"Beep beep beep beep be—"
A fist slams the analog alarm. Wednesday, 7:30 AM.
Xen blinks at the ceiling, then at his phone. Ten unread messages, all from the same number, all asking if he is okay.
One handed, he fires back three short texts: "I'm fine." "Thanks for checking." "Slept well."
He did not. Four hours of broken half sleep, but the ritual must start. News on, volume low, he splashes water over his face and raids the fridge. There was a glass container of sausages and eggs already cooked with a pink sticky note on the lid that read "For breakfast" in round, happy handwriting that is not his. He microwaves the food, chases it with cold tea left on the table, and carries the phone to the bathroom. Brush, rinse, shower, done. Container washed and dried. The same choreography every dawn, give or take on the pre-cooked breakfast.
Morning ends peacefully. Usually he fills the rest of the day with alcohol or tiny pills that turn the walls soft. But today, there is actual work. His boss has emailed: graphs missing from yesterday's portfolio. Puzzled, Xen calls.
"Hello, sir. Just saw your mail. What's wrong?"
"You forgot the profit-projection graphs for next month's launch."
"I…" He scratches his head.
"Didn't I submit those?"
"Nowhere in the folder, buddy. Your best friend even told me I can fire you over this. Our CEO." He emphasizes each letter of the CEO.
A pause; Xen's stomach tightens.
"Haha. Relax, I'm joking—well, half joking. Get them to me by Saturday. Luckily, it's only Wednesday."
"Yes sir."
"Take your time with it, alright? You don't need to do it all within the first few days, you know."
"I have nothing else to do."
"Right. Talk later, man."
The call ended. Xen opens Excel and grabs a cup of coffee. Six in the evening arrives like a whisper. He uploads the graphs, sends a thumbs-up emoji when his boss texts "Seriously? How?" The work is brutal, but brutality keeps the dark thoughts out of his head. Headache from math beats headache from soju.
Monitors glow in the dim room; the rest of the apartment is navy shadow. Eight floors below, stoplights chirp and taxis honk, a lullaby of city living. Xen flops face-down on the bed, flips over, stares at the ceiling. The sun has vanished behind skyscrapers, leaving only a thin yellow shine on the horizon. He takes his phone out and looks back at the text messages from earlier. After some contemplating, he thumbs his phone.
"Could you come again tonight?"
Reply arrives before he can lower the screen: "Sure."
He exhales. Christina will come, as she always does. Not for love, not for dinner, just to check on him. He confessed to her half a year ago. She said no, yet the visits never stopped. Hugs, cuddles, forehead kisses, breakfast notes left in his fridge. He does not understand the synergy between them, only that her presence keeps the loneliness to a manageable level.
Keys jangle behind the front door. Christina slips inside, grocery bags dangling from both wrists, autumn coat over a cream sweater despite September warmth. Long black hair sways like silk ribbon; makeup is soft Korean matte, nails painted in an autumn themed palette. Xen cannot look away. He offers a shy smile from the couch.
"Welcome back. You're early."
Christina glances at the clock on the stove as she tries to take her shoes off with just her feet.
"I was worried. But you look alive today. Any news?"
"Just work," he shrugs.
"Good." She kicks off her shoes, parks bags on the table. "What's up?"
"Nothing much… Would you like to watch a movie with me?"
She answers with a spring pounce onto the sofa, landing shoulder to shoulder. "Sure, what movie?"
Xen offers his TV remote to Christina, letting her choose for him.
Christina flips through menus, lands on an old movie, and drops the remote beside her. Twenty minutes later she is back at the grocery bags, pulling out ingredients Xen finds more entertaining than the movie now babbling in the background like his morning news.
"What are you making?"
"Spicy tofu soup," she answers, waving a frozen sheet of paper-thin beef. "With beef."
"That sounds nice."
"Mhm. I saw a mukbang of it earlier."
Conversations stay short. They meet almost everyday so there isn't much to talk about. Xen always offers to help, but Christina likes her kitchen rhythm solo, so he accepts the silent deal: she cooks, he washes.
"I'm heading outside for a cigarette," he says, standing.
Christina keeps rinsing vegetables, unmoved. She runs his kitchen like it is her own, and she does not scold him for smoking as she buys her own pack of cigarettes just as often.
Xen flicks his lighter once; the cigarette catches, and he draws the smoke deep, lets it drift out in three quick puffs.
Down below, apartment windows glitter like stage lights, each tower refusing to let darkness settle. Taxis thread the avenues, headlights weaving endless braids, but Xen ignores the show and lifts his gaze.
The city's glow drowns every star. Only blinking airplane lamps move above him, so he pretends they are constellations, beeping their way across an empty sky.
Another drag. The night air rests between cool and cold—perfect for a hoodie, too mild for a jacket.
"She hates you."
Ah. The voices. Again.
"She is just being nice. She wants you gone, wants you dead. Why are you wasting her time? Stop asking her to come. Do you really think this is okay? Die. Go kill yourself. Let her go. She already rejected you. Why do you think she did? Do you deserve anything from her? Tell her to go."
