by Paula Stokes
An air conditioner exhaust fan chitters angrily near the roof’s edge, one of its blades bent just enough to scrape against the side of the casing. For a second I let the wind push me close enough to the fan’s razor-sharp blades that a lock of my hair gets snipped and sent out into the night. As it twists and flutters toward the gazebo, I think about just letting go, letting the breeze carry my body into the whirling blades, the wind scattering pieces of me throughout the city. Blood and flesh seeping into the cracked pavement. Flowers blooming wherever I land.
“Winter.” Rose’s voice comes from everywhere at once. I whirl around, but I don’t see her. The one-eyed man stands in the doorway that leads back to the building. He watches me without speaking, his face stained with blood.
“Eonni? Where are you?” I ask.
She doesn’t answer.
I turn back to the air conditioner. The blades spin. I step closer, hypnotized by the crackling noise.
Behind me, the one-eyed man laughs.
“Winter. No.” My sister appears at the edge of the roof. She reaches out for me.
But it’s too late. It’s time to fall to pieces.
* * *
I wake with my hands tightened into fists, my heart large inside my throat. I’m curled up on the floor of my room, my neck bent at a strange angle. My muscles ache and my head feels like it’s full of wet cotton.
At first I think I’ve sleepwalked. I used to do that right after we moved to St. Louis, especially when my dreams were particularly lucid. But then last night comes back to me. Trading ViSEs. The way Jesse’s touch made me feel. Trying to drown my shame and confusion with a bath. I vaguely remember returning to my room after the bathwater went cold.
I don’t remember going to sleep on the floor, but I do that sometimes when I’m anxious. Dr. Abrams calls this behavior “regression,” because Rose and I used to sleep on a mat together when we were little.
There’s a sharp knock on my door. “Winter. Are you all right?” It’s Gideon.
I glance at my phone and swear under my breath. I’m already late for my workout. “Coming, oppa,” I say. Oppa means older brother in Korean, but it’s used outside of blood relations too. Although Gideon prefers that we speak English at all times, that desire does not extend to me disrespectfully addressing him by his first name. “Give me five minutes.” Hurriedly I change into my dobok, my Taekwondo sparring outfit, and pull my hair back into a ponytail.
Gideon waits for me in the hallway already wearing his dobok and headgear. His dark eyes look me up and down in an almost clinical fashion.
“Sorry. I forgot to set my alarm.”
Wordlessly, he turns and strides down the hallway, pausing outside of my sister’s bedroom. “Have you talked to Rose today?”
Something in the tone of his voice makes my chest go tight. “No. Why?”
“I have something to ask her.” He pauses. “It’s nothing urgent.”
The door to her room is cracked open. I knock. “Eonni,” I say. No answer. I knock again and then push the door inward. Miso is sitting on the dresser, pawing gently at a bright red wig. I scoop him up in one arm and set the hairpiece on an empty stand between a wavy black wig and a silky blue one. Rose’s bed is full of stuff—high-heeled boots, two dresses, three fashion magazines. There’s no way she made this mess today. I would have heard her moving around.
“It looks like she didn’t come home last night. Did you send her to Inferno?” I ask.
“She wasn’t doing anything for me,” Gideon says.
My chest tightens further. “She told me she was working.”
“Rose has been doing a bit of … freelancing. You didn’t know?”
“No.” My teeth grate hard into my bottom lip. I knew Rose and I had secrets, but I didn’t know we kept any from each other.
“I’m sure she’s just crashed out at a friend’s place,” Gideon says kindly. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”
He’s right. My sister is no stranger to staying out all night. Still, something feels off.
Gideon’s phone buzzes in his pocket. He taps out a quick text and then says, “Come. It’s getting late and I still have to pack for my business trip. Our workout will help clear your mind.”
I follow him through the penthouse. A few sunbeams scatter their way through the miniblinds, just enough light to illuminate the Kandinsky print hanging above the fireplace and the private elevator that opens directly into the back corner of the living room.
