#vnm

The man kneeling directly across from you has a familiar insignia on his clasp, and a familiar shock of light, wavy hair. The face beneath is less familiar: not drawn and stylized as you’d last seen it, but almost disturbingly real: warm brown eyes, a proud nose, and pouty, pink lips. Disturbingly real, and disturbingly handsome. You’re a little angry with yourself for how quickly you recognize him.

“Your Highness?” Duke Bang Chan, leader of the the Eight and obvious true route in sensational otome game ‘Empyrean: The True Princess Returns’, asks, perfect brow creasing in what must be irritation. “Did you… hear me?”

Fuck, he’s handsome. Okay— Stop thinking about that. Get your head on straight: you must be dreaming. Are you dreaming? Or—

It takes everything you have not to ask who he is, or where you are, or where the cameras are — the classic isekai line of, ‘Why are you dressed like that? Are you a cosplayer? Are you filming a movie?’ already on the tip of your tongue. But you aren’t some green genre-fiction newbie. You reel the words in, mind reeling with the worst-case scenario.

There’s no one in your life with enough resources and personal investment in you to throw this kind of prank. You, an average-at-best citizen, have most certainly not been cast in a movie without any memory of the process. You could be dreaming — but you never dream like this, all vivid and alive, your fingers cold on the metal they’re clutching, your head already pounding with pain.

It’s crazy to assume — but let’s assume, just for now. It could still be a dream — but it wouldn’t hurt to play the part, just in case you were sent to another world, just as a hypothetical. It would be crazy. But how many times have you screamed at protagonists in your head for assuming that same thing? It’s crazy — but just to be safe—

Your mind snaps back into the present, repeating Chan’s words in your mind. Highness— Your Highness? Is he talking to you? But you’re— Surely you’re not…?

Sneakily, your eyes dart down to where your hair spills over your shoulder — long and soft and pale pink, falling artfully over a fine silk taffeta gown, so shiny you feel like, if you stared hard enough, you could see yourself in it.

Pale pink hair. A fine dress. A meeting with eight heroes, all of them kneeling in silence, barely so much as fidgeting as they wait for your answer. Your Highness.

…Fuck!

Of course, like any self-respecting otome game fan, you know about ‘Empyrean: The True Princess Returns’: a promising new title from an illustrious studio with jaw-dropping art and a whopping seven love interests. It had the concept to match, too: in a faraway, fantastical land with magic and madness and monsters, a young woman recovers her memories of being the kingdom’s long-lost princess. She inevitably embarks on a journey of romance and adventure as she attempts to find her footing in a palace already occupied by the current ruling monarch: the fake princess. Her lookalike. The villainess.

The villainess, with near-white hair a literally pale imitation of the heroine’s warm, rosy pink, her eyes a disarming yellow to the heroine’s dreamy brown. And her personality, naturally— Well—

Well… actually, you don’t know her personality. Because, like you said — though you were counting down the days to the title’s release, reading and watching and rereading and rewatching all of the trailers and promos you could, a series of unfortunate events befell you, and the title has spent the last few months sitting unopened in a box. You never played this game; you never got the chance. All you have to go off of for the villainess is her silhouette on the cover, her few unvoiced lines in the trailer, and your extensive knowledge of genre archetypes.

And the heroes are really, truly staring at you now, even the ones who had previously had their heads ducked — so it’s time to lock in. Vain, cold villainess mode engaged.

“I wasn’t listening,” you say, going for airy and haughty but coming across overly blunt even to your own ears. Waving a hand dismissively at Chan, you sweep your eyes briefly over the others, continuing. “Tell me again.”

The eight men are on the floor in front of what must be your throne — your throne!!! — up on a knee, one elbow resting on it like a knight in a fairytale. They’re arranged in a sort of triangular formation, like a flock of geese; you suppose that would make Chan the head goose, then. Or something. You’re not exactly familiar with goose social hierarchies.

“Of course,” Chan says warily, drawing you out of your hysterical goose spiral. His head is held at an angle to suggest a bow, though the bow, really, is not there: he’s fully looking at you, that same furrow between his eyes, his words coming slow. “I’m sure Your Highness is aware, as we are, of the rumors circulating the Trine.”

You are most certainly not aware. In fact, you don’t even know what the Trine means — until, suddenly, you do, the knowledge knocking into you like a textbook to the face. The Trine — the kingdoms of Haedroim, Anmealla, and Seindunna on the continent Ceannbyeol, united during the beginning years of the Disaster of Tears nearly a decade ago, when the very fabric of the world had split apart and monsters poured through the seams like common pests.

