Chapter 17: The Weight of an Imprint

“I feel anxious, and my head feels like it’s splitting.”

“…Anything else?”

Moreover, because he had imprinted before even regaining his memories of himself, every single nerve in his body was focused on Yunhwan. At times, it was obvious to Junseong that Seonghye himself found the intensity overwhelming.

As a case in point, Seonghye seemed to have zero interest in the counseling session they were currently conducting. To Junseong, it was clear that the man was barely restraining himself from bolting out of the seat to go back to Yunhwan’s side.

Tap, tap. The rhythm of the pen Junseong was tapping against his knee grew faster. Eventually, Seonghye furrowed one brow and muttered.

“I also feel angry.”

“At Mr. Yunhwan?”

“…Will this get better with treatment too?”

When Junseong nodded, Seonghye sank deep into his chair with a weary face.

“I know Hyung hasn’t done anything wrong. I’m just angry at myself. Even today, he was with some other guy instead of me, and the anger makes it hard to breathe.”

His large-boned hand gripped the armrest as if to crush it, before dropping away with a heavy exhale.

“What kind of bastard was I before the accident?”

“…That’s a bit aggressive for a way to describe yourself, don’t you think? That person is you, and you are that person. You’re both Min Seonghye.”

Junseong countered with a scowl, but the party involved didn’t seem to care.

“You know it too, Doctor. You know Hyung is uncomfortable around me.”

“…….”

“Whenever I try to get close, his whole body tenses up and his expression turns to stone. No matter how much I smile like an idiot or try to soothe him, he still finds me difficult.”

“Seonghye.”

Junseong let out a low sigh.

He knew exactly what Seonghye was talking about. If you discover the only frame of color and light in an entirely black-and-white silent film, but realize that light and color don’t actually belong to you…

Yunhwan had decided to help with the treatment out of a sense of responsibility for Seonghye’s accident. Seonghye, on the other hand, had zero interest in the actual treatment and was consumed by thoughts of how to turn Yunhwan’s gaze toward him. The two could never look in the same direction.

It wasn’t because the mass of their hearts was different, but because the very essence of their feelings was distinct.

Setting the counseling records down on the table, Junseong leaned forward and stared at Seonghye.

“Do you remember what I told you during your first treatment?”

“I remember. You said I was a defective product.”

A hollow laugh escaped Junseong’s lips. He supposed that even if memories vanished and a personality shifted, a person would still retain a minimum amount of self-love—yet he wondered how this man managed to devalue himself so consistently.

“’Defective product,’ he says. Unbelievable. I can’t believe what I’m hearing from my own patient.”

Junseong shook his head in exasperation.

“When did I ever call you a defective product? Don’t say things like that in public; people are already sensitive about the Alpha Human Rights Ordinance these days. I’ll get stoned.”

With a weary voice, he began an explanation he had already given several times.

“As I told you before, Alpha traits are divided into General, Recessive, and Dominant. But sadly, there is no category for our patient, Min Seonghye. Why?”

Rummaging through a drawer under the table, Junseong pulled out a piece of paper that looked complex at a glance. It was the report of Seonghye’s pheromone levels.

“Because right now, you can’t be measured.”

Like a time bomb that could go off anywhere at any time, he had to live while regulating his pheromones through drugs and treatment. That was Seonghye’s fatal weakness and the trigger that stimulated his dormant mind.

“You are an Alpha, but the intensity of your trait cannot be properly measured.”

Since the traits of the 10% of the population are expressed through maternal genetics, in Seonghye’s case, his mother was a Dominant Omega and his father was an Ordinary Alpha.

Technically, Seonghye’s father had also been expressed as an Alpha by inheriting dominant maternal genes, so Seonghye’s own expression wasn’t surprising.

The problem, however, was that while the son was indeed an Alpha, his results from the trait exams conducted at schools and hospitals every year were always slightly different.

After his expression at age fifteen, he fluctuated between General, Recessive, and Dominant at will, leading to several hospitalizations. He met renowned pheromone specialists and spared no time or money on treatment, but the decisive incident happened when he was eighteen.

Triggered by witnessing his mother’s death, Seonghye’s pheromones began to run wild beyond control.

“If I measured your pheromones right this second, you might come out as Recessive, Dominant, or General. Why? Because your levels fluctuate several times a day. And the thing controlling that is the medication you’ve been injected with once a month since before you even lost your memory.”