“Where are you going again?” I ask.
“Chicago. Just for a couple of days.” Gideon slides open the balcony door.
I step outside, the chilly morning air turning to ice in my lungs. A short flight of stairs leads up to the roof. It’s empty up here except for an air-con unit and a ten-foot square drawn in chalk. My protective headgear sits in the southeast corner as always.
As I hurry over to it, something slams into me from behind. The blow strikes at the level of my kidneys and I fall to my hands and knees on the unforgiving cement. Instinctively, I curl over onto my back, my right forearm hooked in front of my face to protect my head.
Gideon stands over me, his mouth twisted into a mix of amusement and displeasure. “You’re unfocused.”
Frowning, I leap to my feet. “I wasn’t ready.” Blood blooms in the layers of torn skin on my palms. My knees sting from the hard landing.
“You must always be ready.” Gideon reaches out, bracing my jaw with his thumb and forefinger for a moment as he studies me. To an outsider his actions might appear intimate, but his hands and eyes aren’t cherishing me; they’re searching for injury. Weakness. Apparently satisfied, he steps back and gestures at the headgear.
Being careful not to turn my back on him, I dress for battle. We bow to each other and then retreat to opposite corners. For the next hour we fight hand-to-hand, no breaks. Gideon and I are about the same height, but he’s stronger and faster than I am and it is all I can do to stay on my feet. We do not use a mat because he says in life there are no mats, and I must learn to fall in a way that protects my bones and organs. It’s all about the transfer of energy from the part that hits the ground first to the rest of the body. The whole self—physical and mental—must absorb its share of the blows.
There are more blows today than usual. I am slow, sluggish. I rest on my heels instead of springing forth from the balls of my feet. My chin hugs my chest instead of leading. Repeatedly, Gideon attacks and I struggle to dodge and block, ending up on my hands, my flank, my back.
“Did you stay up late after you finished your recording?” Curiosity glimmers in his eyes.
“Yes. Studying.” The words come out sharper than intended. I lunge forward, my left arm lashing out in a ridge-hand strike, my right arm protecting my body.
My head snaps on my neck as Gideon lands a fist to my chin. I stumble backward, only barely regaining my balance before stepping outside of the chalk square. There are no chalk squares in life either, but there are enclosed areas and that is what the perimeter is supposed to represent.
Gideon’s jaw tightens as he returns to his side of the square. “I thought perhaps you went out with Jesse afterward.”
“He wishes.” I drop back into horse stance.
“Is that so?” Gideon attacks again, but this time I am ready. I block him both high and low and sweep my left foot in a hook kick. He stumbles but doesn’t fall. I follow up with a second attack, a knife hand and a crescent kick that sends Gideon outside of the chalk line. He recovers just before he falls, dipping into a bow. “Good,” he says. And then, “It appears speaking of Jesse inspires strong feelings.”
I attack again—a fist to the chin, a side arm to the gut. “Is there something specific on your mind?”
Gideon blocks both punches. “I just don’t want you to get hurt.”
I pause a split second to ponder the irony of that and end up on the ground.
When the hour is up, it is Gideon lying on his back half outside the chalk
square and I’m standing over him. A smile plays at his lips as he allows me to help him back to his feet. We bow to each other, remove our headgear, and then descend the stairs back to the penthouse.
Gideon gestures toward a Tupperware container on the kitchen counter. Inside are two rolls of gimbap, vegetables and fish cake wrapped in rice and seaweed.
“You made breakfast already?” I ask, surprised. I usually end up rolling gimbap or preparing some other small meal for us.
“I woke up early,” Gideon says. “Unlike you.” He smiles to show me he’s teasing. “So I assume last night went all right?”
“Things went mostly as planned.” There’s no point in telling him about the gun going off. He’ll see it soon enough and I’d prefer to delay any forthcoming lecture as long as possible. I wash and dry my hands and take the gimbap to the dining room table. I slip one of the quarter-sized pieces into my mouth as I take my usual seat. “Jesse has the flash drive with the downloaded information. Sorry—I forgot to get it from him.”
