[b1a4] city of love, village of dreams; gongchan/jinyoung; r [2/3]

[halcyondusk]

There’s a small group of people pacing around the waiting point in front of the City gates when Chanshik arrives. They must be all the others that passed the Grading, but Chanshik can’t remember a single face from the thousands inside the grading hall.

“Number?” the Thinker guarding the gate asks. “Present your Cuff or Chain.”

“Eight-Fourteen,” Chanshik says, holding out his wrist. The Thinker presses something on the golden Circlet around her head. “Dismissed.” Chanshik’s Cuff clicks open, just like Jinyoung’s Chain had earlier, for the first time in the nine years he’s had it. The Thinker fastens something gold around Chanshik’s neck, which whirrs and clicks into place. “Your Choker. Give me your bag.”

Chanshik looks at her. “Are…we not allowed to take our things with us?”

The Thinker stares at him like he’s grown an extra head. “You’re not allowed to take anything inside. This is the City, not the Village. Hurry up give the bag to me then get in line.”

Chanshik nods slowly, glad that he’d folded Jinyoung’s music up and put it into his underwear instead of keeping it in his bag. He shoves his rucksack at the Thinker, who glares at him, then makes his way into the line.

There’s a distant toll from inside the City, marking nine in the morning. The massive stone gate separating the City and the Village slowly opens, scraping on the dirt road with a low screech.

What lies beyond the door is a sight to behold.

Chanshik’s only seen the City during official broadcasts, image pixelated and fuzzy on the low-quality screens in the Workers’ broadcasting rooms. The buildings with their towering glass walls and the pure white paved roads shimmer in the sun, almost blinding Chanshik with how bright they are.

There’s not a speck of dust to be seen. Chanshik looks down at his hands, slightly grimy, dirt beneath his fingernails. His family’s farmhouse didn’t have a single clean corner in it, and the dirt and gravel roads linking all the Worker and Helper residences to the markets were a far cry from…this.

“Proceed to the room on your left and you will be issued your robes and boots.”

The robes and boots are pure white, matching the rest of the City. As Chanshik’s about to take one, the Thinker behind the counter stops him.

“Those are for Tier Two and Three. You wear these.” He presents Chanshik a set of flowing silver robes and silver boots. “Tier One Idol.”

Chanshik marches down the main road with the rest of the new Idols, trying to take in as much of the City as he can. All the buildings are perfectly symmetrical, glass-walled, lined with white shades and curtains to keep out the sun. On the round roofs, spires protrude through the ceiling, a unique number and symbol atop each spire.

The buildings grow in size as they walk on, until they reach a glass wall just beyond a large building the size of Chanshik’s old neighbourhood.

“Tier Three and Two Idols, these are your quarters,” the leading Thinker says, motioning to the huge building. Two other Thinkers appear from inside the building to guide the Idols through. “Tier One Idols, we’ll be going further to the Inner City.”

The are only about twenty other silver-robed Idols who follow the first Thinker to the glass gate. The gate lifts, and Chanshik laughs. So that’s why they’re dressed in silver.

The Inner City is covered with mirrors.

The mirrors aren’t just here and there-everything reflects. The buildings and roads of the Inner City are covered with mirrors from top to bottom. Chanshik looks down at his feet to see his own face staring back.

“Keep your eyes on me, or you’ll get lost on these roads,” the Thinker warns.

The Idol residences are to the left of the Inner City Palace, and there, they’re all issued a keycard and a code to enter their rooms.

“Breakfast at six, lunch at twelve, dinner at six, Curfew at eight. There are more detailed rules in the Rulebook inside your rooms. Your boundary is the edge of the Inner City, so do not go beyond those glass walls. Severe Demerits will apply to those caught outside without permission, and I promise you your Chokers can and will tighten the further away you wander from the Inner City.”

A wave of uneasiness passes through the group, before the Thinker claps her hands twice, motioning for them to go.

