they approached taylan slowly , hesitantly after the memorial . tapping him lightly on the shoulder , they said , " look , you might not remember me , but i'm sorry . " yasmine took a deep breath , exhaling through their mouth , trying to dispose of their guilt . " sorry because i hit you with my cart in the grocery store . it was on purpose . i was taking my anger out on you for something that wasn't your fault , and i apologize . " perhaps , they should be thanking him for handing them the blade to surgically remove azi from their life and to keep him safe from yasmine's curse .

his  ex-girlfriend's  name  shouldn’t  be  carved  in  stone,  neither should the names of those alive,  but  red  creek  is  a  graveyard  that  never  waits  for  the  grave. the  cigarette  burns  low  between  his  fingers, embers flaring like a pulse. his teeth chatter despite himself as the  cold  seeps  into  him,  like  it’s  got  a  personal  vendetta — finds the cracks in his skin, sinks deeper with each breath. taylan  spent  years  braving  harsh winters  in  canada,  but  this feels personal,  harsher.  like  it  knows  exactly  where  to  sink  its teeth. and then he sees them. his father stands by demetrius kelly's side, all straight-backed and obedient, like a good officer reporting in. but all taylan sees is a hound at its master's feet. trained, waiting, leashed. a pathetic display. their eyes find him even from a distance, the weight in the stares pin him in place, heavy as lead. and suddenly, he's fourteen again. blood in his mouth, knuckles split from another fight. bracing for the next scolding, the next lesson he never asked to learn, about not embarrassing the family. red creek has a way of dragging the past forward, of reminding you what you are. no matter how far you run. he was  supposed  to  be  far  away  from  this  town.    a tap on his shoulder, pulls his attention away . his head turns, recognition doesn't take long in a town this small ; a new face sticks out. “ i   remember. ” for a moment it seems like thats all he'll give them, his gaze drifting back to his father. but taylan doesn't have it in him to hold onto the frustration he first felt toward yasmine. “ i play hockey, ” a drag from his cigarette, smoke curls from his lips a thin ribbon lost to the wind. “ get hits harder than that. its fine. ”

he  expected  to  see  dasom’s  name  .  he  braced  for  it  —  the  quiet  collapse  beneath  his  ribs  ,  the  certainty  of  something  he  already  knows  but  refuses  to  name  .  but  then  ,  it  wasn’t  dasom’s  name  .  it  was  his  .  his  own  name  ,  etched  alongside  the  dead  like  a  premonition  .  for  a  moment,  his  breath  is  caught  between  past  and  present  ,  tangled  in  the  years  he’s  spent  playing  by  the  rules  ,  staying  in  the  lines  .  he  barely  registers  the  voice  cutting  through  the  hush  until  it's  too  late  .  too  loud  .  too  knowing  .  taejin  would  fucking  choose  this  moment  for  a  family  reunion  .  something  cold  and  immovable  washes  over  jihoon  ,  but  his  expression  remains  unshaken  —  just  the  slow  inhale  of  breath  ,  the  practiced  stillness  of  a  man  who  had  mastered  the  art  of  swallowing  down  discomfort  until  it  curdled  into  nothing  .  he  glances  at  the  camera  aimed  at  him  ,  a  lens  trained  on  the  shape  of  his  silence  .  this  is  drawing  too  many  eyes  in  his  direction  ,  not  just  from  the  memorial  ,  but  his  own cousin  .  his  teeth  pressed  together  ,  his  steps  cut  clean  through  the  space  between  them  as  he  approaches  him  .  taejin  wants  attention  so  badly  ,  then  jihoon  will  give  it  to  him  .  he  reaches  out  ,  pressing  the  camera  down  with  deliberate  force  ,  forcing  taejin  to  look  at  him  instead  .  “  are  you  out  of  your  goddamn  mind  ?  ”  he  mutters  .  his  voice  is  too  even  ,  detached  ,  like  he’s  already  somewhere  else  .  like  he’s  already  leaving  .  he  steps  back  ,  the  movement  smooth  ,  controlled  .  purposeful  .  like  distance  is  the  only  thing  he  can  afford  to  give  .  but  the  closer  he  is  ,  the  deeper  tae's  eyes  resemble  his  sister's  .  and  the  bigger  tae's  pupils  looks  .  a  sardonic  laugh  escapes  him  ,  and  he  shakes  his  head  in  disbelief  .  “  oh  ,  of  course  .  respectfully  ,  get  the  fuck  out  of  my  face  .  i  have  pressing  and relevant matters  to  deal  with  .  ”

