Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The door swung wide.

For a heartbeat, the world inside the room was pure, blinding chaos. Not the chaos of battle, but the frantic, hopeful energy of resurrection. Lee Seolhwa and Aileen Makerfield moved like synchronized whirlwinds, their hands a blur against the backdrop of dazzling Story fragments still coalescing in the air. IV lines were adjusted, a respiratory mask was carefully lifted away from pale lips, a cup of water was held with trembling hands to those same lips. Words and letters were twirling all around, the stories finally back. The very words and pages of the novel Han Sooyoung spent revising and writing were scattered around like wind. 

And in the center of it all, propped up slightly on the pillows, was Kim Dokja.

He was right there. No longer asleep. Kim Dokja was right there, awake. He was awake. He was finally awake. 

And his eyes were open. 

Heavy-lidded, unfocused at first, swimming in a sea of exhaustion so profound it seemed etched into his very bones. He looked impossibly fragile, skin translucent against the stark white sheets, limbs thin and utterly still. Years of stillness had carved their mark. He couldn’t move. He could barely breathe without the lingering support of the machines. 

But, fables were scattered all over and around him, surrounding him like an embrace. They spiraled around him like lost stars who have finally found their owner. And one by one, every single story he acquired was answering for him. They surrounded his weak and pale body like they were crying out warmth and joy. 

And Kim Dokja blinked slowly, the world swimming into a painful, dazzling focus.

Companions.

They filled the doorway, spilling into the room—a tidal wave of faces he knew, faces he’d dreamed of in the suffocating darkness of the subway. Faces he’d watched through the fractured and blurry memories swirling in his mind of the 49%.

Was this… another dream?

The loneliness of being the Oldest Dream, the endless train ride through the void, pressed in for a terrifying second. He, who had been only sacrifice dreamer, recoiled from the sheer, overwhelming presence before him. He’d been alone for so long. Could this warmth, this light, be real? Or was it just another cruel scenario conjured by his splintered mind?

His gaze, slow and laborious, swept over them. They were different. Time had touched them all. Lines of worry had deepened, faces had matured, postures held a new kind of weariness mixed with a hard-won peace. But the expressions… the expressions were the same. Shock. Disbelief. And a joy so raw, so profound, it seemed to vibrate the very air, brighter than the coalescing Stories.

Happy. They looked… so happy. But then… why were they crying?

His eyes drifted, drawn by a familiar pull. Shin Yoosung. Lee Gilyoung. His kids. Not the children he remembered clinging to him in the scenarios but taller, their faces no longed bearing the soft edges of childhood. Tears streamed down Shin Yoosung’s cheeks unchecked. Lee Gilyoung was in the same state and his eyes shimmered, wide and vulnerable.

They’ve grown… so much.

Something warm and wet traced a path down Kim Dokja’s own cheek. He hadn’t commanded it. He hadn’t even felt it coming. The sensation was alien, startling. A tear. Then another.

The sight broke the dam.

"Ahjussi!" Shin Yoosung choked out, a sob tearing from her throat. She flowed forward, her movement instinctively gentle, mindful of his fragility. She reached the bed and carefully, oh so carefully, wrapped her arms around his shoulders, burying her face in the thin hospital gown beside his neck. Her tears were hot against his skin. Real.

"Hyung…" Lee Gilyoung whispered, his voice thick. He moved fast, more urgently, and then his arms were there too, joining Shin Yoosung’s, his head resting gently against Kim Dokja’s other shoulder. Their warmth was an anchor, pulling him back from the edge of the dreaming void.

Ah… his Incarnation was sobbing and the boy who had always blindly trusted and believed him was crying as much as her.

This was the day a girl got her Ahjussi back and a boy got his Hyung back. 

This was the day two kids finally got their father figure back.

Lee Jihye was next, swiping furiously at her own eyes even though it was hopeless. "Stupid Ahjussi! Making us wait like this!" Her hug was less careful, more desperate, but she still held back her full strength, trembling as she pressed her cheek against the top of his head. Jung Heewon let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob, joining the embrace, her strong arms enveloping Shin Yoosung and adding another layer of fierce, protective warmth. Lee Hyunsung, tears openly tracking down his cheeks, gently laid a massive hand on Kim Dokja’s arm, his touch radiating a steady, grounding comfort. Yoo Sangah slipped in, her hand finding Kim Dokja’s limp one, squeezing it gently, her elegant composure shattered by silent, joyful weeping.

The day companions finally got their leader and friend back.

Han Sooyoung stood back for a second, watching the group hug envelop the bed. Her eyes, usually sharp with mischief or frustration, were wide, red-rimmed. She took a shaky breath.

"You… unbelievable bastard," she rasped, her voice thick. Then, a grin, fierce and brilliant and trembling, split her face. "Took you long enough!" And then she was there too, pushing her way in, her arms wrapping around the others, her forehead pressing against her only reader’s temple. Her own tears fell freely, dripping onto his hair. "Welcome back, you idiot."

The day a writer finally got her one and only reader back.

It was a tangle of limbs, a cocoon of shared breath, tears, and disbelieving laughter. Hands touched his hair, his shoulders, his arms—not demanding, but reverent, confirming the impossible reality of his warmth, the faint pulse they could feel beneath their fingers. Lee Seolhwa watched from the side, a serene, tearful smile on her face as she monitored the machines that now showed stronger, steadier rhythms. Aileen had stepped back, her glasses removed, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, a relieved smile breaking through her professional demeanor.

Kim Dokja was drowning. Drowning not in water, but in the sheer, overwhelming tide of their love. It pressed against the walls he’d always have built, the walls of loneliness and sacrifice. He felt it seep into the cracks, warm and terrifying. He was here. Not an avatar. Not a fragment. Not a dream. Him. And they… they had fought the universe itself to bring all of him back. The selfishness of it, the risk they took for just him, crashed over him like a wave. Gratitude warred with a crushing guilt. Why? Why had they done this? Why? Why did they go to rescue him? Weren't they satisfied by the 49%? Why? He wasn't worth…

His gaze, lifted with immense effort from the tangle of embracing companions, found the one figure still standing apart.

… Yoo Joonghyuk.

He stood just inside the room, near the foot of the bed. He hadn’t moved. He hadn’t joined the embrace. He simply… stared. His face was pale, stripped bare of its usual impassive mask. His dark eyes were shaking, fixed on Kim Dokja with an intensity that felt physical, a gaze that held years of silent vigil, countless time of searching, and a hope so desperate it bordered on agony. He was staring at Kim Dokja like he wanted to mesmerize his features. His hands hung loosely at his sides, but Kim Dokja could see the faint tremor running through them.

Yoo Joonghyuk.

His protagonist. His life and death companion. The one who walked through hell and countless worldlines in hope to save him—a detail Kim Dokja didn’t know yet. The one whose pocket watch ticked in time with his sleeping heart. The one who suffered through regressions because of him.

The guilt, the disbelief, the overwhelming love warmth—it all coalesced into a single, desperate need. He had to speak. He had to acknowledge him.

Kim Dokja opened his mouth. His throat was a desert, raw and unused. No sound came out, only a painful rasp of air. He tried again, pushing against the weakness, against the atrophy. It felt like moving mountains. His lips trembled. He focused every shred of his will, every ounce of the love flooding him from his companions' embrace.

A whisper, thin as smoke, shaky as a leaf in a storm, finally escaped his cracked lips:

"Y-Yoo… J-Joong-h-hyuk…"

The name, his full name, spoken in that fragile, broken voice, was the detonator.

And Yoo Joonghyuk broke.

He crossed the room in two strides, a controlled explosion of movement. The others instinctively shifted, creating a space. He didn't hesitate. He leaned down, his powerful arms sliding beneath the others, gathering Kim Dokja into an embrace that was both fiercely protective and infinitely gentle. He buried his face in the crook of Kim Dokja’s neck, his broad shoulders shaking with silent, shuddering breaths. His arms tightened, not painfully, but with a possessiveness, a finality, as if anchoring Kim Dokja irrevocably to the world of the living.