“Oh,” she says, just before they’re about to disperse, a smirk on her lips. “One more thing. If I were you, I’d read the rules carefully, because you’re being watched everywhere you go.” She motions to her reflection in the mirror opposite her. “The mirrors here have eyes.”

The rest of the day passes in a whirlwind of memorising rules, locations, music, faces, and by the time Chanshik’s head hits the pillow, he feels like he’s drowned from information overload. The melody and harmonies from the piece they learnt today swirl around in his head, clean and choral and perfect.

So perfect that it’s unnerving.

He should be glad he’s here, he knows. Everything’s prepared for them-food, water, clothing, shelter-but as Chanshik’s quickly catching on, the price for all this is his freedom. His new bed is by all standards better than his old one, but Chanshik finds little comfort in it because it smells of disinfectant and apathy, not of the homely spice that lingers on his sheets back in the Village.

There are two other Idols sharing the same nondescript room as him-a black-haired, crescent eyed boy with the number Three-Twenty, and a dimpled boy with a bright smile known as Ten-Seven.

Rule #7: never use your birth name inside the City.

“Hey,” Chanshik says quietly, breaking the silence. “Can I ask you two a question?”

“You just asked one,” Ten-Seven says, grinning. “But I’ll let you ask one more.”

Chanshik laughs back. “Why did you two become Idols?”

“Because I want to sing,” Three-Twenty says simply. “I needed a place I could sing and I heard that if I made it here I could sing every day. Isn’t that the same for you, Eight-Fourteen?”

“I…” Chanshik sighs. “Actually, I came here because I was following someone’s footsteps.”

“Me too,” Ten-Seven says. He shifts in his bed. “I mean, I like performing itself a lot, but I’m here because of my best friend-he became a Thinker after he graduated from Academy and got sent to the Inner City. I heard that he’s the Young Master’s guard now. I didn’t want to be left behind.” He’s silent for a moment, brows furrowed. “But by coming here, I left someone else important behind.”

“I did too,” Three-Twenty says mournfully. “I don’t know when I’ll ever see them again.”

“And me,” Chanshik adds quietly. A blanket of moroseness spreads over the room. “But these are the sacrifices we have to make.”

“We should sleep.” Ten-Seven pulls the covers over himself. “We have breakfast at six tomorrow. Remember rule nine-being late three times is a Demerit.”

The room settles back into silence.

Chanshik slides his hand underneath his pillow to make sure Jinyoung’s music is still where he put it, the parchment rough and soothing under his fingertips.

One day, he’ll learn how to read it-and then he’ll play it.

But for now, he’s got to wake up in time for breakfast.

Before Chanshik realises, four days have passed. Every single waking moment is occupied either with obeying Thinkers’ commands or practise or lessons and there really is no time to find out about the old music notation system Jinyoung’s piece is written in.

Apart from Three-Twenty, Ten-Seven, and himself, there are three other boys in the Entourage. A boy with sad eyes called Five-Six, a husky-voiced boy with sticking-out ears called Eleven-Two-Seven, and a full-lipped boy called One-Fourteen.

They’re in the middle of afternoon choral practise when their Chokers beep and a Thinker rushes into the room, interrupting their session.

“We have rehearsal,” their instructing Thinker says, frowning. “Is something the matter?”

The interrupting Thinker nods, trying to catch her breath. “The Young Master’s on his way here. Now. Best behaviour.”

“The Young Master?” Five-Six breathes, mouth hanging agape. “What’s he here for?”

“Probably checking up on us,” One-Fourteen says, smirking. “His hand-picked Entourage.”

“Enough,” the Thinker says. “Out of the room, into the main corridor. Head down when the Young Master passes by.”

All the other Idols are lining the corridor already, an excited buzz running through the air. Chanshik takes his place, and the two Thinkers guarding the double-doors pulls it open…

Black-rimmed square glasses, perfect white teeth, a familiar Crown atop his head.

