Ggg

The sun did not rise in this world so much as it bled through the gray, gelatinous atmosphere, casting a sickly violet hue over the cracked linoleum of the kitchen floor. Seonghwa was already awake. He hadn't truly slept in seventeen days—not since the sky had ripped open back in Seoul and spat them out into this distorted mirror of a reality.

He sat at the small, scarred wooden table, his fingers trembling as he folded a damp washcloth. His dark hair was lank, stripped of its usual luster, and his eyes were rimmed with the red exhaustion of a man who was holding up a collapsing ceiling with his bare hands.

A wet, hacking sound drifted from the bathroom, followed by the unmistakable splash of liquid hitting porcelain.

Seonghwa stood up immediately, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. "Joong?"

He hurried to the cramped bathroom. Hongjoong was slumped over the toilet, his knuckles white where he gripped the rim. The leader of the fiercest group in their world looked like a ghost of himself. He was gaunt, his collarbones jutting out like knives, and his skin had a translucent, waxy quality.

"It’s okay," Seonghwa whispered, kneeling in the cramped space to rub Hongjoong’s back. "Just breathe. I’ve got you."

Hongjoong retched again, his body convulsing with a violent force that seemed ready to snap his spine. When he finally pulled back, he wiped his mouth with a trembling hand, his eyes glassy and unfocused.

"The maps," Hongjoong wheezed, his voice a sandpaper rasp. "I need... I need to check the ley lines. If the frequency shifts, we can... we can jump back."

"Not today, Joong," Seonghwa said, his voice cracking despite his best efforts to remain the pillar of strength. "You’re too weak. You haven't kept a drop of water down since yesterday."

"I have to," Hongjoong insisted, trying to push himself up. His arms buckled instantly. If Seonghwa hadn't caught him, he would have cracked his chin on the tile. "Seonghwa, I’m the leader. I have to get us out. Look at them. Look at what this place is doing to them."

Seonghwa guided him back to a sitting position against the wall, his heart breaking. He knew Hongjoong felt the weight of their survival on his shoulders, but the physics of this universe were poisoning him. Their bodies were never meant to vibrate at this frequency.

"I'll bring you some ginger tea," Seonghwa lied. There was no ginger in this world, only a bitter, starchy root he’d found at the market that vaguely mimicked the taste. "Just stay here. Don't move."

He left Hongjoong shivering on the floor and retreated to the main living area, which served as a bedroom for the other two.

Yunho was standing by the window, staring out at the jagged skyline of the alien city. His tall frame, usually so full of grace and power, was slumped. He looked like a statue forgotten by time.

"Yunho-yah?" Seonghwa called out softly.

Yunho didn't turn. "The bus is late," he murmured, his voice hollow. "If I miss the bus, I’ll be late for practice. Mr. Kim will be angry."

Seonghwa felt a cold lump form in his throat. He walked over and gently placed a hand on Yunho’s shoulder. The younger man flinched, his dark eyes wide and confused as he looked at Seonghwa. There was no recognition in them—only a polite, distant curiosity.

"I'm sorry," Yunho said, his brow furrowing. "Do I know you? You look... familiar. Like someone from a dream."

"It’s me, Yunho. It’s Seonghwa. Your hyung."

Yunho tilted his head, a small, sad smile playing on his lips. "Hyung. That’s a nice word. I think I had a brother once. Or maybe seven." He turned back to the window. "Is the bus coming soon?"

Seonghwa squeezed his eyes shut, forcing back the tears. He couldn't afford to break. If he broke, they all died. "Soon, Yunho. Why don't you sit down and draw? You like drawing."

He handed Yunho a blunt pencil and a scrap of gray paper. Yunho took them daintily, sitting on the edge of a moth-eaten mattress, and began to draw circles—hundreds of overlapping circles that never quite connected.

Suddenly, a sharp, jagged gasp cut through the silence.

It came from the corner where Wooyoung lay buried under a mountain of tattered blankets. Seonghwa was at his side in a second.

"Wooyoung? Wooyoungie, talk to me."

Wooyoung’s eyes were snapped shut, his jaw locked so tight Seonghwa feared his teeth would shatter. His entire body was vibrating, a low-frequency hum that seemed to emanate from his very bones. Then, the spike hit.

"AHHHHHHH! NO! STOP IT!"

The scream was visceral, a sound of pure, unadulterated agony that tore through the small apartment. Wooyoung thrashed, his limbs flailing as if he were being electrocuted. Tears streamed down his face, soaking into the pillow.

"Make it stop, Hwa! Please, please just kill me, make it stop!" Wooyoung shrieked, his fingers clawing at his own thighs.

Seonghwa threw himself over Wooyoung’s body, pinning his limbs down to keep him from hurting himself. He felt the phantom shocks radiating off the younger boy’s skin—the "glitch" in the nervous system that occurred every few hours.

"I’m here, I’m here, I’ve got you," Seonghwa sobbed, dropping the facade of composure for just a moment. He pulled Wooyoung’s head onto his lap, stroking his hair while the younger boy’s body bucked and twisted in a paroxysm of pain.

"It hurts," Wooyoung whimpered, his voice dropping to a pathetic, wet sob as the spike began to recede into a duller, constant ache. "It feels like my blood is turning into glass, hyung. It’s cutting me from the inside."

"I know, I know," Seonghwa whispered, kissing Wooyoung’s forehead. "It’s going to pass. It’s passing now. Just breathe with me."

From the bathroom, the sound of Hongjoong vomiting returned—a rhythmic, desperate sound. From the bed, Yunho began to hum a melody that none of them knew, a haunting, fragmented tune that drifted through the air like smoke.

