#otde

Character Details:

Moon is a Jellyfish -- not entirely based on any singular kind, though I like to think he has the colorations of a Man-O-War specifically and a sting akin to the same strength as one or a little weaker.

Personality: Quiet, Stoic, Blunt, Emotionally Repressed, Efficient, Curious, Hoarder, Logical, Avoidant, Touch Adverse (Because of stingers), Touch Starved, Certified Hater, with an unhealthy view of himself.

Ability: Moon can Electrocute/Sting with his Main 5 Ribbon Stingers (obviously) and a little with his many thin ones. He also Glows decently bright! Not as bright as a lightbulb, but I would say about the same levels as a lava lamp. <3

Not really an ability but more of a Con -- He moves slowly. He can propel himself faster (especially upwards) using his cap, but otherwise he doesn't swim as fast as other mers. He also breathes out of his skin even though he has gills, so no sand baths for him!

Body Specifics: Neck Gills. 5 stinging ribbons hanging from his Cap. Said Cap can stretch and fold a lot, spanning outwards enough to engulf his entire body if he curls up into a ball. He has 1 Neck drill and then a bunch of frills spanning down his tail -- they are stiff like vinyl but soft like thin rubber. (For drawings sake, I drew about 7 but more are present.) Tail ends with ribbon like frills that are articulate but do not sting.

No Line Art / Blank Song Card: (Can you tell how proud of him I am? <3)

Clean Sketch:

IF YOU SAW THIS POST BEFORE ALL THE INFO WAS IN IT.... NO YOU DIDN'T GO WASH YOUR EYES WITH WINDEX RIGHT NOWWWW!!!!

Anyways... Thanks for peeping lovelies! For some reason these refs have taken me at least 4 months each... Which really shows how much I don't like doing them XDDD

That song card up there? Took me like 3ish days... YEAH WTF MAN. Also my style changesss yayyyy, this is what happens when you don't draw all the time goobers. Gonna try to fix that though this summer... I need to get FASTER!!! And less tired...

Poor Eclipse is sooooo mad in my mind, Moon's ref sheet MOGS his so much XD

Your head is a little clearer now and you don't flinch when she starts cleaning the wound on your shoulder, blowing gently when you wince from stinging pain.

Body bags are rolled on stretches one by one. You look down when you see detective Bailey break down in the middle of the street.

But you can't look away from Mindy stomping your way after she's been patched up by the medics, murder in her eyes. She halts to a stop before you, hand poised for a slap. Sam pushes her away before she can land it. "What the fuck, Mindy?"

"Yeah, what the fuck? You're defending her?!" She shouts, furiously wiping away her tears. "It's her, don't you see?"

Her raised voice attracts unwanted attention, people start looking at you with furrowed brows and you see a blonde woman take a few notes in her notepad.

"She made her go, Sam! If it wasn't for her Anika would be here," she breaks down in a sob, falling to her knees. Chad follows her, hugging her close to his chest, his eyes on you. You shudder at the rage shimmering in the dark pools.

"Mindy, she did her best," Tara whispers, clutching Sam's hand.

Your vision blurs with unshed tears, your fingers itching with need to do something, maybe go back to the elevator and keep trying to bring Anika back. Maybe you need to chase him and take his life.

You look away. "She's right, it's my fault."

"No, it's not." Sam reaches out to you, reassurances on her tongue, but Mindy pushes her back before she can voice them.

"She hid the knives," Mindy hisses with a cold look in her eyes.

"What?" Tara mumbles.

Your head suddenly feels too heavy for your neck as you try to understand what she is talking about. What knives?

"What a caring fucking girlfriend you are, huh? Let me get you a glass of water, Sam," she mocks. "You hid the knives right before we got attacked. And you got the call. You were at the fucking bodega. Did you kill that man in the alley too? Fuck, maybe you let that fucker in yourself, maybe you planned all of this. Maybe- Maybe you killed Anika in that elevator. You did, didn't you?!"

