why does the mind do such things? turn on us, rend us, dig the claws in. if you get hungry enough, they say, you start eating your own heart. maybe it’s much the same.
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Forget stardust—you are iron. Your blood is nothing but ferrous liquid. When you bleed, you reek of rust. It is iron that fills your heart and sits in your veins. And what is iron, really, unless it’s forged?
You are iron. And you are strong.
He wasn’t going to give in, he could deal with the constant annoyance of a clicking pen, he would fight it. There was no way he was letting the man win again. Not this time.
the translucent clouds of grey smoke create a veil between him and the stars setting the sky ablaze with their dim splendor. at one moment, the smoke is strong but fragile and dissipating the next. with every exhale it blurs his vision, conceals the sky’s twinkle behind the monochromatic mist. there is a pile of cigarette butts and ash lying next to him, another stick burning between his chapped lips. the night should be beautiful, but it isn’t.
( inhale toxins, exhale smoke.
repeat. )
he takes the stairs instead of an elevator, emptiness filled with the echoing cadence of his boots meeting floor. clad in all black, he is like a shadow chasing the light in the growing darkness, emerging from the gloominess to the corridor of the third floor. his destination is a room filled with variety of weapons, from knives to guns to explosives -- but the annoying beep of a phone and a received text message change his plans.
the elevator arrives in a matter of seconds and he walks in without sparing the other person inside a second glance; instead, he pushes the button for the ground floor and leans his back against the wall, a huff of cigarette breath leaving lips. silence is enjoyable until it is filled with a hum and fallen syllables. the words are met with a raise of eyebrows and a hand that is brought up to chest to catch the folder slowly giving in to gravity. rolling his eyes, he flips the cover open with a swift movement of tobacco dipped fingertips, halfheartedly skimming through the given information.
( his interpretation of himchan’s part of the assignment: a babysitter. )
“and why exactly do i need you for this mission again?” he inquires, slamming the folder shut with disinterest, feet moving forward to catch his partner but having no real hurry doing so. teamwork, he has learned, does not suit well with how he functions.
“Jongin,” he said softly, finally halting his musical evening. “What can I do for you, my friend? Would you care for a glass of wine?” Without even waiting to hear the other male’s answer, Key turned around and made his way into the kitchen to pull out a second wine glass. “It’s 2004… Imported from Chile. Very good tasting wine…” The dealer resumed his soft humming as he poured some wine into the glass and moved over to hand it off to his guest.
jongin is a phantom, born from sin and raised in shadows. he knows violence better than anything else, it is in his blood. ( it is what his father wanted him to learn; to embrace what he has been given. ) a secret: he was the man’s pride -- yet at the same time, jongin remembers he could always see a transient flash of fear in his eyes. for that fear, there were invisible shackles around his bony wrists.
and those shackles, he couldn’t break.
“no.” refusal greets the offer without a moment of lapse. he disregards the glass of wine with hands that stay hidden and eyes that drift away from the burgundy colored liquor to offer the room a cursory glance; a newly found interest of his that dies as soon as he arrives the living room, slumping down on a couch with a heavy sigh.
"i’ve got this..,” a momentary pause, distaste a brief flicker in dark eyes, “assignment.” clarification isn’t exactly needed -- it probably is something that kibum has already guessed to be the case. he raises a hand to rub his temples, a futile attempt to clear his head from unnecessary thoughts. "i need a bunch of drugs. and some explosives.” gaze meets kibum with a smile that is clearly not as genuine as it could possibly be. “please.”
and when he finally lets her go to the cool night air, ember’s certain there will be a livid red forming in the shape of his hand; a mark left upon her for all eternity. before she can think to stop them, bitter words spill from her lips like yesterday’s coffee. “ … what have you done?”
she closes her eyes, and the only sound that surrounds them is the sting of a slap that echoes in the open.
words are fallen victims of a mouth that has gone dry and lips that stay sealed. it is numbing silence that prevails. ( this, he should be used to. ) his eyes, charcoal black infernos staring at her, are like perpetual abyss: the only thing that they reflect is vacuity. he should find stars in hers, not this dreariness, not this poison -- they should not look so similar to his own. everything in her is screaming w r o n g and jongin can only wonder what has caused this darkness to wrap its fingers around her form and take root in her bones.
( she is a distant memory of what once was, what could have been. a memory of medical books and stories on a bench, of sitting too close, knees brushing. she was a songbird and he was the forest that was listening.
now: they are skeletons of past. it should have been more beautiful than this. )
she spills bitter words -- her voice still doesn’t sound like her own. the snakes in her bleed their poison and she lets them. a hand is flung towards him and it collides with bronze skin. he barely reacts, jaw clenching and knuckles bleeding white with the force they are squeezed into fists. silence ensues, the slightest echo of skin meeting skin lingering around two bodies. there’s a sting on his cheek but it feels nothing compared to the ache in his heart. ( he should be impervious -- then why is this hurting? ) he closes his eyes.
when he opens them: red.
