DELIRIUM.

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Need a fresh start and I can't see my Messages tab here (I'm not ignoring anyone, just can't see it). Anyway, see you there, hopefully :)

Six centuries dull the memory, but Baekhyun is swiftly reminded of the excruciating agony that comes when flesh and bone are torn clean from their source — and his current state leaves no room for forgetting.

He’ll never admit it — that his lapse in perception cost him a good portion of his torso. They came crawling from the shadows, silent, methodical, lethal. Ancient, unfamiliar, like nothing he ever seen. Too fast, even for him. There was no time to react, no movement swift enough to tear out the grenade nestled between his ribs.

His mouth had just formed Taeyong’s name when the world erupted in flame.

Flames seared through his lungs — vivid, scorching — so intense he could’ve sworn he exhaled fire for a split second. The side of his torso was gone, blown open in a blast that left bone and organ strewn across the grass.

Agony doesn’t quite cover it. It’s raw, primal — the kind that drags a scream from deep in his gut, but all that comes out is a wet, gurgled sound. Blood bubbles in his throat, iron-thick and choking, and every breath feels like inhaling razors. His vision flickers. Darkness claws at the edges.

He barely registers the footsteps crashing through the brush, or the string of curses sharp enough to slice air.

"Fucking idiot," Taeyong mutters, dropping to his knees beside him. His hands hover uselessly for a moment — over the mangled mess of Baekhyun’s side, the twitch of exposed muscle — before he presses down, hard.

Baekhyun lets out a hoarse cry, one hand scrabbling weakly at Taeyong’s wrist. "You tryin’... to finish the job?" he rasps, blood trailing down the corner of his mouth.

"Shut up," Taeyong snaps, voice tight. His eyes flicker and he shrugs off his jacket, stuffing it against the wound with practiced urgency. "You should’ve seen it coming."

"They didn’t… exactly knock." I have never seen anything like them are words drowning in his throat.

"No. They blew your ribs out instead," he bites back, as unphased as ever, but his hands are steady, firm, too careful. "You’re not dying here. I’m not scraping your remains off the grass."

Baekhyun lets out a sound — part laugh, part groan — and coughs crimson into the air. "Cute."

Taeyong ignores him, already looping an arm under his back and hauling him up like dead weight. "Thought you’d be lighter without all that blood."

Pain flares white-hot across Baekhyun’s body, but he clings to consciousness by sheer spite. "You care."

"Shut up." Taeyong says, quieter this time — not quite a growl, more like a plea wrapped in grit.

The candlelight flickers low against crumbling parchment, smoke curling like restless fingers toward the ceiling. Dust hangs thick in the air — not disturbed by time, but by the constant flipping of brittle pages, yellowed and ink-stained with a language long dead.

Baekhyun doesn’t look up. Not yet.

“You’re grinding your teeth again,” he says, voice low, frayed at the edges. “Second time in five minutes.”

There’s a pause — not for drama, but thought — before he continues, one elegant finger tracing the archaic sigils scrawled along the margin of the book sprawled between them.

“Headache still bad?”

He already knows the answer. He can feel it radiating off Seungjun like a curse. That dissonant hum in the air — the kind that prickles at his centuries-worn skin — has grown more unbearable with each passing day. He’s seen souls before. Held them. Drank from them. Sent them off. But whatever’s lodged inside Seungjun? It’s not staying quiet anymore.

“I found something. Not much. But it mentions soul-bearers.” Baekhyun finally meets his gaze, crimson eyes dimmed by the candle’s glow. “It says they were rare. Usually chosen. Usually… unwilling.”

He lets that sit. The silence between them stretches, heavy and metallic.

Then, like an afterthought — but not really — Baekhyun closes the book and leans back in his chair, leather groaning beneath him.

“You're not dying,” he says flatly, “at least not yet. But you are holding on to things that don’t belong to you. And they’re starting to eat you alive.”

A pause. He ponders his next words on a scale for a moment.

The ocean breeze caresses his pale complexion under the moonlight, slender fingers curled around the neck of some French wine bottle as he lies on the cold sand, steel-blue hues observing the lit-up sky. Dust from the shore crawling beneath the fabric of his clothing doesn’t seem to perturb him when the wind picks up, but the man sitting not far from him does just the opposite.

"That empty head of yours is capable of thinking?"

Words cut through the air — smooth and sharp, dripping with honeyed sarcasm. It’s not meant to hurt but holds just enough edge to poke the bear.

Baekhyun would be lying if he didn’t admit to the enjoyment forged from taunting Katsu, or maybe he’s grown accustomed to their bantering to the point where it becomes second nature. Not that the taller man has much to complain about when the sommelier provides all the alcohol one could ever need.

"You shouldn’t be thinking, not after a drink of that." He briefly motions toward a secondary bottle in the other man’s grasp — right out of his collection, laced with enough diluted diazepam to knock out any conventional creature. And maybe Baekhyun needs to remind himself Katsu is far from normal. "If you need something stronger, you can just drink my blood. Or I can blow you to pieces — up to you."

