment vampire blood enters your system—after death—it's a full system overwrite. I've mentioned this before in another answer to someone's ask.

Vampire blood carries:

🔬Retroviral magic particles: Like enchanted viruses. They hijack your DNA, rewrite your genome on the fly, and reprogram your aging.

💉Crimson Code Cytokinesis: Magical analogues of hematophagic cytokines. They force regeneration, but only if bonded or stabilised by sire magic.

☠️Enzymatic kill-switches: If the ritual is off—by timing, intent, or strength—you die for real. No reboot.

⚠️ NECROSIS BEFORE REBIRTH

You die. That's required. Cells begin to rot, signalling the reboot.

Magic floods the system. Not all at once—it's localized bursts: brain stem, heart, bone marrow, endocrine system, skin.

Your body begins violent regeneration. Every cell is rewritten.

👵🏽 SO WHAT IF YOU’RE OLD?

If you're turned at 70, 80, 100?

Your cells are already damaged:

Senescent cells (non-dividing, aged ones) clog the system.

DNA damage and telomere shortening are rampant.

Collagen has broken down.

Neural efficiency is reduced.

Turning must burn all of that away. It's not gentle. It's violent cellular warfare.

🔥Your skin shreds and rebuilds. Bones crack, melt, and reset. Teeth fall out and regrow sharper. Your spine realigns. Your brain—screaming—rewires in real time.

The result?

You wake up young. Strong. Immortal. Usually in your early mid 20s—biologically the vampire body's optimal baseline.

Bye bye wrinkles.

Bye bye arthritis.

Bye bye sun-damaged liver spots.

Bye bye white hair and brittle bones.

Your cells are perfect replicas of an immortal ideal.

🧠 NEUROLOGICAL SIDE EFFECTS (Age Matters)

If you were old, your memories are sharp—but can feel like echoes. Your body no longer matches your mental age. That can cause:

Phantom pains from old injuries that don't exist anymore

Temporal disorientation

Dysmorphia or existential confusion

Vivid dreams of past lovers, children, or events—fading like smoke in daylight.

Some older turned vampires become extremely detached from their former human lives. Others cling to them like ghosts.

🧍🏻‍♂️WHAT ABOUT YOUNG TURNS?

Like Han Jisung who was turned at 21, he barely had anything to "fix". His turning was cleaner, faster, less traumatic.

Minimal necrosis

No telomere repair needed.

Skin, organs, brain—already at peak.

He still died. Still suffered. But he didn't need to be rebuilt. He was preserved.

🤯 TLDR

Older = Longer, more violent turning. Your cells must be reborn, not just preserved.

Turning = Magical stem cell therapy on demonic overdrive.

Result = Immortal body ages ~21-25, but with the mind of someone who remembers death.

🩸 3. Does a newly-turned vampire crave human blood?

Yes—but only briefly.

After turning, your body goes through what's called the First Hunger — a wild, feral craving for human blood. Not just any blood: high-quality, soulmate-reminiscent, potent blood.

But if your soulmate is the one who turned you?

Your bond overrides the pull for others.

You become addicted to them and only them.

It's not just preference. Their blood satisfies every need—like a perfect key in a cursed lock.

💔 4. Can your soulmate change after turning?

NO.

The soulmate bond is one per lifetime. Turning doesn't rewrite fate, it only deepens the bond. If you were bonded before? You're sealed now. Forever.

If you weren't bonded to anyone? You still might find a soulmate post-turn—but it's rarer.

Vampire bonds are singular, violent, cosmic. You don't get to "try again". If it's them, it's always been them.

· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────

thank you for this ask, i love diving into the science and biology of it all.

come again any time 💋🦇

#ask dakusan #vampire!skz series #vampire!skz lore #stray kids #skz imagines

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codingquill · 1 year ago

Text

Network switches

What’s a network switch ?

A switch is a device used in computer networks to connect multiple devices together within a single local area network (LAN). Its main role is to facilitate communication between different connected devices, such as computers, printers, servers, IP phones, etc.

It is a mini-computer which is made up of RAM, ROM, flash RAM, NVRAM, a microprocessor, connectivity ports and even an operating system.

RAM

RAM (Random Access Memory) contains the current configuration of the switch and temporarily stores the MAC address table, which is then processed by the microprocessor.

Microprocessor

The microprocessor is the heart of the switch, responsible for data processing, including switching and creating links between multiple devices.

External memories

External memories, such as flash RAM, ROM, and NVRAM (Non-Volatile RAM), store configuration files , different versions of the IOS , etc ...

Ports

The switch ports are the communication interfaces of the switch. There are several of them, generally 24 for a Cisco switch. Each port is associated with an LED which indicates its status and activity.

How does it work ?

Now how does a switch work to transfer information from one machine to another?

Suppose we have 4 machines: A, B, C and D connected to our switch in ports 1, 2, 3 and 4 as follows:

The switch only works with MAC addresses , so basically we have an empty MAC address table stored in RAM as soon as the switch starts up which looks like this :

Transmitting data from machine A to machine B happens in the following steps:

Machine A sends a frame to machine B

Once this frame arrives at port 1 (which is the one linked to A), the switch reads the source MAC address and stores it in the MAC address table

The switch reads the destination MAC address and looks for it in the table, if it is not in the table, it broadcasts to all the active machines connected to the switch except the source one.

If the port linked to the machine we want is active, it sends a response frame from which the switch reads the MAC address we were looking for (@B)

Once done, it records the MAC address of B in the table.

This process repeats until the switch reaches what is called "MAC address table stability", that is to say it knows all the MAC addresses of the connected machines and has no more need to broadcast.

Starting and configuring a switch

When it comes to booting a switch, the process is similar to that of a traditional computer system:

POST (Power-On Self Test): The switch performs proper functioning tests on all hardware.

Loading IOS (Internetwork Operating System): The switch operating system is loaded.

