Yunha stood her ground, her shoes scuffing softly against the gritty floor. Across from her, Yon was a silhouette against the darker gloom of the room's corners, above the jeep roof.

His voice, when it came, was a low murmur that seemed to be absorbed by the walls. "What do you mean how, Song?" There was a weight to his question, a curiosity that felt heavier than mere interest but not so much a curiosity.

She didn't look away, her eyes tracing the line of his shoulders. "The metal door, Yon." She let the words hang, making sure he was following. "Jaeyeon Oppa and Yuri Seonsangnim. I watched them. Both of them. They had to put their whole weight into it, straining together just to get it to budge. It is difficult to open that big metal door."

"And?" Yon prompted. His head tilted just a fraction, a silent invitation for her to continue, to spell out the thought she'd clearly been nursing.

"And you," she said, her voice dropping almost to a whisper. "You just... pushed it open. Casually. Like it was nothing. Like it was a screen door. Or a paper. All on your own."

A beat of silence passed between them, filled only by the faint hum of the distant generator. "No one else is concerned about it though?" he asked. His brow furrowed, not in confusion, but as if he was genuinely taking a poll of the room's now sleeping occupants.

Yunha gave a small, dismissive shake of her head. "No one paid attention, I believe. They were too busy getting through, too relieved it was open. But I saw."

"Why did you?" he pressed. The shadows played across his face, making his expression unreadable. "Why were you watching me?"

"Just happened to," she shrugged, the gesture feeling flimsy even to her. Her eyes, however, held a steady, unwavering light. They weren't accusing, just... knowing.

He watched her for a long moment, his gaze intense, analytical. "What do you want the reply to be, Song?" It wasn't a deflection; it was a genuine, almost philosophical question. What truth was she searching for? What she wanted to hear? Or what was honest?

She took a breath, the cool air filling her lungs. "You are a grave-up, aren't you?" The term felt odd and heavy in the quiet space.

"Pardon?" The word was sharp, quick. A flash of genuine surprise, or perhaps just expertly feigned confusion, crossed his features.

"You can't hide it for too long. There is something up with you," she persisted, her voice low but iron-clad. It wasn't a guess. To her. It was a conclusion.

"Hm." The sound was a quiet rumble in his chest. He didn't deny it. He didn't confirm it. He simply... considered her. Then, without a word of warning, he moved from the roof of the jeep. It wasn't a jump; it was a fluid, impossible descent. He stepped off into the open air and dropped, landing on the concrete floor below with a tap so soft it was barely a sound. He didn't stumble. He didn't even bend his knees to absorb the impact. He just landed, as if gravity were a polite suggestion he'd chosen to follow.

He looked up at her from the gloom, his face pale in the weak light. "Aren't you afraid of me?" The question floated up to her, simple and terrifying.

Yunha didn't flinch. Instead, she shuffled her hands in the pockets of her skirt, the fabric rustling softly. She pulled out two small, familiar plastic bottles of flavored milk, the kind with the foil cap you peel off. She looked at them for a second, recalling how she had snagged them from the convenience store before leaving, then with a casual flick of her wrist, she tossed one down to him.

He caught it without looking, his hand snapping out on instinct. He glanced at the label. "Strawberry..." he muttered to himself, the mundane observation a stark contrast to the surreal moment.

He looked back up at her, the bottle clutched in his hand. "But you didn't reply." His voice was quiet but it carried, every syllable crisp. "Are you or are you not afraid of me?"

"Not really," Yunha said, popping the cap off her own bottle. She took a small sip.

"Why not?" The frustration was there now, a faint edge to his tone. Her lack of fear seemed to confuse him more than any accusation.

She leaned against the cold wall of the jeep, looking up at him. "I don't know. You tell me. Should I be afraid of you?"

He let out a short, quiet breath that wasn't quite a laugh. "It's a long story."

"Can't be longer than this nightmare, I'm guessing," she quipped, though her smile didn't quite reach her eyes.

