Most of the base is asleep. The corridors echo with nothing but the hum of generators and the occasional flicker of failing lights.

You're sitting on the cold floor, back to the wall. Hood up. Knees drawn in. You weren't looking for Dewey — but he finds you anyway.

He’s carrying a coil of wires in one hand, chewing a licorice stick like always. Stops mid-step when he sees you.

“Didn’t think clones needed sleep.”

You don't respond. He doesn’t mean it cruelly. Just… doesn’t know how else to speak to you yet.

He sets the wires down beside the bench, sits across from you. His hair is messy — he’s been working on the transmitter for hours. It’s what he does when he can’t stop thinking.

You pull your sleeves down, as if that could hide the tremor in your fingers. He notices.

“You okay?” It’s a ridiculous question in this world. But still, he asks it.

You shrug. Then whisper, barely audible: “Do you think I’m supposed to be someone I’m not?”

He blinks, taken aback. You look at him — really look. And the question burns there: Do you see Hyunwoo when you look at me?

He leans forward, rests his elbows on his knees. “I never met Hyunwoo,” he says. “I just know stories. Stuff Hyuna told us. She talks about him like a song she used to know.”

A pause. His voice is quieter now. “But you’re not a song. You breathe. You complain when the soup’s cold. You kick in your sleep. You steal my hoodies.”

A ghost of a smile tugs at your lips.

“I don’t know who you’re supposed to be,” he continues. “But I know who you are.”

You tilt your head, curious despite yourself.

“You’re the one who reprogrammed my comm link when it fried. You fixed my drone with bubblegum and regret. You told that alien enforcer she had bad taste in boots.”

This time, your smile grows. Real.

Dewey lets the silence settle.

Then: “Hyunwoo died a long time ago. You didn’t.”

You blink — and it lands like a soft truth you didn’t know you needed.

“Hyuna saved you,” he says. “And if she believed you were worth that risk, I don’t need any other proof.”

Your breath catches. The warmth in your chest is confusing. Almost uncomfortable.

He stands slowly, brushes imaginary dust from his pants, and reaches out a hand.

“Come on, I saved you the last licorice. And before you say it—yes, I know you hate it. That’s why it’s still there.”