Her hands are on your shoulders, pushing hard enough to leave bruises. Your mouth falls open, but not a single word leaves your lips. You tremble violently, shaking your head, and see Tara takes a few careful steps back, her eyes glossed over. Mindy shakes you, screaming right in your face, and all you can do is crumble to the ground, choking on a sob.

Sam catches you before your knees hit the ground, pulling you into her chest and squeezing you tight.

"It's, okay," she whispers, "it's not your fault."

Sam's hands feel scalding hot on your body, but her words fall on deaf ears when the only thing your brain can register is Mindy's anguished cries.

It's your fault, it's your fault, it's your fau-

Loud shouts ring from the entrance, another stretcher rolled out. Mindy gasps, and in a flash she's gone, running after the group.

Anika.

You shoot up, ready to run after Mindy, but Chad stops you with a firm grip and a shake of his head, before turning around and following his sister.

You sag back into the truck, closing your eyes. When you open them, Tara is nowhere in sight, only Sam left standing by your side.

"Do you trust me?" You ask.

She freezes, her eyes widening a slightest bit at the abrupt question. "I do."

"Would you trust me with Tara?"

You can tell your question takes her by surprise. She's silent, tension taking root in her shoulders before it spreads over her whole body. She gulps, her eyes flickering around the street.

You nod, resigned. "I understand."

She turns to face you, her brows pulled tight, and takes her hand. "I trust you, I do. But Tara- Sometimes I don't even trust myself to protect her."

A dark chuckle escapes your lips. "That's not what I'm asking, Sam, and you know it. It's not about protection. Do you trust me not to hurt her? Not to kill her?"

She looks down, letting go of your hand, and pulls out a pack of cigarettes. She takes a drag, blowing smoke away from you, her hands tremble.

This is it, you think. No matter what she said about Anika, no matter what she said about trusting you, you know she doesn't. Not completely.

"I don't know."

You look away in an attempt to hide your tears and nod, drawing a sharp breath. "It's okay. I'll just- I'll go, wait it out. And if you still want me when it's all over, I'll be there."

Sam straightens like a rod, her hand around your waist in an instant. "No. I'm not letting you out of sight." She clings to you, cigarette thrown to the ground. You let yourself enjoy the warmth of her embrace for a few fleeting moments before you start pulling away, but she doesn't let you, forcing your head up to meet her pleading eyes. "Please, don't go. I can't let you go."

You swallow dryly, and wipe away another set of tears. "You'll have to. N-none of you trust me," you choke on a sob, pushing against your girlfriend when she only hugs you tighter, pressing fleeting kisses into your hair. "You- you'll keep looking behind your back to make sure I haven't fucking stabbed anyone. I'd rather wait it out than go through that."

Sam shakes her head, "I need you close, so I can protect you."

You scoff, and forcefully push her away. "I don't need your protection. You should go to them," your head jerks in the twins direction, "make sure they're safe."

"Stop it," she hisses, following you as you try to walk away, "what the fuck do you think will happen once you're alone?"

"Nothing."

You need to get away. You need to go back home, curl on your bed and cry until you physically can't anymore. You still see Anika's empty eyes staring back at you, still feel the stillness of her chest under your palms. Everything around you is blurry as you stumble through the mass of people - paramedics, police officers, reporters and…

"Ethan?" You blurt as he steadies you.

He pants loudly, his eyes wide and questioning. "What- what happened?" He asks, pointedly looking at the blood all over your front.

He's thrown against a nearby car before you can answer, Sam's fist raised for a punch. "Where were you?" She growls, her hand closing around his throat. He's almost crying, his eyes glistening with tears.

You can see yourself in his place. You fight the urge to throw up.

"Sam," you speak up, but she doesn't hear you, pushing him hard enough to leave a dent.

"I- Econ," he wheezes, "I had econ."

"Sam, stop."

She listens this time, her eyes not straying from the gasping boy as she takes a few steps back.

