faya 🩵

yejun

he senses the energy shift before the opening credits even roll.

light flickers once? he’s grabbing his bag.

mirror looks off?? he’s already halfway down the driveway.

“i just think… we don’t need to be here.”

“yejun we just arrived—”

“and we can just leave.”

survives the opening scene effortlessly. not because he’s built different—because he refuses to engage.

mysterious call with no id? he doesn’t pick up. the group says “let’s split up”? he says “let’s not.”

driveway splits into “safe-looking road” and “dark, gravelly death trail”? he’s turning the car back around.

has the strongest horror movie instincts.

but let’s say—tragically—he stays.

human killer? he’s got a shot. clever. observant. paranoid in all the right ways.

could fake his death just to buy time. might even outsmart the villain.

supernatural threat? absolutely not. panics. stumbles into the cursed attic. gone in under five minutes. emotional last words.

if confronted by a ghost, he will throw someone—probably bamby—under the bus

not to be cruel. just to buy 0.8 seconds of survival. “sorry. i panicked. i’ll grieve you later.” calls it tactical emotional prioritizing.

immediately apologizes after.

survival rates? decent but don’t count on it. he’s got heart—but not enough ghost immunity.

noah

phone’s on do not disturb.

misses every warning call.

killer tries to contact him? straight to voicemail. every. time.

the killer absolutely hates his guts. because somehow, noah keeps ruining their plans.

is noah aware? absolutely not.

will he claim credit? oh absolutely.

hears a weird noise in the woods? immediately turns to hamin. “you should check that out. you’ve got the flashlight.”

“i don’t have one.”

“well. you’ve got… courage. go.”

the literal killer standing in front of him? “...so hamin, right?”

betrays the group within 15 minutes.

throws people under the bus like it’s a relay race. offers a fake plan. leads everyone into a trap. “wait, y’all actually followed me??why?”

lowkey suspiciously disappears half the time. somehow ends up covered in blood—not his—and insists he’s innocent. nobody believes him.

so what does he do? leans into the suspicion for fun.

“am i the killer? idk. am i hot? yeah.”

might survive by gaslighting the killer into giving up.

might survive by accidentally impaling them with a coat rack.

might die because someone he betrayed gets revenge first.

probably deserves it.

probably still iconic.

but one thing’s clear:

he will be entertaining until the end.

iconic. dramatic. deeply unserious.

final verdict: probably dead, possibly the killer, always the main character. but most importantly, definitely the problem.

bamby

this was supposed to be a wholesome trip. he packed snacks. socks. bug spray.

now he’s hiding behind a tree clutching a broken flashlight. he trips over nothing—constantly.

gets jump-scared by shadows. screams when the power goes out even if it’s daytime.

he’s scared. he’s spiraling.

but he’s not crying—he’s angrily terrified. the “what was that?? show yourself then!” kind of scared.

ready to swing. at anything.

he has no idea what’s going on. but by act two? he’s in a tank top.

by act three? shirtless. no one knows how or why

blood on his collarbone. hair messed up. audibly whimpering. and the audience?? eating it up!!!

he survives on pure final girl™ energy. everything around him is cursed, and somehow he’s still crawling through it.

a trap breaks after he walks through it.

fear makes him faster. louder. unhinged.

rips a curtain rod off the wall and uses it as a weapon. dropkicks a locked door.

he's cussing up a storm. BAD PEACH!!!

screams “i’m not going out like this” before smashing a window and diving through it.

10/10 cinematics.

by the end, he’s covered in scratches. shirt long gone. (FREE THE PECS) adrenaline peaking. camera pans out as he stands on the lawn, shaking, fists clenched, chest heaving.

survives not because he’s smart. not because he’s fast.

because he’s too chaotic to kill.

the killer chases him and slips on the same floor bamby tripped on. a knife gets stuck in the fridge. he screams so loud it scares the ghost.

every death around him is an accident he barely avoids.

might slap a demon if cornered.

unlucky, but unstoppable.

tldr: surprise final girl with pecs. shirtless. traumatized. alive. icon.

eunho

he’s joking around. doing fake ghost voices. opening closets dramatically.

thinks it’s all a bit.

his phone is at 6%, has been for hours. never charges it.

flashlight’s dead.

power bank? didn’t pack one. batteries? “i thought you had them.”

goes off to pee alone and never comes back. or he comes back but… not as himself.

last heard saying: “guys imagine if someone just—ahhhhh”

vanished mid-bit.

when things go south, he’s yelling “guys???” into a dead flashlight.

