Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The moment you left the clearing, it was like air being forced into your lungs, stripping you of solid ground and flying you through matter- through the universe.

Mingi’s arm is folded over your front, across your chest, hand hovering over your shoulder as the power gets released. You fall like dead weight- his arm was prepared to brace your fall, but was not expecting the full weight of a limp body, and he dips alongside you. Meeting soft grass with a grunt, he dodges your body just in time to collide with the ground instead of crushing bones. 

A soft curse escapes him on the impact. He takes no more than a restless blink to push himself off the earth, wide eyes searching you. At your ragdoll state, he tries to gather what he can of your boneless limbs. He can’t force you on your feet. Lifting an arm is equivalent to lifting putty; one arm is stiff in his grip while the rest of you just sloops to the ground again. You’re also unresponsive to the impatient calls of your name. 

He can’t make you rigid. He can’t make you listen. 

Your given name echoes warily through your senses as the lushness of the earth below glows with a shining green glow. The dirt submits to your tight grip, fists curling in on the cool grass as filth floods the bed of your nails. Slowly, dazed, you raise your head off the grass. Your balance is only mustered by remaining so close to the ground. 

Small, rolling waves in the earth, covered in tall, swaying blades of grass that expand all over the clearing in front of the warehouse. The scene is just as it always was- untouched and stable, no gaping hole swallowing it open with the absence of one of its inhabitants. No dramatic change in scenery mocking the loss that took place. The loss of a person.

You’re not with him. 

You left Yeosang. 

Anger burns hot, red, and violent, like never before. It rises in your chest and bubbles through your throat in a grunt. The storm that followed you hadn’t caught up to your new location yet, allowing a brief, picturesque glimpse of sunrays hitting the scene in the grass and the trees, highlighting the tin roof and cascading it in a holy glow.

Your eyes dig into the nature around you like analysing a painting, and once your mind decides how angry it is at the undeserved serenity of the scene, clouds are quick to hide its light, cover the patch of land in a swoop of clouds, and discard the beautiful morning it had once planned in favour for more gray, more death. 

“Why did you bring me here,” you turned to the body beside you. Mingi is up taller than you are, his head a few feet higher from the ground as compared to your mere inches. His eyes peer down at you,  identifying the aggression in your body language and giving you prompt space. 

His expression carries its own mimic of hurt. He’s wrapped in his own thoughts as your brain throws black ink over the beauty of the morning. 

“Why would you take me away from him?” You cry out. Like it was his fault; as if staying there, next to Yeosang, would’ve done anything to reverse what’s happened. 

He screws his eyes shut for a moment, not prepared to argue- to disagree on any terms. He wanted to see you again; the days you were gone had passed more slowly than he would have liked. Your return was supposed to be filled with joy and banter, not heartburn and violence. 

“Aurora,” he drags out slowly, “it’s not about you,” 

You gulp, not sure how to take that. Of course, it’s not about you, it’s about Yeosang. His dead body is now in the hands of the others, and there’s a very likely possibility that you’ll never see him again if they decide to dispose of the body without memorial. You weren’t ready for that possibility. You were supposed to stay with him.

“You forced me away,” You murmured. 

“You wouldn’t let them touch him,” Mingi reminds you. “You wouldn’t even let them see.”

You remember gripping Yeosang so tight, so close that even his brothers weren’t allowed to see his face. It was yours- your corpse, your fault.

Mingi’s stoic; you never remember him not being such. Yet he stands there, hands at his sides, looking at you with this expression that’s pleading. He’s begging you for something. 

He’s begging you for peace. 

The storm raging inside you won’t let it overcome the burning grief. It bites at your mind, snarls at any remaining sanity and escapes through harsh words. “He’s not coming back,” You bite. “Yunho can’t fix this.”

“He was going to try,” Mingi answers. 

“Yeo’s gone,” You remind him with a bite. “Who the fuck have you shot in the heart that’s been able to make it out? How many people have survived you, Mingi?”

In an instant, his soft expression falls once again. 

“This is different,” Mingi reasons. “This is about us- we have powers. They are the whole reason we have survived this long by ourselves. Yeosang got hurt, but we get hurt all the time, and Yunho will do everything he can to fix it.”

“His heart stopped beating,” 

“That doesn’t mean anything.” 

Your blood runs cold. The fury running through you is white-hot, and yet, the only thing on your mind is the audacity of this man. That he believes they are above the law of nature.