the camera shudders — sharp, like the snap of a too-tight string, a pulse of force threading through his grip. a heartbeat skipped in the space between. jihoon’s fingers press down on it, firmer than expected, attention given in a form thats unfamiliar. blown pupils snap up, forced to meet his cousin, forced to let go of the lens, forced to confront a weight heavier than the one he’s been hiding behind. family is a word that no longer fits his mouth. a ghost of what could have been. taejin isn’t wanted. not by his parents, and certainly not by his cousin who treats him like he’s already dead, buried in the past before he ever had the chance to be seen. cut from the frame before the picture is ever taken. jihoon arranges the scene ; flights, hotels, careful reunions of their parents' in seoul, each choice deliberate, each detail a quiet act of omission. making him feel  the  distance  in  the  sharp  precision of it all,  in  every  unspoken  exclusion, pressing  in  like  the  weight  of  a  shutter  closing  on  an  image  he  was  never  meant  to  be  in. the  breath  leaves  him  slow,  deliberate,  like  taejin  savoring the bitterness rather than swallowing it. tongue  pushes  the  half-melted  lollipop  to one side,   a  candy-coated  cut  fighting the acid in his throat. “ it's easier when i'm not in the way, isn't it ? ” almost conversational, but there's an edge to it. razor-thin. waiting to cut. a dark pit in the confines of his ribcage that's been festering for years. the temptation of doing another line is strong, but the urge towards cruelty is stronger. “ easier when i'm not standing in front of you reminding you of things you'd rather forget. i'm not dasom. you can't burry me like this town has buried them. ”

there’s nothing inherently evil  about  wanting  to  torment  an  ex, right ? a hobby  that  brushes against  the  unsettling,  the  strange  …  yet  feels  surprisingly  normal  when  a  certain  young  woman is  involved.  resentment, a  potent  poison,  dangerous  in  the  fearsome  grips  of  some,  and  a  wound  that  still  sits  heavy between  her  ribs and her heart,  ugly and pulsing,  turning  sleep  into  an  impossible  task.  if  she  remains  silent  enough  (  hard  thing  to  ask  of  her  ),  clementine  can  hear  the  echo of the words  taylan  spat during  their  last  fight  —  meant  to  cut,  to  hurt.  she  remembers  the  threats  she  fired  back  just  as  clearly,  drowning,  trying  to  take  him  down  with  her.  a  love  she  foolishly thought  would  last  forever  …  now rotten,  like  a  discarded  piece  of  fruit.  but  for  whatever  twisted  reason,  it’s  impossible  for  her  to  stay  away. stubborn.  she  wishes so badly  to  haunt  him  with  her  presence. just  like  he  once  haunted  her  with  his  cold,  ghostly  absence.   when  he  looks  up,  a  chill  runs  down  her  spine,  eyes  widening  a  smidge,  surprised  that  he  can  see  her  standing  there,  that  she’s  not  completely  transparent  to  him.  used to be that way. buried  part  of  her  soul  sings  at  his  acknowledgement  —  a  nagging  habit  she’ll  argue  with  herself  about  later.  “  maybe  you  haven’t  been  seein’  me,  but  i’ve  been  seein’  you  plenty.  ”  it’s  meant  to  be  playful,  a  toothy  smile  slapped  across  her  lips,  but  there’s  a  hidden  edge  underneath.  pointed.  she  hums  as  she  selects  a  carton  of  juice,  shaking  it  in  his  direction,  a  clear  message  :  see ?  this  is  what  i  came  here  for.  nothing  more,  nothing  less. a glaring lie.  then  she  steps  forward,  shamelessly reaching over to flick taylan's forehead, her grin growing. a tingle travels up her finger, the feel of familiar skin electrifying her. a fleeting jolt that makes her breath hitch for a split second. “  y’should  really  stay  alert,  man.  there’s  a  killer  roamin’  the  streets,  y’know  ?  ”

