Chapter Text
Till runs down the hallway, uncaring of the yelps of shock emitting from the rebels he bumps into. He had completely dropped everything once he heard the news— he had left Byeol— the little girl with Ivan’s eyes and Mizi’s pink hair— behind, scribbling a rushed note to her about needing to leave.
She let him leave with a nod before going off to find the other kids that were rescued with her.
His lungs staggers as he runs, struggling to get the breaths out of his fucked-up throat. He ends up in a dead-end hallway and is about to turn around to head another way when he notices the man standing next to the door at the end of the hall.
“Dew,” he manages to quickly rasp out, regretting not having brought his sketchbook with him. He had given it to Yu-Jun (the boy who apparently looks and acts exactly like one of the rebels who came to stop the Stage, Hyuna) so he could use it to practice his writing and reading.
Dewey startles at the sight of him. He takes a cautious step towards him, setting a hand onto his trembling shoulder. “Shit, kid. Did you run all the way here from the kids’ playroom?”
Till pants and nods. He holds out his shaky hands. [Is it true?]
Dewey stares at the signs for a moment. Four years ago, he and Isaac had managed to find an old book from Earth explaining sign language. It was written in an earthly language the Segyeins rarely ever taught them at Anakt— English. But, thankfully, Till knew enough English that he could start using this way to communicate; signs and gestures using his fingers, his hands and his body as a whole.
Once he figured it out, he got a good part of the rebels— especially those treating his injuries— to learn it as well.
“Yeah… it is,” Dewey sighs. “He’s in there, but you’ve gotta understand this, Till. He’s probably been asleep for seven years in that tank, we don’t know what he remembers or even if he knows what happened to him after your guys’ round together.”
[But he’s okay?], Till presses, staring at the door next to Dewey.
“He’s stable, I know that for sure. Doc said the drugs injected in the cryo-tank thing are slowly wearing off of him, or something,” Dewey reassures him with a grin. “So he’s not as loopy as he was when he first woke up.”
Till stares at the dyed-blonde for a while, silent. [Is he awake right now?]
Dewey blinks. “Yeah. You wanna see him? Are you ready for that sort of thing?”
Till has always thought of himself unafraid to face any type of ghost, especially the one who hangs around, all the way in the back of his peripheral view, the one who wraps his thin, bony fingers around his neck, the one who forces Till’s words down his throat with a forceful kiss, a hand behind his head tilting him forward.
Till swallows his saliva, and it burns on the way down his esophagus. Lately, the silencing kisses have disappeared and the ghost stopped appearing. Maybe this is why. Maybe it’s because there was never a ghost to begin with.
Maybe it’s because the man was never dead in the first place.
“Yeah. I’m ready.”