Immediately, images shake through you: black skies, falling stars, beasts with claws larger than you, and an unimaginable, aching loss, like a pit in your own body, beyond any grief you’ve ever felt. You’re still reeling, shock-still and face blank, as Chan continues.

“We are naturally understanding that Your Highness must be in need of a spouse,” he says, and that throws you for a loop for an entirely different reason; you just got here, and you’re already being married off?, “and that the Kingdoms’ stability is of utmost importance — to us, and to you. However — though of course, any of us would be honored — none of us Eight are looking to wed any time soon.”

For a moment, the two of you just stare at each other. That’s right: one of the promised plot points of the game was that the public was pressuring the villainess to take a consort, and that, due to their reputations and social standing, she was considering one of the heroes. Marrying age of heir-apparents and only children like the fake princess is 25, a number no doubt set for men — but while the encyclopedia in your brain helpfully and violently reminds you through another brain-smack that aristocracy marry surprisingly late here for a historical fantasy setting, it has still caused a stir for the princess, a young noblewoman, to be unwed at 25. Especially as Haedroim is the de facto leader of the Trine as a whole, and there are no other remaining members of the Haedroimian royal family to continue the line.

Instantly, you want to smack your own forehead. Internally, you beseech the public: I’m not even a royal! I’m not one of them! Don’t make me get married, please!

Obviously, your pleas go unheard and unanswered, and even the formation of handsome geese in front of you are oblivious to the woes behind your straight face. Staring them down, vision blurry, you attempt to regain your composure.

Plot points; stick to plot points. All of this is just a game, anyway.

This must be pre-canon. You imagine, then, that your intended role is to pick a hero here to strong-arm into an engagement, only for him to inevitably fall for the protagonist, so that you can play some antagonistic role as an unwanted love rival. Typical.

Airily, you sweep your eyes over the men in front of you, taking stock. Chan is there first, of course, immediate and obvious, as both the closest to you and the one with whom you’d previously been speaking. He’s just as handsome as the first time you’d looked him over: pale skin and pale hair contrasted sharply with his dark clothes, a cape and fur sweeping over his shoulder. When you look, he looks back, posture and expression wary, like you’re some hissing animal he just found in his garage. It’s easy to sort him in your head, with the cold expression and cold weather clothes: a proud duke of the north. A hero, title earned not through war but through a divinely-ordained quest that left him battered and battle-scarred. His heart only need be softened by the right ingenue.

Behind and to the left of him is another overly-handsome man with light brown hair, shorter and more neatly kept than Chan’s — Lee Minho, you realize, the knight commander, and the only commoner-born love interest to have completely rejected the noble title offered to him following the closing of the Tears. He’s prettier than you expected — softer almost, lashes sweeping his cheeks, lips pushed into an expression of discontent that is very nearly a pout. Even as you stare, investigating his armor and the sword at his belt, he doesn’t look up at you. Kuudere, you think, almost rolling your eyes. Tsundere, maybe. A cold beauty.

The man behind him jumps when your gaze shifts to him — maybe because he was already looking at you, your eyes locking in an instant. Nervous, is the first thing you think: wide, uncertain eyes, teeth nibbling his lip. He looks like a hamster, wavy black hair swept out of his face but curling over his ears and down the top of his neck — Han Jisung. A Count. On first impression, he seems like a kind of unfortunate, bumbling, genki-guy type. He blinks owlishly at you, then smiles, then winces, then drops his head, visibly swallowing, like he didn’t mean to do any of that. You let him go easily, attention already wandering.

Behind him is a man in stark white robes, unlike anything the others are wearing. His hair is similarly white, falling into his eyes to obscure his sharp features — and to your amusement, he looks a little like he’s spacing out. You vaguely recognize him as the eighth hero and High Priest, someone who isn’t a love interest despite the crying and pleading of fans. Though you’re not sure you buy his lack of love interest status — hidden love interests are always possible, right? — you just squint your eyes and move on. You don’t even remember his name.

On the other side of and behind Chan, a tall, broad shouldered man with short, dark brown hair meets your eyes calmly. He nods into a brief bow when your gazes meet but it doesn’t stick; instead of deferential, the way he lowers his head and stares to the side seems mostly bored. Him and his white-haired companion should compare notes; maybe they’re going to the same space cadet school. Still, you recognize him immediately, tracing your eyes over his long, elegant features: Kim Seungmin. Count and acting State Councilor. The stoic, scholastic archetype, no doubt.

