Seokga opens his mouth to reply that it was Hani who taught him that particular euphemism, so he shall never stop—but something very, very peculiar happens first, and a sound embarrassingly similar to an undignified squeak leaves Seokga’s mouth before he can stop it.

“Brother?” Hwanin looks as if he doesn’t know whether to laugh or place a hand on Seokga’s shoulder in concern. In the end, he does both. Seokga’s so shocked that he doesn’t even shy away from Hwanin’s touch. “Are you…?”

He doesn’t hear the rest of his words. The Red Thread of Fate has tightened itself like a boa constrictor around Seokga’s pinky, enough that all blood circulation has been cut off and his poor finger bulges in protest. But that doesn’t matter. That doesn’t matter because the Red Thread of Fate is no longer tangled or twisted as it has been for seven whole years. No, it’s…it’s leading him toward the winding flight of stairs, one perfect line twining around and around before vanishing. It’s as if Seokga’s heart freezes in his chest for a moment in pure shock, before the ice around it cracks and his heart is suddenly pounding so hard that he’s certain it will punch through his ribs, through his flesh and bone…

“Hani,” he gasps out, legs suddenly weak but always, always strong enough to carry him toward the woman he loves, the woman he lost, the cheerful gumiho with a world of humor and mischief in her wine-brown eyes—the sunshine to his deepest night, the happiness to his immortal misery. “My Hani,” he rasps again, vision blurring as he begins to run, following the Red Thread of Fate toward his lost love.

He can feel it, at the end of the thread.

Someone is waiting.

Someone is waiting for him.

Chapter Five

Kisa

Kisa wonders how, exactly, one should wait for their soulmate. For a good moment or two, she thoroughly contemplates posing on one of the sick bay’s beds, head propped up on one hand and the other resting on her hip. After a brief attempt, the cot squeaking uncomfortably beneath her, Kisa abandons that idea and instead decides to artfully lean against the clinic’s polished-granite front desk, a fixed smile on her face.

Although her heart is racing, she has come to the sensible conclusion that there is no point in running from whomever is attempting to find her. They’re attached by a red thread, for the heavens’ sakes—there is nowhere she can run, nor hide. So really, the most reasonable thing Kisa can do is to make a good first impression. Currently, she is smiling the smile that has landed her internships and jobs. Very professional, and extremely calculated.