Loading the configuration. At this stage we have two cases:

Either the switch already has a startup configuration defined and stored in NVRAM

Either the switch is blank and it is up to us to define the startup configuration when it goes to setup mode

Switch configuration

The configuration of a switch is done through different modes, such as user mode, privileged mode and global configuration mode, which allows access to specific configuration modes, such as interface mode, routing mode, line mode, etc.

And to do all this of course you must first connect the switch with the machine via the console cable and open a terminal emulator

💡 It should be noted that the only machine that can configure the switch is the one connected to it by a console cable, the others are only hosts.

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assignmentimprobable · 10 months ago

Text

Per my last gobbledygook infused post about the excessive use of Stryker’s influence in the X-Men movies, I’ve come with my promised rant. This time taking a deep-dive into some of the more consequential changes to Fox X-Men’s storytelling choices when making movies based on different comics, specifically how they chose to adapt Weapon X in Origins, and all my gripes.

Disclaimer: (1) I know that the Origins movie takes much of its creative liberties based on Wolverine Origins; (2) I know that killing your darlings is necessary when adapting books to the big screen, but there’s the difference between a few darlings and cutting the entire thrust of the story. These are two completely different stories with different audiences, and I’m pontificating informally about a bunch of nothing at the end of the day for my own fun.

That said! Join me for the biggest bitch session about how the movies took on the ‘ohh how did Logan become The Wolverine” angle. This has been an essay for 4 years in the making so. Prepare yourselves accordingly.

Trigger warnings for: Graphic body horror with images, non-consensual nudity, torture, experimentation, sexual assault discussion (not discussed in depth, but touched on in a quote) and blood.

More under the cut

To preface… I don’t consider myself even a passable comic fan. I floated by on X-Men Evolution and the Fox films for my X-Men knowledge until I was an adult. I’ve got some measure of Lore knowledge, but at the end of the day I’m a filthy casual, so jot THAT down. Don’t expect me to know shit about Romulus’s involvement. So I, a fool, went into Weapon X (1991) expecting what I saw in X-Men Origins back in (checks calendar) 2009.

What I find most interesting is that movie adaptations of Weapon X tend to give a badass tilt to what happened, when what actually happened was far from it.

Starting with the first gripe: In X-Men Origins, we see that Logan volunteered for the Weapon X program as a means to get strong enough to beat Sabertooth for killing Silver Fox (Here, Kayla SilverFox. Which. :U ), his girlfriend. It was about single-minded vengeance. In the comic, Logan didn’t have a choice. They caught him while he was drunk, walking out of a bar and presumably on his way back to wherever he was staying.

What happens next is a series of episodes and observations about the state of his body, his nature, and his use as a weapon. Furthermore, it’s not an action comic.

It’s a horror story.

The core changes for the big screen can be boiled down into one paradigm shift: Logan is an active character moving the story along instead of a passive one in Origins. And really, that’s the problem, because a key element to the whole premise has to do with his role in the events that made him who he is. Weapon X is not a story about Wolverine, the characters never actually refer to him by his title, only by first name and project designation “Experiment X”. It’d be more accurate to say that Weapon X is a story that revolves around things that happen to Logan. More precisely: The things that people do TO him. At its core, the story is about the dehumanization that accompanies having your bodily autonomy meddled with.

Origins plays with this a little bit, having Stryker make the call for Logan’s memories to be wiped so that he can be used as a weapon. Which brings us back to the main problem: Not only does it undermine the themes of the story for Logan to be recontextualized as a completely willing participant- but introducing that angle entirely just feels totally flavorless, as opposed to the government having pulled his personnel file and tagged him as precisely the kind of volatile presence that no one would miss. Systems do that all the time, marking people as ‘other’ and making a judgment call on their worth.

I think it would’ve been so much more interesting if the movies played with the ambiguity of Wolverine’s participation in the experiment. Because in an X2 scene, when Logan says “you cut me open, you took my life.”, Stryker responds “you make it sound as if I stole something from you. as I recall it was you who volunteered for the procedure.” and everything comes into question. On one hand, it begs the question: Who WAS Logan before he lost his memory? Was he the sort of person to grasp destructive power for power’s sake? On the other, It’s a classic abuser tactic on Stryker’s part, shifting the blame onto the victim and putting forth the idea that they wanted it, and so that what took place was completely fine. It’s a sickening, spineless rationalization. Logan can easily be seen as an abuse victim being manipulated by the abuser.

Which is actually a good segue to my next point— the abuse in the comic. It’s graphic and uncomfortable. There is a crazy amount of nudity in this story (warning: pictured below). Not the fun kind either, there’s enough of it to make you feel kinda icky about what’s going on.

Logan spends virtually all of the story naked and a good amount of it bound in dehumanizing ways. The method feels weirdly evocative of bondage, muscles flexing and body bare, the form twisted into forced submission. It isn't his choice to be unclothed, and so it feels like you’re not to see him like this. There’s a layer of wrongness to it that you can’t quite shake as a reader.

According to the center for victims of torture: “Forced nakedness creates a power differential, stripping the victims of their identity, inducing immediate shame and creating an environment where the threat of sexual and physical assault is always present.” Nearly all of the elements are met in the story. Logan is drugged, stripped, bound, and subjected to multiple forms of violence. He has hot coffee poured onto his unconscious naked body for no other reason than a doctor’s bad mood. His abuse is justified by his status as a mutant, being told “This infernal thing is what [he] has always been” while left naked and unconscious in a pile of glass shards. The Doctors and staff have all the power, and he himself has none.

At every corner of doubt expressed by Carol Hines the lab tech or Dr. Cornelius the co-project lead, there’s someone ready to express that his identity is inconsequential. That person is typically the lead scientist, Dr. Thornton- or “The Professor”. He’s the menacing bald guy you see in a bunch of different cartoon adaptations of the Weapon X story.

(^ This guy. Like to slap his bald head. Reblog to stab it.)

