find x.

hi hello! the name’s jade, i’m over 21, and i’m here to introduce you to my boy inho : ) he lives on the 6th floor and breaks into buildings for a living. down below is a summary of his bio and possible connections. give this intro a like if you want to plot and i’ll slide into your dms, or just do it yourself! i’m on discord too, if you prefer that - just ask for my @. i’m looking forward to writing with you all!!

relevant links: stats / biography / pinterest

summary.

inho wasn’t really allowed to go outside much as a kid, and grew up fairly isolated outside of immediate family. when he turned ten and got his first computer, he starting living most of his life online.

his mother’s early-onset alzheimer’s eventually got bad enough that inho and his little sister were shipped off to their dad, who’d divorced their mother during inho’s childhood. inho fell into bad crowds both on- and offline, snuck into places he wasn’t supposed to be in and started exploiting holes in the security of the school’s server.

he eventually managed to turned his (very specific) skillset into a job: after graduating with a bachelor’s in computer science he got into cybersecurity, and then went into penetration testing because of a friend’s suggestion. he’s currently working on a 5-person team and does some bug hunting on the side. his hours are very flexible.

possible connections.

i strongly prefer detailed threads, pre-established connections and brainstorming, so these are mostly meant to serve as ideas to start with!

casual threads / bumping into each other

your muse locked themselves out? inho can probably help. considering this is his job and all that.

in a similar vein, he’s also good with tech! so if there are any issues, it won’t hurt asking him.

inho smokes and keeps odd hours, so it’s not unlikely someone might run into him on the rooftop late at night.

someone’s lost item appears at his place! bonus points if it’s something small he doesn’t immediately notice.

and on the flipside: maybe he’s lost something (north facing apartments only)

acquaintances & closer connections

inho travels a lot for work, so he needs someone to feed his gerbils when he’s out!

someone who joins him on his morning runs or plays on his handball team.

connections from school & uni. not necessarily them meeting on campus (though of course i’m open to that), but running in the same circles / showing up at the same parties works, too. must be roughly his age range.

hookups! just don’t be surprised if he ghosts your muse and then acts like nothing happened the next time they see each other. male only, cannot be more than 3 years younger than him (25+)

same vibe, different flavour: exes. again, male only, around his age.

for younger muses: friends of his sister’s.

someone he meets while he’s working. maybe he pretended to be tech support at their work place, and they run into him again after it’s been made obvious that he very much wasn’t.

pr0caine​:

A stretch, a shared flame, and a moment where the air clouds into a smog between them. “Yeah?” Harang tips his head back, this time to exhale out above their heads, so the wind can carry it off and away from his eyes. “In theory I’d agree. When I can’t sleep, I come up here. Then I smoke too much and make myself nauseous. Then I go work until I don’t.” it feels like oversharing, but usually people like that kind of thing, Harang’s observed. Where you offer them pieces and pretend they’re all pretty and unique. Everyone likes feeling special, even during coincidental night-chats when you’re still feeling someone out. 

“Roof’s better than the alley. When nobody’s up here anyways.”

“i dunno, the lighting was so bad. kinda liquid.” not blood, because he probably would’ve noticed that, but not completely clear either. kind of murky, in a way that had felt overly reminiscent of the cheap horror movies inho likes to indulge in. “but not just on the floor, is the thing. hands, too. i thought it was a halloween setup, honestly, but who knows. maybe i’m just seeing shit.” maybe it’s the sleep-deprivation, a tiny voice in his head says. “and if they’re trying to frame me, they’re doing a shitty job. my feet are smaller than that.” plus, inho’s not that stupid, and everyone who knows him knows that. though it’d probably make for a decent strategy: throw them off with complete incompetence. “who would i murder, what do you think? a jilted ex-lover? the neighbour who’s been looking at me wrong?”

he shrugs the question off, because so what if he’s been poking at the security systems, it’s within his rights to see how well-protected his living space is. “i mean, there’s a bunch of weird stuff, and nothing’s ever done about that. and if you say anything, they tell you you’re imagining it.” or so he’s been told, because inho doesn’t say shit to anyone. “so we’re either all hallucinating or they’re looping the tape. easy.” and a bit of a sidestep, but harang’s an acquaintance at best.

inho shifts in his seat, throws a leg over the armrest in a position that won’t be sustainable at all, not over a longer period. “what, me? i’m the most innocent man you ever did see.” and his lips curl around the cigarette, where he’s put it between his teeth for safekeeping while he puts away the pack. “i’ve no clue where you got the impression i might be anything but.”

it’s not really harang’s place to ask about this, but inho doesn’t mind all that much. waits for his fire before he replies, though, and takes the first drag, too. “yeah. usually. i’ll close my eyes and i’m gone. but if my brain’s still working i need to shut it up first, hence these midnight trips.” no comment on it being way past midnight. “you can’t?”

