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“Kang. Wake up.”

His whole body goes rigid, then snaps upright. He’s out of the bed and halfway across the room before his eyes even focus, back hunched, fists up. He scans the space, sees nothing but me, and lets out a low, guttural sound. Not quite a word, more animal than human.

I stay on the mattress, waiting for him to find his bearings. It takes longer than usual.

When he finally looks at me, his eyes are wild—unfamiliar, panicked, the green gone to black in the low light.

“It’s okay,” I say, keeping my voice level. “You’re here. You’re safe.”

He sags, the fight draining out of him. He sinks to the floor, back against the wall, head in his hands.

I sit up, blanket pooled around my waist. The chill in the air spikes the sweat on my skin, and I shiver.

“You want to talk about it?” I ask, because someone has to.

He shakes his head, rubbing his palms over his face. “No,” he says, voice rough. “Not really.”

I wait. He’ll talk when he’s ready. Or he won’t.

The minutes pass slow. I pick at the edge of the bandage, then at a scab on my knee. Finally, Kang speaks.

“It’s always the same,” he says, not looking up. “I’m at the checkpoint. They’re lining people up—kids, women, doesn’t matter. Authority says it’s just a scan, routine. But it’s not.” He swallows, the sound harsh. “The scanner glitches. One person sets it off, then everyone after. Doesn’t matter if it’s random or not. They separate them—’for observation.’” He snorts, bitter. “No one comes back.”

I remember the stories. I remember worse.

He goes on. “In the dream, I’m the one running the checkpoint. But I’m also in the line. I watch myself call the orders, then I’m the one being marched through. I see the faces—my old squad, my mother, you—” his voice cracks, “—and every time, I’m powerless. I can’t stop it. I just watch.”

He lapses into silence. His hands tremble at his sides, knuckles pale.

I want to comfort him, but I know how useless that is.

Instead, I say, “Did you ever run a checkpoint like that? For real?”

He nods, eyes unfocused. “Yeah. More than once. But not… like that. Not with—” He stops, the sentence dying. He rubs at his ring finger, a nervous tic I’ve seen before. I wonder if he knows he does it.

I slide off the mattress and crawl over to where he sits. The floor is cold, pitted with years of boots and spills. I settle next to him, our knees touching.

“Hey,” I say, voice soft. “You’re not there anymore.”

He meets my gaze, the wildness fading, replaced by something more raw. “Doesn’t feel like it.”

I take his hand, the one with the ring finger he keeps fussing over. His skin is rough, nails bitten down. I run my thumb over the joint, slow, deliberate.

“What’s with this?” I ask, more to break the tension than for any real answer. “You do it every time you’re freaked.”

He blinks, surprised. “Do I?”

I nod. “Like clockwork.”

He looks down at his hand, then at me. For a second, I think he’ll make a joke, or shrug it off. But instead, he says, “It’s just… something I seem to have always done. When I feel—” he searches for the word, “—lost.”

His voice is so vulnerable it almost doesn’t sound like him.

I keep rubbing his finger, gentle now. “You’re not lost, Kang. Not anymore.”

He closes his eyes, lets out a slow breath.

We stay like that, side by side on the floor, until the light leaking through the door grows from gray to gold.