"what have i done?” his voice is deep and hoarse, almost rusty. incredulity feeds the seething anger that seeps into his words and laces them with acid. “are you being fucking serious right now?” it’s like fuel was poured down his throat and her words were the match to start the fire. he is untamed and in his mouth: hellfire. he steps forward.
she may be the snakemother but he is not afraid of her.
“the better question would be what the fuck have y o u done?”
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still, she feels exposed but the building she is will crash and crumble like it did all those years before and she’ll rise from the ashes, from destruction. ember is sure she’ll forget, if only she just never sees his face again. she’ll recover. she’ll rise. ( she won’t be the paper girl who sat too close to a boy and felt her lips curving from the thought of it.
but kai is a guardian. kai is the one that stands in her way and so, she falters but stands her ground. “ move.”
the whispers in the night are all about the snakemother ( it’s cottonmouth’s second, cottonmouth’s second! ). her presence is the tension lingering in the air and the flash of fear that’s blooming in people’s eyes. they pretend it is not there but paranoia ruins their pretenses; he can see right through them. tediousness has his back leaned against wall yet he’s constantly on alert, keeps his ears open but his fingers are itching for a smoke. there’s a shift in the crowd and it moves, shuns the female serpent with poison fangs as if she’d be emitting venom. her ash blonde head emerges from the sea of people, eyes burning like an inferno and --
-- and his mask of impassivity falters. it is like a memory painted in vivid color, something forbidden and deeply buried resurfaced with an evanescence of control and he pretends he doesn’t feel his heart aching or his bones longing.
she approaches and his body moves on its own accord: he blocks her escape route, traps her inside. ( she can’t go. ) her voice bleeds acid, uttering a single worded command he is expected to obey. ( he can’t. )
( because it’s yerim. she’s the girl sitting on a bench, reading. always reading.
she’s the girl whose voice always called his name, softer than anyone else’s ever had.
she’s the girl.
and that girl is the snake in woman’s clothing. )
no.
wrong.
his hand reaches for her -- it is a distance of mere centimeters yet it feels like he’s reaching back through the passed years --, calloused fingers crooked around brittle wrist. she is pulled aside, right into the night and kai swears the air just feels more suffocating than it did inside. his grip loosens, almost reluctantly, hand returning to his side, curling into fists. there is a tingle on his fingertips from where they touched the coldness of her skin. ( it feels wrong. )
jongin parts his lips but there’s something lodged in his throat; it slaughters the words endeavoring to escape, turns them to dust and leaves a bitter aftertaste in his mouth.
She pauses then, reassured by the respite of newfound alleviation.
“Are you hungry at all? I’m starving. Do you want something to eat?”
silence follows her hesitation, words asphyxiated in narrow throat by invisible hands before it breaks with the reappearance of her voice like tenuous ice that embraces a body of water in winter, shattering, giving in underneath the weight of unsteady steps.
she is like a porcelain doll; beautiful and fragile, scared of breaking in the hands of a beast.
his gaze doesn’t falter. he is godless, this he knows. beneath his feet is a battlefield, embellished with shades of a bloodshed; seoul is a city clad in crimson and crime, remnants of the perennial war smoldering underneath the sea of red. he has his hands doused in that same bloodshed, corruption and decay. the path he walks in is one of destruction and death -- it is the same as his father’s – and she has already stepped on it; has had a taste of what monstrosities he is capable of.
( you terrify me.
in her words: familiar repetition of truth he has by now fathomed. )
he releases her from the shackles of his gaze, an inclination of head that buries her in the dark spot that is now out of his peripheral vision. the desperation of her insistence, of her words, is something unfamiliar – he has not felt anything like that. ( after all, he is made of steel skin and sharp teeth. ) he releases a wave of breath, arms weaving together and crossed underneath the sternum, frost brown irises meeting hers. “interesting.” there’s a slight lift of lips and a nod of his head. she is something different, intriguing. “i like your honesty. lying would be fucking pointless, so i’m glad you decided to forgo it.”
( he doesn’t mention how her words spoke truth louder than his voice ever could. )
“yes.” it is the change of topic that shakes some of the tension off of his shoulders. “i think i could have dessert.”
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.”
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“I have a gift. I know that it’s uncomfortable to receive presents but please take this as an extension of my thankfulness.” She reaches for the box then, placing it amongst his territory with a gentle tap of her fingers. “It’s a good luck charm, from my homeland? Not that you need luck, but this will keep you safe, or not. I guess it all depends on what you believe in.” There is another glow of a smile. “I’m Ni Ni, by the way. I am very honored to make your acquaintance. Thank you.”
in his memories, everything begins in monochrome, then fading with an absence of vividness and color. grayscale dominates until it doesn’t—until everything is red. red, red! her madness is a lake of scarlet she’s swimming in and he’s dipping his toes. fades back to black and white, bloodstains an undertone beneath all that bleakness.
