#vmxkey

@vmxkey

With the current conditions of the city, and the fact that security levels dropped lower and lower each day, it was hard not to assume that anyone who went missing for more than three days was not, well... dead. Yet a ray of hope shed its light on this case when her young client received a call from his sister. Albeit an alarming one, it at least indicated she was still alive, or so they all hoped. But beyond that, there were no leads; no clues, no bread crumbs.

But Sera was relentless, and she’d given her word to do her best, yet so far, she couldn’t do her best. All until, and quite in the spur of the moment, she spilled the details of the case she was working on to a... once upon a time close friend, not realizing that he could help her as much as he was able to.

And so there she was, making her way through booming music, and yelling at the top of her lungs for the receptionist to hear who she was there to meet. There was a slight limp in her tread as she followed towards one of the VIP rooms, stitches or not, she wasn’t about to not dress up for the part, but man did she hate those heels she wore.

inane are unnecessary attachments — it is a game of hurt or get hurt. hearts, dancing above invisible blades; fall, fall, falling. he is still a stranger to human relations, living in a cage of nonchalance and apathy, once distanced from the vividness of humanity. when it was expected from him to be vicious, impervious, that’s what he made himself to be, until it was what he became. he’s molded by the hands of others; his rib cage is a ravaged prison of a frost heart, the residue of a mother, of a father, carved into the pulsating organ, the wounds sewed shut with noxious sutures threatening to rupture.

he arrives his destination with a halt of footsteps, hands tucked into pockets. the tip of his shoe meets the door, twice, movement controlled by lethargy that’s seeping into his bones with searching hands, uninvited. ( its crooked fingers tangling and pulling him deeper into the abyss, but jongin is far from succumbing. ) the door, unlocked, opens with a jerk of his wrist when impatience induces him to inviting himself in. 

inside, he is met with a sense of familiarity and a sight of his friend. ( the word friend still feels foreign on the tip of his tongue. )

“kibum,” he calls, the usage of younger’s real name followed by a curt and vague request of “i need something.”