100% the one who gets possessed by accident.

was trying to entertain the group with a fake exorcism. ends up speaking latin. eyes go black mid-joke.

“eunho??”

him: floating “haha wait no fr guys help—”

if he dies: he dies mid-bit. iconic exit.

if he lives: it’s because the ghost got tired of his commentary and left.

final verdict: absolutely not surviving on purpose. entertaining until the bitter end. if you see him levitating, just know: he died how he lived—confused.

hamin

clocked the bad energy the second the airbnb said “no reviews.”

tried to cancel the trip. no one listened.

he’s the only one with a working flashlight. and a backup flashlight. and snacks. and bandaids. and a color-coded escape route spreadsheet. he's PREPARED!!!

wakes up before the killer. boards the windows while everyone else is arguing.

gets so annoyed mid-haunting he stares the demon down. “you want me? come get me. i dare you.”

demon retreats.

he’s packed. prepared. planned. but also pissed. this wasn’t on the schedule

goes full survival mode.

assigns roles. gives orders. lowkey judging everyone.

he survives the longest, no question. might even save a few people along the way.

he does not stick around for emotional speeches. “you got five minutes. after that, i’m leaving with or without you"

if he dies, it’s because he tried to fix the group’s bad decisions for too long.

if he lives, it’s because he abandoned them mid-argument and walked out the front door.

final verdict: either dies because he refused to run, or survives and carries the whole gang on his back.

both are equally likely. if he survives: moves to another country. considers writing a book called “how not to die with idiots.”

caligo/terry

the killer.

why? because he wasn’t invited.

The snow muffles the world so everything feels a little slower, a little more tender. You’re out with yejun on one of your nightly walks. You’re both bundled up: scarves wrapped tight, thick coats shielding against the chill, cheeks and noses flushed pink from the cold.

Your cheeks hurt from laughing because he just tried to drift on the icy sidewalk and almost ate it spectacularly, then played it off like he meant to.

“You’re dumb,” you say through your scarf, trying not to laugh again.

“You’re rude,” he shoots back, grinning as he bumps into your shoulder on purpose.

You’re both grinning like idiots, walking side by side, bundled up like two overstuffed marshmallows. His scarf is looped too many times around his neck, and he keeps bumping into you—like gravity doesn’t work properly unless he’s near you.

The streets aren’t empty—cars roll past occasionally, headlights glowing like fireflies through the falling snow but it still feels like the world is holding its breath just for you two.

He tells another dumb joke. Something corny and terrible on purpose, like he wants to hear you groan.

And you do. “God, why are you like this?”

But you’re smiling anyway—stupid and soft, completely gone for him.

Then—that pause.

The laughter fades, but the warmth stays.

It lingers in the space between you like your breath in the cold air, curling and twining before it disappears.

You stop walking without meaning to. You’re standing under a streetlamp that buzzes faintly above, its golden light spilling onto the snow like honey.

You look at him.

He’s already looking at you.

Breath fogging in the space between you. His cheeks are pink, eyes bright, but his grin has softened. Smaller. Quieter. The kind of smile he only wears when he forgets to be silly.

He’s looking at you with that look.

You know the one.

The “I can’t believe you’re real” look.

“You’re staring,” you say, teasing, a little breathless.

“Can you blame me?” He says, voice soft and steady.

You roll your eyes, but your smile is impossible to hide. Your cheeks are already rosy from the cold, but now they’re warm for a different reason.

He takes a small step closer. The snow crunches beneath his boots. And then he lifts a hand—gloved, careful—and cups your cheek. His touch is so gentle it nearly undoes you. Like he doesn’t want to rush even a second of it

And your heart's doing the stupid cartoon thump-thump thing.

You take a slow step closer. Close enough to feel the heat of him even through all those layers. Like your body knows exactly where it wants to be.

You rise onto your tiptoes, just a bit, chin tilting up. Your boots crunch softly against the snow and your scarf shifts slightly, the cold brushing your jaw, but you don’t care. You’re too focused on the way his eyes soften as they meet yours. On the way his lips part, just barely, like he's about to say something—but doesn't.

And then, without a word, he leans in slowly.