The thoughts crash in without warning. Streetlights flare white, car horns stab his ears, the balcony air turns to ice. Xen coughs, unsure if smoke or panic got his throat.
He stubs the cigarette out in the tray, clears his throat, and steps back inside as though nothing happened.
Christina stands at the stove, vegetables bobbing in bubbling water. Xen creeps up and slips his arms around her waist. She doesn't flinch, only steadies his wrists with her free hand.
"Get off me."
Xen's dark thoughts run through his mind again.
"Please."
"Later. I'm cooking right now, okay?"
Her thumb traces slow circles on the back of his hand, a silent hush that works better than words. He loosens his grip and steps back.
"Sorry. I just—"
"It's fine." Her eyes stay on the soup.
Xen hovers behind her, careful to stay out of the way. He thinks to himself as if he is talking to his own dark thoughts, "I will never let her go."
✮⋆˙
"Thanks. The soup was delicious."
"Mm." Christina stirs what is left in her bowl. They sit across from each other.
Xen stands, plate in hand, and moves toward the sink. He will wash later, when she is done.
"You selfish bastard."
The thoughts again.
"Hey, Christina. Can you help me sleep again? Like yesterday?"
She sips from her cup, eyes on the rim.
"Sure. But you know, if you just hit a club downtown, you'll find other girls to do… more than that. I'm sure of it."
"Tried that. Ended up with a new friend instead."
"Oh. Her." A small wince, another sip.
Xen sits.
"You met her?"
"She bickered at me. Asked why I keep coming here."
"I'll talk to her."
"No need. She isn't wrong."
Silence settles. Christina looks straight at him. Xen studies the table, unable to look back.
"I'm sorry I can't reciprocate your feelings, Xen."
Xen thinks for a moment on what to say.
"It's fine. This is enough."
After getting ready, Xen sits down on his usual side of the bed. The lack of sleep last night finally gets to him after breaking the large barricade of caffeine in his blood. Christina is already waiting for him. Xen sees her sitting politely at the edge of the bed, opposite of the side from where he usually sleeps. Christina hasn't changed yet or doesn't plan to at all.
She speaks up first. "What should I do for you?" Spoken like a professional. As if Xen is her frequent client. Her voice stays calm, no matter how frisky the situation gets between them.
"Just… tell me about her. What do you think?"
"Well, she's very pretty. She also got really big-"
"No, I meant your… impression of her."
"She's fine. I can see that she cares about you. She also got really big-"
"Okay, that's enough." Xen swipes the blanket on him and plops down.
"Thank you, Christina. Like always."
"Yeah. It feels good to see you being yourself for once."
Xen makes a stupid face jokingly at her.
Being yourself, she says. Xen wonders why Christina can't like her back. He asked before but she wouldn't tell him. It got to a point in their friendship that Xen doesn't feel the need to ask about it, although he wishes to know why. It's hard being with her sometimes. It hurts for Xen. But Xen knows he will lose himself forever if Christina isn't there to remedy his fear of himself.
"Do you not remember yesterday? I had to keep telling you I was right next to you."
Honestly, Xen doesn't recall much—just the panic-text he sent around midnight. He has to take her word for the rest. Christina rarely bothers to lie.
"Sorry."
"No worries. I'll see you later. Good night, Xen."
He sees her leaving the room quietly. Where could she be heading after she's done with him? Could she be going straight home or perhaps someone else's? He gets paranoid all the time moments after Christina leaves. But he didn't question it that much today. He's too tired.
"Beep beep beep be-"
His fist on the clock. Morning again.
Leftover tofu soup waits in the fridge.
"Mine now," he mutters, slurping it straight from the bowl. Bowl and spoon clatter into the sink.
Email check: boss loved the graphs.
"Nice." Screen off.
TV menu scrolls. Nothing seems entertaining. Power off.
Christina is busy during the day. The chick he met at the club is probably still sleeping with the way she hasn't replied to Xen's pleas in texts yet.
"I should go for a walk."
He pockets phone and wallet, shrugs into a casual jacket, and pushes through the lobby door.
Outside, earphones in—city volume muted, playlist loud. He walks with the beat, letting the rhythm steer his steps.
Downtown is alive. Today the sidewalk is busier than the road, bodies ahead forming a shifting wall. Xen keeps his pace, trusting muscle memory to guide him to the coffee shop.
He pushes the door open and spots her at once: purple hair sprawled across the table by the entrance, cheek glued to the wood.
"Jenny? Is that you?"
"Mmf..? Xen?"
She is either hungover or still drunk. Drool glints on her lip; strands of violet stick to her cheek like wet paint.
"Drank too much, eh?"
"Mmph."
A tall figure appears behind Xen, two venti cups in hand, one matcha, one strawberry latte.
Jenny lifts her head, accepts the pink drink with a weak nod. "Thanks, Chris."
"No problem. Who's this guy?"
"His name is Xen. Met him at a club a couple days ago."
"Ah, I remember."
