#vcsypha

when making visits to night blood’s territories, dragan would traverse alone and secured just incase anything would happen to go down. his life was always in the line of danger, even before taking his father’s position within the gang. being the youngest of the jeup clan, no one would have ever thought that he would take hold of the highest position there was to offer, and yet here he was with an entire syndicate in his hands. now, he makes his run to one of the clubs ; cache. better known for being a strip club, as most pile up to see the entertainment and others navigate towards back rooms for a night of pleasure -- the pricey club never sleeps until the doors close when business ends. 

he walks through the doors, a special guest walks with him, someone he cares for dearly. his underboss is someone he trusts most, holding dearly to him. if anything were to happen to dragan, she would be next in line. history, as a woman becomes a leader of a well-known and feared gang such as night bloods hold in reputation. he wonders if anyone would be able to handle such. his sister, and oldest of the siblings was someone whom didn’t find herself fit for an responsible position such as this one, but he insisted on having his older sibling close as possible. her safety was more important than his own. after all, she was a pureblood unlike him who was mixed. too keep the bloodline going, he was sure that his two older siblings were more important than his own life, therefore, he put himself as a prominent target rather than the other two -- cousins included. he felt such a heavy burden but it was a price to pay when he came upon agreeing to wear the crown. 

he gaze moves towards his older sister, and from the looks of her expression it’s not a pleased one. there’s a cant of his head, resting upon his hand as his elbow is used for support against the table. “ why the sullen look, sypha? are you not enjoying the visit? ” he asked. if the older wasn’t having a good time, then something had to change about within the club. whether it be removing someone from the employment list completely or finding something else that could possibly entertain her in some way to make this visit more promising. a bad visit from the high ups wasn’t a good look for business. the last thing one would want to do was upset a jeup. 

within the time-worn pages of history documents the era of romanticism, that which exists as a blur of draping gossamer dresses, delicate picnics amidst flowering greenery, and stealing illicit kisses atop a cloistered balcony. surely, it is from its womb that the beginnings of artistry should emerge. though perhaps, should one peel back its muted undertones, they would find its canvas to be, quite simply, bland. for the romantic movement comes not from the decree of the gods, that its beauty should be exquisite down to its bare bones. no, it is instead devised in the self-serving minds of men, that they should fabricate a delusion to atone for their mediocrity.

simply put, there is nothing romantic about the birth pains of an artist. from the awkward sketches of conflicting shapes to the weak strokes of an overly wet paintbrush, it is a novice art piece that is to be tucked away for the mould. yongtae knows this to be true, has the evidences of his first dabbles into the visual arts left carelessly amongst the dregs. and oh, the horror that should overcome him, as would anyone, should these paintings be uncovered for all to see.

perhaps in this way, he understands mother’s shame. for in the present days, where he stands polished and composed, was this not the image that mother had so carefully painted with her capable hands? is it not her precise brush strokes that first coloured his gallant smile? and as he stands now, battling with his deformity in the mirror, is this not the very drawing of her first dabbles into motherhood, that which she longs so desperately to hide?

it is his anger that summons this form, that which treats his different parts as individual entities, that they should all ebb and flow into dragon-like features so erratically and unnervingly out of sync. amid his rage, he had felt its threat in the impression of growing claws into sweaty palms, and like clockwork, yongtae had ducked into a proximal room lest he be found out. why, here he stands now, in a room where only moonlight sheds, as he writhes in a losing battle with the dragon that resides within him.

it is in this chaos that he hears a knock, and in the midst of his own scrimmage, he remembers his duty to the jeup daughter. it is the very thought of her discovering his distortion that sends a kind of panic to wash over him, not unlike a hesitant sinner in the dishonourable act of crime, and it is all he can think to duck behind a nondescript surface in an attempt to conceal himself.

“get out!” it is roared more than it is spoken, as he curls into himself in dread and, quite simply put, shame.