The caustic jabs settle heavily on his tongue as he sits up, motions lethargic, weighted down by the alcohol scorching through his veins. When his gaze finally falls on Katsu, he makes no effort to conceal the smirk that haunts the corner of his thin lips, subtly sneering.

Her fingers reach for the glass without a word, the quiet clink echoing like a church bell in the stillness between them. She pours herself a drink and watches it slosh near the rim, her hand trembling faintly. She doesn’t sit right away, just stands there cradling the glass in both palms as if the warmth of her hands might settle the chill buried in her bones. “I’m not usually this sloppy.” The words are flat, factual. No defense, no anger. Just the truth of someone who doesn’t make excuses, only takes the blame. She exhales, gaze trained on the way the red clings to the sides of the glass like blood smeared across porcelain. “I had one job. One girl, one target. Escort, surveillance, nothing more.” A silence swells, heavy in her throat. Her fingers tighten around the stem of the glass. “But I was distracted. And I knew it.” Finally, she takes a seat — not too close, not too far. Just where she won’t be in his way, like some sullen ghost with no place to belong. “She was fourteen,” she continues, her voice thinner now. “Didn’t even know what was happening until it was too late. I stopped it… but not fast enough. She was turned, tasted it, and now she’ll want more.” Her jaw clenches once, barely noticeable. “I let my guard down. I’ve been … off since Taeyeon showed up again.” The name lands like a shard of glass on the floor beneath them, she swivels the glass once before she brings it to her lips to take a sip. “I thought I’d be alright, but I was wrong." A bitter smirk ghosts across her face. “I should have walked away from the assignment. But I didn’t. I told myself I could handle it, like i always do. And now a girl has scars because I couldn’t think straight.” She looks down at the glass again, tipping it slightly to watch the liquid tilt. “I’m not here for pity,” she murmurs, “And I’m not here asking you to make it right.” A beat. "I just didn’t want to be alone when all this came crashing in. It’s pathetic, isn’t it?”

The sigh he lets out is audible, breaking through the pitter-patter of raindrops against the window. So it was all about an assignment — a failed one, at that. Baekhyun has to remind himself that she still holds responsibilities in the Association — the very institution he swore to destroy. Funny how he still holds its princess close to his heart. Not that she could ever stop his crusade anyway.

"I wouldn't offer you pity even if you asked for it, Rina." He watches her intently — the trembling fingers, the bitterness etched into her expression, the way her voice betrays an awareness of the consequences that might follow. "It happened. You can't change it. What you can do is find her and hand her over to whoever you answer to in that godforsaken place." A pause. Slender fingers tap against the rim of the glass in his hand. "Failure is part of the job. You have to learn how to live with it."

The words are cold — almost like a lecture he knows she isn’t looking for — but necessary nonetheless.

His tongue clicks against the roof of his mouth at the name that cuts through the storm. Taeyeon. He remembers the few aggravating encounters he had the displeasure of enduring. Older, stronger, sharp-tongued — and, quite frankly, one hell of a bitch. "So she’s back. I see."

As the pieces fall into place, her demeanor over the past few weeks gains new, unmistakable clarity. How could he forget the tale of the infamous vampire hunters and the orphan child turned on a snowy night? If she truly has returned, chaos is inevitable — and it's coming sooner rather than later.

"It’s not pathetic. But if she’s back, as you say, then what’s your plan? Because getting distracted during a mission will get you killed, if not by her, then by a rogue vampire or a hunter." The book lies forgotten at his side as he brings the cold glass to his lips, the taste of warm blood drawing a pleased hum from the sommelier. "Even I’m not strong enough to kill her on my own. You stand no chance without a proper plan. That’s just a fact."

He turns to her fully now, gaze unwavering.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤbyun baekhyun. sommalier & street racer pureblood vampire.

                                        —  i.    ii.   iii. — ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤest 2013.

"No, you fucking didn't."

Warm, fresh blood seeps through Baekhyun’s fingers in separate strands, painting the moonlit floor with dark mahogany drops as a human heart still faintly beats in his grasp. The corner of his lips and chin are drenched in the same viscous liquid, quickly wiped away with the sleeve of his jacket as his head snaps toward her, crimson irises glimmering under the moonlight.

"These," his words are harsh — venomous, vexed — as he hurls the heart across the warehouse, "were no ordinary hunters, Karina. They were ready to fucking kill you." One of many brutally slaughtered bodies now litters the building — careless kills, some might say, but he had no time. Booby traps around every corner, and the pressing urgency of dragging her out alive, had Baekhyun seeing red. "This is a rogue organization. You should know that by now. They don't give a damn about your family title or your status. Their weapons are laced with all sorts of anti-vampire poison."

It’s a rare occurrence for him to raise his voice — especially with her — but there’s no helping it when adrenaline scorches his veins like an all-consuming wildfire. She knows. He’s sure of it. So why?

