prone to melancholy

Over the course of the next several weeks, you began to notice him around—at your favorite coffee shop near your apartment, the grocery store you went twenty five minutes out of your way for because they carried the pastries you liked to eat for breakfast, the cafe near your workplace that you went to three times a week for lunch—and he was never alone. He was always with at least another man around his age. Then, it wasn’t just him you noticed everywhere, it was all of them. The man in the tailored coat that smelled like sea salt was always near your apartment in the morning. Originally, you thought he lived there, but you’ve started to think differently. The blonde one with the broad shoulders passed by you three times when you went shopping like clockwork—once on the train, once in the store, and once on your walk home. The stocky one, the one that was built like a brick wall, was always by the nail salon on Tuesdays. You would get a fill and never had to pay for it. The techs said it was paid for by “your cute boyfriend.” The one with long hair started working at a coffee shop you only went to on pay day. It was an upscale place that was too expensive to get every day. The only reason you connected him with Yunho is because you saw them together once. There was the other tall one, similar in height to Yunho, but with bigger muscles. You hadn’t seen him without at least one of the others yet, but you waited every day with baited breath to catch a glimpse of him while going to the gym or at the bar with your friends. The one with black hair and a cute face, much too cute to be as built as he was, had just moved in across the hall. Before that, you had seen him on the way to your friend’s place every Friday. The last one, short with a shock of red hair, seemed to be almost everywhere. He was on the phone outside of your office, sitting in the back of the coffee shop near your apartment, at the bar while at dinner with your friends. Today, standing outside of the cafe while you wanted to just get your fucking lunch.

It was like a pack of wild dogs circling at any given moment. You didn’t know peace at this point, but you had become accustomed to a certain level of unease and anxiety when leaving your apartment each day. They didn’t seem malicious, stalking barred, but there’s still something utterly unsettling about knowing you’re being watched. And today, your capacity for negativity has reached its peak.

“When are you going to just give up?” he smiles at you, too wide and too white. You speed up, heels clicking loudly on the pavement. He laughs in response. Another body sidles up to your other side. You sigh.

“Hey, pretty,” Cute Face Neighbor smiles, more genuinely than Red Hair. If he wasn’t so fucking weird, you probably would have given him the time of day. It could have been a meet-cute.

“Never and don’t call me that,” you can feel your face beginning to hurt from the cold and the tenseness of your muscles. You just need to make it back to your office.

“Okay, stop,” Red Hair grabs your elbow, you shake it out of his hold and stumble back. Your eyebrows raise and you freeze. This is the most contact you’ve gotten with them. They generally don’t speak to you and they definitely don’t touch you. You feel a pair of hands steady you by your shoulders. “This has been cute—the whole you run, we chase thing—but I’m getting bored. I think we should play a new game.”

You shiver. “No, thank you. I have to go back to work.”

“You still have twenty two minutes of your break left,” Cute Face Neighbor helpfully interjects. He’s still smiling and you can’t tell if it’s genuine or if he’s just stupidly good at the whole charming-boy-next-door schtick.

“This weekend, you’re going to go out. No friends, no dates,” Red Hair levels you with a calculating look, but he sounds like he’s making it up as he goes. “Yeah, you go out. We do no surveillance ahead of time. The rest of the week free of us. Deviate your patterns. We’ll find you.”

He says it like it’s a tempting offer, like you would willingly offer yourself up to a pack of rabid wolves.

“And why would I do that?”

“For fun,” Red Hair is still fucking smiling that too wide, too white smile. “If you wanted us to leave you alone, you would have called the cops by now. Or at the very least, you would have closed your blinds.”

You still don’t know why the fuck you’re doing this. You feel fucking crazy as you finish your makeup for the night. You told your friends you were going for a quick drink by yourself, a solo date. What a positive spin on this turn of events.

The terms were simple—you were to leave at 7:00pm, you had exactly thirty minutes to get a head start on them. You were allowed five days to prepare where you were going, full recon within your control. You could deviate your patterns as much as you liked. They weren’t allowed to wait at the train station or bus stop near your place and you could go wherever you wanted as long as it was within the city limits. They had exactly three hours to find you, but Red Hair—Hongjoong—had assured you that it would take less.

At the time, it seemed like a better option to say yes than to risk being stabbed outside of a CVS. Now, though, you were beginning to question if a stab wound would have actually been worth it. You checked your phone, 6:52, and began to gather your things. You open your door at exactly 6:57 and a head pokes out from the doorway across the hall.

“Hey, no cheating,” Cute Face—San—whines at you, the same smile across his features.

“It’s not cheating, it’s accounting for the elevator,” you gripe back as you lock your door. You don’t look at him as you pass and definitely don’t look back as he calls down the hall at you.

“See you in a bit!”

It’s 8:06 when you arrive at the bar. It was a dive, three neighborhoods over from your own. It was the opposite direction of your workplace. You hadn’t been here in years, far longer than the pack had been following you. You take a seat at the bar and tuck yourself into the corner. Close enough to see the door, but obscured enough that if they were to duck their heads in they wouldn’t see you. The last time you were here, you almost got kicked out. You think about that as you order your drink. 

