#fmdingrid

Ingrid is his bane, the water to his oil, and the piece of dirt stuck in his eye. In a secluded room, small and filled with white furniture, he sat with his headphones covering his ears, hoping to overwhelm noise with bgm and violent sound effects. Whenever he was distracted enough to miss a shot in Doom he cursed underneath his breath, and silently prayed for her to leave to another room. They all had TVs, food, and water. So, what’s the appeal of waiting in here with him? 

In this room too, a flat-screen played the real-time recording of other groups and singers, performing on stage for some end of the year celebration. Seungmin, completely disinterested, tried to sink deeper into a bloody reverie of demon killing, but the problem remains: there’s no comfort in company. As per usual, he only wants to be alone, and he glances up from his Switch to look at her for the first time. 

“Ingrid, if you don’t leave I swear I’ll sabotage you,” he snapped at her “you can be stuck with some colorblind bitch for a stylist next time you go on stage.” It’s not exactly a full-fledged threat, even if he didn’t doubt his ability to make such a thing happen. Rather, he doubted Ingrid’s sense of self-preservation and ability to take his insults seriously anymore.