Chanshik stares at the boy, the Young Master, not much older than himself, who steps into the Idol residence and makes his way down the corridor with such elegance. He’s flanked by four Thinkers-his guards.

As he passes the Entourage, the tall blonde Thinker with angry eyebrows to the right of the Young Master makes eye contact with Ten-Seven, the edge of his lips quirking up ever so slightly. This must be Ten-Seven’s friend, Chanshik thinks, head still lowered. It must be frustrating, unable to say hello even when they’re an arm’s reach away.

The Young Master disappears into a room at the end of the corridor, his four Thinkers spread out in front of the door.

“Idols, you may leave now. Entourage, you stay behind. The Young Master would like to call upon Three-Twenty.”

Next to Chanshik, Three-Twenty jumps where he’s standing, mouth hanging open, pointing to himself. His Choker beeps, and Three-Twenty gulps, walking down the corridor and into the room nervously.

The other five Entourage wait there, casting fearful glances at each other.

Three-Twenty’s only in there for ten minute before he walks out, looking very confused. He takes his place next to Chanshik, who leans towards him.

“What did he want?”

“I…” Three-Twenty scratches his head, “I don’t know. He just asked some weird questions-”

“Eight-Fourteen.”

Chanshik snaps his head around, and a Thinker motions for him to enter the room. Chanshik walks up the stairs hesitantly, turning as the door closes behind him.

“Y-you wanted to see me, Young Master?” he asks.

The Young Master rolls his eyes and chuckles, seemingly amused at Chanshik’s nervousness. “Calm down, I don’t bite. This isn’t a Grading.” The Young Master’s eyes twinkle as he says that, looking Chanshik up and down.

“Grading,” Chanshik says weakly, remembering how the boy in front of him right now had been the one to pass him, despite the antipathy of the Thinkers. “Um, thank you for passing me-”

“Don’t mention it.” The Young Master tilts his head. “By the way, that necklace I saw on you. Where did you get it?”

“You mean the one that set off the alarm?” Chanshik asks slowly, wondering why the Young Master was asking him such a strange question. The Young Master nods, looking at him expectantly. “That wasn’t mine. A…friend of mine lent it to me for good luck.”

The Young Master’s smile droops. “Your friend? Are they an Idol?”

“He’s…” Chanshik frowns. “Well, no.”

“What’s his name? Where can I find him?”

As Chanshik opens his mouth, about to answer, realisation dawns upon him. This…this has to be why the Young Master had let him through to Entourage-not because of how well he sang, but because for some reason, the Young Master was curious about Jinyoung’s necklace.

“Well?”

“Will…” Chanshik frowns deeper. “Will my friend get in trouble?”

The Young Master shakes his head. “I promise nothing will happen to him. Don’t worry, you have my word.”

When Chanshik still doesn’t speak, the Young Master purses his lips. “Trust me. I’ll…give you and your Idol friends a day to explore the City or go back to the Village if you tell me.”

Well, Chanshik thinks wryly, that’s a good offer. And plus, it’s not exactly like he can refuse the Young Master. So…

“Jung Jinyoung,” he says. “He-he was my Helper.”

“Thank you,” the Young Master says. Chanshik stands there, shuffling on his feet, and the Young Master gets out of his seat. “One more question before you go. What’s your name?”

“Rule seven-” Chanshik starts. “I can’t-”

“You can with me. You’re pardoned for today.”

“It’s Chanshik,” Chanshik mumbles, looking up at the Young Master with confused eyes. “My name is Gong Chanshik.”

“I got asked some pretty weird questions today,” Ten-Seven muses when they’re back in their sleeping quarters and the lights are out. “I heard things about the Young Master, but now I’m wondering if they’re true.”

Chanshik turns his head, curious. “What things?”

“You know about his mother, right?” Ten-Seven says, lowering his voice to a whisper. Chanshik shakes his head. “I can’t believe you don’t know. They think that the Lady Master didn’t die of illness all those years ago; they’re saying that she killed herself, or even that the Grandmaster was the one who killed her. But she left behind something special, and now the Young Master’s trying to find it.”

