The heat swallowed.
It didn't warm. It consumed.
March 24. 2:45 PM. NAIA Terminal 1. Every inhale pulled thick, wet weight into the lungs, the alveoli unable to separate gas from liquid. Jet fuel bit the tongue with a bitter, petroleum film. Diesel and coconut oil and the sour-sting of a thousand sweating bodies compressed into a single wall of scent that clung to the skin like a second hide. 34°C. The pickup zone shimmered, asphalt rippling under a sun that bleached the concrete white. The pillars sweated rust down their faces. Baggage carts screamed over cracked linoleum, warped wheels catching and stuttering. The intercom garbled through blown speakers, drowned out by the wall of Tagalog and Korean and the wet, hammering pulse of Manila.
Jae-min leaned against the hood of the GT-R, arms crossed tight over his chest, a rigid stillness locking his frame. The pearl white paint gleamed under the white sun, looking almost obscene against the sweating, rust-bleeding infrastructure of the pickup zone.
He watched the sliding glass doors.
"In twenty-two days, this terminal will be a slaughterhouse. The floor tiles stained with blood, the ceiling cameras flickering over piles of discarded luggage and rotting flesh. People trampling each other for the exits. The cold hitting first, turning the sweat on their skin to ice in seconds, then the panic, the screaming, the crushing human wave that will jam the doors shut and trap thousands inside a frozen tomb," Jae-min thought, a cold, tactical dread anchoring his focus.
Right now, it was just noisy.
The doors parted with a mechanical hiss.
Ji-yoo walked out.
Black hair pulled tight in a waist-length ponytail that swayed with each step. Dark, sharp eyes scanning the crowd with the lazy, predatory alertness of someone who never stopped cataloguing exits. An oversized vintage Rivermaya band shirt swallowing her frame, the faded print peeling at the edges. A battered guitar case slung over her shoulder.
She looked exactly like him. Five-foot-nine. Same black hair. Same black eyes. Same bone structure. Same face. If you put them side by side and squint, the only difference was the ponytail and the three inches of height he had on her.
Jae-min's throat seized, a profound, suffocating paralysis locking his lungs.
"She's alive," Jae-min thought, a profound, suffocating relief crashing through him.
"She's breathing. She's here. She's not a name on a crashed flight manifest. She's not a frozen corpse on a mountain," Jae-min thought, a desperate, overwhelming gratitude squeezing his chest.
"Oppa!" Ji-yoo cried, her face breaking into a wide, relieved grin, and then she was moving, legs eating the distance between them, her guitar case bouncing against her hip.
She hit him like a freight train, the full force of her body colliding with his chest, nearly knocking him back a full step.
Her arms locked around his neck. Her full weight crashed into his chest. She clung to him, chin hooked over his shoulder, body pressed flush against his, fingers digging into the back of his jacket like she was afraid he would evaporate if she let go, a fierce, desperate need driving her grip.
She buried her face in the curve of his neck and inhaled, a long, shaky breath that carried something older than words, a raw, aching relief that she didn't understand but couldn't stop feeling.
"A koala. She has always been a koala. We have pecked each other on the cheek a thousand times, good mornings, good nights, casual greetings, walking past each other in the hallway, without a single thought of romance. It's our language. Older than words," Jae-min thought, a familiar warmth flickering beneath the ice.
Her fingers found the hair at the nape of his neck and curled into it, a gesture so old and automatic it might as well have been genetic.
The impact knocked him back. He felt the heat radiating off her skin. He smelled the stale airplane air clinging to her clothes. The faint, familiar scent of strawberry shampoo, the same cheap brand she'd used since high school, a raw, grounding recognition hitting his senses.
For a heartbeat, he was frozen, the weight of her, the warmth, the alive-ness of her short-circuiting everything, a rigid, overwhelmed stillness.
Then his arms came up. Wrapped around her. Tight. One hand cradling the back of her head, the other pressed flat between her shoulder blades, pulling her in like he could shield her from every timeline where she never came home, a fierce, protective need surging through him. His fingers curled into her ponytail. His chin dropped to the crown of her head.
She pulled back, her smile faltering, a quiet concern replacing the joy. Her brow furrowed as she looked up at him, her dark eyes scanning his face with the sharp, forensic attention of a twin who could read him better than any lie detector.
"You look like shit," Ji-yoo whispered, her voice losing the grin, replaced by something harder, concerning.
"I haven't slept," Jae-min whispered, his voice quiet and rough, tired, but not empty.
His hand was still resting on her head. He hadn't moved it, a quiet, automatic tenderness.
"Obviously," Ji-yoo snapped, reaching up and flicking his forehead with her finger, hard, the way she'd done since they were seven. "You look like a zombie that got rejected from a zombie audition because even the zombies thought you looked too dead."
"I feel so loved," Jae-min murmured, a tired smile pulling at the corner of his mouth, genuine, if fragile. His hand finally dropped from her head.
