The first thing Daniel felt was the wind.
It slid across his cheeks like cold silk, carrying the sour-sweet smell of cheap ramen from the 7-Eleven two streets below and the fainter metallic tang of the Han River. Both scents arrived at the same moment, which was wrong; the convenience-store air should never travel this high. But tonight the rooftop seemed to tilt toward the city, a seesaw balancing neon and moonlight, and Daniel's body—bodies?—was the fulcrum.
He opened his eyes.
J-high's rooftop. Same cracked tiles, same graffiti of a one-winged angel someone had painted ironically after last year's talent show. Yet the skyline looked crooked, as though every building leaned an inch closer to him, curious. Daniel tried to push himself upright and discovered two right hands pressing concrete.
Two hands.
One plump, with the small half-moon scar at the base of the thumb he'd earned at nine while stealing walnut cookies.
One long-fingered, veins blue under winter-pale skin, knuckles glossy from the cocoa-butter lotion Jay had wordlessly slipped him months ago.
Both hands moved when he commanded them.
Both hurt.
Daniel's heartbeat ricocheted—right chest, left chest, back again—like a trapped bird looking for the exit that used to be a window. He curled the fingers of the plump hand; the elegant hand curled too. Mirror synchrony. No, worse: stereo feedback.
"Okay," he whispered. The word came out twice, layered, the deeper baritone of his second body threading under the softer huff of his first. Two voices in one throat. He gagged, clapped both palms—both sets of palms—over his mouth, and felt two noses flatten.
Stop. Think.
He forced himself to catalogue.
Eyes: two pairs of retinas superimposed, resolutions mismatched. The chubbier body saw the world in warmer tones; the tall body added crisp edges. Brain compiled both feeds into a nauseous 3-D collage.
Legs: four. No—two. The phantom sensation of extra limbs ghosted sideways, like lag in an online game.
Weight: impossible to gauge. The rooftop tiles should crack under the dense muscle of the tall body, but the scale of his original weight remained, a memorized heaviness that didn't register in gravity's equations tonight.
Daniel's phone buzzed. One phone. He patted the pocket of the hoodie—gray, oversized, definitely his original body's—and felt the rectangle buzz again. When he tugged it free, the screen reflected his face.
Two faces.
Split down the center like a cheap photocopy folded and misaligned: round left cheek descending into a sharp right jaw; one full lips, one thin; double pupils fused into a single oblong iris. The image shimmered, then stabilized into the hot-body face—because that body always dominated lenses. Daniel's throat tightened. He angled the phone away, but the reflection followed, stubborn.
Voices from the stairwell. Laugh-track bright, probably theater kids finishing late rehearsal. Panic spiked. He couldn't let anyone see him like this—whatever "this" was. Daniel lumbered toward the water tower, knees wobbling in opposite directions. Each step felt like walking on stilts while wearing lead boots. The tower's shadow swallowed him just as the door creaked open.
"—swear I heard someone," a girl said.
"Probably Zack practicing lines. Guy thinks Hamlet needs more abs."
Laughter faded back downstairs.
Daniel exhaled twin breaths. The condensation floated in front of him, two plumes that twisted together, a DNA helix. He watched until it dissolved and realized he was crying—two sets of tear ducts, twice the salt. The tears tasted the same.
He needed a timer. If bodies switched every midnight before, maybe the pattern held. He thumbed the phone: 02:17 a.m. No missed messages. No Duolingo owl yelling at him. Even the group chat was silent, which felt wrong on a Friday. The quiet was a mercy he didn't trust.
First priority: figure out how long the merge—if it was a merge—lasted. Second: hide until it un-merged. Third: resist the urge to scream, because screaming in stereo would definitely bring Zack running, and Zack's default solution to problems involved punching drywall.
Daniel slid down the tower's metal wall until his—original?—knees met his chest. The hoodie bunched uncomfortably, but when he tried to adjust it, both sets of arms crossed. He settled for breathing: in four counts, hold four, out four. Box breathing, courtesy of Vasco's self-help phase. The technique worked on both ribcages, eventually.
Minutes passed. The city's heartbeat drummed below—taxi horns, far-off sirens, the 2 a.m. freight train that always sounded like it was mourning something. Daniel's pulse slowed to match. He risked another glance at his hands. Still double. But the edges fuzzed, like a double exposure losing alignment. Maybe in another hour he'd snap back into one skin. Maybe—
Footsteps. Not the stairwell this time. These were rooftop footsteps, soft rubber soles scuffing tile. Daniel's heads—head?—jerked up. A silhouette rounded the corner: black hair, school blazer over hoodie, earbuds glowing blue like tiny pilot lights.
Jay Hong.
Daniel's first instinct was to stand, but that might reveal the monstrous shadow he was casting. He shrank deeper into darkness, praying Jay's music volume was loud enough to drown existential horror. Jay paused at the ledge, gazing toward the river. One hand cradled something small—paper?—which he folded once, twice, until it became a tiny origami crane. Then he placed the crane on the parapet, exactly centered, and turned.
Straight toward Daniel.
Of course. Jay had some preternatural Daniel radar, always had. Daniel pressed his back to the tower, heartbeats layered like stacked drums. Jay's eyes—hidden under bangs—swept the rooftop, lingered on the water tower, then moved on. He tugged an earbud free.
"Daniel?" Quiet, almost carried away by wind.
Options:
A) Stay silent, hope Jay leaves.
B) Answer, but in which voice?
C) Throw phone as decoy, army-crawl to exit, flee country, change name, raise alpacas.
Before Daniel could choose, his phone buzzed again—loud, shrill. The screen lit: 2:30 a.m. alarm labeled "Take protein shake (hot body)." The universe's idea of comedy.