You shudder as her hand returns to yours. "I'll take him with me."

She stills and doesn't utter a single word for a long moment. Ethan watches you, confused, but hesitant to voice his concern, as you both wait for Sam to speak.

"What?" She asks, her voice gravely quiet. "What did you just say?"

You swallow. "He'll stay with me, that way I won't be alone. He's a big guy, he's more than capable of protecting me."

She tilts her head to the side, her eyes growing a shade darker. "You're not going anywhere, especially with him."

“Wha- what is that supposed to mean?” he splutters, visibly offended.

You shush him with a look, shaking your head.

It's not ideal, you know, but it'll have to do. Ethan is your close friend, and he might be the only one who still trusts you. You know it makes you even more suspicious in Sam's eyes, you know Mindy will take it as confirmation, but you simply don't care. You want to barricade yourself in your room, open a bottle of tequila and fall asleep in your warm bed. You just want this to be over.

Sam shakes you out of your thoughts, a question in her eyes.

“What?” You ask, suddenly too tired to look her in the eye. You focus on the spot over her shoulder, still feeling the burning intensity of her eyes.

“I don't trust him.”

“You don't trust me either.”

"I can't afford to, but I can't- I can't afford to lose you either," she confesses, her voice shaking ever so slightly.

You close your eyes, feeling her arms envelope you, the smell of her cologne tickling your nose.

“Sam?” Tara calls.

Sam doesn't allow you to leave the sanctuary of her warmth, pulling you closer when you try to step away. “No,” she whispers, her grip so tight you struggle to breathe, “you're staying with me.”

“Sam, Gale found something.” There's an edge to Tara's tone, and when you open your eyes to look at her she doesn't meet your gaze, pointedly looking away.

Sam nods, tugging you along to follow Tara.

“Actually,” the blonde you saw earlier steps closer, her hand hovering over her gun on her thigh, “I don't think she should go with us.” She pointedly looks at you, her brows furrowed.

“What?” Sam hisses, shooting daggers at the shorter woman, but she appears unfazed.

“From what I've gathered, she seems to be our prime suspect. It wouldn't be wise to take her with us.”

“We should hurry,” Tara says, pleading Sam with her eyes.

“No,” Sam growls.

“Sam,” you plead, tugging your hand out of her grasp. “Just let me go, please.”

You're so tired.

“Sam,” Tara pleads. “We can't take her with us.”

“Then we don't go.” Sam's words are final.

Tara’s eyes narrow, you close your eyes, anticipating the verbal fight.

“What?”

“You heard me. For all we know Kirby is the killer.”

The blonde woman, Kirby, snorts, shaking her head. “This isn't your first rodeo, Sam. Love interests are always top suspects, and, with all of the evidence Mindy presented me with, you should be grateful I'm not putting your girlfriend in a cell.”

Tara looks at you, really looks at you for the first time since Mindy's outburst, her eyes swimming with questions. You look away, unable to hold her gaze any longer without crumbling apart.

“Sam, I'm going.” Tara says quietly. “She'll be-” she stutters, glancing at Ethan, “she can take care of herself.”

You nod, peeling yourself from Sam. She holds your hand tight, staring at Tara. “You're making me choose?” She asks, trembling.

Tara gulps, her eyes wide as she looks at your joined hands. “Whatever Gale found, we need to check it out,” she says, trying to convince herself as much as Sam, “I- I'm going, Sam,” she stutters, arms tight around her stomach.

All you can see is a girl forced to go through another massacre, a girl who still hasn't moved on from her best friend's betrayal. You understand.

Still, it hurts like hell.

“Go,” you whisper, managing a tired smile, “I'll be okay.”

With the last push, you leave Sam staring at her sister, and follow Ethan in the direction of his car.

×××

A movie theater.

That's what Gale found.

Sam walks in, Tara in her wake, timid and hesitant. She can't even look at her little sister right now, instead she focuses on what's right in front of her - her fathers hooded robe.

“You think she's still alive?”