"I'm serious," Ji-yoo snapped, her eyes narrowing, the teasing dropping, replaced by the edge beneath it. "When was the last time you ate?"
"Define ate," Jae-min stated with a shrug.
"Jae-min," Ji-yoo stated, her voice flat, a warning.
"I had coffee," Jae-min admitted, not meeting her eyes.
"That's not food," Ji-yoo stated, flat.
"It's a liquid," Jae-min drawled, deadpan.
"So is motor oil. You don't drink that either," Ji-yoo snapped, folding her arms, her ponytail swishing with the motion.
"I had a protein bar. Two days ago," Jae-min breathed, like it was nothing.
"Two days?" Ji-yoo seethed, her voice spiking, her hand shooting out and grabbing the front of his jacket, yanking him down to her eye level, raw fury masking terror. "Two days? Are you kidding me? What the hell is wrong with you?"
"Apparently everything," Jae-min said, not resisting, just letting her yank him around like a rag doll, a quiet surrender.
"I swear to God, oppa, if you pass out from hunger before the apocalypse even starts, I will resurrect you just to kill you myself," Ji-yoo snapped, her dark eyes blazing, but her grip on his jacket was trembling, just slightly, not anger, fear dressed up as anger.
He reached up. Patted her head again. Gentle. Automatic, a quiet, familiar affection.
Her eyes fluttered shut at the contact, just for a second, before she caught herself and opened them again, annoyed at her own transparency.
"I'll eat when we get home," Jae-min whispered, a quiet surrender.
"You better," Ji-yoo snapped, releasing his jacket with a shove, but she immediately looped her arm through his, pressing close to his side as they walked toward the GT-R, a fierce, territorial closeness.
Her shoulder dug into his bicep. Her hip bumped against his thigh. Not accidental. Never accidental. She latched onto him like he was furniture she'd specifically designed to hang on, a possessive, familiar cling. Her free hand found his forearm and traced idle circles on his wrist, the way she did when she wanted his attention but didn't want to ask for it.
The guitar case bounced against her back as they walked.
"So," Ji-yoo snapped, tilting her head up to look at him, her ponytail brushing against his shoulder. "Still think you're the better-looking twin?"
"Objectively, yes," Jae-min said, without hesitation.
"You're delusional," Ji-yoo scoffed, dry dismissal.
"You flew across an ocean to see my face. That's devotion, not delusion," Jae-min said, the ghost of a smirk.
"That's concern. There's a difference," Ji-yoo snapped, but the corner of her mouth twitched, the faintest crack in the scowl.
"The difference is I'm right," Jae-min rasped, unbothered.
"In your dreams," Ji-yoo snapped, elbowing him in the ribs, not hard enough to hurt, just hard enough to make a point. "Also, oppa, who drives the speed limit in a GT-R? You. Who got a speeding ticket in Korea last summer and tried to blame it on the rental agency?"
"We're not doing this," Jae-min said, shutting it down.
"What? It's a valid question. The rental agency still sends you promotional emails. I screenshot them for the group chat," Ji-yoo snapped, delighted.
They reached the GT-R. Jae-min popped the trunk. Ji-yoo shoved her guitar case inside with more force than necessary, then climbed into the passenger seat, immediately stretching her legs across the center console and slouching down like she owned the car, a casual, territorial ease.
"Your feet are on my seat," Jae-min said, mild reproach, sliding into the driver's seat.
"Your seat will survive," Ji-yoo drawled, wiggling her toes against the leather.
"It's pearl white. It shows dirt," Jae-min drawled, deadpan.
"Then clean it," Ji-yoo snapped, pulling out her phone and ignoring him entirely.
He didn't argue. Just started the engine, a quiet acceptance. The twin-turbo V6 roared to life, vibrating through the steering wheel.
"We're going fast," Ji-yoo said, casual observation, glancing at the dashboard.
"I'm driving the speed limit," Jae-min said, deadpan denial, eyes on the road.
"You're ten over," Ji-yoo snapped, not even looking at the speedometer.
"Eleven," Jae-min said, correcting her without shame.
"Reckless," Ji-yoo snapped, but she didn't move her feet, didn't buckle her seatbelt, just slouched deeper and closed her eyes, her head tilting toward the window, the warm Manila air streaming through the cracked window and lifting the loose strands of her ponytail, a quiet, stubborn contentment.
And for a moment, just a moment, it felt normal. Like they were just a brother and sister driving home from the airport. Like there wasn't a countdown ticking in both their skulls, a fragile, fleeting peace.
It didn't last.
— • • • —
4:15 PM. Shore Residence 3. Basement Parking. 32°C.
Jae-min killed the GT-R's engine, the twin-turbo rumble fading into silence, leaving only the low hum of the basement's dying fluorescent tubes and the faint echo of water dripping somewhere in the concrete depths.
