G

The sky over World Z was never truly blue. It was a bruised, heavy shade of charcoal, choked by the smog of a thousand factories and the oppressive hum of the surveillance drones. High above the crumbling skyscrapers, massive holographic screens projected the face of Z. His features were symmetrical, sterile, and terrifyingly still. His voice, amplified through the speakers embedded in every street corner, was a rhythmic drone that preached the virtues of silence and the sin of expression.

"Art is the rot of the soul," the voice boomed, vibrating through the chips implanted behind every citizen’s ear. "Emotion is a malfunction. Stability is life."

In the shadows of a derelict warehouse, Hala Wooyoung adjusted the leather straps of his harness. His face was obscured by a black mask, his eyes rimmed with dark, defiant kohl. He didn't just live in the grime; he was part of it. He was a weapon forged in a world where a hummed melody could get you a bullet to the brain.

He was restless. It had been four months since the rebellion had split their forces. Hala San, the man who moved like a shadow and fought like a demon, was stationed on the far side of the Sector 4 border. Four months without his counterpart. Four months of cold beds and the metallic tang of blood in his mouth.

Then, the portal had hummed to life in the basement of their hideout.

The arrival of the boys from World A—Ateez—had been a shock to the system. They were soft. They smelled like laundry detergent and expensive cologne. They laughed loudly and cried openly, concepts that were alien and dangerous in World Z.

Hala Wooyoung leaned against a rusted pillar, his gaze fixed on the boy standing by the makeshift tactical table. It was San. But it wasn't his San. This San wore a soft knitted sweater and had hair that looked fluffy rather than matted with grit. This San smiled with his whole face, his eyes crinkling in a way that made Hala Wooyoung’s chest ache with a phantom limb syndrome of the soul.

"You're staring again," a voice grunted.

Hala Wooyoung didn't turn. He knew the cadence of Hala Hongjoong’s voice—the Captain’s tone was always like grinding stones. "He looks like him. But he’s too bright. It’s offensive."

"He’s a civilian, Wooyoung. Leave him be," Hongjoong warned, checking the magazine of his rifle. "We need their Hongjoong’s tech to bypass the Sector 7 firewall. Don't break the guests."

Hala Wooyoung didn't answer. He watched as San of Ateez laughed at something their Yunho had said. It was a beautiful sound—a crime punishable by death in this world. The hunger in Wooyoung’s gut wasn't for food. It was for the familiarity of that face, even if the spirit behind it was entirely different.

The opportunity came an hour later. The hideout was a labyrinth of concrete and steel, and the 'soft' San had wandered off to find the washroom, looking lost in the dim, flickering lights of the corridor.

Hala Wooyoung moved with the silence of a predator. Before San could turn the corner, a gloved hand shot out, grabbing his shoulder and shoving him back into a secluded alcove hidden behind a heavy velvet curtain—a relic of a theater that had been shut down decades ago.

"Hey! What the—" San’s voice cut off as he hit the wall, his breath hitching.

Hala Wooyoung pressed his body against the younger man, his presence overwhelming. He smelled of smoke, leather, and something sharp, like ozone. He didn't pull back. He kept his masked face inches from San’s, his dark eyes burning with a desperate, frantic intensity.

"You look just like him," Hala Wooyoung whispered, his voice a jagged rasp. "But you’re too clean. You don't have the scars."

San’s heart was hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. "Wooyoung? I mean—Hala Wooyoung? You’re scaring me. Let go."

"I haven't seen him in months," the rebel muttered, ignoring the plea. His hand traveled up to San’s jaw, his thumb brushing over the soft skin. "The drones are everywhere. The chips are screaming. And you stand here looking like a dream I’m not allowed to have."

"I'm not him," San said, his voice trembling, though he didn't pull away. There was something magnetic about the raw grief and violence radiating off the man in front of him. It was terrifying, but it was also the most honest thing San had ever felt.

"Close enough," Hala Wooyoung growled.

He didn't wait for permission. He crashed his lips against San’s. It wasn't a gentle kiss; it was a collision. It tasted of desperation and the frantic need to feel something other than the cold weight of a gun. San gasped into the kiss, his hands instinctively coming up to clutch at the rough leather of Wooyoung’s vest.

The friction was heat in a frozen world. Hala Wooyoung’s movements were frantic, his hands sliding under San’s sweater, his palms rough and calloused against the smooth skin of San’s waist. He was trying to bridge the gap between two universes with sheer force.