“And that’s why he’s going around asking Idols strange questions?”

Ten-Seven shrugs. “Or maybe he’s just sick of his father and wants to rebel. The Grandmaster’s…not the nicest person.” He shifts in bed. “But even then, why would the Young Master want to know how I met Kris?”

“Who’s Kris?”

“He’s-” Ten-Seven sighs. “He’s my friend. The Thinker. I-I told you before, he’s-”

“The Young Master’s guard, tall, blonde, stern-looking,” Chanshik finishes off, nodding. “Yeah, I remember.”

“He’s not actually stern though, he just looks that way,” Ten-Seven says, smiling off into the distance. “We were in the same class at Academy. He had no singing or dancing talent, but he was ten times smarter than me. Maybe that’s why he became a Thinker and I’ve only just managed to get into the Inner City.”

“You still made it,” Chanshik says, thinking of the Young Master’s questions about Jinyoung and the necklace. How he wishes Jinyoung was here so he could talk to Jinyoung, or at least know that the Young Master’s kept his words and Jinyoung’s actually alright. “And you made it on your own too.”

Ten-Seven laughs quietly and the room settles into silence.

“Where’s Three-Twenty?” Chanshik asks suddenly, looking at the empty bed in the room. He hasn’t seen Three-Twenty since dinner, where he ate two bites and ran off to the bathroom saying something about an upset stomach.

“Dunno,” Ten-Seven says, pulling his blankets over himself. “But if he doesn’t get back soon, he’s going to be in big trouble.”

It must be at least one in the morning when the door to their quarters slides open and Three-Twenty slinks back in, hair sticking out in all strange directions, a strange smell wafting into the room after him.

“Where were you?” Ten-Seven asks groggily. “And what is that smell? You know how dangerous it is to be breaking Curfew. What if you get sent to the Narak?”

“The Narak can’t be so bad,” Three-Twenty says, clicking the door shut. “And I couldn’t help it, I was held up in the toilet,” he continues, patting his stomach and grinning. “I may be an Idol now, but that doesn’t stop me from getting gassy-”

“Enough, enough,” Ten-Seven says, groaning and laughing. “Count yourself lucky there weren’t any Thinkers patrolling the hallways tonight.”

“I am pretty lucky, aren’t I?” Three-Twenty mumbles absently, crawling into his bed. “Anyway, all that toilet has made me sleepy. Good night.”

It’s only after Three-Twenty and Ten-Seven are asleep that Chanshik, uneasy, takes one more look at Three-Twenty and notices something odd.

Three-Twenty’s gold Choker isn’t around his neck.

When Chanshik wakes up, both his roommates are still deep asleep. Chanshik slides out of his bed and pads over to Three-Twenty, lifting the blankets gently.

Chanshik frowns. Three-Twenty’s Choker is right around his neck, where it should be.

Chanshik goes to change, wondering if he’d just hallucinated things last night.

Nonetheless, Chanshik decides there’s still something odd about Three-Twenty. Chanshik watches him during breakfast, scooping generous servings of food onto his tray and laughing loudly with a mouthful of cereal threatening to spill out; vocal lessons, sneaking off to get water when their instructing Thinker’s in the music storage room taking out her harp.

It’s nothing bad, just-the way he talks and acts, so carefree and without reservation, makes him stick out like a flower amongst weeds.

It almost seems like he hasn’t experienced the gruelling six years at the Academy, or life as a Worker, because whenever the others in the Entourage start talking about it, he goes quiet.

The atmosphere in the practise room is very grim. It’s the day before the New Year, which means the Entourage has their debut performance in the Inner City tonight, in front of all the Masters, the Young Master, and the Grandmaster himself.