He stepped out. Stretched, a weary relief unknotting his shoulders. The drive from NAIA had been forty minutes of Ji-yoo's feet on his dashboard and her running commentary on every driver on EDSA who wasn't going fast enough.
Ji-yoo climbed out of the passenger seat, stretching her arms above her head, her band shirt riding up, exposing a sliver of toned stomach. She cracked her neck. Left. Right. The sound echoed off the concrete, a sharp, satisfying release.
Then she froze.
Her eyes locked onto the parking spot beside the GT-R, a sharp, electric recognition seizing her frame.
The candy yellow Nissan Z Nismo sat there like a caged predator waiting to be unleashed. The paint was flawless, a deep, screaming yellow that looked almost radioactive under the flickering fluorescent light. Every curve of the body kit was immaculate. The alloy rims were spotless. Not a single speck of dust. Not a fingerprint.
Ji-yoo's face transformed. The grief vanished. The exhaustion vanished. The red-rimmed eyes and the swollen cheeks, all of it disappeared, replaced by a pure, almost childlike devotion.
She walked toward the Z Nismo like a pilgrim approaching an altar. Slow. Reverent. Her hand reached out and touched the hood, fingertips grazing the warm metal with the kind of tenderness most people reserved for other human beings, a quiet, aching reverence.
"She's okay," Ji-yoo whispered, her voice soft. "She's still okay."
She crouched down. Examined the rims. Ran her fingers along the lower lip of the front bumper. Checked the tire tread with the focused intensity of a surgeon examining an X-ray, a meticulous, loving inspection.
"She's clean. No scratches. No dents," Ji-yoo stated, looking up at Jae-min with an expression that was half relief, half accusation. "You didn't let anyone park near her, right?"
"I told the security guard to rope off the spot," Jae-min stated, matter-of-fact.
"You're a good brother," Ji-yoo drawled, standing up, patting the Z Nismo's hood twice, the way someone would pat a loyal dog. "The best brother. Don't let it go to your head."
"I'll try," Jae-min drawled, deadpan.
Ji-yoo pressed her forehead against the driver's side window. Closed her eyes. The warm glass against her skin. Her breath fogging the tinted surface, a quiet, intimate communion.
"I missed you, baby," Ji-yoo whispered, actually whispering, to a car.
Jae-min watched her, a faint, tired smile crossing his face, the first real one since he woke up seven days ago.
"This is the same woman who lied to our father's face three nights ago and swallowed the truth like broken glass. The same woman who rebooked her flight without hesitation because her twin told her the world was ending. And she's whispering sweet nothings to a car," Jae-min thought, a bittersweet warmth pressing against his ribs.
"The Z Nismo is Ji-yoo's baby. Mom and Dad bought it for her eighteenth birthday, a twin present, one for each of us, the GT-R for me and the Z for Ji-yoo. She picked the color herself, screaming yellow, because she said it matched her personality. She personally selected every aftermarket part after that. The exhaust note. The suspension tuning. The custom floor mats with her initials stitched into the heel pad. She treats it better than she treats herself," Jae-min thought, a familiar, aching fondness.
In the first life, this car had been sitting in this exact spot when the freeze hit. Untouched. Unloved. Because Ji-yoo had never come home.
The memory flickered through him, a cold, determined resolve hardening in his chest.
He was going to make sure that didn't happen again.
"Come on," Jae-min breathed, walking toward the elevator. "Let's go inside."
"In a minute," Ji-yoo declared, not moving, still pressed against the window like she was trying to merge with the car through osmosis.
"Ji-yoo," Jae-min said, patient but firm.
"Five more seconds," Ji-yoo snapped, not moving.
"Five more seconds of what? You're literally hugging a car," Jae-min said, exasperated.
"It's not hugging. It's bonding," Ji-yoo declared, pulling back, wiping the fog from the window with her sleeve, then checking to make sure she hadn't left a smudge. "There's a difference."
"There isn't," Jae-min said, absolute.
"There absolutely is," Ji-yoo snapped, finally stepping away from the Z Nismo, but she glanced back twice in the span of ten steps, the way a mother checks on a sleeping child, a fierce, protective attachment.
They walked to the elevator. Jae-min pressed the button. The fluorescent tubes above buzzed and flickered, casting that sickly, dying yellow light over the concrete cavern.
Ji-yoo fell into step beside him. Her shoulder dug into his bicep. Her arm looped through his. Latching on. The way she always did. Her head tilted and dropped against his shoulder as they walked, not leaning, resting, like she'd been carrying something heavy all day and his arm was the only place to set it down, a quiet, trusting surrender.
"Hey, oppa," Ji-yoo whispered, her voice quieter now, the playfulness dimming.
"Yeah?" Jae-min asked, quiet attentiveness, glancing down at her.
"If the world doesn't end, I'm going to drift that car through Makati at two in the morning," Ji-yoo snapped, the fire back in her voice.