The man behind him looks bored as well, as though you’ve been looking them over for hours rather than a few seconds. He’s dressed finely, light red hair pushed away from his face — Seo Changbin, one of the few noble-born heroes. Heir to an archduke of Anmealla, his family’s title was demoted by matter of course, though formally the title itself has not changed. He’s handsome too, if in a cuter, prettier way than you’d expected for such a solidly-built man: pink lips, wide eyes, charming even as they steadfastly ignore you. Your lips turn down briefly, looking at him. You don’t know what type he is yet. Based on the trailer, it seemed like he did… business? Of some sort? So maybe the shady businessman type. A criminal inevitably reformed by love?

The next man is staring at the floor so hard that you can’t actually make out much of his face: just straight brows, pretty eyes, a sweep of black hair down the back of his neck. He doesn’t give you much to go off of, but despite your attempts to avoid spoilers, you’ve seen enough chatter about him to recognize him immediately: Hwang Hyunjin. A prince, if not quite in the same standing as you — from Anmealla, just like Changbin, his title knocked down even farther by various political machinations until it’s practically meaningless. You heard he’s a player, you think — or a recluse? Or something. But the playboy prince archetype fits, with that face. You make sure to keep your expression neutral. Playboy targets have never been your favorite.

And finally, behind him: a blonde man with kind, pretty features, staring curiously at you. He ducks into a bow when you meet eyes but rises back up almost as quickly, more warmth on his face than you’ve seen on all of his companions combined — and if Hyunjin had caused a stir online, this one was downright a favorite; of course you recognize him. Lee Felix, leader of the Magic Tower, and born heir of a Haedroimian marquess. Based on what’s said about him, you can kind of guess: he’s the sweet, romantic guy you’re supposed to play early on, before things get too crazy. Sizing him up curiously, you’re surprised to find some kind of glowing, floating symbol in his left eye, slowly spinning, like a broken compass.

They are — all of them — very beautiful, and you’re a little smug to still remember all of their names from your pre-release research. Still, it does little change the position you’re in, nor the obvious answer to the statement posed.

“Do you think I pay attention to every rumor circulating the streets?” you ask Chan carelessly, eyeing him through your lashes. “If I had intentions towards any of you, then I assure you: I would not be waiting for town gossip and social pressure to do my work for me. Rest assured, Your Grace — you eight are the last men on the planet that I would marry.”

For plot reasons, of course; this world could end up on any one of their routes at an given moment. Not of course, that you are going to marry anyone at all, because you absolutely must clear out before your beloved heroine gets here, and also because you aren’t even a princess, and the continuity of the line and stability of the kingdom are not your problem.

Chan, who does not know these plot reasons, seems nearly stung. “Your Highness,” he says again — but you cut him off, waving your hand.

“I understand your concern,” you say, simple and flat, a polite smile sitting limp on your face. “As I’ve said, you need carry it no longer. If that’s all, you’re free to go. All of you.”

For a second, irritation flickers across his perfect, gentlemanly face. And you almost feel like you remember seeing that expression somehow, somewhere — maybe a trailer? His character profile? Your head throbs; the room spins. Or maybe—

Chan speaks up again, tone strange. “Your Highness—?”

You hear the drip before you feel it: heavy liquid, landing even heavier on the stiff, unbending fabric of your skirt. Instinctively, you raise a hand to your nose, pulling it away to look — and there’s blood, bright and vibrant on your fingers. Your nose is bleeding.

“Ah,” you say, blinking at the sight as your vision starts to swim: five fingers becoming ten, then fifteen, then some indecipherable blur, fading and phasing together until it’s impossible to track. Movement in front of you — and you hold up that same hand, blinking hard, pressing the other to your face, too uncoordinated to do anything but hide the unsightly blood. “It’s fine. Leave me.”

You didn’t think you were leaning — but suddenly, the room is upside-down, and you’re falling forward. Warm arms catch you in an instant, and in the last moment before you pass out, you think, Ah, man. This isn’t a good start, is it?