He bends down a little—just to meet you where you are, to bridge that little space between your tiptoes and his grounded frame. His other hand comes up, cups the other side of your face now, cradling you gently between both palms. His thumbs brush your cheeks, and the leather of his gloves is cold, but the way he’s looking at you is nothing but warm.

Your breath catches. You let it.

And just before your lips meet his, your hands lift—quiet, instinctive—and catch onto the front of his coat. Fingers curling into the fabric like it’s the only thing keeping you steady.

Your eyes flutter shut right as his lips meet yours.

And then you kiss.

You lean into him. You don’t even think about it—you just do. Like gravity’s pulling you toward him. And he stays right there. Holding you.

It’s not perfect. The cold nips at your cheeks, your lips, anywhere his warmth doesn’t reach. Your noses bump slightly, and your boots wobble on the uneven snow. His lips are cold but none of that matters. Not when you’re holding onto him like that. Not when he’s leaning into you like this.

The kiss is slow. Careful. Careful. It doesn’t try to be anything—it just is. Like a hello. Like a promise. Like “I love you”, without saying the words out loud.

You melt into him. Melt with him. The rest of the world fades under the hush of falling snow.

His thumbs brush over your cheeks once, gently, before you both finally—reluctantly—pull apart.

Your foreheads rest against each other. Your hands are still fisted in his coat. Your breaths mingle in the space between you, visible and warm. Snowflakes catching in his lashes now. You open your eyes and he’s already smiling again—soft and dorky and so very him.

“Loser,” you whisper.

He grins.

“Your loser,” he corrects.

You let out a soft laugh and nudge his shoulder, but your hands find each other like they always do—fingers laced, gloved warmth pressed together.

And as you start walking again, still glowing from the kiss, he says, “I was gonna say something romantic before i kissed you, by the way.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Something about how you look like someone i could fall in love with.”

You snort. “Could?”

“Okay, okay. Did. Obviously. Ages ago.”

You roll your eyes again, but god—your chest is full to bursting.

Because yeah. He’s a loser.

But he’s your loser.

Pages of Desire

Summary: You were just trying to survive the late shift—not print your smut... starring your manager. To his office printer.

Word Count: 10k

Rating: Explicit

yejun

absolutely covers for you. zero hesitation.

“sorry, that was me... my stomach’s been weird today.” he even puts a hand on his stomach to really sell the act.

meanwhile, you’re standing there like a statue. eyes forward, face bright red. trying (not) to disintegrate.

and this man??

just casually wraps an arm around your waist, pulls you closer, and gives your shoulder a little squeeze like: “I got you.”

later, once you’ve survived the ride and stumbled into the hallway, he looks at you— dead serious:

“you owe me, babe.” “for what?”

“for taking the fall for a category five bio-weapon. that thing had layers.”

because if you think he wouldn’t tease you later, you’re strongly mistaken. BUT he’s gentle with it. He just really, really enjoys watching you squirm!! MHM!!!!

noah

if you think this man will cover for you right off the bat, think AGAIN!

he smells it. blinks. looks around. then his eyes land on you—standing stiff, lips pressed tight, visibly fighting for your life.

immediately starts laughing. loud.

you shoot him a glare, full death mode.

he only laughs harder. like gasping-for-air, bent-over laughing.

eventually—eventually—he kind of gets it together. clears his throat. still grinning. then, to the rest of the elevator, totally deadpan: “ah sorry, that was me.”

no one buys him. not one person.

but at least he tried.

later, he wraps his arm around your shoulders like nothing happened and goes, “that thing had force, babe. you trying to kill me?”

bamby

first reaction: GASP + full body flinch. covers his nose.

“W-WHO—??? WHAT??”

he whips his head around in horror… then his eyes land on you. frozen. soulless. already halfway to the afterlife.

realization hits him like a freight train.

he panics.

“OH. uh. that was me. yeah. i had… tofu??”

no one believes him. not even close. it's painfully obvious he's covering HAHAH

he starts fake coughing to add realism. fans the air. looks like he’s gonna pass out from his own fake fart. meanwhile you're standing there MORTIFIED.

you both walk out of the elevator with him still trying to sell it and failing miserably.

he feels bad later on and brings you a scented candle as a peace offering. such a thoughtful little peach mhm.

eunho

100% takes the fall, just so he can protect your dignity

at first he looks around suspiciously at first… sniffs once…

his eyes lock on you. you're red and visibly glitching. he sees the shame in your soul.

he gasps a little—dramatic, hand-to-heart—and then quietly says to the elevator:

“ah… that was me. sorry everyone” nobody even questions him because he looks so sincere. he even bows a little. polite. serious.

you could fall to your knees from the emotional damage.

outside, he turns to you, grinning like he just saved a puppy from a burning building.