Five-Six picks up the music, then throws it down in frustration. “What are we meant to do? We can’t get the harmonies right and now, that Thinker’s left us here to practise on our own.”

“We’ll just have to get it right,” One-Fourteen says. Ten-Seven nods, and Three-Twenty just sits there, silent. “We can’t afford to fail on our very first performance.”

Chanshik gathers the sheets of music on the ground and tidies them into a neat pile. None of the music they give them here resonates with him, and from the listless responses of everyone else in the Entourage, it seems like they’re all frustrated and searching for something more.

“Do you…like the music we have to prepare for Entourage?” Chanshik asks quietly. “There has to be more than just this.”

“There’s nothing to like or not like about it,” Eleven-Two-Seven says, eyeing Chanshik up and down. “It doesn’t matter what you think. We were accepted into here as Entourage Idols, and we’re here to damn do the job right.”

“But you’re right, there is more than just this,” Five-Six says quietly, a sad smile on his lips. He sits down next to Eleven-Two-Seven, hands clasped in his lap. “My parents were Tier One Workers. They owned an antique shop where I helped them sort out the catalogue items. I found some old music scores there a couple of years ago and I liked those a lot. That was why I became an Idol.”

“You can read old music?” Chanshik asks, perking up. Five-Six looks at him strangely, then nods. “Can you teach me?”

Five-Six hesitates. “But it’s banned here. It’s banned everywhere. I could if you had a score, but-”

“Teach me too,” Three-Twenty says suddenly, walking up to Five-Six. “We’ll find a score somewhere. I want to know.”

“Same,” Ten-Seven says, corner of his lips upturned. Eleven-Two-Seven nods, looking excited too. “The more the merrier, right?”

“How about we get back to not screwing up our first performance?” One-Fourteen says, rolling his eyes. “I don’t really want to be the first Entourage who fails.”

Their supervising Thinker seems satisfied enough with their performance when she comes back to check on them. She dismisses them for dinner, but Chanshik has no appetite, his gut twisting in nervousness, so he simply heads to the dressing rooms to get their special costumes for tonight.

“Hey! Eight-Fourteen!”

Chanshik turns around. It’s Three-Twenty, running down the corridor to join him. “Why aren’t you at dinner?”

Three-Twenty grins. “Why aren’t you at dinner?”

“No appetite,” Chanshik replies, turning into the costume room and picking out the one labelled with his number.

Long, flowing silver robes adorned with glittery lace and white pleats.

“I swear I’ve never seen this kind of material out in the Village. I’ve never seen so many mirrors in one place. I’ve never lived anywhere so perfect. But…” Chanshik thinks of Jinyoung, probably working away at his new Worker’s shop, of his parents down at the markets. “It’s all wrong.”

“You don’t like it here.” It’s not a question. Chanshik looks up at Three-Twenty, who’s sitting on the table in the dim dressing room. “It’s okay, I don’t really either.”

“I said before, I left someone behind,” Chanshik whispers, looking down at the silver robes in his hands. “And I miss them. I should’ve just stayed behind.”

“Your parents? Friend?” Three-Twenty asks. “Or…?”

“My Helper,” Chanshik says. “But he wasn’t much of a Helper.” Chanshik pauses. “His name’s Jinyoung, and he’s the reason I managed to become an Idol in the first place. He taught me music-not the kind of music that we have to sing here, but-” Chanshik makes a motion with his hands, lowering his voice. “Real music. His music. I…have some of it here.”

“You should play it for us,” Three-Twenty says, grinning. “I’d love to hear it.”

“It’s banned though. Maybe one day.” Their Chokers beep, signalling for them to dress and congregate at the main hall, and Chanshik smiles weakly. “But that won’t be anytime soon.”

The Inner City Palace has a brilliant white foyer leading down a long corridor to the main hall. The hall is two levels high, the bottom level filled with Masters, shiny gold, silver and bronze crowns atop their heads. The Thinkers flank their sides, bowing down to the Masters as they fill the hall and take their seats. On the second level, there are two chairs, one large, luxurious gold one, and a smaller silver one.

