@ncbogum

yunho likes to think of himself as a very calm and collected man. he doesn’t blow things out of proportion. he rarely gets angry or mad and very few people have heard him screaming. yunho tries hard to be a man who listens, who doesn’t judge people by its cover. a man of patience, virtue that he has learned by the countless chess games he has played against his mother in late nights, just the two of them at the floor of the living room. that doesn’t mean, though, that he never gets annoyed, or angry, even. he just tries his best to control it. 

but some people, damn. some people really grind his gears.

this one person, in particular, has a talent for it, or some yunho believes. many times yunho catches himself wondering if he isn’t being unreasonable, maybe even holding too much of a grudge against the kid for playing with him that one time. but all he has to do is show up and yunho can feel that weird prickle on his skin, that ridiculous need to roll his eyes and hold his breath because, god!, he can’t take him. he simply can’t. 

so, needless to say, he has to bite his tongue when he enters the staff room and sees him there. sitting down on the couch. drinking from their coffee. the level of entitlement is too big, but yunho takes a deep breath, closes the door behind him. he is bigger than this. he is much bigger than being petty with a kid with no manners, it seems.

the cacophonous howls still resonate inside her head, his voice a barely audible whisper that’s intermixed between discord and the ringing shrieks of a dead man. straight back, seemingly perfect composure, leather-gloved hands hanging coolly by her side, she radiates elegance and finely polished finesse, not even a mere fissure in that facade of hers. yet her gaze is feral, a madness storming in her eye, and as they’re moving further away from the desolate warehouse ( of which certainly by now may be considered a toolbox for bloodshed ), she’s examining the traces of the substance still glistening like stardust on her gloves, a sheen of copper on a midnight canvas. 

“what, that i finally crossed the line? that i’ve screwed up, or am i fucked up?” her tone is wry, the words bitter tasting, but that does not deny the truth of them. she knows morbidness on an intimate level ( how can she not when it is always her own maniacal laughter that resounds in the low light? ), hell–call her best friends with insanity. she’s everything mothers warn their children never to become, a variant of their nightmares, a psychopath in every sense of the term. she doesn’t check where bogum is at–perhaps he is behind or beside her, perhaps he’s so close in proximity that he’s able to hear her uneven breaths, feel the heat of her skin radiating off her ( and yet it is cool to the touch ). all she knows is that he’s near her, her company for the night, and at a certain moment when her vexation had taken the form of more than a few harsh punches, she could swear they were nothing more than “fucked up” individuals with the same affiliation, the same allegiance, merely conjoined to exercise their skill together. 

she takes killing to a personal level–it’s only a wonder how she’d allowed him to witness the true barbarity of her macabre nature when she’s been so careful to retain that innate cruelty from surfacing too often. most yuripa members know not even of the full extent of her sadism, and surely her image within the mob is only the glorified depiction of a woman who’s lost too much of her everything, including even the most basic sense of propriety. no–-in the twilight of these ungodly hours, she is a wildness unleashed, viciousness in human form. 

a pause, an adjustment to the cap that’s shadowing her face from any undetected surveillance. “you should know just as well as i do–-once you’ve chosen this life there’s no backing out, no playing pathetic. even with the shit they make you do,” she says quietly, almost softly, still an armored coating to her words. she speaks more to herself than him, and a part of her takes a twisted private pleasure at her own advice. the stench of blood still lingers on her clothes, a smear of red against her jaw, and too much intake of the scent brews a migraine, her state of acute awareness all of a sudden muddled. she’s eager to return, to drown out the remnants of their pleas and strident screams; the sharp split of bone breakage; the grotesque slip of flesh against flesh; the sunken eyes that will surely bore into her when she attempts sleep.