“Kim Dokja.” he whispered.

Ah. 

It was a voice Kim Dokja missed so much. A deep yet cold voice, holding a lonely but confident tone in it. It was Yoo Joonghyuk’s voice.

And Kim Dokja felt the dam within himself shatter completely. The tears he’d barely registered earlier became a flood. Silent, racking sobs shook his thin frame, tears streaming down his face, soaking into Yoo Joonghyuk’s dark shirt. He couldn’t lift his arms to return the embrace, but he leaned into it, letting the solid warmth, the familiar scent of sun and steel and something uniquely Yoo Joonghyuk, envelop him. The guilt was still there, a sharp ache beneath the ribs, but it was momentarily overwhelmed by the sheer, staggering relief radiating from the man holding him.

It was the day a soulmate finally found his missing half back.

Kim Dokja trembled. He felt something wet on his neck. Yoo Joonghyuk. Yoo Joonghyuk was crying. His protagonist, his hero, his saviour, his Incarnation, his bastard, his sunfish… was crying. Kim Dokja’s bottom lip shook. It was a dream. A dream, right? There was no way his protagonist would cry or hug him like this. However he felt something shake deep down inside his soul as he distantly heard the sound and beeps of the machines as well as the voices of people who surrounded him.

Was it really a dream?

The room was filled with the soft sounds of weeping—happy, relieved, exhausted weeping. The cacophony of Stories had settled into a gentle, golden hum, bathing the scene in a warm, ethereal light. High above, starlight shimmered a little brighter.

Alive. Awake. Home.

But, was he really?

Kim Dokja wept, held by his companions, held by his life and death companion, finally beginning to believe that the long, lonely dream was over, and the fragile, beautiful reality of after had truly begun. He was broken, weak, and overwhelmed with a selfish gratitude he didn't deserve... but he was here. And for now, surrounded by the warmth he thought he’d sacrificed forever, that was enough. It was everything.

Right?

…

[You currently possess the power to control ‘Star Stream’]

The notification blinked once, than twice. Kim Dokja didn’t see it yet, overwhelmed but feeling… good, by every single factors around him.

The sterile hallway outside the room had become a mosaic of raw emotion. Hours bled into each other, marked only by the soft sounds of weeping, whispered reassurances, and the occasional rustle of someone shifting position. Aileen and Lee Seolhwa moved with quiet efficiency inside, their faces etched with profound relief but also the stern focus of healers tending to a miracle still hanging by a thread. Through the small observation window, glimpses could be caught: Kim Dokja propped up, eyes sometimes fluttering open, heavy with exhaustion, sometimes closed in necessary rest. The sheer fragility of him, after the cataclysmic eruption of Stories, was a stark reminder of the journey ahead.

No one wanted to leave. The fear was a tangible thing, a cold dread coiling in every stomach: What if he slips away again? What if this is just a cruel flicker? Shin Yoosung and Lee Gilyoung, now tall and no more children, but looking heartbreakingly young again with red-rimmed eyes, huddled together on a bench, Shin Yoosung’s shoulders still shaking with silent sobs, Les Gilyoung staring fixedly at the door, jaw clenched tight. Lee Jihye leaned against the wall, occasionally swiping angrily at fresh tears that betrayed her attempt at stoicism. "Idiot Ahjussi," she’d mutter, the words thick.

Lee Hyunsung and Jung Heewon sat side-by-side. The distance of the past years momentarily forgotten, Les Hyunsung’s large, calloused hand enveloped Jung Heewon’s. They didn’t speak; they simply held on, tears tracing silent paths down both their faces, finding solace in shared grief turned to shared, trembling hope. Yoo Sangah stood apart, elegant posture slightly slumped, hands pressed tightly over her mouth, muffling the soft, shuddering sobs that escaped her control. Her eyes, usually so calm and knowing, reflected pure, unadulterated relief mixed with lingering shock.

Han Sooyoung leaned against the wall opposite the door, arms crossed. Her earlier grin was gone, replaced by a profound exhaustion and a watchfulness that missed nothing. Beside her, Yoo Joonghyuk stood like a monolith. He hadn't moved since the initial embrace. His gaze remained fixed on the door, unblinking, his face an impassive mask, yet the intensity radiating from him was almost violent. The pocket watch was a heavy weight in his pocket, its steady tick-tack now a counterpoint to the natural, slow rhythm of Kim Dokja’s breathing he could sense through the door—a rhythm he hadn't dared truly believe would ever return.

The stillness was broken by hurried footsteps. Lee Sookyung arrived, Persephone a shadow of grace and power beside her, Gong Pildu grumbling about traffic but his usual scowl noticeably absent. Les Sookyung paused only for a second, taking in the scene, before Lee Seolhwa quietly ushered her into the room. Minutes later, she emerged. Her eyes were red-raw, but on her face was a smile unlike any they’d seen before—a smile of pure, unburdened relief, softening years of hardship and worry. She simply nodded at the waiting group, the unspoken confirmation enough. Persephone followed, her dark eyes shimmering with unshed tears, a profound peace settling over her features as she touched Sookyung’s arm gently, to comfort her. "He is weary," she murmured, her voice like distant chimes, "but he is whole. He is here."

Mark Javier arrived, breathless, his bartender's apron hastily discarded. He peered through the window, saw Kim Dokja’s pale but awake profile, and slumped against the wall, running a hand over his face, a shaky laugh escaping him. "Bloody hell, kid. About time."

Jang Hayoung burst in next, her vibrant energy momentarily muted by frantic worry. When she was allowed her turn, she practically vibrated out of the room afterwards. "He saw me!" she announced, her voice thick with tears but radiating pure, luminous joy. "It was brief, but he saw me! He’s really back!"

Then came the masters. Kyrgios Rodgraim entered the room with his usual stern demeanor, perched on Namgung Minyoung's shoulder. When he emerged, however, the air around him crackled not with lightning, but with a strange, potent silence. His sharp eyes were suspiciously bright, and he gave a single, curt nod. Namgung Minyoung's sharp gaze swept over her own disciple, Yoo Joonghyuk, still standing sentinel. She stepped close and placed a firm, grounding hand on his shoulder. "He fought his way back, Joonghyuk-ah," she said, her voice low and rough with emotion. "Just like he always does. For them. For you." Yoo Joonghyuk didn’t look away from the door, but he inclined his head minutely, the tension in his frame easing a fraction.

The relative quiet shattered moments later. A commotion echoed down the hall—hysterical sobbing, frantic footsteps, and a low, rumbling growl that vibrated the floor tiles. Uriel burst into view, her usual perfect shimmery hair now wild, tears streaming down her face in rivers. "DOKJA! MY DOKJA! IS IT TRUE?! LET ME SEE HIM! LET ME SEE DOKJA!" She was a whirlwind of grief ans ecstasy, collapsing against the wall beside Kim Dokja’s door, fully sobbing. Sun Wukong followed, trying to look nonchalant but failing miserably; his golden eyes were suspiciously moist, and he kept clearing his throat, tapping his staff nervously. Behind them, Abyssal Black Flame Dragon loomed in his teenage form, his usual intimidating aura was softened; he let out a low, rumbling mutter that sounded suspiciously like a word of contented sigh.

Jung Heewon sighed, a fond exasperation cutting through her own tears. "Uriel-ssi, please, you need to calm down… He… He’s awake, but resting…" She moved to gently guide her hysterical sponsor, who was now trying to phase through the door.

Then, a small, pure light. A soft Baat! and Biyoo materialized above the crowd, her fluffy form vibrating with frantic energy. Her starry eyes were wide, fixed on the door. She didn’t wait for permission; she zipped through the small observation window like a comet, a tiny trail of stardust marking her path.