Comparatively, the dream is peaceful: a meadow, wildflowers and tall grass waving, with the loud sound of rushing water nearby. It’s nighttime, and when you glance up, a million stars wink down at you. Their intensity varies; in fact, there are some that are almost distractingly bright, shining like they’re closer than is possible, glaring down like they’re watching you, the light shifting all wrong—

A gentle voice calls out, pulling you from the sight with a start. “You’re finally awake,” it says. “I’ve been waiting.”

You recognize that voice, you think, as intuitive and easy as though it was your own. In an instant, you’re spinning on a heel, eager to look—

You wake slowly, swimming into darkness like you’re still asleep. Your eyes won’t open right away, forcing you to take in everything else first: something soft beneath you, something heavy pulled over top, your hair caught uncomfortably under your weight.

Then — voices.

“If it were just a matter of healing, she would be healed already,” someone says, short and irritated, a sigh in his words like he’s already said this a million times. “I’ve used holy power a hundred times on her and felt nothing. Or do you want to try being High Priest for a day, Hannie-hyung?”

An offended squawk, silly and jarring. “That’s not what I’m saying! I just— Obviously, she’s injured, or sick, or something, right?”

“If Jeonginnie says it’s just a nosebleed, then it must be,” someone else pipes up then, diplomatically — but you can barely even focus on that, because god, that voice is low. “For what it’s worth, I can’t feel anything wrong with magic, either.”

The second voice — Hannie, so Han Jisung, probably — sighs. “I get it, I get it. I mean, I didn’t notice anything either. It’s just… When I complained about being terrified for this meeting, this isn’t exactly what I pictured. Seeing someone faint right in front of you is…”

“We’ve seen worse,” the first voice — the High Priest? Jeongin? — says plainly.

“Channie-hyung caught her, though,” the third voice says, much more patiently. “I’m sure she’s fine. Maybe she’s scared of blood.”

Jisung still sounds incredulous, though. “What kind of ruler is scared of blood?”

Finally, you successfully force your eyes open — and find three men looming over your bedside. Han Jisung, that squirrel-like, unfortunate Count, is actually perched audaciously on the edge of your bed; the other two, Lee Felix of the Magic Tower and Jeongin of the Temple, are standing nearby.

“The good kind,” you deadpan, wincing immediately when the light stings your eyes as you force yourself upright. You feel weirdly — spacey, not fully in your body, so that it’s difficult to curl your hands into fists or get a hold of the sheets; the fact that you’re still fully clothed, heavy dress and all, isn’t helping. “Get off my bed.”

Han Jisung squawks again, literally falling onto his knees. “I— Oh my Gods, Your Highness, I’m so sorry for the discourtesy, I wasn’t thinking—”

When you sigh again, he zips it without needing to be told. “Just get up,” you say shortly, adjusting yourself as regally as you can against your pillows, forcing your eyes open again. Your lashes stick together strangely, and your body is weirdly rigid — are you wearing a corset? You don’t feel short of breath, though. “You look ridiculous down there.”

It’s a little mean — but sue you for being on edge. You just— You don’t even know; did you die? You don’t remember dying. Really, you don’t remember any specific moment when your time in your previous world ended; all you know is you were there, and then you woke up here at maybe the most inconvenient moment possible, giving you not a single second to contemplate what it all means. Slapped in the face with knowledge and memories and marriage talk, then with a nosebleed, then with fainting — yeah, you’re a little crabby.

And anyway, aren’t you the villainess? You can’t imagine the original princess was any nicer than this; otherwise, it would cause the player too much upset to completely ruin her life. You need to stay in character, and Han Jisung just happened to be here. Despite his looks, he’s supposed to be a hero and monster slayer; you’re pretty sure he can take it.

Wordlessly, watching you like a mouse watches a snake, Jisung does in fact get up. You barely even look at him, glancing over at the other two, and then at the room as a whole, which immediately proves itself much more interesting than any of these men. Is this really… your room?

Well, not your room — the princess’s room. But yours while you’re in her body, you suppose; temporarily yours. Yours for the foreseeable future. You shouldn’t stare; it would make it too obvious that you’ve never seen it before, but— God, it’s massive. And messy: fabric draped over every surface, chairs buried under mountains, books and bottles and shiny things in literal piles.

Your skin feels a little hot. Do three of the very sexy and accomplished male leads really have to be here? In your messy room? After you passed out for no reason?

You just started this life, and already, you’re going to die.

“Thank you for your help,” you deadpan in spite of that, fixing your eyes somewhere in the distance, keeping your expression flat. “Your diligence has been noted. You may go.”