“the trick,” and it comes out teasing, “is to stop while you’re ahead. just one smoke.” when they’re up here together, it usually turns into more than that. but inho doesn’t tend to make himself sick. “so i guess the best thing for you would be to just stay down there, maybe look into other methods.” in any other conversation, inho’s raised eyebrow wouldn’t turn it into something skewing dirty, but harang had brought it up earlier.

his frustration gets the best of him as he pretty much abuses the button, repeatedly pressing it too harshly. he wouldn’t be surprised if the whole thing pops off.

he turns to the only person next to him, @f0ulfellow, and taeoh lets out a tired sigh.

“i can’t believe it,” is all he can say.

at least it doesn’t happen when he’s in any real rush.

it’s not that inho’s an optimist, or at peace with himself and with the universe stuck in a lift when he’d meant to be outside running, but he’s long accepted that fighting fate won’t get him anywhere. that staying calm and waiting it out is usually the best option, too – it certainly seems to work with that odd sense of vertigo he gets sometimes. and truly, it’s one of the most normal things that have happened in this complex. he might actually be able to complain about this one, to friends and family, instead of having to bite his tongue lest they think he’s losing his sanity.

maybe he should be grateful, in that sense. could be worse. could be something he can’t just shrug off once he’s made his way through the situation. and really, a broken lift is the least of his current worries.

“you really don’t need to slaughter that poor button, man. i think they’ve got the memo.” and there’s in-house maintenance, so he doubts it’ll take long to fix. inho folds himself down and into a crouch, tips his head back to watch taeoh freak out from an even more unflattering angle.

“i do think though,” she starts with washing the vegetables, “that you work way too much. my eyes would pop out if i looked at a screen for that long.”

“well, for you i’d make an exception.” if siyeon announced her presence in his life weeks in advance, giving him enough time to clear his schedule: as is, inho is forced to work around a job that desperately needs wrapping up, both because he feels himself growing uneasy and because the client is waiting. it’s just been rough trying to find weak spots to poke at. “but i swear i won’t get too distracted. it’s kinda mind-numbing overall.” usually he’d put on a show in the background, or call his sister, but he doesn’t mind someone coming in the cook, make use of the kitchen gadgets he’s bought but uses maybe once every few months.

he peers into the bag while he asks the question, but the ingredients in there are too generic for him to be able to figure it out without any background info. and she supplies it so readily, too, with him barely having to ask. “sounds good.” inho doesn’t really share the same claim she has on the cuisine – his mother hadn’t been one for cooking, and they’d so rarely seen family – but that doesn’t mean he can’t enjoy it. “what drama, is it any good?”

sometimes he watches her suggestions, but mostly he hands them out as social currency. tells his friends about it, or someone he’s trying to get closer to. they get each other on that, the part of the job where you talk to people, try to solve them like puzzles. the weakest link in the network; inho’s always liked staying behind a screen better than the in-person component, but that doesn’t mean he avoids it when it needs doing. the looks do help. for her, too, probably.

they make their way towards inho’s living space, him setting the bag down on the counter and unpacking, her washing her hands. siyeon’s been over often enough that inho doesn’t doubt she’ll find everything that she’ll need – or poke through his cabinets without shame or remorse, if she doesn’t – but he still hovers around until she tells him to get back to work, and then he ducks into his office to grab his laptop and a sheet of paper for notes. spreads his things out on the dining table after that, watches the screen light up again, and clicks through the next few uninteresting pictures. “’m not coding”, he retorts, almost more distracted than he promised he’d be. taps the end of his pen against the wood of the table. “just looking at the webpage. working out the layout.”