She clenches her teeth tight and glances behind her shoulder. Another hallucination, just what she needs.

“Fucked up, isn't it?” Her father taunts, walking around her in circles.

She closes her eyes, clenching her fists tight. “Get lost.”

His mocking laugh grates at her ears. “I think one of them is already dead.”

She grinds her jaw, closing her eyes. “I said get lost.”

She turns on her heel, leaving the open space. She walks aimlessly, disappearing behind one of the many doors and sliding to the floor with her back against the wall. “Fuck,” she whispers, blinking back tears, “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

The door creaks open.

“Sam?”

It's Kirby.

Sam's fists clench.

“What?” She hisses.

The blonde looks at her for a moment, her eyes holding an understanding that hits Sam like a hammer. “We have some good news.”

Sam nods, not really caring.

“The next time that asshole calls we'll know where he is.”

Sam nods again.

“Sam.”

She looks down, playing with a loose thread in her shirt. “Good.”

“You made the right decision.”

Sam scoffs, standing up in one swift motion, now looming over the shorter blonde. “The right decision? She's alone. With that fucking-”

“He's alone with her.”

“Kirby,” Sam growls, a clear warning in her tone.

“I know. I went through this too, remember?” The shorter woman holds her ground, not budging an inch. “You know we can't trust her. You know it was the right thing to do.”

Sam swallows down the urge to scream. Instead she leaves, her steps echoing around the empty room, contemplating just going back and making you stay by her side, even if she has to force you.

×××

Ethan has to pack a bag. That's what he tells you anyway.

You sit in the passenger seat of his car - you didn't even know he had one - and wait for him to come out of his dormitory. You don't even jump every time a random car driving by honks. You tense, looking around, but you don't jump. You count that as a win.

You miss the feeling of safety Sam always brings.

“All good,” Ethan smiles, getting back behind the wheel. You startle, looking to your left.

“You sure?” You mumble, eyeing the small duffle bag he throws on the back seat.

“Yeah,” he shrugs, “I don't need much anyway. I know Sam's gonna get that fucker soon.”

You smile, relaxing for the first time since you left your girlfriend's side. “She will.”

His driving is a little messy - he hits at least three potholes on the way to your apartment and texts someone twice - but you don't complain, you're a far worse driver.

“That's me,” you sigh, welcoming him inside your apartment.

He looks around, his eyes widening as he takes in the mess that is your living room. You didn't really have enough time to clean up after Sam's visit.

“Sorry about that.” You blush, making a beeline for the kitchen. “Want something to drink?”

×××

“Sam,” Tara pleads, tugging at her sister's arm.

“Not now,” Sam hisses, looking around the park.

Kirby's plan to simply sit and wait for a call didn't sit right with Sam, so now they're here, in the middle of a park, with Kirby and Bailey as back up, baiting one of those fuckers in broad daylight.

She prays it works.

“Sam, you know-”

“Not now,” she hisses. Tara jumps away. Her sister never used that tone with her.

“I'm sorry,” she whispers, blinking back tears. “Maybe we shouldn't have left her. Not like that.”

Sam's eyes narrow as she turns on her heel. “You say that now?”

Tara squares her shoulders, wiping her cheeks. “I thought-”

“It doesn't matter what you thought. You made me choose. I would've never done that to you.”

Her sister folds in on herself, hugging her stomach. Sam sighs, looking around. She knows she's being too hard on her sister, but she can't bring herself to care right now. Not when you're in danger.

Sam starts, “Look, I know you're scared-”

“Yes, for you!” Tara interrupts, shaking. “You remember Richie? Remember his plans for you? And this- Kirby was right about love interests. We both know it.” Sam opens her mouth to protest, but Tara doesn't let her speak. “Don't try to deny it! I care about you, Sam, and if it means I have to be the bad guy to keep you safe, I'll do it.”

Sam's mouth snaps shut. Tara's eyes glint with determination now, her face set. She nods, feeling some of her anger seep away. “Okay,” she sighs. “I'm sorry for snapping.”