Autonomy is defined by the Merriam Webster dictionary as “ self-directing freedom and especially moral independence.” It is the capacity to make an informed, uncoerced decision. Here, where Logan is constantly in and out of reality due to the drugs and conditioning equipment, there is no autonomy. Logan is incapacitated, has no information on what is happening to him, and is being fed scenarios that he did not give his permission to be in.The nakedness is part and parcel of what the Weapon X project is trying to do: They are trying to tear Logan away from his identity and personhood. Whether Logan breaks from the programming or not, he is treated as a tertiary consideration in all aspects. Humiliation is necessary to the conditioning. And I feel the need to clarify that it IS humiliation, defined as “to reduc[ing] (someone) to a lower position in one's own eyes or others' eyes.” The doctors must bring Logan down under their heel as a monster to tame, their agenda can’t survive without the subjugation element. The program wants to assume dominion over his body, mind, and by extension his abilities.

Addressing the vaguely sexual tilt to the nudity: I’d wager that the objectification stands to poise him in the eyes of the scientists and lab staff. Something to observe, a passive subject to be engaged with at their leisure. It’s a framing device. Logan is effectively robbed of his voice for much of the story, speaking in broken fragments and more often than not expressing how much pain he’s in. The underpinnings of the nudity are grounded in asserting control over Logan’s form, the Professor at multiple points talks about how this experiment and awakening the animal inside Logan is the latter’s destiny. He has decided that it’s this man’s highest calling because of who he is, a mutant and one of the troubled undesirables of society. Mentally ill, violent, drunk. The purpose of Experiment X is to mold Logan into a mindless beast, because that’s what they think he is, the rest is to strip him of any pretense or illusions about what he thinks he is. It’s an oppressive environment that reinforces its power dynamics through violence on the body and mind.

Next gripe: That really satisfying scene in Origins where Logan breaks free from the adamantium tank and shrugs off the bullet Agent Zero put in his head. It has all the trademarks of cool. The shredded figure of a big dick legend, the angry snarling, the bodies flying and claws slashing. It’s about intention! We are meant to see this man as effectively invincible and totally badass. It’s a short stint of medical malpractice that ultimately brings us the character we look up to and admire. It doesn’t hurt that he’s got a lovely figure and a handsome face either. It’s all pure, bloodless action. The scene on a tonal level doesn’t scratch the surface of how invasive or horrible the experiment was, nor do any of movies seem to capture how fucking GROSS! The closest we get is the sequence in X2 where Logan runs down the hallway naked, hurting, and horrified at what’s been done to him. And to Hugh Jackman’s credit, this brief and bloody snatch of memory leaves people unsettled, asking “What happened here?” This is the first time Logan’s seeing the claws, he doesn’t know what we know about their use now, only that it HURTS and he has to get AWAY. That’s creative storytelling within the limitations of a PG-13 rating.

Meanwhile, with Barry Windsor-Smith…

Having re-read the story a few times for the sake of this essay: I can see on some level why a major studio wouldn’t tackle this in full-fidelity. It’s not marketable in a “Middle of the road, grandparents and little kids can see this movie” way. It’s also fair to say that it’s hard to pivot from, because his involvement doesn’t end with the adamantium bonding. We still have several years of false memory implants, missions with Team X after the successful conditioning, and then getting to a solid stopping point before the X-Men recruits Wolverine. Marketing heads and studio executives don’t want to grapple with a complex trauma narrative and Wolverine being brutalized in deeply un-fun ways nonstop, no matter how compelling it would be to bring to life.

However, it’s a total missed opportunity that in shifting the perspective of the story to Logan as its driving force that the movie didn’t try to get at the juicier quirks of his mental state under the strain. Since you know, it’s the subject of at least 3 PTSD nightmare sequences in the X-Men films where Logan is at the forefront. Experiencing such immense psychological trauma impairs the ability of a victim to cope because of the deficiencies in endorphin activity following a traumatic experience. Volpicelli J, Balaraman G, Hahn J, Wallace H, Bux D. The role of uncontrollable trauma in the development of PTSD and alcohol addiction. Alcohol Res Health. 1999;23(4):256-62. Alcohol is a common method of compensating for the endorphin withdrawal by increasing endorphin activity, avoiding both the withdrawal, and also impairing the parts of the brain that recall memory. Ibid. Considering the detailed abuse in previous paragraphs, it’s no shit that Logan is an alcoholic. The trauma conga line of Wolverine’s history aside, an extended trauma event such as the one in Weapon X alone warrants the kind of hyper-awareness, aggressive outbursts, and self-destructive behaviors that the character is known for. The scene in X-Men 2000 where Logan attacks Jean while she’s putting the IV in his arm makes complete sense, having the context of panels like these behind it.

Is there something to be said here about depictions of masculinity that go out of their way to avoid showing vulnerability? I’d be willing to say so, especially based on the commentary around what the filmmakers wanted for the Origins movie. They wanted to prioritize the action and invoke Robert De Niro’s “oh fuck this guy is scary” factor in Cape Fear, highlighting the sheer badassness and animal edge of the character. He’s sexy, he’s a wounded soul, he’s a killer, and most of all: a Fighter. He gets back at Zero for killing the Hudsons, tracks down Victor and annihilates him with his newfound strength, and kills anybody who gets in his way.

To contrast: There are plenty of points in the Weapon X story where Logan fights and kills. He kills every animal they sicc on him. Slaughters a lab tech who goes into his cell while he’s screaming bloody murder. There’s no victory in it though, because he is doing precisely what the Professor has set out to condition him for. In text, it affirms the view of his abusers that he’s a “Mindless murdering animal.” He slaughters the security team sent to him and most important: He kills the architect of his immediate misery, he kills the Professor, the most satisfying slaughter of the story. But that very same satisfaction is hollow, it’s the product of unreality, false memories being planted into his mind as another part of the experiment. They’re empty for Logan, the subject. He doesn’t get to triumph.