“The cure to being beat isn’t to go smoke. Why are you avoiding it?”

Sometimes people’s problems make a good jumping off point for an idea. Twist it between his palms until he can rework it like clay into a storyline he’s built up writers block on. And sometimes other people’s problems just distract Harang from his own.

there’s a laugh claws its way up inho’s throat, and it comes out short. “yeah? did you see those-“, a pause, because that chair is so damn loud, “those footprints on the floor? i think i’ve been set up or somethin’.” or maybe he should worry about his sanity, but it really looks like a well thought-through prank. and if it’s not, inho’s been getting very good at shrugging and moving on. so what, if there might be a ghost stalking the hallways? he’s got more important things to worry about, like what he’s going to eat for dinner or that stain he hasn’t been able to get out of his favourite black sweater. not that it’s very visible, the problem is just that he knows it’s there, and it’s been bugging him for days. “i dunno if those even show up on camera, though. the resolution’s not good enough for that, i don’t think, and honestly i’ve got this theory that they’ve just been looping the footage.”

no comment on why inho holds these opinions; they came to him in a dream, if asked.

he settles down after that, makes himself as comfortable as you can be on a cold piece of metal. “ha! things that bump in the night are the most fun, in my experience.” if he was more expressive, he’d probably be smiling through the innuendo, but you don’t really need to go that far with harang. and it’s not a good joke in the first place.

there’s a moment of quiet as he thinks of it, but harang’s right when he’s saying that his own schedule is more flexible. inho’s really isn’t, even when it might look like it. “i just work night shifts a lot.” which isn’t that far from the truth, because he can concentrate better when the world around him has quieted down, and he likes jobs that involve jumping fences more than those that have him slipping through doors after employees, even when those are much more common. “probably gonna get some shut eye after this, though.” because he’d been tired already, but then he’d felt that itch.

the flame comes to life with a hiss when harang clicks on his lighter, and inho has to stretch to lean in with the cigarette between his teeth, but he manages to get it lit. inhales smoke, holds it for a moment, then lets it all go in a rush. he doesn’t really like to think that he’s addicted, but he probably is. to those cold nights, at least, when you’re shivering without a jacket but too alive to care about that.

he half-waves at the waitress to get her attention, tells her he’s decided on the egg-and-avocado toast after all. when she takes the menu from him, she hardly looks surprised.

inho’s sleep schedule has always been non-existent. as a child, he’d nap in the afternoons, spend the evenings forcing his parents to watch boring documentaries he always got hooked on rather than the thrillers they had wanted to see. later, he’d sleep in class, stay up on his computer until the sun rose. and now, well. now it entirely depends on the job, which means that when he wakes up at 6am, he tends to just roll with it and out of bed.

it’s coincidence that he runs into jonah after that, but it’s just as well. they don’t talk much during their lap around the nearby park; it’s too early for conversation, and inho’s too restless to try and engage his brain. only when his breath comes out uneven and he’s feeling his muscles do they slow down, and then the decision is made to grab breakfast together, and he won’t say not to that, either. not when jonah’s decent company, and it gives inho an excuse to indulge in overpriced tea and conversation that’ll be interesting enough.

“nah.” inho thumbs over the edge of the menu. his posture’s something close to a slouch: the chairs they’re sitting in are oddly-shaped, forcing you to either sit ramrod straight or stare at the ceiling. good thing that inho’s never cared much for public perception, and that the place is still empty, with the brunch business not yet booming. “what, this early? when i could be sleeping? please, as if.”

he’s not really changed that much. left his nine to five, and he could still pick up his sister at three am if she called, it’s just that she’s old enough now to get a taxi. it’s about the principle, though. “if i’m up, i’m up, so i thought i might as well.” sometimes he does set an alarm, when he needs to get used to early hours and the cold of an early morning might help him stay awake, but that’s rare enough that it doesn’t bear mentioning. inho squints at jonah, taps the cardboard corner twice with his ring finger. he doesn’t mean to judge, but… “you really do this for fun? like, voluntarily?”