“No,” You continue, “You don’t get to play god. You don’t get to kill, to murder, to take, and take, and take and then deny when it happens to you.” There’s an incredulous scoff that escapes your lips before you can suck it in again, then you’re off. “Yeosang’s fucking dead, Mingi, and maybe if you had a real fucking sense for what death means, you wouldn’t have turned yourself into the monster you are.”

Something shifts. You hit a nerve. His eyes darken, close, and his gaze falls away from yours. Something misaligned with guilt takes over his features, not quite pained at your steeled reminder of his murders, but dismissive. Like you poked at facts that were unfair territory. 

His jaw ticks to the side, and he turns away from you, pacing a few steps to your left with his arms bending over his head to fist into his hair. You are left to watch as he fully lets his calm slip. The events of today are catching up with him, alongside your provoking, causing him to crumble. 

Mingi bucks over and falls to his knees, hitting the ground with a blunt drop to his legs and hard strikes to the earth with his tight fists- repeatedly, as if to break open the underworld and retrieve his brother from the place. The grunts that escape his chest are animalistic, repetitive, and twisted with hurt. Blades of grass go flying as he rips out wads of green. 

The curve of his spine reaches over his knees, bending down and remaining there as the grunts turn into something quieter. Softer. The hunch of his shoulders shakes ever so slightly, his voice escaping in desperate breaths moreso than angry spurts. It’s become apparent he’s crying. 

The sounds tear your heart open and spill it over your deflated conscious. Whatever part of you is still real, anyway. Your lips tremble as you try to mouth out his name, but you can’t speak and hold your breath at the same time. 

Alone you stand, hands reaching out for his body that’s so far away. Unsure how to fix it. 

What’s happened to you? What part of you has ever, ever wanted to rub salt into a bleeding wound? You’ve hated Mingi before, argued with him countlessly, but it was never like this. Never vile. Never cruel. Not after you’ve established this strange, gentle friendship with him. You would never want to lure misery from his heart. 

This isn’t you. 

You force the monster in your thoughts, the one that snarls and asks for vengence, back into a deep dark corner. Dormant. Biting back any urge to fight, to argue, to hurt, you manage to choke down your tears and take a brave step towards his shaking figure. He’s gripping his hair tightly; he might really be trying to rip it out. Mingi’s cries are raw and airy, and seeing him curl up into a ball so he doesn’t become harmful makes your heart ache. 

Reaching for the curve between his shoulder blades, the soft cotton of his shirt is warm and stretched to the expense of his back. Rubbing gentle circles around the muscle, he stiffens at the touch. Knowing you’re watching now, seeing him unfold, he releases the hold on his head to plant his fists over the unsheathed earth between his knees. 

He stays there, eyes wired shut and heavy breathing wreaking through his lungs. He’s trying to present himself as more manly, maybe, more put together than he feels. 

“Don’t touch me, Y/n.” 

Gravelly. His voice just barely escapes the pits of his chest, head hung low as he wards you off with a simple warning. He doesn’t bother to lift his head, to look at you. 

Your hand retreats, heart rate trilling at his dangerous tone. More notably, however, your gut sinks at the realness of it all. Mingi doesn't speak to you like that. Not before, at least. 

To him, something’s changed.

You can’t bring yourself to apologise. If you acknowledge the words you spat, you’d confirm they were a mistake, and you can’t face the truth right now. You don’t have that accountability in you. 

Instead, you breathe steadily through the pain of the heartache. You stay quiet, but present- a pillar for him to lean on. Even though he prefers sinking alone, curled in on himself and stiff as a rock. 

You are able to release passion, but Mingi tends to tuck it away. Hide it from those that are looking. It’s an act of defense. What he’s defending himself from, you don’t know, but you care enough to notice it. 

“I’m not going anywhere.”

If he heard you say it, it he doesn’t react. For a long while, neither of you say anything. Mingi remains closed off, hunched over. 

Finally, after a lot of labored breathing and pulsing shoulders, he moves. Standing, his looming figure towers over you and your squatted place in the grass. If you didn’t know him as well as you did, you’d be terrified.

You look up at him through tired eyes as he peers down at you. His gaze carries a look to him as he beckons,  “Let’s get you inside.” 

You’re not sure if that means you’re forgiven.

Mingi was your only protection from the beast that awaited you in the walls of the warehouse. Through the thick wood of the front door, his shrill protests were heard and poorly muffled. “… you can’t let them keep her, not after what she did! She-she shot him, in the heart, Seonghwa… he’s gone… he’s gone…”

Heart hammering at the words, Mingi’s ringed hand reaches for the handle with no hesitation. Weeks ago, you would have begged to turn around, to avoid Wooyoung by all means possible. But you’re wiser now. You can’t skip this part.

