0112.

ii.

ii.

Room 1201, West Wing - White walls, dead eyes, pathetic laugh

Jongin stares at his own sloppy handwriting. There are smudges of permanent black ink on the corners of the notepad. He brings up a hand to massage his temples slowly. The remainder of last night's memories creeps up to him, making the pain in his head spread like a wildfire. The pain was subtle and only stays around his eyes and temples. It wasn't the kind of headache coming at the back of your head, weighing it down—but one that is easy to forget only for it to come back up when you close your eyes or even make the slightest mistake of moving so fast. Jongin uses the heels of his palm to massage the areas around his eyes. I need a pill, he thinks as he grabs his black messenger bag beside him when his phone suddenly rings from inside it. He fishes it out of the bag and stared at the caller ID.

Frowning, Jongin stood up from his chair and answers the call. He mutters a greeting to the person on the other line but it was barely coherent. He hears shifting from the other side. Doors being opened and closed—then suddenly, a shaky breath. "When are you planning to submit your manuscript?"

He bit the insides of his cheek. "I'm working on it. Give me more time."

"He's grilling me here, Jongin!" The voice comes out in gasps of air and Jongin immediately knows that he was probably running late again. "He's stressed because he'll be in the number system soon. Us, too."

It was true. Jongin was turning twenty five this month. It was supposed to be a normal day if he wasn't living in a world where twenty-fifth birthdays meant numbers magically appearing on your arm as if a ghost was writing on it with a knife and letting you either bleed to death or wait for your number to show up on the countdown. His editor, Sehun, being the younger of the two, has more months to cherish. It wasn't a lot but Jongin would steal those months away from his friend if he could.

"I met a lot of them today," Jongin tells him, changing the subject. His eyes drifts to the notepad on his desk, staring at the words blankly. For a moment, the words didn't make sense to him. What was he doing, anyway? Why is he working this hard only to have a number engraved deep into his skin on his twenty-fifth birthday that will mark the end of his life? "I went to visit Chanyeol at the hospital."

"Is he awake?" Sehun's voice was hopeful but the small 'no' that came from Jongin's mouth made his shoulders sag a little. It's been two years since they last saw Chanyeol awake. It was shocking but not unexpected. He was one of the people who almost
killed themselves during their marking. Tried was really the better word for it, given that forces beyond their comprehension wouldn't allow it. For most individuals, it was either the physical pain that comes from being marked or the overwhelming emotional burden that comes from knowing that every tick of the clock shaves a little more time off their lives. Rotting a little bit each day. Sometimes, it was both. Jongin didn't know where Chanyeol stood on that matter. Perhaps it doesn't make a damn difference in the end.

When the clock strikes midnight, on their twenty-fifth birthdays, every man and woman will have numbers engraved on their left forearm. These markings manifest in four digits. Four numbers that will determine when the person would die. There was no proper science to it—just that the first digit comes up on the surface of their skin as if tearing its way through flesh and bones on the day of their twenty-fifth birthday, while the rest of the numbers appear days apart from each other. In some cases, months apart. Although those who ever did have the rest of their markings surface later than usual were picked up by men dressed in tactical gear in the middle of the night. No one even batted an eye. They were just... gone. The police simply blamed it on several insurgent groups, promising the public that justice will be served. Of course, nothing would ever come out of these investigations. The questions would stop there after a few weeks as the world once again plunges into chaos.

Ask too much, though, then the hushed voices in dark and damp alleyways would confirm what everyone else knew all too well—that the government was experimenting on them.

For decades, the government, or at least, what was left of it, have dedicated their limited time and resources to studying the odd phenomena. Needless to say that no one ever came close to a breakthrough. Each city had its own countdown. It stood in the middle of each land, towering over them rather menacingly, the numbers glaring red and illuminating the streets at night. For some people, though, the number system was barely a concern when criminals ran rampant day and night. Given that their markings came at a later point in life, each individual was essentially immortal before turning twenty-five. A knife could still wound and a gun could still put a bullet through one's chest but nothing could truly put an end to anyone below the age of twenty-five.

Jongin himself had seen people try to end it all before they even get their markings. Some would either break a leg or suffer something infinitely worse, but death never came to them. No, it was the countdown that decides who gets to live and who dies. There was no choice in the matter. The system made sure that every wound and broken bone they ever receive before their marking never truly healed correctly. Wounds would close, but they always ached even years later. Broken bones would only heal to some extent, forever reminding the person of its existence whenever they moved. The bleeding would stop, but the pain... the pain continued until the day they died. It continued until the countdown says it was their time to go. Jongin's breath hitched at the thought.

He took sleeping pills. He's not dead. He will be awake soon. He will be okay. He will be okay. He will be—

He closes his eyes tightly. He kept seeing his best friend's face—how he looked like, how he sounded like—in his nightmares. Chanyeol always haunted him in his sleep and then again when he's awake. Jongin wondered if he could bear the pain of getting marked or befall the same fate as that of his best friend. He shook his head and tries to clear his mind of Chanyeol. "I met someone interesting."

"Yeah?" Sehun says. There's a breathy laugh right after and Jongin realizes that he was just relieved to hear good news. "Tell me."

Jongin pulls out his digital voice recorder—one that his friends always teases him with because, according to them, he was such an old man. He presses the red button and his own voice greeted him.

"January 10," The recording says. "Room 1201, West Wing, Patient Do."

"Nothing's special about this." Sehun whines impatiently and Jongin rolls his eyes so hard that it hurt. "It's just you sounding old."

Jongin doesn't say anything and fast forwards the audio clip. He calls Sehun's name again to catch his attention (because, really, Sehun's attention span is something of a child's). He ignores the younger's protests, and finally hits play. The voice sounds scratchy over the device and both of them couldn't understand what it said the first time. Jongin repeats it again and again before it becomes clear to them.

"My name is Kyungsoo." The man's voice was smooth. Calming. He pauses and in the background Jongin hears his own voice saying "it's okay, you're okay" in an attempt to get the man talking again. After a beat, the voice comes again. Shaky this time, but no less soothing.

"I've been marked for a year but only one digit showed up and it was zero."