Chapter Text
The air was cool, leaving everyone that felt themselves caught in its embrace shivering from the cold—it had gotten a bit dark, evening coming close but not surfacing just yet. The sky hadn’t been blue after a while, settling between an empty grey and a pale navy. It clashed against the milky moon and the faint twinkles of the stars—even during the day, a few could be spotted. Two shadows could be seen, walking near one another, perhaps seeking out the other’s warmth; the wind, at least, had noticed and tried to push them together, wishing to be a kind soul. A breeze came, over taking them, the man’s white coat danced in the wind—it wasn’t the strong kind, but the kind that bothers one the most; a cold that never left, leaving one feeling empty inside.
“It’s cold,” The woman said, whom had no coat to wrap around herself; glanced at the man, who had a semblance of warmth.
“It is.” He muttered, his mind distant. Thinking of the woman he had just visited, the woman was seemingly smart and took notice of his dismay, opting to stay silent for a while; the silence was not uncomfortable, but felt like a gap between them. No matter how close they were—their shoulders grazing against each other as they walked—it felt like a distant that could never be filled, like a wall between the man and everything else.
“Dokja-ssi.” The woman sighed, she couldn’t help it, the man was drifting further and further away from herself that she felt once he started leaving, there would be no return—and thus, despite her former promise to remain silent, she had to break it.
“Yes, Sangah-ssi?” Dokja replied, his eyes moved from the view of the barren streets; crumbling buildings, grey rubble, dust and a faint fog that filled the air. They moved, the two deep, almost black, eyes set their gaze upon the brown-haired woman next to him, on his left.
“I heard you had to carry me on your back... I’m sorry, I was a burden yet again.” Sangah had felt her mouth growing dry, a sudden thirst came onto her as she swallowed—perhaps, it was the cold’s causing, or the words she might let out that shouldn’t be said, maybe it was her mouth, her whole bodily senses warning her that she should tread lightly with such a cautious man.
“You’ve been looking out for me too, so of course I would.” Dokja said, smiling lightly—a soft curl of the lips; he didn’t smile often before when Sangah had worked with him, during the times before the apocalypse, and before the lines between fiction and reality had blurred too far to create this now havocked world. If she thought about it, she knew that she wouldn’t be able to remember much about Dokja from work—he was another face there, a nice man, but just another person in the sea of salary workers.
“Did you hear all of that?” He asked, to which, Sangah nodded solemnly. She couldn’t express her thoughts to him—her thoughts of his conversation behind closed doors, in a tent that seemed sturdy but had thin panels; it wasn’t her place and yet, she had too much to say. He could only sigh, he had hoped that maybe she would pretend that nothing reached her ears—she was a smart woman, one he respected; so, if only, the walls had been thicker. They were supposed to serve as protection, from noise seeping inside, and leaking out.
“You’re thinking it’s abnormal, right? That a mother and son speak to each other like that.” He said, a soft chuckle coming right after. He imagined Sangah had a good relationship with her parents, they might have luncheons and dinners every week; often calls, long hugs and embraces—intimacy was established between them, the intimacy of a daughter and her mother and father.
“That’s not it,” Sangah replied, her voice sounding hurried. It would be abnormal, for herself to have such talks with her mother—but perhaps, it is abnormal for him to have talks of the weather and knitting and plans with his mother.
“Would you like to know?” Dokja asked, his hands-tinged pink, especially his fingertips, to escape from the cold and the scrutiny of Sangah, they went inside the pockets of his coat, the pockets of space that never seemed to end.
“... If it isn’t crossing a line, yes.” Sangah said, she couldn’t help herself, she’d say to herself again—he had offered, and she had selfishly conceded. She had thought to decline though perhaps, he offered because he needed a person to tell—someone who didn’t know him that well, so there was enough distant and familiarity.
“My mother murdered my father. She went to prison for that crime.” Dokja said, the words flowed out of him as if he couldn’t hold back and stop.