"You'll get arrested," Jae-min said, a flicker of almost-amusement.
"Worth it," Ji-yoo snapped, and she squeezed his arm, just once. Hard. The kind of squeeze that said thank you for keeping her safe without actually saying it, a fierce, unspoken gratitude.
The elevator dinged. The doors slid open. They stepped inside.
— • • • —
4:30 PM. Shore Residence 3. 14th Floor. 30°C.
Ji-yoo froze in the hallway, a sharp, disoriented shock locking her feet.
Her eyes locked onto their unit's door. No cheap wood. No peephole. A solid steel bulkhead. Three heavy-duty deadbolts. A blinking, infrared camera lens glinting under the hallway fluorescents.
"What the hell is this?" Ji-yoo asked, her voice flat, the teasing gone, replaced by a sharp, assessing edge, the same edge she got before a fight, before a gig, before something that required her full attention.
Jae-min stepped past her, calm authority in the motion. The keycard beeped, the heavy locks disengaging with a dense, metallic clunk.
"A fortress," Jae-min said, no pride in it. Just fact.
He pushed the door open, a quiet, deliberate reveal.
The unit was unrecognizable. Stripped down to concrete and wiring. Thick, bulletproof polycarbonate panels were bolted over the floor-to-ceiling windows, turning the lavish living room into a dim, claustrophobic box. Heavy steel blast plates sat on ceiling tracks, ready to seal the hallway. From the spare room came the harsh, stuttering blue glare of an arc welder and the smell of burning metal. The walls had been doubled, eight inches of layered steel and soundproofing foam.
Ji-yoo stepped inside, turning in a slow, dizzying circle, a stunned, overwhelming disorientation. Her mouth hung open. The air inside tasted like ozone and fresh paint.
Jae-min ignored her shock. He walked to the bare steel table in the center of the room and picked up a half-empty bottle of water, the plastic crinkling under his grip, a quiet, practiced motion.
"Sit," Jae-min whispered, his voice quiet but carrying the steady weight of someone who had already made every hard decision, not a request, not a suggestion, a trust placed in her.
She sat on a leftover camping stool, her back straight, her eyes sharp, watching everything, a wary, sharp-focus attention.
Jae-min let go of the bottle, a calm, deliberate release.
It didn't hit the table. It just stopped existing.
There was no flash of light, no sound. The plastic simply severed from reality, leaving his empty hand hovering in the air.
Ji-yoo screamed, the stool screeching against the concrete as she scrambled backward, crashing to the floor, a raw, disorienting terror seizing her frame. Her hand flew to her chest, her heart hammering so hard he could see her pulse jumping in her throat. Her dark eyes were wide, not with fear, exactly, but with the raw, disorienting shock of having the rules of reality rewritten in front of her face.
Jae-min reached up, steady, unhurried control. His fingers dipped into a jagged, pitch-black crack that hadn't been there a second ago, a tear in the fabric of the world that looked like an oil slick shattering the air.
He pulled the bottle out.
Shhhk.
He set it back on the table, the water inside sloshing violently against the plastic, a quiet, matter-of-fact demonstration.
Ji-yoo sat on the floor, chest heaving, staring at the bottle, ragged, frantic breaths.
Then, slowly, her breathing steadied. The panic receded. Replaced by something harder. Something that looked almost like fascination, a grim, analytical curiosity pushing past the shock.
"So this is how you knew," Ji-yoo murmured, the realization settling over her like a cold wave, not fear, not horror, just the quiet, devastating understanding that her twin hadn't been crazy. He had been something else entirely.
"Oppa…" Ji-yoo said, her voice a dry rasp, hoarse from the scream. "How long?"
"Since I woke up," Jae-min breathed, the weight of it settling into his voice.
"And you can store things?" Ji-yoo asked, the shock cracking, something analytical pushing through.
"Anything. As much as I can handle," Jae-min said, watching her face.
"How much is that?" Ji-yoo asked, pressing.
"A hundred and twenty cubic meters. Last I checked," Jae-min said, casual, as if describing a closet.
Ji-yoo stared at him. Then at the bottle. Then at the space where the black crack had been, a slow, processing bewilderment.
"That's… a lot of guns," Ji-yoo drawled, her voice steadier now, a ghost of her usual dry humor bleeding through the shock.
"Four hundred kilos worth," Jae-min said, not looking up.
Ji-yoo exhaled. Ran a hand over her face, a weary, steadying motion. Her fingers were still trembling.
"Okay," Ji-yoo snapped, nodding to herself, slow, deliberate, like a fighter resetting between rounds. "Okay. So you can store things. You came back from the dead. The world is ending in twenty-two days."
She looked up at him. "What else?" Ji-yoo asked, pressing the wound.