her  touch  is  a  snap against his skin. quick, biting, gone. but the feeling lingers, crawling under his ribs like something he should've laughed off. but clementine has always been good at getting under his defenses, making herself at home in places she was never supposed to be. she's a match hovering over gasoline. and taylan clicks his tongue, a sharp, hollow sound. his eyes stay locked on hers — dark, tired, shadowed by the weight of the dead and the ghosts of the living. his fingers curl tight around the crate, the wood grinding into his palm a tether against the irritation coiling in his chest. the scent of her perfume crawls up his throat, familiar and infuriating and he presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth, trying to swallow it down. trying to ignore the way it makes his pulse kick in his throat. pressing against the raw, open wound of the night. “ maybe instead of haunting me, ” his gaze flicks to the carton of juice in her hand, to the grin stretched over her lips “ you should be careful, ” he says, voice scrapping low, with more bite than he means. but beneath it, tangled in the grit of his tone, is something quieter, a warning dressed in something easier to say than the truth. a muscle ticks in his jaw, breath drags tight through his teeth. kirby's memorial casting a shadow over the booth. “ wouldn't want you gettin' caught up in the wrong place at the wrong time. ”

the athletic

his  fingers  trail  over  the  camera  once  more  ,  the  engraving  warm  under  his  touch  .  a   moment   gives   form  ,     proof   of   something   unspoken  .  these  are  taylan's  words  ,  meant  for  him  .  something  intimate  ,  something  truthful  ,  something  azizi  doesn’t  know  what  to  do  with  .  he  knows  grief  and  everything  unsaid  between  the  man  sitting  across  from  him  and  his  dead  ex  -  girlfriend  must  be  suffocating  .  for  now  ,  azi  just  wants  to  twist  taylan's  words  into  something  that  doesn’t  make  his  chest  feel  too  tight  .  when  he  smiles  again  ,  it's  lazy  and  sharp  at  the  edges .  “  drink  up  ,  ”  he  says  ,  his  eyes  steady  and  unflinching  .  “  and  take  a  picture  of  me  .  ”  a  pause  as  something  unspoken  settles  between  them  ,  heavy  like  the  whiskey  on  his  tongue  .  azizi  tilts  his  head  slightly  ,  watches  taylan  through  the  low  glow  of  the  bar  lights  .  “  you  want  to  forget  ?  fine  .  but  i  want  to  be  remembered  .  ”

there’s  something  about  the  way  azi  looks  at  him — like  he’s  already  halfway  inside  his  head,  waiting  for  him  to  catch  up.  it’s  not  intrusive,  not  demanding,  just  there.  like  he  knows  exactly  what  he’ll  find  when it finally spills over.  it  makes  taylan  feel  stretched  thin,  like  he  could  unravel  if  he  isn’t  careful. feels  like  a hook in his ribs  pulling  him  closer  even  when  he  should  lean  away. makes  him  want  to  disappear  into  the  shadows  of  the  bar,  makes  him  want  to  stay  exactly  where  he  is. he takes back his glass, whiskey spreading warmth in his chest, the sharp tang of it pulls his mind away from the memorial, from kirby, and the sight of zeynep's name etched where it shouldn't be. there's nothing left when the glass is back on the table. and taylan listens to the offered distraction, reaches for the camera and lets the viewfinder frame azi's face — eyes  catch  the  light,  sharp  and  unyielding.  there’s  something  there,  something  too  steady,  too  certain.  taylan  feels  it.  and  as  his  finger  rests  lightly  on  the  shutter,  something  sharp  clicks  inside  him,  like  a  door  slowly  creaking  open.  the  lens  feels  like  a  shield,  an  excuse,  a  way  to  look  without  truly  being  seen,  without  having  to  meet  the  weight  of  what’s  in  azi’s  eyes.  his  finger  hovers  over  the  shutter,  the  stillness  thick,  and the click of  the  camera  echoes  between  them. a  line  drawn,  yet  he  doesn’t  lower  the  camera.  not  yet.  he  keeps  it  raised,  letting  the  weight  of  the  space  between  them  stretch  out,  the  air  thick  with  what’s  unsaid.  finally,  he  lowers  the  camera,  turning  the  screen  so  azi  can  see.  the  moment  drags  out,  the  image  flickering  on  the  display — features  captured  in  the  quiet  light  of  the  bar, frozen in time.  taylan  swallows  hard,  his  jaw  tight,  his  voice  coming  out  rough.  “ there.  you’re  remembered. ”  but  the  weight  that  settles  in  his  chest,  heavy and undeniable  tells  him  that  this  moment,  this feeling will  be  one he’ll  carry  long  after  the  picture  fades. his  hand  moves  without  thinking  reaches  for  his  stash  in  his  pocket,  his  fingers  closing  around  the  small,  white  pill.   the  thing  that’s  kept  him  numb. his  whole  body  is  wired  tight,  the  kind  of  tension  that’s  been  building  up  for  weeks,  months since  the  accident,  since  the  suspension,   since  his  return  to  red  creek where  the  past  is  too  close,  too  suffocating, and nobody knows it.  his  voice  comes  out  rough,  a  rasp  that  feels  like  it’s  been  building  for  too  long,  “ you  think  anyone’s  gonna  remember  me  for  anything  other  than  my  accident ? ” 

