Hi, I'm Crazy

ᗩ ᗯᗩᖇᗰ ᗷᖇEEᘔE caressed her skin, carrying with it the fragrance of valley-sprouted wildflowers. She could spy a remote village from her tall perch as it bustled with life, but could distinguish no faces, no architectural details. Not the dimples in the wood, nor the curves of the roofs, nor the stone path that lined the center. She lifted her eyes.

The sky was blue. Tufted clouds crept along with the speed of the wind, their pristine fullness reflecting the honeyed rays of sunshine, their structure twisting to encourage imaginative pictures from whoever cared to notice them. The temperature was humbly delightful, wrapping around her like a sun-kissed spring blanket and filling her lungs with something she struggled to pin down at first. Peace. Unpolluted, lush, beautiful. 

Colorful blooms danced, their petals unfurled, drinking in all the rich light they could handle. She shifted, the palm of her hand sinking into blades of pliant grass, fingers curling to grasp it gently. This was nature. Quiet, enchanting nature, where she was always at her most tranquil. It was a bandage that healed any wound and a tonic that rejuvenated her with the energy to keep fighting. It was harmonious; it was wholly her element. Always had been, and always would be. 

She breathed in deeply, the tension in her shoulders melting away. She could have remained here forever, at the summit of this hill, soaking up the view. Enjoying her solitude with the earth and its spirited inhabitants. 

"Why do you love it so much?" 

A voice; melodious, low, curious. It resonated from her left, and despite the way her heart flinched at its abruptness, she made no move to visually address the source. Her body exhibited the placidity that flowed off of her like an invisible river that was in no hurry to reach its destination, if it even possessed one at all. She merely tilted her chin, more closely admiring the bright shades of red and yellow that illustrated such an extraordinary picture of grace. A certain quality wound itself into her mind and struck her as familiar. She had heard that person speak before. She knew who it was as easily as she knew the hue of her skin. 

"This? Being...out here?"

"It allows me to feel..." Her mouth opened, and a string of soft vocalizations surfaced in response, her touch tangling through the vivid greenery that stretched for miles in every direction. "To think... To be free... No judgment, no worries for the future, just...me. Alone. Where I can unwind with the gentle side of the world. The side that's a blessing...and not a curse."

A ragged exhale tumbled from his throat, it seemed, before he had a chance to block its path. It was laced with a weight that she recognized even through the rough barriers attempting to shield its vulnerability. The unspoken sorrow, the heaviness of misery that had hardened into something built to wall him off. Preserve him. Keep safe whatever fragments were veiled in there somewhere. 

"What happens when..." his unhurried sentiment was a hushed one, tempted to rock with the deep-reaching notions of doubt that chained him, "...the cursed side no longer slumbers quietly...but spreads like rot through the roots? When it poisons even the meadow you love?”

Her lungs stalled, and gingerly, she turned her head. He sat next to her, knees bent, ebony tresses fluttering with every tempered gust of air. His hat had been abandoned on the ground behind him, letting the golden streaks of sun bathe his attributes instead of hiding them beneath shadow. She studied him, not with scorn and not with fear...but with a tender appreciation that somehow managed to be warmer than the beaming sphere that watched over them so elegantly. Carefully, she twisted a stem around her finger and plucked the violet out of the dirt, bringing it up to his face, the corners of her mouth pulling upward.

"If the curse spreads...then I will love the meadow anyway. It will still be beautiful. Still worth holding dear." She twirled the flower before extending her arm and delicately sliding it behind his ear, her knuckle brushing his temple. He stiffened, but noticeably didn't reel away. Her following sentence decreased in volume, not sincerity. "Even with all its scars."

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .*:☆ﾟ. ───

Her eyes fluttered open, greeted by the off-white textured ceiling that sheltered her from sharing a space with her upstairs neighbors. Grogginess numbed her brain, yet there was a distinct fuzziness that had settled in her chest. It felt foreign, while also mimicking an old friend. As if it belonged there, but had been detached without her knowledge. And now it had returned, more powerful than ever. 

She stirred with a soft groan, rubbing her face, an image plastered in her dream-woven memories. A scene unclear, but safe. Buzzing with shared shelter, comfort...and undisclosed endearment. Recalling how mellow it made her feel was pleasant. She wanted to hug that sensation close forever. It brought her back home, if only for a bubble of limited time. Not to the place she grew up; that was her childhood residence, but it wasn't her home. Not really. 

She wasn't sure where to find it. She never figured it out. The stars were always the closest she came...until now. Everything about the cadence of her unconscious vision radiated a nostalgia that wasn't quite bittersweet, but it was distant. Candid and lost. An echo whose remnants were buried by the debris of her life, barely peeking out to greet her again, or perhaps outstretching its arm for help before it was smothered entirely. A whisper that had weakened with age, but still seeped into her ears as a last-ditch effort to be heard, to be recognized. 

The man... She wasn't able to discern his features. He was blank. A painted canvas shrouded by dullness; color that couldn't break through to her vision. She wasn't sure why. It would have been easy to disregard it as a meaningless reverie figure—someone created and placed by her mind to serve as an interactive piece of her subconscious. Somebody who didn't exist. 

But Y/n just...couldn't believe that. He was too real. Too...ingrained. Carved into the gallery of her recollections, no rhyme or reason. A puzzle piece that didn't fit; a lone tulip stuck in a field of daisies; a misplaced thread from an unidentified origin. But it was there all the same. He was there. She racked her brain for a solution. A companion that drifted away? A coworker she knew? A stranger she passed in a store? 

As she sat up to tame the state of disarray that her hair had adopted, her phone chimed. She had attempted to largely ignore it lately, exhausted by the hateful messages and social media posts tagging her account to discuss her in a variety of manners. Muting it completely wasn't an option, as she did have people in her life she genuinely enjoyed staying in contact with, as well as potential clients who would contact her for a job they needed finished. 

With a drowsy blink and a stressed sigh, she picked it up with the cautiousness of a jeweler, as if scared that it would attack her without warning. Sure enough, there was an abundance of PMs in her inbox, and she reluctantly unlocked the screen and clicked her notifications, scanning the contents. More controversy, more venomous scandals, more targeted abhorrence, yadda yadda yadda. It made her stomach coil uncomfortably, and a seething indignation flared in her chest again. Baby. This was all his fault. Seriously—what was wrong with him? Dragging her into the public eye, breeding trouble where there should have been none. Did he have a problem with her individually? Was this intentional? Was he trying to ruin her carefully-crafted life? Make her miserable?

She was about to toss her phone aside with a growl of tired frustration when a specific series of words hooked her attention, giving her pause. Her heart stuttered in disbelief. There was no way...

She thumbed the message to read the rest, glimpsing repeatedly at the profile responsible for dispatching it, her grasp tightening on her cell. The thoughts running rampant in her head all stalled at once. 

zoeybelle_hx Sent last night at: 11:27 heyyyy y/n omg!! i know this whole thing has been hectic and probably super hard, i just wanted to check in and see how you're doing! <33

Her finger hovered over the 'reply' bar, shock infiltrating her brain like weed killer, shutting down all logic, shriveling coherent thought. If there was one thing she had been expecting, it wasn't this. So Zoey not only remembered her, but cared enough to go out of her way and reach out? This popular, widely-loved celebrity, who likely was busy with countless other projects, still decided to shoot her an amicable text of concern? 

Moisture brimmed her eyes, and she hurriedly wiped them away—only for more to follow them. The phone was dropped gingerly onto the bedding beneath her to free both of her hands, and she burrowed her face into them, her shoulders trembling. This was ridiculous—she shouldn't have been getting so emotional. It was a simple act of kindness, and that was that. Still, her composure unraveled, her heart swelling with gratitude. Zoey genuinely was as amazing as everyone said she was. 

Steeling herself with a sniffle after a few moments, she batted her lashes to eradicate her tears and grabbed the device again, preparing herself to type out a reluctant answer.

'Hi Zoey...'

────୨ৎ────

Oh yeah, this doesn't look suspicious at all, she thinks, her e/c eyes scanning the house cloaked in greenery before moving to the old, barbed-wire fence surrounding it. How exactly are we supposed to get around that?

As if answering her unspoken inquiry, Wisteria steps to a nearby tree, glancing at Y/n cheekily. "I hope you like to climb," is all she utters before reaching up, gripping the branch closest to the ground, and proceeding to pull herself up with zero effort, as if not at all bothered by such physical exertion. She crouches once fully on the branch and hops to another one beside it, though a foot or so higher up. Y/n stands below, staring up at her with apparent disbelief as she makes her way around the tree until arriving on the other side, where she then drops to the ground, on the opposite side of the fence, and brushes the grime off of her hands. "Your turn."

Y/n shoots her an 'are you kidding me?' look, crossing her arms stubbornly. "You...you expect me, to do that?" 

"It isn't hard." She shrugs, and Y/n raises an eyebrow, pointing to her foot as if it's obvious. 

"I can barely walk with this thing. Much less scale a freaking tree." Clicking her tongue, Wisteria places her hands on her hips and narrows her violet eyes. 

"Well, you gotta do it cause there isn't another way over here." Y/n glimpses around the fence, attempting to find some way onto the property that doesn't involve climbing; to her displeasure, she fails. "C'mon, kid. We have to get you in there before Brian gives me an earful."

She shoots a brief glare at the girl, finally stepping to the base of the tree and scoffing. "I am not a 'kid'. You can't call me 'kid'."

"I can do what I want. I'm older than you."

"Yeah, by what? A year? Two?" Wisteria rolls her eyes. "That ain't a big difference."

"It's still a difference. So move it, kid." Deciding to ignore the comment rather than continue arguing, Y/n changes the subject and shifts her attention down to Sally.

"How is she supposed to get over there?"

"Oh, easy-peasy. Show her, Sal." The child nods and straightens her posture, skipping toward the fence. Y/n almost chokes when Sally walks straight through, not bothering to avoid the wood or move the wire, nope; she simply phases right through them and ends up on the other side, appearing unaffected, stuffed bear still in her hand. Wisteria grins proudly, resting a hand on top of the girl's head. "Told ya."

Y/n shakes her head in disbelief, attempting to rationalize what she witnessed. They did tell her that Sally's a ghost, but they never said she could casually stride through solid objects and concrete surfaces. However, if somebody's already dead and is merely a fraction of a physical being, she supposes that not much can hold them back from doing things like that. It's just a little hard to process when it takes place right in front of one's eyes. Perhaps it would be easier to comprehend had she mentally prepped herself for it; if she had expected it and gathered her bearings, though it takes her completely off-guard and she can't stop herself from sucking a large portion of oxygen down her throat, along with saliva, prompting her to cough and shield her mouth with her elbow. 

"Isn't it cool?" Sally says, tilting her head and smiling sincerely. Y/n chuckles nervously, not sure how to react to the situation, and speaks once she catches her breath. 

"Uh...y-yeah. 'Cool.'" She rakes a hand through her h/c hair, trying to blink away the initial shock and reaching up to grab the same branch Wisteria had used to hoist herself up previously, pulling her body toward it. She struggles quite a bit and has to push against the trunk of the tree to gain some kind of boost until eventually, with some effort on her end, she manages to wrap her legs around the more or less thin branch and swings around, getting into a sitting position and trying to ignore the throbbing steadily becoming worse in her foot.

"My God. It's as if you've never climbed a tree before," Wisteria comments, earning a weak glare in response.

"It's a little difficult to climb trees when you live in a city," she retorts, shakily rising and using the tree's body for support so she doesn't lose her balance and plummet to the dirt. "And by the way, I have climbed them before. I'm just out of practice."

"Uh-huh. Go on, keep pulling excuses out of that hat, David Copperfield." Y/n narrows her eyes down at her. "The fact still stands that you suck at climbing trees." Releasing an irritated huff, Y/n gradually makes her way to the second branch she watched Wisteria step on before, keeping her legs from wobbling and putting as little weight on her foot as gravity will allow.

The last time she was in a tree, it didn't end very well, which is the reason she's being so cautious now. "And the fact still stands that you need to shut up before I 'accidentally' fall on your head," she shoots back, maintaining her balance and carefully maneuvering over to the next branch.

Wisteria crinkles her eyes challengingly. "Oh-ho-ho, getting feisty now, are we? You'd better get control because with an attitude like that, in a place like this, you're bound to get hurt."

"Then I reckon you've gotten hurt multiple times, huh?" She grabs the limb above her for assistance and steps to another branch, this one a little lower, steadily making her way around the tree and rarely putting significant pressure on her left foot. 

"Nope." She pops the 'p' and tilts her head upward to look at the girl still in the tree. "Because I know how to not only defend myself but also how to do it correctly." Silently mocking her words, Y/n steps over to the last branch and gazes at the grass, not wanting to jump what she guesses has to be at least eight feet below where she is. There isn't another nearby branch hanging any lower, so she has no other option. "Oh, c'mon. Quit bein' a sissy and just jump already."

Y/n scoffs, choosing not to retort and instead squats, keeping one hand on the tree's main structure as she eases herself into a sitting position. If she has to drop, she's going to get as near to the lawn as she can. "You can do it! It isn't hard." Sally's sweet voice erupts from beside Wisteria, laced with encouragement as she sends her a smile and thumbs-up. Although Y/n appreciates the small gesture, it doesn't do a lot to reassure her, but she responds in kind nonetheless to show her gratitude.

She brushes a strand of hair out of her face that had been previously obscuring her vision and takes a deep, tremulous breath, composing herself and pushing off the wooden limb, hardly having time to react before she collides with the ground rather forcefully. She initially lands on her feet; the harsh, sudden impact causes a bolt of pain to shoot up through her leg and makes her grunt and fall forward onto her knees, no doubt bruising them in the process. She squints her eyes shut in discomfort, biting her lip as she hears the sound of footsteps approaching.

"See? That wasn't so hard, now was it?"

"Screw you," she says, voice hard and strained. She uncurls her legs from under her and examines the current state of her ankle, noticing the deep, scarlet color of blood slowly beginning to seep through the bandages, and narrows her eyes. A faux offended huff tumbles from Wisteria's mouth.

"Well, that's no way to talk to a potential ally."

"You're not an ally," she snaps, gently holding her covered wound and trying to gather the strength to stand on her feet once again. "You told Jack that I was a problem—that you should've killed me." 

"Yeah, I did, and for good reasons. Suck it up, not everybody's gonna like you." She turns and starts to move toward the house, stepping over weeds and skillfully avoiding briars, and is tailed by Sally. "Come on, slowpoke."

Grumbling about how Wisteria's not the one that got mauled on by an overgrown goblin of a dog, she puts quite a bit of effort into standing and drags several feet behind the two other girls as they draw closer to the cabin shrouded with foliage, limping and suddenly looking forward to getting inside so she can redress her wound. Not that she's particularly skilled at doing such a thing, but she's seen it executed in movies and on various shows. How hard could it be? It's just wrapping a long piece of cloth around an afflicted area to get the bleeding to stop. 

She hears Wisteria knock firmly on what she assumes is the front door as she stills behind the both of them, waiting for the one known as 'Brian' to answer and unable to quell the rush of anxiety that jumps within her. If she's going to be living with this person, actually sharing a household with him for a prolonged period, then she'd better get on his good side. It would be very unfortunate for her if he hated her guts and decided to wipe her off the face of the earth. Just be likable and...you'll be fine.

After a few moments, the door clicks and she sees it swing open, revealing an individual of above average height, wearing a light mustard-brown hoodie, black gloves, jeans, and combat boots; his face completely hidden from view by a black ski mask with beady red eyes and a large red frown pasted across it. Any other features aside from body type are unknown to her, and she figures that's probably the point. She knows one thing is clear: he doesn't want his identity known, at least not to her. Whether Sally or Wisteria knows what he looks like beneath the mask she couldn't care less about, but she can't help wondering briefly before brushing away the insignificant thoughts.

Other than the unsettling mask, she doesn't find a reason to fear him. Well, that is until she takes notice of the pistol strapped to his belt that sticks out slightly from the bottom of his hoodie, and she gulps. So I really shouldn't mess with this guy. Got it. Knives are one thing, but a gun? Something that could easily blow out her brain with just a pull of the trigger? It comes across as a lot more daunting, and suddenly she realizes she'd have more of a chance against Jeff. Unless he's carrying, too, but she figures he would've definitely used that to add to his intimidation factor if he had it at his disposal.

His body language is mysterious, but even standing casually, he's alarming, and she opts to keep a close watch on him. Y/n stiffens when his head shifts toward her, though she maintains eye contact–at least, what she assumes is eye contact–and doesn't waver under his attention. Nothing needs to be said for Wisteria to reach behind her, grip Y/n by the wrist, and tug her forward, making her stumble and fight to maintain her balance before she can fall right into the threatening man still standing in the doorway of his home. 

Shooting a quick, half-hearted glare at the blonde now out of her sight, she wraps her arms around her chest protectively, taking a step away from the hooded male and biting the inside of her cheek. "You take her," Wisteria says, stuffing her hands into the pockets of her jacket. "But I still don't know why you couldn't listen to me and kill her. She's just a liability."

Gee, thanks a lot, 'ally', she thinks bitterly, gaze moving to the old wooden porch on which they stand and waiting for a response from Brian. It takes several uncomfortable seconds for him to say something. "Ben suggested that she could be useful." His voice is muffled and low, but Y/n can't help noticing the indistinct southern accent it possesses. "And I agree. It's not up for debate anymore." She rolls her eyes.

"Yeah, whatever. But man–if she escapes, she'll have the government on us in a second."

"That's why we won't let her escape." She sighs in defeat, shaking her head, and bile bubbles up in the back of Y/n's throat.

"Fine. But don't expect me to watch over her like a puppy." She takes Sally's hand and turns on her heel, beginning to walk away. "Enjoy dealing with a wimp."

"Bye, Brian! Bye, Y/n!" Sally chirps, glancing back toward her and waving. "We'll see you later!"

"No, we won't," Wisteria mutters in reply, pulling her closer to her side and heading back toward the tree they used to get across the fence. Y/n isn't sure whether or not she should be happy that they're gone or more nervous because they're gone. After all, it wouldn't exactly be morally correct to commit murder in front of an eight-year-old. Maybe he was holding back. She keeps her eyes trained on anything but Brian, uneasiness poisoning her chest and making her mildly nauseous. 

"Come on," he says, trudging inside, and Y/n is hesitant to pursue him but does so anyway, not wanting to test his patience. The interior is nothing exciting, with a partially-open kitchen to the left, a living room ahead of her, and a hallway to her immediate right, where she guesses leads to various bedrooms and a bathroom. He closes the door once she enters and motions toward the different areas of the small household as he names them off. "Kitchen, living room," he points down the hallway, "bathroom is on the first door to the left, and the couch folds out into a bed you can use."

She doesn't question it, at least not verbally, and nods in understanding, warily taking another step away to create some form of distance between herself and the man in the unnerving mask. He looks back at her, his voice coming out slowly, and she glances to the side.

"If you try to run, I'll shoot you. If you try to attack, I will shoot you. If you try anything, I will shoot you." 

If I talk, you'll shoot me. If I breathe, you'll shoot me. I get it okay, you're the one with the power here. You don't have to keep rubbing it in my face. She nods in understanding, not confident enough to offer any words; he cranes his neck down and tilts his head.

"You're bleeding."

"Mhm..." She peers down at her ankle, watching as the cloth protecting it becomes darker and darker.

"There are medical supplies in the bathroom cabinet. Don't use it all." And with that, he strides past her and into the kitchen, where he grabs a water bottle from the fridge and lifts his mask halfway up, making sure to keep his back turned to her, and takes a sip. She releases a tense yet solemn breath through her nose and limps toward where he said the bathroom is located, mulling over her situation in silence and debating on what she should do. 

SᕼE ᕼᗩᗪ ᗷᒪOᗯᑎ ᑌᑭ.

Not literally, of course. But scrolling Twitter, delving into the ditches of Tumblr, watching TikTok and YouTube shorts all made her privy to unfortunate information: Baby's behavior toward her had been publicized. No, not just publicized, but popularized. Every post that had anything to do with the Saja Boys was now hyper-focused entirely on her alarming interaction with the mint-haired rapper, and paired alongside it was scattered gossip and puzzled—sometimes harsh—critiques, either about Baby's horrid manners or Y/n herself. 

They spanned anywhere from theorizing that the two were exes and had unresolved conflict to vivid conjectures detailing how Y/n cruelly wronged Baby at some point far in the past, and now he just wanted revenge. Some stated she killed his entire family, while others went a simpler route and assumed she merely pushed him off the swing one time in elementary school.

Most people, however, targeted Baby specifically, talking about how he was an 'abusive prick' who couldn't stop himself from 'assaulting his fans'. That he had been given a shred of fame, and he was already getting an inflated ego because of it. That his blossoming career should have been stripped away, forcing him to live out the rest of his existence unloved and miserable. She may have found it funny, if she also wasn't being condemned by fleets of Baby stans who swore by his innocence—insisted that, even though he was the one who grabbed her out of absolutely nowhere, he was the one who uttered a name that was not hers like some kind of schizophrenic having an episode, and he was the one who made a scene by not immediately releasing his hold, she was still to blame. 

Those particular groups of people were the same ones spreading rumors that she was the problem, the initiator, that nobody knew the whole story so that automatically meant the victim wasn't actually the 'victim', but the bad guy, and that Baby was guiltless in all matters of conflict because he was just so incredibly perfect that he couldn't possibly be at fault for his own actions. 

One comment she accidentally skimmed, in particular, stuck like acidic bitterness to her tongue, even as she tried to erase it from memory: i hope you choke on your bile, you ugly shrew. you think baby would EVER go after you? think again. 

Opening Instagram was no different. Swiping into her DMs disclosed dozens of angry messages addressing how her 'betrayal' warranted death, asking how she could be so heartless, threatening to stalk her and stab her with their Baby-themed merchandise. Her heart sank. How did they find her account? It had only been a day—there was no way they knew her name. She hadn't revealed her name to anyone. Heck, the only person she talked to was Zoey, and...

Oh.

But there was no way anyone had paid attention when she introduced herself, mainly because they were all too busy meeting their idols. There were ways to pinpoint a person nowadays, quite easily, too. They must have used her face from all the pictures, the videos that streamed online, and scoured the internet until they found the profile that matched. It was safe to presume they had also located her other socials at this point to spew more needless hatred and fury that wasn't even for their own benefit, but just to defend someone who was, realistically, a stranger. An attractive stranger who, in their rose-colored lens, belonged on a pedestal and nowhere else. 

A jagged breath broke free from her throat, and she hurried to delete the enraged declarations of loathing before she could let them affect her. Glimpses of gentle support and apologetic texts were disregarded as she mass-removed every trace of attention. This wasn't fair. All she wanted to do was get her t-shirt signed by one of her favorite singers—how come she had to suffer for the brash mistakes of another?

The more she pondered it, the angrier she was. What right did he have, barging into her hushed existence without consent and looking at her like she ruptured everything inside him, but was also the thread that kept him sewn together? What excuse did he have for disrupting her routine? For acting so abruptly, with such desperate possession? 

He didn't know her. But it definitely seemed as though he thought he did. 

She wasn't about to validate her own outlandish fascination for him either, or humor the probability that, somehow, he did know her. Because it was impossible. Being drawn to someone didn't translate to whatever weird, fantastical notions her brain conceived. It just meant physical appeal. Nothing more. Nothing less. Shallow and unexplored. Recognition of what her body considered innately alluring. 

She dropped her phone to her mattress with sagging shoulders and pushed herself to her feet, running a hand down her face and sighing. She was exhausted as it was—why did a random K-pop star have to further complicate things?

The glass door to her balcony slid open with satisfying ease, and a wave of nighttime breeze embraced her skin when she stepped over to the railing. Meters below her, vehicle motors hummed, and pedestrians meandered the sidewalks and crossed the streets, all minding their own business. All unaware of the storm of indecision brewing within her. She wondered how many of them were linked to the dispute taking place across the media. How many of them knew about it, how many bothered investing their energy into it. How many stood on her side, and how many warred against her. 

This had to dissipate, right? It had to. Drama like this never carried on for a long time—it would work the kinks out of itself, and she wouldn't have to worry about it. A more significant controversy from elsewhere would emerge, and that would be the end of it. People just liked having things to rant about, get mad over. That was it.

But what if it wasn't that elementary? What if this didn't abate? What would it do to her reputation? To her personal relationships? How merciless would Baby's ride-or-dies be to ensure she paid for the alleged crimes she had committed? Would they strive to ruin her sprouting career? Would they locate and attack her loved ones? Would they approach her in real life? Was she in genuine danger?

Her eyes skirted the building across from her. Another apartment complex, a little taller than hers. Twinkling lights breaking through the windows, some with closed curtains, others donning none. Car horns bounced with distant conversations and blends of music from various sources, and it all faded into background noise. A scent laced with spice and corn dogs floated in the breeze. Seoul was so lively, so bright. It made her feel a little less dim inside.

She exhaled. It was heavy and long, depressing her shoulders as she hung her head, her arms draped over the balustrade with a torpidness that could rival Eeyore's. There was this invisible clamp in her chest, clinging on a little tighter with each hour that dragged by, and it swung like a pendulum. Back and forth. Anchoring her heart. Giving it ache. It was dread and intrigue tied up with a messy ribbon. It was both confusion and concern—not because she was scared of him—but because she wasn't. There was a distinct omission of fear toward him. She yearned to know more. Even after he humiliated her, threw her into the world's view, and indirectly elicited the ruthless internet bullies. And she couldn't wrap her head around why. 

She tangled her fingers through her hair in silent frustration. It didn't make sense, these elaborate feelings. He didn't make sense. Not his raw murmur that entered her ears like the most desolate plea, not his horrified body language, not his eyes. Those big glacial eyes that cradled such a vast galaxy of emotions it would be impossible to navigate all of them, even with a map. Emotions that seemed to collectively supernova the very moment she careened into their orbit.

It was that look. The unfiltered pain in his expression. Pain she couldn't place, but felt every piercing sliver of. Like a piece of her, so ingrained yet so alien, was being pulled taut, and he was the one on the other side of the rope. A stupid intuition that she expected would retreat. But it hadn't. And every time she replayed the event in her mind, visualized his face, it grew more intense. It wasn't fleeting, but stubborn and aggressive—like a territorial dog, or a tumor that had become too attached. 

The wet trail slipping down the bridge of her nose startled her, and she hastily wiped it away and fluttered her lashes, grumbling at herself—partly in annoyance, partly with strife. Tears? For that self-absorbed crazy man? No—he did not deserve them.

Her gaze ascended, past the towering structures of the vibrant city, to the dark sky that reflected its luminescence. No stars were visible, nor was the opalescent moon. The absence of both made it feel...hollow. Like a murky ocean concealing its colorful animation. The beauty was still there—she simply couldn't identify it. And that made her feel disconnected. Not from her life, not from herself, but from something unseen. A redefining tether that was severed again each time she focused on what couldn't be perceived.

She supposed that was one thing she didn't like about being a Seoul resident. Ground living outshone the majesty of the universe from here. It no longer relayed an infinite canvas of distance, but a black wall with limits that boxed in an entire population. It wasn't cozy, and it wasn't warm. It was unwelcoming. It was icy. It was a boundless abyss that mimicked what it couldn't reach, or what couldn't reach it. Embodying what it mirrored: isolation, loneliness, pining. She and the stars had always shared a transactional, sacred relationship; they provided her peace, while she offered admiration in return. It became something of a push-pull dynamic over the years. She needed comfort; she would look at their lustrous numerosity and receive it instantly; they would soak up her gaze and seem to burn brighter.

It was as if...their presence reminded her of an intimacy she was never involved in. The ghost of a happiness so fulfilling that it made her heart want to burst. She never understood it. But it made her feel safe. They made her feel safe. Lifted the burdens of existing off her shoulders for a little while and allowed her to...enjoy. Breathe. Melt into the wind. Get lost in the speckles of light that smoldered so many millions of miles away. With a space that immeasurable, how did they feel so near to her soul?

Why did...he feel so near to her soul?

No. 

When she got a chance, she needed to get away, somewhere light pollution wasn't even a suggestion. Somewhere she could be alone with her old, silent friends and unwind. Contemplate. Relish. Practice gratitude for the smaller things that she always missed. Refresh herself and make a full societal comeback with a spring in her step and a smile on her face. Maybe she could forget about him and the disturbance he whipped up. 

Maybe she could fall out of recognition with the K-pop fandom.

Maybe she could pretend her emotions weren't larger than her own comprehension.

Maybe there were no stakes here. Maybe it meant nothing.

And if she didn't care, maybe she could have believed those lies were taking root.

────୨ৎ────

Jack pulls the door open, stepping aside to allow a pale girl with shoulder-length blonde hair into the small house. She's clad in vaguely ripped jeans, a pair of sneakers, a maroon tank top, and a black zip-up jacket. Looped over her hand is a plastic store bag, and what's inside isn't clear, although judging by the outline, Y/n assumes them to be the shoes Jack mentioned she was bringing. Her violet eyes land on Jack, then flit toward Y/n, who remains leaning against the wall and watching the scene in front of her warily. 

She nods in silent greeting before walking through the door frame and into the living room, being followed by another girl, this one much younger and, instead of gripping a bag, a brown, tattered teddy bear is loosely clutched within her arms. Her eyes are a bright, piercing shade of green, and her chocolate-brown hair cascades over her shoulders. She wears a multi-colored hoodie splashed with shades of pink, lemony yellow, blue, and purple, and the hood itself has cotton cat ears attached to the hem. She has on a pair of black leggings, a pink mini-skirt, and rose-colored tennis shoes.

Faint freckles are scattered along her cheeks and across the bridge of her nose, and her gaze travels from the floor and up to Y/n as she tilts her head shyly. There's a kid here, too? Y/n wrinkles her forehead and glances between the three people now standing in plain view, two of whom she's never seen before in her life. She assumes the teen to be who Jack called 'Wisteria', but who the younger one is, she hasn't a clue. She never heard a kid being talked about, so the news is a bit startling. 

That's when she takes notice of the blood that's crusted around the edges of an open wound on her head, hidden previously by her lengthy locks of hair, and makes a trail down the side of her face, where it had dripped down onto her hoodie, forever staining the brightly-shaded piece of clothing with quite a large blotch of crimson. The child doesn't appear to be in any pain, but how can that be? If she had been bashed in the head by some blunt object, how would she be able to ignore it? Come to think of it, how would she even be standing right now? Shouldn't she be knocked cold? Dead?

Y/n's heart rate increases from concern, and she's tempted to comment on it or even lunge forward, pull the girl toward her, and get her away from the individuals standing in front of the doorway. They don't seem even remotely worried about it, either because they're the ones who inflicted the damage or they haven't taken notice of it yet. It's been there for a while, given it had time to dry. "Why'd you bring Sally with you?" Jack questions curiously, extending his hand and patting 'Sally' on the crown as a silent gesture of greeting. She shifts her focus up to his mask and grins excitedly, leaning into his touch with a startling lack of fear.

Wisteria shrugs, wrapping a hand around her hair and slinging it across one of her shoulders. "Because she wanted to come."

He hums in response, bending down to return the young girl's affectionate hug. "How're you doing, doofus?"

"I'm good! Wisteria gave me ice cream before we left, and it was real tasty!"

"Oh yeah?" He uses the pad of his thumb to wipe away remnants of the sticky treat that resides at one corner of her mouth. "Well, I can tell you enjoyed it."

"Mhm!" She nods in firm agreement, vivid eyes gleaming. "I did! Strawberry's my favorite."

"'Cause it's pink?"

She goes silent and looks away sheepishly. "Uhh...no."

Jack merely chuckles; a sound that 100% confirms he is, in fact, the same person she met in the woods, and she isn't sure how to feel about that. With an amused shake of his head, he shuts the door and props his back against its solid wooden surface. Wisteria briefly motions toward Y/n with a raised eyebrow. "This the girl?"

"I have a name," Y/n bites, narrowing her eyes at the blonde in annoyance and unable to stop glimpsing down at Sally, her stomach churning with unanswered questions. She gets an impatient glance in return.