“I'm sorry for making you leave her.”

The sisters share a look and, after Sam nods, Tara throws her hands around her older sisters shoulders.

And then her phone rings.

“You're gonna die, you know?” She answers, looking around.

“No, you're gonna die, Sam, but not before watching your little sister bleed out.”

Sam swallows. Tara squeezes her hand, grounding her sister.

“But don't worry,” the voice starts, taunting, “it’s not her time. Yet.”

Sam stares ahead, unseeing, as the phone clicks.

“Kirby, did you get it?” Tara says into her ear peace. “What?” she pales, looking at Sam with wide eyes. “Yes, I know the address…” she trails off, trembling “...it's Y/n’s”

"What?" Sam breathes out and freezes.

Tara, not wasting any time, grabs her sister and runs to Bailey's car, pushing her in before taking a seat behind the wheel. The sirens blare, gnawing on Sam's mind.

Ethan, she thinks, that motherfucker. She's going to kill him. She'll make sure he suffers.

"Sam." Tara glances at her sister, expertly waving through the traffic. "I know you care about her, but..."

"What?"

Sam nods, her palms bleeding from how hard she's dug her nails into them.

"It might be... not what we expect. At Y/n's place, I mean." Tara mutters, glancing at her sister warily. Sam closes her eyes, taking deep, even breaths as her sister speaks. "Be ready for anything, okay?"

She is more than ready to gut the boy.

“Faster,” her father hisses from the backseat and she doesn't spare the hallucination a glance. “Or you'll lose your precious girlfriend.”

She grits her teeth, nails digging into her palms, and focuses on the road ahead, willing him to go away. She can't afford a distraction, not now, not when you are in danger. Tara glances at her warily, before hesitantly placing her palm on her shoulder, squeezing.

The breaks screech and she's out before the car comes to a full stop. She forgoes the elevators, running up the stairs to your apartment and bursting through the unlocked door.

The first thing she sees is blood.

The first thing she hears is Ethan's sobs.

"S-sam," he whimpers, clutching his stabbed stomach. "Please…"

Tara bumps into her back, panting and coughing. Sam's hand shoots out, stopping her sister from getting closer to the boy.

"Where is she?" Sam asks, her voice gravely quiet. She scans the apartment with her eyes, seeing no signs of struggle.

Her father appears by her side, nodding at the knife lying by the boy's side. “She did him good,” he grins in appreciation.

"I'm sorry," he wails, tears streaming down his face, "I'm so sorry, Sam."

She hums and takes a step closer, her fists clenched tight. "Where. Is. She."

Ethan blanches, pressing himself flat against the wall. "We were talking and she- she told me how sorry she was about Anika, told me how hard it was seeing her die, and then… then I hugged her, because she was crying and shaking, and I couldn't just stand there." Sam nods, crouching, and urges him to go on, her fingers squeezing around his wrist. "And then I felt the pain. I- I pushed her away and she- she did it again, she stabbed me again. It hurts so bad, Sam… Please," he sobs, wheezing.

Sam hums, pulling his hand away from the wound and presses her palm against it, hard. "That's not what I asked you," she hisses, enjoying the way he starts to writhe, screaming in pain, and pushes harder. She leans down to whisper in his ear, "Where is she?"

Ethan looks at her with wide eyes, terrified.

"Sam," Tara warns, "stop."

Her father chuckles.

When Ethan doesn't answer, she pulls her hand away, only to punch him straight in the gut, earning a pathetic wheeze. "I won't ask again."

"You're m- mad," he chokes, looking at Tara for help.

"We all go a little mad sometimes," Sam hisses before punching him again and again.

In the corner, her father smiles proudly.

She needs to know where you are. She needs to know you didn't do this. She needs to know you're not one of them.