“It might sound harsh if when I say it, but honestly my father was a person who did deserve to die. Domestic violence, an addiction to gambling, and debts... My mother was beaten up every day. Then one day she made a choice, and it happened.”
Dokja had not chosen to glance at Sangah, by his side, her reaction was her stillness, her silence, and words that were never heard; she might have the crudest, or cruellest expression on her face but Dokja knew she wasn’t that kind of person. Perhaps, she’d be moved to tears or stuck in an uncomfortable silence, or she’d be thinking of the moments at work when she heard the others talking about him and only him.
“I thought I was talked about behind my back at work for all this. Had you really not heard any of the rumours, Yoo Sangah-ssi?” Dokja felt himself smirking, he wasn’t the type of person that enjoyed self-pity—his life was harsh, and he knew it.
“Now you definitely find it abnormal, right?” Dokja continued, “Of course what she did was wrong from a legal view, but the reason why I hate her is from the view of my feelings, which may not make sense.”
“Not at all! I’m not you, Dokja-ssi, so if I don’t understand fully, that’s why...” Sangah had hoped for a chance to know more about Dokja, over the course of the apocalypse, she had found more about him—a smart, cunning man that was seemingly cruel, but secretly very kind; especially kind to children, she had wondered how he had an affinity for children, though it seems she had just discovered as to where that soft spot appeared. She wasn’t sure what she would if it were her in this situation, and it filled her with a shame that, like ants, crawled all over her skin because of the fact that she didn’t want to know.
“Actually, you think I have no reason not to forgive her, right?” He said, swiftly changing the topic to Sangah’s surprise, “Do you happen to know the book, ‘Memoirs of an Underground Killer’?”
Her face lit up as her hands clapped together, “I think I’ve heard of it. It was probably a bestseller on its release day, wasn’t it?”
“It’s the memoir of an abused woman who had been sent to prison after killing her husband. It was highly acclaimed by critics on its first release.” Dokja’s eyes wandered off to the left and to Sangah’s glee as he drawled on, “Apparently the Korean edition of ‘Memoirs of an Underground Killer’ is now memoir literature. Of course, everything about it was blown out of proportion.”
The ants dug past her clothes, and through her skin—slipping into her flesh and nerves; shame overcame her and Dokja finished, with a pleasant smile.
“That’s right. My mother wrote it.”
It was a bit cruel, Dokja thought, to tell her like this; they weren’t close enough, but compared to his relationship with the others, he would say they were the closest even if he had no way on measuring such a perplexing and fragile thing. How could one measure their familiarity with someone? By whoever knew the most about himself? Or the one he trusted the most? Because, despite only one man that could fit into these two categories, at the same time, no one would. But she had known him before all of this—so he thought, as the chance raised, that maybe she should know. Dokja was a liar. He told her for his own sense of relief, yet afterwards, he was left in a pool of memories. Only the surface of his life had been known; the story of how it all began, his first love, all of his mistakes, wouldn’t be mentioned. They couldn’t. Even if they were, Dokja wouldn’t give in like he had this once—he had someone to remind him, a raspy voice in the back of his mind.
“Hyung, do you have a first love?” Gilyoung asked—if someone had asked Dokja, how the situation came to such, he wouldn’t be able to answer; he wasn’t good with children, little people that hadn’t lived through the cruelties of this world, who only knew of innocence. He had managed to get somewhere with Gilyoung, who had a childhood similarly to his own, and with Yoosoung who had suffered from loneliness—he would say he saw parts of himself in them, had it been some other snotty brat, he wouldn’t have allowed for... whatever they had between themselves now. So, when Gilyoung asked about Dokja’s first love, he got nervous. Dokja wasn’t a man of nerves like Lee Hyunsung-ssi. But the question made him falter, as if, on cue all the eyes around shifted towards him.
“I don’t have a first love,” Dokja said.
[The character ‘Han Sooyoung’ has activated ‘Lie Detection Lv. 12’]
[The character ‘Yoo Joonghyuk’ has activated ‘Lie Detection Lv. 12’]
“Really?” Yoosoung felt herself growing saddened over Dokja’s supposed loneliness.