Finally, when the room had calmed slightly and the last visitor had paid their respects, they were allowed back in, a quiet, reverent procession. The cacophony of Stories had faded to a gentle, golden hum, bathing the room in warm light. Kim Dokja lay asleep again, his breathing deep and even, the terrible stillness of coma replaced by the natural rhythm of exhausted recovery. His face, though still pale and gaunt, held a profound peace they hadn’t seen in years. Biyoo was curled on his chest, purring a soft, celestial lullaby, her small form rising and falling with his breath.

Han Sooyoung let out a slow breath, leaning against the doorframe. "Exhausted himself just by existing, the idiot."

Yoo Sangah smiled softly, tears still glistening. "He’s earned his rest. Proper rest."

Lee Gilyoung and Shin Yoosung stood close to the bed, watching Kim Dokja's sleeping face, their earlier tears replaced by a quiet, awed wonder. Yoo Mia, who just arrived, looking genuinely relieved too, stood next to them. Lee Jihye wiped her eyes, a genuine, if wobbly, smile finally appearing. Jung Heewon leaned into Lee Hyunsung’s solid presence, both watching the peaceful scene.

Yoo Joonghyuk moved last. He walked to the bedside, his steps silent. He didn’t sit. He simply stood there, looking down at Kim Dokja. At the steady rise and fall of his chest. At Biyoo nestled protectively close. At the faint trace of peace on the face that had haunted his every waking and sleeping moment for years. The frantic beat of his own heart finally settled into a rhythm that matched the pocket watch, matched Kim Dokja’s breath. He reached out, not to touch Kim Dokja, but to gently rest his fingertips on Biyoo’s soft fur. The one who travelled and accompanied him through his long voyage through the universes and worldlines in order to save Kim Dokja. The 41st Shin Yoosung who was Biyoo, Kim Dokja's daughter. A silent acknowledgement. A promise. 

I'll take care of him. And I won't ever let him slip away. I promise.

Outside, the news was already spreading like wildfire through the survivors of the apocalypse, the citizens of Seoul, the rebuilt networks of a world forever changed. Through everyone, eveything. Whispers on the wind, messages flashing across screens, stories told in hushed, reverent tones:

He’s awake!

The Demon King of Salvation has returned!

Kim Dokja is home!

The powerful constellation is back!

The Saviour of the world has awakened!

The long vigil was over. The impossible had happened. The Reader had finally closed the book on his endless dream and turned the page to welcome a new story. A new start. The road to recovery would be arduous, the scars—physical and emotional—deep. But Kim Dokja was awake. He was breathing. He was here. And for the nebula <Kim Dokja's Company>, for the fool who loved stories more than his own life, who loved them more than himself, for the squid who had become their salvation, that was everything. That was the only story that mattered now. The story of after. And they would read it together, one slow, precious breath at a time.

Chapter Text

The sterile scent of antiseptic was slowly being replaced by something warmer in Kim Dokja's hospital—the faint, sweet aroma of ripe peaches (...someone's doing), the lingering Stories settling into dormancy, and the quiet hum of a life fiercely protected. Two weeks had bled into three since Kim Dokja had shattered the silence of his endless sleep. The frantic, tear-soaked vigil of the first days had eased into a rhythm, a carefully orchestrated ballet of care and companionship dictated by Kim Dokja’s profound weakness.

He was a ghost of himself. Thinner than ever before, his skin stretched translucent over fragile bones. Moving even a finger was a monumental effort. Speech was a rasping, exhausting endeavor, often abandoned in favor of weak gestures or simply closing his eyes. Breathing itself sometimes hitched, a terrifying reminder of how precariously his reassembled soul clung to his battered body. Lee Seolhwa and Aileen moved with quiet precision, their faces etched with both profound relief and the constant vigilance of healers tending a miracle still under construction.

The Company, true to their name, became his "constellations", orbiting his recovery. Shin Yoosung and Lee Gilyoung, shadows of worry still haunting their young eyes that have see so much, too much, arrived like clockwork after school, often dragging a bemused Yoo Mia. They’d chatter softly (mostly Shin Yoosung and Lee Gilyoung, Yoo Mia observing and rolling her eyes), show him drawings or mundane school gossip, their presence a grounding warmth. Lee Jihye would swoop in, alternating between scolding him for worrying them and recounting her latest academic mishaps with dramatic flair. Lunchtime belonged to Lee Sookyung and Persephone, their visits quieter, filled with silent understanding and gentle touches that spoke volumes. Gong Pildu would sometimes grunt acknowledgment from the doorway; Han Myungoh offered bows and stories about his daughter. Masters Kyrgios and Namgung brought a different energy—Kyrgios’s stern gaze softened minutely when assessing his disciple’s progress, Namgung offering sharp, practical observations that somehow comforted.

Evenings were a story of their own: Jung Heewon, Lee Hyunsung, and Yoo Sangah, a trio radiating quiet solidarity. Mark would often tag and follow, a steady, calming presence. Then came the chaos that was still somehwat comforting: Uriel’s tearful declarations of devotion (“Kim Dokja! You must eat this custard I made!”. The said custard was thankfully immediately forbidden by Lee Seolhwa... Kim Dokja looked really nauseated at the idea of just eating dessert...), Sun Wukong’s gruff attempts at levity, and Abyssal Black Flame Dragon’s arguments and bickering with Uriel that mostly ended up with both kicked out by Aileen.

Han Sooyoung claimed the 8 PM slot like a queen. She’d perch on the edge of his bed, sometimes reading aloud snippets of her chaotic university lectures or student essays (“See? This is the drivel I deal with because you decided to nap for years!”), sometimes just sitting in companionable silence, her sharp eyes missing nothing. Her presence was a tether to the world of stories, a reminder of the life waiting beyond the hospital walls.

But the bookends of Kim Dokja’s day belonged to Yoo Joonghyuk.

Before the dawn fully painted the sky, often as early as 7 AM, he would be there. A silent sentinel in the dim room. Sometimes Kim Dokja was asleep, lost in the necessary, healing darkness. Yoo Joonghyuk would simply sit, his presence a solid anchor in the quiet. Other times, Kim Dokja would stir, his heavy lids lifting to find those dark eyes already watching him, intense and unwavering. No grand greetings. Just a subtle shift, the rustle of a bag, and then Yoo Joonghyuk would be beside him, carefully opening a container. Inside: meticulously prepared food. Soft congees, steamed vegetables cut impossibly small, nutrient-rich broths, or, most often, slices of perfect, ripe fruit. Always smooth. Always easy to swallow. Breakfast delivered with the same focused intensity Yoo Joonghyuk once reserved for slaying myth-grade constellations.

They rarely spoke during these mornings. Kim Dokja lacked the breath, Yoo Joonghyuk the need for unnecessary words. The silence wasn’t empty; it was thick with unspoken things—relief, vigilance, a fierce protectiveness. Yoo Joonghyuk would feed him, piece by careful piece, his calloused fingers surprisingly gentle against Kim Dokja’s lips. The attention, the sheer care of it, sent waves of warmth through Kim Dokja’s perpetually cold core, battling the lingering chill of the subway’s void. When the fog of unreality threatened—the terrifying thought that this warmth, this care, was just another elaborate dreamscape conjured by the lonely 51%—Yoo Joonghyuk’s low voice would cut through it, a simple, bedrock statement: “This is real, Kim Dokja.” And Kim Dokja, heart full of a trust forged through countless battles and shared apocalypses, believed him.

Then, late at night, after Han Sooyoung’s departure, Yoo Joonghyuk would return. Slipping back into the room as the hospital quieted, he’d resume his vigil, often staying until midnight or beyond, simply watching Kim Dokja breathe, ensuring the rhythm held before reluctantly leaving him to Lee Seolhwa’s monitors.