“you’re so cute when you're embarrassed.” “shut up.” “do it again. i wanna protect you some more.”

everything you do is cute to this man. 11/10, need this in my life </3

haming

i don't think i need to say this but he’d 100% cover for you. and he makes it look effortless.

the second the smell hits, the air shifts.

silence.

suspicion.

you freeze, staring straight ahead, praying to every higher power that no one notices.

but hamin turns his head just slightly. a tiny glance in your direction. enough to make your stomach drop.

then—he speaks.

“sorry. that was me.”

no panic. no extra explanation. just calm, even delivery—and somehow, everyone believes him.

he doesn’t look at you. doesn’t move. just stands there with his hands in his pockets like he didn’t just save your dignity from total destruction.

(though… his ears are a little pink.)

when the doors open, he waits for you to step out first. follows close behind. and once the doors slide shut behind you both, he leans in, voice low, smooth:

“that was bold of you.”

“shut up!!”

“what? it’s cute.”

and yeah—later that night, while you’re wrapped in his arms, half-asleep?

“should I start carrying air freshener for you?”

“hamin, I swear—”

him, smiling into your hair: “just in case.”

because he will tease you. but he does it like he’s in love with you. because he is. MHMM!!

EXTRA: Calligo

yejun

"do you think 100 average men could beat a gorilla?” he blinks at you. slow. composed. like he’s about to say something wise. instead, he flashes you a slow smile. “...i was hoping you’d ask.” because of course he’s heard of this debate.

he’s been in the trenches. deep in the reels. he’s seen every side, every angle, every theoretical breakdown. he straightens up like you just assigned him a thesis. “okay. first: no weapons, right? just average strength? gorilla is adult, male, fully grown?” you nod slowly.

he nods back, eyes already calculating. “they lose.” but he’s not done. he’s just getting started. “i actually made a note on this once. hold on—” he opens his notes app. scrolls past “grocery list” and “gift ideas for you” until he hits a bullet point doc titled:

“gorilla vs 100 men: probability scenarios" you’re staring at him. he doesn’t notice. he’s too focused. “it depends on spacing. if it’s open field, they’re done. gorilla charges, panic sets in. they scatter.” he's taking it very serious.

“but—if it’s tight quarters, and at least 20 of them can dogpile strategically…” he has plans. formations. morale tactics. “they need a leader. preferably someone calm under pressure. someone quick-thinking. someone—” he stops. looks at you. smiles. soft. self-satisfied.

“...someone like me.” you blink, “you wanna be one of the 100??” him: “i wouldn’t let them die clueless.” you are wheezing. “yejun. the gorilla would fold you like laundry.” he tilts his head, disappointed. “so you’d let me die?” “again—why are you in the lineup??” he shrugs

“i’d be the strategist. morale boost. maybe distract the gorilla with a soft tone. a little shoulder touch. maybe... a banana.” you can’t even argue—he sounds so calm. so stupidly confident. he leans in voice low, vaguely scandalized:

“but no, it’s fine. side with the gorilla. hope he writes you a thank-you note when i’m flattened into the dirt like a pancake.” leans back. crosses his arms. shakes his head, slow and theatrical. “i’ll just lie there. thinking about how you chose jungle loyalty over love.”

a pause. then, suddenly: “...actually? forget it. i’m joining team gorilla.” you snort. “and how do you plan to do that?” “i’d bribe him. bananas.” he says it like it’s obvious. “me and the gorilla? unstoppable. you? on the floor. confused. betrayed. banana-less.”

“don’t ask me for help when he’s charging. i’m in the background holding his fruit bowl.”

tldr: he will become the gorilla’s cheerleader (???)

noah

“100 men vs one gorilla?” he doesn’t even let you finish the sentence before going: “obviously the men win. next question.” says it like it’s common knowledge. like it’s embarrassing you even had to ask. you: “...you really think they could win?”