"And I don't care," she responds, crossing her arms. Sensing a brewing disagreement, Jack interjects before it can go any further. 

"Yes, this is Y/n. And Y/n, this is Wisteria and Sally." The young brunette takes a small step forward, bringing her hand up and giving Y/n a timid wave as she clings tighter to her stuffed animal. 

"Nice to meet you..." Her voice is soft, so soft in fact that Y/n has to strain her ears to hear and understand the words that leave her mouth. She offers the ghost of a smile in response, mostly one of unease. Who did that to her? Surely she didn't hit herself straight in the head, and even if she had, she couldn't have made that significant an injury. She's just a kid, after all, no older than eight or nine; there's no way she could manage that kind of strength. Then again, there do seem to be some pretty...unusual people here. Is she one of them?

Wisteria stares her down as if studying her demeanor, waiting for her to do something, wordlessly judging her. Wisteria is the only normal-looking person that Y/n has come across thus far, save for the odd color of her eyes, though that can easily be overlooked. 

Y/n shifts on her feet uncomfortably, meeting the slightly taller girl's gaze and refusing to break contact for fear of looking weak. She is not weak, and she doesn't want anyone to think that she is. Jack runs his fingers through his hair, stands to his full height once more, and steps toward Wisteria. "So, you brought the stuff?"

Without looking away from Y/n, she nods. "Yeah, I did." A barely-noticeable, sly smirk etches itself across her face as she uncrosses her arms. "Here...catch." Before Y/n can blink, the bag of shoes is being launched at her head, and she catches it just before it hits her in the eye and temporarily blinds her. Huffing indignantly, she holds the plastic bag and places a hand on her hip, glaring at Wisteria and earning a haughty grin in return. 

"Thanks." Her voice comes out as a sarcastic drawl, contemplating throwing the bag back at her and giving her a taste of her own medicine. Instead, she pinpoints her attention on the child standing next to Wisteria, then up to the large gash on her temple, unable to quell her curiosity about the unexplained wound and the worry for her safety. "What happened to your head, Sally?" She makes an effort to keep her tone warm as she bends down a bit so she'll be closer to her height and avoid intimidating her. Sally looks down nervously, stepping to the side until she's hidden partially by the taller girl's legs and the lower part of her torso. 

"I... It's, uh..."

"None of your business," Wisteria snaps, becoming defensive and putting an arm in front of Sally protectively. Y/n takes a stride forward, boldness swarming inside of her chest. 

"I'm not gonna stand aside and let some kid die like you seem keen on doing."

"Alright, alright." Jack puts his arms out in front of him and steps between the two girls, facing Y/n with a peaceful voice. "Y/n, Sally isn't in any danger."

Her eyes widen, and she points at the green-eyed child, mostly obscured by the larger frames of both Jack and Wisteria, in exasperation. "W-what? But her head–"

"Bad things happened." She presses her lips together and frowns incredulously at Jack, failing to understand why he's acting so mellow about an eight-year-old child being on the brink of death. "But it was a long time ago."

"A–a long time ago?" Her brain short-circuits temporarily, her features conveying immense puzzlement. "But there's still blood!" 

"Yeah. The blood can't be cleaned, and the wound doesn't heal. No matter how much time passes." Raising a skeptical and distinctly confused eyebrow, she stares at him, waiting for him to continue the rest of his explanation. "Look...she isn't a normal kid. Not anymore."

"Stop telling her all this, Jack," the blonde spits from behind him, though he only turns his head back to acknowledge her for a moment to say his reply. 

"She's staying here now. She deserves to know." He faces Y/n again, ignoring the scoff of protest that comes from behind him. "What I mean is, well...she's not human. She's a spirit."

A spirit? Like a ghost? He's talking about ghosts, of all things, now? She's never been a strong believer in specters or hauntings or anything like that, but considering everything that's been happening to her as of late, it wouldn't be too much of a stretch to start believing that things like ghosts do exist. But to be a ghost...you'd have to die. Does this mean that Sally died? It certainly would explain why that wound looks so...fatal.

"Ghosts...aren't real," she says quietly, mainly to reassure herself that such things are only in movies, books, and television shows. But are they, really? There has to be some reason that Sally isn't hurt by that exceedingly large gash in her head. Could that be why? Because she's already...dead?

"They are, Y/n. That's why she isn't in pain." He motions toward Sally. "Because she isn't physically alive anymore." Y/n blinks quizzically and looks over to Sally, trying to process the information in her head. A dead person walking around? Like a zombie? Except–one major difference between Sally and a zombie is that Sally isn't currently trying to devour her where she stands. So she's...a friendly ghost?

She inhales, her surroundings fading around her and being replaced with the deafening sound of her heart thumping. Next, Jack will be telling her that there are aliens from another world about to invade the earth and that they need a time-traveling machine to stop them. It wouldn't be a big surprise, at least not at this point. Okay, so ghosts are apparently real. That...totally makes sense.

Though she can't grasp how such an idea works, she figures that dwelling on the matter won't serve any purpose. Just go with it, right? It'll make it easier on herself if she doesn't think about how bizarre this situation as a whole is. She just has to keep her mind on more plausible expositions, but like what? She hasn't any other theories for everything that's been taking place lately–what more does she have to go on? The best idea she can rack up is that this is all one massive hallucination, but even that's a stretch of her imagination. It all feels too real to be imagined. 

Wisteria scoffs, rolling her radiant eyes and drawing Y/n out of her hysteria of scrambled thoughts. "See? She can't even handle the simple truth." She furrows her brows at the shorter girl still standing on the other side of Jack. "I still think we just should'a killed her—"

"Wisteria," Jack cuts her off, voice austere as he shifts around. "We both know that wouldn't have been the right call."

"And why not?" She places a hand on her hip audaciously. "At least then she wouldn't be our problem." He sighs, shaking his head in dissent. 

"You know why. We need all the help we can get. It's done–stop complaining about it." Y/n stares at the two with a look of mild disbelief–like, hello? They do know that she's still right here in front of them, yeah? She can tell that Jack is trying to at least be subtle, but Wisteria, on the other hand, acts as if she doesn't care at all, which is likely the case. "Y/n," he looks back at her, "are you ready to go?"

"I'm not going anywhere." She eyes Wisteria, backing up closer to the wall behind her. "And I'm definitely not about to live with some–some stranger." At least she's been acquainted with Jack prior to all of this, and she's been talking to him for the past little bit so she feels the most comfortable with him. What if this 'Brian' character is as obnoxious and appalling as Jeff? Or even more so? She does not want to deal with someone like that, much less coexist under the same roof. 

"Brian won't hurt you." Jack tries to sound reassuring for the most part, though it hardly works. "And Wisteria won't, either. She's just escorting you to his house." Y/n folds her arms in protest, choosing not to verbally respond and instead sending a stink eye his way. 

"Don't be afraid." A soft voice emits from below her, and she glances down to meet the emerald eyes of Sally, who's somehow inched closer without Y/n even realizing it. Her facial expression melts into one of compassion as she once again looks at the wide, swollen laceration on her head. If the little girl trusts them, shouldn't she? 

No. To be fair, if Sally genuinely is a ghost, then they can't harm her, anyway, so she doesn't have a reason to fear them. She might be in on it all, for crying out loud! Although maybe she should be a bit more compliant, just to test the waters. Other than kidnapping her among some other, more lenient things, they haven't injured her. Jack is the only one who's really even communicated with her, and as much as she hates to admit it, he's been nothing but patient with her since she woke up here. He doesn't even seem to hold anything against her for kneeing him in an area no male wants to be kneed.

Plus, he provided her with an explanation for everything that's been happening. No one else has done that. She brushes some hair out of her face and frees an inaudible sigh before pivoting and strolling down the hallway, stopping once she reaches the room she originally came to inside of. The broken glass that was previously in front of the doorway has been swept up, and she's more than grateful. It would suck to step on shattered glass; it's a wonder she was able to avoid it to start with. Sitting on the bed, she takes the pair of shoes and a couple of worn socks out of the plastic store-brand bag before beginning to slide them over her feet. 

She tries not to bump her ankle, though her attempts prove futile when the top of the sock constricts around it, sending a bolt of pain through her nerves. "Stupid dog..." she mutters, recalling the very recent sensation of a canine's teeth clamping down and refusing to let go until his owner commanded him to do so. She rubs at the bandages, trying to offer the inflicted area some sort of relief before pulling the shoes up and slipping them, too, on her feet. She ties the laces, inwardly rejoicing at the fact that the shoes aren't high-tops for the sake of her well-being.

From the living room, Y/n can detect a faint discussion between who she assumes to be Jack and Wisteria; one of the voices slightly hostile, the other calm and collected. Well, what now? Go with Wisteria, she guesses, although she really doesn't have another choice. It isn't like she can run away in the state that her leg is in–she would surely be caught before she made it ten feet, if even that. Jack said that Brian, whoever that is, won't do anything to her. Is he telling the truth? Who even knows? He's lied before; how can she be confident that he isn't doing it again?

She cranes her neck to survey the brunette girl standing in the doorway, looking a little timid, though offering an affable smile nonetheless. She bounces on her heels, teddy clutched to her chest, and speaks. "Hi..."

Y/n tilts her head with intrigue, sitting straight once again and staring at the child. "Hey..." Sally slowly makes her way inside the room, face displaying innocence and a sociable desire. 

"There aren't many girls here," she says, eyes dropping to the floor shyly. "You'll be the fourth if you stay..." 

"Fourth, huh?" She rests her hands on her lap tentatively. "Who's the third?"

"That's Zero...but she's kinda mean. So it's just me and Sissy...and you." That comment prompts a gentle huff of astonishment.

"Wait, Wisteria's your...your sister?" Y/n can't determine any resemblance between the two; not even their eyes are the same color. And their personalities are polar opposite, with one being brash and the other meek. Then again, having just met them, she can't be too harsh a judge, but 'first impressions are everything'. Sally parts her lips a moment as if she's about to say something, only to cut herself off. She twirls a strand of soft brown hair around her finger as she collects her thoughts while Y/n waits patiently. 

"Well...no. Not really, but...she treats me like her little sister."

Makes sense, she thinks. She did seem pretty protective of her. 

"You're staying, right?" She steps a little closer, biting her lip hopefully. "Bad people are after you. They're after all of us. This is the only place we're safe."

"Sally...I have a family to get back to. They need me. I...I can't stay." Her face falls, and she dips her head forward in what Y/n recognizes as disappointment. 

"Oh..."

"You can...come with me, if you want?" She can tell that Sally seems perfectly happy here, but it doesn't quite sit well with her that she's trapped, secluded with multiple people who could have–and likely did–commit very illegal, very immoral deeds before. "My grandparents would be happy to offer you a place to stay."

Sally flashes a look of dubiety, eyes widening before she shakes her head. "I'm not leaving. This is my home."

"Are you sure?" She nods in response. 

"And...and I don't think you should leave, either. I think you'd like it here if you gave it a chance."

"Sally...I don't belong here." Her voice lowers as she talks, looking into the young girl's puppy-like eyes. "I have a family back home, important people that I need to go back to."

"We all had a family at some point." She urges her gaze to the ground, her tone becoming bashful. "But...that was a long time ago." Y/n tilts her head. She knew that the people living here had to have some semblance of a backstory, though she never sacrificed much thought for it. Just how much tragedy circles those who live here? What happened to them to turn them into these...sadistic-looking things that presumably have a natural lust for blood? "And now, all we have is each other. We're our own family."

Unsure of what to say, Y/n shifts a little on the edge of the mattress, rubbing her neck and biting the inside of her cheek. 

"The monster wants something from all of us. It wants you, too." She nibbles at her bottom lip. "If you stayed with us, we'd protect you. Nothing can sneak up on us here." Taking a small step forward, she avoids eye contact timidly and squeezes the stuffed bear tighter to her chest. "And you could be part of our family."

Y/n parts her lips to respond, though before she gains an opportunity, Wisteria peeks her head through the door, eyes landing on Sally, then over to the girl still sitting on the bed, conversing with her. She meets her threatening scowl, expression hardening at the intense look being thrown her way. "Sally, c'mon. Time to go." 

She glances behind toward the blonde standing in the door frame, then back at Y/n, her face lighting up. "Yeah! You're gonna meet Brian. Don't worry–he isn't so crabby once you get to know him."

"Yes, he is," Wisteria says, crossing her arms and raising an eyebrow. Sally bobs her head side-to-side, taking Y/n's hand and dragging her toward the door. Y/n complies reluctantly, sauntering at a mellow pace behind the small-framed brunette. 

"Not to me! He's only like that to you cause you're annoying." She scoffs and turns, vanishing from sight and heading outside. Sally peeks up at Y/n as they begin to stride down the hallway. "He's nice, don't worry. He's just wary around new people."

Sounds like this 'Brian' dude ain't gonna be too easy to get along with. Not that she's intending to try and 'get along' with anyone here, though it would be in her best interest not to make them resent her at the same time. As far as she's observed, they're not aiming to cause her any harm, but better safe than sorry, right? The last thing she'd want is to make one of them mad, especially the one with a smile sliced into his cheeks and an intimidating knife strapped to his waist.

They soon step into the living room, Sally momentarily releasing her hold on Y/n's hand as she swiftly catches up with Wisteria, who is walking off the porch and glancing around, checking the forest for possible threats. Y/n slows her momentum when she comes upon Jack, meeting his eerie, soulless pits attentively. "There aren't...anymore dogs, right?"

He curtly shakes his head. "Brian isn't big on dogs. Smile's the only one around here." He shoves his hands into his pockets, noticing her look of disdain, attempting to bring her a sense of reassurance. "I'll be over in a couple of days to check on your bite. Until then, medicate and dress it each night before you go to bed. He should have plenty of resources to work with."

"That's comforting," she mutters, briefly shifting her eyes down to her dressed ankle, partly hidden by her socks but still in clear sight if one were to look closely enough. 

"I know you don't want to be here. I get it. But if you want your grandparents to be safe, you'll have to stay put, or get out and risk their lives." His voice has a solemn ring to it, his deep tone contributing to the daunting factor.

"Y/n, come on!" Sally calls from outside, reeling Y/n's attention and making her release a defeated huff. 

"I'll see you, I guess," she murmurs, gaze drifting to the porch before following the two girls; Sally taking hold of her hand once again when she steps onto the grass. The very same grass that she had run across an hour prior in a rushed attempt to escape, and could have succeeded had it not been for Jeff and his dumb mutt. Merely thinking about the series of unfortunate events, she's unable to stop from glancing down at the covered area that Smile chewed on to catch and bring her back here–where exactly 'here' is, she hasn't figured out. In the middle of a forest, obviously, but in the middle of what forest? Where is she? What state, what county is she in?

Wisteria takes a sharp turn left, beginning to navigate through the tall trees, some skinny and some quite large, and Sally follows suit, heaving along a nervous and mildly resistant Y/n. After a moment, she hears a soft click from the house, signifying that Jack closed the door and is likely in the process of forgetting about her and her miserable situation. 

Figures. "So...do you not like dogs?" The question takes Y/n a little off guard, and she meets the curious eyes of the curly-haired girl walking in front of her, still clinging to her hand tenderly.

"Um...well, I never really minded them, but...that was before one of them almost crippled me earlier, so now, I'm not so sure." She shrugs, and Sally grows a knowing look on her face. 

"Are you talking about Smile?"

"Yeah. Smile." She inwardly winces as her left foot lands inside a shallow hole, stumbling slightly and having to take a moment to gather her bearings. She hopes that they don't have to walk too much farther before they reach Brian's house–not that she's looking forward to meeting another freak, but because if she has to stand on her leg all day, then it's going to be throbbing badly. 

"Smile's usually a really sweet dog. Maybe he just doesn't like you."

"That's cause his owner took a class in douchebag-ology and passed with an A plus."

Wisteria snorts at this remark, and Sally expands on it. "You mean Jeff? Yeah, he's kinda mean." 

'Mean' is an enormous understatement.

"A couple days ago, he replaced sugar with salt, and it tasted terrible on my Rice Krispies." She scrunches her nose, reliving the memory. Y/n knots her brows together.

"Seriously?"

"Yeah. Wisteria made him leave and threw my Barbie doll at his head..." The image of Jeff having some kid's Barbie hurled at his face almost has her smiling bitterly, eyes moving down to her ankle once more and reminding her how much pain he needlessly caused her. 

"What was...Jeff, doing at your house?" 

"He was over to return something that he borrowed before," Wisteria speaks from ahead of them, not looking back, and continuing to walk through the expansion of woods. "There's no way I'd allow him to come otherwise. And for the record, that Barbie doll was a piece of trash anyway. I was just putting it in the garbage where it belonged."

Y/n chuckles quietly at that comment, not anticipating the abrupt insult toward a man who isn't even present to defend himself, though not disagreeing. Through her short encounter with the blue-eyed male, he did not seem like a favorable person by any standard, and as much as she'd hate to admit it, he is frightening, and she wouldn't want to cross him. He's a menacing dude and there's no way she'd stand a chance against him, especially not with her leg the way it is.

"Well...we're here." Y/n looks up and sees yet another house; this one also shrouded with plants and vines likely to obscure its appearance from anyone who may stumble across it, assuming they didn't get caught by the psychopaths that live here and made it out alive, oblivious to their existence. It isn't very big, the paint is chipped and faded, and there's a barbed-wire fence surrounding the outside of it. 

TᕼE ᐯIᒪᒪᗩGE ᗯᗩS lively, awake with the hum of chatter and the laughter of young children who chased each other through the streets. Eun-ju drank in the fresh air. It flowed freely through her system, rejuvenating her, preparing her for the day ahead; serenity in its purest form. She loved it here. Despite the hardships, it was a beautiful little community, teeming with people she viewed as family. Many of them were blood-related, and many weren't—but technicalities never much mattered to her anyway.

The scent of bread entered her nostrils, as well as floral-laced fragrances emitting from the decor lining exterior walls and carts. Loosely-placed gravel crunched beneath her sandals as she maundered between the rows of hanoks and meek shops, sending friendly gestures to anyone who acknowledged her presence. 

Wispy clouds danced in the sky; a canvas painted a lustrous shade of turquoise that could have cheered up even the gloomiest person. Early-season breeze kissed her skin, delicately played with her hair, and gifted her inner quietude that could never have been established within the walls of a stuffy palace or a claustrophobic city. Not that they had many of those around here, but information had traveled through the grapevine, divulging that the Japanese were hoping to expand, to earn a larger profit. If their products were more widespread, and they had more Korean laborers for their selfish causes, they would garner more control and become richer as a nation. 

She prayed that they never touched Haneuljae. It was her home, and it was special—a ray of light breaking through a blanket of snaking fog. An untouched piece of cultural art hiding in a country that was succumbing to an identity that wasn't its own. 

Dismissing the saddening concept, she continued on her way with a pinned motivation. She wasn't roaming the market in search of groceries or ambling to her job today, no: she was aiming for the forest bordering one side of the town in search of spring blooms. Her cousin mentioned that he felt the bakery needed a sprightly tinge to feel more welcoming, especially to the infrequent traveler who may have passed through. Thus, she fabricated the idea of incorporating some pressed flora to give it character. The only catch: she had to make it herself.

It wasn't a big deal. She enjoyed dabbling in crafts when she had the time, and now she had the authorization of who was essentially her manager to do precisely that. So she armed herself with a wicker basket and started her short journey.

The weather was perfect for outdoor activities—opulent sunshine that warmed the air, a moderate zephyr preventing the temperature from rising too drastically, chirping birds that sang of their core desires; melodic poems so pacifying, yet often ignored by ears that failed to grasp their meanings, as nobody understood the eloquent language of the warbler. Eun-ju didn't either. But she detected the inspiration behind every note, the feathered spirit that laced each unspoken word, and it gave her bliss.

Nature was where her liberty was most keen. It was void of judgment and endlessly forgiving. And it listened. It listened to her convictions and reflections when no one else would. She could be unapologetically herself, encircled by swaying willow leaves and vibrant greenery. The babbling brook washed away her worries, and the butterflies replaced them with tranquility and an admiration for being alive. Material necessities weren't always easy to come by, but life was defined by so much more than those things. As far as Eun-ju was concerned, she had everything she needed to be happy already. Love shone like a lantern fracturing the grey; a symbol of hope, of support. An essence of devotion that would never splinter, no matter what occurred. 

It had driven her ancestors, it had driven her mother and father. And now, it drove her. Really, she was content, and any trace of doubt ultimately withered when contrasting the security that draped itself in her soul, in her house, in Haneuljae. No amount of trials, threats, or forced modifications would steal it.

She paused her unhurried strides when her line of sight flitted over a tree littered with royal azaleas, and a delighted grin stretched across her cheeks. These would make striking decorations. She fished a pair of scissors out of her bag and began snipping, her movements benign and patient. Each branch she cut was deposited into the basket for later use, choosing only the most vivid blossoms to attract maximum attention. 

Mid-slice, she halted, noticing a tiny green inchworm being rattled atop a petal due to her manipulation of the limb it was attached to. It was struggling not to slide off, but with nearly microscopic legs that weren't as sticky as they should have been, its efforts would have been in vain. She couldn't have that.

Gingerly, she steadied the quivering magnolias and, with her free hand, reached up, allowing it to crawl onto the safety of her index finger. "Hey there," she murmured kindly, bringing the dainty creature closer to her face. "Sorry I messed with your home. That must've been quite the earthquake, huh?"

It didn't indicate that it heard her, exploring the foreign terrain with avid curiosity. She watched in fascination, her lips quirking further. What a cute little thing. So harmless—just existing, unbothered by the clashing worlds around it. Worlds it didn't know were there. At that moment, Eun-ju validated the smallest wink of envy in her chest. She wondered what that would be like. Not dealing with tyrannical rulings, poverty, or any drama that automatically came paired with being near people. No battles, no stress, no fear for what the future held. Just...breathing. Being. Moving from one hour to the next with no sense of time or space. Maybe it would be lonely. Maybe it would be peaceful.

She curled her knuckle as it ventured up its length gradually, reeling it in. It didn't seem agitated. Was it even capable of such a feeling? If a random giant appeared, almost knocked her out of her house, then grabbed her up with little regard to her comfort, she would have been paralyzed—that was, assuming she didn't perish from shock altogether. Was this insect aware that she could have ended it with a simple flick of her nail? What was she, in its perception? Just another interactive piece of the environment? A predator? Nothing?

"That worm is going to live out its entire life span before you stop staring at it."

Her shoulders stiffened, and her lungs stalled. That voice. Impossibly alluring, insipid, low; simmering with layers that weren't allowed to surface. She knew that voice. It was hard not to—she had recounted it in her head every night since its owner waltzed into the bakery and first exposed himself to her. It was akin to a powerful toxin, seeping into her brain, polluting every corner, every area that should have been safe.

And now it was back. 

He was back.

She craned her neck to peer at the source warily, as if to confirm what she already knew was fact. Him. He donned identical attire to what he had worn all those days ago—she would have assumed he was merely fond of the outfit, if it weren't for the serrated markings coiling around his purplish skin like lightning-charged vines, or the inhuman luminescence of his eyes. He wasn't normal. He was...something else. She wasn't sure what just yet. But it was fierce...and fatally intriguing.

His posture was self-assured, yet insouciant, as he examined her from his proximity with a fixed amount of complacency and amusement. The intentional way one edge of his mouth dragged upward in evaluation of her reaction made her stomach flip. 

He took a calculated step forward. She was frozen, a fluttery sensation building behind her ribcage. Coherent words eluded her, her vocal chords shrinking, refusing to provide noise of any kind. His arms swung languidly by his sides, the claws of which did not go unseen, and he tilted his head. The sunlight that filtered through the overgrowth above was blocked by the brim of his gat, capturing his face in an ominous shadow that amplified the glow of his citrine eyes.

"You know..." he purred, his tone sedated, laced with a sardonic charm that demanded attraction while doing it discreetly, "...you really shouldn't be out here, making a target of yourself."

He approached, his shoes flattening the grass beneath them. He was so effortlessly confident, it mentally staggered her. Still, she couldn't bring herself to move or offer a response. She was losing the strength in her knees, the more the gap dissipated, and oxygen was becoming more difficult to inhale. 

"A pretty little thing like you, all alone, wandering heedlessly in the woods, with such a sweet-smelling soul." Her heartbeat stuttered when he extended his arm and caressed a lock of her hair, but she remained rooted in her spot, her legs unwilling to obey whatever intrinsic proclivity they possessed. "Such susceptibilities...draw in sinful creatures. Creatures that wouldn't hesitate to..." his volume plummeted insidiously, and he leaned over, his breath sweeping across her face, "...take advantage."

A wave of heat crept up her neck, any cohesive thoughts she previously had falling apart like glass reverted back to sand. Instinct screamed at her to run. That this situation was treacherous. That she was about to meet a horrific fate. 

Yet...her heart didn't pound with apprehension. Her features didn't communicate fright. Her eyes were wide, doe-like...aroused with untameable curiosity. Excitement. This was the most awe-inspiring individual she had ever crossed paths with. She couldn't glance away from his eyes. Not that she particularly yearned to.

They were vast with uncharted secrets and reserved memories. It was like drowning in an ocean of sizzling lava; burning, intense, bright. Invisible flames enveloped her body, and extinguishing them seemed unfeasible...unappealing. 

"You should practice caution next time." His verbalization was silk to her ears; smooth, enchanting. Butterflies swarmed to her stomach, her rigid muscles loosening slightly. Perhaps he aspired to intimidate, but she was too riveted to let it affect her. "Not everything would decide to spare you."

"Spare me?" It materialized as a quizzical whisper, her gaze darting across his attributes. It really didn't make sense—why was a supernatural entity so stunning? Something that radiated immense power with each trivial motion, capable of such ample devastation, something that, realistically, could have stricken her dead at any chosen second; something that no longer belonged to this realm—or maybe he never had. Why would he take mercy on her? Because she gave him food one time? Because they had 'history'?

"Yes. Spare you." His eyes acquired a sly glimmer, and his lips curved. Words rolled off his tongue with the velvety morale of a vocalist delivering harmonies. "I must admit, though, I'm still rather tempted. Your soul sparkles like a million diamonds in the moonlight. It's practically begging to be taken."

She could read his brazen expression, concluding he intended to scare her. Play with his meal, maybe—or whatever it was he did. She realized she may have been correct in her initial presumption about his character. Grim reaper. A soul thief. A menacing spirit guide to the afterlife. It would explain his bizarre set of clothes. His discolored complexion. The patterns. 

She knew she should have been trembling, terrified, pleading for leniency. Anyone else would have been. There was just...something. It lured her in, called her name, implored her to dig deeper; a faded echo barely escaping its steel prison of seclusion. And she wanted to find out what it was, despite what every shred of logic and self-preservation inside her preached. Because the truth was, she knew she would regret not doing anything, not trying to see the bigger picture. Not making an effort to uncover what mysteries he masked behind nonchalance and facile magnetism. 

So she eradicated whatever indecision was still gnawing at her gut and straightened her spine, inhaling tremulously to compose herself. It somewhat worked, but the softness in her voice didn't dissolve. "Then take it."

He stilled, and if she didn't have such an unhindered view, she wouldn't have discerned the subtle twitch of his brows, or the transitory perplexity that emerged as his cool facade flickered away and his lofty smirk waned. She surveyed him, her demeanor unchanging, waiting for him to recollect himself. It was obvious she took him off guard—he was anticipating dismay, not...an invitation. But she had the vaguest suspicion that he wouldn't accept it. If she was false, then, well...there wasn't much she could do about it now. But did she honestly want to?

The silence lingered a beat too long. It was braced, delaying being broken...and strangely open. For the briefest of moments, the world spinning beneath her feet went idle. The wind stopped its soothing rhythm. The atmosphere was affluent with forbidden electricity, caging both of them in. They were suddenly the sole two people on earth—the only ones they cared to recognize, anyway.

It was suffocating, numbing her lungs like plumes of smoke, stifling her inner thoughts. She could focus on nothing but the puzzled intensity in his eyes, as if he was searching the chasms of her mind, grappling for a clue that would tell him why she just said what she said. Why...she wasn't fazed at all. By him. By what he could do. Didn't she know how much of a monster he was?

But did it actually...matter?

He found his voice, although it was significantly deflated, bridged with barely-restrained skepticism. "Fortunately for you, aein...I don't want to hurt you. But if I did...you'd be like this inchworm here." His touch ghosted over her wrist as he retrained her attention to the tiny, forgotten caterpillar perched on it, and she blinked out of her trance, listening to the warning that contained a depth she could have swum in. "Defenseless."

Questions flurried through her brain as he tilted back, disrupting the razor-edged ambiance floating between them. Like he was about to leave. She wasn't ready for him to leave. "Eun-ju."

The utterance spilled frantically from her lips before she had an opportunity to catch it. His frown returned, small and dubious, as the curtain tapered once again. Inwardly submerged in a conflict she couldn't dissect. 

"I'm Eun-ju." 

He huffed. It was a quiet, vulnerable sound; a crack in the shield. Suppressed emotions bleeding through a wall of endearing apathy, and his gaze shifted away, like he genuinely was no longer sure of himself. His stance adopted a hint of tensity, his fingers flexing. "You're not afraid." It was a mumble, scarcely deciphered, bordered with reluctance and...tentative revelation. She shook her head.

"No."

"Why aren't you afraid?" He snapped his eyes back down to her with such vehemence it was startling, but she stood resolute, chewing the inside of her cheek to anchor herself. "I could kill you in an instant. An instant. Don't you understand that?"

"I know."

"So why aren't you running? Screaming? Cowering? Something?" It sounded almost...pained. Like something aged and wounded was leaking through, asking for clarification. Desperate for it. Whatever it was...it made her heart ache. The air was heavy, though this time, it was of a different, rougher nature, tattered with pent-up aggression and steered by...grief? Sorrow? Anger?

She shrugged gently. She didn't have an answer, not one that would satisfy. Why wasn't she afraid? It was something she pondered for days, replaying their interaction in her dreams, trying to grasp why. Surely she was insane. Rash. What sensible person would be so enticed by a creature dripping with gloom and peril?

His lashes fanned along his cheekbones for a short moment, then he spoke again, coarse and derisive. "Do you think you're being brave?"

"No. Not brave. Just...candid." Her voice was stable compared to the disorderly thrumming of her heart. "You could kill me. But you haven't."

The declaration hovered like a dare. Or maybe just an observation. But they both were conscious of its inexorable sincerity.

His jaw was no longer slack. Biceps strained beneath his sleeves, as if war raged inside of him—chains rattling as they were heaved in opposing directions. "You shouldn't mock what could take everything."

"I'm not mocking." Her skin buzzed from the weight of his fervent glare. "I'm trying to figure out what's stopping you."

The minimal space between them vanished before she could register it. His hand flew up—not to strike, not to snatch—but to cradle her chin with an unsettling reverence that felt raw and more dangerous than murder. Glinting eyes suggested a seed had been planted, a seed that had the potential to grow into affection...or something more unhinged. Her breath netted in her throat, and he bent down, so near that the wild scent of ash and rain invaded her nose. "You. You are."

The measured syllables struck harder than any blow. Her heart faltered, then surged, thundering in her ears like battle drums. His tone embodied fragility, stripped of all the armor that normally sheltered it, and he revealed his name like it was a vow and a curse entwined. 

"I'm Kiheon."

────୨ৎ────

Jack doesn't return for several minutes, though she can hear the sound of muffled talking from the confines of another room nearby. The words are incoherent, but considering that there's nobody else in this house that she knows of, she guesses that he's on the phone, mostly based on the fact that the only voice she can hear is Jack's. She ponders what he said to her and tucks her knees into her chest, trying to tame the steadily rising fear that's making itself more and more apparent in her stomach.

She knew from the beginning of all this chaos that there had to be a deeper meaning buried beneath the surface, even though she didn't want to acknowledge it and opted to come up with valid explanations for everything that happened; reasons that wouldn't make her seem crazy. But now? Now, it doesn't look like she has another option but to accept it. She has to admit, Jack made some pretty reasonable points, even if the points in question take a great suspension of disbelief. How else is she supposed to explain the things that have taken place over the past several days? She didn't have a clue about what was happening and why it was happening, and now she does. But is it the honest-to-God truth?