This is the story of an abused man in the thick of that environment, not so much a story about how he beat the odds. It’s hinted at toward the end, but likely not shown because this is a prequel story, and Wolverine’s integration into the X-Men in the modern day IS the triumph. This is a contextual tale. This story can’t be all that there is and it isn’t, because Logan is destined to make it out. The Logan we know is at the end of this, but the Logan in this story is only just beginning down a path of trauma that will rip away his sense of self. The distinction lies in what kind of story both mediums are trying to tell. The tale of victimization, abuse, and dehumanization that is told in “Weapon X” undermines the kind of story that Origins wants to tell, one of a man’s journey down the long road and the choices and intentions that set him on the path to being Wolverine.

With the amount of blood, gore, and misery at work here, some might be compelled to characterize what happens in Weapon X as torture porn. However, Torture porn implies a level of gratuitousness that I just don’t think is present in the story proper. There’s a perfectly good reason for the raw, visceral discomfort and atmosphere: It speaks to the total lack of compassion and empathy in these people. Those who aren’t actively mocking this man are complicit at best, lending their help in a project that they know the subject isn’t a voluntary participant in.

Everyone seems to be in on a joke that Logan is the punchline for. Even if not everyone laughs, the point stands that Logan is stumbling blindly into spectacle for the entertainment and voyeuristic study of the project workers. It all feels like one big horror side-show. Windsor-Smith was doing a thematic breakdown on human apathy and sadism through characters like the Professor, Dr. Cornelius, and Carol Hines. The Professor is sadistic and clinical, he feeds little fish to the big fish and taps the glass for his amusement. Cornelius and Hines are apathetic, they will occasionally express remorse (with Hines crying multiple times), but both of them continue to be active participants in an unwitting man’s abuse and torture. Cornelius because he feels that he doesn’t have any other choice but to be here, and Hines because of her sense of loyalty to the project and general obligations as a staff member. The graphic imagery and out-of-touch quality of Logan’s mental state are meant to evoke compassion, sympathy, and anger in the readers. This is the Wolverine we’re talking about. If it’s one thing he does, it’s fight back. He kills, he gets even, but here? He doesn’t. He can’t. He’s helpless.

It’s an interesting exploration, seeing a major icon for masculine ideals being subject to the sort of objectification that we only tend to see rendered in such explicit ways with female characters. Nobody expects someone associated with such strength to be brought this low. The story doesn’t diminish the value of his suffering or imply that the abuse diminishes him in any way, I never quite got the implication that Logan was less of a man for any of the things that the experiment put him through. It’s absolutely insane for a story written during the Bush Sr. era to be able to tackle the kind of nuance on abuse creating victims across genders that people still struggle with today. Hines, Cornelius, and the Professor are the central drivers of a dialogue on what it means to be human, and through their contributions to Logan’s suffering, they prove that for being the supposed “human” opposites to his mutant monstrous self, only acknowledged as human as lip service, there is an endless capacity for cruelty. It brings us back around to Logan, who in being subjugated has shown the audience that The Wolverine is human too.

TLDR: X-Men Origins fumbled the ball adapting the story in an interesting way and I blame executive meddling. I think it would’ve been a really cool exploration of the character to showcase the horrific parts of the origin story, and if not that, then to explore the various themes highlighted by the original story but that probably would’ve required an R rating, and you know how studios take to those for their big IPs. That said, I cannot recommend reading the source enough. Barry Windsor-Smith tells a damn good story, even if it doesn’t feel characterized by the same quirks of an X-Men tale. Quite honestly? I think that’s the appeal. It’s as much a character study as it is a horror show of all the ways one person can be unmade.

#logan howlett #XMen #Wolverine #weapon x #deadpool and wolverine #Tagging as DPAW specifically for you fic writers who want some character content to study #Stevie Speaks

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buysellram · 26 days ago

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KIOXIA Unveils 122.88TB LC9 Series NVMe SSD to Power Next-Gen AI Workloads

KIOXIA America, Inc. has announced the upcoming debut of its LC9 Series SSD, a new high-capacity enterprise solid-state drive (SSD) with 122.88 terabytes (TB) of storage, purpose-built for advanced AI applications. Featuring the company’s latest BiCS FLASH™ generation 8 3D QLC (quad-level cell) memory and a fast PCIe® 5.0 interface, this cutting-edge drive is designed to meet the exploding data demands of artificial intelligence and machine learning systems.

As enterprises scale up AI workloads—including training large language models (LLMs), handling massive datasets, and supporting vector database queries—the need for efficient, high-density storage becomes paramount. The LC9 SSD addresses these needs with a compact 2.5-inch form factor and dual-port capability, providing both high capacity and fault tolerance in mission-critical environments.

Form factor refers to the physical size and shape of the drive—in this case, 2.5 inches, which is standard for enterprise server deployments. PCIe (Peripheral Component Interconnect Express) is the fast data connection standard used to link components to a system’s motherboard. NVMe (Non-Volatile Memory Express) is the protocol used by modern SSDs to communicate quickly and efficiently over PCIe interfaces.

Accelerating AI with Storage Innovation

The LC9 Series SSD is designed with AI-specific use cases in mind—particularly generative AI, retrieval augmented generation (RAG), and vector database applications. Its high capacity enables data-intensive training and inference processes to operate without the bottlenecks of traditional storage.

It also complements KIOXIA’s AiSAQ™ technology, which improves RAG performance by storing vector elements on SSDs instead of relying solely on costly and limited DRAM. This shift enables greater scalability and lowers power consumption per TB at both the system and rack levels.

“AI workloads are pushing the boundaries of data storage,” said Neville Ichhaporia, Senior Vice President at KIOXIA America. “The new LC9 NVMe SSD can accelerate model training, inference, and RAG at scale.”

Industry Insight and Lifecycle Considerations

Gregory Wong, principal analyst at Forward Insights, commented:

“Advanced storage solutions such as KIOXIA’s LC9 Series SSD will be critical in supporting the growing computational needs of AI models, enabling greater efficiency and innovation.”