he is a product of madness and violence. these hands, licked by gunpowder. this bronze complexion stained in a rusty coat of crimson. behind the dark of these eyes reigns a neverending winter, a hideaway for the demons. inside the cranium, it’s a savage wildland peopled by frightening monsters. this is him: an instrument of death, incarnated. in a real world, his existence is a melange of chaos.
she greets him with a polite bow and a curve of her lips while he wears a mask of indifference, posture somewhat relaxed but shoulders taut under tension. fingertips meet the table in tediousness, brushing against the surface in a cadence of irregularity. his gaze is burning, an inferno of frigid flames in his eyes; she inclines her head in avoidance, distractions as her escape from his unrelenting scrutiny. he keeps his voice to himself but words drip from her mouth in rivulets. paranoia sets in; her sentences echoing inside his head in search for any untruths. doubt is a lingering sensation planted within the depths of his mind ( he does not believe true sincerity exists—everyone has their hidden agendas. everyone’s a fucking liar ).
an appearance of a decorated box is met with a raise of eyebrows, suspicion flickering in his eyes. vigilance keeps his shoulders tensed, but her words aren’t dripping acid; he finds genuineness so rare in her that it is enough to shatter the incredulity into shards of razor-sharp glass and persuade him into accepting the gesture of thankfulness.
he doesn’t utter a thank you ( the unfamiliar words get lodged in his throat before they could be voiced ), nor does he have the need for an introduction. instead, his fingers resting above the angular object, he speaks, voice low with an undercurrent of mild amusement, contemplative but otherwise emotionless eyes directed toward her. “do i make you nervous?”
loneliness has a sense of familiarity; it feels comfortable, it feels homely. loneliness is friends with silence, and silence is understanding. he was taught that loneliness was not to be associated with frailty: loneliness was a strength while people were considered as weakness, as something that could be used against you. loneliness made home in his bones, and stayed.
but somewhere between the years of solitude and bloodstained memories and smell of gunpowder, loneliness slowly starts to succumb to the growing darkness.
the door slams shut behind him with a little more force than necessary, the sound echoing in the apartment for a briefest of moments. the keys jingle as he sets them on the counter. he heaves a sigh, agitation still burning in his veins. “i fucking hate drunken people,” he mutters, words meeting the air with venomous edge. ( in his mind, alcohol is a poison clouding judgement. in his mind, it’s a weakness. )
runs his fingers through the strands of his black hair, reaching for a pack of cigarettes lying on the coffee table—unheeded are the prohibitions as he lights one cancer stick. inhale, exhale.
he doesn’t bother knocking ( he never does ) as he unceremoniously opens her bedroom door, gaze automatically falling on the frigure of his roommate’s. there are no words; he continues smoking, leaning against the doorframe.
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Due to a mishap on another member’s part, your leader has designated a hit on a particular police official with information regarding Wolfsbane’s wrong-doings. It is highly imperative that the information is not leaked to the public, which it will be tomorrow morning if something is not done about the officer. Your job is to find the official, and eliminate him at all costs. Leave no trace, do your best, and please remember that failure is not an option!
he is walking on a field of neverending concrete jungle, amid flickering city lights and growing shadows.
his face is a blank canvas, devoid of all emotion. there is no one genuflecting before him, no one mouthing praises; the only ones on their hands and knees are stuttering, prayers leaving lips with an aftertaste of blood and nearing death on their tongue. they pray and they pray and they pray, desperately, as if there’s a god to hear them. ( there isn’t. )
a sinner since birth, violence and murder in his blood. his strong hands stained with vermillion etched so deep underneath the layers of skin—though not visible, the feeling is always there. red is a color of death. red is a color of his life. red, red, red; everything’s red. it’s always shades of red. discarding another cigarette, deep brown eyes sweeping through his surroundings with heedful edge. the echo of his footsteps gradually fades as he disappears into the shadows.
he has done this countless of times, and nothing has changed. his calloused fingers clench and unclench around the sniper rifle, feel the planes of the weapon with familiarity and professionalism. through the scope, the face of the police officer comes into the view.
TARGET LOCKED. STATUS: IMMEDIATE ELIMINATION.
his finger lingers on the familiar curve of the trigger, anticipation hot in his veins. the edge of his lips slightly twitches down but the gesture is gone in a matter of seconds as if it was never there. ( this, he thinks, is pretty boring. )
he pulls the trigger with steady hands and placid heartbeat.
it’s over all too soon: the bullet hits him between the eyes, throws his head back. staggers back a step before the body falls limply to the ground like a rag doll discarded by a little child. blood and gore spilling out of the bullet hole, glazed eyes staring into the distance. the street is at standstill.
kai tears his gaze away from the scene and exhales. another life his hands have taken. plus one to the continuously increasing body count. more red. the sky looks as gloomy as ever, the rays of moonlight barely visible above the luminous lights of seoul’s night life. his long fingers reach for the lighter, a cigarette sitting in between his chapped lips.
the faint scent of tobacco lingers in the air even after he’s gone.
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