Marlon James, Black Leopard, Red Wolf // Mitski, “Goodbye, My Danish Sweetheart” // Audre Lorde, Sister Love: The Letters of Audre Lorde & Pat Parker // a text message i sent to my best friend

the  blade  carves  the  pill  to  dust,  white powder explodes like a violent bloom across his phone screen, and taylan  drags  the  edge  through  it slicing clean lines,   each cut scoring faint scratches into the glass beneath, ghosts of old cuts stacked on new. a promise to smother the ache buried in his bones, old ones from hockey, still gnawing. bill  to  nostril,  a  sharp  inhale and the  burn  is  electric,  slicing  through sinus and skull,  lighting  up  the  dark  like  a  struck  match. when he comes up the mirror barely holds a reflection, swallowed by tags and knife-scored confessions. still, he searches, amber hues flickering through the gaps in grime. a smudge of white clings beneath his nostril and taylan swipes at it with a drag of a thumb, erasing the evidence. the restroom door slams shut behind him, the bass swallows the echo whole. his pulse thrums, the burn still raw, bodies shifting like static. he moves through it, past the pool table, past the low murmur of bets and clinking glass and drops himself onto the nearest barstool, the room tilts like a slow-spin roulette wheel, the chip locking into it place — attention caught by joey's offer. “ wouldn't dream of it. make it a double. ”

      𝙲𝙾𝙾𝙿𝙴𝚁'𝚂   𝙹𝙰𝚆   𝙵𝙻𝙴𝚇𝙴𝙳   𝙰𝚂   𝙷𝙴   𝚁𝚄𝙱𝙱𝙴𝙳   the   back   of   his   neck,   frustration   bleeding   into   something   softer.   “   look   ,   i   get   it.   you’re   hurtin’.   but   this   …   this   ain’t   it,   mate.   you   think   this   is   gonna   make   things   better   ?   you   think   it’s   what   she’d   want   ?   ”   his   words   hung   in   the   air   for   a   beat   too   long   before   he   sighed,   the   weight   of   them   settling   between   them.   “   come   on   ,   ”   he   said   finally   ,   jerking   his   head   toward   the   door.   “   let’s   get   you   outta   here   before   you   make   a   bigger   mess   of   things   .”

a fist is a firework — explosive on impact, bone-white knuckles splitting like struck matches. crunch of cartilage giving away, the shock of bone against bone. the punch lands clean, whiplash-quick the  kind  that  makes  crowds  surge  to  their  feet  in  packed  stadiums, and the man's head snaps, mouth spilling red like an overripe fruit. his body follows, crashing into a barstool. his drink goes with him, glass spinning out of his hand, whiskey spilling dark across the floor. taylan's breath drags rough through his teeth. his hand aches, split skin blooming raw, but it doesn't matter. nothing matters except this — the static in his skull burning off in the violence, the clean hum of instinct, the way the world narrows down to fist, impact, recoil. it's muscle memory, instinct carved deep, stitched into him from years on the ice. hockey brawls were never about finesse. they were about raw power. about getting in, landing clean, surviving another round. that's what this feels like now, a fight with no time limit, no whistle to stop it. until cooper's voice cuts through the chaos like a skate blade slicing clean through ice. taylan's spine locks up before he can stop it, tension pulling taut like a wire. his eyes stay locked on his target, fists still clenched around the lingering hurt to hit. it's not authority itself that makes him freeze. it's the echo of it — the phantom of his father's voice, sharp-edged and absolute. the kind of command that left no room for defiance. the kind that always made him feel trapped in a fight he never wanted to lose. but cooper doesn't wait for an answer. he's already there, stepping between them, presence solid. a force pressing into the storm, anchoring taylan in the middle of it. he's spent a lifetime resisting pressure like this, but right now, it grounds him - pulls him back before he can go too far. eyes dark, restless, gnawing at the edges of restraint, don't meet cooper's gaze — but he listens. grief trapped behind eyelashes, nails bitting deep into his palms. his breathing goes shallow, his teeth grind. that ugly thing in his gut twists, a knot that won't untangle and taylan lifts his hand, shaking, bloodied, and drags it across his face, smearing red across his cheekbone. blood, a grim reminder of the chaos he's woven himself into. the mess of broken glass, spilled liquor — a wreckage of something he can't put back together. like grief, thick and sour in the back of his throat. “ you don't get it. ” not anger not quite, but regret. it weighs on him. it pulls at his seams. for a moment, his eyes soften as they meet cooper's — and in that fleeting instant, he can't deny that cooper's authority holds a mirror to his own shattered resolve. his knuckles sting, blood drying thin, but it's not the pain that keeps his hands clenched. it's the knowing. the fact that no matter how many bones he breaks, how many fist he throws, none of it will rewrite what he did. how he made her feel. “ you gonna play babysitter now ? ” he scoffs, his voice rising with bitterness. “ pick me up tomorrow when sheriff kelly no doubt questions me for her murder, huh ? ”

