You're on camera.

He stood with his back to the low-burning hearth, arms crossed. The room was quiet, save for the soft crackle of flames and the ticking of the grandfather clock across the room — tick, tock — a sound he wouldn’t normally notice, but tonight it scraped at his patience like a dull blade. Tier had been watching him for too long. Zero could feel it even though he hadn’t bothered to look.

“Whatever it is you think I’m going to say,” he uttered, his voice low, weeping with apathy. “You’re wrong.”

Tier didn’t answer.

Instead, he approached with the kind of slow and confident gait that made Zero’s shoulders tighten. No hurry, nor fear, just a quiet arrogance that always walked two steps ahead of danger, almost as if Tier knew even the worst wouldn’t touch him. The space between them evaporated quickly, and before he could fully turn to face him, the elder was already close enough that he could see the faint glint of amusement buried deep behind his lashes.

“I’m not in the mood.” He spat flatly, cold eyes meeting his.

That was when Tier raised his hand. Not to strike, not to grab. No. He reached up and touched Zero’s lips — two fingers, light as a breath, the pads of them resting over the line of his mouth.

He went still from the sheer gall of it, that Tier had the fucking audacity to touch him in such a manner. His jaw flexed beneath the touch, but he doesn’t pull away. Not while the other’s eyes were fixated on him like that, calm and amused. They weren’t searching for a reaction, they were daring one.

The silence between them deepened, weighted and pointed. until Tier finally murmured, voice low. “You’re doing it again. Talking too much.”

A slow breath coiled in Zero’s chest. He could’ve broken the hand. He could’ve shattered every bone in Tier’s wrist before the man had time to blink. But he didn’t. Not because he couldn’t, but because that’s exactly what the other would have wanted. Something sharp, messy even, and he refused to give them the satisfaction.

The Last of Us — Accepting.

The speakeasy is dead quiet, cloaked in the kind of stillness that only exists behind locked doors and drawn velvet curtains. The air holds the last traces of incense, something dark and earthy, curling around the low lights like ghost smoke. Outside, the city moves on without them. Inside, it feels like time has stepped back, like the walls themselves are holding their breath.

Baekhyun moves behind the bar with mechanical ease, sleeves rolled to his forearms, pale skin catching soft glints of amber under the stained-glass lamps. He pours with precision, unhurried, the bottle tilting just enough to let the liquor fall slow and deliberate into the glasses he's chilled minutes earlier.

Seungjun sits across from him, posture relaxed but eyes watchful, the dim light catching the dull gleam of the ring on his hand and the sharp line of his jaw. A half-smile tugs at his lips — more provocation than warmth — as he watches Baekhyun move. There's something unreadable in his gaze, something ancient and tired and a little too familiar.

Baekhyun doesn't laugh. Doesn't smile. Doesn't even blink.

He caps the bottle, sets it down, and finally looks up — his expression unimpressed, his gaze sharp.

"If this is a date," he says flatly, voice cut from glass and disdain, "then I'll start lighting candles and writing my will."

He slides the drink across the bar with a practiced flick, the glass coming to a stop right in front of Seungjun.

"You're lucky I didn't lace it with wolfsbane."

He leans back against the shelves, arms crossed, letting the low light cast sharp lines across his cheekbones.

"But sure," he adds, deadpan. "Let's call this romance. I'll let you pick out our matching coffins."

Jimin didn’t like waiting.

The clearing was quiet save for the restless wind combing through the trees and the occasional crackle of pine needles beneath her boots. High above, the clouds hung low and heavy, threatening rain but never quite delivering. She stood at the edge of the field, arms folded across her chest, watching the distant tree line like it might breathe.

A single kunai turned idly in her fingers, a habit more than a threat, the edge seemed sharp with intent.

Her chakra had been agitated all morning, running hot beneath her skin. The strange, electric itch she only got when something in her wanted to burn. She hadn’t slept, hadn’t eaten. She didn’t need to. There was no room for softness in the days leading up to the Chūnin Exams, no time to waste.

There was a sudden shift in the air, followed by the scrape of wheels over dirt and a clumsy thud that broke through the air. She sensed him before she saw him, but her gaze didn’t shift immediately. She let the silence settle for a little longer, just to see if he’d speak first. When he didn’t, her voice slipped out.

“Fifteen minutes late.”

He didn’t apologize. Of course he didn’t.

“I said noon,” she added, finally turning her head to look at him. Her eyes met his, unwavering and unbothered, as she stepped forward, closing the distance between them with the same stillness a flame had just before it ignited.

Her eyes flicked once to the bat slung across his back.