"Sam, that's enough." Her sister pulls her by the shoulders, forcing her to stop the assault on the poor boy. "You heard him.. You see him. It's her," she whispers, blinking back tears. Sam shakes her head, ready to resume the interrogation, but Tara stops her. "Sam. This is not you. Stop."

Sam blinks rapidly, only now seeing a twinge of fear in her sister's eyes. Fear of her. She stumbles back, choking on her breath and falls to her knees, numb.

She sees her father shaking his head, disappointed in his daughter for stopping so early, for trusting you. She feels her sister's warm embrace, and hears her soothing words. She clings to her, burying her face in the smaller girl's frame, only one thought on her mind.

Han Jisung's head hurt.

A splitting headache. The kind where every beat of pain sent sharp streaks of light flashing across his vision. The cheering crowd—a chaotic blend of voices that felt like a hammer to his already pounding skull—had him fighting the urge to double over. But, when he really thought about it, Jisung supposed the fact that that the crowd was cheering for him made it worth enduring.

Standing in the center of the fighting pit, Han Jisung lifted his aching head. He gritted his teeth, peering through the haze of pain to cast a lazy smirk in the direction of the spectators. And, as expected, the noise surged.

Mugs of warm ale sloshed as the onlookers swayed in tandem with the rhythmic chanting of his name. Among the sea of faces, Jisung locked eyes with a particularly dreadful-looking man in the front row. The man's teeth were yellowed and broken, and a leering grin spread across his scarred face as he raised his mug in Jisung's direction.

Jisung's smirk grew into something wild—as sharp and untamed as the danger that lurked beneath his charismatic exterior. The acrid scent of sweat and spilled ale mingled with the metallic tang of blood in the air as Jisung inhaled deeply—senses heightened by the adrenaline coursing through his veins.

Oh, his head was throbbing now. It very well might have been the worst headache of Han Jisung's life, but he was certain he would never get enough of this. This life, this moment. Though he didn't know any of these people personally, they knew him—knew his name and the reputation that came with it in the underworld beneath District 7.

With the feral smirk still dancing on his lips, Han Jisung cracked his bandaged knuckles, the sound echoing in the dim light of the pit. His dark eyes gleamed with challenge as he tilted his head to the side. With a single flick of his wrist and an inward curl of his fingers, Jisung beckoned his opponent forward—an invitation.

The burly, muscle-bound man before him emitted a low growl in response. His massive fist—nearly the size of Jisung’s head—clenched as he surged forward with a powerful swing. But Jisung was a predator in his element, reflexes honed to utter perfection. With a mere pivot of his heel he slipped effortlessly out of the path of the oncoming blow.

Keeping his movements lazy, Jisung slipped his hands into his pockets. "Is that all you've got?" he drawled, voice dripping with an arrogance that had always been just as much a weapon as his fists.

The cheers turned deafening in response to his taunt. But as Jisung fought the urge to bring his hands up to cover his ears, an unexpected call from an unfamiliar voice in the crowd sent a jolt coursing through his frame.

Somewhere above, a stranger shouted, "Let’s go, Ji!" and that simple nickname—Ji—so casually tossed into the air, struck a chord deep within him.

Memories of a time before the pits crept into the edges of Jisung's consciousness. Despite the foolishness of it, he cast another glance upward. The sea of spectators blurred, and a face flashed vividly before his eyes. A face from his past, one that now existed only in his memory. A ghost amidst the living.

Absence pressed against his chest, the reminder of a past that stubbornly refused to fade. But Jisung wouldn't allow himself to dwell on the past. Not now, not ever. Because he was Han fucking Jisung. His very existence was a testament to survival. And he was too viciously cunning, too dangerously charming, and too goddamn good at carving his way through this hellish excuse for a world to let himself succumb to grief.

So Jisung blinked away the face from his past. The face that wasn't really there at all. He blinked once, twice. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself to focus on the present, and it was in that fleeting moment of distraction that his opponent seized the opportunity to deliver a powerful strike to his jaw.

