the target stands alone and unguarded, an easy prey.
yixing remembers how he became a silhouette from the corner of the eye ; a specter birthed from the echoes of the world, disorienting. he paces on raw concrete with quiet steps. patterned heartbeat and calm hands buried deep in his pockets, moonlight's pale fingers slipping around the columns.
look back at your reflection and pick a weapon. do not be blinded by pleas of mercy ; it begets failure. unleash the rage building in the tendons of your muscles —— pull and twist until reality and dreams converge in a cataclysmic deluge.
he gives asami a glance, pools of black passing over dark acts and body counts —— lies to everyone but them. where she comes , he goes. always longing. the air to his lungs, vile and addicting. he's obsessed — an apotheosis of malignant codependency. misaligned morality, nuclear winter. he seizes hope and burns them for warmth then she fills the voids between worlds with death.
the target's throat is open for everyone to slit open, and so they do. him / her, he cannot remember. sometimes they are one. the mind wants to forget. it's not their first kill, and definitely not their last. ( the blood quickly freezes into crimson medals splattered on his chest ).
a chuckle ruptures from his throat, a lopsided grin spreading past shy lips. hysteria tugs at the back of his mind. something’s funny but he doesn’t know what it is , cannot nitpick it from the stream of his thoughts.
as if he remembers a joke from his childhood — and realizes he doesn't have one.
he's been laughing ever since.
❛ ..... messy . could've choked him but — didn’t. .... asami, look , LOOK. at what i did , we did — ❜