the news breaks, as does half of red creek alongside it. there's an unfair lump lodged in santiago's throat. he wasn't close to kirby ; her death was not his to mourn, and yet ... he sits in the back pew of redemption chapel, hands wound in his hair. it was between here & the cemetery— the weather chose for him. he breathes in, has a hard time breathing out. halloween night plays through his mind. ❝ i asked about her name. ❞ he wants to laugh at the memory, but doesn't have the heart. a puff of frustration leaves him instead, ❝ grow up in a box like red creek & i still had to ask for her name. jesus– ❞

gum pops like a pistol shot the  red  acid  of  cherry  sinking  his  teeth.  redemption  chapel,  with  its  flickering  candles  and  hollow  hymns,  feels  less  like  a  sacred  space  and  more  like  a theater where  michael  takes  center  stage.  tae  has  no  reverence  for  the  divine ;  but that doesn't stop him from being here, watching how this performance unfolds. lounging in  a  pew  a  row  behind  santi,  the  faint  creak  of  the  wood  beneath  him  — a  quiet  rebellion  against  the  hush  of  the  room.  santi's words  aren’t  meant  for  him ;  they’re  directed  at  the  person  beside  him.  but  that  doesn’t  stop  taejin  from  leaning  in,  crossing  an  invisible  line  with  warm  breath  grazing  the  nape  of  santi’s  neck.  not  close  enough  to  touch,  but  close  enough  to  disrupt. another  pop  of  gum,  deliberate  this  time,  loud  enough  to  pull  attention  to  him. “ she's gonna haunt you forever now, you know that right ? ”

eyes  flicking  to  taylan’s  face  ,  he  searches  for  something  beneath  the  surface  .  he  doesn’t  say  kirby’s  name  ,  doesn’t  need  to  .  the  weight  of  it  sits  between  them  anyway  .  instead  ,  azi  leans  forward  ,  placing  the  camera  in  between  them  on  the  table  .  “  do  you  want  a  distraction  ?  ”  he  asks  as  he  taps  his  fingers  against  the  camera  lightly  .  “  we  can  test  it  out  .  find  something  worth  remembering  . ”  he  moves  to  pick  up  taylan's  half  -  empty  glass  ,  and  brings  it  to  his  lips  to  finish  what's  left  .  “  or  something  worth  forgetting  .  ”

insomnia-stained eyes drag over the table's surface — grooves carved deep, a history crawling in scars. the wood, tired and splintering, bears the memory of desperate hands, of someone who tried to carve their way out of red creek and failed. an itch coils itself into the scar at his throat, phantom fingers press unwanted. a reminder that he tore himself free from dead creek's grip, only to end up back to the place he swore he'd never return to. dragged back, ankle-deep in the rusted bones of his past. red creek never lets go. it lingers sours the air, settles thick in the mouths of those eager to blame. and taylan knows, it'll be his name on demetrius' lips. a shadow stretches, spreads across the booth, rending his space in two. a disruption. again. his fingers coil tight around his glass. he's been like this all day, meeting everyone with a clenched fist, a snarl coiled beneath his tongue, waiting for something — someone, to push too hard. scarred knuckles, rough palms, veins that twist beneath his skin like rivers running dry. hands that know violence, but they only twitch at the sight of azi, a reflex not meant for him. he doesn't want him to see it. the way grief lingers, how it lives in the way he breathes, his throat moves around a swallow, but the weight stays wedged tight behind ribs, impossible to dislodge. his gaze land to the camera, his gift, now rests between them. the intimacy of the engraving. a moment gives form, proof of something unspoken. something he didn't let himself think too hard about when he bought it. but that's not what lingers beneath his ribs, not what curdles in his throat. its the weight of everything else, the past dragging his teeth against his skin. “ don't  feel  like  remembering  things  now. ” words scrapes out rough, caught on the edge of his teeth, meant to be swallowed instead of spoken, because when he remembers, he remembers her. kirby's anger simmers beneath his skin, a thing from high school that has never settled. a reminder of all things he never said, never fixed. there's no space for his anger — not when hers lingers. azi takes his drink, pulls his gaze along with it.  there’s  a  shift, a hesitation, a  flicker  of  something  softer  that  has  never  lived  in  the  space  between  them.  “ forgetting sounds good. ”