The sudden impact sent a shockwave through Jisung's senses, snapping him back to reality as pain erupted from his bottom lip. It was the second hit he'd taken that night.

Two hits. Two rare lapses in his otherwise flawless defense.

The first had been a single, calculated blow that Jisung had purposely allowed the man to land to his temple, sparking the beginning of his headache.

The second punch to his jaw may have been unintentional, but Jisung hadn't flinched at either of the two hits. No, he welcomed them. He craved the warmth of the coppery blood as it pooled in his mouth, savoring the reminder of his own mortality. Not because he was some kind of sadist, but because Han Jisung had someone to see.

Behind a tattered black curtain in the stuffy underground cavern where the fighting pits lay, there was a young man with skilled hands and a quiet sort of intensity—a healer who called himself Minho.

In exchange for a portion of Jisung's winnings, Minho would discreetly tend to his injuries at the end of each fight. And if that meant Jisung would, at times, deliberately allow his opponents to get in a few hits...Well, whose business was it anyway? Longer fights meant bigger profits, and with Minho's skilled hands to patch him up afterward, Jisung was more than willing to oblige.

Feeling a sudden surge of determination at the thought of what—or rather, who—awaited him at the end of his current fight, Jisung decided enough was enough. He spat out a mouthful of blood, grimacing at the scarlet droplets on the dusty ground. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing the stickiness across his skin. He cocked his head, and with a series of devastatingly accurate jabs to his opponent's weak points—followed by a well-timed sweep of his leg—it was a matter of moments before his nameless opponent lay sprawled on the ground in defeat.

A pouch of gold coins tugging heavily at his waist, his signature smirk plastered across his face, Jisung climbed out of the fighting pit with practiced ease. He pushed through the densely packed crowd, ignoring the outstretched hands reaching for him in celebration as he began to make his way across the bustling den.

As Jisung walked, his gaze swept over the faces of pretty young men and women—many of whom he recognized. Among them were individuals who had once been the recipients of his fleeting affection. Some still held in their eyes the simmering desire to fulfill his every whim, their stares following him with hungry longing. If he tried hard enough, he could still hear their voices, how their words had dripped with honeyed praise as they’d pleaded for his attention. A select few had even begged him to run away with them. Claiming to hail from the infamous District 9, their promises of endless wealth and material possessions were spoken with such fervor that it was almost convincing. Almost. But in those moments, Jisung had only chuckled, dismissing their lavish promises with a smirk before fully indulging himself in their company until the first light of dawn.

As tempting as it may have been to give in to the allure of those past desires again tonight, Jisung maintained an air of charming indifference as he continued on. He flashed grins and casual nods, and though his eyes might have lingered on some of the prettier faces, he kept moving.

With a determined stride, he pushed through the tattered black curtain into the cramped alcove where Minho worked.

The healer’s lips twitched up ever so slightly, as if he'd recognized Jisung from his footsteps alone. However, as he turned and his gaze lifted from his small workbench to Jisung's battered face—as his eyes roamed over the split lip, the trickle of blood staining Jisung's temple—the subtle warmth in Minho's expression vanished. Concern and something like disapproval flashed across his eyes before his features settled into stone once more. "Do you get paid more if you make the fight look real?" Minho asked, his eyes flicking down to the pouch of gold at Jisung's side.

Jisung blinked, caught off guard. It was unusual for Minho to initiate conversation, let alone be so direct. Surprise colored his face as he took a seat on the cot beside the healer. "You were watching?"

"I watched until you allowed that guy to hit you," Minho's voice was soft as he examined Jisung's temple. Leaning in slightly, his brow furrowed as his fingertips traced the contours of the wound. He reached for a clean cloth, soaking it in a solution that carried the faint scent of medicinal herbs and something acidic.

"How did you know—" Jisung hissed as Minho pressed the cloth to his wound, the sting causing his eyes to water.

"Relax," Minho interrupted, "You're not the only one who knows how to read a fight, you know."