Jay's head snapped toward the glow. He crossed the roof in five soundless strides. Daniel's limbs locked. Jay rounded the tower and stopped.
For three seconds Daniel existed in two ways: the chubby kid who once borrowed Jay's notes without asking, and the sculpted stranger who'd shared Jay's umbrella during monsoon season. Both versions were visible, superimposed, like a 3-D movie without glasses. Jay's expression—normally a calm pond—rippled. Surprise, confusion, something softer Daniel couldn't name. Then the softer thing hardened into decision.
Jay unzipped his charcoal hoodie in one fluid motion and stepped forward, holding it open like wings. Wordless invitation: Let me cover you.
Daniel's throats closed. He shook his head—or tried; the motion wobbled between bodies. Jay's gaze dropped to the four hands, lingered, then returned to Daniel's eyes—both pairs. No disgust. Just steady recognition, as if Jay had already sketched this moment in a margin somewhere and only needed to ink it.
Cold wind knifed across the roof. Daniel's taller form had goosebumps; the original form shivered. Jay waited, hoodie still open. The fabric flapped, a soft metronome.
Daniel surrendered. He stepped into the circle of Jay's arms—arms singular, but they felt like a fortress. Jay pulled the hoodie around Daniel's shoulders, sleeves dangling comically long. The cotton smelled of sandalwood and printer ink. One of Jay's hands found the back of Daniel's original neck; the other settled between the shoulder blades of the tall body, as though Jay had instinctively mapped both spines. Warmth leaked through T-shirt layers, pooled in the hollow where ribs met.
Daniel's breath hitched. Tears restarted, quieter. Jay let him cry—no patting, no shushing, just presence. Eventually the shakes ebbed. Daniel became aware of Jay's heartbeat, steady under his ear—ears?—a single drum against the stereo chaos inside him.
Minutes or hours later, Daniel whispered, "I don't know how to go back."
Both voices aligned this time, mid-tone, mid-volume, mid-pitch. The sound felt less alien.
Jay answered the way he always did when words mattered: a small squeeze, then he released one arm to fish inside his pocket. He produced the origami crane from the ledge—when had he grabbed it?—and pressed it into Daniel's palm. Paper wings sharp enough to cut doubt. Jay folded Daniel's fingers—both sets—around it, then tapped the crane's head with his thumb: a tiny bow.
Message received: You're more than one piece of paper, but you can still fold yourself into something that flies.
Daniel choked on a laugh that sounded almost normal. He tucked the crane inside the chest pocket of the borrowed hoodie, next to the phone. The alarm had stopped; 2:47 a.m. glowed soft. Twenty-three minutes since merge. No sign of snapping back yet, but the panic had shrunk to a manageable marble in his chest.
Jay stepped back, keeping one hand on Daniel's elbow—elbows?—and tilted his head toward the stairwell: Let's move. Daniel nodded. Together they walked, Jay shortening his stride to match Daniel's stutter-step gait. Every tile seemed to record the echo of four feet becoming two.
At the door Jay paused, fishing out his key ring—he had copies of every school lock because of course he did. He unlocked the rooftop, held the door, and waited. Daniel crossed the threshold feeling like he was leaving a battlefield and entering a treaty.
Inside the stairwell the fluorescent light was harsh, unflattering to secrets. Jay didn't flinch, just descended one step ahead, blocking Daniel from any late-night stragglers. Halfway down, Daniel felt the first tug: a rubber-band snap inside his bones. He staggered, gripped the railing. Jay spun, eyes wide.
"'S okay," Daniel rasped. "Think it's—undoing."
The second snap was louder, audible like a knuckle crack. Vision blurred, warm tones draining, sharp edges softening. Then a pop—like ears clearing at altitude—and suddenly he was one body again: original, shorter, rounder, hoodie sleeves swallowing his hands. The leftover momentum sent him stumbling forward. Jay caught him, eased him onto the stairs.
Daniel blinked up. "How long?"
Jay checked his watch: 2:53 a.m. He held up six fingers, then tapped Daniel's shoulder: six minutes since they started descending. Total merge time: thirty-six minutes. Jay pulled out his phone, opened Notes, typed: 36min? Daniel nodded. Jay saved the timestamp like evidence.
For a long moment they sat in the humming light, shoulders touching. Daniel felt the marble in his chest dissolve into something warmer, shaped suspiciously like gratitude. He nudged Jay. "Thanks for the hoodie."
Jay shrugged, but his eyes smiled. He typed again: Keep it. Then added: Next time, text first. Rooftop cold.
Daniel huffed. "Next time maybe warn me you're collecting stray monsters."
Jay's reply was immediate: Not monster. Paper still folding.
Daniel looked down at his—singular—hands. The right one still held the tiny crane, now crumpled from the grip change. He smoothed a wing. "I owe you walnut cookies."
Jay pretended to consider, then held up two fingers: double portion. Deal.
They stood. Jay walked him to the first-floor exit, waited while Daniel scanned the empty corridor, then gave a two-finger salute before melting back into shadow. Daniel stepped outside into the chill pre-dawn, hoodie thick with borrowed warmth, pocket ticking like a second heart.
On the walk home he set a new alarm: 3:30 a.m. Label: "Log merge duration. Buy walnuts."
Above him the city's neon dimmed, surrendering sky to pre-dawn lavender. Daniel breathed in once, twice, testing lungs that felt singular again. The air still carried ramen and river, but now it also carried sandalwood. He tucked the crane into his phone case, plastic wings against glass, and quickened his pace.
Thirty-six minutes. A number to beat, or to understand, or maybe just to accept.
Either way, the paper was still folding.