This was their life now. A cycle of bile, silence, and screams.

By midday, Seonghwa had managed to get Hongjoong into a chair and coaxed a few spoonfuls of lukewarm broth into Wooyoung. He moved between them like a ghost, cleaning up spills, whispering encouragements, and checking the locks on the door. He was terrified that the inhabitants of this world would find them and see them for the anomalies they were.

He found Hongjoong staring at a series of scribbles on the kitchen table. They were calculations, mostly nonsensical, written in Hongjoong’s cramped, frantic handwriting.

"If I can just... if I can find the resonance," Hongjoong muttered, his eyes bloodshot. "The bridge is still there, Seonghwa. I can feel it. It’s like a ringing in my ears that won't stop."

"You need to sleep, Joong," Seonghwa said, placing a hand over the papers.

Hongjoong looked up, and for a second, the sharp, brilliant leader was back. "If I sleep, we stay here. If we stay here, Wooyoung’s heart is going to give out from the shock. Yunho is going to forget he’s human. And you..." He reached out, his trembling fingers touching Seonghwa’s cheek. "You’re going to disappear trying to save us. You’re fading, Hwa. I can see through your hand."

Seonghwa looked down. His skin did look paler, almost translucent against the dark wood of the table. He swallowed hard. "I’m fine. I’m the oldest. I have to be fine."

"You're the bravest of us," Hongjoong whispered, before his head lollied forward, overtaken by another wave of crushing fatigue.

Seonghwa guided him to the bed next to Yunho. Yunho didn't look up; he was busy tearing his drawings into tiny, perfect squares.

"Look, hyung," Yunho said, holding up a square. "Snow. It’s snowing in the practice room."

"It’s beautiful, Yunho-yah," Seonghwa said, his voice thick with unshed tears.

The afternoon was a blur of misery. Wooyoung had two more episodes, both so violent that Seonghwa had to stuff a cloth in his mouth to keep him from biting his tongue. Between the screams, Seonghwa scrubbed the floor, washed their meager clothes in a bucket of cold water, and stared at the violet sun, praying to a god he wasn't sure existed in this dimension.

He was so tired. His bones felt like lead, and the anxiety was a constant, buzzing static in the back of his brain. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the faces of the other four members—Mingi, San, Yeosang, Jongho. Were they out there somewhere? Were they suffering like this? Or were they back home, mourning the four who had vanished into thin air?

As the violet sun began to sink, casting long, distorted shadows across the room, a strange calm settled over the apartment.

Wooyoung had finally fallen into a fitful, medicated sleep. Yunho was curled up on the floor, surrounded by his paper "snow," his breathing deep and even.

Seonghwa sat on the floor by the window, his back against the wall. Hongjoong crawled over to him, moving with the effort of a dying man. He leaned his head on Seonghwa’s shoulder.

"I found it," Hongjoong whispered.

Seonghwa didn't look at him. He was too afraid of the hope. "Found what?"

"The frequency. I know why we're sick." Hongjoong coughed, a dry, rattling sound. "This world... it’s hungry. It’s feeding on our memories and our vitality. That’s why Yunho is losing himself. That’s why Wooyoung is in pain. The world is trying to rewrite our atoms to fit its own rules."

"Can we stop it?" Seonghwa asked, his voice a mere breath.

"I don't know," Hongjoong admitted. "But I found a rift. A weak spot. It’s about three miles from here, in the industrial sector. If we can get there... if I can use the last of the energy in my lightiny... we might be able to tear a hole."

Seonghwa looked at the two sleeping boys. Wooyoung’s face was bruised from where he’d clawed at himself. Yunho looked like a lost child.

"They can’t walk three miles, Joong," Seonghwa said.

"Then we carry them," Hongjoong said, his voice sparking with a sudden, fierce fire. "I don't care if it kills me. I’m getting you guys home."

Seonghwa looked at Hongjoong—really looked at him. He saw the vomit stains on his shirt, the trembling in his hands, the sheer, agonizing exhaustion. And yet, the spirit of the Captain was there, burning like a dying star.

"Okay," Seonghwa said, reaching out to take Hongjoong’s hand. Their fingers intertwined, cold and thin. "We’ll go tomorrow. At first light."

"Promise?"

"I promise."

Seonghwa watched as Hongjoong’s eyes finally closed, the leader drifting into a shallow sleep.

Seonghwa stayed awake. He watched the violet light fade into a pitch-black night where no stars shone. He listened to the chorus of their suffering—the whimpers, the labored breaths, the distant hum of a world that didn't want them.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, crumpled photograph he’d managed to save. It was a picture of all eight of them, laughing on a beach under a blue sky. He traced the faces of his brothers, his heart aching with a love so profound it felt like a physical weight.

"I'll get them there, Joong," Seonghwa whispered into the darkness. "Even if I have to carry all three of you on my back. I’ll get you home."

He closed his eyes for just a second, imagining the smell of salt air and the sound of San’s laughter. When he opened them again, the room was still gray, the air was still sour, and his hands were still shaking.

But he stood up. He walked to the sink, splashed his face with cold, metallic water, and began to pack their few belongings into a single bag.

He was Seonghwa. He was the eldest. He was the one who kept them whole. And as long as his heart was beating, even in a world that tried to stop it, he would not let them break.

He sat back down by the window, a silent sentry in the dark, waiting for the violet sun to return so he could lead his broken family into the unknown one last time. He didn't know if they would survive the journey, or if the rift would even open. But as he looked at Yunho’s paper snow and heard Wooyoung’s steady breathing, he allowed himself one small, dangerous thought.

Maybe, just maybe, they would see the blue sky again.