“100 guys? one monkey? that’s free real estate.” you: “gorilla. not monkey.” him: “semantics.” you: “have you seen a gorilla?” him: “yeah. and i’ve seen 100 idiots who’d try to fight one. strength in stupidity.” you: “…so you think they’d win?” he nods. “absolutely.”

and just like that, you’ve activated him. he sits up straighter. eyes lit. already talking with his hands. “okay listen. they circle it. someone distracts it. couple guys go for the legs. someone climbs on top. gorilla’s done.” you bring up the size. the bite force. stats.

he waves them off like they’re rumors. “stats mean nothing in a street fight.” he doesn’t care. “what if they brought ropes? big ropes. just tie it down. easy.” “or like—hit it with something. chairs. metal pipes. vending machine maybe.”

“...you can’t just spawn a vending machine.” he rolls his eyes, “you’re thinking too small. this is why you’re not in the strategy room.” at this point?? he’s on the floor sketching battle formations with crumbs. drafting roles. coaching a team that doesn’t exist.

“group a holds the line. group b attacks from behind. group c? emotional support. we need morale.” but then. you hit him with: “would you fight the gorilla?” he blinks. laughs. leans back like you just asked if he eats batteries. “me?? i’m not stupid.”

“i’m not in the field. i’m in the control room. directing. yelling. i’ll be there emotionally. that counts.” he’s already imagining it like a sporting event. live-streamed. sponsored. merch table. “...so who isgoing in?” “hamin.” no hesitation.

“he’s built for this and he’s basically a bear in a hoodie. honestly? gorilla might surrender early.” “so you’d sacrifice him?” “i’m not sacrificing. i’m delegating.” calls it strategic resource management. uses words like formation, damage output, and cooldown time.

“he’d bring backup meds, a spare plan, and three escape routes.” and then—he smirks. “besides, i’m way more useful yelling instructions from behind a reinforced glass wall.” says you’d be in the panic room with him. calls it a “romantic bonding experience.”

“trust me. i’ve thought this through.” and that’s the problem. he has. actually though? he’s 100% placing bets on who goes down first. talking trash from the sidelines. “look at them. no coordination. gorilla’s about to eat good.” “what?” “i could choreograph this better.”

and when you say, “you know the gorilla would win, right?” he gasps. clutches his chest. mock betrayal. “you’d side with the gorilla? over humanity? over me??” “...you’re not even in the fight.” “yeah. which is why i’m alive to judge everyone else.”

leans in real close, grin sharp and smug: “but if i was in the fight? you’d root for me, right?” “you just said you wouldn’t be.” “doesn’t matter. you’d root for me anyway. look at you.”

you just stare at this man. because what’s wrong with him. but also—because he’s annoyingly right. tldr: pray for hamin?

bamby

he blinks. hard. “wait—why are they fighting the gorilla?? what did he do??” completely ignores the actual question. his face twists in concern. genuine moral outrage loading. “he lives in the jungle. he minds his business. why are they going after him.”

you try to explain it's just a hypothetical. too late. he's already spiraling. ignored the whole premise and instead chooses violence on behalf of the gorilla. "they just showed? 100 of them? that's bullying. that's a mob. he didn't ask for this."

asks you to explain the gorilla's side of story like the true empath that he is. "it's not real." "and yet i feel bad anyway" is now defending the gorilla's honor like it's his cousin?? bamby please.

he starts asking the weirdest questions: "do they know each other? are they dudes friends? what's their group dynamic? how are their knees??" eventually, after too much pacing and one near-trip ober absolutely nothing: "they'd lose. for sure. like—badly." nods solemnly.

"unless the gorilla gets distracted. or... feels bad for them. but why would he. he's seen things." you: "...what things?" him: "...i dunno. jungle trauma?" and when you try to bring logic into it—"but 100 people is a lot"—he just nods.

"yeah. it is. but he's strong. i believe in him." he says it like a war general saluting a fallen hero. his loyalty? firmly planted. his allegiance? unwavering. team gorilla till death. ride or die. already planning to knit him a friendship bracelet.

you: “so you’re team gorilla?” him: “he didn’t even start it.” by the end of it, he’s emotionally attached to the gorilla. later, he texts you: “if i was the gorilla, would you defend me?” and then: “nvm. don’t answer. it’s too raw.”

eunho

“do you think 100 men could beat a gorilla?” he pauses mid-bite. tilts his head. “huh. why are they fighting?” not upset—just curious. like you asked him to solve a puzzle. he’s already thinking too hard. you try to explain it’s just a question. too late. he’s off.