[‘Yoo Joonghyuk’ has confirmed that this statement is false.]
[‘Han Sooyoung’ has confirmed that this statement is false.]
Damn it.
“Who was your first love?” Sooyoung demanded, shifting closer to Dokja with a smile, attempting to coax him into responding.
“No one.” He gritted out, he hadn’t wanted it to come out that harshly, but it worked as the others—Gilyoung and Yoosoung—moved towards Jihye and Heewon. Except for Sooyoung and Joonghyuk.
“It was her.” Joonghyuk muttered, eyes widening for a short moment like he made a discovery.
Who is her? It’s not what you think, I can assure you of that. Dokja wanted to say but opted to ignore the two pests buzzing around him.
“Was it a man? Is that why you’re so scared to tell us? I’m not homophobic, don’t worry. I can’t say otherwise for him though.” Sooyoung cooed at Dokja, before giving Joonghyuk a look; they exchanged words through silence for a moment before Joonghyuk approached Dokja, with a steady hand on his shoulder, the man muttered.
“Don’t worry. I won’t judge your romantic involvements, no matter which gender.” Joonghyuk released his hand and took a step back afterwards. If you’re so averse to touching me, why do so in the first place?! He wanted to yell. Anger doesn’t consume you—you allow it to consume yourself; don’t get angry, Dokja. The voice ringed in his ears, the faint words of a woman, high-pitched yet somehow low and raspy.
“Can we just move on from this topic?” Dokja sighed. He could feel himself remembering, again and again—just like before, stuck in the cycle of reading through his thoughts and mind as if it were a book.
***
A young scrawny boy trudged through the dark streets of his neighbourhood, where poverty lurked and crime lingered, he had, at first, an aversion to being outside during the night—when the navy sky faded to pitch-black and not even the line of old, worn street lamps could illuminate more than a few steps however, he soon learnt that with his undesirable face, thin body, and worn clothes that no one would bother him. Bruises littered all over his pale skin, while some parts of his school uniform were torn, others painted, and some patches muddy; he was the epitome of pity, unfortunate. Those ads one could come across when passing by a charity, someone had said, it garnered the crowd’s laughter—the looming crowd, surrounding the boy who laid on the ground, clutching his aching sides. It was funny. Even he agreed, but... it made him wish to grow up even faster. To get taller, more built, sturdier—he knew he wouldn’t be the picture-perfect definition of an adult though he hoped to be someone. Someone that could be noticed in the sea of salary workers and school students during the morning commute. Interrupting his thoughts, he heard a loud meow. A cat? He turned left, walking into the alleyway and saw the cat—brown.... or was it black? He had to squint his eyes to see properly but despite the lack of light, he squatted and began petting it. It purred in relief, and he felt slightly happy. The cat liked him. A bowl of cat food was placed next to the cat, the metal clanged against the concrete ground, startling the boy.
“Did I scare you? Sorry. I usually feed him, but he didn’t come around today so I thought he had gotten food from elsewhere. He likes tricking people into buying food for him.” A soft voice said, he turned around, looking at the woman—wearing nothing but a short dress with her hair out, all messy. She was... beautiful. He felt his cheeks flushing. Good thing it was dark, he thought, or he would have embarrassed himself.
“What’s your name, dear?” She grinned, her eyes gleaming and her face lighting up in the light radiating from her phone.
“D-Dokja... Kim Dokja.” Dokja muttered out, stuttering over his words. He didn’t speak a lot, and today, he hadn’t at all. He shouldn’t be forgetting how to talk. God. He was mad he stuttered. Did she think he was lame?
“Kim Dokja. How pretty? Do you like reading?” She said, inciting Dokja’s surprise. No one had guessed his name meant reader the first time around, it was always: Oh, are you independent? Do you live by yourself? Checks out, you reek lonely.
“Yeah. I love reading.” Dokja couldn’t take his eyes off of her even as she laughed at his uptight response. This was the beginning of something, or nothing good at all.