Jae-min didn't answer immediately. He picked up the bottle. Set it down. Picked it up again, a small, mechanical motion, something to do with his hands while the words arranged themselves behind his teeth, a heavy, gathering dread.
"Mom and Dad," Jae-min said, the two words landing like stones dropped into still water.
Ji-yoo's face changed. The steadiness cracked. Just a fraction. But Jae-min saw it, the way her jaw tightened, the way her fingers curled against the concrete floor, a sharp, flinching pain.
"I already know about the plane," Ji-yoo whispered, her voice quieter now, stripped of humor, stripped of analysis. Just a daughter talking about her parents. "You told me on the phone."
"I told you it would crash. I didn't tell you everything I tried to stop it," Jae-min said, the admission heavy.
He sat down on the folding chair across from her, the metal creaking under his weight, a weary, bracing stillness.
"Three days. Eleven attempts," Jae-min whispered, his voice quiet and clinical. A logistics report on his own failure.
He listed them, a heavy, methodical recitation.
Click.
"Korean Air anonymous tip line. Reported a bomb on Flight KE627. They logged it, swept the plane, found nothing. Case closed. My Manila VoIP number flagged and forwarded to Korean National Police. Denied," Jae-min said, clinical detachment.
Click.
"A lawyer in Gangnam. Hired through a proxy. Filed an emergency injunction to ground the flight. The judge read the filing, adjusted his glasses, and scoffed. Asked if I had physical evidence or just paranoia. The lawyer quit and refunded half the fee," Jae-min said, flat recitation.
Click.
"Master Sergeant Reyes. Dad's old Philippine Army buddy. The only one from Dad's unit who still lived in Korea. Called him directly. PLEADED with him. He listened to the silence on the line for a long time. Then told me I needed to rest. Hung up. Didn't answer the second call," Jae-min said, the words landing like hammer blows.
Click.
"Aviation forums. Posted in three. DO NOT FLY KE627 APRIL 15. Removed within hours. One forum banned my IP. Another auto-reported me to Korean authorities for spreading false information that could cause public panic," Jae-min said, hollow defeat.
Click.
"Philippine Embassy in Seoul. Duty officer. Listened with the polite, deadened patience of a bureaucrat. Said the embassy had no jurisdiction over Korean domestic aviation. Suggested I contact Korean authorities. Suggested I seek mental health support. Wished me a good evening," Jae-min said, bitter irony.
"₩2.4 million spent. A police file with my name on it in a foreign country. And the flight still exists," Jae-min thought, a hollow, savage self-loathing coiling in his chest.
"If I call again, they'll make good on the threat," Jae-min whispered, his voice dropping, quieter now. "Dr. Paeng. Commitment. And then I can't prepare. Can't fortify the unit. Can't save Uncle Rico. Can't protect you."
He looked at her. "I can't save anyone," Jae-min stated, the words landing with a quiet devastation, not flat, not empty, but carved from something too heavy to carry alone.
Ji-yoo's hands clenched into fists on her lap, her nails biting into her palms, a fierce, helpless rage. Her jaw was set, hard, rigid, the muscle feathering along the edge, but her eyes were glistening.
"He tried everything. He spent millions. He called strangers in the middle of the night. He begged. And they shut him down. Every single one," Ji-yoo thought, a fierce, aching helplessness flooding her chest.
"Then what do we do? Just sit here?" Ji-yoo asked, her voice cracking on the last word, not a question, really, an accusation aimed at a universe that refused to let them win.
Jae-min didn't answer. He walked to the polycarbonate window, a heavy, silent withdrawal. Through the thick tinted plastic, the Manila skyline burned in the sunset. The smog caught the light, painting the towering skyscrapers in deep, bloody reds and choking golds. It looked like the city was on fire.
"The flight is April fifteenth," Jae-min whispered quietly, his breath fogging the polymer glass slightly. "You were supposed to be on it. You were supposed to fly back with them."
Ji-yoo went utterly still, the blood rushing from her extremities, leaving her fingers icy cold, a cold, sinking horror.
"But you came home early," Jae-min said, turning, his silhouette dark against the bleeding sunset. "You faked a gig. You're not on the passenger list anymore."
The realization hit her like a sledgehammer to the sternum, a devastating, paralyzing understanding.
"I'm… not on the plane," Ji-yoo whispered, the words barely a whisper, fragile, disbelieving, like saying them out loud might make them untrue.
"No," Jae-min whispered, the single syllable final.
"But Mom and Dad are," Ji-yoo snapped, her voice hollow, the sound of something dropping into a very deep well.
"Yes," Jae-min said, flat confirmation.
Ji-yoo's face crumpled. The tough-girl facade, the ego, the pride, the sharp tongue, the armor she wore like a second skin, shattered. Not dramatically. Quietly. The way things break when they've been held together too long by willpower alone, a raw, devastating collapse.