It had to be at least three years ago at this point. One of your old colleagues decided going away drinks in their neighborhood was how they wanted to celebrate their time with your team. After a few too many, a man got handsy with one of your coworkers and you got in his face. One punch and you were grabbed by a bouncer twice your size as the man yelled about lawsuits and pressing charges. The cameras showed him grabbing a handful before your confrontation, though, and after that he calmed down. Your coworkers decided it was probably around the time to head home after that and you hadn’t been back since. Over the past six days, you had combed through your social media to ensure there was no proof of you ever being at this place and after confirming it, you decided this was the one. You pull a book from your purse and open it to the chapter you left off on. Only two hours before you could leave. You tried to lean into your book and ignore the ticking of the clock.

At 8:38, you left your stool and started toward the bathroom. At 8:43, you grab your purse and walk out of the bar to smoke a cigarette. At 8:50, as you finish the last drags of the American Spirit, you hear a familiar laugh around the corner. You debate entering the bar again. They never said you had to stay in one place. You start up the block in the opposite direction of the laughter. You had no confidence that they hadn’t split up, but you had to try. You walk at least three blocks before spotting two tall figures in the distance heading toward you. You tuck into the pizza joint on your right.

The front of the store was a wall of windows, something that made you uneasy as you stood in the small store, but you had faith in your state of dress tonight. You had gone out and bought new clothes for this venture. An entire new outfit, new shoes, a new purse—nothing they had seen you in before. Your goal wasn’t to disguise yourself, but to blend in. You allow yourself to melt into the crowd of hungry dads trying to get a late night snack and students who had gotten too drunk, too early attempting to sober up. You don’t look out the window or turn around. You wait your turn, you order pizza, and then you leave.

You walk aimlessly for a while, and at 9:33, you stumble into the park. You walk a little ways into the park, enough to be tucked away but still see the main path, and then settle on a bench. You criss-cross your legs under you and place the bag on your lap, pulling out the pizza. You let the sounds of the city settle over you as you eat your pizza. You see a few joggers pass you. There’s a teenage couple having an argument over by the fountain. You feel the early spring breeze pass through your hair and don’t register as another body settles next to you.

“Found you,” a murmur from your left. You startle and almost drop your pizza. The man with the tailored coat leans over and drops a hand under your plate. He looks surprised at your jumpiness. He’s handsome up close. His face is all sharp angles and dark shadows. You can smell the sea salt from here. You get over your shock after a moment and sigh before taking another bite of your pizza. Then, you slide over and pat the space that’s left, resigned to your fate.

“How’d you find me?” you mumble through a mouthful. You don’t look at him.

“I’ve been following you the whole time. You’re not the most adept at noticing,” he smiles softly at you. The corners of his eyes crinkle softly and you find yourself thinking that if you had met a different way, you would probably be enamored with his attention at this very moment. You don’t say anything else and let him do something on his phone, you assume telling the others you had been found. The silence washes over you and the reality sets in. You really wish you had chosen something else as your last meal. A shock of red hair comes into your peripheral flanked by taller bodies and you prepare to be marched to your death.

“Good work, Hwa. You’ve always been the best at this,” Hongjoong says, giddy. The energy is coming off of him in waves, something restless. One of the men at his side comes to plant himself on the opposite end of the bench from Hwa—Yunho. You glance over at him as if your stare could physically remove him. He ignores you and drapes his arm behind you. He rubs soothing circles on your back and you think if it was any one of the other men you would have brushed them off, but you’ve seen Yunho do nice things before. He offered you his name. At the very least, that’s something. If you are going to be marched to your death, at least one of your executioners will have gentle hands. Hopefully, that will make it less painful.

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” Yunho is quiet, placating. “You did really well.”

“Can I finish my pizza before you kill me? Or are you just going to do it now while I have a mostly empty stomach?” you ask. Hongjoong’s eyebrows raise to his hairline and the one with the long hair cackles.

“We’re not going to kill you. We have no interest in that,” his voice is steady. “You’re interesting. You played the game. Just because you lost doesn’t mean that we’re done playing.”

“Fuck.”

“Were you hoping we would kill you?” Yunho leans towards you, now tracing lines over your spine with his fingertips.

“Less hoping, more preparing for it.”

They exchange glances with each other, all ending up at the same fixed point—Hongjoong. Well, now that’s new information.

“Like I said, you’re interesting,” the words fall easily out of Hongjoong’s mouth. “Alright, let’s take you home.” He turns and starts walking away, just like that. The others fall in line behind him, flanking. You cock your head as you watch their backs. A hand reaches out in front of you, Yunho, he looks at you expectantly.

“C’mon, sweetheart. Let’s go home.”

It gets stranger from that point on, but also not so strange in the same way.