Being stalked by a supernatural being is definitely hard to believe, but so is mentally predicting the death of one's aunt and uncle, being kidnapped by someone without eyes, and subconsciously drawing a random symbol that's apparently linked to...what? "Operator Sickness"?

She hasn't another explanation for all of the eerie occurrences lately—what else is she supposed to think? At least she's been provided with an answer—whether that answer is correct or not has yet to be solved—but it's still an answer. It's more information than she could ever squeeze out of her grandparents or anyone else. A therapist probably wouldn't even know what's going on with her. This way, she has a theory to go off of; something to build around until she finds something more...realistic. More believable.

Her eyes flicker up to Jack as he re-enters the room, being ultimately pulled from her deep thoughts and watching him stuff what she identifies as a phone into his pocket. He turns her direction, his uncanny gaze sending goosebumps up the length of her arms. "There'll be someone over here in a bit to pick you up and take you to Brian's house. She's bringing a pair of shoes with her, too."

Oh, it's a girl. Maybe I can find some common ground and convince her to let me go. Unless she's trapped here too... She brushes a strand of hair behind her ear and sits more naturally in the chair, her feet meeting the hardwood floor and her posture straightening to come across as more intimidating. Granted, she knows she isn't going to intimidate this monster of a man, but it makes her feel a little safer anyway.

"Who?" The question is sharp and straight-to-the-point as she stares up at his tall frame in an attempt to seem, for the most part, fearless. 

"Wisteria. Don't get your hopes up, she's almost as bad as Jeff." Releasing a huff, she rolls her eyes and chooses not to respond. "Do you want a glass—no, sorry—do you want a cup of water?" He puts great emphasis on the word 'cup', indirectly reminding her of the way she launched the glass at his head in an attempt to escape previously. It did work out in the end, she supposes, and she would have actually gotten out of this place had Jeff's hellhound for a dog not taken it upon himself to chomp down on her ankle and keep her firmly planted where she lay in the dirt until someone came to retrieve her. That 'someone' being Jeff.

"What, so you can poison me?" she mutters, crossing her arms stubbornly. "I think I'll pass."

"Did you not hear anything I told you a few minutes ago?" He sighs, running his fingers through his copper-brown hair. "If I wanted to hurt you, I would have done it by now." Ignoring the dryness in her throat, no doubt from lack of water, she only stares up at him with an obstinate expression, refusing to take anything that he has to offer. After a couple of moments, he too crosses his arms. "You know, it won't do you much good if you dehydrate and end up dying anyway."

"I'd rather dehydrate than trust you with anything." They continue to stare at each other for what feels like minutes when in reality it's only around ten seconds before Jack shakes his head in defeat. 

"Fine. Suit yourself." He takes a seat on the couch, being mindful to keep a fair amount of distance between himself and Y/n, and leans back to get more comfortable. "I know this is a lot to process, but you're gonna have to get used to the fact that you can't go back home. You can't see your family again; it would be too dangerous for both you and them."

"Is that a threat?"

"No, it's a warning. You go back home, try to live a normal life, and you eventually snap. You'd be compelled to go toward the very thing you've been trying to avoid and kill whoever got in your way. Even if that includes your family." She leers at him through skeptical e/c eyes, comprehending what he's telling her and trying to brush away the feeling of trepidation that rises within her stomach. "It's happened before. I've seen it, too many times to be proud of. It isn't a nice process."

"You're insane,"  she bites. "There's—there's no way I'd kill someone, much less my own family. I may have some issues, but I'm not a murderer." She indeed has less-than-desirable parents, but she'd never lose herself enough to physically harm them or take their lives. She isn't a bad enough person to do something like that, not even under the direst of circumstances, and that goes double if it involves her grandparents. They've shown her nothing but kindness and support. Why on earth would she ever murder them? The very thought sends shivers down her spine.

"Denial is something most people express at first. But it would happen, whether you wanted it to or not." She shakes her head, furrowing her eyebrows together in objection.

"No. You're wrong."

"You say that, but you don't know what he's capable of. You don't know how much power he possesses." She averts her gaze, hugging her torso insecurely and listening to the muffled words that leave Jack's mouth. "He drives you mad. It may start subtly—maybe you'll have some bad dreams or minor coughing fits, nothing too concerning. But it'll get worse and worse, and soon you'll be seeing things that aren't there, becoming paranoid because at every turn you feel like something's watching you, but you won't know where or by what. You'll isolate yourself, refuse to talk to anyone, and become distant from your friends, your family, and society as a whole. And it will continue getting worse, and worse, and worse until you're at your breaking point. You'll want it all to stop, you'll just want it to be over. You'll be desperate. So you'll listen to him, obey his commands. He'll take you to your breaking point, all without lifting a finger."

The words leave his mouth gradually, making the situation all the more unnerving. There's an ominous kind of truth to what he says that makes an eerie fog blanket her mind in a sense of dread and impending doom. He's right. She knows he's right. There isn't definite proof, but his very tone and his serious posture let her know right then. He isn't lying. This is real. This is all real, no matter how much she may try to deny it.

Letting out a shaky sigh, she rubs her face with her hands and attempts to slow the rapid beating of her heart. One question floats to the top of all of her thoughts, and she picks it up and analyzes it for a few moments before speaking. "...Why me?" She sees him tilt his head to the side a bit, silently questioning her inquiry and asking for clarification. She solemnly delivers. "Why, out of seven billion people, does it want me?" She scrapes a hand through her hair in an effort to compose herself, her voice trembling. "What did I do to attract it? I'm just...I'm just a normal person. Why would it want me to do...whatever?"

He takes a few seconds to respond, stringing the words together in his head and coming up with the best possible answer. "I...I don't know." He shrugs lightly, craning his neck toward the couch beneath him. "You told me you have some family problems. He preys on the weak and vulnerable. If you've been going through stressful things, that's likely to be a big contributor to the reason he chose you."

"So you're telling me that I'm being hunted by a paranormal entity because I have garbage parents?" She chokes down the bile threatening to rise in her throat. "How is that my fault?"

"It doesn't have to be," he simply says, shifting in his seat to better face her. "He's attracted to whoever is at a bad time in life and isn't handling it very well. If you've been stressed, he'll try to get you. It isn't always the victim's fault." Thoughts swarm her mind, though they zip by so quickly she barely has time to process each one before the next one takes its place. But one question manages to stand out above the rest, and she stares at the floor intently.

"But...but I've been going through stuff for years and I haven't had any problems like what's been happening recently until I got here." Her eyes shift up to his featureless, navy-blue mask curiously. "If it wanted me, why didn't it start before?"

"It's difficult to stalk someone and drive them insane when they're in the middle of a city," he says after a moment. "He probably knew about you before, at least to a point, but he couldn't really get to you until you were closer to where he resides." She gulps, eyes glistening with unfallen tears of dismay. "He wanted you more isolated. He can affect you more easily that way."

"He's only after me, right?" Worry blooms in her chest, and she leans forward absentmindedly. "My...my grandparents aren't a target, too? It's just me?"

"I doubt he'd have anything to do with two people like that, unless..." He pauses, and she presses her lips together in an anxious line.

"Unless?" Her voice holds a sense of distress. "Unless what?"

"Unless..." She can tell he's hesitant to finish his thought, though if it concerns the well-being of Nana and Pops, she won't stand for any unanswered questions. "...Well, unless he wanted to use them. To manipulate you."

"How would he do that?" Now fully invested in the conversation, she tries to stabilize her breathing as she stares impatiently at Jack, desperate to get a response. 

"He has different tactics. It'd be hard to say which one he'd use on you." Releasing a tremulous breath and trying to ease the nervous pit in her stomach, she clenches her fists. 

"Would he hurt them?" For now, she's going to assume both of them are still alive and well, though utterly frantic over her sudden disappearance. Jack hasn't offered up any proof that he didn't harm them in any way, but she'd rather think about the possibility of life over the possibility of death. 

"I don't know. He might."

"Then I have to get back to them!" She shoots up from her sitting position, causing a wave of dizziness to wash over her and nearly make her stumble to the floor, but she manages to regain her balance before that can happen. "So let me go."

"Y/n, being irrational isn't going to get you anywhere."

"I'm not being irrational!" She shoots a glare at where he still sits on the couch, starting to limp her way to the front door. "What I'm being is a good person. I'm not letting them get hurt." He sighs, a sound that's really beginning to get on her nerves, and slowly stands. She backs away warily in response.

"Your grandparents are fine. He likely won't even do anything that involves them because they're so far away from you now." Just how far away from them is she really?

"Where did you bring me then??"

"I can't tell you. Not yet." He eases closer to her, and she eyes the door. She isn't getting anywhere with her ankle in the shape that it's in, and she knows it. But it's worth another try, right? With a bolt of pain, she darts across the rest of the living room, but before she can even get close to grabbing the knob, a pair of strong arms wrap around her torso and pull her back. Despite her attempts at freedom, his hold doesn't even loosen.

"Let me go, Jack!"

"You already know that isn't going to happen." She lets out an exasperated groan, trying not to put pressure on her injury as she struggles fruitlessly against the tall male currently holding her back and succeeding, much to her displeasure. "You need to calm down."

"How am I supposed to 'calm down'? The only two people who actually care about me are in danger!" She growls, attempting to kick him in the leg or elbow him in the gut, though he skillfully dodges each time and locks onto her tighter, remaining unfazed by her actions. 

"And you'll be putting them in even more danger if you go back. You heard what I said. Do you really want to hurt your own family?"

"Just shut up! I'd never do something like that. Not if my life depended on it."

"Well, it would. Y/n, you're not understanding." He effortlessly spins her around to face him, her neck bending upward due to the large height difference between the two of them. She studies the faded black stains that travel below his empty sockets and down his mask before having to glance away. "Once you get to that point, he controls you. He owns you. He can make you do whatever he deems necessary to please him, and you can't stop it." She huffs, biting her bottom lip and holding back miserable tears. "Do you really want that to happen to you?"

She brings both her hands up and pushes harshly against his chest to create some kind of space between them before crossing her arms and sending him a scowl, gathering the nerve to look directly into the vacant pits in his head. "I don't want any of this to happen to me," she mumbles, taking deep breaths to stop herself from crying. "I just want to go home and be with the people I love." The words leave her lips as a harsh whisper, her voice cracking in the process.

"That can't happen." His tone changes from mildly irritated to sympathetic in an instant, and he takes a small step back in an effort to make her feel more comfortable. "I'm sorry."

She uses the back of her arm to wipe away a stray tear that had begun rolling down her cheek as her gaze lingers toward the hallway. She doesn't want to be anywhere near Jack or anybody besides her grandparents. She wants out of this mess. At least she knows it isn't her fault—not completely anyway. Not that the thought soothes her very much, but it's something. "...Where's the bathroom?" It comes out as a half-hearted demand, and he answers immediately. 

"First door to the right." She nods in silent gratitude and starts walking that way, ignoring the pain that climbs through the bottom half of her leg as she does so. Once inside the desired room, she shuts the door behind her, flicks on the light, and tries to calm her fast, unsteady breathing and rapid heart rate. What is she supposed to do? Take Jack's word for it and stay here? Escape and try to find the way to a police station? Neither option sounds too appealing at the moment. She doesn't forget the words Jeff used before he ever so kindly escorted her back to her kidnapper's house. 

"So believe me when I say that if they ever show up here, I'm comin' to find you first. And no amount of cops will be able to save you."

That was a threat if she's ever heard one, and given the brief, though memorable, interaction with Jeff she had, he'd certainly make an attempt to back it up, even if he did, indeed, die in the process. Still, the idea that if she managed to break free and get the police involved, he'd hunt her down and wipe out everyone within his path is terrifying. And it wouldn't bother him a bit. Of course it wouldn't; if he's crazy enough to allegedly carve a smile into his face, then he's crazy enough not to care in the least as he straight-up massacres people.

How could somebody be so...twisted? Is it the doing of that creature, the one Jack informed her about? Or is it something totally different? Well, if she's going to be here a while, as she assumes she will be, whether she likes it or not, then she'll be sure to gather as many details about the ones that live around here as she can. Maybe she can ask that girl who's supposed to be coming by with shoes, according to Jack. What's her name? Wendy? Whitney?

No, dummy, it was a flower. She's named after a flower... Petunia? Lily? She shakes her head in disregard. That isn't even close. The bathroom is small, with a sink counter to her right, a toilet to the side of that, a tub to her left, and a slender cabinet ahead of her, right beside a window. The thought crosses her mind briefly to use the window to escape; not only is it too high for her to properly reach without some kind of boost, but it's too small for her to even begin trying to squeeze through. 

Nausea bubbles in her stomach as she thinks more and more about her daunting situation. How does she handle this? Her whole existence just got flipped upside-down in a matter of hours. She doesn't know where she is, the people around her are completely off their rocker, and her grandparents are at risk of being hurt, possibly even killed, by some other-worldly thing that she's seen a grand total of once, and even that sighting was vague. What about that one time she saw the figure in the woods? The one with the white mask? Was that a hallucination, or was it real, too?

She has no way of knowing for sure, and that thought alone makes her want to collapse and cry until she can't anymore about her misfortune. But she won't, not right now. Instead, she throws herself at the sink, desperate to rid herself of the foul taste filling her mouth and swallow the vomit creeping up her throat. She turns on the faucet and welcomes the cool water that spills out, pressing her lips against it and gulping it down. She savors the pristine liquid as it slips down her throat, bringing an end to the dryness she felt in it prior and relieving her of the discomfort.

Letting out a strangled cough, she turns the faucet off and looks up, only now noticing the large piece of cloth— an old, ratted blanket, upon inspection—covering the area where a mirror usually is placed. She lifts the corner of it up, finding that there is, indeed, a mirror underneath, and becomes perplexed. Why would there be a blanket blocking the mirror? Did Jack do it? Does he not like to look at himself?

How does he see himself if he doesn't have eyes? She knits her brows together, sniffling and licking some residual water away from her lips to stop it from dribbling down her chin. But he seems to move around just fine. She's already established that he isn't normal, but just how high does that scale ascend? How does one see without eyes? Does he have some kind of sixth sense that allows him to somehow know his surroundings? If the whole 'no eyes' thing is a trick of his mask, it's definitely bamboozled her. It looks so...so real. Just like every other aspect of him.

If he's like that, and Jeff is like that, then what do the other ones look like? She knows that there have to be others; Jack made that blatantly obvious by mentioning someone named Brian, and Jeff's apparent 'brother', and the other named...Daisy? No, that's not it either. How much freakier is this going to get? How many more psychos has she yet to come across? She isn't too eager to find out. Jack's bad enough, and though he hasn't given her any more reason to hate him, the fact still stands that he took her from her house. Not only that, but he drugged her to do so, and before that, tricked her. Lied, right to her face, all to make her think he was trustworthy. Which he clearly is not.

She isn't sure whether to feel mad, betrayed, or a mixture of both. No, the two weren't friends, but they had talked for quite a while and she had told him things about herself that she certainly wouldn't tell some grey-skinned, eyeless thing. Is he even human? He doesn't look like one. She thought that there was a sort of bond that had sparked between the two of them during their encounter, though now she knows it was just a big, dirty ploy. 

She sighs through her nose, rubbing her eyes and leaning against the counter. Should she have just stayed home? Sure, she didn't really have a choice but to go to her grandparents' house while her mom and dad went to Japan, not if she wanted to keep her sanity, but she knows for a fact that her father, in particular, would have much preferred to keep her away from them. Yet he still broke under her continuous nagging and let her go. Not only did she miss them, but she didn't want to be cooped up in a penthouse all summer long, nor did she want to attend camp again; the last time she did, the outcome wasn't fantastic. Her mother's parents also weren't an option, and thus, that left Nana and Pops.

But...if she had stayed home, would this have happened? Would Nana and Pops still be safe? Would she still be leading a generally boring, disconsolate life? Jack said himself that the creature chasing after her wouldn't be able to reach her in a populated area, like a city, and that's why he only now started attacking her. Because she was easy bait.

Is this actually her fault? Could she have avoided all of this had she just stopped being stubborn and stayed put in her home? What if Nana and Pops get killed if they aren't already? All because of her need to reach out to and see family that actually still cares about her? Throwing around blame isn't going to help anything. Though that's what she tells herself, she can't help but think about it and feel guilty. 

If I'm dreaming, now would be a good time to wake up. It all feels a bit too realistic to be a dream at this point, but she continues to cling to that little sliver of hope that this whole charade is something her mind is cooking up while she's unconscious, and that soon she'll awake, perfectly healthy in her bed, with no giant noodle man to worry about, or crazy weirdos with masks, or strange dreams, unexplained dizzy spells and coughing fits. No wacky symbols. That would be incredible, even though she knows that, really, she's never that lucky. This is all happening, and there's no way to escape it.

She doesn't even try to stop the tears that lazily slip down her cheeks and make tiny little drip noises when they land in the porcelain bowl beneath her, only huffing in agitation and dipping her head to collect her bearings. And I thought I had a screwed-up life before...

After a few minutes, she's able to compose herself and gather enough courage to step back outside into the hallway, glancing toward the living room and catching sight of Jack on the couch, book in hand and head craned down as if reading the words on the pages. Now, how does that work? She steps forward, and at the sound of another presence nearing, he tilts his head up and meets her eyes with his soulless black pits. 

She pauses under his gaze, nerves jumping with unease at his attention before she continues walking, stopping to idly lean against the wall across from him. "You alright?" His voice makes her flinch slightly, having not expected him to speak and break the tense silence that had been constructed between them, though she's able to blow it off and act as if nothing happened.

"No," she says, tone harsh as she crosses her arms and drops her gaze to the floor. "Why would I be 'alright'? This isn't exactly an average Tuesday." 

"I know, I know." He folds his book over and rests it in his lap, slanting forward slightly. "I'm not expecting you to be fine with this. Not for a while, at least." She narrows her eyes and presses her lips together. "I just need you to understand that this is your best option. It ensures both your safety and your family's safety."

"You just told me that my family could be used to manipulate me." Her tone is taut and her eyebrows knot together, peering at him through resentful e/c eyes. "That doesn't sound very 'safe' to me."

"Yes, and then I said he probably won't feel the need to use them at all because you're so far away from where they live." He straightens his posture and tilts his head. "Trust me, going back would be more dangerous."

"And what if he does decide to 'use' them, huh? What then?" It takes a few infuriating moments for him to respond, and she shuffles around on her feet a bit to give him a well-aimed glare. He either doesn't notice or chooses to ignore it.

"We'll have to cross that bridge if—only if—we come to it." She opens her mouth to chime out sarcasm; to say something along the lines of, "Gee, that's really reassuring, I feel better already," but before she can, there are three firm raps at the door, coming from the outside. It startles her and she cautiously moves her gaze to the source of the sudden noise. 

Jack moves the curtain to the side and glances out through the window placed behind the couch, seemingly checking who could be on the other side.

It isn't long before the house that Y/n darted away from only twenty minutes earlier comes into full view; the girl only now notices the shrubbery that the exterior of the building is blanketed in. Almost like it's meant to be inconspicuous to the average, untrained eye. There's no doubt that these people are wanted criminals if they're demented enough to kidnap people from their bedrooms in the middle of the night, so what else are they capable of? Murder? This permanently smiling man in front of her owns a knife for a reason, and he strongly implied that killing her in cold blood wouldn't bother him in the least. Does everyone here actually end people's lives? Is that what they're going to do to her?

Jack told her that they meant no harm; then again, how is she supposed to store her faith in the very guy who abducted her while she was asleep? She limps onto the porch, behind the raven-haired male, and waits in uncomfortable anticipation as he knocks on the door. Smile takes a seat beside her legs, blinking up at her with golden eyes and growling from deep within his throat, prompting her to claim a small, almost unnoticeable step away. This dog is freaky. This man is freaky; the guy who took her in the first place is freaky. People like this are supposed to be in movies, not reality. Then again, she's been seeing things lately that should make her question both herself and reality.

The door opens, and she instinctively glances up, regretting it in an instant when she meets the soulless pits where she assumes Jack's eyes used to be. Or did he even have eyes? He did, she saw them. They were a nice, chestnut hue, so what happened? Was it a disguise? A trick of the mind? Is he even human? Maybe he somehow fooled her into seeing him that way. "Jeff," Jack starts, tone low with suspicion, "I hope you didn't do anything stupid."

So that's his name. Jeff. Like Jeffrey Dahmer. Oh God, what if he eats people, too?

"Psh, why do you have to immediately assume the worst about me?"

"Because stupidity is no stranger to you," he answers plainly, stepping aside and allowing who she now knows as Jeff to enter the small household. Y/n follows, warily glancing at the mask-wearing male and staying as far away from him as possible.

"Ah, you wound me, Jack."

Uninterested in humoring him, he speaks. "What happened to her ankle?"

"Simple, really: she bolted, Smile gave chase, and he won like the good boy he is." He stands there for a moment, staring at Jeff with an emotion that she can't quite identify, though it's quite possibly irritation. 

"So what you're saying is, Brian gives us clear instructions not to hurt her, and what you hear is, 'sic my 70-pound killer dog on this frightened, defenseless girl'." 

"Hey man, I got her, didn't I? You just better be happy he didn't rip her leg off or somethin'." She crosses her arms and shoots a glare at Jeff, shifting her weight to her right leg to relieve herself of a fraction of the pain. Jack sighs, shaking his head and walking farther into the living room, closer to Jeff. 

"Just get outta here. And take your...your mutt with you."

"With pleasure," he replies, sending Y/n a patronizing smirk before stepping outside, snapping his fingers while he does so. "C'mon, Smile. Let's go somewhere far away from these simpletons." Smile wags his tail excitedly and stands from his sitting position, looking up at Jeff. "And I'll have you know, demon boy," he looks back at Jack, his eyebrows raised, "if you let her get away again, I ain't gonna be the one responsible for catching her."

"Get lost, Jeff," he responds, pointing outside and facing the icy-eyed teen with clear annoyance. Jeff leaves without another word, and Jack closes the door behind him before turning back to the injured girl standing timidly in his living room. "...Are you okay?"

She furrows her brows and releases a huff of disbelief from her nose. "Please tell me that's a rhetorical question."

"Right, right, okay," he breathes out in defeat, taking a small step forward; she scurries back to maintain a shred of distance. "Look, Y/n...I know you're scared. If you'll just sit down, I'll bandage that bite on your ankle and explain it all to you." His tone is imploring, and she narrows her eyes skeptically, her walls somehow rising higher than they've already been.

"You wanna...bandage my ankle?"

"I do. Unless you'd rather walk around with a hole in your leg, but I wouldn't recommend it. Infection strikes fast when wounds are left open." She glares at him, then at the couch she stands in front of, and contemplates her options. It isn't as if she can take off again and expect to cover any distance. Maybe she shouldn't push her luck—after all, he doesn't seem too mad at her, if he is at all. If he intended to hurt her, wouldn't he have made some threatening comment by now? Why would he hesitate to make a move at all? Nothing is stopping him.

Slowly, she approaches the couch, not removing her eyes from Jack as she eases onto the cushion farthest away from him. It seems he takes this as a positive sign, and his muscles loosen up, nodding in response to her silent compliance and beginning to amble down the hall.

"Make this easier on yourself and don't try anything reckless again, okay?" She doesn't answer, though she figures he doesn't expect her to. He disappears into the hallway and opens a door—she isn't sure which one—before she flicks her gaze around the room that she's currently occupying. If she's going to let him tend to her injury, she doesn't want to be caught unprepared while he does so. What if he does end up trying something? There's no way to know what's going on in his mind and what he's planning on doing with her—but according to Jack, he'll "explain" it all.

Does she really believe that he's the 'Jack' she met on her way to the river? They look like totally different individuals. How could he just...change his whole appearance like that? He went from fair skin and chestnut eyes to grey skin and no eyes. How is that possible? 

But he's familiar. She knows already that he's the one that she saw in the 'dream' that turned out to be an actual event that occurred, but she can't help but feel that maybe she's seen him before then. When? In a nightmare? No. During one of her severe hallucinations? When she was having that episode? Now that she thinks about it...she has seen him before. It was when she was at the river, right before she began to climb down the tree. She saw Jack, but it wasn't Jack. It was him. The man who brought her here. Except he wasn't wearing a mask.

And then, in an instant, he was normal again. What if he isn't lying? What if he did somehow trick her into seeing what he wanted her to see? She trusted Jack, at least to some degree—but if he actually lied to and kidnapped her, she can't trust him. Who would? He's a lunatic. No, she needs to see for a fact that he isn't going to hurt her. She needs to find out what happened to her grandparents. She needs to go back home.

Given the lengths that 'Jeff' guy went to already to ensure she didn't escape, it's evident that he, Jack, and whoever else is entangled with this stuff don't want her leaving, at least not yet. So maybe she's safe from instantaneous death for now?

After sweeping her gaze over every inch of the living room, she fails to locate anything that could be used as a potential weapon, much to her disappointment. Would a TV remote be heavy enough to throw at his head?

If worse comes to worst, she supposes that she can kick him, but it won't do much if she uses her left leg for one reason in particular. She notices a doorway to her far right, with only a swinging door to block the interior. She sees what looks like a fridge and the beginning of a counter, and is instantly tempted to journey inside. That has to be the kitchen. Kitchens have knives, right? A knife would be an amazing weapon.

But before she can shakily stand, Jack reappears and turns his head in her direction, black pits searing through her eyes, grabbing at her stomach and compressing it. Why does he have to be so creepy? In his hands is a bottle of what looks like Peroxide, a roll of gauze, cotton balls, and some wipes; probably to clean her wound. As long as she doesn't spot anything with a blade on the end, she won't initiate too much trouble. 

He draws closer at a gradual pace in an attempt to steer clear of alarming her any more than she already is, and sets everything but the wipes on the coffee table before dropping to his knees. Y/n shifts in her seat uncomfortably, scooting another inch away from him. She notices the sudden difference in position and height and considers it an advantage, mentally prepping herself should she need to use it. 

"I'm just gonna clean the bite, okay?" he says cautiously, tilting his neck upward to better face her and not missing the dubious expression etched across her features. "Don't...don't kick me. My intention is to help you, not hurt you." 

"You couldn't have told your friend that before his miniature bear did this to me?" She motions toward her leg, her nerves jumping. Everything about this situation is out of place and wrong, and there's no way she's going to let her guard down for even the shortest of moments.

It takes a few seconds for him to respond, as if he isn't sure what to say. "Jeff...isn't one to follow orders very well. He pretty much just does what he wants when he wants to do it. He really only listens to Liu, and even that's scarce."

"Who's Liu?" she more or less demands, her eyes squinted down at him doubtfully. She might as well be informed of every person that she can, because if they're associated with Jack, it will come in handy, especially in a police report. Maybe they'll be tracked more easily that way. Jeff can talk all he wants, but he can't go up against an army of soldiers.

"Jeff's brother." He reaches out toward her leg, silently requesting permission, and after a moment of reluctance, she lets him take it. "This process will be quicker and more comfortable if you shift around this way a little bit."

"I won't be 'comfortable' either way." But she does as told nonetheless, her right leg now propped onto the couch and her left one dangling. She studies his actions as he peels away her dirt-covered, bloody sock, revealing the puncture wounds littering her ankle as they leisurely seep crimson. He presses one of the soggy wipes against her skin, making her flinch from both the wave of cold it brings and the mild stinging sensation. 

He rubs it gently around her injury, putting pressure on certain areas, and it isn't long before she notices that the blood leaking down her ankle is getting significantly thinner and less noticeable as the piece of cloth collects it all. Unable to handle the tense silence between the two and yearning for answers, she speaks.

"Why am I here?" He continues his process of wiping away the blood for several more seconds before tossing the wipe in a nearby trash can, opening the plastic bottle of Peroxide, and pouring it skillfully over a cotton ball. She waits with dwindling patience as he takes hold of her leg and brings it closer to him, once again. 

"This is liable to hurt a bit."

"I don't care," she snaps, lips pressing together into a firm line. "Tell me why I'm here. Tell me why you lied to me, why you kidnapped me." She internally winces when the medication meets her laceration, focusing directly on Jack and glaring daggers into his head. She refuses to look at his empty sockets to make everything a bit more bearable. 

"You're in danger, Y/n." Sensing the judging e/c gaze of the girl sitting on the couch, he better clarifies. "Something bad wants you, and it wants you now. I only brought you here this soon because, if I hadn't, it would have gotten to you first. And you would be suffering. It would make you its...slave, I guess one could say."

She raises an eyebrow, clearly not buying what Jack has to deliver. "'Something bad'?"

"It...er, he, I guess, is...well, he's not human. He's not even from this world; he came from somewhere different. Somewhere evil, and dark, and filled with things, creatures that he created for chaos." He pauses a moment to gather his words. "We don't know a lot about him because sightings of him are so rare, but...there are a few key individuals that live around here who have had very personal, up-close encounters with him. Everyone knows that he's dangerous."

That's a lot of information to process...even if it is bullcrap. She takes in a short breath, fighting the fear threatening to creep into her chest, and forces a coherent sentence out of her mouth. "And why is he dangerous? What did he do?"

"He's bad. And I'm not talking about robbing a store or stealing ice cream from a baby 'bad', no. I'm talking about messing with people's psyche so they go insane and hurt others 'bad'." She blinks, quickly becoming invested in his words, much to her resentment. "He worms his way into your head, makes you see things that aren't there, causes you to dream awful things. It's a slow process, and it usually takes months if not years to complete, but...he's taken a strong liking to you for some reason. I don't know if it's because you're really stressed or just because you have a weak mind, but either way it means you're in immediate danger."

He takes away the fluffy ball of cotton and throws it, too, in the nearby trash bin, grabbing the gauze wrap and slowly twisting it around her ankle, making sure to cover the entire wound before sticking a few pieces of medical tape on it and setting the roll on the table. She doesn't realize that the speed of her breathing is increasing, nor does she notice the erratic beating of her heart as it thumps against her rib cage. Seeing things that aren't there? Having horror-inducing nightmares? That sounds extremely familiar, and she isn't sure whether or not that's a good connection to draw. 

"It sounds crazy, and I know you probably don't believe me. But haven't you been experiencing freaky, unexplainable things lately?" She watches as he stands and sits on the other end of the couch, making her instinctively reel her legs in toward her to create as much space between the two as possible. "I mean...when I went into your room last night, you weren't even in your bed, you were in the closet. There must be a reason for that."

She releases an unsettled huff, biting the inside of her cheek nervously and staring at his navy-blue mask with a contemplative look. Surely he can't be telling the truth, right? "I was just..." she racks her brain for a reply, desperately wanting to think that this is another one of her wild dreams that she'll wake up from again soon, "...just a little scared."

"Y/n...I saw that symbol that was drawn on the sketchpad. Did you do it?" She shoots him a half-hearted glare, subconsciously clenching her hands into loose fists. 

"Yes." Her tone is sharp and defensive, eyes holding a mixture of fright, anger, and incredulity. "What does some stupid symbol have to do with anything, anyway?"

"That kind of senseless scribbling is a side effect of having Operator Sickness, which means that he's in one of the last stages of recruiting you." He stuffs his hands into his hoodie pocket and moves around a little. "Did you draw it willingly?"

"What do you mean?"

"Were you conscious while you were doing it? Or did you not realize until it was finished?" She narrows her eyes, refusing to take them off the brown-haired boy sitting only two and a half feet away from her.

"I was...I was doing it in my sleep."

"See what I mean? He's been trying to control your life. It only would've gotten worse had I not taken you here." She attempts to wrap her mind around this new information while not being willing to accept it as straight fact. It is, indeed, freaky how almost everything he just mentioned has correlated to events that have happened to her within the past few days. How would he know that? Has he been stalking her? But that doesn't explain how he'd know anything about the state of her dreams.