From behind the white curtains, Chanshik peers out at the crowd apprehensively.

“What’s that?” he asks, pointing to a fixture in the middle of the hall. It’s a round pool of sorts, a stream of white spurting out from the spire in the middle and sending flowing cascades down the sides. “Is that meant to be a fountain?”

“Chocolate,” Five-Six whispers. “I’ve heard of it before, a pure white chocolate fountain inside the Inner City Palace.”

“The Grandmaster is entering the hall,” a voice booms out from the speakers. Everyone stands up and quietens down, facing the grand double doors. “Please bow.”

The doors open and a man wearing a majestic white robe with a thick cape, held by four Thinkers, makes his way into the hall and walks towards the golden chair on the top level of the hall. Chanshik stands there dumbly, before Eleven-Two-Seven reaches over and pushes Chanshik’s head down. “Bow, you idiot,” he hisses. Chanshik peers at top level from the corner of his eyes and sees the Young Master taking the smaller silver seat next to the Grandmaster.

“You may begin,” the Grandmaster commands, and then Chanshik doesn’t know what’s happening as he’s pushed out onto the stage and he’s standing there under the spotlight, next to his friends in the Entourage, the other Tier One Idols behind them in the chorus line and playing instruments.

They’re doing pretty well, or at least Chanshik believes, but it mustn’t be good enough, because halfway through their first song-

“Stop.”

What a familiar word, Chanshik thinks, the note he’s singing faltering in his throat-except this time, he’s not being saved.

The backing music fades away, and everyone in the Entourage is standing there, exposed, naked, a million cold eyes fixated on them.

“This is rubbish. Young Master, your Entourage will get offstage and wait in the back wing. I’ll need to have a word with them-and you. Next group!”

“What’s his problem?” One-Fourteen curses under his breath, punching the wall as he heads offstage. “We were doing well! He didn’t even let us finish the song!”

“The Grandmaster’s word is law,” Ten-Seven mumbles, looking dejected. They reach the back wing, and he stops. “We’ll just have to wait and see what he says.”

It’s a long, cold wait, but three hours later, the door clicks open and the Grandmaster walks in with his Thinkers, the Young Master following closely afterwards. Chanshik quickly stands up, bowing, and the rest of the Entourage follows.

“So this is your hand-selected Entourage,” the Grandmaster says. He walks up to each of them, the look in his eyes unfriendly. Chanshik looks at Three-Twenty, who’s standing next to him, and notices that his hands are shaking. “A mediocre bunch.”

“Father-”

“Dongwoo,” the Grandmaster says, turning back to the Young Master. “I expected you to pick the talented ones. Why do you present me this trash?”

The Young Master-Dongwoo-looks like he’s about to argue back, but he holds it in. “I apologise, father, but please give them another chance. They’ll do better next time.”

“I don’t give second chances,” the Grandmaster says, looking at the Young Master disdainfully. “But because you asked.” His glare intensifies as he turns his gaze to the six of them and looks them up and down. “You Idols better be immaculate at the Banquet, but I expect you’ll be out of the Inner City soon enough. Come, Dongwoo.” He clicks his fingers and the six Thinkers accompanying him follow him out of the room.

The Young Master watches the Grandmaster’s retreating figure, brows furrowed lightly. “I’m sorry, I-” he says with a sigh when the door slams behind them. “My father can be unreasonable at times. It’s nothing against you, I promise, he’s trying to…” He grits his teeth. “Anyway, I won’t let him send you out. I enjoyed your performance,” he finishes off, as if trying to console them.

“Thank you,” Five-Six mumbles. “I guess our last chance is at the Banquet, then.”