the car ride back to the apartment is quick despite his pit stop at the liquor store and he's grateful for the half-empty roads mixed with his luck of not running into many red lights. he does his usual after work routine of parking his car, making sure all doors are locked, and heading into the elevator but instead of pressing the 8th floor he hits the button for 6. soon enough he appears before inho's front door, ringing the doorbell and knocking. "hyung, i'm here! let me in ~" his tone is whiny, child-like, as it usually is when he shows up unannounced in front of inho's door.

there’s a method to these evenings, and it’s so simple that it’s been long ingrained into inho. almost an autopilot, muscle memory based on years of repetition: get dressed in one of several pre-determined outfits, eat something light enough not to fuck with his tolerance too much. find someone to pregame with, which is usually an easy task.

of course, today all that goes down the drain when inho’s phone buzzes with an incoming message the moment he opens the app to confirm his plans. but he’s always been good at improvisation, has to be anyway, and sungho’s one of his closest friends, so inho reconsiders. shifts around the way his evening might go but doesn’t bail out on the club just yet, because sungho might want to come with and it’s been a while since they’ve been out together. plus: this one time, they might just agree on the spot, instead of arguing for half an hour what kind of crowd they want to join.

he doesn’t reply, because a non-reaction from inho is usually a go-ahead and sungho can just take the lift up to his apartment in a pinch. the bottle of vodka he keeps in the freezer stays unopened, too: knowing his guest, he’ll probably bring something along, and inho’s not cheap but he’s not stupid, either.

sungho shows up a few minutes past the promised thirty, dressed up in a suit with a tie that’s just a little crooked. inho looks indecent in comparison, but he somehow always manages to. it’s the undercut, inyoung used to say. inho’s not so sure she’s right, but he can pretend. “you know,” and the door presses into his shoulder where he’s leaning his weight against it, in danger of losing his balance, “i was planning to go out tonight.” sungho can probably tell. inho, graciously, moves to the side, lets him walk through the door and into the apartment.

he really doesn’t need to be told what sungho’s been up to – the getup and the bag in his hand are sign enough – but he asks anyway. “family dinner?” and he really can’t relate himself: his mother’s lucky if he’s wearing jeans to see her instead of sweatpants these days, because inho’s a bad son and cannot be assed to dress up for that sort of thing. not that she’d remember, anyway. and not that he drops by that place often enough for there to be a running theme there, either, that someone might get upset over.

“next month?” sorin looks at inho from the corner of her eye. like she’s totally not paying attention, not trying to pull up her schedule for the next month and a half to see if she could casually find a place to slip in an old friendship. she plucks at a string, fiddles with a tuning peg. trying to find the right note, right words. “i’ve got a couple of shows at timbre, mid november,” she says, hedges an offer in words she knows were meant to poke fun at her. “if she’d want to come.”

“hey yourself.” it’s not like it used to be, but it mirrors the same kind of situation. inho on his computer, sorin barging in on him: it’s intensely familiar. except back then, he’d been sitting at a desk piled with dinnerware he’d been too lazy to carry into the kitchen, the kind of trash that accumulates in a teenage boy’s environment. back then, he’d been more bothered by people walking in on him, too, but that had been a conditioned response and also been related to the things he’d been doing. it had never seemed like sorin caught wind of that: inyoung certainly hadn’t, but inyoung had also learnt how to knock as a child, and never wanted to know anything about what inho got up to in his free time.

it’s better now, but that’s mostly because inho hadn’t known how to set boundaries before he’d moved out – hadn’t been able to anyway – and has little to do with sorin’s presence. the way they interact, though, that’s still the same. in some ways, inho’s always thought of sorin as a second little sister, someone to watch out for. and that’s never changed, not even after years of reduced contact.

he pulls at the tab on his backpack, gets the zipper open far enough to shove the laptop into its designated compartment. “yeah, that’s fair.” inho can’t really relate – his evenings are more often packed than his mornings – but he can imagine. “work treating you well? any exciting projects?”, meaning her job as a musician, because inho can’t and doesn’t really want to talk business. she knows that about him, though, the same way she knows how he likes his pizza and who he mains in smash. it’s not the sort of familiarity he relishes in, but it does make conversation easy. like he can just start prattling on, and she’ll catch his drift quickly enough that he won’t have to explain his thought process.