“How quaint,” she murmured, then raised her hand — a seal already forming between her fingers. The temperature shifted, the wind stilled. Then — crack. A burst of fire erupted behind her like a breath of a dragon held too long in her lungs, flaring once, then gone.

There he was, standing behind a group of ninjas who couldn’t make up their minds on what to order from the food stall. They had been going back and forth on the type of fillings they wanted in their rice balls because, for some reason, they couldn’t all get different flavors. No, they had to agree on the same one. Their lack of individuality and decision-making made him even more impatient. 

“Just get the fucking snow crab! It’s the best one!” he exploded, startling the entire group. If only it had ended there. They weren’t so fond of his outburst, and because Seungho wasn’t someone who would take any negative comments lightly, a brawl was inevitable. Unfortunately, it was a 3 versus 1 fight. At the end of it, not only did he not get his food, but he was chased out of the area and was now late for his meet-up with Jimin. 

Great. Great. 

Battered and bruised, the wheels of his skateboard get caught on an uneven stone. All he sees are blurs of colors as he goes flying onto a patch of grass with a thud. Chest to grass, there’s a low groan emitting from the back of his throat. He starts to wonder which past Hokage he must have pissed off today for all the bad luck he was receiving. 

Jimin’s less-than-impressed comment about his tardiness goes unanswered. He prefers to look away from the direction of her voice after meeting her gaze. There’s no way he’s going to admit to her the reason behind his late arrival. He’d rather be tortured. 

At this point, he had already gotten up off the ground. His hands are now dusting the front of his clothes to remove the dirt. There are specs of blood staining a few spots here and there. It wasn't his.

The sound of a crack alerts him, and he immediately goes on the defense with his hand reaching back to grip the handle of his baseball bat. In an instant, it turns a lightning blue as it’s imbued with his chakra. 

Seungho still doesn’t look at her. Even in the face of a challenge, a girl was a girl. His eyes close, and he uses his chakra to enhance his sense of hearing. It would be the only way he could fight her. Thankfully, he’d become more adept at fighting blind. 

“Wh-what the hell does that mean?”  a click of his tongue. What a handicap. He needs to get over this personality trait of his because it’s only a hindrance. “Don’t forget who won the last match.”

"I   dare   you   to   try."

"Do   you   always   get   close?"

"You’re   pushing   my   limits."

"Stop   looking   at   me   like   that."

"I’m   losing   control   here."

"You   have   no   idea,   do   you?"

"I   can’t   resist   you   anymore."

"Stay   back,   or   don’t."

"I   know   what   you   want."

"This   is   getting   dangerous   now."

"You’re   too   tempting   for   me."

"I   shouldn’t   want   this,   but…"

"I   don’t   play   fair,   remember?"

"Careful,   you’re   testing   me."

"You’re   just   making   it   worse."

"You’re   too   close   for   comfort."

"Do   you   always   push   buttons?"

"Stop   before   I   kiss   you."

"You’re   making   it   too   hard."

"I   can’t   stop   thinking   about   you."

"I   want   you   too   much."

"You   know   exactly   what   you’re   doing."

"I’m   not   playing   games   here."

"You’ve   crossed   the   line   now."

"Keep   pushing,   and   you’ll   regret   it."

"This   is   dangerous,   isn’t   it?"

"I’m   trying   not   to   care."

"Don’t   make   me   regret   this."

"You’re   playing   with   fire."

"You   don’t   know   what’s   coming."

"I   shouldn’t   be   this   close."

"We’re   getting   dangerously   close   now."

"I   can   feel   the   heat."

"Don’t   test   me   right   now."

"I   want   you   too   badly."

"Don’t   make   me   chase   you."

"You’re   distracting   me,   you   know."

"I   won’t   fall   for   this."

"I   want   you,   but…"

"What   do   you   want   from   me?"

"I’ll   never   give   in."

"I’m   trying   not   to   care."

"You’re   playing   with   my   patience."

"Don’t   make   this   harder,   please."

"I   can’t   stop   this   feeling."

"I’m   already   in   too   deep."

"You   won’t   walk   away   unscathed."

"You’re   walking   a   fine   line."

"I’m   trying   to   stay   calm."

"You’re dramatic," he mutters flatly, not bothering to meet Seungjun’s gaze as he turned his attention back to the open book before him. "You’re not dying... yet. You’re just inconveniently occupied."

The pages of the thick tome whispered against his gloved fingers as he flipped through it, eyes scanning rapidly, tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek. One book. Then another. Then a third. He shifted slightly in his seat, muttering something inaudible under his breath — possibly in an older dialect, possibly just profanity.

After another minute, Baekhyun paused.

