#124player

it’s blood-caked and rust-flecked, the statement the weight of a weapon already swung,  still humming in the aftermath of its arc.  his voice–low, not soft–acts as a blade dipped in something personal. it slices skin, the kind that doesn’t bleed until later, when the body stops pretending it can take the pain.  words take shape and clang down between them like a guillotine, still slick with implication.    you take a breath, your ribcage feels too tight and you’re trying to convince your body it’s not drowning.  it’s the kind of breath that precedes a choice: confess, or crucify.   gaze settles, heavy-lidded, unflickering on nam-gyu like you’re pinning him to a memory. and maybe you are.  you think back to all the things you’ve done with precision; of all moments where you wield embellished truths like a scalpel.  never for justice, but a sense of control. a confession twisted into a leash, to make people smaller so that you could move freer in their shadows.  to make up for something,  to make up for it being you.   of course you fight dirty. what other kind of fight is there? you have never been one to win backyard brawls,  save your ego and opt for that quiet, crawling kind.  the one that sits beneath a forked tongue waiting the bite. there is a lot you could say,  a lot you wanted to say–to spit out like broken teeth at his feet.  the air between you is dense with everything you could say but won’t.  nam-gyu throws that accusation with such casual venom,  a twisted recognition.  being seen means being known, and being known means being held accountable.  and you aren’t sure you had the structure left for that, spent too long sharpening yourself into something other people avoid up close,  admire from far away.    you study nam-gyu now, almost veneration, although your face shows little but its usual disinterest.  you can see the place where your damage mirrors, where it folds itself like skin grafted onto scar.

Kore sat cross-legged on her bunk, just across from where Nam-Gyu was perched on his. Her shoes were tucked neatly beneath her & she rested her hands on her knees, fingers idly tracing the faint patterns on the fabric. Though her posture was relaxed, her eyes were sharp, their gaze fixed on him with a quiet intensity.

“ You don’t sleep much, do you? ” she asked, her voice low, barely above a whisper. Her tone wasn’t accusatory— if anything, it was contemplative, as if she were voicing an observation rather than expecting a response. She leaned back slightly, propping herself up on her hands as her gaze flickered briefly to the others in their makeshift alliance. Their breaths rose & fell in uneven rhythms, a soundtrack of fragile trust & shared desperation.

“ I get it, ” she continued after a pause, her voice steady but soft, careful not to disturb the others. “ The quiet can be worse than the noise sometimes. Gives you too much space to think. ” Her gaze drifted back to him, studying his face in the dim light. “ But if you don’t let your body catch up, the games will take more from you than they already have. ”

For a moment, she lets the silence settle between them, her head tilting slightly as if she were waiting for him to say something— or nothing at all. Then, after a long breath, she spoke again, her words carrying a faint edge of curiosity. “ Why do you do it? Stay awake like this? ” She shifted her weight forward, her voice dropping even lower, as though the question wasn’t meant for anyone but him. “ What are you so afraid to lose in the dark? ”

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ THAT MS.PAINT MEME EVERYONE LOVES;;

// I don't know about you, but I think I captured his energy perfectly.

— .ᐣ PEOPLE WHO AREN'T USED TO KINDNESS. 𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢: ❪ nam-gyu ❫ -𝚟𝚒𝚊 𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚎 @124player · · -- "i had it under control."

❪ clarke griffin ❫ , — the deep crimson stains upon his shirt tell a different story as she stares at him, inches away, with bewildered piercing her eyes an icy shade of blue. death has a particular scent she's learned. rotting corpses a given. the bloom of expressed bodily liquids the type of thing that haunts nightmares and clarke, clarke is no stranger to the plagues of sleep. STOPS HER FROM CLOSING HER EYES. for awhile, she only slept during the day. as if the illumination from the sun high in the sky would somehow keep the darkness away long enough so she shouldn't awake in a cold sweat in the dead of summer. but that isn't the kind of death she smells now. it permeates the air all the same. leaves her tongue writhing for all the right words to say, even when she comes up short. the death of self is always worse. she's seen it in herself half-bent over the riverbank and splashing water in her face. the currant giving her a more clear reflection than any of the broken, jagged-edged mirrors in the decrepit houses they've had to call home. her eyes search his and find there's something missing there too. pieces of themselves scattered in all of the places they've been.

"you scare the fucking shit out of me, you know." the beat of her tongue a little hostile against the backdrop of her heartbeat. the wind rattles a nearby shopping cart from god knows where. loud enough to snap her head in its direction momentarily before returning her gaze to nam-gyu. "if under control means it almost costs you your life, then, you should probably think again." reaching out, she swipes a droplet of blood from his chin before it can fall. "and i'm never going to watch you die. so. don't ask me to." she would never stand by on the sidelines just to let him handle something on his own. hell, even if she wanted to, she wouldn't know how to. that's not who she is.

dawn is casting her first light in an hour,     signaling the loss of another one of se-mi's precious nights to club pentagon.     not that she didn't need the money ...   she needed it,   and desperately,   at that.     se-mi is so desperate in fact that she's had all the time in the world to tangle herself with the nutcase club promoter and his ...   unconventional lifestyle.     their dynamic could be viewed as arduous at best:   solely blossomed from convenience but nurtured by a mutual understanding   don't fuck with me,   and i won't fuck with you.     still,   their truce is often strained by the encumbrance of a busy,   flashy atmosphere.     whatever drugs he's often on seldom eases any tensions, either.     if they are friends like nam-gyu says,   she'd sure as hell hate to see how he treats his enemies.

the horror that settles in his eyes , the absolute disgust that pulls his upper lip halfway up rather comically . well first of all , he needs a moment to gather up the strength to bring his other leg up the bunk bed and curl it indian style like the other . then , gods above , he needs to lick his lips and ; ‘ you had an opinion about me ? ! ‘ the pits his pride had fallen in , the levels of inferior - yejun looks away from the man with a snort . tried to think of what could possibly make number 124 say that , apart from the fact that he was sitting with the ones that chose the cross . truth to be told , he'd love to leave this messy place and beg for forgiveness on his knees ; under completely different conditions and to a man dressed in golden mask . but the frontman was saying too much without saying anything . youngil , made sure to have him know that the consequences of disobedience will be intolerable if he even thinks about voting for circle . the younger man is disheveled , grips a fork in his bloody hand - ah did his owner die ? that rapper ? what was his name even ? ‘ refrain from thinking about me please . it makes me feel like a dirty rodent . ‘ the polite grin he flashes the ownerless dog is more than cruel , almost tempted to bite into the matter too . namgyu looks so lost , rabid even , hopefully won't bite . yejun breathes out a quiet chuckle when he looks away from namgyu , rubbing his face with one hand . ‘ you're definitely going to die here .. ‘ fucking idiot . there's a slight tremor to his long fingers as they cover his own mouth , empty eyes fixed on nothing in particular .