He was silent for a long moment, staring at the strawberry milk bottle in his hand. Finally, he sighed, a sound of resignation that seemed to carry the weight of the world. "Hah... here goes then."

[Approximately a year and six months ago.
Boseong, South Korea]

The lab was a cave of wonders and chaos, a basement room that always smelled sharply of chemicals, old coffee, and dusty paper. Towers of scientific journals teetered precariously on every surface, and the benches were a landscape of microscopes, petri dishes, and tangled wires. The only light came from a green-shaded lamp over the main worktable, pooling in a warm circle that left the corners of the room in deep shadow.

"Yon! Can you check this for me, please?" His father's voice was a familiar sound in the clutter, brimming with an excited energy Yon knew well.

He looked up from his own notes. "What is it, dad?"

His father hurried over, his white coat flapping, a glass tube held carefully between his thumb and forefinger. Inside, a clear liquid glistened. "A sample of the drug that an athlete uses. I enhanced it further. Can you check? Run the usual preliminary observations."

"Okay," Yon said, taking the tube with the reverence of a priest accepting a holy relic. He walked to his own designated corner of the mess, a smaller desk buried under a snowdrift of printed papers, sharpened pencils, and crumpled sheets of failed equations. He swept a space clear with his arm and sat down on the old, rusty wooden chair that squeaked in protest. He pulled his steel-rimmed spectacles from his shirt pocket and settled them on his nose, the world snapping into sharper focus.

For five hours, the only sounds were the soft scratch of his pencil, the hum of the refrigerator storing sensitive samples, and the occasional sigh from his father at the other end of the room. Yon studied the tube, made notes on viscosity, refraction, and any possible particulate matter. Finally, he sat back. Time for a live test.

He didn't get up. He simply raised his hand and snapped his fingers. The air beside his desk shimmered for a second, and then a dog was there, materializing as if from nowhere. It was a medium-sized, friendly-looking mutt with floppy ears. It blinked, shook its head, and then immediately nudged its nose against Yon's hand, tail wagging.

"Hello, friend," Yon murmured, his voice soft. He prepared a syringe, drawing a precise amount of the clear liquid from the tube. The dog whined softly but stayed still, trusting, as Yon found a vein and injected the substance.

Then, they waited. Yon watched the animal with an intense, unblinking focus. His father occasionally glanced over, but mostly buried himself in his own work. Thirty minutes ticked by on the large wall clock, its echoey tick-tock marking the passage of time. The dog, instead of exhibiting any surge of unnatural strength or aggression, simply yawned, circled twice, and curled up cozily around Yon's legs, falling asleep.

"This one is a failure as well," Yon sighed, the disappointment a physical weight on his shoulders. He reached down and absently petted the dog's head. The animal's tail thumped once against the leg of his chair. He looked over at his father. "No reaction. Just lethargy."

His father chuckled lightly, though the sound was thin, stretched with fatigue. "Hah... Will this even work-" he began, running a hand through his already disheveled hair.

"Dad!" Yon's voice was firm, cutting through his father's doubt. "Don't give up! We can do this." He stood up, the sleeping dog stirring at his feet. "Do you want me to help? Not just with the tests. With the theory."

His father looked up, a flicker of surprise in his tired eyes. "Can you?" It was a real question. Yon was brilliant, his mind a breathtakingly sharp tool, but this was his father's life work.

"Yes! I would love to!" Yon's enthusiasm was sudden and bright, a spark in the dusty room.

A real smile broke through his father's weariness. "Okay then. Where should we start?"

"Let's study the human body first," Yon said immediately, as if he'd been waiting for the invitation. "Properly. From the ground up."

"Okay," his father agreed, a new energy infusing his movements. "Let's."

For two weeks, the lab became their world. Textbooks on human anatomy and biochemistry lay open everywhere, their pages filled with complex diagrams of muscular systems and endocrine pathways. They spent hours in focused silence, then broke into rapid-fire discussions that bounced off the walls.