Tonight, nearing 11 PM, the room was bathed in the soft glow of a single bedside lamp. Kim Dokja was propped up slightly, a hint of color finally touching his cheeks, a small, genuine smile playing on his lips as he watched Yoo Joonghyuk. The former regressor was meticulously sectioning a peach, the juice glistening on the blade of the small knife. The domesticity of it, so utterly incongruous with the man who had once shattered stars, was endlessly amusing to Kim Dokja.

“Joonghyuk-ah…” Kim Dokja rasped, his voice still hoarse but stronger than it had been a week ago. A flicker of his old teasing spark lit his eyes. “You’re… really husband material… acting like… a housewife…” He managed a weak gesture towards the fruit.

Yoo Joonghyuk’s hand stilled for a fraction of a second. He didn’t look up, but a faint, almost imperceptible flush touched the tips of his ears. Internally, the thought echoed, clear and certain: I would do this every day. For eternity. For you. Outwardly, he hummed, resuming his task, carefully placing a perfect slice onto a small plate.

Kim Dokja watched him, the warmth in his chest intensifying. Then, the treacherous thought surfaced, laced with a fear he couldn’t quite name. “Surprising… you have time… for this,” he continued, his gaze drifting towards the window. “After all… these years… No girlfriend… demanding your attention?” He forced a weak chuckle, hoping it sounded casual. “Handsome face… like yours… must have one… right?” Please say no. Please be here only for me.

Yoo Joonghyuk’s head snapped up. His brow furrowed into a deep scowl, his dark eyes narrowing. “What nonsense–” he began, his voice tight with a confusing mix of annoyance and something else.

The door clicked open, interrupting him. Lee Seolhwa entered, her expression calm and professional as she moved towards the machines for a routine check. “Good evening, Dokja-ssi. Joonghyuk-ssi.” She nodded at them both, unsurprised by Yoo Joonghyuk’s late-night presence. It had become as much a part of the room’s rhythm as the beeping monitors.

Kim Dokja’s smile vanished. His gaze flickered from Lee Seolhwa’s serene face to Yoo Joonghyuk’s still-scowling one. A cold, sharp pang lanced through his chest, unrelated to his physical weakness. The World of Zero. The second regression turn. Fragmented memories, echoes of lives he’d only read about, flooded him: Yoo Joonghyuk and Lee Seolhwa, partners, lovers, bound by shared tragedy and survival in other turns. His own smile felt brittle, false. He looked away abruptly, focusing on a loose thread on the blanket, his chest tightening painfully.

Yoo Joonghyuk noticed the shift instantly. The shut-down expression, the averted gaze, the sudden tension in the thin shoulders. His scowl deepened. “Kim Dokja,” he stated, his voice low and firm. “What is it?”

“N-Nothing…” Kim Dokja mumbled, the lie pathetically weak even to his own ears. He couldn’t meet Joonghyuk’s eyes.

“Liar.” Yoo Joonghyuk placed the plate of fruit down with a soft clink. He braced one hand on the bed rail, leaning closer, his presence suddenly overwhelming. His other hand shot out, calloused fingers gently but firmly capturing Kim Dokja’s chin, forcing his head up. “Look at me.”

Kim Dokja flinched, trying weakly to pull away, but Yoo Joonghyuk’s grip was immovable, yet careful. He held Kim Dokja’s face, his dark eyes scanning every micro-expression—the flicker of pain, the shadow, the lingering fear from the subway’s loneliness. It only took seconds for the Supreme King, who knew Kim Dokja better than perhaps Kim Dokja knew himself, to decipher the foolish, tangled thoughts. Some really foolish thoughts, Yoo Joonghyuk sighed.

“Fool,” he muttered, his voice rough but lacking its usual bite. He didn’t let go. His thumbs brushed lightly against Kim Dokja’s cheekbones, the proximity sending Kim Dokja’s already fragile heart into a frantic, wild rhythm against his ribs. He could feel the warmth of Yoo Joonghyuk’s skin, see the faint scar near his eyebrow, smell the lingering scent of soap and something uniquely Yoo Joonghyuk.

A soft, melodic chuckle broke the charged silence. Lee Seolhwa stood by the monitors, her hand covering her mouth, her eyes crinkling with genuine amusement. “My apologies,” she said, her voice warm. “It’s just… you two look like such a lovely old couple right now. Fussing over the smallest things.” Her gaze held a knowing kindness.

Kim Dokja’s face flooded with heat, burning from his neck to the tips of his ears. He sputtered, a weak, incoherent sound escaping his throat. “S-Seolhwa-ssi! It’s not— We weren’t—!” Kim Dokja felt genuinely distressed. He didn’t want Lee Seolhwa think he was trying to steal Yoo Joonghyuk away—!

Yoo Joonghyuk, however, didn’t release him, nor did he deny Lee Seolhwa’s statement. His own ears were distinctly pink, but his expression remained stoic. He merely shifted his grip slightly, his gaze still locked on Kim Dokja’s flustered face. “If this fool,” he stated calmly, addressing Lee Seolhwa but looking only at Kim Dokja, “would stop thinking such useless nonsense and spouting it…” He reached back with his free hand, picked up a slice of peach, and unceremoniously pressed it against Kim Dokja’s parted lips. “…Then perhaps I wouldn’t need to hover so much.” The unspoken challenge hung in the air: Stop being an idiot, and I’ll stop needing to prove you wrong.

Lee Seolhwa chuckled again, shaking her head fondly as she finished her checks. “I’ll leave you to it. Dokja-ssi, try to rest soon. Joonghyuk-ssi, you know the drill.” She gave them both a final, gentle smile before slipping out. “Like always,” Yoo Joonghyuk confirmed to the closing door, his gaze not leaving Kim Dokja’s at all.

Kim Dokja managed to swallow the piece of peach, the sweet juice doing little to cool the fire in his cheeks. He stared at Yoo Joonghyuk, his heart hammering a frantic tattoo against his ribs. Yoo Joonghyuk had picked up another slice. He held it poised, his dark eyes fixed expectantly on Kim Dokja’s face. No words were needed. The command was clear in his unwavering gaze.

Open your mouth.

Kim Dokja’s breath hitched. The intimacy of it, the sheer domesticity combined with the intensity of Yoo Joonghyuk’s focus, was overwhelming. The lingering sting of foolish jealousy evaporated under that gaze. Slowly, obediently, he parted his lips.

Yoo Joonghyuk carefully placed the next slice on his tongue, his fingers brushing Kim Dokja’s lower lip for a fleeting, electric moment. He didn’t look away. He simply picked up another piece, waiting.

And Kim Dokja, the Demon King of Salvation, the Reader who defied fate, the fool who had carried the weight of the world and the loneliness of all, opened his mouth for the man who had crossed universes to bring him home, his heart a wild, hopeful, utterly grateful flutter in his fragile chest. The quiet noise of the pocket watch in Yoo Joonghyuk’s pocket marked the rhythm of this new, precious story—the story of being fed, of being seen, of being cherished, one sweet, deliberate piece of fruit at a time.

The slice of peach melted on Kim Dokja’s tongue, sweet and cool, but the warmth spreading through his chest had nothing to do with the fruit. It was the quiet intensity in Yoo Joonghyuk’s eyes as he waited for Kim Dokja to finish, the deliberate way he selected the next piece, the sheer, unwavering presence of him filling the room. The silence was comfortable, charged with something unspoken Kim Dokja was almost afraid to name.

He swallowed, gathering the breath for another rasping question. "Joonghyuk-ah…" he began, his voice still a fragile thing. "During the day… are you… busy?"

Yoo Joonghyuk paused, the next slice of fruit hovering. His dark gaze lifted from the plate to meet his beloved’s. "No," he stated simply, the word holding the weight of his current existence. Unemployed. Adrift in a world without scenarios, his only anchor the fragile man in the hospital bed. "Why?"