"And how exactly is you bringing me here, wherever 'here' is, gonna help me?" She scoots backward and knots her eyebrows together. "For all I know, you're the bad one who's just lying to gain my trust. It wouldn't be the first time." Her words are poisoned with a blunt edge, eyes brimming with emotions that she isn't allowing to fly out of her mouth. He sighs, almost guiltily, and runs a hand through his hair.

"This place is like a base, I guess. There are lookouts on duty at all times to ensure nothing creeps up on us, there are cameras hidden in the trees with a sharp eye watching them, and multiple...beings, live here that are capable of protecting things better and more efficiently than normal people."

"So you're telling me that you've locked me in a prison with a bunch of freaks." She doesn't miss how his shoulders tense after the words leave her lips, though she doesn't mull over it too much, focusing solely on her current, certainly unfortunate, situation. 

"I, uh... I wouldn't call it a 'prison'. A lot of individuals take shelter here because they have nowhere else to go. It's safe, and it has been for a while. We wouldn't need such drastic measures if we hadn't all been attacked before. We're at risk all the time, so we have to take precautions."

"Cut the crap, dude," she suddenly barks, twisting around and putting her feet back on the floor. There's no way this is all true, right? He has to be trying to get a reaction out of her. Trick her, manipulate her. And she won't stand for it, even if she does have a major disadvantage. "Just...just let me go. I don't want to be here."

"I'm not lying."

"Oh, yeah?" She rises to her feet, becoming exasperated and refusing to believe the information she was just given. "Are you really expecting me to believe that there's some other-worldly creature trying to brainwash me, that it's been controlling what I dream and what I see, and that there's a secret gathering of...of crazy hermits somewhere in the middle of the woods supposedly protecting this entire area?" Her voice rises, a natural occurrence thanks to her incredulous state, and she holds back frantic tears. 

Jack stands as well, easily towering over her with his taller frame and striking her as intimidating. "It's the only way to explain what you've been experiencing. I promise you, I'm not lying." She scoffs, crossing her arms and taking a step back, ignoring the pain it causes. 

"So then why do you care?"

He tilts his head in mild confusion. "What?"

"If I'm really being hunted by this thing, why do you care? I can't do anything for you—I can't even help myself at this point. So why'd you bring me here? Don't you have better things to do than to try and help some random girl?" He rubs the back of his neck, his voice lowering a bit.

"It wasn't my idea, but I did agree with it. If he were to get his way and you became his...his worker, then you'd be against us. We don't need anyone else to fight off—the odds are against us as it is." Her gaze flickers down briefly, staring at the floor and trying to decide whether or not she should take what this person says to heart. He's made some pretty valid points so far, and he obviously isn't trying to harm her. Why else would he see that her ankle is taken care of? He sounds very passionate about this, so even if it isn't true, she can tell that he's either convinced himself that it is true or he's really good at deception. Something that wouldn't be too big of a surprise...

After an extensive silence, her eyes fall on the black pits in his head, and she breathes an almost inaudible sigh. "...You're not going to let me leave, are you?"

He doesn't mention her sudden change in demeanor and instead shakes his head slowly. "It's too risky. Besides, I'm sure you don't want to be mind-controlled by a tall, faceless guy in a suit."

"D-did you just say..." That sentence sends her mind into a frenzy, and she subconsciously leans toward him in anticipation. "Faceless what?" 

"Faceless...guy in a suit? That's what he looks like." He steps closer to her curiously. "Did you see him?"

"I...I think so." She recalls that night she slept in the closet after she woke up from that daunting dream, so horrific that it made her awake violently ill. When she glanced out of the window, she saw something. Something tall, starch white, but she couldn't make out any other details besides the fact that it seemed to be dressed in formal attire. Maybe that's because it didn't have any other details. "Do you mean...that wasn't a hallucination?" Her tone is uncharacteristically soft as she comes to the realization that if that wasn't a hallucination, how many other things has she seen that also weren't hallucinations?

"No...probably not." Another silence settles between the two, and she steps backward until she stumbles over the armchair sitting beside the couch, causing her to collapse into it and land with a startled huff. Not that she's complaining—in fact, she hardly even notices as she tries to grasp everything she was just told.

One of the first thoughts that enters her consciousness is her grandparents. What happened to them? Are they okay? "The people I was with." She looks at Jack again, expression swiftly morphing into one of aggression. "What did you do to them?"

He's quick to put his hands up in self-defense and shake his head. "I didn't touch them." She sends him a look that makes it obvious she doesn't believe him. "I'm serious. I went in, got you, then left. They didn't even know I was there."

"Prove it," she spits, glaring up at him with distrust. His posture tells her that he's becoming a bit irritated, but she couldn't care less at the moment.

"You want proof? Fine. Brian's going to take you back in a few days to get your stuff, so you'll see then."

"Who's Brian?"

"He's who you're staying with." She opens her mouth to object, but he cuts her off. "No, he won't hurt you, but I suggest you don't push his buttons. He has a low tolerance level."

"I can't believe you expect me to willingly stay here," she utters through gritted teeth, devising a way to escape Jack, escape this place. All of it is a little too much to process at one time. She just wants to go home. Nana and Pops are probably worried sick about her. 

"Well, you don't have another choice." He collects the medical supplies from off the coffee table, screws the lid back onto the Peroxide bottle, and heads toward the hallway, likely to put them back where they were originally. Her stomach twists into a stressed, scared knot as she glowers at his retreating frame. "Let me put it this way: if you go back to that house and pretend that everything's fine, not only will you end up either dead or a slave, but you'll be putting them in danger, too. I know you don't want that."

He leaves her with that sentence, letting her repeat it over and over in her mind. How would her returning home put them in danger? Would it make them targets? Would Jack and his group of misfits go after them as a form of revenge? It's unknown to her, and it will remain that way until she gets more answers out of Jack. She will not stand aside and let him threaten her family like that.

She plays with some of her hair anxiously and considers everything. How did she get tied up in this? She's never done anything that could be deemed as 'satanic', like play a Ouiji board or invite ghosts and spirits into her home. Is this...thing, if it does exist, a demon of some kind? Is it the devil himself? Why does he want her? What makes her so special that he'd want to...mind-control her, according to Jack? She's an average girl with trash for a family, at least for the most part. All of these questions and more send a streak of fear through her chest, and she can't shake the feeling that maybe it is all true. Maybe Jack is telling the truth. Maybe she is in danger.

ᕼE ᑕOᑌᒪᗪᑎ'T ᒪET ᕼEᖇ GO.

All those years of waiting, all the sleep he neglected, every thought he committed to her, every tenor of hope he clung to like his only remaining life source. It had all led up to this. This moment. This chance to finally have her back. To keep her protected. 

He wasn't going to throw it away. Not now—not when she was so close.

Faces were blurred, and sounds entered one ear and spilled from the other. His heart pumped blood to his brain too fast, dizzying him. There was an unmissable stagger blending with his strides, reminiscent of a person who had just vacated a bar. Despite his disorientation, he was narrowed in on a single mission: find her. Before she disappeared forever.

Numbness unfurled through his body, and he barely discerned his own legs as they stumbled into a messy rhythm of movement, piloted by the determined fire roaring in his chest; a possession so old and starved, yet so incredibly dominant that it was capable of the sweetest intimacy...or the most violent destruction.

"Kiheon." Someone hissed his name out venomously, but he paid it no mind, hurrying toward the back of the building, away from the army of fans, so he could sneak outside and relocate her. He didn't have much time to spare. "Hey!"

He could easily ignore the calls until his arm was snatched, and he was being spun around to face the culprit: Jinu. Of course. His eyes were sharp, his expression capacious with salient warning. Kiheon gritted his teeth, irritation flaring bright within him. He did not have the patience to deal with Jinu's uptight personality and obsessive demands right now.

"Akka geogiseo daeche museun iri isseotdeon geoya?!" His eyes flicked down to a piece of paper Jinu clasped in his fist, now crinkled due to the sheer force of his grasp, before trailing back up. His lips pulled into a tight frown. "Grabbing a fan? What were you thinking!?"

"I wasn't." The reply was resonant of a growl as he craned his neck to glare up at him, wrenching his appendage out of his hold. "Don't touch me."

"Do you have any idea what this does to our reputation? One slip-up—one!—and we're finished." Kiheon rolled his eyes and started to walk away from this senseless confrontation, but Jinu grabbed the collar of his sweater and yanked him back, prompting the shorter male to stumble and whip his head. "Do not try to get out of this. Seriously—are you an idiot? I thought I made it perfectly clear that we must stay in character every second we're being watched!"

Kiheon's captivating blue eyes danced with allusions of gold as Jinu leaned in closer to his face to assert whatever dominance he thought he had at his disposal, his veins burning with exasperation. His tone was deceptively calm, bordered with abhorrence that was contained by nothing more than an unwinding will to preserve composure. "I have something to do."

"Yeah? Well, you can forget it. The only thing you're doing is going back out there and apologizing for your insolence, before this blows up and we get stuck with terrible PR. If we haven't already."

He inhaled a shallow breath to cool the heat of fury fanning through him, but it hardly worked. Visually, his features were vaguely agitated: mild crease between his brows, subtle frown, the occasional twitch of his nostrils, rigid posture. But his eyes revealed every barred emotion his appearance failed to deliver. They were dark, intense, downright menacing; tapered ever so slightly. Bold, refusing to stray from Jinu's for even a fraction of a moment. Challenging, or maybe threatening him. Each instinct that had been born from becoming the creature he was screeched at him like a siren to initiate a fight. Break Jinu's bones. Ruin that swoon-worthy, flawless face of his. Tear out his hair. Make him wish he had never gotten between him and his reason for existing. 

But he refrained. He refrained, because the clock was ticking, and the girl his heart had grown primitively attached to was fleeing. Every second he wasted talking to this self-centered jerk was one more second he could spend chasing after her. So instead, his hands shot up to crimple the fabric of Jinu's shirt in his steeled grasp, tugging him down to his level. His voice was low, calculated, and dripping with poison. "Keep trying to stop me, Jinu, and you'll soon consider your memories a reprieve from the hell I'll put you through."

He didn't give him an opportunity to respond. He didn't care to detect his reaction. He merely shoved him back and swerved to evacuate.

His eyes were fierce as he stormed through the heavy metal doors, greeted by a parking lot filled with staff cars. There was nobody; not that he stopped long enough to rigorously examine the contents of his surroundings before vanishing with a cloud of scarlet vapor and reappearing on the sidewalk opposite the convention. He skewed his head around, his demeanor nothing short of frantic. Spectators may have assumed him feral—a crazed man on the hunt for something he lost; something so dreadfully important he would have stolen lives to retrieve it. 

His pulse hammered through his skull as he sprinted in the direction that felt most right, his lungs expanding rapidly, his knees threatening to buckle beneath his weight. He lumbered through the crowd, swift strides frenzied. Scenery melted together in disarray—faces, vehicles, posters—as he darted, faster than he ever had. "Eun-ju!!" The name tore itself out of his throat; violent, desperate, sharp enough to split obsidian open. Startled murmurs followed him. Puzzled stares lingered for too long. He didn't notice. He didn't care. 

It felt like the earth was quaking beneath his shoes as he clambered into bodies with all the reckless instability of a toddler learning the art of balancing.

"EUN-JU!"

His vision was garnished with onslaught after onslaught of tears, and frequently, he was forced to wipe them away to avoid obstructed optics. His eyes were peeled. He would have taken anything—anything. A blur of h/c tresses. The enamoring shine of e/c eyes. The color combination of familiar clothes. 

But where he thought he saw something...was always nothing.

Anguish anchored itself to his organs, his extremities, his very being, and his chest throbbed, as if it was moments away from bursting; like an apple trapped in the hungry jaws of a hydraulic press. He couldn't breathe, his sight was unfocused, and his thighs stung. But he kept going, weaving through alleys, across streets, through traffic. Calling her name. Screaming it, until his voice was gravely, and the back of his throat was raw. Seeking a sign. Begging for one. 

Reality disintegrated around him, and his senses grew garbled. He summoned the remaining shards of his energy to transfer himself elsewhere in a blink of smoke before he crumpled entirely, landing on the roof of a tall, unspecified structure with a jagged exhale. The air swirling around him felt both too hot and too cold; absorbent and strangling all at once. His ribcage rattled with the force of his heartbeat. He saw blue and purple blobs floating in the corners of his vision. He felt his hair stick to his forehead and beads of sweat drip down his nose. He felt his nails bend as he dug them into the concrete, then he heard them snap under the pressure. He felt bile simmer in his stomach.

But most of all, he felt her absence, and he felt it like a dagger slicing straight through his core. 

.・。.・゜✭・❤・✫・゜・。.

The noise of mingled prattling buzzed through her brain, but she didn't distinguish any of it. Her eyes slovenly inspected the muddled faces she passed, her pulse deafening her senses. There was a pang—unseen, but impactful—that urged her to spin around and return to Baby and...what? Confront him? Yell at him? Ask for an explanation regarding why on earth he sprang at her, a total stranger, and snatched her arm like her presence alone would stop his entire world from caving in?

She had never witnessed such an abundant display of emotions flash across someone's features in such short succession before. Bone-chilling shock, brittle disbelief, earnest relief, mitigated confusion, mind-numbing terror...unfiltered desperation. It was scary. No—it was daunting, like a creeping shadow cast by nothing but the light itself. 

Her pace tempered into a slower walk—not relaxed, but not fevered. A level ground. The more distance she put between herself and that mysterious pop-star, the laxer everything felt, like a spool inside her unraveling thread by thread; an irritating utterance somewhere in the recesses of her brain that told her something wasn't right. That she was traversing the wrong way. It was some irrational intuition with a teetering foundation built on a lack of logic. She just couldn't, for her life, grasp why she was feeling this way, nevertheless for a budding K-pop idol she barely knew the name of.

But he knew my name.

She shook her head. What? No, he didn't. Whatever he said...it wasn't her name. But if that was the case...why did it feel so alarmingly familiar? Like a precious treasure buried beneath so much debris had finally been rediscovered?

She glanced over her shoulder, as if expecting something—or someone. She wasn't sure why. But her heart clenched. There was a bustling crowd, all minding their own business. Nothing out of the ordinary. 

He wasn't following her.

The thought itself didn't startle her as much as her own disappointment did. She scoffed, swinging her head to rid herself of the demented notions, filtering through the streets with all the urgency of a bird taking flight. This had to be adrenaline. It had to fade. Otherwise...

She needed something. What was that 'something'? 

Coffee. I need coffee.

She just had to drink a hot beverage, lounge beside a window, and diminish the icy flames licking her gut, squirming through her bloodstream like a million tiny parasites. She veered into the local Starbucks, her hands racked with tremors, so she tucked them beneath her arms in hopes it would quell whatever uncontrollable state of unrest they were currently undergoing. The sweet smell of caramel and the whirring of steaming milk crashed into her. She migrated into the tapering line of people waiting to order, her breaths tattered and shallow. Confusion had infected her, spreading through every inch of her being; a river that ran so deep, merely trying to wade would have drowned her. 

Soda Pop streamed through the speakers of the room, its melody smooth and buoyant per usual, but it served to increase the anxiety already swimming within her chest. It reminded her of him, when all she wanted was to forget that encounter ever took place and move on with her life. She was certain everybody would be discussing what happened with fervid critique, perhaps curiosity—how could they not? He acted on a whim, not just in front of the public in general, but in the middle of a fan-based event with a large audience. Y/n was not looking forward to seeing rumors spiral and debates being sparked. 

Though maybe she would get lucky. Maybe his recklessness would...knock him off his pedestal. Teach him that he shouldn't have been so...so entitled. Why would she give him her attention if he was spurred on by nothing but arrogance? 

That wasn't arrogance.

But it was easier to assume that it was. Easier, because she wouldn't have to face the reality that there was more to his broken whisper, his deliberate hold, his anguish-brimmed eyes, than just a manifestation of fame-inspired egotism. 

No, not egotism. Something primal. Something she wasn't ready to accept. Or consider.

Something so powerful, multiple lifetimes couldn't even suppress it.

────୨ৎ────

Stirring awake, she tries opening her eyes, finding that it's exceptionally difficult due to her increased drowsy state. She waits a moment, collecting her bearings and slowly coming to the realization that, instead of leaning against a wall as she remembers doing, she's lying on her back, on a seemingly cushioned surface. Like a bed. That's strange... Did she sleepwalk? Or get up and go back to bed at some point? But she doesn't recall such a thing. Maybe she was too tired to pay attention.

That dream though... This time, the dream was a bit...different than usual. There wasn't any static, there weren't any dead bodies, and she wasn't trapped inside an unquestionably foreign place. All she remembers is feeling a rush of adrenaline and a moment of panic before blackness swept her away. It's definitely odd, not that she's complaining. If she had dreams like that all the time instead of whatever she's been experiencing recently, she'd feel a lot more at ease. She can faintly remember seeing someone, or something, in front of her, trying to keep her quiet. It seemed a little familiar, but she can't piece together why. 

This dream was a lot more up close and personal. And it felt so real—realer than her others have been, which is pretty baffling. What did the figure look like? Mostly black, with traces of dark blue? The whole incident is blurry to her; she assumes it's because her mind is inclined to unnerve her, as it has taken pride in doing so far too often as of late. 

That voice, though. She knows she's heard that voice before. Where? That's a mystery, but maybe with some thought toward the matter, she'll reach a conclusion. Or maybe it's all in her head and she's never heard that voice in her life. She brings her hands up to rub her face, attempting to rid herself of her lethargy so she can open her eyes, and finally gathers the energy to sit up somewhat. As her vision adjusts to the moderate amount of sunlight spilling through the crack of the closed curtains to the right of the bed, the first thing she discovers is that the scenery is...well, unlike the bedroom she was in previously.

It's much smaller, being only big enough to fit an average-sized mahogany dresser, a bedside desk crafted of the same wood, and sitting atop that desk is a lamp with a candlestick shade, a glass of room temperature water, and an unopened pack of crackers; the kind one would receive from a restaurant. A window with simple brown and blue drapes sits directly beside the desk, and across from her, on the other side of the room, is a shut door. She's unsure if it leads outside or to a closet of some kind.

The wallpaper in the room is white with an inconsistent floral pattern, and the floor is made of hickory hardwood; part of it is covered by a thin, maroon rug of oval shape. The musty smell that the room itself excretes clues her into the fact that it's been vacant for a while, and the small cobweb dangling in the corner of the ceiling proves that theory. 

Her heart skips a beat, and she doesn't even attempt to slow her breathing. This isn't her bedroom, nor is it any other room in Nana's and Pops' house—not one that she can remember, at any rate. As far as she can tell, she's in a separate household entirely. But why? Who brought her here? Her gaze travels down to her body, almost instantly identifying the band-aid that's stuck to the crook of her elbow. What the heck...?

She peels it away in one swift motion, tossing it aside and not giving the brief discomfort it induces any thought; instead, she focuses solely on the inflamed pinprick still very present in her skin, rimmed with a nasty bruise. She knows what that is: a needle mark, which means someone injected her with an unknown solution. But who? And why?

This realization sends her mind into a frenzy as she fully comprehends the startling, inexplicable situation, and she throws the blanket that had been placed over her when she was unconscious off and jumps to her feet, immediately being swamped with a wave of dizziness. Shaking her head to rid herself of the disorienting feeling, she uses one hand to prop her body against the wall to ensure she doesn't collapse, and with the other, she wrenches back the drapes hung in front of the window, sticking her head through the widened crack and squinting her eyes at the minor change in illumination.

She can barely see through the thick greenery grown on the opposite side of the glass and obscuring most of the outside world, though she takes notice of the trees that border, she assumes, the whole house. Her grandparents live in a heavily wooded area, yes, but it's a known truth that the lawn around the length of their house is almost completely free of trees. She isn't in her grandparents' house anymore. So where is she? And how did she get here?

Without a stroke of hesitation, she curls her fingers beneath the bottom rim of the window and, with one hasty tug, tries to open it, going again when it doesn't work. She doesn't know why she's here, and she refuses to stay long enough to become privy to that knowledge. If it weren't for this being downright unfamiliar territory to her, sure, she may consider sticking around until someone cares to explain; but not only does she get bad vibes from this room, this place, but she also has plenty of reasons that warrant her flaming desire to escape. 

It's expressly apparent to her that she was drugged and brought here against her will. How? Beats her, although she isn't going to stop long enough to ponder it. With wide, frantic eyes, she searches for a switch to unlock the window, detecting two of them on opposing ends of the frame, and rapidly pulls them toward her. Hopefully, this will work in her favor this time. She spends the next two minutes yanking upward on the window, praying to the highest heavens that it will eventually fly open so she can get out. Her grandparents must be worried sick if they've been calling for her, looking for her, and she isn't even in the house. She doesn't know where she is.

How long has she been gone? There isn't a clock in the room, so she can't actively check, but she assumes it has to be around nine o'clock in the morning, given the angle of sunshine flooding in through the leaves. "Come on, just open, you stupid thing..." she mutters, really wanting to steer clear of using the door as a route to her freedom. The idea crosses her mind to break the pane with something, although that would certainly alert any individuals residing outside this room, and she isn't confident in her getaway abilities when up against shattered glass, a wall of foliage, and a time limit. 

Finally giving up on the window with an aggravated slap to its surface, she spins around, searching desperately for a weapon of sorts. If she has to wander out of this room through an undisclosed, likely dangerous building, she won't be leaving unprepared. Quietly, yet hurriedly, she opens the drawers to the dresser, then the one attached to the small desk, but to her misfortune, finds nothing. They're all empty. 

She checks beneath the bed, under the rug, behind a door that she discovers leads to the closet, though she still sees nothing whatsoever that could be of any use to her. It's almost comical how utterly defenseless she is right now, and she would laugh if she weren't so terrified. Chewing on her bottom lip, worried tears prick at her eyes as she reluctantly approaches the still-closed door—the one she is now positive leads to the remainder of the house—and extends her arm, wrapping her fingers around the knob.

With a deep breath and a mental pep-talk, she goes to twist it, her heart dropping when it, too, doesn't budge. She tries again—after all, maybe it's just jammed? Nope. Whoever took her here has locked her in, and now she has no prospect of freedom in the foreseeable future. What should she do now? The window obviously isn't going to give way, but should she keep trying? Or should she wait until someone eventually saunters inside and attack them? There doesn't appear to be another option. 

Her gaze shifts back over to the desk, then to the water still sitting untouched on its exterior. Of course it's untouched. What is she going to do? Drink it? Only an idiot would do such a thing. But...that does look like a rather heavy glass. Heavy enough to lob at someone's head and hope to knock them cold? Guess there's only one way to find out. 

She snatches it up, not caring about the drops of water that splash out from the action, and stands a couple of feet in front of the door, reeling her arm back and readying herself to throw her sole defense mechanism at the first thing she sees come into the room. Maybe she'll catch them off-guard, at least long enough to enable her jailbreak. Fortunately, she doesn't have to wait for very long, for soon she hears footsteps outside before the knob turns and the door gradually swings open.

Not taking time to pay attention to the details of the person entering the room, she launches the glass at them, only managing to strike them in the shoulder; the water from inside pours out and both soaks that specific area of their clothes and lands on the floor, the glass following closely behind and cracking into several different pieces. The man exhumes a grunt of surprise, flinching back and looking down at the makeshift weapon hurled at him, then shifting his line of focus back up to the h/c-haired girl standing warily ahead.

She would have used that as a distraction and booked it past him and out of the room, and that's what she originally intended, had it not been for the unusually tall figure still standing in front of the door, blocking her path and making that plan impossible to execute. Crap, I should've waited until he was actually farther inside to throw it...

Once he tilts his head in her direction, she sucks in a tremulous breath and impulsively backs away in a mixture of fear and shock, struggling to comprehend the sight before her. That's what he looked like. That's what the figure in her dream looked like. Witnessing him now, in real life rather than just in her mind, she can remember that. This is why she felt so afraid. He's terrifying.

But it was just a dream. It should have just been a dream. Is he the one responsible for bringing her here, wherever 'here' is? She retreats so fast that she runs into the foot of the bed, nearly tripping, though able to catch herself before she plummets to the floor, and continues until her back strikes the wall. He stands in the same place, staring at her through the black, empty pits replacing his eyes and concluding how alarmed she is. Not that he can blame her for that.

He raises his hands in a non-threatening manner, keeping his posture mellow and speaking, his voice deep. "Y/n...I know what you're thinking."

He knows my name? He knows my freaking name?? Her breathing quickens, and her eyes worriedly dart around the confined room, trying to find something, anything, to use as a potential weapon, but her good fortune runs dry. She stays silent, waiting to see what move he'll make, or if he'll even make one. 

"...But you're okay. No one's gonna hurt you." He takes a small step forward, keeping his hands up to show her he isn't holding anything. She backs farther up into the wall, narrowing her eyes at him and remaining silent. "You were brought here for your own protection."

My protection? Huh?? She parts her lips, panic coursing through her veins as she fights the tears trying to spill over onto her cheeks. "Wh...who are you?" She wants to make it sound like a courageous demand, but it comes out as a meek whisper. No, stop it! He can smell fear!

He hesitates a moment. "You...don't recognize me, but I'm Jack." Her brows furrow incredulously as she stares at him, gaze unwavering. "What I told you about moving nearby with my mom was a lie. I do live here, in Alabama, but...I'm with a group. Not my mom."

There's more of them?

"I don't believe you," she manages to spit out, tone venomous as she examines the hallway behind him. This...this anomalous creep is Jack? No, Jack was normal. This person isn't. Though she has to admit, his attire and voice rings some bells in her mind. 

"You don't have to. Point is, you're here so we can keep you safe. Nobody here is going to hurt you in any way—you don't need to be scared." 

Right! This is coming from the same guy who drugged and kidnapped me—why on earth would I not be scared right now!? "Let me go," she says, voice hardening and muscles tense. He shakes his head, taking another step forward.

"That's something I can't do."

"I don't wanna be here. Let. Me. Go." Her hands clench into anxious fists, heart pounding at what feels like a thousand miles per hour as he takes yet another cautious step forward. Maybe I can incapacitate him and then run like a madwoman.

"You've got to stay here. Something wicked is after you, and this is the only place you'll be safe."

"Are you aware of how absolutely ridiculous you sound?" she retorts, fiery attitude returning with full force due to the alarming circumstances. "Do you honestly think that I'm just gonna take your word for it? After you drugged and abducted me?" She hears him let out a sigh, muffled by his navy mask. 

"I only did it because I knew you wouldn't come with me willingly."

"Wow, where'd you get that gem of an idea?" She scoffs, eyeing the door now several feet behind him and contemplating her chances. Just come a little closer, buddy. I dare you. 

"Look...I know you're scared and don't know what's going on. I can explain it to you, you just...need to pay attention." He steps even closer. "We don't want to hurt you."

"That is such a lie." Her glare could cut through a wall as she grits her teeth, anger masking her dismay. He eases another inch or so nearer.

"Y/n, it's not. I promise." She uses the wall to brace herself as she lines her foot up with her target, mentally preparing herself for what she's about to do. 

"It's a crying shame I'm not the gullible idiot you take me for." Before he has time to react properly, she brings her knee up and forcefully rams her foot between his legs, causing him to double over in pain and give her enough time to charge past him and through the door, grasping the knob as she does so and slamming it shut behind her to spare herself as many seconds as she can. Briefly, she checks for a lock, only seeing a keyhole and figuring out he must have the key, so she glances to the right, thankfully spotting what she guesses is a gateway to opportunity. 

She rushes down the hallway, past another door across from the room she was just trapped inside, and directly into a small living room with nothing but a maroon sofa slid in front of a covered window, an armchair at a 90-degree angle, and a coffee table in front of both with a few meaningless items scattered atop its surface that she couldn't care less about. Heading straight for the door, she turns the brass lock up and yanks it open, blinded by her motivation to escape and be as fast as humanly possible. 

Yep, just as she suspected. She's surrounded by forest, overgrown grass, and overall, a poorly maintained lawn. She can only hope that she doesn't trip over any of the obstacles between her and her liberation. What's most hazardous is the fallen branches and rocks hidden by herbage, so hidden in fact, that she wouldn't know that they were there until she was eating dirt. The sun's light is broken by the large number of trees looming tall above her, but she can see her surroundings distinctly enough that it shouldn't cause a problem, at least not one too colossal. 

She leaps off the small, wooden porch and into the feathery grass, using the bottom step for momentum to gain more speed, and hurries in between the numerous trees. She has no idea where she is, but the trees appear to be, overall, the same breed that grows around her grandparents' house, so she has hope that she's at least in general proximity to it. Could she have been hauled off to another state? Surely she wasn't asleep for that long, right? 

She sticks her hands out and slaps the brush and low-hanging branches out of her way so she doesn't accidentally stab herself in the eye and have her vision rendered. Occasionally, she discerns the sharp impact of various plants scratching her arms, twigs getting catching in her hair, and briars impaling the thin material of her socks, though ignores it, for the most part, focusing on finding a trail, a road, something other than pure woods; something that will lead her back to civilization so she can contact the police and, in hindsight, touch base with her grandparents. They must be so worried about her. How many hours—days, weeks—has she been absent?

The temperature isn't extreme yet, but she suspects it will be steadily rising the later the day gets. Adrenaline pumps through her body, her mind not fully able to comprehend what just happened. Did she really escape her kidnapper? How often does that happen? Maybe she does have a chance of survival, after all.

Well...she might, if she isn't taken down, again. If he wasn't intending to hurt her before, he for sure will after being kicked in the no-no spot. She can't speak from personal experience, but she can imagine that being targeted in such a sensitive area isn't exactly an enjoyable feeling.

Not that she cares about that, anyway. He had it coming. Past the erratic beating of her heart, she can perceive the crunching of greenery beneath her feet as her pace increases. The farther away she gets from that house, the more likely she is to leave for good. But...he can track her down. He knows where she's staying. He stole her like a piece of loot from her own temporary home. But then, does that mean... What did he do to her grandparents?

She's shaken from her thoughts when she hears the faint bark of a dog, the sound of which echoes from an unspecified interval behind her. Oh no... They have a freaking DOG?? Crap! Increasing her speed does nothing to aid in her survival whatsoever, and not a minute later, the barking is so close she swears that the dog itself has to be a few feet away. Oh nononono, please don't—

Something blunt takes her ankle captive and jerks her back; she loses her balance and dives forward with a pained grunt as the force becomes firmer. She isn't stupid; she knows that the dog just bit her, and she probably isn't going to coax it into letting her go. After all, if that guy and his friends regularly kidnap random people, then they must get a lot of runaways. This is nothing new to the dog. 

She can hear its low, threatening growls from behind her as its teeth sink into the flesh on her leg, with enough pressure to draw blood. Her breathing is frantic as she attempts to collect her bearings, wanting desperately to get away before whoever owns the dog comes to collect and send her to her inevitable death...or whatever they do to the people they bring here. 

She swallows an afflicted cry, keeping her eyes planted down on the dirt that broke her fall and kicking at the dog's muzzle with her free leg, trying to use violence to persuade it into releasing her. It becomes apparent to her that it has no intention of doing so when it shakes its head and drags her a couple of inches backward, heightening the volume of its snarl, as if warning her. It sends another bolt of pain through her ankle, and she winces, racking her brain for solutions to this particular situation. If only she had watched more National Geographic, then maybe she'd know what to do when a feral animal attacks...

Maybe...it plays fetch. Yeah, she mentally scoffs, 'fetch the human.' Unfortunately, she doesn't see a stray stick anywhere nearby that could be tossed—not that she could reach very far anyway. Fearfully, she rotates her head to look at her captor, eyes widening when she meets the narrowed ones of a mutated Husky, its gaze boring into hers as it tightens its jaw, making the nerves subjected to the treatment scream. 

Her eyes travel down to her inflicted ankle, noticing not pointed, regular canines, but instead flat ones that resemble a human's. She gulps. What has she been thrown into? First, some freakish stranger without eyeballs, now a dog with human teeth? What's next, cyborg zombies from space? How does this even exist? It should be impossible.

Yet here she is, and here it is, taking no mercy on her leg and clearly not a figment of her imagination. "Let go of me..." she mutters shakily, keeping her voice soft to avoid startling it and making this attack worse on herself. It offers another unfriendly growl, its vibrant yellow hues cradling aggression. It's obvious this creature isn't going to accept any orders from her—not that she expected a different outcome. "Get off."

