Safe to say, we take the staircase down from the roof. I shift into camouflage and Jisung wears my jacket, hood down over his face. Dusk is falling, drawing the night crowd out into the streets. I walk behind him so no passersby will bump into a nothing.

Our next task is finding somewhere to stay overnight. We check into The Panache, another cheap love hotel in East Swan District. This time the room is jungle themed, exotic plants and animals prowling and slithering across the walls. The bed is made to look like a treehouse, driftwood trimming the frame, a veil of beads hanging above it.

I pace the room, stretching my arms over my head. Despite transforming into a makeshift aircraft and crash-landing on a rooftop, I'm still brimming with energy. I might have to resort to doing pushups and jumping jacks like a kid on a sugar high.

Jisung has been staring into the microscope, whispers sneaking past his lips. He hangs his head, hands fisted, silence falling over him. I hesitate to ask what happened.

"Any... progress?"

"No. Either the virus needs more time to wake, or my hypothesis was shit the whole time and all of this was for nothing."

"Oh." I try to think of something to say, something that might reassure him, but he's already retreated into the bathroom. The shower turns on. I flop onto the bed and stare up at the wild tree canopy painted on the ceiling.

He comes out a solid 45 minutes later, sufficiently cleansed, a towel wrapped around his head. I've already tucked myself in and turned off the light, though sleep is escaping me. I can't stop twitching, waking myself up every time I start to drift off.

We lie back to back in silence for a while.

"About earlier," I say. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to freak you out."

He sighs. "It's alright. I've never, well, flown before. And I have a weak stomach. But it was the right call. It could have ended a lot worse."

"My landing was a little rough. More of a downdraft than I expected."

"It wasn't that bad for a first time. I thought you'd need more time to practice. Give yourself a pat on the back — you and the machine, you act as one."

I give a mock laugh, rubbing my face. "Whatever you say. Right now the machine's got a mind of its own. Fight fight kill destroy — Christ, I just wanna sleep."

We listen to the hum of traffic on the street below. Then he rolls over and moves closer, presses his hands to my back and rubs gently up and down.

"Um," I say. "Can I ask or would that make it weird?"

"Minho used to have problems sleeping too. He had big ideas, his mind never shut down. I'd help him relax when I could. But if you're not comfortable...?"

"No no, it's okay. It must feel like massaging a toaster or something."

He laughs a little. "You're not a toaster. It's just good your nano-receptors are picking up the contact."

"Yeah, sure." I clear my throat. "So... Minho was a night owl."

"And an early bird. It didn't bother me, I was too."

"Tell me more about him."

He pauses for a moment. "Yeah. Okay. He was raised in the city. He worked as a manager at a grocery store, of all places. He was on a mission to try everything from the candy section at least once; he had a ranked list from 'packing peanuts' to 'literally orgasmic.'"

I laugh. "That explains the receipt I found in my pocket. Tart gummy fingers?"

"He said those were so-so."

"Good to know. Did he have dreams, you know, beyond the grocery store?"

"Not work-wise. He wanted to leave a legacy, chapters in history books all to himself. 'This guy changed the world.' He said he wanted to be someone families argued over at Thanksgiving dinner." Jisung tsk-tsks. "He couldn't just be a hero, he had to make it complicated."

"I like that dream. He wanted to be remembered."

"Worked out great for him, didn't it? Can't even remember himself."

I bite my lip. We just started talking, I don't want to lose him. "At least you remember. What about family — parents, siblings?"

"Only child. His parents were like him — activists fighting against, quote-unquote, the man. He told me they were killed in a government cover-up. I was never sure whether I believed him or not, now I... anyway, Minho didn't like to talk about his family. I didn't mind since that meant I didn't have to talk about mine either."

"Yours are a sore spot too?"

"Yeah. I was a foster kid. A lot of people didn't want me. Even the ones who did... they didn't love me the way I needed. I'm not in contact with them anymore."

I think it through, chewing on my thumb. I turn over to face him. He takes his hands back, cross-eyed looking at me so close.

"Roll over," I say.

He does it. I rub his back. I apologize for my cold hands and he says it's okay. I barely notice my twitching has subsided.

"Earlier you said you and Minho watched the sunset every Saturday," I say. "Did you do stuff like that a lot?"

"Yeah, actually. I like to schedule things — and he needed a schedule or else he'd forget. Sundays were my only days off, so we'd spend them together, either at his apartment or mine. Mondays we'd cook for ourselves instead of ordering in as usual. Tuesdays were movie night. I dreaded Tuesdays."

"Why, what's wrong with movies?"

"Every time it was Minho's turn to decide, he'd pick those old robot movies from the turn of the century. Fucking robot movies. He liked seeing what people thought tech would look like in the future, thinking about the clash between human and machine, the 'ghost' inside, all that existential shit."

"Must have been weird to talk about as a robot nerd yourself."

"It was awful. I felt so guilty for lying to him, just sitting there silent."

"How do you think he would have felt about being a cyborg?"

"I don't know. What do... you think?"

I try to come up with something. Nothing. If there's a ghost inside me, he's been biting his tongue. It almost makes me feel lonely, misplaced in my own mind.

"I don't know either. Sorry."

"No, I shouldn't have asked." He sighs and turns onto his back. I take my hands away, folding them on the pillow. "Sometimes I just... hope. I'm an idiot and I have hope because I'm an idiot."

"You're not an idiot. If you could speak to him, what would you say?"

He stares at the ceiling. A minute slowly ticks by.

"I'd tell him I'm... so sorry."

"I think he'd forgive you."

He turns his head to look at me. "Think so?"

I try not to lose myself in his eyes, the endless emotions I see. "He loved you. He'd forgive you."

He nods a little, but I can tell it doesn't sink in.

"Jisung, can you ever... see him in me?" I ask.

"Sometimes. A joke, an expression, that thing you do when you see something you don't like — you scrunch up your nose like it smells bad. But, I dunno, you're... lighter? You don't have the same baggage, you don't do the same shit that used to piss me off. It's sort of refreshing."

"This might be the wrong thing to say, but sometimes... you talk about Minho like he was difficult to be with."

"I don't want to remember him as some kind of saint. I'm gonna remember him as he was — annoying and stubborn and selfish, like everybody else on the planet. He just happens to be the only person I've ever loved."

I smile. We fall silent and eventually he dozes off. I imagine being Minho, lying next to Jisung every night and watching him fall asleep. Waking up, being the one he's happy to see. Feeling the magical love I hear in his voice, no pedestals or prejudice.

I think I want him to love me like that.

I let out a breath. Never mind living in Minho's shadow — how could he love me? He doesn't know me, I'm only starting to know myself. This is the learning I would have done years ago, the years that were stolen from me.

At least I'm not a stranger anymore, not like in the beginning. I know I like the ambient noise of traffic and passing drunks on the streets below. I like watching the sunset. I like the smell of coffee. I scrunch my nose at stuff I don't like — it's a "thing" I do.

I like being with Jisung. His diligence, his orderly chaos, the way he talks to me, like he cares. He makes me feel like I could love someone, even if we'll never be in love — he makes me feel like I could be worthy. Not a mistake, not a shell, not an absence.

He makes me feel like a somebody.