His finger tap twice against a yellowed page, the ink curling in elegant, archaic script. "Found something."

He doesn't look up. Just begins reading aloud, tone neutral:

"Soul tethering is reversible. Depending on the number of entities attached and their state of unrest, one must choose between transference or release. A soul may be sealed into an object — though containment requires emotional resonance. Think horcrux, if you’re feeling poetic."

Baekhyun finally glances up, his gaze sharp now, cutting through the haze like a scalpel.

"Or," he continues, flipping the page, "if you're feeling generous, a portal can be conjured. Not easy. Needs anchoring, a tether strong enough to split realms without collapsing. Blood helps. Yours preferably. But that’s the noble option."

He leans back slightly in his chair, eyeing Seungjun with faint amusement now — though it never quite reached his mouth.

Seungjun’s favorite reaction, though, was that sharpened gaze of theirs. For someone - no, some thing - who enjoyed their own superiority, Seungjun found it laughable how predictable it all was. Everything he perceived so far was, for lack of a better term, ordinary. 

Perhaps this was the reason why he preferred to be ‘dramatic’. He considered counting how many times he’d feel the cut of their stare. A fun personal wager. The only loser would be the vampire.

“Don’t flirt with me so openly. I wear my heart on my sleeve,” he responds, having never looked away from them. Those red eyes were cold and unfeeling. Not even the glow of the yellow lightbulbs could warm them. It was a shame considering how pretty he thought they were. 

“Prison.” It was an easy answer. There was something in his gut telling him that not everything he was concealing was meant to be released. He wasn’t exactly sure why, but this would be a way to find out. “Feel free to tell me how much you expected that answer.” Pause. “Or,” he continued, “if you’re feeling extra nonchalant today, how you didn’t care either way.” Seungjun had his arms out with a shrug. His eyes closed briefly, and though he didn’t reveal the smile behind his now neutral expression outright, it was clear he was having his fun. 

His arms find their way back to the armrests. “You remind me of someone. A pretty bird trapped in a cage. A nightingale,” he says quietly while propping up an elbow and rubbing his upper lip with the side of his finger. “Mm,” A thoughtful hum, “I don’t know what it is about vampires, but you’re all the same in the beginning.” There’s that smile again. "Cold and mean or aggressive and exceptionally violent. My little nightingale... he used to sing to me,” He breaks his stare to sink into a memory. “It was always about how much he wasn’t into me. He used to look at me the same way you do. He was dry, boring, and also thought I was dramatic. I used to stick my arm against his mouth for fun.” A soft laugh escapes him. 

“But one day… he flew away,” he readjusts in his seat to lean his elbows on his knees towards Baekhyun. “I never locked the cage. You see… There was never a cage to begin with. That was in his head. He put himself there until he realized he could leave whenever he wanted.”

Seungjun stares at Baekhyun with his smile reaching his eyes. “That’s all just to say that… I love the way you sing, too.”

JUYEON for DAZED April

He felt the blade before he saw it.

A flash of movement, the whisper of silk against flesh - and then pain, sharp and immediate, blooming under his ribs like something rotten finally tearing free. Zero staggered. His boots carved deep furrows in the dirt, a breathless curse caught in the back of his throat as blood spilled between his fingers, dark and hot. The strike had slipped past his guard like it had been there before he even moved; meant to wound, not to kill.

But it was too fucking close.

Tier stood a few paces away, weapon still drawn, his chest rising slow and steady. No taunt. No smirk. Just the faintest tilt of his head as he watched Zero bleed. Calm, beautiful. Drenched in quiet menace.

Of course Tier wasn't here to win, he was here to humiliate him.

He watched as the elder stepped closer, gaze never leaving his. No rush, no mercy. His voice, when it came, was soft enough to be mistaken for kindness if not for the gleam in his eyes. "Go on," Tier murmured, "No one will hear your screams."

The words slid in just as deep as the blade had. Neither loud, nor cruel. Worse. Something in Zero snapped. He moved before his body could argue. Blood poured freely down his side, but rage outplaced pain. In the blink of an eye, his hand shot out, fingers locking around the other's throat with a force that made bone groan beneath skin. The world filtered. Tier's back slammed into the sparring post behind him, hard enough to rattle the wood.

The concubine didn't flinch. He just blinked slowly, as if surprised, and then smiled.

That fucking smile.

Zero's breath was ragged. His body screamed for him to let go, to collapse, to bleed out like a dog, but he didn't. He pressed in close, forehead nearly brushing Tier's, fury held together by sheer will and the taste of iron in his mouth. "You really think I scream?" he rasped, voice frayed and low. "You think that blade was enough?"