BOSS | NCT

o34

I always have that one friend who lived in another's shadow.

I can't say he's as dashing and brave as his sister, but Sicheng is one of a kind.

His kindness, his sympathy, and his way of looking things. It is something I wish I should have had.

But one thing I wished for Sicheng,

is that he should've
lied for us.

That was the moment when Doyoung managed to divert Jaehyun's attention from me. Just in time, Sicheng arrived with a knife on his hand. Take Jeena away! , Doyoung screamed. He is now shielding Jaehyun, who is less advantageous than the other for wielding a gun.

Sicheng, eyes trembling, took my hand with his own.

Then we began running away, hand in hand. Our breaths and pants echo around the metal walls as we desperately broke into a run. Our feet are ascending to larger steps, not even bothering to look what's behind us.

When we arrived at a room, we managed to find a small cubicle that's suggestive for hiding. Without a second thought, Sicheng and I squeezed ourselves in the tight space.

"J-Jeena," he stuttered, his breath touching my face "Jeena . . ."

A pearl of sweat slided down his smoke-covered cheeks, his beautiful face drenched into horror.

"What is the matter, Sicheng?"

I can hear my own voice shaking. But for some reason, Sicheng seemed more afraid than I am.

He was breathing really hard, "My sister," he said "They took away my sister."

Just in time, we heard the metal door bang open.

Soft footsteps entered the room, calculated and calm despite the horrid situation.

"Sicheng, I know you're in here."

The man beside me steeled, every part of his body tensing at the sound of the voice. My hand immediately moved to shield his own as if to say, It's okay, he won't find us. Sicheng looked at me in the eye and squeezed my hand a fraction tighter, our skin rough and dirty from bruises. Our touch may be comforting in some ways but the weight of anxiety was undeniably heavier.

"You can't hide from me forever, Sicheng."

One thing that I've thought of the voice is that if it were not for its threat, it would've sounded melodic. The talking man is not old, not disgusting, nor is his voice disturbing. In fact, it sounded so good, so young, so blessed.

Since our hiding place has a small opening, I managed to peek my eyes through the tiny space.

The man was standing in front of a desk, holding a tiny testube in between his thumb and pointing finger. His hair was disturbingly pretty, the color of soft brown like the bark of an oak tree. It reminded me of hues like the woodland. Staring at him took me to a far-away place with no technology, no devices, no experiments, no trace of everything in this miserable childhood of ours.