Lee Felix seems to hesitate, rocking on his heels. “Your Highness,” he says, low voice softened into something attempting to be soothing, and fuck his voice is sexy, what the hell, “do you remember what happened? You got a nosebleed—”

“And fainted,” you interrupt, staring down at your hands. Huh, the blood is gone from your fingers, only the trace of it underneath a couple of your nails. There’s no way they cleaned it off of you though, right? “After that, I suppose you brought me here to examine me. Is that correct?”

A pause. Felix’s voice is wary. “That’s right.”

“Then again, I thank you for your help,” you intone blankly. “You may go.”

Jeongin — Yang Jeongin, your brain reminds you, the youngest of the heroes as well as the youngest High Priest in history — pipes up then. “Are you prone to fainting spells? My holy power found nothing wrong in your body.”

Holy power — you remember the description from promotional materials. In this world, extraordinary abilities are sorted into three categories: magic, aura, and holy power. In its simplest definition, magic has to do with forces outside of the human body; aura involves your own body; and holy power involves the bodies of others. Healing, you know, is part of that.

You have no idea what this body is or is not prone to. What you do know is that you do not like the thought of being examined by a strange man while unconscious.

“That’s nice,” you say, bristling like a threatened cat. “Now, since there’s no need for further concern — please, be on your way.”

All three men’s brows furrow, and their mouths open at once, like they coordinated it in advance. You hold up a hand again before they can speak.

“Before you go,” you start politely, painting on a blithe smile, “who showed you to this room?”

In sync once more, all three men blink at you, confused. You fix your sights on Han Jisung immediately — the weakest link — staring him down until he physically leans backwards.

“Uh,” he says, “your maid, I think. Your Highness.”

Fuck, of course you have a maid. You should just flip a coin now on whether she’s of the evil or mistreated variety.

Maybe they’re looking at you like that because being led by a maid is an obvious thing in this universe. You just keep that painted-on smile, unwilling to bend while they’re still here. “Alright, thank you. Send her in on your way out, please.”

Jisung blinks at you, then glances at his companions. Jeongin shrugs. Felix speaks for all three stooges. “Yes, Your Highness. We’ll leave you, then.”

Thank god — you’re tired of hearing ‘Your Highness’ all the time, and your head is still killing you. “Yes, yes,” you say absently, glancing around the room again in the scant few moments you have before more company arrives. “Have a safe journey back.”

Felix shoots you a look, then another at his friends. Jeongin shrugs again. Jisung hesitates, lingering by the door.

“Be well, Your Highness,” he calls out hesitantly, and then, wilting once more when your eyes turn to him, “please.”

Before you have time to say anything, he disappears after his companions.

A moment later, a young woman walks through the door, in the typical long black dress and white apron you would expect for a maid in an otome game.

“Your Highness,” she says, dipping into a curtsy — though her head isn’t completely ducked, her bored face looking off to one side. “I was told you asked to speak with me.”

‘Asked to speak with her’— It’s a little bold for a maid, isn’t it? You’re not a real princess; you’ve been at the bottom of the socioeconomic ladder your whole life — but you don’t even use that tone with customers at your retail job.

Okay, deep breaths; game-face on. This is a part, and you need to play it.

And anyway — you have your own things you’re angry about, besides.

“Tell me,” you say, without even greeting her back, “why did you think it appropriate to leave your unmarried lady in her bedroom alone with three men she doesn’t know?”

The girl’s face pinches in irritation. “Three men— Those are the Eight—”

“And men besides,” you interrupt, squaring your shoulders, once again attempting to look as regal as possible while confined to your bed. “Actually, even if they weren’t men — in what world is it reasonable to leave your unconscious sovereign alone without having been asked? Without even a single guard?”

“You don’t have a guard, Your Highness, and I was asked—”

“By who?” you ask, smile sweet and sharp. “The High Priest? The Count, perhaps? As far as I know, they don’t outrank me. Or am I mistaken?”

She just stares at you, face pinched. And honestly, some part of you has sympathy, because it sucks to be in a position between powerful people, and you were out of commission for comment, employer or not.

But the feeling of it — of passing out, and losing time, and waking up to find three strangers looming over you — surpasses any of that sympathy.

Villainesses lash out, act unjust, and punish the downtrodden. You should perform well for your first day on the job.

“Did you even call for a doctor?” you ask, voice turning snider and snider, your fear and rage and frustration at the situation you’ve found yourself in pouring out of you until it floods the room. “Tell me, girl: what was your name again?”