Kim Dokja fidgeted slightly, fingers plucking at the edge of the blanket. The directness was intimidating. "It's just…" He looked away, focusing on the soft glow of the bedside lamp. "You only come… mornings and late nights…" He took a shaky breath. "If… if you don't mind… maybe… you could stay… during the day too… sometimes?" He rushed the last part, already anticipating refusal, already regretting the vulnerability. "I-I mean, it's okay if you can't! Or won't! It's probably boring just sitting—"

"Okay."

The single word cut through Dokja’s flustered rambling. Sharp. Clear. Final.

Kim Dokja’s head snapped back, eyes wide. "Huh?"

Yoo Joonghyuk met his startled gaze, his expression unreadable but for a slight softening around his eyes. "Okay," he repeated, placing the piece of fruit gently against KimnDokja’s lips. "I'll stay."

The warmth in Kim Dokja’s chest bloomed into a full, radiant heat. He obediently took the fruit, chewing slowly, trying to process the simple acceptance. A comfortable silence settled again, filled only by the soft sounds of the hospital at night and the rhythmic tick-tack from Joonghyuk’s pocket.

After a few more pieces, Yoo Joonghyuk set the plate aside. He leaned back slightly in his chair, his gaze turning serious, the softness replaced by a familiar, assessing sternness. "Kim Dokja."

Kim Dokja instinctively braced himself. That tone usually preceded a scolding about his recklessness or his terrible self-preservation instincts.

"Lee Seolhwa and Aileen spoke to me," Yoo Joonghyuk stated, his voice low but firm. "About your therapy."

Kim Dokja flinched. He knew where this was going. He looked down at his hands, thin and useless in his lap. "Ah… that."

"You are not taking it seriously." It wasn't a question.

"I…" Kim Dokja started, then sighed, the sound a weak rasp. "It's… frustrating." The admission felt like pulling teeth. "I can't… lift my arm properly… sit up… walk…" He clenched his fist weakly, a tremor running through it. "I try… but it feels… pointless. Like… I'll never…" Never be strong again. Never be useful. Never be anything but this burden.

Yoo Joonghyuk watched him, the frustration and shame radiating off Kim Dokja in waves. He didn't interrupt. He just let the silence hang, heavy with Kim Dokja’s unspoken fears. Then, he spoke again, his voice surprisingly level, devoid of anger but filled with an undeniable weight. "Then, would you…" he paused, choosing his words carefully, "…would it bother you if I attended your therapy sessions?"

Kim Dokja’s head jerked up. "W-What?"

Yoo Joonghyuk met his startled gaze directly. "Would you mind," he asked again, his voice steady, "if I attended your therapy sessions? Watched?"

Kim Dokja froze. His heart, which had been fluttering with warmth moments ago, suddenly felt like it was trying to hammer its way out of his chest. The protagonist… watching him? Watching him struggle, fail, tremble with the effort of simply standing? Watching his weakness laid utterly bare? The humiliation was immediate, sharp, and terrifying. He imagined those intense dark eyes fixed on him as he faltered, as he fell, as he gasped for breath after the simplest exertion. But underneath that fear, the fact that Yoo Joonghyuk would be here to observe him, to be here during Kim Dokja’s difficult moments, only warmed his heart further. He wanted him to… but…

"I…" Kim Dokja stammered, his face flushing hot. "It's… it's long. Boring. I barely… manage anything. It's just… embarrassing failures…" He looked away again, wishing he could sink into the pillows. "You don't need to… waste your time…"

"It wouldn't be a waste."

The quiet certainty in Yoo Joonghyuk’s voice made Kim Dokja look back. There was no pity in his expression. Only that familiar, unwavering focus. The same focus he'd had when facing down Outer Gods or navigating impossible scenarios. The focus that said, I want to. I want to be by your side and support you through your struggles and all moments of your life.

Kim Dokja’s breath hitched. The fear of humiliation warred fiercely with something else —a desperate, yearning need for that anchor. For the person who had crossed universes for him to simply be there while he fought this smaller, more personal battle. He remembered the hand holding his chin, the firm grip that anchored him to reality. He remembered the quiet "Okay" when he’d asked for company.

Slowly, the tension bled from Kim Dokja’s shoulders. He met Yoo Joonghyuk’s gaze, his own eyes still wide but losing some of their panic. "...Okay," he whispered, the word barely audible. "I… I don't mind. If… if you're really sure."

A flicker of something passed over Yoo Joonghyuk’s face. It wasn't quite a smile, not in the way others smiled. It was a subtle easing of the stern lines around his mouth and eyes, a warmth that seemed to emanate from within. It was the faintest crinkling at the corners of his eyes, a softening of the intense gaze that transformed his face completely for that fleeting second. It was an expression reserved solely for Kim Dokja—a silent acknowledgment, a profound relief, a promise.

"Good," Yoo Joonghyuk said, the single word imbued with a depth of feeling that made Kim Dokja’s heart ache with warmth.

Kim Dokja couldn't help it. A small, fragile smile touched his own lips, mirroring the unspoken warmth in Yoo Joonghyuk’s eyes. It wasn't the smile of the cunning, self-sacrificing reader, nor the distant smile of the Oldest Dream. It was a simple, vulnerable, hopeful smile. A smile that said, I trust you. I’m scared, but I trust you to see me like this.

The pocket watch in Yoo Joonghyuk’s pocket seemed to chime in agreement with the rhythm of their shared heartbeat. Tick-tack. Tick-tack. Not just marking time, but marking the quiet, determined beginning of a new kind of fight. A fight they would face together, side-by-side, not against the universe, but for the simple, extraordinary act of living in it. One painful, frustrating, necessary therapy session at a time. The love wasn't spoken aloud, not yet. But it filled the room, as tangible as the scent of peaches and as steady as the watch's unwavering beat.

The rhythm of Kim Dokja’s recovery became the new heartbeat of the Industrial Complex. And at its center pulsed the undeniable, unspoken thing between Kim Dokja and Yoo Joonghyuk.

Their companions noticed. Oh, how they noticed.

Lee Jihye practically vibrated with excitement every time she entered the hospital room and found Yoo Joonghyuk already there, meticulously arranging Kim Dokja’s pillows or silently reading nearby while Kim Dokja napped. "See!" she’d hiss to Jung Heewon or Yoo Sangah, her eyes sparkling. " Not only mornings and nights now, but all day! I told you! They were totally married in spirit even when Master was trying to kill him during the first scenarios! It was surely foreplay" (Sooyoung chocked on the last word, trying so hard not to wheeze)

Jung Heewon, leaning against the doorframe with a knowing smirk, would add fuel to the fire. "Wow, Joonghyuk-ssi. Bringing Dokja-ssi breakfast, lunch, dinner and supervising his nap schedule? Quite the dedicated nurse you are. Need an apron to complete the look?" Yoo Joonghyuk would merely level a flat, unimpressed stare her way, which only made Jung Heewon chuckle harder, elbowing a softly smiling Lee Hyunsung beside her.

Yoo Sangah watched them with a serene, almost maternal warmth. "They have a unique rhythm, don't they?" she’d murmur to Han Sooyoung, observing Yoo Joonghyuk adjust Kim Dokja’s blanket with a focus usually reserved for dismantling constellations. "It’s… comforting."

Han Sooyoung, perched on the windowsill scribbling notes, would snort. "Unique rhythm? More like a stubborn asshole and a self-sacrificing squid locked in a mutual pining contest." But even her sharp words lacked their usual bite. She’d watch Yoo Joonghyuk wordlessly hand Kim Dokja a glass of water, their fingers brushing, and a tiny, almost reluctant smile would touch her lips before she buried it behind a scowl. "Just kiss already and put us all out of our misery, you oblivious idiots," she’d mutter under her breath, earning a light swat from Yoo Sangah.