Junseong handed the report to Seonghye.

“If you feel like you’re a half-finished defective product, look at this paper. You have to start seeing yourself objectively for the treatment to work. And while you’re at it, take a look at Mr. Kwon Yunhwan, who’s suffering by your side.”

He’s pitiful, too, Junseong thought, though he couldn’t bring himself to say it out loud. He picked up the counseling records again. He couldn’t afford to waste this time, especially considering Yunhwan was currently waiting alone in the ward for the session to end.

“Our goal is always the same. Stabilizing your pheromones and helping you find your memories.”

Junseong gestured with his chin toward the flowerpot.

“So focus on the counseling. If you want to succeed at repotting that plant.”

“The injections… how much longer do I have to get them?”

“…Until your pheromone levels reach a stable range?”

Junseong answered while squinting one eye.

The biggest obstacle right now was that he couldn’t predict when Min Seonghye’s pheromones would reach that stable range. They had hit a wall from the very start of the treatment.

“If I find my memories, what happens to my memories of right now?”

Junseong’s eyebrows shot up at the unexpected question.

“…These current memories are your memories too, aren’t they? My job is to make sure the two blend together properly.”

Seonghye added casually to Junseong’s answer, which hadn’t strayed far from his expectations.

“And if they don’t blend?”

“That’s strange. How could memories not blend? I’ve never heard of that before.”

Junseong frowned. His pen began to tap, tap against his knee again.

“It’s possible they won’t.”

“…Is there a reason you’re suddenly asking that?”

Though the question sounded dismissive, Junseong’s eyes were heavy and serious.

As the silence grew while Seonghye searched for an answer, a tense wrinkle formed between Junseong’s brows. Just as the tapping of the pen accelerated from minutes to seconds and an impatient Junseong was about to speak—

“When I come here and get the injection.”

Seonghye’s Adam’s apple bobbed heavily.

“I feel disgusting.”

“…What on earth do you—”

“It’s definitely disgusting.”

While a caught-off-guard Junseong stammered, Seonghye continued in an indifferent tone.

“I can’t feel Hyung very well. …No, the feeling is still there, but I suppose I’m just anxious. Since I know he finds me difficult, my anxiety keeps growing, and that might be why.”

He let out a sigh of irritation.

Today was the third time. After being administered the drug here, he was seized by a sensation where his vision blurred and his ears felt muffled.

Fortunately, that unpleasant experience usually vanished in an instant, and his physical state returned to normal immediately, but Seonghye sensed a warning sign elsewhere.

Something perhaps even more chilling than the fact that he had lost his memory.

He couldn’t feel Yunhwan.

Normally, every nerve cell in his body recognized Yunhwan’s presence, sharpening his senses to every single action. Sometimes he could even predict who was with Yunhwan and what his mood was. But all of that disappeared like a lie.

And it happened right after the injection at this hospital—for as short as a few seconds to as long as several minutes.

To Seonghye, being unable to feel Yunhwan was like having all his senses blocked by something thick and heavy. A chilling cold would start to circulate through his emotionless body, and his mind would feel as empty as if it had been hollowed out.

Of course, it was a temporary feeling, and it could be that his anxiety was so great he was over-interpreting it. But as the same thing happened again today, a fear so intense it felt like his bones were twisting gripped him—a fear that he couldn’t endure without seeing Yunhwan immediately.

The chilling sensation that a person could actually wither and die like this.

Seonghye reflexively bit his lip.

“…When you get the injection, you can’t feel Mr. Yunhwan very well?”

Unlike the visibly anxious Seonghye, Junseong quickly regained his composure and began to examine his condition keenly.

Observing Seonghye’s shadowed profile—specifically, the expression he was making—with meticulous eyes, Junseong asked again.

“Is that all?”

“It’s not just ‘that’; for me, if I don’t have him, I die.”

As Seonghye spat out the anxiety he had been suppressing, Junseong’s eyebrows rose.

In the counseling room where only the two of them sat, one had begun to show signs of finding a clue, while the other bared the anxiety he had kept tightly hidden.

Wiping his face with a thin hand, Seonghye muttered through gritted teeth.

“Even if it’s only a half-imprint… I can’t exist without that person.”