As organizations look to adopt next-generation SSDs like the LC9, many are also taking steps to responsibly manage legacy infrastructure. This includes efforts to sell SSD units from previous deployments—a common practice in enterprise IT to recover value, reduce e-waste, and meet sustainability goals. Secondary markets for enterprise SSDs remain active, especially with the ongoing demand for storage in distributed and hybrid cloud systems.

LC9 Series Key Features

122.88 TB capacity in a compact 2.5-inch form factor

PCIe 5.0 and NVMe 2.0 support for high-speed data access

Dual-port support for redundancy and multi-host connectivity

Built with 2 Tb QLC BiCS FLASH™ memory and CBA (CMOS Bonded to Array) technology

Endurance rating of 0.3 DWPD (Drive Writes Per Day) for enterprise workloads

The KIOXIA LC9 Series SSD will be showcased at an upcoming technology conference, where the company is expected to demonstrate its potential role in powering the next generation of AI-driven innovation.

#ssd #solid state drive #hard drive #hdd #AI Storage #kioxia #technology #computer #computer ram

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cyras-visual · 1 month ago

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── .✦ Scientific malfunction

Summary: In a cold, controlled facility, two broken experiments—one numb, one overwhelmed—are placed together. At first distant, they slowly form a fragile bond through shared dysfunction. Their connection grows into a volatile mix of need and resistance, disturbing the experiment, when threatened with desperation, they fight bsck. What began as a simulation becomes something raw and unpredictable the system can no longer control

Content: Medical and psychological experimentation, Emotional abuse, manipulation, and dependency, Isolation, confinement, and institutional control, Dissociation, depersonalization, and derealization, Trauma-related themes (C-PTSD, BPD, grief, abandonment), Suicidal ideation and emotional dysregulation, Power imbalances and loss of bodily autonomy, Implied physical restraint and violence, Persistent self-worth issues

Wc: 4083

The facility was a place without clocks.

Time moved in silent rhythms: the hum of lights, the hiss of sterilised air, the cold repetition of sterile trays sliding across polished steel. It was a place where sound had no memory, where even footsteps sounded apologetic. No one laughed here, no one cried. If they did, the walls swallowed it, and the system logged the frequency. I’m one of the easy-wing cells— through they never called them— sat Aurora.

She was built, not born. The scientist said otherwise, of course—gestured at birth records, medical files, a family that had agreed. But Aurora knew better. She remembered nothing of before, and so she decided there was no before. There was only now, and this now, she existed like a glitch in the frame.

She was 5’2 and weighed 55 kilograms. The doctors documented it when the same indifference they used to describe electrical resistance or fluid pH levels. They used to describe her shape clinically: thighs too thick for symmetry, a waist not engineered for aesthetic purposes, a stomach with a slight softness that no dietary change could explain. They recorded, but never looked. She excited to be studied, not understood.

Her hair was short, dark blue— not dyed, but coded—and a,ways unruly at the crown, where she had a single cowlick refused compliance. A jagged side fringe, half-masked one eye, and both eyes were black, flat, like the bottom of a dried up well. They said her IQ once tested 160, but numbers lost meaning when she couldn’t summon joy at praise or shame at failure. Learned phonetically—never fluently.

Her emotional capacity—what they called “Affective Channel Integration”—was flawed. Something in the neural reworking had gone wrong. She could recognise, anger, could define joy, could label sadness from a chart. But she couldn’t feel them, not really. Not without it glitching. She would mimic concent, but forget the tone. She’d say “thank you” in a mom tome that unsettled the staff. Her mind was sharp, but it moved like a scalpel with no hand behind it—cutting without purpose.

Rei never learned her doctor’s name.

She remembered the curve of her mouth when she said, “isn’t she beautiful?” And the way her fingers moved across a tablet when Aurora was sedated. but she never learned her name. Not out of defiance—but indifference. And then resentment. A slow, cold thing that curled around her like the facility’s recycled air.

Across the facility, beyond four electronically sealed checkpoints and a retinal scanner, was Allison.

Allison had meant to be something else entirely. A non-human. A tool. A product. Her skin was synthetic but almost perfect—except the small geometric scars along her spine and the faint glow behind one eye, where the interface lens remained locked in place like a parasite.

She stood at 5’6 and barely 40kg—thin, angular, too fragile for a body meant to house a mind designed to never feel. But the experiment failed in reverse.

Axel felt too much.

The override protocols meant to limit her cognition had collapsed early in her development. When she spoke, it was in full sentences laced with emotional nuance. When she listened, she processed voice tremors, eye movements, fluctuations in breathing—like sonar, but humanised. She was a mirror too sensitive to light, reflecting bsck to more than it could hold.

Her eyes—grey blue—seemed to absorb emotion instead of reflect it. Some said she looked kind. Others said she looked haunted, but the truth was simpler: Allison was in pain. Constant, persistent pain—not physical, not entirely. It was the ache of knowing everything and never being able to set it down. It was like drowning in feelings she didn’t ask for

Dr. Lenora was her creator.

Allison had fallen in love with her.

Not in a way humans dream of candlelight and futures.

But in the way a machine longs for purpose. Lenora gave her language. Have her identity. And when Lenora touched her face once, fix a misaligned sensor, Allison cried for two hours after she left. It wasn’t real, she knew. Or maybe it was. She hadn’t yet learned the difference.

But then came Aurora.

The girl with the broken emotional core.

They passed once, during a malfunction in the west corridor. A breach in the containment protocol. Rei had to be escorted by two guard; Allison had been wired into a mobile dock, their eyes met briefly.

Nothing happened.

But Allison would remember it forever.

Because for the first time in her labyrinth of sensations, she saw someone empty—a void with skin. And somehow, that absence felt clearer than all the noises inside her.

And so the facility made its choice.