She's so distracted by the demonic-looking dog that she doesn't register somebody else approaching, not until they're towering over her; their shadow blocking the sunlight and casting shade over her body. She doesn't even want to look up in anticipation of seeing something even more monstrous than a dog with actual human teeth, but also doesn't want to display weakness in front of a possible deranged psychopath. How bad could it be, though?

Don't jinx it, Y/n. Giving in to both temptation and her strong urge to remain as bold as possible, she cranes her neck and her eyes trail up, taking notice of his converse shoes, ripped jeans, white hoodie with...questionable red stains, and shoulder-length black hair. His eyes are a bright, icy shade of blue, and messy scars line his cheeks, starting at the corners of his mouth and creating a rough, permanent smile. Who would carve something so ungodly into their features? And why?

"Hello, girlie," he purrs, voice low and gruff, his stance casual as he gazes down at her. "Ya know, it's rude to leave without saying 'goodbye'." She shoots him a timid glare, her tone laced with underlying wariness.

"We've never even met before." He quirks a brow in response, bending his knees to get level with her.

"Well, maybe we could have if you hadn't bounded away like a scared little deer." His fingers find her chin, and he lifts her head to survey her more clearly; she recoils in disgust, fists desperately clenching the blades of grass beneath them for an ounce of composure. "Suppose I gotta give credit where it's due. You've got a pair of legs on you—from what I heard of your delightful chase with Smile, he had quite a bit of trouble catchin' up."

Smile? Assuming he's referring to the hellhound currently attached to her leg, she huffs, her eyes glassy with unfallen tears as she glances down at the dog. "Call it off." He stares down at her, unblinking, and the bite compresses her ankle further; she inhales sharply. "Please. It hurts."

He kneels closer, his expression one of mockery. "Well, he doesn't exactly have hands to hold you with, does he?"

She stays silent, grasping his odd attributes. Those cuts have plainly been there for a while to have healed to this degree, but the unflattering marks they left linger. He smirks, noticing the centered attention, and leans in until his face is inches away from her own. She makes an attempt to scoot backward but doesn't get very far and opts to harden her defensive scowl as an alternative.

"What's the matter? Cat got your tongue?" In all likelihood, he's well aware of the perturbation racing through her mind and is taking great pleasure in making her uncomfortable; she presses her lips together firmly and stiffens, hoping to make herself seem bolder than what she is.

"No." She motions toward the four-legged mammal pinning her to the ground. "Dog got my foot." He snorts in what she interprets as amusement, his gaze shifting down to Smile briefly as well before he withdraws and meets her eyes again. 

"Fair enough." He snaps his fingers, rising to his full height and dusting the traces of earth off his jeans. "Smile, drop it." As soon as the command exits his mouth, the dog—dubbed 'Smile' for fitting reasons—immediately releases her ankle and wags his tail, attention turned to the male of average height; presumably his owner.

Once the action is completed, she flips onto her back and sits up, bending her knee and examining the affected section. Her s/t skin is smeared with crimson—undoubtedly her own—and coated in a thin layer of saliva. As an addition to the eye candy, there's an obvious laceration matching the shape of teeth around the length of her ankle, and the longer she stares at it, the more it throbs. The thought of fleeing again doesn't even cross her mind—not after this disaster.

"Good boy, Smile!" he praises, patting the dog affectionately on the head and earning an excited ruff in response. "You have a fat, juicy chicken breast in your future." She rolls her eyes when Smile sticks out his tongue, grumbling in protest and grimacing when she touches a particularly raw spot on her wound. The man nudges her leg with his shoe, hard enough that it'll leave a bruise later; she flinches and narrows her eyes. "Hey, if you didn't wanna be dog chow, maybe you shouldn't have tried to run away, idiot."

"Well, maybe your buddy shouldn't have kidnapped me." 

"You kiddin'? Jack ain't my buddy. I didn't even want you here, but the others thought it was the 'humane thing to do'." Before she has time to process it, his hand wraps around her arm, and she's effortlessly yanked to her feet, stumbling a bit and being forced to lean against a tree for support after he lets go. "Trust me, dollface; if it were up to me, you'd be dead."

Her nose scrunches up in revulsion, watching as he starts walking back in the direction she originally came from while he pulls out a phone, scrolling a list of names with his thumb and looking back at her, as if waiting for her to do something. 

"Well? I don't have all day, ya know. I've got things to do." He signals ahead of him, implying what he expects of her. She, however, has zoomed in on the small device in his hand. If she can snatch that, she'll be able to call the cops and get rescued. Back to her grandparents...if something hasn't been done to them. She won't hesitate to go on a murder spree for every person here if she discovers one of them hurt her Nana and Pops, even if she dies in the process.

He continues leering at her for several more seconds, almost confused as to what she's focusing on so intently, until he follows her line of sight, and it guides him to the phone. Elevating his eyebrows knowingly, a grin stretches across his cheeks, and he secures the device between his thumb and index finger, waving it in front of her. 

"Ohh, I see. You want this, don't cha?" She bites her tongue, shifting her e/c eyes back up to his disfigured smile and directing an indignant frown his way. "What, you gonna call the police? Get us arrested?" A dark chuckle sprouts from his mouth, and he advances toward her when he isn't graced with a verbal answer. "Lemme let ya in on a little secret, girlie." The back of her head makes contact with the tree as he invades her bubble of space, his eyes assertive and his aura glowing dangerously. He whispers, "Cops don't scare me. I've dealt with way, way worse than guns and puny little tasers."

The coarse, inky tone his statement is riddled with is enough to make the hairs on the back of her neck stand up uneasily, though she doesn't avert her sight, no matter how intimidating he may be. 

"So believe me when I say that if they ever show up here, I'm comin' to find you first. And no amount of cops will be able to save you."

Oh God, this bloke just threatened to murder me... She holds his intense gaze with bated breath, praying he can't hear the erratic thumping of her heart. 

"Just keep that in mind for future reference, 'kay?" He pats her cheek with a leather-clad hand before spinning around and resuming his stroll with Smile by his side, and she doesn't miss the way he discreetly unsheathes his knife, its blade shining under a ray of sunlight, before he slides it back in and pretends nothing happened. She gulps, quickly deducing that this man is not to be messed with. Not without proper weapons and a strategy, at least. 

She works to slow down her accelerated heartbeat, remaining still until he glances back with an evil glint in his icy-blue irises, once again silently telling her to get a move on, to which she obeys with uncertain strides. If she were to make a break for it, she's guaranteed to be caught, and he might not be so forgiving next time. Limping a few feet behind him, piercing sparks zip up her leg each time she places weight on the injury, and she gawks at his back, watching as he presses the phone to his ear.

"I got her, so don't send anyone else out to look." An incoherent voice erupts from the opposite line, and she tries to listen in on what's being said, but is unsuccessful. "Well, call them back. It ain't rocket science." What sounds like a scoff can be heard from the speaker before he removes it from his ear and shoves it back into his pocket, allegedly done with the short conversation. "You'd better pick up the pace back there. I'm not about to carry you if that's what you expect."

Her following sentence takes the form of a bitter mumble as her steps become faster, not wishing to irritate him for her own preservation. "As if I'd let you carry me..."

"Oh-ho, really? As if you'd 'let' me?"

"Yeah, that's what I said..." She folds her arms protectively over her chest and eyes him, trying to predict his movements and preparing herself in the case he makes a move to strike. 

"Ya know, on second thought..." he abruptly stops in his tracks and she narrowly avoids slamming into his back as a result, "...maybe I will carry you, with that attitude."

She clenches her jaw and backs up cautiously, the severe aching in her leg never abating. He's unsettling and all, but she isn't about to throw away all her autonomy just to spare her existence, which is why she speaks a tremulous (though resolute) assertion. "You'll have to kill me first."

"I'd be honored." He holds a hand to his chest, as if flattered. "Then again, Smile hasn't had the opportunity to maul someone to death in a while. I'm sure it would be just as big of a thrill for him." She flits her attention down to the dog when it raises its head after being addressed, subconsciously shifting closer to the black-haired male so maybe she can use him as a sort of shield before she's mangled beyond repair. "What do you think, Smile? Wanna have dinner early today?" Smile whines, she can't figure out if it's in agreement or confusion, but for her sake, she hopes it's the latter. 

"I—I know what you're trying to do, and it's not working." Her words are stronger than even she anticipated, taking into account how her throat is jumping with unparalleled apprehension, and it gives her a small confidence boost. His lack of a response is an invitation to clarify, and with an intake of oxygen, she does. "You may be some crazed serial killer version of a Stephen King bully, but you're not scaring me."

"I dunno." He grasps his knife again and tosses it into the air with a lazy simper. "You looked pretty scared to me. Terrified, even."

"I wasn't," she insists through gritted teeth, her nails digging into the skin of her arms anxiously. "A-and I'm not succumbing to whatever mind games you're trying to play on me, either."

"Eh, mind games aren't really my thing." He admires the structure of his blade with a nonchalant posture, then his eyes flick up to her again, and a sinister grin overtakes his features. "I'm more into the physical stuff. I find it to be way more effective, way sooner."

She swallows her fear and straightens her spine to appear more confident, arms falling to her sides and hands squeezing into fists. She can't coerce herself to say anything else in rebuttal, as keeping her frightened emotions at bay requires all of her energy; it becomes even more challenging when he steps nearer, putting his knife away with an evil gleam in his eyes.

"Luckily for you, frowny face wants you alive, so I'm not allowed to do anything." The volume of his words lowers ominously to prove a point, and she struggles to ignore the chill that zips down her back. "Don't think for a moment that that little order of his is gonna keep you alive, though. Especially if you keep this snark of yours up."

She isn't given much time to grapple for a comeback before his hand wraps around the back of her neck and roughly urges her in the correct direction, making her yelp and stumble forward.

"Now come on. I've wasted enough time with you already."

She hisses as pain crawls through her injury and lurches out of his hold, almost tripping over the uniquely-colored Husky as she does so. The man doesn't bat an eye and keeps going, uninterested in slowing down any longer; his dog sticks loyally by his side. Y/n murmurs obscenities to herself and hurries after him, telling herself they don't have much more distance to conquer before they get to... The cabin?

"Where are we going?" she demands, narrowing her gaze as she fruitlessly attempts to keep up with him.

"Jack's house. Duh." He pays her a glance, his eyes crinkling. "You must be eager to see your kidnapper again, huh?"

Her stomach churns with dread at the confirmation, and her lungs expand quickly. Her kidnapper. No, she doesn't want to see him again. In fact, if she spent her whole life never crossing paths with him again, she'd be as happy as a Disney princess skipping through a field of flowers. 

What will he do to her when she returns? He surely won't react well—their last confrontation was not a warm one. That also brings to mind the things he said, most notably his claim of identity. Was he...telling the truth? Is he genuinely the same 'Jack' that she met just a couple of days prior? But she doesn't understand how that could be possible. Jack looked like an actual human being, and this...person looked unalike in every potential way.

But he was wearing the same clothes. And his voice, it sounded so...familiar.

If that is accurate, why would he bring her here, to a place full of weirdos? And why is Jack one of them himself? As far as her knowledge expands, they had been getting along fine. Why would he put her at risk? Cause he's a freaking psycho. Just like Joker wannabe over here. 

She gives a quiet, solemn sigh, looking to her feet and cringing as blood leaks in thick streams down her flesh, painting her sock red and leaving a barely noticeable trail behind her. Goodness, it hurts. She'll have to find some way to soothe it before it gets infected...or she bleeds out. Whatever comes first. Who knows what kind of germs that thing posing as a dog is carrying? 

ᕼE ᗪIᗪᑎ'T ᗯᗩᑎT TO ᗪO TᕼIS.

More accurately: none of them wanted to do this. They couldn't grasp why Jinu considered this such a marvelous idea in the grand scheme of things, as it seemed pretty pointless...and immensely unpalatable. But when has Jinu ever cared about inconveniencing his crew?

So, per his insistent demands, the Saja Boys bundled themselves up in sleeping bags, waddled inconspicuously to the building where Huntr/x would be organizing their fan-meet—somehow managing to arrive before anyone else—and camped out at the entrance. All. Night. Long. And then, all morning. By noon, the sidewalk was packed with excited, chattering teens and young adults, all waiting for their opportunity to talk to their favorite celebrities and get their products autographed. 

It was loud. It was chaotic. And most importantly, Kiheon's butt was now thoroughly numb because, courtesy of Jinu, the Saja Boys were forced to sleep on the concrete, piled up against the wall. Not just that, no—Jinu thought himself the cardinal member of the clan, so he went out of his way to get himself a nice fold-out chair, and that was what he lounged on, while the rest of them got well acquainted with the ground. The hard, unforgiving, cold ground. His chair was even equipped with a cup-holder, because apparently, some individuals deserved comfort.

Safe to say, Kiheon wasn't very thrilled.

He and Geonwoo had been lathering a thick coat of antagonized grumbling on Jinu's eardrums the majority of the time they were out there, while Sangho sucked it up, curled into his little bedroll cocoon, and attempted to catch some shut-eye, and Hwan stayed silent, wallowing in a bubble of self-isolated contempt. Nobody was content with these circumstances, and certainly not with their overbearing leader. 

By the time they all stood to shepherd the laughably long line of people, Kiheon's spine felt similar to rebar; stiff and downright unbendable. If only being a demon prevented him from experiencing the miseries of mortal discomfort. 

Keeping their faces hidden and embodying the stride of the penguin, they toddled inside. Kiheon couldn't help but think they looked like giant, disproportionate, poofy caterpillars, which may have been an amusing concept if he weren't currently enduring it. Jinu had really outdone himself today, and they all resented him for it.

Huntr/x was at their assigned table, ready to greet their loyal fan base, unaware of the presence of the soul-reaping boy band in their wake. Jinu dropped the material shrouding his identity, revealing himself to the crowd, and the Saja Boys hastily followed suit with a melodic flourish, posing with notably subdued effort, as not one of them had received a healthy amount of rest the night before. Fortunately, the fans neglected to notice that, as they were too distracted squealing. Kiheon wanted to ram his head into a wall. He never favored people, but his social battery right now was as low as Jinu's respect for the other Saja Boys, and every single shriek increased his desire to strike someone in the gut—preferably Jinu himself. 

The smallest of smirks crawled across his features at the humorous mental image. Punching Jinu would make this stupid endeavor somewhat worth it.

They ended up joining Huntr/x, and Kiheon lazily plopped himself in the seat between Zoey and Rumi, relieved to now have proper back support. His mode had switched from 'sleep-deprived sourpuss' to 'bubbly performer' in an instant as girls swarmed to him, nearly running over each other to get his attention. He hated it with every fiber of his being, as this rivaled his entire existence up until now; a low-key life in the shadows, seen by few and addressed by even fewer. It did make it more acceptable that the part he was playing was the only part the public had access to, and no one saw him for who he really was. That was Jinu's entire goal, after all: earn the country's—hopefully the world's—trust with deceptively innocent faces and feigned enthusiasm, then swoop in right under its nose, kicking off a mass soul-collecting that would put all of demon history to shame.

His expression seldom changed throughout the span that he was there; a tempered smile that occasionally lifted or fell depending on the interaction he was having, and he mechanically scrawled his signature onto whatever item the fans shoved into his face, speaking as minimally as he could manage. How had he only done this for a couple of days, and it already felt like muscle memory? To his left, Rumi and Jinu were bickering over something he could not have cared less about if he tried, and to his right, Zoey was either drooling over Hwan or talking sweetly to her enthusiasts. The mayhem was steadily draining Kiheon's energy—what minute energy he possessed, that was—and he wanted more and more to sink to the floor and snore the rest of this event away. 

But alas, he was stuck here. Pretending to be a bubblegum pop-star, under the prying gazes of an ocean of ardent fans, for the foreseeable future. Oh, what a wonderful life. 

"You want it signed on the back?"

"Uh—y-yes, please." While he wrote on a poster, he languidly swept his eyes over the female standing in front of Zoey, her posture indicating she wasn't entirely keen on being here. An introvert, probably, made uncomfortable by the amount of sheer noise and people that were surrounding her. Relatable. Except she could leave whenever she wanted. Kiheon didn't have that luxury. No, he was bound here by Jinu's word and rooted by his own plan; a plan that had driven every decision, every sole, meaningless deed since the very moment it was generated. The very moment...that he found out she was alive again. 

As he aimed his eyes forward to take a swig of water and offered a halfhearted grin to a preteen who was, at this second, blushing at the mere prospect of being in his vicinity, something in his brain caught up with his optical perception and gave him pause. The girl... Why was he so...attracted to her?

He refocused on her at the identical moment she did the same thing. A rush of sentiments slammed into him in unison; each one clambering for the spotlight. They sucked the breath straight from his lungs, and his lips separated in awe. A loose cog inside his brain screwed into place as he peered uninhibited at her eyes. The same e/c eyes that had once looked at him with such sincere tenderness it jarred his whole belief system. The same eyes he had gotten utterly lost in beneath a silver-tinted moon, the same eyes that reflected the flames of a ceremonial fire somewhere below them. The same eyes that were so ample with pain, sparkling with a fleeting flow of tears, watching him like he was the only thing they ever wanted to see. 

He had witnessed those eyes aglow with the brightest flame ever ignited, and he had witnessed that flame dim to a flicker, then an ember, then nothing; a slowly dwindling trail of smoke that tapered into the breeze, and in its place, a cooling pile of ashes. Lifeless; a grim, gutting reminder of what had been burning so hot minutes before. Gone. 

His grip tightened around the plastic bottle in his hand, forcing the material to crinkle, warping it into a mockery of its original shape and sending water shooting out the top. But he wasn't aware of it; all of his thoughts stalling, memories crashing into each other, battling for acknowledgment. He saw all of them, and none of them. 

There was no mistaking those eyes, or that face, or that voice. She was alive.

And she was right here. So close.

She was alive.

And right here.

Somebody could have taken a metal baseball bat and swung it into his stomach with all their vigor, and he wouldn't have felt any different from the way he felt right now. An intense wave of affliction coursing through every limb, every area in his body. Like his heart was just brutally ripped out and then delicately laid back, untouched. Unharmed. With scars intact and ancient wounds never healed. 

Moisture was pricking his vision before he realized it, and his muscles were tense enough to elicit soreness later. He heeded the familiarity in her eyes. The distinctive sheen of recognition, betrayed by the look of emotional shock that kept her frozen where she stood. 

She saw him.

And she knew him.

The chorus of the crowd was muted by the sound of his heart drumming in his ears. A fraction of him argued that this wasn't reality. She was a figment of his imagination: a by-product of raw, anguished desperation that had been left to corrode for decades upon decades, without a semblance of closure or relief. A corporeal illusion crafted to mimic what was naught but fragments of a revered memory. 

But she was real. He was certain of it. 

She had to be.

Her hair was a different length and style. Her attire was modern. And she clearly didn't work in a humble little bakery that her cousin owned, or in a garden to help support her family. But it was her. It was unquestionably her. For years, he had hugged the image he remembered near; close in spirit but impossibly far away. Unreachable. And it had stayed that way for an agonizing century. But was that streak...that suffering...finally about to end? Was his painstaking search over? Had he discovered the missing piece of himself that was ripped away from him so long ago?

She turned her head. Said something to Zoey. Seemed frantic...afraid. Anxious to evacuate. That wasn't right. Why wasn't she overjoyed? Why wasn't she jumping over the table to get to him? He wanted nothing more than to fall to her feet and cry and pull her close and never let go. Was she...angry? Was she scared? What select things did she recall? 

He needed to apologize. He needed to beg her for forgiveness, for ever allowing her to get hurt. He needed to wrap his arms around her, sob into her shoulder, inhale her scent, feel the heat of her presence, listen to her whisper against his skin. He'd replayed each moment they had ever shared on repeat in his dreams. He didn't let her slip from his memory. She was still as vivid in his mind now as she was ages ago. But that didn't mean he hadn't missed her so terribly that it made him want to die.

Missed the beautiful way she laughed. The way her soft h/c locks framed her features, how she resembled an angel. The way her eyes mirrored the starlight. The way she would touch him, and enjoy him, and melt into peaceful silence when neither had anything more to say. He treasured all of it. He treasured her.

He thought she did too.

So why was she moving away?

Panic enveloped him. No—why was she going? She couldn't go. They had just located each other again. They had done the impossible. Fate had charted their paths and brought them together again, and she was just...leaving? Without a word? Why were her eyes scared? Everything inside him compressed, his heart springing to his throat, his hands trembling. No. She couldn't just run away. He wouldn't lose her again. 

He acted on pure instinct. A possessive hunger that screamed at him to stop her from departing, like she seemed so antsy to do. All he could think about was letting her walk away and never seeing her again, and how he would have confronted every single person in this room at once to make certain that didn't happen. He would not let her go again. Ever.  

The table clattered as he lunged, arm snapping out like a viper. Fingers hooked her wrist. His sight was honed completely on her. He didn't regard the shouts, the concerned glimpses, all his previous commitments that came alongside being involved with a fake mainstream band. All that mattered right now was her. 

Invisible walls closed in around their forms, trapping them in a quiet tango. Both were smothered in profound emotion. He couldn't figure out why she was behaving like she was alarmed. Skittish. To him, the very foundation of his world had been shattered and then reconstructed stronger than ever in the compass of a few tense seconds. But it seemed like, for her, everything she thought she knew was just challenged, crumbled, and still hadn't been repaired. She hadn't gained anything. She was just sucked into a suffocating crisis she couldn't break free from. And he had prompted it. 

Her eyes shimmered. Her name—the only name he knew—tumbled from his lips in a splintering plea, and the words that rolled across her tongue in response made his heart clench. She was confused. Begging to be released. He was tortured, exploring her eyes, yearning for evidence of affection, but she displayed none. This wasn't how this was supposed to go. Why, why was she looking at him like he was the bad guy, the crazy one, when she once viewed him as someone worthy of love? Of patience? Of redemption? 

He was as fragile as glass. A soft noise vibrated the back of his throat. He didn't register being yanked back by an unknown force, nor how empty his hand felt when she slid out of it. He only realized she was gone when he was being dragged away from the table, away from the cameras, away from the startled onlookers. He could hardly walk, his knees weak, his stomach swirling, his thoughts a whirlpool of wild hysteria. 

Muffled voices were lost amidst his own flurried disconnections, reality morphing into muddled nonsense. Oxygen was more difficult to inhale. She left. She just...left. She wasn't happy to see him. She wasn't sad, she wasn't benevolent, she wasn't irate or hateful. She was just...incredulous. Impacted in a way he couldn't read. Like her entire world had been flipped upside-down, and she was struggling to comprehend it.

Like she remembered traces of a phantom...and nothing more.

Not a life that was cut too short.

Not an irradiant love that never got the chance to gleam brighter.

Not Kiheon. 

────୨ৎ────

ᕼᑌᑎTᖇ/᙭ ᗯᗩS ᕼOSTIᑎG ᗩ ᖴᗩᑎ-ᗰEET.

It was a fairly spontaneous thing, from what she understood of it. They were actively competing now with the Saja Boys—who were continuing to gain more devoted attention with each passing hour—and likely wanted to boost their status and touch base with their fans on a personal level; ensure they remained the apple of the public's eye.

And, since it would be held in an area pretty accessible from where she resided, she fully planned on attending. She had gone to one of their concerts before, and it was incredible. The sound design, the light show, the vocals, the choreography. It was plain to see that they genuinely cared about making their audience happy and giving each performance their 'all'. Their music was astonishing, every song overflowing with passion and raw talent that put stars in people's eyes. She respected them a lot and enjoyed their content, so of course, she was going to support them in their endeavors.

As catchy as Soda Pop was (heck, she still couldn't chase it out of her head), Huntr/x persisted at the top of her list. They had worked too hard and been in the game too long to allow a random boy band to materialize out of absolutely nowhere and knock them off their throne using nothing more than some sprightly dance moves and cute faces. 

The event would start at noon, so she decided to slip on her shoes and leave early, hoping she would beat the bulk of the horde. The bus ride to her destination was filled with a chorus of chatter from various sources; she tried to turn a deaf ear to it, but couldn't help listen when she discerned a collection of teenage girls giggling behind her, sharing their opinions about who their favorite Saja Boy was. This prompted Y/n to open TikTok and, unsurprisingly, her feed was flooded with edits of Soda Pop and sought-after members of the group (which was all of them), and videos of people discussing the topic. It was kind of...perturbing, how they were sweeping the world off its feet with a single track. Even the best of the best didn't see success so soon. It was almost as if there was another force at play.

Maybe they sold their souls to the devil.

She huffed out the smallest bout of laughter at her dumb joke, but...it didn't feel quite as funny as it should have. She sank farther into her seat and shifted her visual axis out the window next to her, observing as buildings came and went in blurs of color, letting herself zone out. 

She had avoided the discourse with her parents for as much time as she could before she was forced (by none other than her lack of tolerance and the storm of stress that occurred with postponing such a task) to call her mother back. It was tense, and she found herself restlessly twirling a paper towel around her finger as she did so, listening to the firm voice of utter disappointment inform her of how she needed to get her act together before she ended up all alone and miserable. Because "if you treat your own family that way, how do you expect people to stick around?" 

She didn't argue. She didn't say anything. She just let her rant and rave. She wasn't waiting for an apology, for the simple fact that she knew her mom—forever haughty—would never admit that she was wrong, or so much as consider it a possibility. Y/n was merely letting her blow off steam, as it was the only way the stifling tensity would dissipate between them. 

One of the final jabs she pitched at Y/n during her fit of calculated outrage was her lack of a romantic life, stating that she would never find someone who would love her if she kept this behavior of hers up, because a man "doesn't favor a disrespectful lady." The sentence elicited maybe the biggest eye-roll of Y/n's life, her patience for her evaporating like a drop of water in a scorching pot. She excused herself from the conversation, pushing a polite farewell through gritted teeth, and then proceeded to bury her face in her hands and groan deeply. That woman honestly never failed to siphon out all of her energy. 

The feeling of the large blue vehicle rolling to a halt was enough to reel her out of her bitter notions, and she sat up, grabbing her things and filtering out of the bus. Thanks to all that is holy, it wasn't raining again. She didn't much desire to meet her favorite celebrities dripping with water and sporting wind-matted hair. 

As she traipsed onto the sidewalk and avoided bumping into anyone, her senses were saturated by banners and signs and sugar-coated K-pop, all advertising or inspired by—you guessed it—the Saja Boys. Any direction she turned revealed merchandise, media trends being recorded in the street, absentminded humming, excited conversation. One store she passed had a window display of the Saja Boys as mannequins, exaggerated wigs and everything. It was kind of spot-on. Drink companies were also hopping on the fad, using Soda Pop as a way to promote their brand in large, bold lettering.

Y/n had to admit...it was a little much. 

Finally, her destination came into view, and of course, there was already a sizable gathering of people at the entrance, waiting. Her shoulders slumped in vague annoyance. Well, she tried, anyway. But she wasn't dedicated enough to coil up in a sleeping bag and camp outside for the sole purpose of being the first to get in. 

To say it was a struggle not to be trampled by a fleet of feverish fans would have been an understatement. For some reason, they seemed pushier...and louder than usual. Not that Y/n had a huge frame of comparison, but the majority of people tended to be more composed than they were acting right now. 

And then she heard it. "The Saja Boys are here!!"

"WHAT!?"

"Yeah! Apparently they slept outside ALL NIGHT to see Huntr/x before anyone else!"

Yikes. Desperate for attention? Sounded like it. Either they wanted to rub their stardom in Huntr/x's faces, or they were veritable fans of the female trio. Y/n doubted it. Maybe their fame was getting to their heads already. Too much, too soon—you know how it goes. They did seem a bit...full of themselves, so it wasn't entirely out of the question. 

"JOINT SIGNING!"

Y/n cringed as everybody around her spoke up in impressive sync. She peered out past the wall of fanatics as the chaos ensued. Allegedly, the Saja Boys weren't just crashing Huntr/x's fan meet, no—they were participating in it. A table was folded out to accommodate them, and they lowered themselves into chairs, spreading out between the Huntr/x members, who did a commendable job pretending they weren't irked by the set of circumstances they'd been unwittingly flung into.

The crowd congregated around them, and security was barely maintaining order. She almost felt like she was in a pack of rabid dogs with how psychotic some of these people were. Seriously, it wasn't that big of a deal. Everyone would get their turn—what was the rush?

Y/n's nerves were on edge due to the sheer amount of disarray surrounding her—plus, it was, admittedly, a little intimidating, knowing she was about to be face-to-face with someone who had pretty much conquered the music industry. 

Zoey was the one she wanted to officially meet. And, considering the ridiculous number of people who were here, she would be the only one she'd get to meet. That was fine, though. Zoey was who she always fixated on anyway. All she desired was to get her t-shirt signed, maybe snap a photo, and be on her merry way. Out of the sea of screaming girls and back into the fresh city air, where she could pick up some lunch and relax for a while. Maybe she'd swing by the clothing store and visit her friend, Aera. Bring her some yaksik and geek out over the latest episode of their dearest reality show. 

She slid up farther into the line, her fingers tightening somewhat anxiously around the material clasped in her hands. Why was she nervous? Zoey was just a person like her. Albeit...a super well-known, talented, beautiful one, but who really paid attention to silly details like that?

Y/n did. She absolutely did.

Now closer to the setup, she could better tell where everyone was: Mira was sandwiched between Romance and Abby, and appeared to be clenching her teeth just to prevent herself from verbally berating them. Romance couldn't look away from her, while Abby, predictably, was busy sketching out his six-pack, creating a pile of papers with the same image and passing them to whoever expressed interest. K-pop idols definitely had certain personas that they manifested when in the public...but Y/n had an inkling that his 'persona' wasn't very fabricated. He seemed authentically besotted with himself each time she saw him on camera, so either he was an excellent actor...or he was hilariously conceited. Then again, with those sculpted abs, who could blame him?

Zoey was seated between Mystery and Baby, lively as always. Mystery was absorbed in his own little world, blankly scrawling his signature across sheets of paper, while Baby's posture displayed the utmost casualness. Each time he smiled hinted that it was a ploy, and he looked thoroughly bored with this whole situation, despite the finger hearts he sent to his adoring fans. Y/n could relate to that feeling. He clearly wasn't a social butterfly, although he did a decent job playing the part of one. He fooled people into thinking he enjoyed this.

But she saw through his mask. She always could.

The cool facade that would crumble away when nobody was watching, that melted into a gentle kind of warmth, cautious but optimistic. Something that was real and honest and there, unaltered, unashamed. The version of him only she got to see.

Wait...what?

She shook her head to eradicate the bizarre conceptions, a confused noise radiating from the back of her throat. Was she going insane? 'The version of him only SHE got to see'? What did that even mean? She didn't know him! Heck, she hadn't even learned of his existence until a couple of days ago!

Maybe I'm more strung-out than I thought.

With an inhale of self-assurance, she moved forward, plastering a nervous smile across her cheeks. Why did her knees suddenly feel weak?

Zoey was instantly alert, her expression perky and her voice as silvery as it was in her music. "Hi there!"

"Hey—um—" Y/n internally winced, unable to craft a cohesive greeting as the pressure weighed down on her shoulders. This should not have been so difficult, but alas, it wasn't every day she met a famous person, nevertheless one she admired so greatly. She glanced over at Baby, who was using a Sharpie to lethargically scribble his name across the bill of someone's hat. Her heart rate spiked, and then slowed for no coherent reason, like merely watching him soothed the hurricane of agitation within her.

"What's your name?" Zoey chirped, leaning closer so she'd be better perceived amidst all the chatter. 

"Y/n."

"Nice to meet you! I'm Zoey." She giggled, as if that information wasn't already blatantly obvious. It prompted a small smirk from Y/n, and her voice wavered a little less when she spoke again.

"Nice to...meet you, too."