Hesitation flickers visibly across her face — but she can’t refuse to answer, and she doesn’t. You repeat the name back to her, soft, nearly thoughtful.

“I’ll be changing your assignment,” you say airily, waving her off. “You may leave.”

The girl jolts in place. “That— Your Highness! But — you can’t! You don’t even have another personal maid!”

You don’t? You tsk before you can help yourself. Really, the original princess — couldn’t she have kept an entourage of maids around to torment like a normal villainess? Clearly this maid hates her, so she must have tormented her, at least. It would be better to start from a blank slate, of course, but at least that way you’d have options while you search for replacements.

Still, there’s no helping it; you really cannot bear to look at this girl any longer. “That’s not your concern anymore. Leave me.”

“Your Highness—”

“Leave.”

The girl frowns, big and angry and obvious, barely bowing again before practically running out. You sigh, abandoning your haughty posture the moment the door clicks closed to hug your knees.

“Okay, think,” you mumble into your covers. “Think. What am I going to do?”

Some distance away, three figures duck into a doorway just in time to avoid the maid barreling down the hall. Having each been blessed by a different god, all of them have senses far beyond that of a normal human — which naturally include hearing, excellent enough to listen in on your conversation with little expended effort. Not that you would know.

Felix speaks first, looking concerned. “How is she going to get her dress off by herself?”

Jisung punches him in the shoulder. “Dude, your mind did not go there—”

“I don’t mean it like that!” Felix objects, lip pushing in a pout, ears turning pink. “I don’t even know her! But I’ve had a lifetime of waiting for my sisters to finish getting ready, you know; I know those dresses take forever to get done up all the way.”

“You take just as long to get dressed, though,” Jeongin teases, though he looks just as thoughtful as the rest of them.

An uneasy silence falls. Felix is the one to break it, once again. “We really shouldn’t have been alone with her. I wasn’t thinking about it.”

Jeongin’s expression still seems unsettled, even as he says, “I’m the High Priest. I’m married to the Goddess.”

“I’m not, though,” Jisung says with a nervous laugh.

“I didn’t consider that we would scare her,” Felix murmurs like the exchange didn’t happen, expression pained and far away. “This was the first real time we’ve spoken, but she’s always seemed very… strong. Even today.”

And it’s true: you’re basically a stranger. Felix has seen you before, at events and whatnot, and given greetings alongside his family or the other heroes. You’ve always seemed very regal, for lack of a better word, on that throne of yours, never coming down even when banquets and balls are in full swing — the Iron Scepter, the unshakable core of the Trine, with that unchanging icy look on your face.

Even today, falling into Chan’s arms — you’d still had that look. Even when they laid you out on the floor for first aid, your expression had been curiously flat, curiously controlled, so much so that Felix had even wondered, briefly, if you were awake after all.

The only time he’s ever seen your expression in anything other than stony disinterest or a narrow, political smile was when Jeongin mentioned examining you; even then, it was only a blip. A moment of distress, strangely captivating, before you forced it under again. A slip in the facade.

Felix doesn’t know you. Really, though he doesn’t dislike you, he’s never particularly cared to know you; he lives a full, busy life, after all. He knows lots of people.

He tells himself, when his attention strays back down the hallway, towards your room, that the change is inspired merely by care for your wellbeing. Jisung was right, after all: it is jarring, seeing someone faint. And they are meant to be heroes, aren’t they?

When he checks, he finds Jisung and Jeongin already looking in that direction, similarly complicated looks on their faces.

In their chests, a string is tightening.

“We should go,” Jisung says finally, turning to look at Jeongin and Felix. “We’ll get in trouble if we linger.”

They don’t get in trouble for anything these days. Felix doesn’t say so.

“You’re right,” he agrees instead, leading them back out into the hall. “Ayen-ah, would you mind leading?”

Jeongin laughs, just a little too loud for the setting. “Sure. We don’t want you getting lost again, hyung.”

Three sets of footsteps make their way down a long hallway. In your room, you can’t hear them — but they can hear you, climbing out of bed, wobbling on your feet, studying the back of your complicated, lace-up dress the best you can in the mirror.

Yeah, there is no way you’re getting out of this by yourself.

“Shit!” you hiss.

tagging: @morning, @solpng, @bergamotpeel, @zyx, @imaconnoisseurofroads,

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