“Hmm. There’s something different about the way you’re saying his name.” Gideon’s dark eyes cut into me like scalpels. I can almost feel him folding back layers, exposing secrets. Could he possibly know about what happened with Jesse in the kitchen? No—if he’d awakened, I would have heard him skulking around.
I swallow hard. “You’re imagining things.”
“Good.” His smile is sharp and fleeting. “You have a long time for boys and dating. Better you finish your studies and learn to protect yourself first.” He settles into the chair across from me and helps himself to a piece of gimbap. “How are your new courses going?”
“Fine. I think I’ll enjoy Physics and World Literature. Calculus might not be quite as interesting, but I see no reason why I won’t be able to get an A in every class as long as I work hard.”
“Excellent. You make me proud.”
I lower my eyes. Gideon is thirty years old, only twelve years my senior, but the closest thing I have ever had to a father. My real father left before I was born, or at least I assume he did.
I remember only my mother and Rose. One day when I was two or three, my mother woke us early and bundled us into our best clothes. She carried a basket with both hands, water and food for the journey. Rose walked beside her, her right hand wrapped tightly around my left one. We walked for hours and then took a train to the city. The ride stretched into eternity. The car was crowded with passengers—old leathery men with gnarled fingers and yellowing nails, school kids in their navy uniforms, mothers holding white-wrapped screaming babies. I was tired and hungry, but each time I reached for the basket of food, my mother slapped my hand away.
The mountains became rolling plains dotted with trees. Then Seoul rose up without warning, clusters of shacks bleeding into skyscrapers of metal and glass. Shortly after we disembarked, my mother stopped in front of a building and told us to wait on the steps for her. She disappeared into the lobby and never came back out. The building turned out to be the Singing Crane Orphanage. Staff members found us later and brought us inside.
When I was younger, I used to fantasize about why she left us there. I let myself believe she was a spy or a secret princess, that she abandoned us for our own protection and would come back for us once it was safe.
But now I know the reality is probably much simpler. She was too poor, too alone. She couldn’t take care of us anymore.
I eat another piece of gimbap.
Gideon goes to brew some tea, but then his phone rings. His jaw tenses as he listens to someone on the other end. “She’s with me,” he says. “We’ll be right there.”
“What is it?” I can tell by the sound of his voice that something bad has happened. I grip the corner of the table to steady myself.
“That was Sebastian. We need to go down to Escape.”
Sebastian “Baz” Faber is Gideon’s head of security. When he’s not at Gideon’s side, he works out of an office in the club. “Why? What happened?”
Gideon’s hands tremble a little as he slips his phone into his pocket. “There’s been a break-in.”
* * *
Baz peers out through the clear glass of Escape’s front door. He’s former military like Jesse, but he looks more like a stockbroker in his immaculately pressed dark suit. His bronze skin has paled slightly to match his slicked-back blond hair.
A wiry, dark-skinned man wearing thick glasses hurries over to us—Adebayo, the club manager. “Thank goodness you have arrived,” he says in his clipped Nigerian accent.
“What happened?” Gideon pulls a lighter and a tin of clove cigarettes from his pocket.
Adebayo wrings his hands, sweat beginning to bead on his high forehead. “I cannot believe it. Our security is more than adequate. The odds are astronomical. If you calculate all the permutations of the recent burglaries in the area…” He trails off when he sees that all of us are staring at him. He used to be a statistics professor at a local university until he lost his tenure for taking bets on a school athletic event. Even though that was years ago, he still thinks obsessively of things in terms of their odds.
Baz gestures toward the back of the club with one of his meaty arms. “You guys need to see this.”
We follow him across the main floor, past a row of vintage arcade games and the card tables where the college kids role-play. A narrow corridor at the back of the club leads to the ViSE rooms, where customers can enjoy their favorite recordings in complete darkness and silence.