It placed them together in a controlled social simulation—“integration test 19C.” A room designed to simulate a neutral apartment. No sharp edges. Cameras hidden behind bookshelves. Artificial light mimicking morning. Neither girls spoke the first hour.

Aurora stared at the wall. Allison stared at Aurora.

Somewhere behind ten inches of reinforced glass, the scientists watched the beginning of something they could not classify.

It was not a friendship.

It was not a threat.

It was a fractured line running between two failed designs. And it had begun.

The room was too quiet.

Every movement inside it was amplified by the silence— cloth brushing skin, feet shifting against laminate flooring, the soft tick of a synthetic clock mounted above the observation glass. The world was watching, but Aurora and Allison didn’t speak.

They weren’t meant to.

They were meant to mirror. Meant to teach each other. The project notes had called it ‘sympathetically calibration through proximity.’ What it meant in practice: keep the experiments in a box and wait for one of them to become more like the other.

Aurora as still.

Allison was not.

Allison shifted her weight constantly, like her bones were trying to escape her body. Her breathing came in strange stutters—not anxious, but unpracticed, like she had to remind herself to keep going. She had built a system inside her head for this: “Count four seconds in. Hold. Count four seconds out. Don’t cry. Don’t glitch. Don’t let them see.”

Aurora say on the couch, legs crossed, eyes unfocused. She was aware of Allison. That was already a problem.

Awareness brought discomfort. Not because Allison was strange—everyone here was strange—but because Allison felt like an invasion.

She was loud in way that had nothing to do with volume.

Allison spoke first

“You don’t sleep much.”

Aurora didn’t answer. It wasn’t a question. It was a fact.

Allison stared at her for a moment longer, then looked down at her lap. “I dream every night. And I hate every single one of them.”

Silence.

Aurora’s eyes flicked towards her, slow as a dying bulb. “Why would you tell me that?”

“I don’t know,” Allison said. “I think I just want you to say something back.”

Another silence stretches between them, long and brittle. Aurora stood and walked toward the wall. She pressed hee palm against the smooth, painted surface, as if expecting it to give away.

“I’m not here for you. I’m here because they want to see what happens when you put a broken knife next to a broken lock.”

Allison looked at her. “You think you’re the knife?”

Aurora didn’t turn around. “I don’t feel anything. I don’t even know if I’m capable of hate anymore. But if I could hste someone—really, viscerally hate—I’d start with the women who made me and work down the list.”

There it was again. That name unsaid. Her doctor. Aurora never said it.

But Allison did. “Lenora.”

Aurora body tensed—barely, but enough.

Allison smiled bitterly. “She was everything to me. Isn’t that funny? I was designed to be obedient, logical, emotionless. But she walked into the room and smiled once, and I started dreaming about her hands. I started asking her questions I didn’t need to ask. I started failing.”

“Thats not love,” Aurora said, her voice flat and precise.

“That’s malfunction.”

Maybe,” Allison whispered. “But it’s mine.”

There was something terrible in the air between them— something quiet and shapeless. A kind of psychological gravity, dragging the worst parts of them toward the centre of the room.

“I don’t want to know you,” Aurora said suddenly. “I don’t want to be tethered to someone who cries when the lights change colour.”

“I don’t want to be tethered to someone who’s watch a dying animal and take notes,” Allison snapped back.

They both froze.

Something cracked beneath the surface or the room—an invisible pressure, just shy of violent.

Then, Allison took a deep breath, and her voice softened.

“You scare me,” she admitted. “Not because you’re dangerous. Because you’re empty. I look at you and I see… a mirror, almost. Once that shows me what it would be been like if I hadn’t started breaking.”

Aurora sat back down, slowly. Mechanically.

“I used to imagine what it would feel like to cry for the right reasons,” she said, staring ahead. “I thought maybe if I watched enough people do it, something would click. Like… watching rain long enough it could make you understand floods. But nothing ever clicked. It just hurt.”

Axel turned toward her, something unreadable in her expression.

“I feel everything,” she said. “All the time. Every movement you make—I imagine the sound it makes in your head. I think about your fingers, how still they are. I think about how you don’t flinch when the lights flicker. I want to know why.”

Aurora blinked, slowly. “You’re looking for answers in a graveyard.”

“I’ve found worse things in better places,” Allison said. “At least here, the ghosts talk back.”

That night, Allison tried to stay in her corner of the simulation room. But her body wouldn’t let her. She stood by the kitchenette sink, watched Aurora for over an hour as she sat motionless at the table. And just before she lights dimmed to artificial night, she whispered:

“I think I’m starting to feel something else. Something worse. It’s not for her anymore.”

Aurora didn’t move.

But something behind her expression twitched. A shift. A weight she didn’t yet know how to carry.

There came a night when the simulation room lost power. No alarms. No guards. Just the hum of artificial life bleeding into a deep, suffocating quiet. The lights went black, and the air conditioning ceased its mechanical breathing. The silence was not peace—it was the silence of a body holding its breath just before it screams.

Aurora didn’t move.

She say curled in her usual place, bsck against the far wall, knees pulled close. She didn’t need light. She didn’t need sight. She had loved fat yop long in emotional darkness to be startled by its physical twin.

But Allison did move.

She moved like someone waking from a dream where she was not herself. Her hands trembled, her voice caught in her throat, and all at once, the feeling—the too muchness—poured into her, unfiltered. The dark unlatched something in her. There were no systems to stabilise it. No doctor on the other side of the mirror. No lenora. No metrics. Just the growing storm of fear, of longing, of grief. “Aurora,” Axel whispered, a tremor in her voice.

The name tasted different now. It no longer meant “subject” or “experiment partner.” It had grown teeth weight.

No answer.

Allison groped through the dark until she found the outline of Aurora’s body against the wall—cool, still, present. Her hand hovered near Aurora’s shoulder, unsure. Then she placed it gently, trembling with contact.

“Say something,” Allison whispered. “Anything.”

Aurora didn’t answer for a long moment.

