#da ming.

         Of all the things that Vera can imagine happening in her life, dragging a corpse across the carpeted floor of her office’s lobby isn’t one of them. Although she had to concede: the recurring urges to stab her partner and colleague were increasing in vividity and realness.          But Heechul exhaled his last breath by a complete accident. (That wouldn’t be the story splashed out on the headlines, though. The story they’d craft and recraft into perfection would be one that paints Heechul into everything he never was, and never could be. There was a reason why Vera hired Changmin—he was the framework to her structure of lies.)         ”Do you mind?” Changmin asked sharply, snapping her out of her jumbled, it’s-fucking-5-in-the-morning thoughts. “He’s heavier than he looks.” To that, Vera can only snort lightly, brushing back a few stray strands of her, then lifting her end of the makeshift body bag. The irony isn’t lost on her; the great Kim Heechul bundled up into what used to be a jacket bag, zipped up to the very top. He’d kick the bucket (again) if he could see himself going out this way.         ”We’re not going in my car,” Vera quickly declares, because she’d be completely fucked if they’re found out like this.          ”We’re not going in anyone’s car,” Changmin retorts without so much as looking at her. She could see his expression shift under the dimly lit—a bid to save money—lobby lighting, the almost audible click of his thoughts slotting into place. “There’s nowhere we can hide. We’ll have to bring him to the hospital.”         There’s silence for a moment, then Vera drops her end of the bag, Heechul’s head clunking loudly against the soft ground. With a firm shake of her head, she spits out, “We are not re-enacting Weekend at Bernie’s in the fucking hospital. Period.”                                                                                                 • • • [ ft. heedictate ].   

        If there’s one thing Vera will remember about Changmin for the rest of her life (or at least, the rest of their professional working relationship) is that he’s the insane sort of drunk. In an unwholly, unexpected, and definitely unwanted turn of events, Vera was now sitting opposite a very wasted Shim Changmin, with his tie knotted at his forehead.        (She briefly considers filming a quick clip with her handphone; after all, blackmail against a well-known lawyer was bound to be useful someday, right? Those lawyers with their pesky, sticky hands, always butting their noses into affairs that had nothing to do with them in the name of money. His only saving grace came in two-parts: she liked him, and without him, she wouldn’t be able to stop Heechul from getting onto the front-page news.)        They’d just finished discussing the latest round of plagiarism issues; tempers were rising, so she whipped out her handy-dandy alcohol cart from the depths of her closet where the bottles were always well-stocked, thanks to her personal assistant. Offering Changmin a courteous glass had turned into two, then three, then entire bottles of vodka and whiskeys emptying as the minutes passed.        “Don’t worry, Vera,” Changmin declared loudly. The sound of his chair legs scraping against her hardwood floor is agonisingly loud in the empty office. To make matters worse, he steps up on the expensive, cushioned surface, raising his glass in the air. “I will not fail. I, will not die.”        She rubs her forehead in response, making a mental note to get Zitao to burn the cushion tomorrow. And someone to erase the security footage. You never know who could be watching.