The kids were… adjusting. Lee Gilyoung eyed Yoo Joonghyuk with deep suspicion whenever the latter took his spot beside Kim Dokja’s bed during the day. "Sooty bastard," he’d grumble under his breath, earning a sharp nudge from Shin Yoosung. Shin Yoosung, while fiercely protective of her Ahjussi, was more pragmatic. "Joonghyuk-Ahjussi makes Ahjussi smile more," she’d whisper to Lee Gilyoung, watching Kim Dokja’s eyes light up when Yoo Joonghyuk entered, even if Kim Dokja tried to hide it behind a cough. "And… he brought him back. Really back." Lee Gilyoung would huff, crossing his arms, but the glare would soften minutely. Acceptance, however grudging, was taking root.

And then there was Uriel. The idol nearly short-circuited the hospital lights the first time she arrived for her evening visit and found Joonghyuk meticulously feeding Dokja diced pears.

"OH MY STARS! MY OTP! LOOK AT THEM! THE DOMESTIC BLISS! THE UNSPOKEN YEARNING! THE WAY HE WIPES THE JUICE FROM HIS LIPS!!!"

Her subsequent wailing song of joy, accompanied by literal showers of glittering starlight, required Jung Heewon to physically drag her out of the room before Lee Seolhwa revoked visiting privileges. Sun Wukong just facepalmed, and Abyssal Black Flame pretended to throw up.

Through it all, Kim Dokja blushed, stammered, and vehemently denied everything ("He’s just… helping! Because he’s unemployed! And bored!"). Yoo Joonghyuk, meanwhile, offered no explanations, no denials. His silence spoke volumes. He simply was there. Cutting fruit. Packing lunchboxes. Adjusting blankets. Sitting through endless, frustrating therapy sessions with the patience of a mountain.

***

The physical therapy room was bright and airy, filled with parallel bars, exercise mats, and resistance bands. Kim Dokja hated it. Today, the focus was standing and walking. Again.

Sweat already beaded on his forehead as he gripped the parallel bars, knuckles white. Lee Seolhwa stood ready nearby, her expression calm and encouraging. Aileen monitored his vitals from a screen. And Yoo Joonghyuk leaned against a wall, a silent, immovable presence. He hadn’t said a word since the session began forty minutes ago. He just watched. His dark eyes tracked every tremor in Kim Dokja’s legs, every hitch in his breath, every flicker of frustration or pain on his face.

"Okay, Dokja-ssi," Lee Seolhwa said gently. "Let's try again. Shift your weight. One foot forward. Nice and slow. Remember your core."

Kim Dokja gritted his teeth. His legs felt like leaden jelly. He’d managed one shaky step earlier. Then another. Each one was a monumental effort, draining him utterly. The humiliation burned, especially with his protagonist watching. Kim Dokja didn’t want to disappoint him. But he also remembered the quiet "Good" Yoo Joonghyuk had murmured after the first step. The barely-there brush of fingers against his back when he’d swayed.

Don’t fall. Don’t fall.

He pushed. His right leg trembled violently as he lifted it, dragging it forward a few agonizing inches. Planted it. Breathed. Sweat dripped into his eyes. He blinked it away.

"Good," Lee Seolhwa encouraged. "Now the left. You can do it."

Another monumental effort. Another few inches. His arms shook on the bars. Two steps. That was his previous max. He paused, panting, the room swimming slightly. That’s not enough. It’s not good enough.

And something in Yoo Joonghyuk’s unwavering gaze encouraged him. Just one more. Show him.

With a gasp that was almost a sob, Kim Dokja dragged his right foot forward again. Three steps. He wobbled precariously. Lee Seolhwa’s hand hovered near his elbow.

"One more, Kim Dokja." Yoo Joonghyuk’s voice, low and steady, cut through the haze of exhaustion. Not an order. A statement of belief.

Kim Dokja’s head snapped up. He met those dark eyes, filled with that familiar, terrifying intensity. I see you. Try. It's okay if you can't. The warmth in his chest flared, battling the weakness.

He gathered every shred of will, every ounce of stubbornness that had carried him through scenarios and loneliness. He pushed off the bars, shifting his weight entirely onto his trembling legs. He lifted his left foot. It felt like lifting a mountain. He moved it forward. Planted it.

Four steps.

For a single, glorious second, he stood unsupported, four steps from where he’d started. Then, his legs finally gave way. He crumpled forward.

But arms were already there. Lee Seolhwa caught him smoothly, easing him down not to the floor, but onto the waiting wheelchair beside the bars. "You did it, Dokja-ssi!" she said, genuine pride in her voice. "Four steps! That’s incredible progress!"

Kim Dokja slumped in the chair, drenched in sweat, trembling uncontrollably, his chest heaving. Exhaustion threatened to pull him under immediately. But beneath the crushing fatigue, a fierce, bright spark ignited. Four steps. He’d done it.

He looked up, his vision blurry, searching. His gaze found Yoo Joonghyuk. The protagonist was already moving. He crossed the small distance in two strides, his usual impassive mask utterly gone. His eyes were blazing with something raw and fierce—pride, relief, an intensity that stole Kim Dokja’s breath all over again.

Yoo Joonghyuk didn’t hesitate. He crouched down in front of the wheelchair, bringing himself eye-level with Kim Dokja. His large, calloused hand came up, surprisingly gentle, and brushed the sweat-soaked bangs sticking to Kim Dokja’s forehead. The touch sent electric sparks through Kim Dokja’s exhausted body.

"You did well," Yoo Joonghyuk murmured, his voice rough with an emotion Kim Dokja couldn’t quite name, deeper and warmer than mere praise. His thumb lingered for a second on Kim Dokja’s temple.

Then, without breaking eye contact, Yoo Joonghyuk leaned forward. Time seemed to slow. Kim Dokja’s heart hammered against his ribs, loud enough he was sure the whole hospital could hear it. He felt the warmth of Yoo Joonghyuk’s breath, saw the unwavering certainty in his eyes.

Yoo Joonghyuk pressed a soft, deliberate kiss to the center of Kim Dokja’s forehead.

It was brief. Chaste. Yet it carried the weight of countless regressions, endless searches across broken worldlines, silent vigils, cut fruit, and unwavering belief. It was a seal. A benediction. A silent promise whispered against his skin.

Kim Dokja froze. Every tremor, every gasp, every thought ceased. The world narrowed to the warm pressure on his forehead and the dark eyes locked onto his, filled with a love so vast and terrifyingly real it threatened to drown him. A choked sound escaped his throat—not pain, not protest, pure, overwhelming shock and a dawning, impossible joy.

Lee Seolhwa smiled, a soft, knowing curve of her lips. Aileen discreetly turned her attention to the vitals monitor, though a small smile played on her face too. The air hummed with the quiet aftermath of the small miracle—four steps and a kiss that changed everything.

Yoo Joonghyuk pulled back just slightly, his hand still cradling the side of Kim Dokja’s face, his thumb brushing the spot he’d kissed. His gaze held Kim Dokja’s, unflinching, offering no explanation, demanding none. The message was clear in the charged silence, in the lingering warmth on Kim Dokja’s skin: This is real. You are here. You did it. And I am yours.

Kim Dokja, the Demon King of Salvation, the Reader who navigated the apocalypse, could only stare back, tears welling up in his exhausted eyes, utterly speechless, his fragile heart overflowing with a warmth that had nothing to do with exertion and everything to do with the man kneeling before him. The unspoken confession hung between them, louder than any Story notification, more real than any Giant Story. The therapy session was forgotten. The four steps were monumental, but this… this was the true breakthrough. The dam had finally cracked.

Chapter Text

The weeks slowly melted into a month, then two. The ghost in the hospital bed slowly gained substance. Kim Dokja could sit up for longer periods, his voice lost its painful rasp and settled into a familiar, if softer, tone. He could now lift a cup of water with his own trembling hands—a victory celebrated with the quiet intensity of a conquered scenario.