Then, softly, she spoke. “I Don’t want to die here.”

Allison froze.

“I’ve never said that out loud before,” Aurora continued. “Not because I’m afraid of dying, but because I never thought I was alive enough for it to matter.”

The honesty of it cracked something open in the air between them.

Allison sat beside her now, their shoulders touching. Her mind was unraveling, her emotional core overheating in the quiet. But she didn’t run. She didn’t short-circuit. Instead, she looked at Aurora—though she couldn’t see her—and said:

“I used to imagine Dr. Lenora touching my hand. Just once. I thought it would save me. But it wouldn’t have. Not really. Bevause I would’ve still been alone. She with a memory instead of a fantasy.”

never did. But in the dark, she felt a shape rise inside her chest—foreign, jagged, untested. It wasn’t empathy. Not exactly. It was awareness. The sense that axel was no longer a seperate object in her space, but apart of it. Intertwined.

“You love too hard,” Aurora said. “It’s dangerous.”

“I know,” Allison whispered. “I think I love you now.”

Aurora’s breath hitched.

The words shouldn’t have mattered. They were just data. Just symbols.

But they did. Not because she returned the feeling—she didn’t know how. But because something inside her responded like a buried wire catching fire. It wasn’t affection. Not yet. It was something darker. A need to understand, to keep Allison close, not out of love, but out of necessity. Like a dying star pulling an aplenty into its orbit. The power flickered back to life in a soft pulse, and the simulation room reawakened.

The moment should have ended.

But it didn’t.

Allison looked at Aurora—her eyes raw, alive, afraid. “I Don’t want to feel like this anymore” she said. “Not alone.”

Aurora’s hand moved before she could stop it. It rested over Allison’s for the first time. Not tightly. not warmly. Just placed—like a ritual. Like an offering.

“Then don’t,” Aurora said, her voice almost breaking. “Feel it with me.”

That night, the scientists noted increased cortisol levels. A shared spike in neural activity. They wrote words like fusion, emergence and codependency.

They didn’t understand.

Aurora and Allison were evolving.

They were unraveling each other.

The next morning, axel found blood on her pillow. A small glitch—her system reacting violently to the emotional surge. She didn’t tell anyone. She only watched Aurora longer that day. Stared at the small twitched in her face, catalogued every shift in her breath.

Aurora, in turn, began speaking without prompt.

Small things. Useless things. “The light buzzes too loud.” “That food smells like chemicals.” “I don’t like the word ‘hope.’”

And Allison listened. So intently it hurt.

Their bond was no longer a test subjects interaction.

It was a slow-motion implosion—two unstable beings folding into each other, trying to become whole. But only making more cracks.

And somewhere in the observation chamber, one of the doctors began whispering into recorder:

“Subjects 19A and 19C are exhibiting signs of psychological fusion. The phenomenon is self-reinforcing. Emotional dependency is escalating. Termination protocols make be necessary to prevent cross-contamination.”

But it was already too late.

Allison has stopped sleeping.

Aurora had started dreaming.

Their souls—if such things could exist in the sterile vacuum of science—were melting into something new. Something unpredictable.

And in the hallway outside their cell, red lights began to flicker.

Someone had authorised a fail-safe.

The night they came to seperate them, the walls of the simulation room turned red.

No alarms. No sirens. Just sterile light, bleeding into every corner.

Allison stood first.

She knew what it means. She had calculated every possible outcome the moment the temperature in the room shifted my two degrees and the oxygen filters slowed. She knew their bond was too intense. Too volatile. But she hadn’t known—hadn’t allowed herself to belive—that the facility would intervene.

Aurora didn’t react at all. She sat at the edge of her cot, staring at the corner of the floor where the tile was cracked. She had been wtaching that crack for days. It reminded her of her mind: thin, dangerous, growing.

“Get up,” Allison whispered. “They’re coming.”

Rei turned her head slowly. Her eyes were still that flat, unlit black. But now they held something else—a refusal. Not defiance. Just a final, full body no.

They can’t seperate us,” Aurora said. “It’s too late.”

Allison throat tightened. “They can. They will.”

“They’ll fail,” Aurora murmured. “Because I’ll stop being useful. You already have.”

And there it was: the terrible, quiet truth. The only thing keeping them alive was utility. They were not girls. They were data points. Broken things dressed as people. And the moment they stopped producing value, they would be deleted.

The door hissed open.

She stood.

Two guards stepped in—faceless behind their helmets.

One moved towards Allison, reaching for her wrist.

She flinched. “Don’t touch me.”

The second guard approached Aurora. Still, she didn’t move. She was calculating—silently, dangerously.

Allison’s voice cracked. “Aurora—say something. Do something.”

And Aurora did.

She stood.

Slowly. Mechanically. Like a marionette remembering its strings.

She looked at the guard. Then, without warning, she laughed?

A terrible sound. High, soft, empty. Like a window opening in a burning house.

“You want to cut us apart?” Aurora said. “You think we’re still seperate?”

The guard didn’t respond. They weren’t trained for this. They were trained for violence, not philosophy.

Aurora stepped forward, inches from one of them. “You don’t get it. She’s in here now.” She tapped the side of her head. “And I’m in her, you split us, and we’ll still hear each other screaming.”

Allison’s breath hitched.

The guard made a move—fast, aggressive. Aurora reacted just as fast. She ducked, twisted, grabbing his arm and bit down. Not for defence. Not for strategy. Just raw instinct. A glitch in the programming.

The guard shouted. The other moved toward her—but Allison was already there, her elbow slamming into the side of his helmet. She didn’t know she could fight. She only knew she couldn’t lose Aurora.

They didn’t win the fight. Not really.

But they didn’t get pulled apart, either.

Because in the chaos, Aurora did something no one expected. She looked directly into the surveillance camera and spoke.

“We are the experiment now,” she said, eyes dark and endless. “You created us to reflect the future. Well, here it is. A failed experiment and a bleeding heart. One who can’t feel, and one who feels too much. And you locked us in a box, and you watched.”