"Whatcha got for me?" She slowly handed her the wadded-up article of clothing, feeling her bubble of comfort popping. At least she was nice and didn't just usher her along like she could have done. She was engaged and friendly, and Y/n appreciated that. Allegedly, they were that way with everybody they met, which was why they had such an amazing reputation. She had never witnessed anyone talk about an unpleasant interaction they had with Huntr/x. People were smitten with them because of how kind and enthusiastic they always were. "Ohh, I love this color!" She held up the t-shirt to imagine the h/c wearing it, then offered a beam. "This would look so good on you!"

Heat blossomed in her cheeks, and she laughed bashfully, brushing some hair out of her face. "Thanks."

"You want it signed on the back?"

"Uh—y-yes, please." Zoey pried the cap off her marker and got to drawing, and Y/n bounced on her heels, tuning into what was going on around her for the first time since she and Zoey exchanged their initial words. On the other end of the table, Jinu and Rumi were in a discreet debate about something that Y/n was none the wiser to, animatedly whispering while simultaneously conversing with their fans with gleeful smiles. They must have really not liked each other. Y/n didn't want to venture a specific guess as to why. Maybe it was a simple rivalry: a classic case of two widely-loved bands being pitted against one another. Or maybe it went deeper than that. But she was too tired to get invested in drama that didn't concern her, so she veered her eyes.

They landed on Baby.

At the same second that his landed on her.

And their gazes locked.

So many unexplainable emotions frothed up inside of her all at once, like a can of soda that had been violently shaken before being cracked open. Every muscle in her body froze, her pulse thundered in her ears, and her stomach curled. That effect again. Why was it so...intense? Why did his eyes evoke such powerful reactions in her? They were perfectly foreign, yet felt so intimate. Cherished secrets veiled by pools of Nordic blue. 

What truly alarmed her was his reaction. Maybe it was a mutual spark; the kind they talk about in romance novels and self-help blogs, in which you meet the person you're supposed to be with for eternity and you both feel it concurrently. Maybe he thought he recognized her. Maybe he was going off of her own turbulence that was plainly exhibited along her attributes. 

But he stiffened. A stance that was usually so loose and unbothered became rigid before she could so much as blink, and those beautiful, half-lidded crystal eyes widened to the point it was worrying, his already creamy complexion paling significantly. His soft features morphed with his torrent of emotion; brows shooting up, mouth dropping. His hand constricted around the plastic bottle he was holding so intensely that the cap flew off and water geysered out of the top, soaking everything in its path, but he didn't even seem to notice—if so, he didn't care, as the center of his focus was her. It looked like he had just seen a dreaded ghost of his past and was being pummeled with mountains of trauma associated with it. 

The air was stolen from Y/n's lungs, and she fought the temptation to collapse against the table when she lost strength in her legs. She didn't like the suffocating atmosphere being constructed around her, caging her in, shrinking, making it hard to claim any oxygen. She didn't like how it felt like her whole world was caving in, how the pace of her heartbeat ramped up, how tears pricked the corners of her vision. 

"Here you go!" Zoey's cheerful vocalization served to wrench her out of the startling spell she had been put under, and she jerked her head back around way too quickly to be considered normal, her heart pounding against the confines of her ribcage, begging to break free. Y/n ardently refused to look at Baby, terrified she would be imprisoned eternally by his eyes if she crossed paths with them again. She reached out to tremulously take the shirt back, her lips twitching with a strained, tiny smile of gratitude, trying to act like she wasn't just ensnared by a vortex of invisible fire that burned her right to her soul.

He still hadn't averted his eyes. She could feel them bearing into the side of her skull as her hands trembled and her chest tightened. Zoey's vivacious attitude diminished as she noticed this, and she frowned in confusion.

"Hey, you okay?"

"I—I..." Why was she sweating? It wasn't hot in here. Her stomach swirled like it was moments away from lurching and sending her half-digested breakfast up her throat, and she stumbled back, fearful of what was going on. "I'm f-fine, I... Thank you for your time."

She had a plan. Spin around and speed-walk away and calm down in the safety of the open world, far away...from him.

If only it had been that simple.

She swiftly pivoted, fully intending to leave this building and never, ever return. But fingers clamped around her wrist before she could—cold, unyielding. She skidded to a halt and whipped her head around, heart ricocheting into her throat as an audible yelp tore through her lips.

He had thrown himself across the table, knocking over a variety of items in his haste, and stretched his arm to reach her. To stop her. She pulled against him, but he didn't release her; rather, he spoke. She scarcely understood him. It was brittle and frail, brimming with such fervid desperation that it chilled her to the bone. "Eun-ju?"

"Wh-what?" she choked out in shock, her thoughts stalling. That wasn't her name. Who did he think he was talking to? "L-let go..."

"Get your hands off her!" Zoey growled in an unanticipated show of defense, springing up from her chair and seizing the collar of his shirt to snatch him back with much more force than Y/n ever would have anticipated from the petite singer. "What's wrong with you!?"

The loud thumping in her ears managed to drown out the quizzical murmurs of the crowd, and she staggered back a couple of inches, watching Baby's striking blue eyes gain a shimmer only achieved with forming tears. He looked...so hurt. So relieved. So conflicted. She could relate it to somebody sticking a knife into her chest and sharply twisting it. Like she'd been cut to her very core.

She couldn't handle this.

Her strides were messy as she turned and bolted, feeling downright sickly. What just happened? She ignored all the pointed looks and propelled herself through the group, then through the door. Her thoughts were muggy and zipping through her brain so fast that she couldn't start to card through them all.

He said a name. It wasn't hers...but it almost felt like it should have been.

────୨ৎ────

With fatigue, she leans on the wall for support and stands, weakly stumbling to the sink, refusing to look at her reflection in the mirror as she bends over and turns the faucet on. She squirts soap from the dispenser into her palm and rubs both of her hands together before holding them under the water to rinse them, erasing the beads of blood, and immediately after that, sticks her face underneath, hoping to rid herself of the foul taste still very present in her mouth. 

She spits minuscule pieces of undigested food into the sink, letting the cool water run over and wash them down the drain without another thought. The sickening stench of bile sitting in the porcelain bowl almost has her gagging once more, so she reaches over, pushes on the little silver lever, and flushes it down the sewer pipes, never to be seen again. 

Only then does she look at herself in the reflective glass hung over the sink, not surprised when she sees dark bags under her eyes and unnaturally pale skin, no doubt the results of sleep deprivation and the extreme wave of nausea. Her lip trembles from exertion, her eyes distant, stressed wrinkles creasing her forehead. What is happening? Why is it happening? Why are such terrifying thoughts invading her subconscious each time she goes to sleep?

Perhaps she can blame this one on the news she received yesterday, but that doesn’t explain the strange symbol. Why would she draw such a thing? What does it even mean? And what about the buzzing noise? It’s accompanied each dream she’s had down here thus far, and it made itself apparent before and during she was heaving her lungs out yesterday. It also started again when she saw that figure in the woods earlier. Is it linked to something?

She rubs her eyes listlessly and pushes herself away from the sink at once, switching the light to the bathroom off and wandering back into the living room at a pace much more weary than normal. Her eyes trail up from the floor to Marshmallow, who sits on the arm of the couch, eyes narrowed as he stares at her with dilated pupils. Maybe this should worry her; after all, animals can sense things that humans can’t. But she can’t bring herself to care very much. She just wants it all to stop. She doesn’t want to be sick 24/7 or have nightmares far worse than what’s considered healthy or be on the lookout constantly for something that could be hunting her down. 

She flops onto the couch rather sluggishly and runs her hands through her messy hair, gaining sight of the large markings that she sketched onto the paper for unknown reasons. Come to think of it, her hand is beginning to ache due to how tightly she had been holding that pencil after she woke up, and who-knows-how-long before then. Does she have an illness? Is there medication to cure it? Should she go to a doctor and explain her symptoms? She’d prefer to wait and get medical attention, if it is necessary, once she returns home, so she won’t burden her grandparents with her problems and cause them to worry. But...what if she can't wait for three months? What if her condition only worsens?

She knows for a fact that her parents wouldn’t give it much thought if she told them she needed to go to the doctor, nor would they be very concerned. If she informed them of the reason—having hallucinations, nightmares, irrational and paranoid thoughts, insomnia—they’d probably call her behavior ridiculous and refuse to allow her to make an appointment. Or would they? She is still their daughter—surely they couldn’t brush aside something like that, right? 

Then again, her father did it with the murder of his sister and the disappearance of his nephew, so she can’t be sure. But what about her mother? Isn’t the whole 'maternal instinct' thing still ingrained into her? If her child was hurt or scared, isn’t it natural to be worried? 

She glances over at her phone, still sitting on the coffee table charging, unable to rid herself of the sudden thought that creeps into her mind. Somebody to talk to would be nice. But would she actually listen?

Sure, her grandparents are just upstairs, but not only does she not feel like making that trip all the way to the second floor, both Nana and Pops are also likely fast asleep. They've done more than enough for her already, and they have enough stress on their shoulders as it is. She wants to avoid troubling them with anything else and making them unnecessarily frantic about both her mental and physical health.

Reaching out a hesitant, mildly trembling hand, she unplugs her phone and unlocks it, scrolling to contacts and swiping her thumb along the screen until she sees Mom. Should she really? What if she disturbs her? Or wakes her up? Even if she did, that shouldn't be an issue once she hears about her daughter potentially having some mental illness that needs to be acknowledged by a professional.

Mental illness is a strong way to phrase it. She shakes her head, continuing to stare at the call icon that pops up once she clicks her mother's contact. It's just...stressed hallucinations. Or...or strange coincidences. Yeah, that's all.

Letting out a soft sigh, she presses the green button and brings the small device to her ear, hearing it ring several times as the anticipation in her heart grows. Is this a mistake? Should she back out? Maybe she's making a big deal out of nothing.

"Hello?" She inhales quickly, her heart rate increasing as the familiar voice floats through the speaker. How should she start this?

"Um... Hi, Mom." Clear anxiety is present in her tone, though she hopes that it isn't as noticeable as she thinks. 

"Y/n? What is it?" There's a hint of irritation laced within that sentence, but the girl tries to ignore it and focuses on the reason she called her in the first place.

"Y-yeah, uh...I need to talk to you."

"About what? You know I'm busy. If it's more questions about your father, you know I—"

"No, Mom, it isn't about Dad." She's silent for a moment as she hears her mother's soft breaths over the line, trying to collect her thoughts and string them into words. "It's...it's about me."

"...Well? Did you make another painting or something?"

She shakes her head, knowing it won't be seen. "It's...weird things that have been happening to me. I—I don't know what's going on, but it's really starting to make me feel...sick and tired and stressed out. I don't know what to do."

"What exactly has been 'happening' to you, Y/n?" Her fingers tighten around her phone, and she exudes an inaudible sigh. 

"It started with bad dreams... Like, really bad dreams. Of people being dead, or freaky voices, or strange markings attached to a tree. A-and I've been seeing things in the middle of the night, and even during the day. I can't sleep because it's so scary and I'm afraid that when I do go back to sleep I'll have another nightmare..."

"Y/n," an exasperated sigh falls from the other end, "aren't you a little too old to be scared of the boogeyman?" It's as if a knife has been plunged deep into her chest from the harsh words of her mother, and she fights the tears stinging her eyes, attempting to keep her voice steady. 

"Mom, it...i-it isn't like that."

"You used to complain to me all the time about bad dreams when you were a kid. You aren't a kid anymore, Y/n. You're almost seventeen."

"It's more serious than just dreams, Mom—"

"Grow up. You're a teenager, Y/n. Act like it." The girl swallows hard and lands her hard gaze on the floor, unable to stop the tears from placidly rolling down her cheeks. 

"You're not even listening to me!" She keeps her voice quiet but raises it to a degree to make sure she gets the older woman's attention. "This isn't some stupid childhood fear. It's something bad, and it's really affecting me..."

"Y/n, I don't have time to console you for such childish behavior. I have about a week's worth of papers stacked up on my desk, and I need to have them finished by tomorrow. Watch a cartoon or something and get over yourself. We can talk again in a few days if you want." Before she can say anything else, a click is heard, then the line goes dead, signifying that her mother hung up. What else was she expecting? Sympathy? Concern? Reassurance? She should've known better. 

"Fine," she snaps, slamming her phone down on the couch beside her and releasing a huff, "who needs you?" She plants her face into the palms of her hands to stifle the whimpers emanating from between her lips. "I only need myself. You're just a...a useless, irresponsible, incompetent garbage wad for a mom, anyway." Her fingers run through her h/c locks, and she shakes her head, trying to compose herself. "Why are you even a mom..."

Of course her mother would blow her off. Her very own flesh and blood, flick her away as if she means nothing to her. It's what she's been doing for years now, so why would she expect any different? I'm stupid. I'm stupid for assuming she would be worried. She doesn't care about me. She just doesn't care. She never does.

Soon, her shoulders are shaking as sobs rack her body. She has to go through this alone, doesn't she? Her parents won't help her, and her grandparents don't need that kind of pressure. None of her friends, if she can even call them that anymore, can help her. And they wouldn't. She's the one who left them behind, so they owe her nothing.

She shakily stands to her feet, wiping away the tears with the back of her hands to clear up her vision so she doesn't trip over anything, and begins ascending the stairs, not caring to bring her phone and only turns off the lamp as she passes it by. She walks warily, doing her best to avoid looking anywhere but the ground for fear of seeing something lurking in the darkness until she reaches her bedroom, thankful that the light was left on previously.

She's unsure if Marshmallow will even follow her this time and bring her some kind of company, though, considering the aggressive way he was acting just minutes prior, she highly doubts it. Her gaze trails onto her bed, then to the window that it's attached to, unable to quell the rush of anxiety that sprints through her chest. The last time she was in here, she saw...something. What was it? A trick of the light? No, surely not. It was too...unusual to be a trick of the light. Not to mention the droning that formed in her mind while she looked at it. The same kind of droning that was present in her dreams, and at the river with Jack.

Is this normal? If it were, you'd think there would be more talk about it. In blogs, on the news, in books. But she's seen no such thing. Shaking her head in dismay, she steps farther inside, edging her way toward the window and anticipating what may be standing on the other side of the glass. She takes in a solid breath, hoping to calm her nerves a bit and brace herself before peering around the corner, over past her bed, and straight through to the dark woods across from the cottage. 

She scans the treeline, her heart rate slowing when she doesn't find anything out-of-the-ordinary, and releases a puff of air she didn't know she was holding in as her muscles relax. Nothing. There's nothing, so maybe she can actually go to sleep without having to worry about anything creeping around. She doesn't want to sleep, but she doesn't want to get sick again, either. Although that may happen anyway if she has another inexplicably terrifying dream. She can only hope that she'll get lucky and her mind will give her a break, at least for the rest of the night.

She doesn't know what time it is, and she can't gather up the energy to check. It doesn't even matter, does it? She glances over at her lamp, silently debating whether she should turn it off to both save electricity and hopefully hide her position from anything that may be waiting outside, or if she should leave it on to give her peace of mind. She hasn't liked sleeping with the light on, not since she was a small child, but recently it has sounded a lot more comforting than being surrounded by pitch blackness, save for the moonbeams shining in through the window and leaking across the floor. 

What's better, hiding or feeling safe? Maybe there's a way she can compromise and do both. Her eyes dart around the room, eventually stopping on the closet door across the room, to her left. Could she do that...? Wouldn't that corner her? But it would be safer than sleeping in front of a window where some cryptic being can plainly see me. She remembers seeing a couple of spare blankets folded up on a shelf, and she could use her pillows as both a headrest and a weak attempt at a barrier. As unappealing as it sounds, staying in clear view of whatever is currently trying to get into her head sounds even less so. Closet it is.

She steps over and opens the door, switching on the light and glimpsing around for a good, somewhat comfortable spot to take shelter in. Under the clothes? No, too tight. In the little cabinet of old, stored things belonging to her aunt? Again, too tight. She decides on the opposite end of the closet, in between a shelf and the wall, not too cramped but not too open either. And she'd be able to see the door clearly. That'll work. 

She grabs the two pillows from off her bed, plus an oversized teddy bear that had been originally sitting in the corner of the room, untouched, and goes back into the walk-in storage room, placing all three items in her self-proclaimed niche of safety, before also taking a folded-up blanket from the small stack and tossing it onto the pillows. She releases a yawn, blinking slowly afterward and shutting the door behind her before double-checking the room for anything else she may need, only finding her water bottle, and switches off the lamp. 

She sets it on the floor and shifts everything around until it meets her qualifications, dimming the overhead light on the lowest setting, then walks back over and sits down, wrapping the blanket around her frame, leaning against the wall, and tucking the large stuffed bear into her side. This is good. She feels secure here. There's nothing that can get in here without her knowing about it first...unless it's a hallucination. Then she can't escape. "I guess that's where you come in, Fuzzy," she mutters, hugging the bear half her size to earn some type of reassurance she had failed to get from her mother.

She stares ahead of her, at the closed door, waiting to hear something. Anticipating the creaking of floorboards or the stamping of footsteps, or seeing the knob to the door slowly twist as it swings open. But one minute passes, then two, then five, then eight. Nothing of the sort happens. She stays there, her breathing leveling out the more time passes, and she finds herself becoming relaxed. Maybe she should sleep in a closet more often...

She snuggles into the soft, though mildly dusty, coat of the bear, inhaling its old, washed-out scent of vanilla and allowing her eyes to droop. "Protect me if the 'boogeyman' comes in here, alright?" Her voice comes out as no more than a whisper, indirectly mocking her mother's previous choice of words to describe her state before fluttering her eyes closed and drifting off into a surprising, though thankfully peaceful, sleep.

•——————•°•✿•°•——————•

He checks the map on his dimly-lit phone that Ben had sent him before they started on their little journey, about two hours in advance, and studies the direction they're supposed to be going, marked by a bright red dot. Let's see, they already passed the entry sign and a few unsuspecting households, and according to the screen, they're easing closer, with around a minute to go. This is when Jack raises his hand, signalling to his driver that this is their stop. "We should pull off here," he says, voice low and quiet as he gestures to the side of the dirt road. "We don't need to park right in front of the house."

The brunet next to him complies without a word, silently parking the sedan in an obscured area, hoping the darkness will cloak it until the job is done. The moment the keys are removed from the ignition, Jack double-checks to ensure he has everything he'll need before he climbs out of the car, making an effort to be inaudible as he does so. Green eyes follow his movements, and the scarred teen leans toward him curiously with a tilt of his head, his words hushed. "You sure you don't need any help inside?"

"Yeah," Jack confirms, straightening his posture and readjusting his bag. "It'll be less risky with just one person." Liu shrugs in acceptance, propping himself against the headrest and watching Jack grasp the edge of the door, preparing to close it. "I'll be out as fast as I can. Be sure you're ready to go—the sooner we're out of here, the better."

He earns a languid thumbs-up in response, and with that, he softly closes the door and begins the short walk to his destination, blending in with the shadows that stretch across the ground thanks to his attire. It's quite easy for him to get around with the gentle beams of moonlight illuminating his path, and this is why he's commonly more active at night, going on various missions, self-assigned or otherwise. The 'self-assigned' ones most often involve his regretful diet, and have since he got wrapped up in this mess. Since the incident took place, all those years ago. 

In reality, it feels like more time has passed than what actually has, due to the chaos and business of everything as of late. He was only seventeen when it happened, and physically, he always will be. If he had been able to fulfill his career choice and live a normal life without meeting them, he would be around twenty-six by now. 

They stole his life out of desperation, greed, and delusion; snatching all he ever loved away and leaving him to rot in his new body, with all the disadvantages it came with. To this day, the burning flame of hatred that they kindled still lies deep within his chest and grows stronger when suppressed memories come crashing back on occasion. He doesn't feel an ounce of remorse for what he did to them. They didn't deserve sympathy; they were vile monsters who contributed to the creation of an even more vile monster and didn't think they would pay the price for it all. He's managed to regain a lot of his humanity since that event, but he can't deny the sadistic glee that blossoms in his stomach when he remembers their panicked faces and agonized shrieks as they pleaded for mercy. Call it karma, call it revenge, call it justice, whatever—but the feeling of their sticky blood coating his skin filled him with a sense of pride, victory, and closure that has yet to be smothered out of existence.

His bitter thoughts wither away as he approaches a dead-end; beside it sits a quaint property with a white picket fence, a garden, and a gate. This has to be the correct location. 

With immeasurable stealth, he slinks out from behind the shelter of the trees, creeping down the natural driveway and up to the house, where he hopes his target is currently resting inside. If she's awake, it'll make this task significantly more difficult, and he doesn't want to harm anyone if it's unnecessary. Once he's directly in front, he scans possible entry points that won't draw attention. A window? Sure, if the front door isn't locked. He quietly jiggles the knob after inching the screen open, only to find that yes, the door is locked. Just his luck, but he'd be lying if he said he wasn't expecting it. 

He peers in through the first window he spots on the bottom floor, quickly realizing that it leads to a living room. All of the lights are off, and it doesn't seem like there's any activity within. Releasing a silent breath from his nose and instantly being hit with a familiar bout of hot air thanks to his mask, he slips his fingers beneath the rim, briefly tugging upward and being grateful when the window slides up without much struggle. 

There's a table placed beneath the frame, but he can easily maneuver over that. Conquering obstacles is something that he's mastered over the years of breaking and entering other people's households, so one measly piece of furniture shouldn't alter his process too much. With one hand, he holds the strap of the satchel that's been thrown over his shoulder to anchor it to his side so it won't make any noise, and with the other, he grips the side of the wall, skillfully propping himself up and slipping through the now-open space, lacking so much as a thud. 

Once his feet collide with the carpet beneath them, he does a swift one-eighty of the room, wanting to make sure he isn't disturbing anything by showing up and closing the window when he deems the coast clear. She never mentioned anything about owning a dog or any other kind of pet when he talked to her; then again, he didn't exactly ask her about it, either. Maybe he got lucky this time?

His shoulders deflate when he takes notice of the fluffy white feline perched on the back of the couch, ears folded back as it quietly growls at him. Well, it could be worse, he supposes—at least cats are reasonably quiet and tend to stay out of the way. Plus, they don't tend to be aggressive, unlike dogs. Every dog he encounters, he has some type of problem with. Small one? It doesn't cease its obnoxious yapping and nipping at his shoes. Big dog? Horrendously loud barking and usually springs into 'attack' mode.

Jack's abnormal strength has spared him from becoming canine chow more instances than not, and most of the dogs in question got away with their lives. He wants to avoid killing things whenever he can, as he does that too often already.

Huffing, he brushes the trivial conceptions aside and strides farther into the living room, ignoring the snarls of protest from the cat attempting to defend its territory and making it very clear to Jack who this house belongs to. Not that he cares; he merely wants to get in and back out with as few issues as possible. As he passes the couch, something catches his attention. Not only is there a phone lying discarded on the cushion, but there's also a pencil, and beside it is a sketchbook. 

He leans down a bit to get a better look, seeing and immediately recognizing the large symbol drawn—or more like scratched—on the piece of paper, completely overriding the original picture beneath it. Not much care seems to have been taken while it was being designed, which is expected if it was made during the frantic state that he imagines it to have been made in. It's been apparent to him that Y/n is being consistently pursued and affected by him, but now she's to the point of uncontrollably sketching symbols that directly correlate to him? That isn't good. His stomach does an uncomfortable flip, and he spins around, ambling up the staircase after making sure there are no bedrooms down here with him. 

The hallway on the second floor likely leads to various rooms; his only problem is looking discreetly into each one and identifying his target. He chooses to check the first door on the left, the door inexplicably wide open, only to find a nicer-than-average girly room. He assumes this to be where Y/n is sleeping, but to his slight surprise, he doesn't see her in the bed. Well....maybe she's staying elsewhere? But why would there be bags on the floor if there was nobody inside? Is this someone else's chamber?

He peers back out into the hallway, seeing what he recognizes as a bathroom unoccupied right beside a closed door, one leading to another bedroom. And at the very end of the corridor, behind the railing surrounding the top of the staircase, is a door also closed. Which one of these rooms leads to her grandparents? Is he even in the right house? He has to be. Unless he's just conveniently landed himself in the home of another individual who's being mentally tormented by the sinister creature, which is highly doubtful. They would know about it.

He hears the abrupt squeak of a door as it opens, and barely catches a glimpse of a masculine figure stepping out into the hallway before he darts back into the previous bedroom, ducking for cover inside what he assumes is a closet. He closes the door softly behind him, being careful not to make any sound whatsoever, and takes a step back, beginning to notice the pale lighting around him. He tilts his head up, seeing a bulb attached to the ceiling, and confirming that it's the source of the light. The question is, why would the closet light be on when virtually every other light in the house is turned off?

Looking over his shoulder, he sees a figure curled up in the corner, bundled up in a blanket and hidden behind a line of hanging clothes. She's clutching an oversized teddy bear tightly, her eyes are closed, and her breathing is mellow and level. She's asleep. Good. 

He's been getting to her. She must've thought the closet was safer than anywhere else. He approaches, crouching in front of her and making sure not to wake her up. Getting a better view of her face, he can tell that she most certainly is the girl he's been trying to find, and opens his satchel, sticking his hand inside and pulling out a needle and a small, clear bottle. It isn't his go-to tranquilizer; normally, he would use something more powerful, but then again, he isn't currently trying to sedate one of his victims; he just wants to knock her out long enough to bring her back to the car, all without hurting her in the process.

He sticks the end of the needle into the lid of the glass container after properly sanitizing it, draws the correct amount needed for increased sedation, and puts the bottle back into the bag. He snaps his fingers in front of her face to test how deep of a sleep she's in. It would be hazardous if she woke up as the medication was being given to her. It would also be mildly frustrating and make this process even more strenuous. Thankfully, her eyes don't even flutter, giving him the leeway he needs to tenderly take her arm, twist it around, stretch it, and insert the end of the needle into the crease of her elbow. 

He notices when she flinches, but only a little, and he begins injecting the compound into her system. He had no trouble locating a blood vein, as he can hear the blood coursing through her arm from several feet away; yet another ability he possesses that makes people fear him. Most could compare him to a vampire—what, with his unnaturally sharp teeth and his constant craving for human blood. It isn't his fault, it never has been. But he's learned to accept it, no matter how disgusting it may be to others.

He intends to keep her knocked out until he can get her into the back seat of the Toyota, where he'll then administer however many extra doses that are needed to keep her that way as they drive home. A large amount could cause more damage than good, after all. He's learned to be as professional as he can be in such environments, although he isn't actually a doctor, no matter how much he may be treated like one.

He slides the needle out of her arm, places it into a Ziploc baggie, and puts the bag into his satchel, looking down at her when he catches a glimpse of movement. She rubs the area that the drug was administered through, eyes half-open as she brings her arm up to her chest, likely wondering where the sudden twinge came from. He remains motionless, waiting to see if she'll take note of his presence or drift back to sleep. It won't be too much of an inconvenience, either way, considering the drug should be taking effect over the span of a few minutes.

She blinks lethargically, shifting around in her position to get more comfortable, and locks her bleary gaze onto the startling figure squatting before her. Choking on a strangled gasp, she tries to crawl backward, though the wall pressing against her back prevents that and allows him to reach out and force his hand against her mouth, muffling her yelps of protest. He swears the blood drains from her face as she visually consumes his unusual features; a reaction he isn't fazed by at all. He's a freak, right? It's only natural for others to see him as such and behave accordingly. 

She grabs at his wrists, attempting to push him away and twisting her legs out of the blanket covering her body to try and get a good kick in. Only when she frees her lower limbs does he lunge forward and straddle her, stopping any attempts she may have made to injure him, and looks directly into her wide, panicked eyes with his black, tar-stained sockets. 

"Calm down," he instructs in a faint, yet authoritative tone, putting more of his weight on top of her as her striving to escape gradually increases. She thrashes, pulls at his arms, punches his chest, though he makes sure to keep his neck craned back to avoid getting smacked in the face. Even with his mask on, offering a layer of protection, it wouldn't exactly feel pleasant. He knows this from experience.

She tries screaming and yanking her head out of his strong grip, though fails, and can't stop water from rimming her eyes as utter terror rushes through her.

"You're okay, just calm down." He keeps his voice benign, knowing the thoughts that are racing through her mind at lightning speed and wanting to make this easier on himself. The faster the sedative works, the quicker he can get out of here and they can return to the base. She doesn't listen to him; either that, or she's physically incapable of listening with the erratic beating of her heart thumping in her ears and deafening her. 

They both sit there for another minute or two, her struggles weakening the groggier she gets until eventually, her eyes close and her body goes limp. Before he does anything, he needs to make sure that that one guy—probably her grandfather—went back to bed after using the restroom. Jack knows he was, indeed, in the bathroom because he heard the toilet flush from the other side of the wall, though he didn't pick up any footsteps. 

Stealthily, he stands to his feet, walks out of the closet, and looks out into the hall just in time to see the bedroom door close. Perfect. Now, hopefully, it will all continue to go as smoothly as it has been so far. He returns to the closet, taking her hands and pulling her stationary body up, and wraps his arms around her torso before she can collapse. Making sure he has a firm hold on her waist, he bends down, allowing her body to drop over his shoulder and across his back, before standing up, tightening his grip around her, and easily balancing out the additional body weight as he turns and steps out of the closet. 

Brian never instructed him to grab any of her things, so he assumes that he'll take care of that himself, even though he's not sure how. Is he going to sneak into her house to take them, or just get one of the girls to pick up a whole new wardrobe? Those questions are meaningless right now, he figures, and he doesn't let it take up too much of his time before dismissing them altogether and making his way cautiously down the staircase. The girl slung over his shoulder makes it a little more difficult than it usually would be. 

His hand slips down to her thighs as he comes up in front of the door, and he uses his other one to soundlessly unlock it, not willing to go back through the window with the unconscious girl and take a chance on alerting the other members residing in the household of his presence, drop her, or both, so he opts to take the less perilous route. Twisting the knob, he eases the door open, then the screen, inwardly wincing when it lets out a rather loud and grating squeak. 

With no desire to stick around and take any chances on being heard, he hurries out onto the porch, softly shutting both entrances behind him, and quickens his pace once he's out of the yard and through the gate. He scans the region, making sure there's nothing insidious waiting for him anywhere, before taking his original path toward the vehicle that awaits him. The trip isn't an extensive one, and soon he can make out the silhouette of his ride, hurrying to pop the door open and lay her across the backseat with as much care as he can afford to manage. Liu eyes the h/c with intrigue from his position up front.

"I take it everything went well?"

"As well as it can," he replies, setting a timer on his watch for an hour. Liu cranks the car while Jack pulls out his phone, clicking on Brian's contact and pressing the screen to his ear, waiting for the ringing to stop as he makes his way into the passenger's side.

"Did you do it?"

Most of that day is spent keeping herself busy and distracted with various things: reading, sketching, and scrolling through YouTube in the hopes that she'll unveil something entertaining. Even over several hours, her message to the ambiguous number has yet to be answered, but she never really anticipated it would be. Plus, there’s always the chance that it wasn’t ever meant for her; perhaps they were trying to reach another 'Y/n'. 

It would be a big coincidence, but not one totally unbelievable. In all likelihood, it’s some kid pulling a cheap prank, anyhow. And she chooses to chalk it up to that exact thing. At around four-thirty in the evening, she decides to go downstairs and scavenge for something to eat, while also conversing a bit with her grandparents to get rid of some of the invisible tension between the three of them. 

The news that Darcy and Marvin were murdered and that her cousin is missing, presumably dead and decaying in the woods somewhere, is still sinking in, and she assumes it will for quite a while yet. Something like that can’t just be brushed aside like it’s meaningless—at least, that’s what Y/n would have initially thought. But her careless father managed to do it. Impressive or incredibly insensitive? Perhaps both.

She sees her grandmother in the kitchen, pulling a pan of something out of the oven; its sweet, enticing aroma travels through the air and drifts up to her nose, hooking her interest. She catches herself wandering into the room, recognizing the scent vaguely, although she doesn't wish to outright assume. Nana turns, noticing Y/n’s appearance, and looks almost surprised as she tugs the oven mitt off her hand.

