#mieuz

x / nonverbal prompts. accepting.

The silence was vast, an expanse that pressed against his skull until every thought rang louder than it should. Zero stood still, eyes cast over the pale sweep of the mountains that cut against the sky, but his mind was nowhere near the scenery. It was back where the blood still stained him, where shadows curled into names he couldn’t bury. Taeyeon, Kris, the face of his sister when she was a child, the weight of his own choices piling one over another until they built a pyre too tall to climb down from.

He thought of what he had become: a halfling, tethered to vengeance like a dog to its chain, convinced that if he pulled hard enough the collar would snap and he’d finally be free. But it never did. Every time he thought he was close, his failures carved the links deeper into his neck. He hated how familiar it had become, the taste of rage that dulled only to return sharper; hungrier.

The wind shifted, carrying the scent of the rain, and he almost welcomed it, wanted it to strip the skin from his bones so he’d feel clean again. He had lost track of how long he’d been staring, how long he’d been drowning in his own head.

It wasn’t until the warmth of a palm grazed his cheek that he flinched, an almost imperceptible startle. Aki. Her touch was featherlight, but it struck like a crack through glass, shattering the spiral he had been feeding. His eyes returned back to the present and eventually found hers.

For a moment he despised how easily she could do that, drag him out of the abyss with nothing but skin and warmth. But beneath that disdain was something worse: the faint relief that someone had bothered at all. He didn’t realize how far gone he was until her touch snapped him back down to reality.

Karina sat perfectly still, as though the weight of Aki’s hand on her arm was an intrusion she merely tolerated than accepted. Her gaze was steady, albeit detached, following the faint pattern of light against the wall instead of the woman bent earnestly over her. The quiet hum of the room seemed to magnify even the smallest of sounds, such as the dab of cotton, the careful blow of breath, and the rustle of bandage being smothered into place.

When Aki smiled, Karina finally looked at her. The shift was subtle, but her eyes were cool enough to extinguish the warmth that had been offered so freely.

“You’re thorough,” she said at last, tonality measured, clipped at the edges like a verdict. “But you mistake me for something fragile enough to require tending.”

She drew her arm back with unhurried precision, her movements both controlled and deliberate as though reclaiming a piece of herself that had been placed into the wrong hands. Rising from the couch, Karina carried an elegance that was sharpened by distance, each line of her posture was as refined as it was untouchable.

x / accepting.

The kitchen smelled faintly of garlic and charred onions, though the counter was a battlefield of half-chopped vegetables and flour dust. Zero stood behind Aki, the blade steady in his hand as he guided hers, his fingers brushing lightly against her knuckles. She was clumsy, far too eager, her grip tense where it should have been loose.

“Not like that,” he muttered, voice low, the kind of patience that sounded almost like irritation. “Ease into it. Let the knife do the work. You’re not forcing stone apart, you’re slicing.”

Aki huffed, her shoulders tightening, and in that breath of distraction the blade slipped. He felt the sting before he saw it, a bead of crimson welling across his skin. He pulled back instinctively, though the cut was shallow. Her gasp was louder than the sound of steel hitting wood and he just stared at her.

“Junho!” Her hand shot out frantically, as if he’d been struck by something far worse. She abandoned the knife, nearly knocking it onto the floor, and rushed for the cupboard with a panic he found ridiculous. He doesn’t move, simply stood there, watching her tear through drawers, until she finally unearthed the battered first aid kit like it was treasure salvaged from ruin.

He exhaled through his nose, lifting his hand to examine the thin line of crimson. It wasn’t even worth nothing. A scratch. But the sight of her fumbling with the latch, hair falling into her eyes, desperate to fix what she had done, it pulled something quieter in him; something he had no use for.

When she finally returned, cotton and antiseptic trembling in her grip, he didn’t stop her. He let her fuss, let her cradle his hand in hers, the warmth of her touches odds with the cool sting of alcohol. Her brow furrowed as though she bore the wound herself.

He leaned back against the chair, reading the message once, then again. Of all things Aki could've assumed, the thought of Jimin as his girlfriend almost made him laugh. Almost. A low breath escaped him, more of a scoff than a chuckle, before his thumb moved over the screen.

[sms] Do you think Karina's my girlfriend?

The words looked strange even as he typed them. He let them sit there for a moment, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth.

[sms] She'd kill me before she'd even come close to letting that happen. [sms] She's my sister, Aki.

He didn't bother erasing the faint trace of humor in the message, let Aki see it. Let her know that for once, she'd managed to catch him off guard.

x / accepting.

The apartment was still, its quiet broken only by the faint hum of the city beyond the balcony windows. She had claimed her place on the arm of the leather sofa, posture deceptively languid, though everything about her radiated watchfulness; the subtle tension in her shoulders, the sharp line of her gaze that flicked toward the door the moment it unlocked.

She had been expecting her brother, Junho. The soft shift of hinges, the shadow spilling across the threshold. It should have been him. Should have. Wasn't. Instead, a stranger stepped into the room, their presence ringing false against the silence. The recognition in their eyes told Jimin more than enough: they had come here looking for him,

Jimin didn't rise, she didn't need to. From where she sat, she already held the room.

"He's not here." The words fell flat, clipped without a single trace of warmth. She leaned back slightly into the cushion, arms folding across her chest in a gesture of casual ownership, the leather creaking under her weight like it was hers to command. Her gaze entrained on the newcomer with an unflinching chill, a predator's patience thinly veiled by composure.

"And who," she began, "are you supposed to be?"

For a fleeting moment, her smirk deepened, enough to bare the edge of disdain. She tilted her head, eyes narrowing as though daring the other woman to justify her presence.

x / accepting

Her palms hit his chest, driving him back against the stone wall until escape was no longer an option. Her breath was sharp in the small space, her arms braced as though sheer will could keep him caged there. For a flicker of a moment, it almost seemed like she had succeeded, her weight pinning him and her eyes set with determination.

But Zero was quicker, stronger. One hand closed around her wrist, the other at her shoulder, and in breath the world inverted. He twisted her momentum against her, a single step and a pivot, and suddenly it was her back pressed flush to the cold wall, his frame trapping her in.

Where It Hurts Starters — Accepting.

The manor held its silence like a secret. Stone walls drank in the storm, each roll of thunder muffled against their weight. Candlelight burned low in the sconces, smoke curling thin above the flames, shadows stretching long across the floor. The air was old — wood, dust, and the faintest trace of ash — the kind of stillness that pressed in until it felt like part of your skin.

He hadn’t wanted her here. He had opened his doors only because Zero had asked, and favors weren’t things he ignored. Shelter, nothing else. She was supposed to vanish into the dark corners, keep quiet, keep out of his way.

Instead, her voice carried from behind him, steady where it shouldn’t have been.

"Your hair's a mess. Let me brush it."

The words made him pause, one hand curling on the armrest of his chair. He turned just enough to catch her standing there, brush in hand, as though she had any right. His brow lifted, the faintest curve of disbelief, but he didn’t stop her. With a sound closer to a sigh than anything else, he leaned back into the velvet chair by the fire.

The bristles dragged through his hair, soft, patient. A pull here, a catch there, then the smooth glide that followed. Each stroke stripped away the tension he wore like another layer of armor, though his body stayed rigid, refusing to give.