Every night, Dokja found himself walking the long way home—through the alleyway, his excuse was simple: to meet the cat. He had pretended to be a cat lover, but his parents were allergic and thus, he wasn’t even allowed to pet his friend’s cats. It was an obvious lie, everyone in this neighbourhood knew Dokja didn’t have parents or friends—but she was new around here, apparently.
This night, next to the cat, the woman had sat down on the ground—rather.... inappropriately, squatting with a short skirt on. Dokja had to avert his eyes. He wasn’t a pervert like the boys at school. Even if they blamed it on him.
“Oh.... hello, Dokja, what’re you... what’re you doing here? Miss me?” The woman mumbled, smelling like alcohol and cigarettes; like his father, without realising, Dokja scowled in disgust at the sight of her.
“What’s with that face?” She tutted, with a facial expression matching Dokja’s.
“Sorry... I don’t like the smell of... alcohol.” He apologised, dropping his head.
“If you’re sorry, help me up.” The woman said though it sounded like a command. Hesitantly, Dokja lifted her arm around his shoulder as she wobbled around.
“Where should I take you?” He asked, her cheap perfume filled the air; sweet, too sweet.
“My house... I’ll tell you how to get there.” She said.
After a long while, Dokja found himself standing in front of her door. Her house didn’t look bad, in fact, it was better than his own—he was in the nicer part of town, where he’d never been before. It made him a bit jealous. Shooing away bad thoughts, he asked her this.
“Do you need help to go inside, or should I go home now?” Dokja had hoped she would agree to letting him help her, so he could spend just a few more minutes around her; despite the smell of alcohol, cigarettes, and her headache inducing perfume, he wouldn’t mind it. Which was why, at the same time, he wanted to go home.
“Help... get out my keys... skirt pocket.” She mumbled out, the rest of her words ended up being too quiet for Dokja to hear. Skirt.... pocket?! He felt himself flushing, as he stammered.
“Where...?” He asked again. Hoping maybe it was under her rug or something.
“Skirt pocket.” She repeated herself, growing irritated and tired as she leaned her weight onto Dokja. He winced, touching her hip and slowly going down to touch the fabric of her skirt. It was soft... very soft, almost like a cotton ball would be—he kept feeling around for the pocket until his hand landed on something else, it was soft but had some other types of fabric in it.... like lace and.... Oh my gosh! Dokja tried to retract his hand very quickly, but she held his hand there.
“Naughty boy,” The woman said as her spare hand reached into her pocket and opened the door. Dokja was stuck, even as she dragged him inside.
“Can you feel it?” She whispered, Dokja’s hand felt damp... was that.... He was scared. Shouldn’t he be able to go home now? And his hand was touching—somewhere he thought he’d never be able to touch!
“Yea-yeah. I. I can.” He blurted out. The woman that he loves is letting him touch her. His eyes never left her, in the dimly lit doorway, as she slid her skirt down and everything below. Taking her shirt off as well, clad in nothing. She bit at his collar, tugging at his cheap flaking belt. He couldn’t remember her drunken mumbles back then, only a tongue wrapped around his girth—sucking him dry. And wet fingers, deep inside. As she dragged him to the bed and sat down on him; he couldn’t remember how she looked, or how he felt. Only afterwards, when she sobered up, a look of disgust on her face as she made him put his clothes back on and kicked him out. Did he scream out no, please help me, someone—again and again? He couldn’t remember. Would she have stopped? The night air was cold, like always, it was dark around his neighbourhood, but that night he had forgotten how to get home and wandered through the streets, shivering, like a little boy in the winter.
***
“I had one.” Joonghyuk muttered—was he curious too?—with even Joonghyuk trying to get an answer out of him, Dokja felt like giving in yet at the same time, he would try to hear more out of Joonghyuk’s mouth.
“Seolhwa-ssi, right?” He replied, ignoring Sooyoung’s complaints. Joonghyuk didn’t respond, instead, his silence allowed for Sooyoung to voice her thoughts.