sorin makes a pretty picture against the backdrop of a clouded sky. bass in her lap, at ease with herself, posture relaxed. inho pulls his phone out of his back pocket, draws a leg up to rest his chin on his knee. he should go downstairs, probably. plug in his laptop and let her practice in solitude. but they’ve never minded each other’s company, and maybe he should follow her lead and keep business within business hours.

center point foyer, early. feat @ltuscter

inho spots it when he gets home. it’s small, unassuming: clearly well-cared for, despite the obvious age. it’s also nothing he’d ever keep around his home, or something anyone who gets undressed near his bed would wear. and yet, it’s gleaming at him, a delicate thing of a necklace right on his counter between the bag of apples and a candy wrapper he hasn’t yet thrown out.

it’s familiar, too, but inho can’t place it just yet. instead drops it into the bowl he keeps on the coffee table that he always adds the things to that randomly accumulate, then turns his attention to unopened mail and cleaning out his backpack. and that’s where it stays while he makes dinner, reads the newspaper, works his way through his routine.

he kind of forgets about it after that. when he’d first moved in and realised what was happening, he’d searched out the owners of the random things that’d appear in his home, but he’s found since then that it isn’t worth the effort, not when there’s nothing to go on. with a name on it, sure, or if it’s something very unique that he might be able to track down. inho’s a curious man: he used to like those escape games that give you only small pieces, to fit into very specific locks. but he’s an adult, too, with responsibilities and too little time to fit his schedule into his day. so sometimes things that are lost just remain lost, without his intervention.

hours later, on his way home to the gym, he finally connects the dots, remembers the little trinket bowl that he’d first seen the piece of jewellery in. he considers just ignoring it. yisol and inho have interacted once, and that time had been so terribly awkward that he doesn’t want to repeat it ever again, especially when he doesn’t have to. she’ll never know, and either way, if she lost it it can’t be that important. and thus is a decision is made. until they bump into each other, that is, the next morning when inho’s on his way out and yisol is checking her mailbox. figures, that his conscience would rear up again at that point.

and it’s not like he’s got an excuse, either: he’s in no hurry. so he stifles a sigh, readjusts his plans, and approaches the girl who’s seen more of his bedroom than most others.

“hey inho, it’s me!” shouldering the bag filled with vegetables and pork, siyeon pressed the “call” button as she approached the door to inho’s apartment. though the interior of the building itself was similar to where she lived, she occupied herself by looking around, craning her neck to peer around the corner. it wasn’t everyday she came to this side of the complex and definitely wasn’t used to it yet. was this the side that brought on random fits of vertigo?

inho had learnt how to cook early.

it’s just kind of what happens: you’re at home with a mother that won’t let you spend the evening with friends and who keeps forgetting to put the groceries in the fridge, and you adapt. and then add a little sister in the mix, who’s hungry but doesn’t want to draw attention to yourself, and it means inho had taught himself how to take care of them both, even if he didn’t often get much in return but chastisements. eventually, when they’d moved, the house had felt so empty that it often seemed like it was just the two of them, inho and inyoung, and it had meant he’d taken his laptop into the kitchen with him, replied to friends in-between chopping vegetables and kneading dough.

so he isn’t really used to someone making something for him, or he hasn’t been for the better part of his life. not specifically for him, at least: takeout really doesn’t count. there’s no love in that, inyoung would say, and maybe she’s right, that it tastes different when the person who cooks for you knows you. inho doesn’t really want to question it: it’s too depressing.

which is a very long-winded way of explaining how he’s arrived in this situation. the short version is this: siyeon had texted about hanging out, inho had eyed the considerable amount of work he still has to finish for the sil-corp job. and now they’ve arrived at this compromise; siyeon using inho’s kitchen and him looking through pictures posted on facebook while she’s at it. it’s good enough because it gives him time he needs, and doesn’t rob so much attention that he stops focusing.

the doorbell rings. inho takes the sheets of paper with sensitive details with him when he gets up, drops them onto the desk in his office. he trusts siyeon for the most part, but he’s not stupid: they’re not bound by the same laws, and inho has done things that make him feel grimy to get closer to a mark. there’s no need to give incentive that he’s not trying to give. especially when he’s being paid good money to make sure vulnerabilities are fixed, not exploited.

pr0caine​:

Despite it, Harang looks casual when he relocates the ashtray and leans the chair back on two pronged and spindly legs. His head folds back over the end of it, just to see how many people might be funneling out. Just one, and he almost ignores them until they start trekking their way over. And by then he almost picks himself up to scrub his cigarette out on the bottom of his heel and leave before he notices the look of them. Inho, and so he lets the chair drop back in a hollow clack and fits the filter back between his lips. “Lonely enough to monitor the hallway cameras?” he says it when Inho gets close enough to hear. Even if it is a joke, it comes out conversational. Dry enough to match the shriveled up bed of radishes someone had planted and forgotten about shoved into the corner gap of the roof. 

