don't be afraid.

at least, she’s almost sure they’re not close enough for that yet.

and so instead she opts to focus on the relief that washes through her when he does move, rolling back her shoulders as she moves closer to the male, eventually taking a knee beside him as her brows furrow. “han?” miyoung repeats a bit more firmly—did he not hear her the first time?—decidedly shifting a bit closer as she shifts the flashlight to her other hand. she suppresses a sigh as slender, hesitant fingers reaches out to brush over the icy skin of his cheek, eyes narrowing slightly once she notices the dried blood—a stark contrast to deathly pale skin—as well as the dazed, hollow look in his eyes.

“yah…” the woman frowns, fingertips sliding over his lower lip briefly as her head tilts, leaning in a bit closer to try and meet his eyes. “you must be freezing—what are you doing out here?”

his own train of thought goes into unpleasant places, where he’s strapped to a bed and medicated until he can hardly keep his eyes open. he doesn’t want another nightmare to come to life.

her touch registers as comforting, even if the heat radiating from her skin stings. han stares up at her, lips pursing beneath her thumb before he speaks—tone weary, raspy with disuse. “don’t take me to the infirmary.” groaning, he forces the words out; past rattling teeth and minute shivers. the chill moves up his spine, all the more obvious for the fact that he’s awake now. whatever solace sleep had offered him has been ripped away—“i just wanted to get out of the school.” out of his room. away from anything that could remind him. away from anything breakable.

he didn’t want to die. if anything, coming out had been a measure to prevent just that.

the air is cold. clinical, in a way—save that there’s no telltale odor of antiseptic hanging in air. the only discernible thing is the coppery scent of blood; of the pain and sickness embodied in the crimson liquid that creeps across the floor. a cursory glance provides no clue as to whose it is. the bodies of each captured mutant line the floor in haphazardly constructed rows, surrounding a single drain in the floor. there’s no treatment, no pretense of care beyond the occasional glance of soldiers armed from head to toe, or men and women clad in white coats with clipboards clasped against their sides.

one makes a note.

the next steps inside, past countless safeguards to draw fresh blood from each of the wounded. the guard that follows in wears a smile and bears the tattoo iv on her arm—“anyone that does something dumb can watch as all of their friends die.”—she warns, not for the first time. as always, her words are mild; tone almost pleasant.

though it doesn’t matter, in the end. the first bullet that pierces him sets him ablaze with pain; his leg collapses beneath him and han finds himself trying to ignore the stinging in his eyes—the second shatters his collarbone. the man taking aim at him lurks in the shadows. the silhouette follows his every movement as he stumbles through the alleyways of the city, putting all of his weight on a single, good leg.

he can’t go home in anything more than a single piece. for soojung and for jinri, who have already lost enough. funny, how the worth of his existence is tied to them so intricately, but it’s the single thread that he pulls himself by—

the mantra that he repeats in his every thought.

he only briefly spots naeun before he’s thrown into the nearest wall, feeling brick colliding with his spine hard enough that his body cracks.

“what a nice little trick.” the man mutters, and he looks nothing like any soldier that han has ever seen; wild eyes and scathing sarcasm. “how long can you keep it up?”

he speaks as if it’s all just a game. han is inclined to agree.

even as his body is broken down long after his power gives out.

tossed into a cell with the rest, he’s barely conscious enough to manage little more than a glance at his friends--barely able to feel something that isn't shattered into little pieces.

he finds relief in the single fact that they’re alive.

maybe they'd forgive him for not coming back.

let them suffer.

mourn.

with the rest of them.

it is because of that that she’s the only one to venture into the forest to pick up after the mess they had left on the night of the news — of course, this had been trivial as fuck and honestly only done at the suggestion of junki himself, but miyoung opts to keep her opinions to herself this time around. she needed the busywork, if she’s honest, something to keep her mind off things.

leaves crunching under her boots, the mutant is slow to make her way into the forest, sharp rain bouncing off the pastel umbrella held upright as she maneuvers through the greenery as she keeps her flashlight directed at the path before her. it might have been a slight misjudgment—to come out at night, but it wasn’t like there was anything out to attack her anyway. no one in their right mind would given her temper right now.

she does, however, jump a little once her foot hits something a bit too meaty to be a tree – blinking back into focus as her gaze lowers to the obstruction before her, taking note of the leg—well then—before flicking her wrist, eyes following the light to soon settle on a far too familiar face.

“…han?”

the battle to be waged just for control over something as simple as breathing.

he doesn’t hear the quiet footsteps—the muted crunch of snow beneath thick, winter boots—nearing him. the nudge of one against his calf escapes all notice, as he purses dry, blue-tinted lips in his slumber and releases a shallow breath. his lungs seem to rattle with the motion, though their job in providing air to his ailing body is completed (for the moment, before it begins anew with the next breath).

behind his eyelids, he envisions smiling lips and an apology whispered in his ear as the wind rushes past. the trick that his every sense plays on him offers a small respite, taking him back to the moments when being mad at her was a luxury he could afford.

now, it all seemed so pointless.

he’d been wasting time.

the calling of his name draws him slowly from the delusion—bringing with it the now-familiar clenching of his chest and a short, choked sound. his lashes flutter, sealed shut with a layer of ice that falls away as he blinks. slowly, his eyes open in the darkness, staring at roaming shadows in the distance as the leaves above their heads sway.

the presence of another is clear, though han isn’t sure he wants to be seen (or found).

maybe the suggestion wasn’t one that she took seriously. maybe—but it’s instinct that has him double-checking that his power is stifled, leaning his shoulder against the wall to regard her with a light frown, “you couldn’t ask xavier to dig around in there?” he taps his temple for emphasis—

the smell of food wafting in the air as they spilled into the streets was tempting to the young specter, endless thoughts on what they could have with difficulty on choosing just one. “meat …” was his first and prioritized option but that could get expensive sometimes so he rushed to think of something else, pulling at his facial mask. “or … um …! pizza! or maybe there’s a lotteria nearby …? um …”

he trailed off on his rushed words at the soldiers not too far from their sights. he subsconsciously pulled his mask up higher and continued shuffling his feet so that he was walking alongside han, peering up at the question. “oh … ! well, you know … training, mostly … training and sleeping … writing,” he mumbled, trying not to shift his eyes back to the soldiers. there really was no reason for them to be loitering around like that — what were they even trying to do? scare mutants into scrambling to show some normalcy?

ugh.

it takes an act of willpower to brush off the turn in mood that had him out in the first place. he’d been going for a drink—for the chance of a good night’s sleep. maybe he’d get that in a way that didn’t require copious amounts of alcohol, but that was only if he managed to keep his stress down. managing something of a smile, he cast a glance at jeongguk and considered his answer—“you don’t do much, do you? enjoying your break?”

hell, he was enjoying this himself. his attention shifts to the line of restaurants along the street, reading signs until one catches his eye, “not really. training, sleeping, detention.” han doesn’t eat as much anymore; or at least, none of his meals are the kind that require sitting down—so they hardly count as something that occupies his time. instead, he chooses to count the hours wasted away in empty classrooms, staring at a prick of a teacher sitting behind their desk and grading papers.