Xen offers a handshake. "Good to meet you properly. I'm Xen."
Christopher returns the handshake. "Call me Chris. You looked relaxed that night, glad Jenny had company."
Jenny manages a crooked grin. "He watches my back at the club. He makes sure any weirdos don't harass me."
Xen chuckles. "Hope I wasn't one of them."
Chris smiles. "Nah. You were chill."
"I'm grabbing a drink, be right back."
In line, Xen glances back. Chris sits opposite Jenny, who is once again a purple puddle on the tabletop.
When Xen returns with iced coffee he slides in beside her. Both he and Chris watch her groan into the wood.
Xen leans toward Chris. "What happened?"
Jenny lifts her head just enough to answer, voice raspy. "Drinking contest. I won, but at what cost?"
Chris raises his matcha in salute. "Winner winner chicken dinner."
Xen glances between them. "So… you two are…?"
"Roommates," Chris says simply.
"Ah." Xen expected more.
"You know, Xen," Jenny slurs, "you made a terrible call sitting next to me. I'm gonna puke."
"Are you okay?"
"Ehehe… strawberry latte puke or alco—GULP."
Chris eyes the packed hallway. "The restroom line's hopeless. Xen, can you take her to the back alley? I'll grab a bag and napkins."
"Yeah, sure."
Xen slips an arm under hers and guides her out the rear door. Cool air hits them instantly. Jenny steadies herself against the brick wall, hair falling like a violet curtain, and retches neatly to one side. Xen stands behind her, one hand hovering mid-pat, the other holding her hair, eyes fixed on anything but the puddle.
A hand shoots from the dark, clamps Xen's shoulder, and yanks him backward in one silent tug—like the alley itself swallowed him whole. He couldn't even let out a scream.
Jenny wipes her mouth, blinking. "Bleh… eh? Xen…? Xen?"
No answer.
✮⋆˙
A cold palm seals his mouth; another pins his chest to the greasy concrete.
Above him floats a girl with light blue hair and startled crystal, illuminating eyes. Behind her hovers a robot shaped like a vintage television, its screen flicking between static and a cautious "o_o". Stilthrovene and Mizi.
Both stare down at Xen as if he is the unexpected intruder.
Xen glances around—empty alley, just him and the stranger.
Long lashes, crystal blue eyes, lips inches away, her chest light against his.
A ridiculous jolt hits his chest, love at first sight, even while pinned to dirty concrete.
A bead of light blooms from her eye and blossoms into a spinning hologram orb. Xen's pupils widen. The pattern is unlike any interface he has ever seen. He gapes, transfixed, while Stilthrovene studies him in return. His face looks similar to hers but their technology is far cruder than hers. He speaks with his mouth, not with light or telepathy, only breath and sound. She leans closer until their foreheads touch. Xen's heart hammers; he can barely breathe. Her fingers find the nape of his neck and give a gentle pinch. Data streams through the contact absorbed in a heartbeat.
She pulls back just enough to part her lips, forcing air past unfamiliar vocal cords.
"Help."
The word is soft, cracked, and the first she has ever spoken with a mouth.
Xen melts over her elegant voice.
"Where… are we?"
"Wh- what do you mean? What are you?"
Stilthrovene looks at him irritated and confused.
Mizi beeps behind her; she glances at the little screen, then back at Xen. To him, he can only hear the robot beeping and doesn't know she can talk to Mizi telepathically.
"I am not from here. Help me."
"How can I help you?"
"Guide me. This world."
Xen swallows.
"Can you let me go?"
She steps back at once. Xen scrambles upright, brushing grit from his sleeves.
"Please."
The single word cracks. Her eyes plead desperately, and it breaks something inside him.
"What is your name?"
She shakes her head. The sounds of her language twist like wire in his ears; the translation fails.
"Hard to say."
"Then… Can I call you Xenice?"
A small nod. The name settles on her like a borrowed coat—easy, light.
"What is yours?"
"Xen."
She studies him for a heartbeat, then repeats, soft and certain.
"Okay. Xen."
"I can guide you."
The words jump out before he can weigh the consequences. He is too busy drowning in her pearl-blue eyes. She is beautiful.
"Thank you."
They rise together. Xen's gaze flickers once, and then twice, tracing the curve of the armor that had pressed against him, the soft glow of cyber-blue seams outlining her frame. He catches himself and looks away, cheeks warming.
"Let's make you less… noticeable," he mutters. He slips off his jacket and holds it out. "Wear this."
Xenice takes it without a word. The sleeves swallow her arms and the hem hangs past her thighs. She runs her fingers along the fabric, eyes narrowed in quiet analysis, clearly puzzled how such a thin layer could survive in space.
Xen clears his throat. "My place isn't far. We can talk there."
She folds the excess sleeve, nods once, a gesture they both understand. She steps beside him, ready to follow Xen, her unofficial Earth's guide.
"Beep beep!" Mizi hovers between them with an "OwO" expression.
"And you… can you fly as high as possible?"
"Beep…"