“Just tell us, Dokja, did it end badly?” Sooyoung couldn’t stop pushing. She knew... almost everything about everyone around her; Joonghyuk, Jihye, Yoosung, Heewon, Hyunsung... even if they weren’t real people a while ago, that wasn’t the point, she had found out all there was to know about that damn brown-haired woman who was too good at everything she did, damn Yoo Sangah. An above average woman, in looks, in wealth, in smarts, and in luck. But Dokja wouldn’t tell her anything. She had spent so much time around him, yet she really knew nothing about him.
He would let tell them, and let Sooyoung and Joonghyuk think whatever they wanted, whether they looked at him with disgust for seeking out an older woman, or perhaps a grin—they always do that: you’ve just become a man, he’d heard, far too many times. It was part of the path of becoming a man. He just experienced it early, with someone who knew what they were doing—he was lucky his first time was so amazing. So dazzlingly rememberable, that yet, he can’t remember it at all. But at the same time, he wouldn't. He wouldn't tell them, or anyone, at all.
“Did you have a first love? Have you even kissed someone before?” Dokja scoffed, letting her shove him as she looked away.
“I have. I’ve just never fallen in love.” She grumbled. “And yours,” She said, pointing at Joonghyuk, “doesn’t count.”
***
After a long while, the entire Kim Dokja company had gathered—they all insisted that he should stop referring to them as that, that he should say, all his friends had gathered, he didn’t know what to say—it was dark, and they were all sitting around, before Sooyoung had stood up, yelling out a question.
“Let’s see whose had the most relationships!” She smirked, glancing at Dokja for a moment, their eyes met—he knew nothing good would come from this.
“Okay, how about we guess who has the most exes and who has the least?” Heewon said, smirking alongside Sooyoung.
“Ahjussi has the least exes! And I have... zero because, you know, the apocalypse started.” Jihye mumbled the last part out. Dokja just rolled his eyes, he had more exes than her before she was even in high school, maybe. How old was he when she was born?... Never mind.
“Uh, I have three...?” Hyunsung said shyly, putting his hand up. “And I think Sooyoung-ssi has the least exes. Not to be rude! I just didn’t know who else to say. It’s alright to not have dated anyone before either.”
“Ugh, fine, because of that. I’ll go next.” Sooyoung grumbled, “I have four. No. Five? Whatever, six, I think. Yeah, six.”
“Sangah-ssi’s definitely had the most, and master.” Jihye said, making Sangah laugh.
“Oh, I’ve actually only had one.” She smiled. One? Even Dokja had more than her, yikes, though maybe beautiful people just can’t get partners—Joonghyuk doesn’t have many exes. Only one too—because everyone’s intimidated of their beauty.
“What?! Joonghyuk, you go next.” Sooyoung tried to change the subject, she knew why, it was probably because men got jealous that Sangah was too pretty. She scoffed while shifting to sitting cross-legged on the ground like everyone else was.
“One.” He grits out with his arms crossed. Dokja knew that, there was only one person who would be able to rival Joonghyuk’s beauty anyways.
“Dokja-ssi, you go.” Sangah insisted. Dokja started thinking. His fling in high school, his... relationship with one of Song Minwoo’s friends
***
The sun had been too bright that day, as he slept at his desk—which was at the very back of the classroom, right next to the window—he remembered his eyes fluttering open from the involuntary light beaming on his face, standing in front of his desk was a tall boy, light brown hair, and hazel eyes—shining under the sun’s gaze, they... gleamed like gold. The boy smiled as Dokja woke up.
“Do you always sleep in here during break?” He asked, even his voice was nice, low but not too low; medium, like the perfect section on a piano—the middle—that wasn’t high-pitched, or low-pitched; it wasn’t deep, just... nice.
“Oh... uhm, yeah. I do.” Dokja muttered, he knew he probably had red marks on his face, maybe drool on the side of his mouth—thinking about that made him feel gross. Why was this guy talking to him?