"-but the adrenal response is key, it's not just about raw muscle mass-"

"Agreed, but we have to consider the metabolic pathway, the glucose conversion-"

"Precisely! So if we could trick the body into-"

Their efforts resulted in towering piles of notes, which Yon, with his obsessive neatness, at least for important notes, diligently filed and organized on the overstuffed shelves. Finally, he pulled off his latex gloves, revealing hands that were dry and peeling from constant washing and exposure to chemicals. He walked to the small sink in the corner, scrubbed his hands clean, and then moved to the coffee machine, the daily ritual.

The rich, bitter aroma of brewing coffee soon cut through the chemical smell. He poured the dark liquid into two clean glass mugs and carried them over to the main table where his father was still scribbling.

"Coffee is ready, professor~" Yon said, a playful lilt in his voice as he set a mug down.

His father looked up, a genuine laugh escaping him. "Haha. Thank you, student~" He took the mug, warming his hands on it. "Heh. Anyways, father. Did you figure something out?" Yon asked, blowing on his own coffee.

"Hm. Not yet. The same wall. And you?" his father asked, taking a cautious sip.

Yon didn't hesitate. "Yes." The single word was packed with certainty.

His father nearly choked on his coffee. "Really? What? What did you find?"

"Doping," Yon declared, setting his mug down with a soft click.

His father's brow furrowed. "Doping? Yon, that's what we're trying to move beyond. That's the problem, not the solution."

"No, listen," Yon said, leaning forward, his eyes alight with the fire of a new idea. "To enhance their strength, a sports person uses doping, right? But it's crude. It's external. But think about the basics: if we don't eat food, we won't have the strength to even move. Our body needs fuel. So, I was wondering... what if we could create a medicine that doesn't just add fuel, but commands the body to create its own, on demand? A cocktail of hormones. Cortisol, epinephrine, norepinephrine, glucagon-they can act as artificial glucose induction. And that's just for immediate energy. Growth hormone or GH and insulin-like growth factor or IGF-1 are the architects for rebuilding stronger muscle, increasing density, enhancing neural pathways."

The lab was silent except for his passionate words. His father stared at him, captivated.

"But we can't just produce these genetically engineered hormones artificially in a stable form for this purpose," his father pointed out, though his skepticism was now layered with intrigue. "The synthesis is a nightmare. The contamination risk..."

"But what about gene coding in bacteria?" Yon countered, his words coming faster now. "We use a vector. We reduce contamination because the bacteria produce the hormone themselves. Synthesis inside the host would be cleaner, more efficient, more... organic."

"Bacteria?" his father mused, his eyes distant as he turned the idea over in his mind.

"Yeah. Something like injecting live, genetically modified bacteria programmed to produce and release these specific hormone sequences on a trigger, or continuously."

His father stared at him, his mouth slightly agape. "You want us to create artificial, symbiotic bacteria? Yon, that's... that's not an enhancement drug. That's a fundamental rewrite of human biology."

"Yes, dad." Yon's gaze was unwavering. "It's not impossible, is it? Let's try this. Okay?" There was a plea in his voice, a desperate need to chase this dazzling, terrifying idea.

"But-" his father started, the weight of the implications settling on him.

"I have the necessary notes. The initial sequences. The proposed vectors. We won't know until we try," Yon insisted, his hands gripping the edge of the table. "We've hit a wall with everything else."

His father looked at his son's face, at the fierce intelligence and boundless ambition burning there. He saw himself, twenty years younger. He took a long, slow breath, and then nodded, a decision made. "As you say. Let's try this as well."

Three months later, they stood side by side again, their postures identical-hands on hips, heads tilted. They were staring at a single glass jar on the sterile bench. Inside it, a translucent, uncolored fluid shimmered under the lab lights. And floating on its surface was a single, wriggling, bean-shaped structure.

It was alive.

A slow smile spread across his father's face. He draped his arm around Yon's shoulders, pulling him close in a side hug. "We are done. This is bound to be a success." The pride in his voice was thick and warm.