"Oppa… no. No, we have to stop them. We have to," Ji-yoo snapped, reaching for him, her hand grabbing his wrist, her fingers digging in like she could physically hold back the future through sheer force of grip, desperate, raw denial.
"How? They think I'm crazy. If we push harder, they'll lock me up. We lose days. We lose everything," Jae-min said, not pulling away from her grip. Just standing there. Letting her hold on.
"Then we tell them the truth! We show them your power! We show them the money, the guns, the—" Ji-yoo sobbed, her voice rising, cracking, splintering, the control fraying at the edges.
"They won't believe it," Jae-min said, his voice a flat, unyielding wall. "I watched the news report, Ji-yoo. I stared at my phone for three days, refreshing the page, praying for a survivor. There weren't any."
Ji-yoo was crying now. Silent tears spilling over her lashes, tracking down her cheeks, she wasn't wiping them, wasn't hiding them, just letting them fall, her grip on his wrist still iron-tight, a raw, unguarded grief.
"So I just… do nothing? I let them get on that plane?" Ji-yoo asked, the question small, stripped of every ounce of the fire that usually defined her. Just a girl asking her brother to fix something that couldn't be fixed.
Jae-min walked back to the steel table, a heavy, deliberate motion. He pulled out a folding chair and sat across from her.
"You stay here," Jae-min commanded, his voice steady and certain, not commanding, but the quiet certainty of someone who had already lost everything once and refused to lose her too.
Ji-yoo stared at him, her vision blurring. "What?" Ji-yoo asked, raw disbelief.
"You're not flying back to Incheon. You're not booking another ticket. You're not going to the airport to try to drag them off that plane," Jae-min whispered, his voice quiet. Final. "You stay in Manila."
"No. No, I can't just sit here," Ji-yoo seethed, shaking her head violently, her ponytail whipping, tears flying.
"If you go back, you die with them," Jae-min said, the truth delivered gently but without flinching.
"THEN MAYBE I SHOULD!" Ji-yoo shrieked, the words ripping out of her throat, raw and ragged, the sound of a cornered animal choosing the blade over the cage.
"Ji-yoo," Jae-min said, his voice dropping to a low, absolute gravity that cut through her panic.
"THEY'RE OUR PARENTS, JAE-MIN!" Ji-yoo shouted, shooting to her feet, the stool clattering away, the sound sharp and violent against the concrete. Her voice broke, splintering into something that wasn't quite a scream and wasn't quite a sob, something in between that hurt to hear. "I can't just… I can't sit here and wait for them to die!"
"I waited. For forty-three days," Jae-min said, his voice unnervingly calm. "I know exactly how it feels."
Ji-yoo stared at him, her chest heaving, ribs pushing against her band shirt, a raw, suffocating anguish. Sobs choked her throat, making her gasp for air.
"They'll be so scared," Ji-yoo whispered, her voice tiny and fractured, barely holding together. "On that plane. When it goes down. They'll be so scared and I won't be there."
"I know," Jae-min whispered, the words barely audible.
"They'll call for me," Ji-yoo snapped, her voice fracturing.
"I know," Jae-min said, the same two words, carrying everything he couldn't say.
"And I'll be here. Safe. In a bunker. While they freeze to death on a mountain," Ji-yoo snapped, the words dripping with self-loathing, the loathing of someone who survived when the people she loved didn't.
Jae-min didn't answer, a rigid, suffocating silence. The hum of the refrigerator was deafening.
Ji-yoo's knees gave out. She sank to the concrete floor, put her face in her hands, and sobbed. Loud. Ugly. Gut-wrenching. The sound of a daughter losing her parents twice, once in the future she couldn't remember, and once in the future she couldn't stop, a raw, devastating grief pouring out of her.
Jae-min stood. Walked to her. Knelt down beside her on the cold concrete, a quiet, unwavering resolve.
He didn't hesitate this time, his arms went around her, pulling her against his chest, his hand cradling the back of her head the way he'd done when they were children and the world was smaller and simpler, a fierce, tender protectiveness.
He held her while she broke. His jaw was tight, his eyes burning, but he didn't look away. He didn't let go, a quiet, immovable presence.
Ten minutes. Twenty.
Finally, Ji-yoo lifted her head, her face swollen, eyes bloodshot and raw, but her jaw was set like concrete, the ego snapping back into place, the pride reasserting itself, the armor rebuilding itself rivet by rivet, a grim, iron determination.
"Give me my phone," Ji-yoo snapped, demanding, not asking. The voice of someone who had made a decision and was past the point of negotiation.
Jae-min reached into her backpack and handed it to her, a quiet, trusting compliance.
Ji-yoo wiped her face with the back of her hand, a sharp, bracing motion. She took a shaky breath, held it, and pressed call, a raw, desperate courage.
It rang three times.
[Mom]: "Ji-yoo-ah? How was your flight? Are you back in Manila?" Mom asked, her voice warm and happy, crackling slightly over the international line.