“Hmm. Stop sleeping then, hang out with me.” The boy said, as if his words were final. Dokja could still remember that day, as he got dragged around parts of the school he hadn’t even seen before—and they played games on his phone, and talked about nonsensical things. He had ended up being friend’s with Song Minwoo—so they didn’t talk at school, but afterwards, almost every day, Dokja walked home with him, holding his bag as... he wrapped his arm around his shoulder.
His first boyfriend was cruel.
***
Dokja didn’t want to think of him again. That Ahjussi from when he was in university, too many men, and some other flings.
“Do flings count? Not like a one-night stand, a real fling. Like friends with benefits.” He asked, looking up from his fingers. Everyone was looking at him. “What? I’m just asking.”
“Uh. Let’s say that they do. How many would you have?” Heewon said as no one else seemed to be able to.
Okay then, from the grocery store... and that one time, oh, also with.
“Sixteen...” Dokja tutted at himself. That was a lot, considering how everyone else couldn’t get past double digits. Whore, he heard Sooyoung whispering in his ear, the hypothetical one that lived in his head haunting him.
“That’s fake. You’re lying.” Sooyoung yelled. Why would he be lying?
[The character ‘Han Sooyoung’ has activated ‘Lie Detection Lv. 12’]
“Just see then.” Dokja scowled. He wouldn’t lie about this; there was no need to... although he could have lowered the number a bit. Some of them were very short.
[‘Han Sooyoung’ has confirmed that this statement is true.]
“No way...” She muttered, with a hand on mouth.
“How? Why?” Heewon said, her eyes wide and maybe, a bit of disgust on her face. He couldn’t tell why she was looking at him like that.
“I just... didn’t know what else to do.” Dokja replied, he didn’t really have an answer to that. Why did he have all these... flings? He didn’t know. Because he liked it, because he wanted it, because he was lonely, because, surprisingly, lots of people came onto him—and he accepted, every time. Dokja was easy.
“So, you had... sex? With lots of people? For long periods of time? Multiple times?” Sooyoung responded. Sangah yelled at her saying Jihye was here, but she had wandered off somewhere else.
“Shockingly, lots of people wanted to with me, actually.” He scoffed.
“Can’t believe that. When’d you lose your virginity?” Sooyoung shot out. That was a weird one.
“Uhm. You first.” Dokja said.
“Twenty.” Sooyoung grinned, feeling accomplished.
“Fifteen.” Dokja smiled, making her face fall flat. And everyone else’s actually.
“That’s... really young, Dokja-ssi. Not that I’m judging just... it’s a bit concerning.” Hyunsung said, making a comeback after having a private conversation with Heewon.
“It’s whatever. I don’t think about it anymore.” He ignored everyone else’s questions, especially Sooyoung’s, finding Joonghyuk staring at him with that look—the one he made when he was angry, or... angry.
“Joonghyuk-ah. What’s wrong? Jealous I’ve got more than you? Don’t worry, with your handsome face, you could get into the hundreds easily.” Dokja gave him a shit-eating grin, comforting him. He beat the protagonist at one thing, he supposed.
“Was... your first love one of them?” He asked, looking at Dokja without a blink. He wasn’t expecting that.
“Yeah. She was.” Dokja sighed, “Why’re you wondering? Upset that yours is.... over there instead with you?” Dokja turned his head around to point at Seolhwa, talking with some girls. Was that Jihye? Oh. That’s where she went.
“No. Tell me more.” Joonghyuk ignored wherever Dokja was pointing. Maybe he got over her, Dokja thought, whatever.
“Uh, she was beautiful. Really, really beautiful. And liked cats. A bit older than me. I never saw her during the day, only at night whenever I walked through the sketchy alleyway the long way home.” Dokja picked at his nails. “So, every night, I’d walk the long way home just to see her.”
“You must have loved her a lot.” Joonghyuk said, glancing at Dokja’s fingers, the peeling skin, red marks, faint scars.
“No. Not really.” Dokja smiled. “It’s just that... she was the first.”
The first for everything, and the last one he’ll choose to remember.