what  brought  him  to  the  doorway  of  his  friends  childhood  home  was  unknown  ,  the  uncompromising  nature  of  their  relationship  a  game  as  much  as  it  was  fastened  out  of  true  love  and  affection  .  in  a  multitude  of  universes  ,  it  seemed  odd  that  they  would  always  be  drawn  together  .  just  below  the  floorboards  of  michael's  aforementioned  basement  ,  that  ugly  portrait  called  out  ,  knowing  that  it  had  been  seen  by  the  other  .  that  he  would  always  know  michael  in  a  way  that  nobody  else  ever  had  .  those  honey  dew  eyes  as  he  looks  at  him  ,  the  fade  of  blonde  hair  in  those  wintering  months  ,  all  of  it  the  act  that  was  so  interlinked  with  the  truth  of  his  persona  on  some  occasions  .  he  is  looking  at  tae  the  way  that  he  looks  at  a  full  congregation  ,  warm  and  endearing  ,  as  if  he  could  reach  right  out  and  envelop  him  but  no  such  touch  is  delivered  .  in  the  midst  of  tragedy  ,  michael  isn't  there  because  he  feels  downtrodden  ,  he's  here  because  he  can  be  ...  because  he  craves  that  unadulterated  back  and  forth  they  have  always  had  .  his  holiness  ,  a  tilted  halo  when  it  came  to  the  way  that  the  his  soft  smile  almost  slips  into  desire  when  he  says  ,  "  i  missed  you  ...  are  you  going  to  invite  me  in  ?  "  like  a  vampire  ,  he  can't  cross  the  threshold  without  invitation  ...  without  being  wanted  .  he  needed  to  know  that  he  was  still  important  .

red  creek  has  never  truly  been  home  to  taejin;  it’s  a  fading  afterthought,  a  place  pieced  together  with  the  remnants  of  youth.   his  childhood  home  still stands,  untouched  by  the  years,  yet  hollow  in  a  way  that  nothing  ever  fills.  the  walls  hum  with  a  silence  that  stretches  long  and  endless,   a  silence  he  remembers  from  when  he  was  fourteen —   alone  in  a  house  full  of  absence.  even  with  a  cousin  living  nearby,  the  jagged  █████  of  his ███████  from  █████  cuts  deeper  here. it's a miracle he's managed to stay in town for five months, but there are some people, that make up for it. “ a  priest  on  my  doorstep.  in  times  like  these. ”   words  roll  off  his  tongue,   drip with  amusement,  as  he  leans against  the  doorframe  indulging  in  the  attention  with  a  feline languor,   an  obstruction  and  an  invitation  all  at  once.  the  amber  light  of  dusk  clings  to  him, gliding the  grin that tugs at his lips and the  knowing  curve  of  his  mouth, daring michael to break character.  this  version  of  michael  standing  immaculate  in  the  golden  spill  of  dusk  makes  taejin  want  to  laugh. a  saint  carved  from  something  too  pristine,  too  deliberate.  polished  to  a  gleam  that  doesn’t  invite  admiration  so  much  as  it  dares  someone  to  ruin  it. taejin  already  knows  what’s  beneath  the  shine — knows  it  the  way  an  artist  knows  the  flaws  in  their  masterpiece,  the  way  a  sinner  knows  the  weight  of  confession.  but  still, there's something about this game, about michael always coming back to him, that makes his pulse hum. this is the kind of attention he craves, it  stirs  the  embers  of  something  wilder,  darker.  he savors it, devours it. “  what  an  honor, ” taejin  drawls, his grin  balancing  on the  edge  of  charm  and  provocation. tone  slipping  between  mock  reverence  and  longing  intertwined, “ but  you’ll  have  to  forgive  me,  father.  i’m  not  sure  i’m  ready  for  your  blessings  just  yet. ”

Fallen Angels (1995) // dir. Wong Kar-wai