"Oh boy, another abbreviation...PTSD?"
Psychology was glaring at me like it wanted me dead. I shoved the book away and asked out loud, not caring that my roommate was half-asleep.
A pile of books covered my desk, each one still open to the first chapter.
Studying like that didn't seem realistic, but I had to cram before the exam.
'If I fail, at least the books will block the cold when I stack them by the window later.'
Even after shutting it, the chilling breeze of the night slipped through, numbing my ears. I blew into my hands, pressing them together like it might boost my brain cells.
My roommate stirred and rubbed his eyes like he was scrubbing stains out of them.
"Dude, it's freakin' 2 AM. Why are you still up?"
He pulled the hoodie off his head, then yawned.
I ignored him and stared back at the books. Somewhere along the way, I started treating these subjects like people I didn't get along with. Not that I got along with anything, but I was determined to finish no matter what.
My roommate dragged himself over, picked up the psychology book without asking, and flipped through my scribbles.
"Were you picking a fight with this thing? You underlined half of it and wrote your own corrections."
He leaned against the cupboard, rubbing his chin as he nodded. "I see. Planning a new edition?"
I snatched it back. "Do I have to agree with everything it says?"
He shrugged. "Whatever." He stretched, yawned again, then sat on his bed and started lacing his shoes.
I turned my chair, watching him the way you'd watch someone about to do something stupid. Although I was only seventeen, I could switch my vibe to a cynical father.
"Isn't it too late to sneak out, dude?" Then I suppressed a chuckle at the last word that he always repeats.
He looked at his watch, then at me with a flat expression.
"When do you think is the best time to meet a smuggler?"
His voice shifted cold.
I leaned back in my chair, raising an eyebrow.
The way he said it so casually made me wonder how we ended up as roommates in the first place. We'd shared a room for a month, but I barely knew him. We were basically strangers.
On paper, though, he was my half-brother.
Nothing about us screamed family. I was tall, with black hair and tired blue eyes. On the other hand, he barely reached my shoulder, dark blond hair falling past his pale face, hazel eyes irritating as ever.
We didn't share the room by choice.
Mom had called the supervisor, arranged everything, and suddenly, my half-brother was my roommate.
'Did he not care that I might tell someone, or did he already know I wouldn't?'
Either way, I didn't ask. I wouldn't have liked the answer.
Rumors said some students hired smugglers to bring them cadavers for studying, but the moment I heard about dead bodies, I freaked out and avoided these students.
I never knew he was one of them.
Click.
The door closed behind him.
I sighed and turned back to my desk.
Detailed drawings of organs stared back at me.
I covered my mouth with my hand, already halfway to giving up.
I hadn't reached the anatomy class yet, but just the thought of dissecting a body twisted my stomach. Normally, I skipped dinner when cramming, but my brain was running on fumes. I grabbed a snack — and instantly regretted it.
'This isn't working.'
I pinched the bridge of my nose, trying to press the pressure out of my skull. My eyes fought to close, but I forced them open. After a few more struggles, I gave myself a compromise.
"Only five minutes."
I dropped my head onto the books. Just enough time to relax.
Darkness took me faster than I expected.
Then morning came.
Knock, Knock.
I snapped awake at the sound of heavy, rapid knocks.
My pulse jumped—until I recognized the rhythm.
Belo.
'What's he doing here?'
I glanced at the clock.
10 AM.
'Oh boy.'
I stood, and my back was aching.
Stretching, I glanced at my half-brother's bed, and my eyes lingered for a second.
Empty.
I swung the door open. My younger brother Belo rushed in like a doctor charging to a dying patient.
He wasn't wrong, though. I'd lost weight since school started, and my hair already had a few white strands. My eyes burned red every time I caught myself in the mirror.
No wonder Belo thought I was about to collapse.
He was in his middle school uniform, looking like the identical version of me, but nicer.
He dropped his backpack and panted.
"Carl! You're alive?"
Standing on his tiptoe to check my pulse, peered into my eyes, then nodded seriously.
"The brain's working. The body is fragile but functional. So why didn't you pick up your phone?"
He folded his arms. "The only excuse was that you were dead. But you're not. So?"
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.
Instead, I climbed into bed and pulled the blanket over my head.
"Tell Mom I'm alive. If I feel that I am dying, I'll make sure to call her."
Belo was persistent and wouldn't take silence for an answer. He rummaged through his backpack, pulled out a sack of ice cubes, and slammed it against my neck with a playful grin.
"Mom made extra food, so put it in the fridge before the ice melts."
I shot upright, yelling, "What—Belo?! Why are you here? Did Mom let you skip school?"
He ignored me, sat at my desk, and unlocked my phone.
"You didn't just miss my calls—you've got a ton of other missed calls. You even ignored Mike. Where is he? I thought he was here."
Belo hadn't met Mike before. He only heard about him from Mom, so he was curious to get to know him, but I didn't support that idea since we didn't know him well.
I left the bed, then snatched the phone from him and checked.
'It's Mike. But we never called each other.'
'Twenty missed calls? Was I in a coma? How didn't I hear it?'
His first call was a few hours after he left.
'That's… not good.'
My chest tightened.
I hesitated to press the button, not knowing what I should expect. But my thumb found itself dialing back, and the line connected.
"Mike?"
A few seconds of silence stretched into eternity before I finally heard a voice.
"What is going on?" His voice sounded confused.
My shoulders relaxed. He was fine, but the confusion in his voice left me unsettled.
I forced the words out. "Mike, are you safe?"
"This place….It's not static."
'What? That didn't answer my question.' Before I could speak, another voice cut in.
A female voice, which almost sounded like whispers.
"That's not important."
Mike answered her. "What about escaping?"
Her reply froze me.
"For now, focus on not becoming their meal."
The line went dead.
I stared at the screen, then at Belo.
Their voices dissolved into a hum, but one thought stayed sharp.
Mike wasn't here. He was somewhere else. Trapped in a place not static — something changing.
The air stuck halfway inside me.
'If I tell the supervisors, they'll drag us into trouble with the smugglers. But if I don't…'
The thought pressed harder until it was the only thing left.
'Should I look for him?'
Belo shoved a phone into my face, snapping me out of it.
"Carl, Look! Your voice was echoing from this phone."
I froze.
It was Mike's phone.
'So who answered my call?'