“That’s on the eleventh,” the Young Master says. “He seems to have his mind made up though, I’ll try convince him, but…” He sighs. “I should go. But before that…” He walks up to Chanshik, whispering into his ear. “I haven’t forgotten about my promise. All of your friends in Entourage have my permission to leave the Inner City on the seventh of this month. Don’t tell them yet, or my father could find out. My Thinker will give you instructions soon.” He backs away, grinning and giving them all a wave before turning to rush out of the room.

There’s a full minute of silence after the Young Master leaves before anyone speaks again.

“What did he say to you?” Three-Twenty asks.

Chanshik shakes his head, smiling. He wonders why the Young Master is like this, so different from his father, then he remembers what Ten-Seven had said before, about the Young Master’s mother. “He was just following through on something. I can’t say yet-I’ll tell you all later.”

“He’s nice,” Ten-Seven says. “He has a conscience. The Grandmaster doesn’t.”

“Yeah, I feel like ruining that Grandmaster’s Banquet just because I can,” One-Fourteen mutters. “He doesn’t scare me.”

Three-Twenty clicks his fingers and turns to Chanshik, patting him on the shoulders. “Hey, Eight-Fourteen, didn’t you say that you had music from outside?”

Everyone turns to look at Chanshik, who blinks back. “Y-yeah, it’s from a friend, but it’s in old music notation, so I can’t read it-”

“But Five-Six can,” Three-Twenty cuts in, looking expectantly at Five-Six. Five-Six nods slowly. “He can teach us. He can teach it to all of us.”

“We’ll get in trouble,” Ten-Seven says quietly. “As much as I dislike the Grandmaster, I don’t want to be kicked out of the Inner City when I just got in.”

“It’s not like we’ll be here for much longer anyway, just look how much the Grandmaster already hates us,” Eleven-Two-Seven spits. “I say we go out with a bang.”

“What if…” Chanshik gulps. He thinks of Jinyoung, brave and courageous enough to sing his own music alone, in front of the Grandmaster. Chanshik doesn’t have enough guts to do that solo, but with Three-Twenty’s help… “What if we managed to convince everyone to do it?”

Eleven-Two-Seven frowns. “What do you mean-”

“What if all of the Idols sang it at the same time? It’ll be chaotic and they won’t be able to figure out who started it, and they can’t kick all of us out at the same time, can they?”

A slow smile spreads on One-Fourteen’s lips. “I like the way you think. I don’t know how we’ll do it, but we’ll be able to do it if we work together. I’m in.”

“We’ll convince the other Idols,” Three-Twenty says, suddenly excited. “Come on, the Grandmaster is going to kick us out nevertheless. We have to fight back, don’t we?” He looks around at everyone. “Don’t we? Let’s do this, yeah?”

Everyone is nodding, even Ten-Seven. Chanshik grins, feeling his heart jump.

“Let’s go back to quarters. We’ll plan at breakfast tomorrow,” Five-Six decides. “Bring the music and I’ll start teaching you how to read.”

Three-Twenty nods, taking Chanshik by the arm and dragging him off.

“Hey,” Chanshik says, just before they’re about to leave, a second thought holding him back. “If we’re all in on this, I don’t want to call you by numbers. I-” He licks his lips. “I want to know you, properly.” He looks at each of them. “My name’s Gong Chanshik.”

“Let’s…tell each other our real names,” Five-Six says, looking around. “It’s not like they’ll know if we don’t say them right in front of the Thinkers or in front of the mirrors. I’m Byun Baekhyun.”

“Kim Jongin,” One-Fourteen mumbles.

“Zhang Yixing.” Ten-Seven smiles. “I know, it’s not a standard name, but my ancestors were from another land.”

“I’m Park Chanyeol,” Eleven-Two-Seven says.

“And you?” Chanshik asks, facing Three-Twenty.

Three-Twenty smiles, his eyes curving into crescents. “Junghwan. Lee Junghwan.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it. If I can’t even help my friends, then what am I? I know you want to play that music. I saw that look in your eyes. It’s special to you.”

“Thank you, Junghwan.”

part 3;;-