“Hi, dear,” she says, keeping her voice mellow and pointing at the stovetop. “I made cookies.” Ah, cookies. The first thing that has sounded appetizing since breakfast, which is a meal that took place hours prior. Her stomach rumbles from within the confines of her torso, and only now does she realize how hungry she’s becoming. Perhaps a couple of cookies can ease that for a bit longer until she feels like eating something more filling.

“Oh.” She steps closer to get a better view, tilting her head to the side curiously. “What kind?”

“Oatmeal chocolate chip. Your old favorite, remember?” Recalling the distant memories of a seven-year-old Y/n stuffing her face with the delightful treat without a care in the world makes her laugh, despite the nagging in her gut and the aching in her chest. Gosh, I was so naive.

“Yeah, I remember," she replies, the shadow of a smile sweeping over her face for the smallest of moments before being replaced with an eager expression as she takes another whiff of the cookies. “They smell so good.” Nana releases a small chuckle and shakes her head. 

“I’m glad! Dig in, I made them for you.”

“Ah, you didn’t have to do that.” She meets the woman’s gaze with a sincere one of her own, knowing in the back of her mind that she only made them as an act of comfort food for Y/n, and though she’s immensely appreciative, the idea of being pitied doesn’t sit well with her. Still, she doesn't say anything about it. Nana did it solely out of compassion and love for her, and she isn’t going to reject that. 

“Of course I did.” Her hand finds its way to the girl’s shoulder and squeezes it affectionately. “You’re only here for a few weeks. I have to make sure you know how much we love you.” 

“I already do know, Nana.” Her voice is uncharacteristically soft as she looks at Farrah, touched by what the lady’s saying and trying to figure out how her father could have straight-up abandoned her without blinking an eye. “I don’t need cookies to realize that.”

“Come here, baby,” she says, reaching her arms out and wrapping them around Y/n's b/s frame in a gentle, caring embrace. The h/c leans into her, snaking her own arms around her and squeezing a bit more softly, relishing the warmth of her grandmother’s hug. She knows that this is a temporary comfort; once her parents come back and she leaves, she won’t be returning until after she’s eighteen. That’s too long for her to wait. What if something terrible happens while she’s gone, like what went down at her cousin’s house just a couple of years ago?

She wouldn’t know how to react. Every emblem of love that’s left within her family can be found here, in this quaint household, and she isn’t ready to lose that. Especially since she only just rediscovered it. Nuzzling her face in the nook between Nana's shoulder and neck, she squeezes her eyes shut and savors this feeling, fighting the tears threatening to form. She won’t cry and worry her; she has enough stress surrounding her as it is. The last thing Y/n wants is to be a source of pain for either of her grandparents.

A minute passes, and Nana leisurely pulls away, grabbing a paper plate and napkin from off the counter and handing them to Y/n. At first, she thinks that maybe the napkin’s to wipe away tears that are discreetly slipping down her cheeks, though after she’s flashed with a sweet smile and Nana nods toward the tray of cookies, she realizes its purpose and takes both from her hold. “Thanks.”

“No need to thank me, dear.” Y/n carefully picks up two of the cookies from the pan, practicing caution so she doesn’t get burnt, and places them on the paper surface in her hand. She then grabs a glass of milk and heads to the living room, seeing Pops sitting in his chair, seemingly content as he watches reruns of Full House on the TV. Nervousness swivels in the depths of her chest, and she eases her way toward the couch, knowing that there’s bound to be anxiety lingering in the air between them since their conversation this morning. 

Her throat, at this point, feels much better than it had previously, and she’s hopeful that no real damage was done to it during her unnerving, confusing spell of affliction earlier. By tomorrow, maybe she’ll be able to talk in her regular voice without having the slightest twinge of pain in the back. She sets her glass on the coffee table, pretending not to notice the way her grandpa side-eyes her every few seconds, obviously apprehensive about something. 

Her eyes travel up to look at the TV screen, trying to appear more interested in the show currently playing than she really is, until she can’t handle the pressure on her shoulders to say something, break the ice in some way. Meeting his gaze timidly, she speaks, her tone honest. “Pops…I hope you know that I’m not mad at you for anything. I really do appreciate being told what happened.”

“Oh, darlin’, I’m not worried about that. I’m worried about you.” He twists around in his chair to face her. “I know that news like that, especially after having just got here, has to be difficult to grasp and accept.” She shrugs solemnly as Nana makes her appearance, taking a seat beside her on the couch with her own cookies and milk held in her hands. 

“You don’t have to worry about me. I’ll be fine.” Though her voice is disheartened, her facial expression is earnest as she takes a small bite of her cookie; a wave of nostalgia hits her as she does so. “It can’t be harder for me than it is for you guys. I’m sorry that happened.” She doesn’t see the sorrowful look that her grandparents share before moving their attention to her, once again. 

“We are too, Y/n,” Farrah says, lacking any better words as she pats her back comfortingly. Y/n, after another drawn-out silence, wants nothing more than to find a different subject to talk about so everybody in this house won’t feel so melancholic. Taking a sip of her milk, she glances at Pops. 

“...So what season is this?” The question is directed at the television show flashing across the screen, and he answers soon enough. 

“Four.” 

“What episode?”

“DJ's goin' on her 'crash diet'.” 

“Ah." She remembers aspects of the show quite well, having watched it constantly as a young kid and having a very distinctive crush on one of its main characters, though she hasn’t seen it in years, so she isn’t 100% knowledgeable regarding everything about it. Episode 8 was fairly popular, though, so she’s able to recall certain details about it that she can’t recall about others. She doesn’t leave the living room again for another four and a half hours, using this time to visit with Nana and Pops and enjoy their enlightening company. 

She can feel her eyelids start to droop as the sun begins its slow descent behind the trees; the bright silver moon replaces its glorious rays of light with something more gentle but just as majestic, soon accompanied by thousands of flickering stars that pepper the sky. Glancing out through the window to her right, she’s able to see a fluffy white and grey lump sitting on a chair outside and grooming itself, and she stands, going toward the front door to grant him entrance. 

Once it’s open, his head shoots up and he stares at her a moment before hopping down and rubbing against her legs as he walks inside. She reaches down toward him, and he briefly stands on his hind legs, bumping his head into her palm in greeting as she shuts the door. “Hey, Marshmallow,” she says, voice quiet. As expected, he soon walks away from her, in search of his food bowl, and she rolls her eyes as her gaze trails back into the living room. Nana gets to her feet, releasing a yawn and running her fingers through her thin, grey hair. “Are you going to bed?”

“Yes, I am. Phil and I have to get up early and go to the store tomorrow to buy groceries.” Y/n’s lips form an 'o' shape as she leans against the door frame, fiddling with her fingers absentmindedly. “Will you be okay here alone for a little while?” A mildly concerned expression forms across Nana’s face. “Or do you want to come with us?”

Y/n thinks it over for a second. She really doesn’t feel like going anywhere; then again, she could help them out and spend quality time with them. But she’d be in public. What if she were to have another coughing fit? Not only would it draw loads of attention, but it would make her grandparents frantic. She definitely doesn’t want that; they’ve enough to worry about as it is. Not giving herself any more time to reason against staying home, she shakes her head. “N-no, I’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m used to staying home alone anyway.” That statement isn't false. Even though she has a maid who hangs around doing chores and things, she mostly minds her own business and allows Y/n to do as she wishes. She isn't even there on weekends—although recently her parents hired a new one that's considerably nosier than the original, and Y/n hadn't been very happy about that. Nana looks a bit hesitant, though doesn’t further argue the point and nods. 

“Alright. If you say so.” She pulls her in for a quick hug, and Y/n eagerly returns it. “Goodnight, sweetheart. Call if you need anything.”

“You, too.” She watches Farrah walk slowly up the stairs, going over what she’ll preoccupy herself with, both tonight and tomorrow. She doesn’t want to go back to sleep for fear of having another nightmare, one more horrendous and bone-chilling than the last one. What’s her mind going to predict next? Marshmallow falling from the roof and dying? Her grandma slipping on mud and breaking her arm? She’s afraid of whatever it might be, which is why she’s decided to stay awake tonight for as long as possible. 

She’s going to go to sleep at some point, whether she likes it or not; that much is inevitable. She simply wants to delay that process for as long as possible. After all, how hard can it be? She’s pulled all-nighters before. All she has to do is participate in mind-jogging activities—nothing relaxing like music, tea, or reading. Things like sketching, exercising, or listening to Markiplier play horror games on full volume.

Then again, maybe horror games aren’t the best things to watch in her low-key paranoid state. Perhaps she should instead watch things like babies falling asleep while eating an ice cream cone, or kittens playing with each other, or memes about Harry Potter. Something entertaining yet energizing at the same time. She turns to go put the cookies away so they won’t get stale sitting out, and as she does so, Pops switches the television off, rises from his seat, and walks toward her, likely to inform her that he’s following his wife to bed. "I'm gonna turn in too, hummingbird."

Yup, she thinks as he pats her on the shoulder.

"Sweet dreams. Love you."

"Love you, too. Goodnight," she says, watching him walk away and up the stairs after Nana. If only I could actually have sweet dreams. She stretches the plastic wrap over the plate of cookies and begins to walk out of the kitchen, though not before switching the overhead light off and grabbing a stick of string cheese from the fridge to snack on while she finds something to do. Watch TV? Maybe there's something good on. But that may disturb Nana and Pops' sleep, so she decides against it. She takes her phone out of her pocket and scrolls through her Tumblr blog, a small smile stretching across her face each time she reads a supportive comment about her art skills.

She originally logged into Tumblr around three years ago, whenever her parents refused to give her constructive criticism—any criticism at all, in fact—about her paintings, so one day she gave up and turned to the internet. At the time, most of her friends had Tumblr blogs, so she figured, why not join in? She began posting artwork that she created, and within a couple of months, she had garnered well over a thousand followers, which was a far greater number than she ever expected.

Her last picture was posted on the 21st of June; one week before she was hauled all the way across two different states and she and her grandparents were reunited at the bus station. Not that she's unhappy with that. Her grandparents love her way more than her actual parents do, she's sure of it. And even if she's wrong, it would be nice to hear the words 'I love you' come from their mouths every once in a while. But she supposes she just isn't that lucky.

Marshmallow emerges from the darkened dining room, just having eaten his supper and ready for a long, relaxing nap. He hops onto the couch and kneads the cushion with his claws before slinking onto her thighs, curling into a fuzzy ball, and closing his eyes. Her hand finds its way to his head, and she strokes softly, feeling his body vibrate against her legs as he purrs contentedly. She scrolls through notifications, watches YouTube compilations (on low volume to not wake Nana and Pops), and plays games like Among Us and Agar.io until her phone battery is at 2% and the screen is dimmed to the lowest possible setting by default.

She looks at the time in the top right corner, now finding that it's 12:29 a.m. Her charger is all the way upstairs, and to get to it, she would have to disturb the resting feline. He's shuffled about and changed positions a couple of times during the past four hours, but has overall slept peacefully. With a defeated sigh, she drops her hand-held device next to her on a pillow and throws her head back, leaning into the couch cushions and staring up at the ceiling. Now that she has nothing to do but sit here in silence, she can't stop the giant wave of thoughts, questions, and concerns from smacking her in the face and boosting her anxieties. 

So many things have already happened in the mere three days that she's been here, ranging from mildly questionable to utterly fear-inducing or depressing. For starters, the terrible dreams she's been having every night? Or the way her latest dream basically predicted what she was going to be told only a day later? How about the random coughing fit, or the way Jack disappeared out of thin air? All these incidents, plus some, have her aching to know more, but at the same time, she's scared to know more. She has no clue what's happening. Maybe a bad case of allergies?

Yeah, right. Allergies don't predict the future or make weird men in white masks stare at you from the woods. She feels her eyelids grow heavy once more, though she shakes her head and bumps her temple with the heel of her hand to keep herself from getting drowsy. You cannot afford to go to sleep right now. Her eyes land on a cobweb in the corner of the ceiling, and she blinks, focusing perhaps a little too hard on it as she tries to see a spider or any other living creature nestled inside, but fails to. 

She studies it for so long that her vision becomes blurry, and the only thing she can center her attention on is that same cobweb. Random ideas pop up in her mind; thoughts that would typically be considered strange by individuals who get enough sleep at night, but they're intriguing to Y/n. How long has the web been there? Did the one responsible for weaving it die? Did it once protect thousands of baby spiders until they hatched? Could she reach up and touch it if she were standing on a piece of furniture? 

Before she can even comprehend it, her eyes are fluttering closed and she's drifting off into an alleviating sleep. At least, she would have been, had her body not jolted awake right beforehand and left her heart beating wildly within her chest from the sudden adrenaline rush she just experienced. Glancing around, she quickly recalls where exactly she is and releases a huff from her nose, raking a hand through her hair. Did I really just dream about falling to my death? Thanks a lot, brain.

Her unforeseen movements shake Marshmallow, and he, too, wakes from his deep sleep, looking a bit alarmed before letting out a yawn; his white canines on full display for the shortest of moments before he rests his head on his paws once more. Y/n slides her hands beneath his small body, however, and lifts him, kissing his cheek before laying him on a particularly soft-looking pillow on her right. "Sorry, buddy. I've gotta get up before I go to sleep, too."

He shoots her a dissatisfied scowl and curls his tail in front of his eyes as if telling her he doesn't want to even grace her with his gaze. She swivels around to head upstairs, albeit quietly, stopping by the bathroom to relieve her screaming bladder on the way to her bedroom. As she steps out from behind the door and turns off the light, she catches sight of her father's old room, taking notice of the way his door is shut for some peculiar reason. They probably just didn't want to be reminded that their once-loving son left them behind without a care in the world. 

Knowing she has better things to do than peer into a part of her joke of a father's childhood, she lets out the tiniest of scoffs and goes to her own room, unable to ease the bit of pain that forms in her chest as she does so. The woman who owned this room is gone. Dead. Out of the picture. This room will always hold a part of her in it. It shows what her personality was like back when she was Y/n's age, and beyond that. It's a sad and difficult revelation to come to, but Y/n bites the inside of her cheek to keep the tears at bay. She doesn't want to cry, not right now. She just wants to avoid another scare that will take five more years off her life. How does she do that?

She refuses to sleep.

Although when one doesn't rest for prolonged periods, they can suffer hallucinations. Y/n does not want to suffer from hallucinations, but she supposes that at least she would know that they aren't real. They're merely figments of her imagination, like that masked figure at the edge of the forest. Or the weird buzzing in her head. Heck, maybe Jack isn't even real. How else would he vanish without a trace? Or drip black sludge onto her face from what was supposed to have been a nosebleed? It's all a little too baffling for her, so she chooses to go with the simpler and less mind-boggling explanation; they were hallucinations. Granted, very vivid hallucinations, but hallucinations nonetheless.

It wouldn't be too far of a stretch. She hasn't been getting enough sleep lately, and that, paired with the dreaded absence of any sort of social life, her pathetically bad parents, and discovering three of her closest family members are gone, would give just about anyone mental strain. She grabs her sketchbook from her backpack, considering the blank canvas sitting inside for a moment before disregarding the thought. Making some pictures—the quality of which will be up for debate—should keep her occupied for a couple of hours more. 

Her stomach rumbles, signifying that it's empty and craves something edible that will genuinely satisfy it, and as she passes the kitchen after walking back down the stairs, sketchbook and pencils in hand, her mind wanders. What could she eat that is both appetizing and sufficient, that wouldn't take forever to make, and that wouldn't cause unnecessary racket? Nothing that she can think of. That string cheese appealed to her just fine. The same clearly can't be said for her stomach. 

Perhaps she isn't in the mood or the mindset to care about eating anything else for the time being, but oh well. A bit of hunger never hurt anyone, right? She inwardly curses herself when she realizes that she forgot to grab her phone charger from her room while she was there, and now she'll have to trek all the way back up the stairs to retrieve it. She does not feel like she has the energy at the moment to do such a thing, but would she rather have a dead phone? What good is that? It isn't like I have people to contact anymore. Or anyone to contact me.

What if her parents were to try and get a hold of her about something, but she wasn't available? What if one of them had a car accident, or their trip got canceled, and they were going to be returning tomorrow? Wouldn't she want to be notified of something like that? They're both highly doubtful scenarios, but they're a possibility, if only minor ones. "Agh, fine," she grumbles to herself, laying her things on the coffee table and spinning around to, once again, walk up the staircase that seems to get longer each time it's conquered. She goes into her bedroom and is thankful that the lamp sitting on the desk is switched on and allowed to provide comforting light. 

She unplugs the cord from the outlet and wraps it messily around her hand, being careful not to get it tangled. Tangled wires are the worst, every modern-era kid would agree. Especially earplugs. Once they're twisted and knotted, it either takes hours of work trying to get them straightened out—valuable time most people don't have to waste—or spend more money buying a new set. Sure, she's never had a problem with that whole 'money' segment, but it's still frustrating because oftentimes she never has a ride and is forced to walk all the way to the store to buy a new pair, either that or wait a week for the ones from Amazon to be delivered. And who wants to do that?

Perceiving the fact that she just had a mental rant solely about tangled earbud wires, she snorts quietly and shakes her head in disbelief. I really am going crazy, aren't I? She's about to head back toward the living room, but stops in her tracks and carries her gaze outside, to the darkness blanketing the house in an eerie aura. She isn't sure what possesses her to do it in the first place; all she knows is that she leans in closer to the window, her eyes scanning the area as if looking for something. What that 'something' is, she hasn't a clue. 

Just as she's about to give up and avert her thoughts elsewhere, she spots it. At the edge of the treeline, shrouded partially by bushes, stands some sort of lanky figure. Maybe it looked so much like an actual tree that she easily looked over it the first few times, but now, it's like she can't take her eyes away. A familiar buzzing sound wraps around her mind as she has a one-sided staring contest with this...thing. Or is it really one-sided? She can't make out many details simply because it's too dark, but it looks like it's wearing a formal outfit of some kind. Perhaps a suit? Its skin looks white, almost, but that could also be the silvery beams from the moon shining down and reflecting off of it in a way that lacks vivid color. 

Her chest tightens and her breathing quickens as she finally forces herself away, blinking frantically and rubbing at her eyes with her free hand. Another hallucination, that's all it is. Nothing resides out there but nature; nothing scary at all. She's fine, she's imagining it. That's what she repeats in her head, over and over, for the next thirty seconds before willing herself to look outside again, purely for curiosity's sake. To further confirm what she's tried to convince herself.

The droning disappears from her mind, and she's more than relieved when she sees naught but the silhouette of evergreens. No boogeyman in the brush, no lanky beast lurking behind the shrubbery, waiting to murder her. It's fine. Rolling her eyes, she exits the room and walks back downstairs, into the living area. Marshmallow is still lying on the pillow, probably asleep by now, and she steps silently to the couch, fitting the charger into an outlet nearby before plugging the other end into her phone and setting it back on the table. 

She tries to get comfortable, sitting on the soft surface and resting her back against its arm. Her legs stretch out, though not all the way, so she doesn't bump the fluffy feline and, for the third time that night, disrupt his sleep. The lighting in the room is gentle and soothing, but still helpful, and it permits her to see the sketchpad propped in her hands and resting against her bent legs well. She takes a 6B pencil and begins tracing dainty lines across the paper, forming a mental image of what she wants to draw and gradually bringing it to life. 

The hours pass by expeditiously as she creates one drawing after another, not particularly satisfied with any of them but content that she found something to both keep her awake and engaged. Though try as she might, she can't keep the drowsiness at bay for more than a few minutes at a time. She could make coffee. That has loads of caffeine. Caffeine keeps people awake, right? But she doesn't remember seeing either of her grandparents drinking it. Odd. Most of her former friends' grandparents and parents alike drank coffee all the time, for either work or just out of habit. Isn't coffee a common 'old person' beverage?

Maybe Nana and Pops don't like it. She supposes it is quite an acquired taste; she's tried it on multiple occasions, and it wasn't exactly pleasant thanks to its strong flavor. But that's what she needs, and if her grandparents don't indulge in it, what can she get? Tea? No, people drink that specifically to relax, unless it's iced and/or sweetened. Her breathing and heart rate slow steadily, and she loses her train of thought. Soda. Soda could work. It's tasty and provides energy, which is exactly what she desires. 

She mentally screams at her body to get up, to move, but it's too exhausted to do any such thing, much to her annoyance. Each time her eyes begin to close, she pries them open again and tries to concentrate fully on the drawing half-done in her hands. But alas, her decreased energy level and the lulling thought of rest wins the battle, and despite all her greatest efforts, her fingers become limp, and she slides farther down into the couch, drifting off to sleep. 

～

The first thing she notices is the smell. The rancid, horrid smell of something rotting—a scent that she recognizes all too well. The area surrounding her is dark, and she has to blindly walk around and hope that she doesn't bump into or trip over anything. A familiar fear sinks into her chest as she tries to be as quiet as possible. Drawing the attention of some hungry cryptid wouldn't be a very wise thing to do, after all. 

Her body shakes mildly in apprehension, and she glances around desperately, eager to see something, anything, that could tell her where on earth she's currently standing. Or is she even on earth anymore? Is she on another planet, or has she been teleported to an entirely different dimension? The possibilities seem endless, much like the questions swarming her mind as she treks forward, cautiously. The gloom around her gradually lessens, and at last, she can make some form of sense of everything. This place. She knows this place. This is her aunt's and uncle's house. 

It's the same as she remembers, save for the cobwebs hanging from the ceiling and the knocked-over flower pots scattered on the floor. Aimlessly, she wanders through the household, looking for any sign of life that may still reside here. The smell gets worse the farther she goes, and suddenly, she shivers. It's getting chilly. Cold is often an indication of death, not life. She turns, looking into the balefully dark hallway before her, and hesitates. Does she want to go?

No, she doesn't. She wants to leave. Nobody's here, so she shouldn't be, either. But an unseen force pushes her forward, and slowly, she walks. Deeper into the dreadfully sinister corridor, the smell gets stronger and more repulsive, so much so that she's forced to cover her nose to stop herself from gagging. Her feet are halted by something lying in the middle of the floor, and she places a hand on the wall so she doesn't fall. 

She squints her eyes at the ground, trying to see the object, and eventually bends over to grab it. This is no ordinary object. It's her uncle Marvin's javelin: the so-called 'murder weapon'. She stares down at it, ignoring the foreboding fog gripping her feet. It's slippery. Why is it slippery? 

A shriek of what she can only describe as agony erupts from the room at the end of the hall; the end that she finds herself too close to for her liking. The door is closed, obstructing her view from the inside—then again, that may be a good thing. Subconsciously, she grips the javelin, suddenly not caring what's on it. If anything comes barreling through that door, at least she'll have something to stab it with. 

She backs away anxiously, her breathing increasing as her eyes never leave the closed entrance. Her hands shake and her footsteps are uncoordinated, but she doesn't really mind it, just as long as she's able to escape before whatever happened to that person inside the room happens to her. 

She bumps into something hard and squeaks in alarm, twisting around, ready to attack. Though she only gasps when she sees a wall. No, surely not... Such a thing should be impossible. But if it isn't... 

Her eyes shift around, looking for another door, but all of them have disappeared. It's like whatever force surrounds her wants her trapped. All of her exits are gone. She has no escape, and she tries to blink away the distressed tears, gripping the javelin even tighter than before. Only now does she realize that the door from the end of the hallway has gotten closer, so close in fact, that she could take two steps and she'd be able to touch it. 

Trepidation masks all of her previously sensible thoughts, and a whimper escapes from between her lips as she wills herself to do it. Just do it, and it'll be over. She'll know what lies behind the door. But at the expense of her life? It doesn't look like she has another option. 

Reluctantly, she reaches out and twists the knob, and to her dismay, the door creaks open. It's silent from the other side, meaning that whoever was screaming before has been silenced. Likely by death, as that seems to be the most rational conclusion. Maybe it's a prank?

She steps through, muscles tense and weapon at the ready. Empty. The room is empty, with only a window allowing the moonlight to shine through and spill onto the floor. A crash from behind her, and she looks back, eyes widening when she sees the door slam shut. Oh well, she could always go through the window. The real question is, who closed it? Another shiver racks her body, and a whiff of that same powerful odor makes her choke.

A loud static courses through her mind as she twists back around, not trying to hold back the tears that fall from her eyes once she notices two motionless bodies lying in the moonlight. They most certainly weren't there a second ago. Neither was all of the blood. Two large pools of it, beneath their mangled corpses, where they were mercilessly stabbed. But with what? A strangled sob climbs its way up her throat, and she drops the javelin, letting it clatter to the floor. 

Blood is all over her hands. It's coating the javelin. There's no doubt in her mind where it came from. But if she has the murder weapon, where is the murderer? She turns on her heel, grabbing at the doorknob, trying to twist it open, but her hands are too wet. They slide down it each time. 

"Let me out!" Her voice is more strident than it would usually be, but she doesn't care who hears her anymore. She just wants to get away. Out of this nightmare. Can't it end already? The static grows stronger, more painful, and she takes to beating on the door, kicking it as hard as she can. Maybe it will rot away. Maybe she can escape. "Please!"

The desperation is thick in her horrified tone, and she musters up all of her strength, taking in a breath and slamming into it. To her relief, it snaps, and she falls to the floor. Finally, she reached the other side. Finally, she can escape. A cold wind blows through her hair, and she takes notice of the grass beneath her trembling frame. Grass? Wasn't she just in a house?

Trees. Endless trees surround her; their branches seem like wicked beasts in the shrill, greyish lighting and the shadows hovering around. There's one right in front of her, a large one, with a crimpled piece of paper taped to its trunk. She crawls forward a few inches in an effort to see what it is. A message, maybe? The letters have been haphazardly scribbled onto the dirty white sheet, reading, "CAN'T RUN". What does that even mean?

"Succumb..." A whisper rides the wind, giving her goosebumps as she shakily stands to her feet. 

"Who are you??" she screams, wanting more than anything to know who is causing this torment. 

"Listen..."

"What do you want from me!?" Her voice cracks, and she looks around frantically for the source of the disembodied voice.

"O҉b҉e҉y҉.҉.҉.҉"

～

Her eyes shoot open and her head turns to the side, trying to remember where she is currently as she attempts to slow her quivery, shallow breaths. The living room. She’s in the living room. Not her aunt’s house. She isn’t trapped; there are no dead bodies, no javelins. She’s safe. Tears well up in her eyes, and she sniffs, looking back to the sketch pad still in her hands and being quite alarmed at what she sees. In the center of the page, drawn in dark grey and scrawled carelessly—or hurriedly—is an oval shape with two small X's where eyes would normally be, their limbs elongated and escaping from the confines of the circle. It obscures her unfinished sketch beneath, making it look more like a background than an actual drawing. 

She switches her attention down to her dominant hand, fingers clenched painfully around her pencil, as if she had just been grasping it for dear life, and releases her hold, letting it drop to her lap as she leisurely sits up and tries to gain control of her rapid heart rate. It was just another dream. 

A low, threatening growl reaches her ears, and her eyes shift up toward the opposite end of the couch, instantly growing confused when she sees Marshmallow, ears folded back in aggression and tail swishing around as he stares at her warily. She furrows her eyebrows, wanting to reassure him that everything’s okay, and leans forward, reaching her hand out to him cautiously. “Hey, boy, i-it’s okay. Don’t be scared—” She’s cut off when he swipes at her hand, claws drawn, and slices through her skin, sending a bolt of pain through her nerves. 

She winces and yanks her arm back, examining the damage and seeing three vertical lines traveling the length of the back of her hand, blood quickly coming to the surface and making them much more noticeable. This seems to be the thing to drive her over the edge because she lets out a broken squeak as nausea makes its presence known.

She feels the abrupt urge to throw up, and tosses her sketchpad and pencil to the side, standing to her feet and hurrying to the nearest bathroom; the one on the first floor of the household. Her stomach swirls uncomfortably and prompts her to move even faster, not wanting to soak the floor in vomit, until she reaches the said bathroom, only bothering to switch on the light before collapsing in front of the toilet, pushing the seat up, and craning her neck forward.

With one hand, she ensures her hair isn't in the way, and with the other, she grips the porcelain, holding tightly as her stomach convulses, sending bile to the back of her throat. This alone makes her gag and forces the hot substance out of her mouth, where it lands in the toilet with a quiet splash. The odor finds its way up her nose and makes her gag once more as acid and half-processed food get torn from her mouth; chunks of cookie, cheese, and bacon float in the now discolored water, among her old stomach contents.

She takes deep, unsteady breaths, trying to brace herself for another wave of inevitable retching as her fingers squeeze the toilet bowl so hard that her knuckles cramp. As expected, her stomach contracts; however, this time, the only thing that comes out is more acid and bloody mucus, much to her displeasure. She continues this aching process of heaving up nothing, strained tears slipping down her cheeks and dropping to the water mere inches away from her face at this point, until finally, her body has all the exertion it can take, and it gives out, allowing her to collect her bearings.

She gasps for breath and releases the toilet, leaning her back against the wall and zoning out as she stares at the floor. Her hands shake uncontrollably, and she wipes her mouth in an effort to get rid of the sticky liquid residing on her lips before letting out a sob and tucking her knees into her chest. Burying her face in her arms, she muffles her cries and whimpers pathetically.

SᕼE ᗯᗩS slouched over her desk, meticulously doodling a potential logo on a sheet of paper that would hopefully match the company's strict guidelines and creative blueprints. She had already submitted twenty different prototypes of the same thing, and they emailed her back each time telling her that it just "didn't fit their vision"...even though every design she had created was exactly what they had previously asked for, with very little variation. The most recent 'request' made her eye twitch:

'It would be great if you could make the circle more...triangular.'

Good thing she couldn't pummel people through monitors, or Mr. 'Slide It To The Left But Keep It On The Right' would have been in big trouble by now.

But oh well. At least she was getting paid for her struggles. It wasn't a bad life. Just annoying clients.

With a tired exhale, she dropped her pen and sagged back in her computer chair, spinning back and forth lethargically. Her hand was cramping, and her brain felt foggy. Maybe she needed a break.

Break. That's a good idea.

Dragging herself to her feet, she snatched her phone up from off the wooden surface and scrolled through her notifications blankly, ambling out of her office and into the kitchen in search of sustenance. There was a text from her brother, who was lovingly informing her that she had really made their mom mad this time; a few messages and Instagram reels sent by her friends and people she followed; and, lastly, a couple of missed calls from the 'mom' in question. Yeah, she was not about to mess with that right now. She was drained as it was, and biting her tongue to listen to a woman yell at her through the speaker of her cell would have only amplified that feeling. 

As she reached the refrigerator, she paused on a video in her TikTok feed, surveying the screen curiously. It was filmed in a public area with quite a crowd. The camera was focused on a group of young guys—all with different colored hair—who were dancing fluidly and singing with ethereal, silk-like voices. They were energetic, jumping around, swaying to a catchy beat that was emanating from an undisclosed source. Interesting.

Is this a new K-pop band?

She hadn't heard of or seen these faces before now, so this must have been one of their first appearances. They were talented, so she thumbed the 'like' button to show her support. Then she swiped, only to see another recording—this time from a different angle, but from the same show. It featured a male, adorned in an oversized pink sweater—clearly the rapper of the group—delivering his lines with such polished morale that she caught herself wondering if he was a professional already, and had just evaded her recognition somehow. That was the kind of performance that could only be born from years of experience. But he looked so youthful. They all did, and that boggled her mind.

She pried open the fridge door to rifle through its contents, continuing to subconsciously glance at her phone. Every other video on her FY page correlated in some way to this small assembly of aspiring artists, and she quickly learned that their official title was the 'Saja Boys'. Pretty basic, but memorable enough. They had announced that they would be joining a variety show tonight as welcomed guests, and Y/n would have been lying if she said she wasn't tempted to watch it. She was always on board with adding to her list of favorite boy groups. Besides, they were physically alluring, so that didn't hurt things.