San felt his head spin. This wasn't his Wooyoung—his Wooyoung was playful, loud, and sweet. This man was a storm, a broken thing trying to stitch itself back together using San as the thread. Yet, as the kiss deepened, as their teeth clashed and their breaths mingled in the stagnant air, San found himself responding. He leaned into the aggression, his fingers tangling in the dark, messy hair at the nape of the rebel’s neck.

Hala Wooyoung groaned, a low, guttural sound that vibrated through San’s chest. He pushed San further against the wall, his knee sliding between San’s legs. The air in the small alcove grew thick and humid, the sounds of their labored breathing drowned out by the distant, rhythmic thud of the city’s ventilation system.

"Stay," Hala Wooyoung muttered against San’s neck, his teeth grazing the skin over the pulse point. "Just for a minute. Pretend you’re mine."

San’s eyes fluttered shut, his senses overwhelmed. "I... I can't..."

"Just be him," Wooyoung pleaded, his voice breaking for a fraction of a second.

The rebel’s hands became more urgent, roaming over San’s back, pulling him flush against the tactical gear and the cold metal of his belt. The heat between them was a wildfire, threatening to consume the logic of the situation. San felt a tear prick at his eye—not from pain, but from the sheer, crushing weight of the other man’s loneliness.

Suddenly, the heavy curtain was ripped aside with a violent jerk.

"Get your hands off him!"

The voice was like a whip crack. Hala Wooyoung was shoved back with startling force, stumbling over a piece of debris.

Standing in the opening was Wooyoung of Ateez. His face was flushed with anger, his chest heaving. He looked between the rebel version of himself and his best friend, his eyes wide with a mixture of protectiveness and horror.

"San, get over here," Wooyoung commanded, his voice shaking.

San stood frozen for a moment, his lips swollen and his sweater hiked up, looking dazed. He glanced at Hala Wooyoung, who was slowly straightening up, wiping a smear of saliva from his lip with the back of a gloved hand. The rebel’s eyes were cold again, the vulnerability of a moment ago vanished behind a mask of indifference.

"He’s fine," Hala Wooyoung said, his voice flat. "I was just... checking his vitals."

"You were attacking him!" Wooyoung stepped forward, putting himself firmly between San and his doppelgänger. "I don't care if you're a 'rebel' or a 'hero' in this hellhole. You don't touch him. You don't look at him."

Hala Wooyoung let out a dry, humorless chuckle. He leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest. "You’re so loud. In this world, that gets you killed in thirty seconds. You should thank me for teaching him what a real threat looks like."

"You're not a threat," Wooyoung spat, his hands clenched into fists. "You're just miserable. And you're not using my friend to feel better about your shitty life."

San finally found his voice, reaching out to touch his Wooyoung’s arm. "Woo, it’s okay. I’m okay."

"It’s not okay!" Wooyoung turned to him, his eyes fierce. "Look at you! You’re shaking. We came here to help, not to be... to be prey."

Hala Wooyoung’s expression darkened. The mention of 'help' seemed to strike a nerve. "We didn't ask for your help. Your Hongjoong opened the door. We’re just the ones who have to live with the consequences when you leave."

He pushed off the wall, walking toward the exit of the alcove. As he passed the two boys from World A, he paused, his shoulder brushing against the 'soft' Wooyoung’s.

"Keep him close," Hala Wooyoung whispered, loud enough for both of them to hear. "Because in this world, nothing stays whole for long. Not even your own face."

Without another word, he disappeared into the shadows of the warehouse, his heavy boots silent on the concrete.

Wooyoung turned to San immediately, grabbing his shoulders and searching his face. "Did he hurt you? San, talk to me."

San shook his head slowly, the ghost of the kiss still burning on his lips. "No. He didn't hurt me. He just... he looked so lonely, Woo. It was like looking at a version of you that had lost everything."

Wooyoung pulled San into a tight, protective hug, burying his face in San’s shoulder. "I don't care. I don't care how sad he is. He’s not me. And I’m not letting anyone in this world lay a finger on you again."

Across the warehouse, hidden in the rafters, Hala Wooyoung watched them. He reached into a hidden pocket of his vest and pulled out a small, crumpled piece of paper—a forbidden sketch of Hala San he had drawn in the dark.

He crumpled it tighter in his fist, the sharp edges digging into his palm. The rebellion required them to be insensitive to violence, to be aggressive, to be machines of war. But as he watched the two boys from the other world cling to each other, Hala Wooyoung felt a flicker of the very thing Z sought to destroy.

He felt a melody in his head, a low, mourning song. And for the first time in years, he didn't try to silence it.