He took his four steps, then five, then ten. Still with the supporting bars, yes. But a success nonetheless. And Yoo Joonghyuk was always there, a silent pillar of strength during the grueling physical therapy sessions. The kiss on the forehead was never mentioned aloud, but it lived in the space between them, a foundational truth that needed no words. It was in the way Yoo Joonghyuk’s hand lingered on the small of Kim Dokja’s back as he walked, in the way Kim Dokja’s eyes sought him out first thing in the morning.

But amidst the warmth and the careful routine, a quiet, cold dread had begun to curl in the pit of Kim Dokja’s stomach.

It started with the Stories.

At first, he’d thought it was just his perception returning. The shimmering fragments of his companions' fables had always been a comforting presence, a visual proof of their bonds. But now, they were… more. When Jung Heewon laughed, he didn't just hear the sound; he saw the faint, fiery share of the Giant Story [Demon Realm's Spring] flicker around her like a corona. When Lee Gilyoung concentrated, the patient, earthy glow of [Insect King] pulsed in time with his breathing. He could feel the weight of Yoo Sangah’s [Hour of Mandala], a serene, golden light, and the chaotic, brilliant storm of Han Sooyoung’s [Predictive Plagiarism].

The problem was that, none of them seemed to have realized their Stories were coming back. They didn't even noticed.

How? Why? 

It was overwhelming. It was like hearing the hum of every individual star in a galaxy all at once.

And his own Stories… they were loudest of all. He could feel them sleeping inside his frail body, not as dormant power, but as a living, breathing library. [Father of a Dokkeabi], [Person Who is Loved by an Archangel], [Demon King of Salvation], [The Pebble and I]… they rustled like pages in a breeze, responsive to his slightest emotion. A flicker of fear around him made them tighten protectively. A moment of genuine laughter with the kids made them shimmer with a warm, golden light.

He said nothing. What could he say? They were all so happy, so relieved to see him getting stronger. He wouldn’t spoil this hard-won peace with his own weird, post-coma sensitivity.

Then, one afternoon, he saw it again.

He was alone, practicing gripping a stress ball to rebuild the strength in his hands. The weak winter sun streamed through the window. As he focused on the simple, frustrating task, his vision blurred at the edges.

[You currently possess the power to control ‘Star Stream’.]

The text hovered in the center of his vision, stark and immutable. It wasn't a fleeting notification anymore. It was a status, burned permanently onto his retinas, visible whenever he let his guard down.

His hand stilled, the stress ball forgotten.

Control the Star Stream.

The words were absurd. The scenarios were over. The Star Stream, the system that had governed their apocalypse, was supposed to be gone. Broken. He had broken it himself, hadn't he? By becoming the Oldest Dream and then being pulled back from that role.

But if the Star Stream was gone… what was he controlling?

A cold sweat broke out on the back of his neck. The warm, sunlit room suddenly felt like a cage. He was the Oldest Dream. The one whose imagination sustained worlds. Had his return… had his very existence… somehow re-anchored the system? Was the Star Stream not destroyed, but simply… dormant, waiting for its master to wake up?

The thought was terrifying. It meant this peace, this recovery, was built on a lie. It was a beautiful dream within the Oldest Dream.

“Kim Dokja.”

He flinched so violently he nearly dropped the stress ball. Yoo Joonghyuk stood in the doorway, a bag of groceries in one hand. His sharp eyes missed nothing—the sheen of sweat on Kim Dokja’s brow, the white-knuckled grip on the ball, the distant, panicked look in his eyes.

“You’re back early,” Kim Dokja managed, forcing a smile that felt like cracked porcelain.

Yoo Joonghyuk didn’t return the smile. He stepped inside, placing the bag on the table, his gaze never leaving Kim Dokja’s face. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Just… tired.” The lie was automatic, flimsy.

Yoo Joonghyuk walked over to the bed. He didn’t press. He never did. Instead, he reached out and gently pried the stress ball from Kim Dokja’s stiff fingers, setting it aside. Then, his large, warm hand enveloped Kim Dokja’s cold, trembling one.

“Liar,” he murmured, but his voice was soft. An anchor in the sudden, silent storm of Kim Dokja’s panic.

Kim Dokja looked down at their joined hands. He could see it now, if he focused—not just Yoo Joonghyuk’s and his fable, but the very essence of it. The endless, brutal cycles of regressions, a river of pain and determination, now flowing into a single, steady, powerful stream: [Life and Death Companions]. It was the most beautiful, terrifying thing he had ever seen.

He wanted to tell him. He wanted to pour out the fear, to ask if this was all real, to ask why he could still see the scaffolding of the universe when it was supposed to have been torn down.

But he looked at Yoo Joonghyuk’s face—the face that had searched for him across countless worldlines, the eyes that held a future he never thought he could have—and the words died in his throat.

What if speaking it aloud made it real? What if acknowledging his power woke the Star Stream up for good?

So, he swallowed the truth. He squeezed Yoo Joonghyuk’s hand, pouring all his fear and love into that single gesture.

“It’s nothing, Joonghyuk-ah,” he whispered, leaning his head against Yoo Joonghyuk’s solid arm. “Just… a bad thought. It’s gone now.”

Yoo Joonghyuk didn’t look convinced, but he accepted it. For now, was left unsaid. He shifted, sitting on the edge of the bed and pulling Kim Dokja into a more secure hold, letting him rest against his shoulder.

Kim Dokja closed his eyes, blocking out the shimmering fables, ignoring the persistent, glowing notification at the edge of his consciousness.

He was home. He was loved. He was recovering.

And he, Kim Dokja, the reader who loved stories more than anything, was desperately, silently praying that the most dangerous story of all—the Star Stream—would remain forever closed.

The visit began like any other, but with a warmth that felt both familiar and painfully fragile. Lee Sookyung arrived first, her hands carrying a thermos of soup that smelled of ginger and home. Her eyes, which had once held the harsh glint, now held a soft, unwavering light whenever they rested on her son.

“You look less like a ghost today, son,” she said, her voice calm as she poured him a small bowl afted her gaze traced the new, faint color in his cheeks.

Before Kim Dokja could muster a reply, the air in the room shifted, cooling slightly and filling with the subtle, intoxicating scent of pomegranates and night-blooming flowers.

"Though, still too thin. Our child cannot risk himself to be blown over by a slight breeze, hm?"

Persephone stood in the doorway, a faint, mischievous smile playing on her lips. She was as radiant as ever, a queen even in the simple, modern clothes she wore. With a playful, sharp smile on her lips, she reached out to pinch his cheek with an affection that still made him fluster as he greeted them.

And of course, Han Sooyoung, who had been keeping Kim Dokja company since morning with her blabbering, snorted and had to comment. “Too thin? More like a flimsy drowned squid."

Persephone glided into the room, ignoring Kim Dokja's discomfort and patting his head with a familiarity that made him flush. “So, my heir lives. And he’s finally learning to use his limbs again. Your father would be annoyed that it’s taking so long. He was always impatient.”

The mention of him was a needle to Kim Dokja’s heart. He looked down at his soup, his appetite vanishing.

How could she talk so easily of it? Why wasn’t she blaming Kim Dokja? Why? Why? Why?

Lee Sookyung, sensing the shift, smoothly changed the subject. “The children were with us earlier. Shin Yoosung showed me her latest test scores. She’s at the top of her class in biology.”

The conversation flowed after that, a gentle current of mundane news. Lee Sookyung spoke of her work with the library, preserving the stories of the new world. Persephone mentioned, with a really entertained smile, the "administrative chaos" of managing the remnants of the Constellations who had to remain in the human world, trying to find a place without a system to govern them.

It was normal. It was peaceful. And it was tearing Kim Dokja apart.

Because as they spoke, he saw.

