wonwoo could only wonder: was it that he murdered people, or was it just bad luck that god always dealt him the worst hand, and had him bump into that bastard hachi on multiple occasions. billions of people on the fucking planet, and god kept handing him hachi. it had to be the murdering. it had to be. 

whatever it was, wonwoo found a particular annoyance in meeting the older on a regular basis for no reason on the streets at night. he was no threat to him, as he wasn’t to him either, but it was just... an inconvenience. all he wanted to do was get home and smash his face into his pillow and wake up when the sun has already started to set again. but instead, he’d bump into the bastard, having no believable excuse as to why he’d be out this late so often, but he liked to hope that the other was smart enough not to ask after the first couple times. 

today it’s a little earlier than usual. the sun has set, but the night is young. wonwoo still had plenty of time to sleep, and plenty of time to stroll home at a leisurely pace, his legs not yet heavy with tiredness. but he hopes, as it’s not near the time he usually has the undeniable pleasure of encountering the talkative fuck, that he had escaped. alas, wonwoo murders people, and apparently, god hates him for it. 

“what the fuck are you doing here? it’s barely midnight. shouldn’t you still be drinking right now? fucking hell.”

Try to breathe, try to breathe for just a moment, sucking in lungfuls of air is hard when you’re choking on blood. Deep breath in. Deep breath out. Relax. And again. Inhale. Exhale. A cycle of remaining composure, a familiar set of steps that helped him keep his sanity and level-headedness in both the medical field and in the thick of battle, blade pressed against his neck, he just had to remember to breathe.

Relax and unwind. Untangle the strings and chains, the barbed wire digging cruelly into his paper skin. It was a necessary process, it kept him alive and away from methods of searching out his own destruction. It was a bit ironic, it caused his lips to curl in an almost mischievous smirk shared with only himself lest someone else see it and automatically cast the glaring light of suspicion on him. Finding his own relaxation in human corruption. Tainting his own skin and body, trapped in lust and excusing his vices and sins for one night. Still, it was rare for him to find himself in the Red Light district, the scarlet washing over its patrons. He felt all too out of place on his occasional visits, wandering eyes lingering a little too long on revealed skin and four hundred years of apathetic and composed existence was ignored and replaced by a faint coloring to his cheeks, his eyes furtively darting away. Massage parlors, it was a transparent veneer but he found himself eventually stepping foot into one of the ones that looked the least like a health hazard.

Lust, temptation.

He hadn’t left those behind after all it seemed.