Yon grinned, a rare, unrestrained expression of pure triumph. "If not, we have so much information we can practically get rich with that alone."

His father laughed, a full, hearty sound that filled the lab. "Well said, my son." He released Yon and extended his hand. Yon took it, and they shook-a firm, formal seal on their partnership, scientist to scientist.

Still buzzing with adrenaline, Yon turned and strolled towards the hall, pushing the lab door close behind him. He needed to tell someone. He practically bounded into the living room, the words already forming on his lips.

"Mumma. I and dad made a very effective-"

The sentence died in his throat.

The room was dark, lit only by the flickering blue light of the television. His mother was curled on the couch, surrounded by a fortress of cushions. She wore a rumpled pink night suit, and her unbrushed hair curtained half her face. She wasn't watching the TV; she was just staring through it, her eyes unfocused and glassy.

"Don't talk to me." Her voice was flat, devoid of any emotion. It was a wall.

The excitement drained from Yon's body, leaving him cold. "What?" he asked, his voice softer now, cautious.

She didn't turn her head. "You crazy duo of father and son! Don't freaking talk to me! Get lost!" The flatness was gone, replaced by a sudden, seething venom.

Confusion and a familiar ache settled in his chest. "Mumma-" he tried to take a step closer.

Now her head snapped toward him. Her eyes were blazing with a hatred so pure it made him flinch. "Don't fuck with me! Get lost!!!" she screamed, the force of it raw and painful in the quiet domestic space.

The whiplash from the high of the lab to this utter rejection was too much. A coldness seeped into his veins. "Mumma... What did we ever do wrong..." The question was a whisper, a plea from a much younger boy.

It was the wrong thing to say. It unleashed a torrent. She uncoiled from the couch, pointing a shaking finger at him.

"What you did wrong? What YOU FUCKING DID WRONG? YOU AND YOUR FATHER ARE NUTS! LIVING IN THAT FILTHY HOLE! TALKING IN CODES! YOU DRIVE ME INSANE! I LIVE WITH TWO MAD SCIENTISTS IN A GODDAMN EXPERIMENT! IF ONLY I NEVER HAD A SON! IF ONLY I NEVER MARRIED THAT ASSHOLE-"

Her words were knives, each one finding its mark. They weren't just angry; they were filled with a deep, abiding regret for her entire life, and he was the living, breathing symbol of it. The coldness in Yon solidified into a sharp, crystalline rage. His vision tunneled until all he could see was her screaming mouth.

His gaze flickered to the small dining table beside him. Without a thought, his hand shot out and closed around the cold metal of a fork. He moved with a terrifying, preternatural calm.

He crossed the room in two strides. Her eyes widened, not in fear, but in shock at his sudden movement. She was still screaming, her curses filling the air.

He didn't say a word. He brought his hand down in a swift, brutal arc.

The tines of the fork sunk into the soft flesh of her palm with a sickening, dull sound.

The screaming stopped. For a second, there was absolute silence. Then, a sharp, inhaled gasp of pure, unadulterated agony. Blood welled up around the metal, stark and red against her skin. She stared at it, disbelieving.

Yon stood over her, panting, his own hand still on the fork's handle. The rage receded as quickly as it had come, leaving a vast, empty silence inside him. He heard his own heart pounding in his ears.

She began to cry then, not screams of anger, but deep, shuddering sobs of pain and shock. The sound was somehow worse.

He let go of the fork. It remained lodged in her hand, a grotesque monument to the moment.

He didn't look at her face. He turned, his movements mechanical, and walked out of the living room. Behind him, her sobs echoed in the dark house.

He walked back down the hallway towards the lab. He paused outside the closed door, leaning his forehead against the cool wood. From the other side, he could faintly hear his father humming, still blissfully unaware.

In his mind's eye, he could see it clearly: the glass jar on the sterile bench, the wriggling, bean-shaped structure floating in its clear liquid.

"We are done. This is bound to be a success."

He pushed the door open and went back inside.