They start leaving gifts for you, which in terms of having a stalker is blatant escalation, but the gifts are oddly thoughtful. Sometimes it’s coffee from the place where Wooyoung works after a particularly hard day. Sometimes it’s a Venmo from an account you don’t recognize, but learn belongs to Jongho, with far too much money to get your nails done despite that being the description. Sometimes it’s the particular pastries you go twenty five minutes out of your way for just when you run out of them. Other times, it’s larger. Like the time San paid your rent for six months despite you telling him not to and to take back the money. Or the time Yeosang delivered your groceries for three weeks and refused to let you pay him back. Or the time Mingi showed up at your apartment and replaced all of your junky electronics from college with brand new ones. You weren’t supposed to stumble upon that, but you had gotten out of work early only to find your apartment full of new things and one very tall, very hot man sprawled on your couch and visibly exhausted. You change your locks after that, not that it does anything. Recently, it’s been notes slipped into your pockets, courtesy of Seonghwa and Yunho. Usually they’re small reminders to take care of yourself or of upcoming deadlines, but sometimes they’re sweeter—notes that your outfit looks nice, or that the new way you did your hair is flattering.

Hongjoong is a quieter presence. He isn’t like the others, doesn’t do these large declarations of (friendship? love?) a relationship. He texts you every day, not that you ever gave him your number, and tells you that he hopes you don’t die today. For anyone else, this would be unsettling. It would be an ever present reminder of the shadows on your back. But to you, it’s a reminder that these men have no interest in killing you. They have no interest in seeing you dead. Scared? Panicked? Definitely, but alive nonetheless.

It all sort of shifts one day in July. It had been over half a year of them following you, three months of leaving odd gifts at the door. You had grown used to their presence everywhere. It’s a Saturday and you’re settled on your couch. Something is on the television, but you’re not truly paying attention to it. Then, your front door opens. You jump and turn around. Wooyoung walks in and settles on the couch next to you, tucking his head into your lap. You freeze, your arms hovering above his body and not entirely sure what to do in this situation.

“Can you play with my hair, please?” his voice comes out soft. You look at him a little closer. His legs are tucked up into his chest, arms cradled between the two parts of his body. He doesn’t look at you as he asks and you get the sense that something happened.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Yeah, Woo, I can do that.”

You brush a lock of his hair out of his face and begin to card your fingers through it. You both stay like that for a while. Episodes blend together and at a certain point, it’s dark out. You look down at him and he’s fallen asleep. You reach for your phone.

“why is woo in my apartment right now?”

The text sits on delivered, you wait for the read receipt to appear, a response comes through.

“We’ve been looking for him. Stay there.”

You don’t question that Hongjoong knows where you are. You don’t question the fact that you texted him. You don’t question the fact that you are concerned for Wooyoung’s wellbeing. These are just facts of your life now. Twenty minutes later, San walks into your home. You gesture at him to keep it down, not wanting to wake the boy still sleeping in your lap.

“How long has he been out?” he questions.

“What the fuck did you guys do?” you seethe in response.

San winces. “He hasn’t been sleeping. It’s been a tough couple of days and we haven’t been out in a while. We’ve all been so focused on you and it took a toll we didn’t realize.”

You furrow your eyebrows and level him with a look. The tips of his ears grow red and his eyes widen, like a kid caught in a lie.

“You need to ask Joong if you want to know more than that. I can’t tell you. I’m not allowed,” he breathes it out in one long phrase. You keep looking at him and he focuses on looking everywhere but at you.

“Get Hongjoong here now and get Woo out of my apartment.”

San nods quickly, pulling out his phone. His fingers fly over the screen and he paces in your living room. His phone buzzes in his hand and he slips it into his back pocket. San gives you a thumbs up and gathers Wooyoung in his arms before heading towards the door. He mouths ‘thank you’ before it closes.

Hongjoong arrives two hours later, deeply late for his standards. When he gets to your apartment and swings open the door, he smells of sweat and metal with a hint of something sweet over it, as if he had tried to cover it up for your sake. He closes the door without tact and walks over to your couch where you’ve been stuck for the past several hours. His posture is casual, but reeks of an underlying exhaustion. When you finally look at him, you notice the heavy bags under his eyes and the almost sallow appearance to his skin.

“Hongjoong what the fuck did you get me into?” you whisper. You’re not scared of him, not anymore. You’re just exhausted.

“You weren’t wrong. We just didn’t want you like that,” he whispers back, his head tilted toward the ceiling. His eyes are closed and the words aren’t sharp. You know what he means instantly. You put your head in your lap. A moment later, a hand strokes your back.

“I’m sorry, if that accounts for anything, we– I didn’t want to upset you. I told everyone to keep it to themselves. I didn’t want to give you a burden you didn’t ask for.” “Yeah, like having eight men follow me for months isn’t already doing that,” you whisper, sardonic. You don’t look at him as you raise yourself up from the couch. “You should go, Joong.”

He grasps your wrist, softly, much softer than how he had grabbed you months prior. You don’t look at him. He raises your wrist to his mouth and presses his lips against your pulse. He breathes once, twice, before releasing you.

“Okay,” softly and you wonder if you’ve made a mistake.

The next morning, the same text.

“I hope you don’t die today.”