"That voice. The same voice that hummed Korean folk songs at two in the morning while holding a crying fourteen-year-old," Jae-min thought, a bitter, frozen grief echoing in his mind.
[Ji-yoo]: "Mom, I'm at St. Luke's. The doctors think it's my appendix. They want to keep me overnight for tests," Ji-yoo said, her voice steady, barely, a fragile wire pulled taut, one pluck away from snapping, the lie sitting in her mouth like broken glass.
[Mom]: "Oh my god. Ji-yoo, are you okay?" Mom asked, the warmth vanishing, replaced by that particular frequency only mothers could reach, the one that said the world had just narrowed to one point and that point was her daughter.
[Ji-yoo]: "I'm fine, Mom. Please don't worry. It's probably nothing," Ji-yoo said, each word costing her, the lie sitting in her mouth like broken glass.
[Mom]: "Your father and I can cancel the trip. We'll come home right now," Mom said, already moving, already planning, the voice of unconditional readiness.
Ji-yoo's heart slammed against her ribs so hard it hurt, a wild, desperate hope surging through her.
[Ji-yoo]: "Yes. Please. Mom, I need you here," Ji-yoo said, desperate, the mask cracking, the need bleeding through.
[Mom]: "Baby, of course. We'll book the first flight out tomorrow morning. Your father will—" Mom said, the voice of unconditional readiness.
Then Dad's voice barked in the background. Muffled at first. Growing louder, sharp and irritated.
[Dad]: "What do you mean cancel? The tickets are non-refundable. Those cost us ₩1.8 million," Dad snapped, his voice sharp, a man whose world ran on numbers.
[Mom]: "Hermano, our daughter is in the hospital," Mom said, her voice turning away from the phone.
[Dad]: "St. Luke's is one of the best hospitals in the country. Jae-min is there. She's not alone," Dad said. A pause. "Don't tell me you want to throw money away because of a stomachache," Dad said, utterly devoid of panic, utterly devoid of imagination.
Ji-yoo gripped the phone so hard the plastic casing creaked, her knuckles turning bone-white, a fierce, trembling restraint.
[Ji-yoo]: "Dad," Ji-yoo said, trying.
[Mom]: "Ji-yoo, let me talk to your father," Mom said, her voice strained.
The phone shuffled. Fabric rustling.
[Dad]: "Ji-yoo. What did the doctors actually say?" Dad asked, low and practical, assessing.
[Ji-yoo]: "They said it might be appendicitis. They need to run more tests," Ji-yoo said, the lie coming smoother now, because lies were easier when the truth was too heavy to carry.
[Dad]: "Might be," Dad said, pressing, the way he always pressed, testing for weak points.
[Ji-yoo]: "They said I should stay overnight," Ji-yoo said, the lie coming easier now.
[Dad]: "Overnight. Not surgery. Not emergency. Overnight," Dad said, a heavy, irritated breath hissing through the receiver. "Your mother has been planning this trip since January. We paid for everything. Forty people are coming to this reunion. Your Uncle Rey already booked the venue," Dad said, the logistics of grief.
[Ji-yoo]: "Dad, please," Ji-yoo said, begging now, the pride crumbling, the daughter underneath exposed and raw.
[Dad]: "You're in a private hospital with your brother. If it gets serious, he'll call us. The flight home is April fifteenth. Two hours. We'll be there before dinner," Dad said, final. Absolute. The voice of a man who had made a decision and was not capable of understanding why anyone would question it.
[Ji-yoo]: "Dad, I'm scared," Ji-yoo whispered, a raw, naked vulnerability.
The words slipped out before she could stop them. Small. Young. Stripped of the tough girl who played gigs in smoky Hongdae bars. Stripped of the ego. Stripped of the pride. Just a terrified daughter who wanted her father, a raw, exposed terror.
"In my first life, I heard my father say I love you once. On that phone call three nights ago. Like a soldier passing a medal through a fence. He had never said it before. Not at graduation. Not when I got my first job. Not when Kiara left," Jae-min thought, a bitter, frozen grief echoing in his mind.
A long, suffocating silence hummed on the line.
[Dad]: "I know, anak. I know," Dad murmured, his voice softening, just a fraction, the smallest crack in thirty-four years of iron. "But I need you to be brave. Just until the fifteenth. Two hours on a plane and we're home."
Ji-yoo opened her mouth, a raw, desperate urge to scream the truth. She could tell him. She could scream it into the phone until her vocal cords tore.
The plane will crash. You will die.
"Jae-min is right. They won't believe me. They'll just have two crazy children instead of one. And then Dad really will call Dr. Paeng, and Jae-min will get locked up in a white room, and no one will be saved," Ji-yoo thought, a cold, crushing resignation.
So she swallowed the truth. Let it burn a hole in her esophagus, a silent, agonizing sacrifice.