A flush crept up Jisung's neck as his next attempt to form words turned into a series of awkward stammers. He opened his mouth, closed it, cleared his throat, and squirmed uncomfortably on the cot until Minho snapped at him to stop moving.

Eventually, for what might have been the first time in his life, Jisung gave up on speaking altogether.

Minutes slipped by as Minho continued his work, the only sound the soft rustle of bandages and the hum of activity beyond the curtain. Jisung sighed, closing his eyes as he allowed himself sink into the familiar routine of Minho's care.

"You need to be more careful," Minho murmured, his voice breaking through Jisung's reverie. "I can only patch you up so many times before the damage becomes permanent, and.." His hands suddenly withdrew, putting a pause to his work. "I won't be around here much longer."

Jisung's heart skipped a beat, his eyes snapping open. "You're leaving?" he asked, the words coming out a bit more panicked than he'd intended.

Minho nodded, his gaze dropping to avoid Jisung's stare. "I never planned on staying here long,” he admitted quietly. "There might be others out there who could use my help."

Jisung's mind raced as he processed Minho's words. Despite his suspicions about the healer's origins, he'd never asked how Minho had learned his trade. And sure, he supposed there were plenty of people out there who could benefit from Minho's skills—people who weren't deliberately getting themselves hurt—Jisung knew all too well the cutthroat nature of the world. The brutality of the outer districts.

"Where will you go?" Jisung's voice trembled with desperation, and he didn't give a damn if it made him look weak. Vulnerable. Jisung had grown accustomed to the routine of visiting Minho after each fight—the quiet moments of conversation with someone who wasn't chasing after him for their own benefit. Someone who genuinely listened and understood him. He'd come to rely on Minho's steady presence more than he cared to admit, and suddenly, the quiet healer felt like a lifeline slipping away.

Minho offered a slow shrug, and a familiar sense of absence settled over Jisung as he realized that Minho's departure would leave yet another void in his life. "I'll miss you," Jisung blurted before he could stop himself.

A softness touched Minho’s expression, a glimpse of sadness reflected in his eyes. "I know, Jisung.”

"When?" Jisung demanded, “When do you leave?” Though he was fully aware that Minho owed him nothing, he needed to know.

"Two days, maybe three." Minho replied, his tone gentle yet firm—resolute. As if he had been planning this. As if he had known for quite some time. As if leaving Jisung behind meant nothing to him at all.

Jisung withdrew the pouch of coins at his waist and held it out. The healer's dark eyes narrowed in confusion as he glanced between Jisung and the pouch. "What are you doing?"

"Take it," Jisung insisted, his jaw set in determination. "For everything,” he swallowed, the pouch shaking with the slight tremor in his hand.

Minho hesitated, shoulders tensing. "You've already paid me for—“

"You'll need it more than I do out there. I know that bracelet on your wrist holds more value to you than coins. So just take it." With a decisive thud, Jisung dropped the pouch at Minho's feet. He stood, and as some fundamental part of him cracked so violently that he could feel it in his chest, Jisung turned away from the quiet healer.

For the weeks Jisung had known him, Minho had healed far more than his external injuries. He had been a constant. The only constant left in Jisung's life. There was nothing Jisung wanted more than for Minho to understand the depth of his gratitude, to recognize the significance of his presence. But the words stuck in his throat, suffocated by his own damn pride and stubbornness as he took a step to leave.

Reaching to push aside the curtain, Jisung hesitated, his hand hovering in mid-air as he considered the path he'd chosen. The chaos of the fighting pits and the thrill that came with a life spent in the underworld had been enough for a long time. He’d settled on the notion that it might always be enough. But now..What if there was something else he needed? Something he couldn't quite name but felt stirring within himself. The desire for something more. A desire that Jisung feared would continue to grow and gnaw at him until he found the courage to explore what lay beyond the underworld of District 7.

In that moment of uncertainty, it was Minho who ignited that spark of courage in Jisung's soul as the healer stood, cleared his throat, and said, "Come with me."