He could see it. Sense it. Feel it.

And it was overwhelming.

But, he didn't dare to say a word. Yet.

They talked about Lee Gilyoung’s latest insect project, Yoo Mia’s stubborn refusal to do her homework and her suprisingly sharp tactical mind, and the various paths the members of the Company were carving out in this peaceful world. Jung Heewon and Lee Hyunsung were working with the Korean government. Yoo Sangah was a diplomat, using her grace to smooth over international tensions. Han Sooyoung, they joked, was terrorizing university students as a creative writing professor.

“It suits her,” Persephone remarked with a dry chuckle. “Corrupting young minds with her peculiar brand of storytelling.”

As if summoned by the mention, Han Sooyoung finally stuck out her head of a stack of papers. “Alright, my visiting hours are over. I’ve got a class full of idiots who think a protagonist can’t also like men. The audacity.” She waved a dismissive hand. “Don’t do anything stupid, squid. You two,” she nodded at the mothers, “make sure he drinks that soup. He’s still skin and bones.”

With Han Sooyoung’s chaotic energy gone, a different kind of silence descended upon the room. The conversation lulled a bit.

Lee Sookyung, perceptive as ever, stood. "I will go and speak with Lee Seolhwa about your next round of exercices", she said, her gaze lingering on her son with a knowing look. It was a dismissal, but a gentle one. She was giving them space. "Make sure to eat all your soup, Dokja-yah." She gave his hand a firm, brief squeeze and left, granting them space.

The door clicked shut, leaving Kim Dokja alone with the Queen of the Underworld.

Silence descended again, thicker this time. Persephone watched him, her dark, knowing eyes seeing far too much.

And Kim Dokja’s eyes were irresistibly drawn to Persephone. There it was again, clearer than ever.

It was agonizing.

Around Lee Sookyung, his mother, the steadfast, unyielding glow of her Stories was a shield, a promise.

But, around Persephone... the beautiful, tragic [Promise of the Darkest Night]—the Story of her and Hades—was not gone. It was a muted, silver thread, wrapped tightly around her heart, pulsing with a love that had transcended death itself, and woving around her like a veil of starlit ivy. But beneath it… something else. A deep, resonant hum of power that should not exist.

A faint, deep, amethyst shimmer, the ghost of the Giant Story [Underworld]. It felt like an echo from a tomb, but it was there. It was impossible. It should have been extinguished, its king fallen.

It should have shattered, dispersed back into the stream.

But there it was, a dormant echo clinging to the woman who had ruled it as an equal. The most terrifying part was that she seemed utterly unaware of its presence. She carried the ghost of her kingdom within her, a burden only he could see.

Why could he see it clinging to her? And why did she seem… utterly unaware of it? She sat with the grace of a monarch, but her story felt like a throne room with an empty seat, the crown hovering just above her head, unseen.

He had to say something. The guilt was a physical pressure in his chest.

"Mother," Kim Dokja began, the title still feeling both foreign and right on his tongue. He fidgeted with the edge of his blanket, his voice barely a whisper. "How… how are you… truly?"

Persephone’s smile was an amused thing. "You worry about me, child? You, who are made of little more than paper and stubbornness right now?"

Kim Dokja flushed a bit more. That wasn't what he meant... And Persephone seemed to have understood, a teasing glint in her eyes. 

"Hm... you are asking me how I am? What a caring son... Well, to answer you... I am in a world, watching over my son who is too busy feeling guilty to enjoy the life he was given.” Her tone was light, but her words were sharp, precise arrows.

Kim Dokja flinched. “I… I just… I wanted to ask about… the others. Dionysus, for instance. I heard he’s started some kind of… performance troupe?” It was a pathetic deflection, and they both knew it.

Persephone’s lips quirked. “Ah, Dionysus. Yes. He, Uriel, and that noisy monkey and dragon have formed something… loud. He seems to be coping better than most, losing himself in his revels.” She studied him, her head tilted. “It is a common way to mask grief. Some drink and dance. Others… hide in hospital rooms and blame themselves for choices that were not theirs to make.”

Kim Dokja couldn't meet her gaze. "It's... good that there's still joy."

"Joy takes many forms," she said softly. "Some find it in revelry. Others… in the quiet assurance that their son is finally breathing the same air as them." She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "He would be so insufferably proud of you, you know. Your father. He, who used to nag me about how much I spent over unnecessary things, would be telling me right now to spend more on your get-well gifts." A genuine, watery laugh escaped her. "He watched you for so long. You were the most fascinating story he'd ever read."

That was the final blow. The image of Hades, the stern, caring king who had defended him, who had adopted him for some reason Kim Dokja still struggled to fully understand, who had offered him a kingdom, who had died because the story demanded a price… it shattered the last of his composure.

Tears welled in Kim Dokja’s eyes, hot and shameful. "I'm sorry," he choked out, the words tearing from him. "I'm so sorry. For him. For… for everything. It's my fault."

Persephone was silent for a long moment, simply watching him weep. Then, she reached out, her cool, elegant fingers wiping a tear from his cheek with a tenderness that shattered him further.

"Kim Dokja," she said, her voice firm yet impossibly gentle. "Look at me."

He forced his gaze upward, his vision blurred.

"The only fault lies with a world cruel enough to demand such choices from a child who only ever wanted to read a story to its end," she stated, her words leaving no room for argument. "We made our choices. Hades made his. I made mine. We chose you. Not out of obligation, but because you were worth choosing. Do not insult our judgment by claiming our love for you was a mistake."

Her love was a tangible force in the room, a stark contrast to the cold, systematic power of the Star Stream notification still blinking in his periphery. She saw a son. The Star Stream saw a controller.

Kim Dokja looked away, towards the window, but he couldn’t escape the sight of her story, the faint, stubborn glow of the [Underworld] that refused to die. 

"They told me that he asked you to stay," Kim Dokja whispered, the words torn from him. “In the 1865th turn. He… Father... he begged you to stay. And you… you came back. For… for me.”

He finally forced himself to meet her gaze. “And Bihyung… he’s gone too. Because of the story I wanted.” The confession hung in the air, raw and aching.

Persephone watched him for another long, silent moment. The teasing mask had completely fallen away, revealing the ancient, weary goddess beneath.

“You foolish child,” she murmured, her voice laced with an immeasurable sadness. “Do you think the love of a parent is such a feeble thing? That it can be broken by something as trivial as death?”

Her thumb brushed away the tears that had escaped his control. “I did not choose you over Hades. I chose the future he and I both wanted—a future with our son in it. He would have despised me if I had chosen otherwise. I would have myself too. And that little Dokkaebi… he chose his own story. The most beautiful Story a Dokkaebi can have.”

She pulled her hand back, and her expression grew distant, yet profoundly focused. “You know, the Underworld was never a place. It was a story. And stories… do not simply vanish when their tellers are gone. They wait.”

A jolt went through him. They wait. Did she know? Could she sense it too?

Before he could form a question, her smile returned, softer this time. “Now, drink your soup before your mother returns and scolds us both. A prince should not be so thin. It’s undignified.”

When Persephone finally left, pressing a kiss to his forehead that felt like a blessing and an absolution, the room felt both emptier and more crowded.

Kim Dokja leaned back against his pillows, exhausted but buzzing with a terrifying, crystalline clarity. The guilt hadn't vanished, but it had been reforged. It was no longer a chain holding him down; it was a whetstone, sharpening his resolve.

He looked at his trembling hands—hands that could barely hold a cup, hands that, according to a message only he could see, could control the very fabric of reality.

The Star Stream wasn't gone. It was sleeping. And he was its Dreamer.

If he had the power to control it…

A new, stubborn determination, fierce and blinding, ignited within him. It was a foolish, impossible goal, the kind only the most reckless of readers would dare to envision.

Then he had the power to rewrite it.

He was going to fix his mistakes.