Sayoung blinked through his blurry vision, wiggling his fingers. Yesterday, he had been scolded for getting out of bed. They had told him that the mysterious tubes connected to his body were keeping him alive and that he must not remove them. The people in white clothes grumbled as they strapped him down with those lines.

Was it true?@@novelbin@@

He blinked again, his eyes unfocused. They had covered his eyes with a thin cloth, saying that his eyes shouldn't be stimulated. It didn’t matter much to him—he couldn’t see anything either way.

"......"

The world without J was dull, and time moved at an excruciatingly slow pace. He spent most of his days lying in bed. The days when even breathing was a struggle were long gone, and now, he could walk a little if he wanted. But the people around him seemed to think it was safest to stay put.

At least they put him to sleep regularly. They must have been injecting something through the tubes—perhaps a sedative. It was a small mercy, as it allowed him to pass the time.

It was boring, but bearable. He had something to wait for—J had promised to return. J had always come and gone sporadically, so Sayoung could understand if he was late. His body could not move much, so his thoughts drifted in many directions, but most of them revolved around J.

On good days, J would slightly lift his mask and let Sayoung touch his face. J’s face was soft—much softer than the stiff bed sheets and rough bandages that covered him. Sometimes, Sayoung would get greedy and try to reach deeper into the mask, brushing his fingers against the lashes near J’s hidden eyes. He liked the way J’s cheek would tremble slightly, as if he were smiling. J would always gently reprimand him, saying, “You can’t see my eyes,” with that soothing voice. It didn’t matter anyway—Sayoung couldn’t see.

Sometimes J would stroke his hair, showing no hesitation in touching his scarred, mangled skin. He even wrapped Sayoung’s arms in fresh bandages himself. Wasn’t it disgusting? J must have a strong stomach…

J’s hands always smelled like soap. Sometimes they were still slightly damp when he visited. Wasn’t J a hunter, someone who killed monsters? Sayoung was always curious about why J smelled so good. He figured J must wash thoroughly before coming to see him.

The last time J had hugged him, there had been a faint but bitter smell. Did he smoke? The more he thought about J, the more questions piled up. There were so many things he wanted to ask. Sayoung would practice speaking under the blankets, but most of his attempts came out as hoarse, breathless sounds.

“What’s your name? Where do you live? How old are you? What do you like? What do you hate? What kind of work do you do? Do you smoke? Do you wash your hands before coming here?”

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