Han Jisung⁸⁹

The stage was a roar of white noise, but to Jisung, the world was silent. The artificial rain drenched his small frame, making his scent heavy and sodden. He looked across the stage at Minho, the boy who had been his sunshine even when Minho never looked back. Minho’s voice was fading, his eyes hollow as he stared at the horizon, searching for a girl who wasn't there. He’s giving up, Jisung thought, a sharp, bitter pain blooming in his chest. If he stops singing, the aliens will kill him. Jisung stepped forward, his voice rising in a desperate, melodic plea. As he sang the lyrics of Cure, flashes of their past flickered behind his eyes like a broken film reel: Minho laughing in the garden's halls, Minho ignoring Jisung’s outstretched hand, Minho’s scent of coal and coffee that Jisung had spent a lifetime chasing.

"Notice my pain, and mend me right now..."

Jisung sang, his voice cracking with a raw, terrifying beauty. He wasn't singing for the audience; he was singing for the boy who was drifting away. Suddenly, the music shifted. Minho began his part, his voice a low, angry growl of grief. He moved toward Jisung, his broad shoulders tensed. Jisung didn't flinch. He watched Minho approach. Minho reached him, his big, shaking hands gripping Jisung’s collar. The scent of coal and coffee overwhelmed the honey, a collision of desperate souls. Jisung looked up, his dark eyes meeting Minho’s with a tragic, knowing smile. I’ll be your cure, Minho-ah. Even if you hate me for it. In a sudden, violent blur of motion, Minho yanked Jisung forward.

The world stopped. Minho crashed his lips against Jisung’s in a desperate, bruising kiss—a chaotic explosion of grief and hidden longing that mirrored the final defiance. Jisung felt the cold rain, the heat of Minho's mouth, and the crushing weight of a love that was finally, fatally, being seen. He tasted salt —tears or rain— he didn't know. As the red lights of the execution drones began to lock onto their position.

The stage was a roar of white noise, but to Jisung, the world was silent. The artificial rain drenched his small frame, making his scent heavy and sodden. He looked across the stage at Minho, the boy who had been his sunshine even when Minho never looked back. Minho’s voice was fading, his eyes hollow as he stared at the horizon, searching for a girl who wasn't there. He’s giving up, Jisung thought, a sharp, bitter pain blooming in his chest. If he stops singing, the aliens will kill him. Jisung stepped forward, his voice rising in a desperate, melodic plea. As he sang the lyrics of Cure, flashes of their past flickered behind his eyes like a broken film reel: Minho laughing in the university halls, Minho ignoring Jisung’s outstretched hand, Minho’s scent of coal and coffee that Jisung had spent a lifetime chasing.

"Notice my pain, and mend me right now..."

Jisung sang, his voice cracking with a raw, terrifying beauty. He wasn't singing for the audience; he was singing for the boy who was drifting away. Suddenly, the music shifted. Minho began his part, his voice a low, angry growl of grief. He moved toward Jisung, his broad shoulders tensed. Jisung didn't flinch. He watched Minho approach. Minho reached him, his big, shaking hands gripping Jisung’s collar. The scent of coal and coffee overwhelmed the honey, a collision of desperate souls. Jisung looked up, his dark eyes meeting Minho’s with a tragic, knowing smile. I’ll be your cure, Minho-ah. Even if you hate me for it. In a sudden, violent blur of motion, Minho yanked Jisung forward. The world stopped. Minho crashed his lips against Jisung’s in a desperate, bruising kiss—a chaotic explosion of grief and hidden longing that mirrored the final defiance. Jisung felt the cold rain, the heat of Minho's mouth, and the crushing weight of a love that was finally, fatally, being seen. He tasted salt —tears or rain— he didn't know. As the red lights of the execution drones began to lock onto their position.