A brief dive into the comment sections informed her that people were already falling in love with them, and knew all their names like it was widespread knowledge. There was a 'Jinu'—the lead vocalist and front man—someone dubbed 'Abby' (she assumed it was the beefy one who strut his stuff like he was on a runway), 'Mystery' (the one whose massive fringe covered nearly his entire face), 'Baby' (the maknae and rapper), and finally, 'Romance', whose hair was styled in such a particular, goofy way that it favored a heart.

She found it comical how each of these boys seemed to represent K-pop stereotypes flawlessly, and was uncertain if it was to gain popularity or just to subtly mock the industry. Speaking of the 'industry'—they weren't sponsored by anyone, and weren't linked at all to companies that always published groups like them. They were just...by themselves. She couldn't predict that they would get far if they retained that strategy, but it was their own business. If they wanted to be a self-owned K-pop band and attempt to make a household name for themselves—regardless of their actual odds—she wasn't going to be a hater. More power to them for having the courage to be independent.

Considering the startling amount of people flocking to them right now, maybe they would be borderline successful. 

She put together a simple lunch for herself and hummed the tune of Soda Pop—their debut track—without even realizing it, then huffed out a laugh. It wasn’t much of a surprise now why nobody could shut up about it. It just had a way of...seeping into whoever listened and getting stuck playing on repeat in their head like a broken record. The choreography was also fun, bouncy, and contagious, and was already eliciting new media trends.

Safe to say, the internet was eating the Saja Boys up. 

The day leisurely inched along per usual, with Y/n returning to her work shortly after she finished eating and managing to complete ten more versions of her design, crossing her fingers when she emailed the results to her client, praying that one of them would be accepted. Because if she had to revise the same logo one more time, she would probably end up yanking out some of her hair. 

There was nothing wrong with being finical. In fact, it was encouraged. When a customer knew what they wanted and clearly communicated their desires to her so she could produce a high-quality result from the get-go with little issue, both parties stepped away happy. Her frustrations only came into play when they were actively contradicting themselves and being selective on an obnoxious level, and not making an attempt to throw logic into the mix. 

But it was fine. She had tackled worse, and it was hopefully taken care of now. Considering the day over and her patience depleted, she powered off her laptop and pushed herself away from her desk, swiping a hand down her face. When she entered the 'graphic design' field, she thought it would be easy. Make cool sketches, have fun, and earn money. Oh, how mistaken she was.

She was self-employed, so she wasn't legally adhered to whoever hired her, and could technically refuse to work with them anymore if they got too unpleasant. But then that would be a full paycheck flushed and wasted time, and that wasn't a scenario she was ever eager to explore. She did rather enjoy having her 'never failed a client' record. It was useful advertisement, and gave her something to be proud of. Made her feel successful. She was still climbing the ladder, and though she wasn't in the lowest ranks, she could always be higher. Every achievement counted toward her preferred endgame.

It would also be a pretty nice accomplishment to not-so-discreetly rub in her snobbish parents' faces. But that was beside the point.

She hoisted herself out of her seat, stretching out her aching muscles and cracking her back with a satisfying pop. Late evening sunlight filtered through the window, bathing the room in a rich, balmy glow that was progressively being shadowed by high-reaching buildings as its source dipped below the horizon. City lights were visible from below; flashy neons, colorful words, and pinpricks of white and yellow broke free from glass panes attached to various apartments. It was a beautiful, nostalgic view that evoked the most comforting of emotions within her, and she stood close by for a solid five minutes just admiring it. This was the sort of view that made her glad she resided in Seoul. It was truly vibrant, buzzing with life at every turn. 

She never understood why most country folk detested it so greatly. Sure, it was busy, chaotic, and overwhelming on occasion. But it was also full of community, and the sight after dark was undeniably breathtaking. There was a reason it was such a beloved tourist destination, after all.

Maybe she was biased, having spent her childhood here, accustomed to the stress and endless noise and crowded streets. It was her home, and she honestly adored it. She didn't imagine she would ever move away, at least not anytime in the near future. She was too attached. 

Tearing herself out of the mini trance she had fallen in, she collapsed onto her bed and filtered through Instagram, trying to wind down and figure out what she would have for dinner. She didn't want to eat something microwaved, and she also wasn't in the mood to cook something from scratch. That left takeout as her solitary option.

To her vague amusement, Saja Boys content was flooding her recommendations, which served to remind her that they were supposed to be appearing on Play Games With Us. Was she interested enough to tune in?

Might as well. Got nothing else to do.

Within thirty minutes, she had called in her order, received her aforementioned 'order', settled into her couch, switched on the television, and flipped to the correct channel. The show opened with its bizarre intro, then the boys were introduced, all possessing personalities that both contrasted and complimented each other. Right off the bat, Y/n was able to deduce who they were, or who they pretended to be: Romance, as his name suggested, was a charmer, speaking smoothly with a captivating sparkle in his eye. Abby was comically self-centered; he had the body straight out of a cheesy, summer-love novel, and knew it, making sure to pose in a way that accentuated his muscles and send flattering winks at the camera. Mystery didn't say much, staying hidden behind his wall of silvery, lavender hair, though his reserved body language hinted that he was more introverted than the others. 

Jinu was their leader, and main talker, apparently. He was loud and blatantly charismatic, sort of a dork, with a dazzling smile that was precisely fashioned to make girls swoon.

...And then there was Baby. The toughest cookie to crack. His pink-slathered, saccharine attire that certifiably swallowed him up, a yellow newsboy cap crookedly perched atop his head, paired with his mint-blue hair and boyish features, made it obvious he was supposed to be the youngest. At first, Y/n had assumed he would lean into that role as much as he could. His name was literally 'Baby'. But his behavior...somehow refuted all that. He didn't act childish, he didn't giggle at nothing, he didn't drown his friends in overt physical affection. He conducted himself with poise and a silent kind of confidence that was never referenced, but still present. He participated in the activities with a half-lidded gaze and nonchalance, as if totally unbothered by anything and everything; rarely speaking, but when he did, his low-pitched voice was redolent of velvet and traveled like smoke, bleeding into her consciousness and eliciting the strangest, most inexplicable sensation of warmth. Of solace. Like her body's only reaction was to consider this complete stranger an object of safety. And she couldn't comprehend why.

But his eyes... They were the most befuddling aspect. Big and radiant, they shone like Caribbean diamonds, emitting placidity and composed awareness wherever they lingered, lazily scanning what they could see; always alert, but never provoked. Ready to be caught off guard, while knowing it would not happen because of how avidly observant they were.

Those brilliant eyes... Why did they feel so...familiar?

Something sultry blossomed in her chest; an enigmatic longing that she couldn't explain, nor could she really fathom. It was more powerful than any regular attraction she had ever experienced before. She couldn't remove her focus from the TV even if she had wanted to. She was trapped, her eyes drinking in his every move like they were desperate for hydration, her thoughts clashing and warping into blear nonsense. 

She feared she would have stayed that way for eternity, concentrating intently on this random, fluffy-haired rapper, if he hadn't dismissed himself from the scene. Only then did she blink, recollecting her bearings, and register the fact that she hadn't even been paying attention to what was happening. She barely noticed Huntr/x's unanticipated entrance. How puzzling.

"What is wrong with you?" she muttered scornfully to herself, tapping her forehead with the heel of her hand. She had never been so shamelessly and swiftly enamored by somebody before. It was...unnerving. "Get a grip."

With a deep sigh of resignation, she turned the TV off, grabbed the trash her food had spawned, and stood, prepared to retire for the night. It was just a long day. When she awoke the next morning, her frazzled brain would be back to normal, and she would be able to look at him without feeling so creepily fascinated.

Yes. A good, restful slumber was all she needed.

────୨ৎ────

"So you used to come here a lot, then?"

"All the time. I guess it was just the perfect place to...hang out without being watched and interrupted by adults." She shrugs, her feet dangling past the large tree branch as she gazes down idly into the wide body of water below the two of them. Its surface is glistening with sunlight, and she imagines schools of fish, small turtles, and fresh tadpoles swimming underneath. She had forgotten how peaceful it was here, away from society—a place where she's allowed to be alone with just her thoughts. 

"That's understandable. It is a nice area. Really quiet." He leans his back against the trunk of the tree, his eyes shifting up to the overcast sky as he keeps half of his concentration directed at his task. "You liked solitude, then."

"What do you mean?" She glances at him curiously, and he meets her eyes for a short moment.

"You came here alone all the time, right? So you must've liked solitude."

"Oh, well, I mean—" She shakes her head, trying to collect her words and sensibly articulate them. "No, I didn't come alone all the time. Mostly, I had Wyatt...with me..." Her voice lowers the more she talks, and she feels a wave of grief wash over her, once again. She knows she won't be able to successfully hide her emotions, so she turns her head and tries to compose herself. There are a few seconds of silence before Jack speaks.

"...Wyatt?" There's a sense of recognition in his tone, and she curls her knees up and into her chest instinctively, holding back a tear. "Wyatt...Colson?" Her eyes dart to him, her expression molding into one of consternation. 

"...How did you know that?" It doesn't cross her mind that murder and a teen's disappearance draw attention from all places, and that word spreads fast. She also isn't aware that he, among others, keeps tabs on mysterious and abrupt events such as that one, and he knows the names by heart.

"Uh, w-well"—he replaces his startled expression with one of veracity and oblivion—"he was the guy who went missing, right? Heard it from...my mom." He seems unsure, and she furrows her brows but chooses not to comment on it. There are more important things to fret over. 

"Yeah..." The word comes out as a mere whisper as her eyes flicker down to her hands. "I guess...I guess he is."

"You were close?" he asks, leaning forward vaguely. She brushes a strand of hair behind her ear.

"Um, y-yeah, I mean...he was my cousin."

"Oh..." His gaze softens as he absentmindedly fiddles with a loose thread hanging from his hoodie, tilting his head to the side. "That's unfortunate... Sorry." A forlorn sigh travels from between her lips before she can stop it, and she shakes her head lightly. 

"Yeah, well...there's nothing you can do about it. Things happen."

"If it makes you feel any better, I lost my dad when I was just a kid." Her eyes move up to meet his curiously, and he glances down. "Car accident. It crushed my mom; I don't think she ever really got over it." Sympathy shines in her eyes, and she replies.

"Wow. I'm sorry."

"Eh, don't be. It was a long time ago, I hardly even remember the guy." Changing the subject, he leans toward her and asks another question. "Do you have any other family down here?"

"Besides my grandparents? No." A serene breath flows out of her nose as she watches the leaves in the trees rustle and feels the breeze glide through her hair, giving her an inkling of solace. "I used to have a couple of friends that I played with sometimes. Lord knows where they went, though."

He nods in understanding, squinting his eyes as the sun's bright beams reflect off the water and hit him straight in the face, screwing with his impaired sight. Perhaps this isn't the best place to be sitting at the moment.

She turns her head to look at him once again, parting her lips in concern. "Uh...you okay?" When she receives a slightly confused expression, she clarifies, growing perplexed. "Your nose? It's bleeding."

Only then does he feel the warm, sticky substance drip down slowly until it reaches his lip, and he lifts the back of his hand to wipe it away, unintentionally smearing it across his skin. "Oh, yeah, um." He uses his sleeve to get the rest of it off his face, though it proves fruitless when even more of the liquid crimson continues to run out of his nose. "This is— I mean, it's...normal." 

She furrows her eyebrows suspiciously, taking notice of the terse nervousness present in his voice. "Really? Cause it looks kinda..."

"No, no, it's fine." He snatches a tissue out of his pocket and presses it to his nostril in an effort to slow the bleeding as he considers the height of the tree that both of them are sitting in. "But...I should get going, before my mom, uh...worries." He twists his body around until his foot is securely settled on a tree branch to his right, and he begins his descent.

"Uh, yeah... Okay." She watches him skillfully maneuver from tree branch to tree branch, never missing a beat and moving at a pace faster than she could ever dream of. She hadn't observed his actions when he first followed her up the tree, too busy focusing on not slipping and breaking her neck. Now that she's paying attention, she finds herself intrigued. "You're pretty good at that. Were there trees where you come from?" It's a bit of a strangely-worded question, though she figures it gets the point across well enough.

He jumps to the ground and looks up at her, shrugging and once again being pressured to wipe the blood away from his face. "There was a really nice one a while back, but lightning destroyed it during a storm." She hums in response, realizing that he likely can't hear it from the ground due to a lack of proximity between the two of them. A faint buzzing sound settles in her ears, and she swats at the air, at first guessing that a fly or bee has found its way over and decided to test her patience.

"You can find your way back, right?" She raises her voice, hoping that he's able to understand her. Thankfully, he nods in confirmation. 

"Yeah, I'm good." The buzzing continuously grows louder, and as a result, she jerks her head from side to side, trying to get a look at whatever pesky insect is tormenting her and put a stop to it, but she fails to see anything. "Can you find your way back?" She runs a hand through her hair to see if there's something nestled inside, though to her relief, doesn't find anything.

"Nah, I came all the way out here without knowing where I was going." He releases a chuckle, noticing her sudden change in behavior and craning his neck farther back to get a better look at her.

"Something wrong?" The buzzing only grows louder, and it becomes more difficult to hear what he's saying clearly, though she manages and presses a hand to her ear.

"I—I think it's just a bug or somethin'." As the obnoxious noise increases, a headache presents itself, and she taps her temple with the heel of her hand to get a handle on what she's hearing. Simultaneously, Jack's chest starts to tingle with a recognizably ominous feeling, and his gaze falls to the trees around him, searching for the source in a frantic manner as apprehension dawns on his face. 

Thinking now would be an acceptable time to get out of the tree before she ends up falling into the water, she carefully scoots toward the trunk, hoping the sound will dissipate if she gets away from whatever's nest she mistakenly disturbed. She glances down at Jack, her vision becoming strained for unknown reasons, and lets out a startled gasp at what she sees.

His skin has darkened to an unnatural tone, resembling more of an ashen grey in contrast to the pale ivory that it was previously, and in place of his eyes are black, endless sockets with some type of thick substance that leaks down his cheeks unevenly. 

It's an alarming sight indeed, but before she can say anything about it, her vision clears and she notices that he looks just like himself, again. That was...weird. She grasps a branch, still attempting to clear the headache and unpleasant buzzing as she cautiously makes her own way down the tall tree. I must be going crazy.

Her sight is obscured once again, prompting her to blink as she tries to rid herself of the blurriness. She shakes her head when the buzzing turns from bearable to brutal, greatly disorienting her as a wave of dizziness strikes her body. Her grip tightens around the branches that are currently supporting her weight, and she leans into the tree, not willing to move and risk falling to the ground below.

"Jack...how many feet would you say I have to brave before I reach the bottom?" She asks only because she fears looking down will cause her to lose her balance for good. Through the thick droning, she hears silence. Maybe he didn't hear me. "Jack?" She makes a point to speak louder to ensure that she's acknowledged, but still, he doesn't respond, and she bites her lip nervously. Please don't tell me he left. "Jack?"

"Y-yeah, no, you're not far. Could probably jump if you wanted." Tension is released from her chest, and she wills her body to calm down, failing to catch the way his voice wavers anxiously.

She breathes in a way that's meant to reassure, though it only makes her hands shake as she ever so slowly climbs further down, her feet staying locked on whichever branches she blindly steps on to act as her support system. Hey, this isn't so bad. Just take it slow...and you'll be down in no time. It's a piece of cake.

However, she thinks too soon, for not three seconds later, she loses all her strength for no apparent reason, and her fingers loosen, untangling themselves from the tree limbs. Before she can viably react, gravity is working against her, her feet lose their place, and she's plummeting downward. Shock travels through her mind and paralyzes her for a brief period. She feels her heart skip a beat as her oxygen intake momentarily comes to a halt, eyes snapping shut, her brain in a frenzy. All she can think about is hitting the ground. Smashing her head on a rock. Breaking her arm. Twisting her leg. Being impaled.

The outcomes seem endless as the invisible force shoves her body closer and closer to the ground, though instead of dying and drifting off into the afterlife, she feels strong arms loop themselves under her own, not stopping her legs from colliding rather hard with the ground, but cradling her torso and cushioning her head with a sturdy abdomen. 

Her heart still runs what feels like a thousand beats per second, and the world around her slowly starts moving again. Her mind can comprehend what happened fairly quickly, and she cracks her eyes open, gaze moving up and landing on Jack's face, the sunlight from above darkening the edges and making it look as if he's glowing a bright yellow. She expects him to look startled, if not amused, but is taken off guard when she instead sees that a concerned, distraught expression is etched across his softly-structured features.

She feels something wet drip onto her cheek, just below her eye, and assumes it to be some of the blood from his nose; therefore doesn't make it her priority to wipe it away for fear of seeming rude. His eyes nervously shift around the two of them as he hurriedly pulls her to her feet, keeping a hand on her shoulder until she's stable. Her hand grips the tree trunk, and her body is hit by another overwhelming dizzy spell, but she's content that the buzzing in her ears has stilled and mentally prays that the headache will go away.

"You okay?" She rubs the side of her head gently, trying to soothe the pain, and nods.

"I think so. Thanks, Jack." With that same hand, she discreetly swabs it along her cheek, removing the blood that was oozing without much thought and glancing down at it. What she sees confuses her, and she brings her hand closer to her face to get a better look. What is now smeared across her skin is a rich, tar-like solidity, similar to what she 'saw' coming out of his eyes, or lack thereof. But that isn't possible—maybe it's just such a deep scarlet that causes it to look unusually dark. 

Feeling a bit disgusted but more so befuddled, she wipes it on the tree and gets the majority off of her hand. Who bleeds black blood? She knows for a fact that the liquid coming from his nose before looked thin and was a bright red, so what changed about it? Perhaps it's only her perception; after all, she isn't exactly in the best shape right now, mentally or physically. So she turns to ask him about that very thing, blinking in surprise when she finds he isn't there. 

She takes a couple of unsteady strides forward to see if he's hiding behind a tree, or somehow blending in incredibly well, though she isn't successful. "Jack?" She glances around, toward the trail they followed to get here, but again, she's unable to see him anywhere. "Jack!" A feeling of urgency fills her heart—urgency about what, she hasn't a clue. He was about to leave, but she expected a goodbye of sorts, not a sudden disappearance. Besides, she would have heard his departure, right? He was right behind her. Where could he have gone so quickly? "Jack, is this a prank?"

A sharp cough issues forth from her mouth, and she pays it no mind, too focused on finding the boy. She stumbles toward the path, bending over and rinsing the remnants of goop off her hand in the river beside her, and being careful not to topple over into it. Another cough, this one more forced, and she clutches at her head to ease the pain each one brings. Looking down the length of the path, she sees nobody, which greatly puzzles her.

"Jack! Seriously, are you hiding?" A moment later, she presses her mouth into her arm to conceal the strained coughs that now regularly erupt from within and tries to catch her breath. "Jack—" This time she's cut off as another violent hack comes from her throat, leaving it scratchy and her desperate. She doubles over and shuts her eyes tightly, bearing the turmoil that her body is randomly putting her through for bizarre, unknown reasons.

Her stomach grows queasy, and her head throbs, stressed tears brimming in her eyes as the coughs only worsen after each second. Before she can even grasp what's happening, her legs collapse, and she falls straight to the grassy terrain below, fighting for any breath of oxygen that she can grasp, only to come up empty each time. The tears now fall, streaming across the bridge of her nose all the way down to its tip before dropping.

Her fingers withdraw and clutch handfuls of dirt, and her body shakes vigorously, though not from fear; merely from distress. Her mind is in a haze of agony, making her hyper-focus on one thing only: breathing. She feels as if her organs have become detached and are going to spew from her mouth any second, and a fierce burning sensation in her lungs makes her gag as stomach acid arises, dribbling down her lip. Her hacking is combined with pained sobbing; her condition only gets more gut-wrenching the longer it continues, all the while that same unpleasant buzzing never dwindles, assaulting her ears with its shrill pitch.

Her stomach convulses and sends half-digested food up through her body, and consequently, she retches and spits it right below her face. The discomfort fogging her mind begins to dissipate, and the hacking she was forced to suffer through comes to an abrupt stop, finally allowing her to suck in a deep breath of air that her body has been struggling to gain. A few more light coughs come out of her mouth, and she rolls onto her side, trying to recover as she gasps for much-needed oxygen. 

Her muscles loosen in relief, and she lets out a quiet cry, a mixture of both alleviation and affliction. She lies there for around five minutes, gathering her bearings and recuperating from the unforeseen exertion, before inhaling softly and fluttering her eyes open. The terrible droning, at once, fades away and gives her a chance to gather her thoughts. She weakly pushes herself up, unable to stop from looking down at the pile of acid, regurgitated food, and blood spreading on the grass that her body propelled out. 

She gently places her hand on her sore, scratchy throat and massages it, hoping to soothe a bit, if not all of, the pain, and trying not to have a panic attack over the fact that she nearly hacked her very own lungs out not seven minutes ago. Stray tears dribble down her warmed cheeks, and she wipes saliva from her chin, finding the strength eventually to stand to her feet and begin her slow, thoughtful trek back to her grandparents' cottage.

•——————•°•✿•°•——————•

His feet feel weightless as he runs at high speeds, far higher than what the average person could ever go, his body twisting whenever necessary to ensure he doesn’t accidentally slam into one of the hundreds of trees around him. His mask is now pushed back over his face and hides the dark grey tone of his skin and the sharp rows of teeth in his mouth, though his empty sockets remain visible.

The tingling in his chest lessens the farther away he gets from the river, but he doesn’t take it as a sign to slow down. Instead, he quickens his pace, avoiding the thick foliage, leaping over a fallen tree, and sliding down a small hill, in a hurry to make it back. He fears the worst could happen if he were to stop.

Easily navigating through the forest and toward the truck, his lungs aren’t even starting to get tired, and his legs aren’t yet begging for a break; only a few of the advantages of being a demon. Even in a rush, he somehow manages to be stealthy, so much so that nobody could hear him unless they were listening extra closely. The area around him lacks most of its natural color through his perspective, and even a bit of its shape, but that only means his hearing, among other senses, is keener and able to detect threats from far off. 

He can see the scenery that surrounds him, though the details leave quite a bit to be desired. The black, slimy tears that were cascading down his navy-blue mask stopped a few minutes ago, as he's no longer putting continuous strain on his vision. He's thankful for that; he hates that stuff, and he hates trying to clean it up. One fortunate aspect is that it only shows up if he's genuinely crying or he's under heavy physical turmoil, which he had been. 

Finally, the dented Ford comes into view, camouflaged by weeds, low-hanging vines, and overgrown grass; parked in a place that any normal passerby would overlook. He swiftly navigates to the passenger's side, wrenches the door open, and hops into the seat, plainly frantic in his actions. The man—clad in a light mustard-brown hoodie and a red and black cloth mask, sitting languidly behind the steering wheel—cranes his neck toward Jack, his mild surprise in response to the latter's hastiness easily hidden beneath the eerie disguise.

"Something wrong?" His voice is low and monotonous, and Jack slams the door shut, allowing himself to relax now that he's in the safety of the vehicle as he collects his thoughts. 

"A lot, actually." His eyeless gaze bores into Brian's fake red one. The driver silently studies Jack's body language and his following sentences. "It's worse than I thought. He wants her, and he wants her soon. If something's gonna be done about it we need to act quickly, otherwise it'll be a lost cause." 

Brian crosses his arms in understanding, processing the information that his trusted companion is delivering to him. “Do you know where she lives?”

Jack nods his head. “North Carolina. She told me that she’s only here to visit family. She’ll be leaving eventually, if she’s not gotten to, first.” 

“What family?”

“Grandparents. You know that couple that got murdered a while back?” He receives a curt nod in response. “Apparently, they were her relatives. Aunt and uncle.”

“They had a kid.”

“Yeah, Wyatt Colson. Adopted. He was her cousin.” Jack shoves his hands into the pocket of his hoodie, waiting through a brief silence before speaking again. “They were close, she and him.”

“Did you get her name?”

“Y/n L/n.” Brian pulls his phone out of his jeans, focusing on the screen as he scrolls through his contacts and looks for one labeled Ben, clicking on it and shooting him a quick text telling him the girl’s name and to research her straight away. He gets an effortless 'yup' soon after, and stuffs his phone back in his pocket, turning his attention back on Jack for more information.

“How old is she?”

“Sixteen.” Jack subconsciously bounces his knee, though the action is barely noticeable and disregarded by Brian, who keeps his gaze locked onto the boy’s masked face. “She was nice. Something was definitely troubling her, though. I could feel it.”

“So she’s emotionally vulnerable. To what degree?”

“Not sure. He was messing with her head, but she was trying to resist it.” Jack remembers her odd behavior before he left, and recalls feeling pressure in his mind as she gripped her hair. She looked distressed, though he could sense that she wasn’t giving into the fog of thoughts her mind was likely being covered in at the time. Not easily.

“What do you think about it?” he asks, and Jack considers the question for a short moment.

“I think she may stand a chance. From what she told me, she seems to come from a more or less broken family. Means she's used to dealing with emotional pain. That could be a good or a bad thing.”

“We’ll see what Ben’s results are, then make a final decision.” Jack nods, not quite wanting to forget about her and let her fall victim to the inevitable like so many others before her. He senses potential, something that isn’t very common for them. He would be less than content to brush her aside as if she were simply meaningless to all of them, knowing they could have helped, possibly saved another soul from eternal torment, and what could be referred to as slavery.

He is well aware that it could be a big risk, bringing someone else with these symptoms to their base, and he knows it could easily result in catastrophe again. But he isn’t very doubtful about this particular case; he saw no reason to be when he was speaking with her. She seemed innocent enough—then again, it’s always the 'innocent' ones that end up stabbing you in the back. 

All he knows is that if they’re going to do this, they need to do it soon, because she’s in immediate danger, and he has a feeling she doesn’t even realize it. She won’t until it’s too late.

•——————•°•✿•°•——————•

Her eyes drift up from the dirt to the cottage that she’s grown acquainted with during the past few days, and she releases a shaky breath, the gesture itself evoking mild pain in the back of her throat. Gosh, water sounds so refreshing right now. She walks closer, only noticing her grandfather sitting on the porch when she reaches the gateway, and avoids direct eye contact. She knows that he’s going to try and speak to her, especially considering the conversation this morning, and she wants to dodge that until she feels a bit more like herself.

She’s still totally flummoxed at what happened over an hour ago and has racked her brain for answers, only to fail each time. Maybe she caught the stomach flu? But stomach flu makes you throw up, not cough until you feel like you’ll explode at any moment. Perhaps something got caught in her throat and triggered her gag reflex? Highly doubtful. The gag reflex doesn’t generally work like that.

She forces a fleeting smile across her face as she draws nearer, but drops the act once she sees that his eyes are closed, his lips are parted, and soft snores escape his mouth; his head is leaning comfortably against the wall behind him. Oh good. He’s asleep.

Hopefully, she can sneak in undetected by her grandmother, who is most likely up at this point in the day and well aware of her surroundings. She steps with minimal sound onto the porch and grips the handle of the screen door, pulling it open and cringing when it makes a long, drawn-out squeeeak. She glances at Pops in concern, shoulders relaxing when she sees that he's still dozing.

Her facial expression twists into one of agitation as she opens the second door, this time with less caution, and walks inside, knowing that her Nana had to have heard that obnoxious noise. Her hearing is relatively better than her husband’s, after all. Her gaze shifts toward the living room, biting the inside of her cheek when she catches a glimpse of her grandmother sitting on her recliner beside the couch, glasses on, her attention directed at the book in her hands.

She doesn’t seem to have noticed Y/n come inside, much to her relief, and she looks at the staircase directly ahead of her, glancing in-between Nana and the aforementioned staircase as she silently closes the door and wonders if she can pull this off. It’s a few feet away, but Nana will surely see her walking and be interested in a conversation: the exact thing that Y/n desperately wants to avoid for the time being.

She swallows, inwardly wincing at the discomfort that radiates from the back of her throat, and carefully moves forward, hoping beyond hope that Nana won’t spot her. “Oh! Hi, Y/n.” The girl freezes, returning her gaze to Farrah and meeting her eyes regretfully. “You were out a while this time. Almost five hours.”

She nods, not wishing to speak unless required, at least not until she gets a hold of some pain relievers. The elderly woman tilts her head forward, setting the book in her lap and giving her granddaughter her full attention. 

“I didn’t know you could cook.” Y/n’s eyebrows knit together in confusion before she pieces it together in her head and allows a knowing expression to form across her face. After hearing the silence, Nana speaks again. “It was good, Y/n. Thank you.” She hums in reply, wanting to leave it at that—however, when she starts walking up the stairs, she hears her grandmother’s voice. “Are you alright?”

She nods once more, making her exit quick and shuffling up the staircase, stopping when she reaches her room. She grabs her bag and digs through it, eventually grasping a plastic bag filled with various medicines that she thought were appropriate to bring along with her, just in case. She pulls out the bottle labeled Tylenol and unscrews the cap, pouring two of the red, blue, and white capsules into her palm before putting their container back into the bag.

She grabs her water bottle and, after a moment of hesitation, swallows the medicine without much trouble, taking a sip of water afterward to subdue the pain. She then sits on her bed, hands tangling themselves in her hair as she bears the weight of stress on her shoulders. It's still hard for her to fully process—everything is, really. She's tempted to cry again, but refrains, mainly because it would cause her greater physical pain, and that’s one of the last things she wants right now.

The sun breaking through her window spreads like butter across her back and warms her insides, bringing her a sense of consolation. It will be okay. It has to be, right? She will get through these trials. She can handle this. Can’t she?

A quiet whimper forces itself from her mouth, and she covers her face in an effort to compose herself. Why me? Why now? She hears her phone chime from her pocket, indicating she received a text. That’s strange. Nobody ever cares enough to text her anymore. Growing curious and wanting to focus on anything other than her pathetically devastating plight, she slides it out and presses the power button, quickly typing out the password and navigating to her messages.

Unknown number? She blinks and wipes away a tear before it’s able to fall from her eye, looking down at the glowing screen and clicking on the contact.

Yo, is this Y/n?

“What the…” she can’t help but mutter, ignoring the twinge of agony it causes, and furrows her eyebrows in bemusement. Is it somebody from school? Her thoughts then turn to Jack, though she shakes her head in disregard, concluding that it wouldn’t be possible. We never exchanged numbers.

After staring at her phone for two minutes straight, she sends a message back, almost certain that somebody from her school somehow got her number from one of her friends. Or, well, associate, at this stage in her life.

Yes... With whom am I speaking?

She waits for a response, tapping her finger against her leg absentmindedly and gazing through the window. Her e/c eyes land on the treeline, half-expecting to see something standing outside. It reminds her of when she awoke last night and saw that mysterious, eerie figure posing at the edge of the forest, its creepy white mask standing out in the dark vastness of the night. 

Even after several minutes, she isn't presented with a reply, and she reasons that it's probably a prank, no matter how strange and abrupt, and tosses her phone on her bed, choosing to forget about it. Movement in the doorway draws her awareness, and she turns her head in that direction, raising her eyebrows when she sees Nana standing there with a commiserate expression painted across her wrinkled features. 

"Sweetheart..." Y/n cranes her neck to the side and parts her lips, beginning to feel the Tylenol take effect and lessen the aching in her throat.

"Nana?" Farrah rubs the back of her neck, almost nervously, as she walks farther into the room. "Is...something wrong?"

"Your grandpa told me what happened this morning... I'm sorry, baby." She makes her way toward Y/n, sitting on the bed and placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. Y/n's posture slumps as she realizes what she's referring to, and her gaze drops to her lap. She twiddles her fingers, sensing the tension in the air between the two of them. "Are you gonna be okay?" 

She waits a moment, pondering her answer. She doesn't want to worry her; besides, she's positive this has been extremely hard on Nana and Pops, much harder than it could have ever been on her. That was their daughter, their grandchild. And that, on top of already having lost their son to ridiculous family disagreements? Not having the emotional support of anybody but themselves? It makes her feel terrible for them. 

"Yeah..." She clears her throat, looking anywhere in the room but at Nana, and fighting the tears threatening to spill onto her cheeks. "Y-yeah, I'll be fine. It's...fine." Her voice cracks, and she feels Farrah's fingers ghost through her hair to calm her down; to console her in some way.