talk about the burrowed teeth in your rigged flesh,
a thread featuring @inhyelation.
in any other circumstances, he would think about trajectories: all the ways in which his bullets need to hit the aim without curving, the windows of missed shots getting smaller and smaller with each step. in any other circumstances, these would not be emptied fists. instead, these would house the grips of pistols; all specifics that would matter confined to the barricades of people waiting to capture him. but in this one, he’s the hero of the ring. doesn’t mean he didn’t count each exit. in case things go haywire, of course. he’s calculated all probabilities. having paranoia hurts, sure, but it’s good when you’re trying to outrun those wanting to exploit you to death. yet, in any other circumstances, he would think about all the targets — taking them out before they do him. or worse, sending him away in a box for the highest bidder. they’ve shown more than enough to exhibit their intentions. him, alive. mostly, at least. the rest? he’s running from them equally. doesn’t matter.
what matters: now. there are thirteen ways in which this person can outdo him in this fistfight. twenty, if this person is not so encapsulated by the captive audience’s cheers. upon focus, if this person is creative enough. there’s a definite winning bet placed on the opponent, this time twice as muscular as him. barely taller, since iseul himself towers well. at least well enough to ensure that he doesn’t look like a surefire victim. and he’s careful. might not be as strong, but it’s being nimble that matters. ensuring that he has the ring covered, this four by four, big enough for a brawl. a lean, toned, barely out of teenage boy; this is almost a certain defeat unless the audience members have been there long enough to know that this intermittent challenger is no amateur. however, he likes it this way. being incognito. grants privileges of being overlooked. not about the money, but about the applause. a display of flair that he knows is wrong, yet he has dozens of people enabling it anyway. indulging in this vice is one of the concepts that give him hopes. to run, splintering his ankles in the process. to live.
oh, well. here he is again. under the sickly lights, the audience’s euphoric cheers become so amplified they induce some kind of high into his opponent. asphyxia over this heroin is common. iseul looks around as he stands before the thin wired fences, observing. he hasn’t been here for at least two months. certain people have missed him, or more precisely, missed his fiery intents of misplaced violence. or is this? misplaced? better than unleashing it in arbitrary moments. at least, in this case, the opponents ask for it. over mutual engagements, agreements. he sees them smile at him as he sweeps across the arena, but his eyes cease at a stop. it’s a woman he’s known… of. he’s visited her dreams before in some personal missions of comprehending the nature of art dealing. one of the prominent names brought to his attention, he also stumbled upon her in a high-end exhibition. that was when he was in suit and tie, all bruises covered. now, bare as he’s topless, he worries his lower lip between his teeth. what’s someone like her doing in this place—
it matters naught. what matters: now. as the gates fly open, the audience grows even louder. this is when he shuts them out, concentrating on a man inebriated by the weight of rapture. he understands it himself, the feelings of being a five minute god enclosing the mind, yet he doesn’t let his mind loose. he’s out as a winner tonight, or such is the plan. and when the gates are shut, leaving two men morally askew to maim each other to the point of being knocked out, he raises his fists. the man is good, a punch that iseul barely managed to evade. yet when he jabs the side, the man is quick to move back. landing the first attack, the opponent looks more focused now, realizing that the supposed kid isn’t as weak as he seems. so, when there is a series of assault, both via the fists and the feet, launched towards him, iseul is unperturbed. he swiftly reads the moving patterns while having his focus remain intact. subtle gravity of the applause pries him away from his concentration, yet he cannot afford that.
the fight is over without much ado when he’s predicted each move, silently landing two uppercuts that cause the person to stumble backwards. he almost feels bad, but goodness, it does feel good. he’s past the stage of denial: he loves violence like a birthright. there’s no use for a cover, and when he throws a kick to the sternum, the man falls back, raising his hand as a sign of surrender. with the fight ending, he is crowned a winner. took him five minutes and sixteen seconds. good money is a plus; but now, he’s trying to avoid the woman that shouldn’t belong here, underground, with the scums roaming around. there must be a motive behind it, and while as far as concerned she wasn’t a part of those wishing to hold him prisoner, he’s unsure about the current situation. thus, he sneaks away from the elated audience, slipping through as he meanders his way towards the locker room. she’s faster, however, not losing him. upon confrontation, he can feel his face contorted into that look of pain, yielding to the night’s fate. “how… may i help you?” asks politely, although his heart is ramming against his chest.
she dreams, but never like this. not repetitively, anyway. it's been too many nights to count on her fingers. behind her eyes is a permanent sketch of what she's seen for days on end, what she's woken from with not a gasp, but a perplexed raise of her brow and a dry mouth. it's always the same mural come to life; a dancing cluster of smoke and wind and clouds, her in the middle of it all. by the second night, she reaches out to touch it, watching its tail-end wisps vanish just as she wakes up. something is watching her, she thinks. there's no other way to explain this.
she's tugging at her dolce and gabbana just a week later. the fabric stretches around her frame, snug in all the right ways, but hyeri can barely breathe. the hem feels a little short as it cuts at her mid-thighs, and her heels are starting to pinch at her toes. the gallery is drenched in fairy lights and gold decor, hosting a crowd of people too important to pour their own drinks as they waltz around in fendi, dior, and gucci. the high ceilings are meant to elongate the space, but hyeri feels like she's trapped in a fishbowl with no exit in sight.
she sees him just as she turns away from a well-versed greeting with a former client, tight smile kissing ruby red against the glass she finishes off with one last sip. she stops to look. he's head to toe in prada, expression unreadable from some distance away, though it elicits a very familiar twitch of reactions from her champagne-flushed face. there's the perplexed way her brow lifts, and suddenly, her mouth feels very, very dry. the rest of the night goes by in a smoky blur of faceless conversations. by the time she gets home, heels strewn across the foyer and her dress half-unzipped, she hopes to god this was all just an illusion. that night, she sees herself caught in a rerun of the same dream.
coincidence is what brings her here. that's what she'll tell him, she decides a few days later, as she steps into what feels very much like an abandoned cellar. there’s tension palpable from where she’s standing. from here, the ring fades in and out of view. flickering lights hang from the ceiling, casting over the concrete in a lackluster wash of yellow. they slip down the walls to cut through the dust settling over a crowd of roaring men. the ground shakes from beneath her feet. hyeri takes one step forward, then two stumbling steps back. in a sea of bodies, there’s only push and pull. afterwards, there’s only shoving.
it's only a few minutes until the air splits into a thunderous clap of cheers. she lingers by the doors, pressing herself into the damp wall, counting down the seconds until she sees him weaving through the crowd. she releases a heavy sigh and her shoulders sag. relief floods her face as she escapes towards the locker rooms, the air only slightly less stale when she heaves another deep breath — “um, yes... hi.”
she brushes the hair out of her face, eyes round and nervous. he's much taller up close, and she has to remember he's just nearly pummeled a guy to the ground.
“i don't mean to distract you after a win,” she casts her eyes away briefly, then clears her throat as she offers a smile, small and a little out of place. “but i just feel like...” proper explanations are pointless, so she forgets them altogether. "do... you know me?"