[Ji-yoo]: "Dad…," Ji-yoo choked, her voice cracking, a tear slipping down her cheek and dropping onto the screen of the phone. "Promise me you'll call me. Every day."
[Dad]: "Every day. I promise," Dad said, something unsteady beneath the words.
[Ji-yoo]: "And promise me you'll come home," Ji-yoo said, barely holding together.
[Dad]: "I will. April fifteenth, Ji-yoo. Two hours and we're there," Dad said, steady as concrete.
Ji-yoo clamped her hand over her mouth, a fierce, desperate containment. The sobs clawed at her throat, desperate to get out. She forced them down, swallowed them like poison.
[Ji-yoo]: "I love you, Dad," Ji-yoo said, the words barely escaping, muffled by her palm, thick with tears she couldn't afford to shed.
[Dad]: "I love you too. I'll give the phone to your mother," Dad said, gruff, the words thick and unfamiliar in his mouth.
The phone shuffled again.
[Mom]: "Baby? Your father says you'll be okay. I trust him. But if anything happens, you call me. Day or night," Mom murmured, her voice gentle, the sound of a woman already imagining the worst.
[Ji-yoo]: "Nothing will happen, Mom," Ji-yoo choked, the lie so thin it was transparent, but her mother couldn't see her face through the phone, and that was the only thing keeping Ji-yoo together.
[Mom]: "Okay," Mom said, and she was crying, the wet sniffle through the speaker audible, a raw, maternal anguish. "Okay, baby. We'll see you on the fifteenth. I'll call you as soon as we land."
[Ji-yoo]: "I love you, Mom," Ji-yoo choked, the words barely escaping.
[Mom]: "I love you too. So much," Mom said, her voice breaking on the last word.
Click. The line went dead. The screen went dark.
Ji-yoo lowered the phone. It slipped from her numb fingers and clattered to the concrete floor, a hollow, empty surrender. Her hands were shaking violently.
"I begged them to stay," Ji-yoo whispered to the empty, fortified room, her voice hollow, echoing off the steel walls. "I told Dad I was scared. I told him I needed him. And he said two hours."
She curled into a tight, fetal ball on the cold floor, her knees drawn to her chest, her forehead pressed against the concrete, her ponytail pooled around her like spilled ink, a raw, devastating collapse.
Jae-min stood up slowly, a quiet, aching tenderness. He took off his heavy jacket. The leather was warm from his body heat. He stepped over to her and draped it gently over her trembling shoulders, the motion quiet, unhurried, the same way he'd draped a blanket over her when she was seven and had a nightmare.
Then he sat down beside her. Back against the wall. Close enough that their shoulders touched, a quiet, steady presence.
He didn't say a word. He didn't have to.
— • • • —
11:00 PM. Ji-yoo's Room.
Jae-min stood in the doorway, a quiet, weary stillness.
Ji-yoo lay on the bare mattress, staring blankly at the ceiling. Her guitar case sat like a tombstone in the corner. The Rivermaya posters on the walls looked garish and surreal under the harsh overhead light, frozen images of a world that no longer existed.
Her eyes were empty. Red. Puffy. Exhausted down to the bone.
But her jaw was set.
"We save Alessia this time," Ji-yoo said quietly, her voice hoarse, but it held a razor's edge. Not a request. A declaration. The voice of someone who had lost something and was channeling the grief into the only thing left, purpose.
Not a request.
"Okay," Jae-min murmured, the word carrying more weight than two syllables should.
"Good. Get out," Ji-yoo snapped, waving a dismissive hand at him, the ego flickering back to life, the pride reasserting itself through sheer force of will. The armor was dented. But it was holding.
Jae-min turned, a quiet acceptance.
"Oppa," Ji-yoo called out, softer now. The edge gone.
He stopped, his hand resting on the doorframe, a still, listening attention.
"I'm glad you're here," Ji-yoo said, the words simple. Small. Stripped of every defense, just a sister telling her twin the only true thing she had left.
He didn't turn around. He couldn't let her see his face, a raw, unguarded emotion threatening to break through.
"Me too," Jae-min whispered, the words quiet, and something in them cracked wide open. Not controlled. Not walled. Just raw and honest and true. The closest thing to I need you that he could say, and he said it without armor.
He pulled the door shut, the heavy steel click echoing down the fortified hallway, a quiet, final closure.
His phone buzzed in his pocket, a cold, sharp jolt. He pulled it out. Unknown number. The screen glowed harshly in the dark.
[Unknown]: Candidate Jae-min Han Del Rosario. Your movement has been noted. Do not deviate from your current trajectory. Observation continues. - N
Jae-min stared at the glowing text, the blue light casting sharp shadows under his eyes, a cold, calculating wariness.
N.
"Let them watch," Jae-min thought, a cold, unyielding defiance hardening his resolve.
He pocketed the phone and walked back into the fortress, a cold, unyielding resolve in every step.