#adrenalrun

          everyone had entered the fog at different eras, and with that assumption, they'd had all gone back... home  —  back where they left off.    of course it wasn't the case the day jiwoon was basically spat out of the fog, and it just felt like severe jet lag.    it has been months since then ;  and there were a lot of changes and adjustments to be made.    now under a new company, getting some... professional help with everything that had happened.    though nothing says some good coping between therapy sessions than overworking and re-debuting in a different company and different name.

       being on tour once more, he had taken the chance to explore around.    there's a soft yawn that left him as he entered the closest coffee shop that caught his eyes.    he adjusted his mask and hoodie to hide himself proper from others, not wanting to risk any chance of being spotted  ( just gool ol' habits ).    jiwoon waited patiently until it was his turn, approaching the desk  —  until everything in his mind froze.     spotting a familiar face was the last thing he had expected, and he felt his chest tighten up.    ❝ ah- mmh— ❞    suddenly, it became a lot harder to manage to even pretend to be normal  —  a light cough leaving him as he tried to change the range of his voice.

         don't recognize me.

Saki sits with his legs bracketing Meg’s hips, her body prone and still under his after he pressed a knife into her shoulder and forced her to the ground. She had kicked and thrashed at first, scratching at whatever she could reach with untamed fury. He had tapped his knife against her lips to shush her, only to be met with a glare and vitriol spat at his chest. You don’t scare me, she tells him now, her eyes shining bright and catlike; alert and prepared to slip from his grasp the moment he loosens it the tiniest bit. 

Saki doesn’t plan to give her the opportunity, so he frees the knife from her shoulder and stabs it through Meg’s hand with a downward swing, pinning her to the Saloon’s floorboards with a smile. She cries out beneath him, body tensing in pain despite her best attempts to hide it. No matter how used to it she is, the next cut is always just as deep as the last.

While she bites her lip to muffle the cries, Saki wraps a few strands of Meg’s loose hair around his finger, savoring the anger that she directs towards him in waves. She attempts to shake him loose, but he grabs her by the hair and tugs her head into place, so that she meets his gaze.

@adrenalrun : 🔪

This rabbit had spark. Her determination in the face of persistent malevolence could inspire millions. Would anyone know of the wellspring that was her bravery? Anyone aside from the beings of the Fog forced through this dance of kill and be killed, survival and perennial existence.

Probably not.

He smiled beneath the mask. Blood stained his teeth; he'd bitten his tongue when she'd stabbed him the first time and now he tasted its iron. Aimed at his throat was Meg's makeshift weapon. Something crudely sculpted into a point, he assumed, or a shard of glass. He already knew its bite from the shallow wound in his bicep.

Up this close, he could see the sweat that slicked her forehead, the knot that formed itself permanently between her ginger brows. The defiance, the fear, the uncertainty. Was she like him? Could she end his life, if only temporary, and proudly claim that achievement?

Did she realize the weight of this moment, too?

"Do it, little rabbit."

send me a 🔪 to hold a knife to the entity's throat

@adrenalrun: 🔪 instead of knife it is a lil piece of glass or other sharp object we normally use for decisive strike

the lakes - taylor swift.

is  it  romantic  how  all  my  elegies  eulogize  me? i’m  not  cut  out  for  all  these  cynical  clones, these  hunters  with  cell  phones

[ … ]

 dirtied dress shoes tap tap tap against the tiles, long legs carrying him in a quick, purposeful stride. a prosthetic eye, long since replaced by the entity, whirs and shifts in its socket as another black and red cloud obscures his vision, far closer this time.

 tap tap tap. he moves faster now, around a corner, one hand resting on a rotting doorframe — and catches sight of bright red hair, tousled and loose from the fingers gripping at it so desperately. his weapon is lowered briefly, only for his free hand to rise, sparks dancing, twisting around his curled fingers, before his arm extends to deliver a powerful shockwave beneath the girl's feet.

 his laugh reverberates from a ravaged throat, ghost - like and giddy. much too high for such an imposing figure. there had been a time when he had laughed genuinely, when he wasn't quite so monstrous — but that time had passed, and he now inflicted his own madness upon those unlucky enough to fall victim to it.

 ❛ THERE, THERE. ❜ his mouth doesn't move, held agape by the gear affixed to his head ; his voice seems to echo between the walls, emit directly into the poor girl's head, where it resounds with each spike in her heartbeat. ❛ YOU NEEDN'T FIGHT ANYMORE. YOU'RE UNDER MY CARE NOW. ❜

@adrenalrun : do you even feel anything? / accepting !

A silly question, and yet pertinent. How many of the others felt nothing but emptiness? Or the cold jaws of revenge. A hatred so pure that, even filtered, it would burn to the touch.

Ghostface was not them. He wasn't angry like Michael or betrayed like Philip. He didn't hate in the way that Caleb did. They were ruled by emotions. Exploited by them, even. He knew how the Entity worked; she used those feelings against them. Added more fuel to the burning fire and stoked it to keep it blazing. To avoid her abuse, one had to turn emotions off. Or, as the little shroud did, utilize only the ones he wanted.

So, yes, he did feel. Anger. Annoyance. The thrill of a successful hunt. Sadism. Curiosity. Bloodthirst. What would Meg know of these? What did any survivor know? They were pushed to feel fear, anxiety, horror, disgust.

But in this he knew he was wrong. There were moments he would watch survivors settled around a campfire. He, crouched in his cold shadows. They, in their warm firelight. They would sing songs, tell stories, comfort one another in a way reminiscent of a lifelong past. There were more emotions present in the Realm than the trials required.

They could all feel.

And so, in the face of her question, Ghostface laughed.

"Of course." Though it was hidden behind the gawking mouth of his mask, his terrible smile was obvious. "Joy. Pure, unadulterated joy."

The tip of his blade caught the half-light seeping through the building's cracks.

"What do you feel, little rabbit?"