And then there’s the back office, which has been trashed.
I step into the room and survey the carnage. The file cabinet lies on its side, sheaves of paper splayed out across the floor. The desk drawers have been ripped from the desk and emptied across the long counter that runs along the back of the room. The cabinet where we keep the ViSEs, headsets, and neural editor has been stripped of its contents, one wooden door hanging askew on its hinges.
Jesse appears in the doorway, the flash drive from last night in his hand. “Hey,” he says. His jaw drops. “What the hell?”
“Break-in,” Gideon says. He steps forward and takes the flash drive from Jesse’s outstretched hand.
“They took everything,” I say.
“Everything but the cash.” Baz gestures at the safe in the corner of the room. It appears to be undisturbed. “But it gets worse.” He holds up a small envelope with two words written on the outside: Who’s next? “No fingerprints on it. Or on this.” He folds open the flap and a silver necklace falls out—a rose pendant. My sister’s rose pendant.
But there’s something else in the envelope too. A small blue memory card. A ViSE.
“I truly hope it is a forgery.” Adebayo pushes his glasses up on his nose.
“What is it?” Gideon asks. He exhales a long stream of sweet smoke.
Baz hands the memory card to Gideon. “It’s Rose,” he says grimly.
CHAPTER 8
I grab for the card, but Baz pulls his arm away. “Gid needs to play it first.”
“Why? She’s my sister.” The destruction swirls in my peripheral vision, the mess of papers, the cabinet door hanging open.
Gideon exhales another ribbon of smoke. He looks back and forth from Adebayo to Baz. “I assume someone has a headset available?”
Adebayo pulls a collapsed headset from his back pocket and hands it to Gideon, who unfolds it and inserts the memory card. Adjusting the headset to fit, he settles into the desk chair and lets his eyes fall closed. After only a few seconds, he plucks the cigarette from his mouth and grinds it out on the wooden desk.
“Terrible,” Adebayo says. “How could something like this happen?” He laces and unlaces his fingers as he looks at me. “Such a beautiful young girl, your sister.”
“What is it?” I whisper, not wanting to cause overlay for Gideon. “Is she all right?” I look from Jesse to Baz to Adebayo to Gideon, my panic growing as I consider each worried expression.
Gideon raises one index finger to his lips a
nd I fall silent. All I can do is watch him vise … and wait. At one point his face contorts; at another he furrows his brow. But he doesn’t speak. The red numbers of the desk clock creep upward. One minute. Two minutes. Five minutes. Five lifetimes.
Suddenly Gideon opens his eyes and blinks rapidly, as if he’s not quite sure what happened. Then he removes the recording from the headset and stares at it for a moment, his jaw tightening in concentration. “Who has a tablet?” he asks. “I need to verify something.” I reach out for the ViSE, but he shakes his head. “You don’t want to play this, Winter.”
“Yes I do,” I say, even though when Gideon and I disagree, he always ends up being right. He doesn’t answer. Instead he takes the tablet computer Baz hands him and inserts the memory card into a micro slot on the side. The room goes quiet as we all stare at him.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
Gideon taps at the screen and watches a stream of ones and zeros scroll past. “Hoping this isn’t real.” He taps again and the numbers convert to letters. It’s all meaningless to me. I try to glean information from his expression, but his face remains neutral as he works.
“Oppa!” I say a bit forcefully. “What is it? What is on that recording?”
He swipes at the screen and the tablet goes dark. “I need to speak to Winter for a moment.”
Baz, Adebayo, and Jesse head for the door.
“Jesse. Stay,” Gideon says. Jesse turns and leans against the wall, his hands jammed in the center pocket of his hoodie. He looks like he’d rather be anywhere but here. Gideon gestures at the chair next to him. “Winter. Sit, please.”
I want to refuse. There is too much energy coursing through me to be still. But something in the sound of his voice makes me obey. I lower myself into the chair next to his. “Just tell me,” I say, trying to sound brave.