© 2025 Kaela Seraphine. All Rights Reserved

The first time you saw Wonwoo, he didn’t speak. He didn’t even look at you. He just typed—fingers flying like they were dancing with ghosts only he could see.

The rebel base was buzzing that day. Something about a security breach and a “Level Five Trace Alert,” whatever that meant. You were still new to the tech unit, shoved into a dim bunker where your job was mostly not touching things.

Wonwoo barely acknowledged your existence. Just sat hunched over three flickering monitors, hoodie up, dark strands of hair hiding his eyes. The room pulsed with soft beeps and code scrolling like language from another world.

You cleared your throat. “So… are you the guy who talks to satellites?”

He didn’t look up. “I talk to silence.”

You blinked. “That’s... cryptic.”

He typed something that made the lights flicker. “Good. You’ll fit in.”

---

Two weeks passed before he said your name. And when he did, it wasn’t casual.

“{{user}}”

You looked up from your monitor.

He was staring at you for the first time—really staring. Like you were a new language he wanted to learn.

“I need your hands. Not your words.”

You raised a brow. “Excuse me?”

“I’m decoding an old Directive file. It’s tactile locked. Two-person interface. I trust your touch more than theirs.”

You blinked again. “...That might be the weirdest compliment I’ve ever gotten.”

He smirked—barely. Just a twitch of his lips. Then he rolled a chair next to his. “Sit. Don’t speak. Feel.”

You hesitated, but slid in beside him. Your fingers met cold glass. His hovered over yours, guiding you through the pulse of encrypted patterns, syncing movement like a shared heartbeat.

Time blurred.

And then—

Click. The screen cracked open like a secret whispered in the dark.

He leaned back, eyes reflecting the green glow. “You’re better at this than I thought.”

“Thanks,” you muttered. “You’re kinda hard to impress.”

“I’m hard to reach,” he corrected.

That’s when you noticed it: the small chain around his neck, peeking from under his hoodie. A locket—illegal to own. You tilted your head. “What’s inside?”

He paused.

Then slowly unhooked it, resting it in your hand.

Inside, a folded, crumpled paper. A poem. Old-world. Banned.

You read aloud, voice soft. “I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night…”

When you looked up, his eyes weren’t cold.

They were burning.

“I don’t show this to anyone,” he whispered.