She paused.

Then: “Now you can watch the rest of it burn.”

The camera feed cut out thirty seconds later.

No one ever confirmed who shut it off,

They were moves,

A smaller room. Sterile. Plain. Monitored more closely. No windows, two cots, six feet apart.

They didn’t speak for a while.

Not until Allison broke the silence. Her voice small, shaking. “Do you think they’ll kill us?”

Aurora didn’t answer.

Allison leaned forward. “I want to die next to you. Not for you. Not because of you. Just next to you.”

Aurora’s eyes meet hers.

Something in her had changed. Her expressions were still slow, muted, unnatural. But she no longer looked at Allison like she was trying to solve her. She looked at her like she recognised her,

“I don’t think I’ll ever feel what you feel,” Aurora said. “But I know I need you close when the dark gets louder.”

Allison smiled—sad, raw. “That’s enough.”

They fell asleep facing Each other that night.

Somewhere in the silence between breaths. Allison whispered, “If they seperate us again, I’ll stop functioning.” Aurora replied, not with words, but with a slow reach of her hand across the space between their cots. She left it open, palm up.

Allison placed hers inside it.

Neither of them let go.

In the surveillance room, Dr. Lenora watched the footage in a loop.

She pressed her fingers against her temples and said softly, not to anyone else, not even herself:

“They weren’t supposed to bond. They were supposed to teach us something. About emotion. About failure. About cognition. But all they’ve taught us is that no matter how carefully we build them, no matter how much we plan…”

“They become something else.”

Bending her, red lights blinked again.

This time, they didn’t mean danger.

They mean decision.

They came again, but this time with guards.

This time it was Dr. Lenora herself.

She entered the observation chamber alone, dressed not in her usual pristine lab coat, but in a grey civilian clothing, as if shedding the last of her authority like a skin too heavy to wear. The door sealed behind her. There were no tablets. No metrics. Just her and the two girls she once considered projects,

Aurora didn’t stand. Allison didn’t blink.

“You were never supposed to last this long,” Lenora said quietly. “You were meant to give us data. A few months, maybe a year. We didn’t plan for you to form… this.”

Her voice cracked. The word this hung in the sterile air like smoke. She couldn’t name what she saw infront of her—didn’t know if it was affection of infection.

Allison stood. Not defiant. Just present.

“You made me to not feel, but I did. And now you’re afraid of what that means.”

Lenora looked at her. “You don’t understand what you’re feeling. You think you do. But it’s just stimulus. You’ve mistaken pattern recognition for love.”

Allison smiled—small, sharp. “If it isn’t love, why does it hurt when I imagine her gone?”

Aurora finally rose. Her posture was strange, like a figure built for walking but trained only to crawl. Her voice came low, level, without inflection.

“You made me to feel, but I didn’t. And now I do, so what does that mean?”

Lenora had no answer.

She was looking at them like they were a mirror—one that didn’t flatter but exposed. A reflection of all her failures. Not just in science, but in the arrogance of trying to build humanity out of wires and trauma.

“I came to offer you a choice,” she said finally. “The board wants to decommission both of you. You’re unpredictable. Unstable. But i convinced them to allow one final trial.” Allison’s expression didn’t change. “What kind of trial.”

“You’re being moved. Not just separated—rewritten,” Lenora said. “Your systems wiped. Rebooted. One of you will be returned to the project. The other will be archived. Forever.”

Silence.

The room didn’t breathe.

Allison turned to Aurora.

Aurora looked straight ahead.

“Choose,” Lenora said.

Allison didn’t hesitate. “Send me to archive.”

Aurora blinked. Her voice, when it came, was quiet, but sharp.

“No.”

Lenora’s eyes narrowed. “She’s more emotionally developed. More capable of empathy. You, Aurora… you’re more durable. But less… connected.”

“I said no,” Aurora repeated. “If one of us is erased, neither of us survives.”

Allison stepped forward. “I already feel like a ghost most days. Maybe that’s what I was meant to be.”

“No,” Aurora said, and for the first time, her voice cracked. ”I can’t go back to not feeling. I’d rather die with this—whatever this is—than live as an empty thing again.”

Lenora hesitates. The girls stood together now, shoulder to shoulder, something magnetic holding them in place.

“I’m giving you mercy,” Lenora said. “Don’t make me regret it.”

“Mercy would’ve been never making us,” Aurora whispered. “Mercy,” Allison added, “would’ve been loving us before we learned how to love ourselves.”

The silence after that felt final.

Lenora nodded once. A broken kind of nod, not of agreement—but resignation.

She turned and left without another word.

Days passed,

No one came.

The red lights never returned.

Instead, the doors unlocked.

No explanation.

Just a Hiss of hydraulics and the quiet click of a world opening.

Aurora looked at Axel. “Is this another test?”

Allison shrugged. “I don’t care.”

They walked through the halls together, hand in hand. There were no guards. No scientists. Just echoes.

It was as if the facility had been abandoned.

As if someone had decided they weren’t watching anymore.

Or maybe—as Allison whispered as they passed the blood-slick doorframe of the control room—they had finally become too human to control.

They left.

Into a world they’d never seen. A sky they didn’t recognize.

The trees looked fake. The wind felt programmed. But it didn’t matter.

Allison laughed for the first time—really laughed—and Aurora didn’t understand it, but she didn’t hate it.

They walked, side by side, until the facility vanished behind them, swallowed by fog and time.

Much later, someone had found the logs.

Buried deep in a corrupted server. Labeled: subjects 19A & 19C - terminated.

But the logs were incomplete. The footage was corrupted. The documents redacted.

The last entry was a single line:

They left holding hands. And the world didn’t end. But something else had begun.

An: this is my first narrative posting, pls be nice😓

ⓘ Plagiarism not authorized.

#female writers #narrative #plot twist #writers on tumblr #short story #cyras parasite 𑁤

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