“Not sleeping?”

the microwave clock tells him in bright red numbers that it’s past two in the morning when inho finally looks up. and then it takes him a few moments for the information to sink in, mind still stuck on the puzzle in front of him. at some point, the world around him had turned dark: the lamp over the dining table is barely illuminating the pages in front of him, dimmed as it is. it’s a wonder his eyes aren’t straining, or his head pounding.

there’s one mouthful of tea left in the mug - some lavender and chamomile mixture that’s supposed to help him sleep but never does – so he swallows that down, grimaces at the taste. stacks the papers for a semblance of organisation, and hunts down the pen that had fallen some two hours earlier. he feels fuzzy around the edges when he leans back in his chair. tired in a way that speaks of exhaustion more so than anything else. and yet, his mind is still racing.

if he were a man who questions himself, maybe he’d rethink this decision, but inho isn’t. so he pulls a sweater over his head, pockets the pack of cigarettes he keeps on his nightstand. shoves his feet into ratty sneakers kept around for this exact purpose, and then slips out into the dark and quiet hallway. there’s always something about these spaces at night that makes them feel alien, and he feels a shiver running down his back while he waits for the lift to ascend.

he won’t be alone, is the first thing he notices when he puts his hand to cool metal and pushes his way out into the night. and then his eyes catch on the posture, and his body makes the decision to approach before inho realises he’s doing it. harang’s usually good company, even when you want and expect none, and anyway he’s probably got a lighter on him. in a moment of clarity, inho realises that he’s forgotten his own.

“i think i’d be better off watching the street.” there isn’t a chair right next to harang, but dragging one over is a matter of seconds. the legs make an ugly sound, scraping against the ground. inho’s past caring. “and sleeping, do i ever? do you? you’re up here as much as i am.”

that’s the thing they might relate on most closely: inconsistent sleep schedules. inho’s been on this rooftop many a time in the middle of the night, and more often than should coincide, harang had been there, too. and it’s not because inho’s actually monitoring the cameras. (he’d have to care enough to do that.)

5 blocks east of center point, 4:43pm. feat. @98huii​

his feet hit the pavement in a familiar tap-tap-tap, the motion in time with the beat. there’s a pleasant sort of burn in muscles well-used, and he’s feeling it now: it’s like his limbs have unlocked, lost some kind of hidden tension. inho’s always liked this part the most, the home stretch. the last half minute of exertion before his song stops and he slows down, lets his breath even out in tune with the rhythm of his steps.

there’s a tiny excuse for a supermarket on this route home, and he ducks into it afterwards, digs through the pockets of his jacket until he finds the spare change he needs to pay for ginger and milk. gets a melon, too, on impulse, and then struggles when he realises he hasn’t got enough hands to juggle his groceries and get his phone out to skip the next track that has snuck its way into his queue. usually, spotify manages to get his taste right, but there’s always those awkward moments when he doesn’t like what’s being played for him but can’t get it to stop. perhaps it says a lot about him that those issues are the ones he considers most pressing.

it’s only once he’s re-organised himself and stepped out of the store that he recognises the lone figure standing next to the assortment of newspapers out front. it’s probably because of the hoodie that he hadn’t spotted him before, or because inho sometimes loses too much focus when he’s tired. now that he’s gotten a second look in, though, he’s almost certain, which is as good as it’s going to get. for someone who relies on it, inho’s really not that great with faces.

he likes to lie himself by thinking that he doesn’t care about gossip, but lee jongsoo dying had been a piece of news impossible to miss. and now there’s his son, or nephew or whatever, looking lost in front of him. never let it be said that inho doesn’t have some amount of compassion.

rooftop, 10:24pm. feat. @holyrcller​