Paradigm

Chapter XXV

Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. March 1998.

When San (Paul ? Paul-San ? San-Paul ? Who was he ? Which of these two men looked like him the most ? Did either of these two men look like him at all ?)

When San, or whatever his name was, awoke from his artificial slumber, Kim Hongjoong was bent over the work surface, adjusting a machine that the writer had not noticed anywhere in the laboratory the previous day. The contraption looked rather complex, made up of multiple parts in rare, sometimes tiny materials... It was unlike anything the writer had ever seen before.

He heaved a weary sigh, just emerging from a relatively pleasant torpor.

His tongue was pasty. He no longer knew where he was.

"It's 10:55, you old groundhog."

"Where are we ?" he articulated with difficulty.

"In my restaurant in Bangsar, everything's fine. I brought doughnuts."

The ilminist was pampering him like a mother hen. A glass of water and three doughnuts with raspberry coulis were waiting for him on the tray of the dentist's chair, along with a fifty-page document entitled...

"Dislocation of imaginary particles. Written by myself. It'll give you something to read while you wait for me to sort out this lame invention."

"Thanks, Jjoong, that's really generous of you."

A little shiver ran down his bare legs, reminding him that he had not put his pants back on before ingesting his sleeping pill and morphine. Motivated by the cold and a certain discomfort (despite his general affection for his body, he did not necessarily like walking around in his briefs in front of old friends), the young man stood up, staggered a little and bent over - a very bad idea - to pick up his pants. The ground swayed a little. His body was not tolerating the cocktail of substances he had ingested over the last few hours. As soon as he tightened his grip on his right leg, a stabbing pain elicited a small groan.

"Are you alright ?"

Hongjoong had already jumped to his feet, as strangely considerate as ever.

"Don't worry, it's just my wound, it's normal that it hurts."

"It'll pass soon", he reassured him, sitting back down and getting back to work.

He was not overly concerned about an impotent man.

Putting on his pants proved to be a laborious task. The first leg went on without a hitch, but for the second, he had to lean on his weak leg, which was not a very good idea. San nearly ended up crushed to the ground several times before finding the right trick. The friction of the fabric on his leg rekindled the pain, making it hardly tolerable. Still, he only grimaced.

"I'm going to stretch my legs a bit."

"Mr. Park might be asleep, so be careful."

The ilminist opened the doors of the laboratory giving access to the entrance of the room where Seonghwa was tied up.

Hesitantly, he stepped forward to find his colleague wide awake. He had never looked worse. His complexion was waxy, his eyes puffy, his hair matted and stuck to his forehead with sweat. Dried blood stained his shirt. He was staring at him, haggard.

San hobbled over to him. He dreaded the moment when the editor would discover his true voice. San's, not Todesengele's.

The writer fumbled distractedly in his pocket, last-minute doubts about his plan gnawing at him.

"Mr. Park", he croaked in French.

The latter just gave him a torpid look.

"Stay calm, it's almost over."