"Are you trying to get yourself killed again? Prove something? Is that fucking it?!"

He reaches for her arm — his bloodied grip firm but not enough to bruise her pale skin — gaze dropping to the open wound along her forearm. The scent of venom is strong. Nauseating even. "Take your damn antidote before it spreads." The shove that follows isn’t cruel, but it’s far from gentle.

He takes a breath. Maybe two. Composes himself. Inhale. Exhale.

Sharp eyes assess the scene around them as he steadies himself. Messy. He hates that. But the thought that follows — he probably hates that more. A frown creeps onto his face. He speaks again, voice softer now, but still dry.

"You know, one day I’m gonna get a call… and it’ll be your body on the floor." He pauses, glancing over his shoulder at her, jaw tight, fingers curling into a fist.

Her fingers tighten around the towel he’d tossed her way, more out of instinct than gratitude. The fabric is heavy and irritating against her cold skin, but she clutches it anyways like it might keep her together. she doesn’t look at him, she couldn’t. “…I’m sorry,” she says quietly, her voice barley audible over the storm still cracking outside. “I didn’t know where else to go.” Contrary to her usual apathetic demeanor, there was no venom, no sarcasm — none of the familiar steel Baekhyun’s grown used to bracing himself for. Just those few words, fragile and stripped bear. She stands there dripping in silence for a moment longer before slowly turning away, her steps sluggish as she heads down the hallway to the guest room. As she reaches the doorway, she pauses, her hand bracing the frame. “…You can lock it after,” she murmurs, not looking back. “If you want. I’ll be out of your hair by morning.” Then she disappears inside, shutting the door behind her with a soft click, leaving nothing behind but a trail of water and the faintest scent of blood barely lingering beneath the rain.

I'm sorry. Sorry for what? An apology is not what he needs — or wants. Tell me why you're here, tell me what happened. Why it keeps happening. But he can’t voice it — not before, and not now — because that would mean being vulnerable. And he's certain neither of them is willing to stoop that low. Trying to navigate the intricate corners of her mind would be a fool’s witch hunt, so he doesn’t pursue it.

The storm rages on as he slouches over the kitchen’s marble counter, elbows pressed to the cold surface, head in hands as he massages the tension from his temples. "Of course you can stay, kid," is barely a defeated mutter, drowned out by the downpour and an incessant symphony of thunder. She probably doesn’t catch it. Or maybe she does. He can’t bring himself to care.

Baekhyun waits, now perched on the couch, legs crossed in a lady-like fashion, fingers leafing through an old book of dark fables about the thirsty dead, taking a sip of his drink every now and then. His voice echoes — loud and unyielding, though not quite a shout — when he hears the doorknob twitch. "Stop hiding like a scared cat and come sit with me."

His gaze finally settles on her figure when she emerges from the shadows of the hallway, now dressed in his dry clothes. Baggy, tomboyish — sure — but he’s used to the sight by now. It’s only the second time tonight that he has looked at her — really looked, rather than glancing with disdain. Pale. Skinnier than he remembers.

"You look pitiful."

The words roll flat off Baekhyun's tongue as lightning streaks flash behind him through the glass windows, the sound of a raging storm almost drowning out his voice. His gaze scans her with quiet attention — her once voluminous hair now lies flat against her delicate features, her clothes hanging heavily around her shoulders, as if they’re pulling the weight of the world down on her — though he isn’t sure she can take much more before drowning.

The door is now wide open as he paces back into the apartment, fingers combing through dark locks out of habit — or maybe it's just a well-known sign of frustration. "I didn’t take you for a charity case, Rina." His monotone doesn’t waver, but perhaps the way he pulls a towel from the cabinet and throws it her way makes his discontent clearer than water. It’s not that he doesn’t welcome her into his home, but the track record of her sudden appearances at his door at 2 a.m. has never been exactly great. Jarring, really, that there isn’t a trace of blood in sight.

The silence is almost too heavy, frigid to the bone, but he doesn’t dare break it until she moves. When she closes the front door, his hand rises to motion toward one of the rooms down the hallway — a guest room she should be all too familiar with by now. This isn’t the first time, after all.

“Go take a shower and stop getting rainwater all over my floors. I expect a full explanation after.”

God knows he wants to maintain the bitter bark in his inflection, but she looks more like a dejected puppy washed up in the rain than the usual ice princess he’s grown far too accustomed to. Just like… Mi Young. And maybe that’s why his voice softens — not completely, but just enough. “You know where my clothes are. Get yourself a change.”

He doesn’t glance at her again as he returns to his previous task at the kitchen island, where a myriad of wine glasses stand lined up like soldiers in formation. Yes, he doesn’t look — but the air shifts when she starts walking, and his ears pick up the soft thud of a closing door, followed by the familiar rush of hot water from the showerhead.

A sigh — probably of relief — slips past now-stained lips after a sip of red wine spiked with fresh human blood.