“gorillas are actually really peaceful unless provoked.” “they eat plants. they’re family-oriented. they’re emotional. i watched a thing on it.” “their arms are like—six times stronger than humans. six.” he holds up six fingers. very serious.

he is now in full geography-channel mode. talking fast. pacing. flapping his arms like wings for some reason. “they can climb. they can break trees. they have dads.” “what does that have to do with anything—” “i don’t know but it feels important..” suddenly claps his hands.

“okay. 100 men. that’s a flash mob. if they rush in together, maybe they get him.” pauses. “…unless he starts swinging. then it’s over. they fold like paper.” he’s flipping sides every two seconds.

“i believe in the gorilla. no—wait. i believe in redemption. maybe the men can bond with him.” “maybe they bring him fruit. and a speaker. and they all dance.” “so... who wins?” “love.” he's serious btw. and when you ask: “so would you be one of the 100 men?” he snorts.

“me?? i’d be riding the gorilla.” you blink.“...what—” “as friends!! unless he lets me steer. then i’m in charge.” somewhere between roundhouse-kicking a pillow and quoting a documentary badly, he casually says:

“i’m sending hamin in first. he’s got this." he’s basically a gorilla but with snacks.” texts hamin: “if the day ever comes, i believe in you. ” it’s a noline thing. pray for hamin. and if you think this is the end if debate? you are so wrong.

five minutes later, he’s trying to climb on your back. “don’t fight it. this is for the bit.” you’re wheezing. he’s definitely bigger than you. you’re hunched over, wobbling, laughing— “eunho—get off—” “no. i’ve bonded. this is my home now.”

“shh. you’re sturdy. and so graceful. like a four-legged forest beast.” “i am not a gorilla—” he gasps. “why are you saying that like it’s a bad thing?? gorillas are cute! haven’t you seen donkey kong? he wears a tie.” “are you seriously comparing me to donkey kong?

he grins. “he’s powerful. misunderstood. excellent posture. honestly? i see it.” you collapse under him, sob-laughing. he’s grinning so hard he can barely breathe.

and later? he makes you watch a gorilla documentary with him. narrates the whole thing. badly. midway through: “okay but look at his eyes. that’s a soul. that’s a man with taxes.” whatever that means.

hamin

"can 100 average men beat a bloodlusted gorilla?" he pauses. glances at you. “how average?” “like… average height, weight, strength—just normal guys.” he nods. chews his protein bar. then says, completely straight-faced:

“they’re all going to die. that gorilla’s walking out of there with a new coat.” you: “what? why??” “it’s a wild animal. it’s not fighting with logic. it’s fighting to end the threat.” you blink. you try to play the devil's advocate, "not even with a strategy?"

he gives you the driest look imaginable. “especially not with strategy. because they won’t have one.” says it like he’s already seen the footage. like he’s the last survivor giving a post-battle interview. “what if—” “no.” immediate shutdown, he's set on his answer!

you bring up ropes. coordination. team morale. he just raises one eyebrow. “do you really think 100 men are going to cooperate under pressure?” you have no comeback. he’s right. but then—you mention noah and eunho said they’d send him in. he blinks. once. then again.

sets down his protein bar. “...i’m sorry. they’re volunteering me to fight a gorilla?” “…yes.” “…of course they did.” sighs. pulls out his phone and sends a text: ‘i am not your gorilla proxy.’ “do they want me to win, or stall it while they escape?” “unclear.” “figures.”

“so you wouldn’t do it?” he glances at you. calmly. “…i’m not stupid, i value my life.” a pause. then—quietly, “but if i had to...” and that’s when you see it, that spark of competition. the subtle shift of idiocy.

“wait. hold on. are you saying you could actually beat a gorilla?” he pauses. like he’s deciding whether or not to say it. and then, casually: “…maybe. depends on the terrain.” no elaboration. you stare at him. “...i’d aim for the legs.” he says it with confidence.

terry/caligo

"100 men vs a gorilla, what do u think?" he looks up. not amused. not confused. "idk. do you think 100 job applications could beat you?" he doesn't stop there, "that's the real battle. from the look of your bank account... the gorilla's not the only threat."