 The chaos that was heard behind the door is just as loud as you expected it to be- shouting and fighting that sharpens your senses out of a stupid, innate survival response. It cuts to clean silence the sight of you and Mingi, the daylight flooding the dark living room from the open door behind you. 

The eldest has him by an arm’s distance, fingers squeezing his arms in a sedative manner. Wooyoung’s spitballing words, none that are legible, to Seonghwa who  calmly takes them at blunt. However, you see the fear in his eyes, the confusion, panic, and desperateness to understand the situation from what Wooyoung is feeding him. 

At your presence, it quiets for a mere moment. They stare at you, like a legend they were conspiring about had just become true. You are covered in mud, in blood, in ash, with only the club clothes you wore the night before. Seonghwa’s eyes double in size at the sight, while his mouth is left ajar trying to catch his breath. His hands close around Wooyoung’s wrists, who looks much, much worse. 

Sweating, pale, and furious. His eyes find yours with a murderous intent. 

You don’t need him to say it, but he does. 

“You,” He seethes. “I’m going to fucking murder you.” 

Seonghwa’s arm hooks around his torso before he can lunge, leaving the man to struggle against him. It’s hopeless, though, Seonghwa’s grip is killer and Wooyoung’s passion makes him frantic.  

As Mingi grabs your shoulder to usher you up the ladder to safety, the world seems to slow as you can only look at Wooyoung’s eyes. Everything he needs to say is there. Every little ounce of trust, built grain by grain, from the moment he saved you from a burning building, to the reliance of you able to of wandering the woods with his best friend. Injured and vulnerable, perfectly in your hands. With the death of him comes the death of Wooyoung’s faith in you.

Seonghwa doesn’t even glance at you as you retreat to the safety of the attic. A floor above, you stil can’t shake the feeling of danger away. Mingi, however, is confident in its safety. His lanky figure hovered over a dresser, arms pushing open and closed drawers and tearing through clothes. Anything to get you out what you’re wearing. 

He passed you a towel to scrub off the grime on your body. It was weird- sitting naked on the floor of the attic, scrubbing harshly at dried dirt and blood while you continouslty glanced at Mingi’s turned back. Wooyoung’s yelling echoed through the building, unceasing. Mingi’s breathing was calm. Your thoughts were scrambled, every occurrence stacked onto your distress. Yeosang plagued your mind.

Even with dry cotton coating your back, you were still cold. Thinking of what to do next took too much thinking. You feel heavy on the floor of the attic. Right now, it only knows of stillness, of absence. You’re terribly aware of Mingi’s body in the corner of the room, still sitting, still waiting. 

“I’m dressed,” you say. 

He shifts on the mattress, turning his body so his feet face the door and he can see you in his periphery. But that’s the most you get from Mingi. 

His leg bounces restlessly against the wooden floor, and instead of looking up at you, his head moved to hide in his hands, the bridge of his nose smushed into his clasped fists. Like he's in the middle of a desperate prayer. 

You open your mouth to call out to him, but can’t will the words out of your mouth. You would like to reach him, to comfort him, but there’s nothing you say that can. Your heart has been poured out already; the thing bled itself dry. 

Instead, you provide company by merely perching on a mattress across the room, and listen to the same silence.

Mingi was distraught- and he needed someone to talk to, desperately. Worried glances tossed your way, never caught by your own glossy gaze. More interested in the swirls of the blanket below. His face returns to his hands.

When the hinged door downstairs slammed shut almost an hour later, Mingi finally lifted his head. The force was so great it rattled the walls, followed by voices that rose sharply. He quickly stood and beelined for the trapdoor. Opening the latch, the voices were clear as day, and without a second thought to the girl behind him he descended down again.  

When the trapdoor snapped shut behind him, the comfort in the silence was lost. The air turned cold. Empty. As the chaos that unraveled downstairs provided you a chorus of background noise, the heaviness in your heart dragged you down, the weight of a giant hand forcing you to the floor. It was the first time today you allowed yourself to truly cry. 

⤜⚘⤛

Jongho’s the soul that has to bear the dead weight of the corpse across his back- his hair sways lightly with each rocking step, undisturbed. The youngest doesn’t acknowledge anyone else in the room. His gaze is stuck forward; he enters, steps twice as heavy, the sound echoing through the warehouse. When he passes, all heads follow Yeosang’s stilled face, as peaceful and ephemeral as ever. The fatal gunshot wound on his back is displayed as he is hauled wordlessly to the basement. 

Wooyoung is a mess of endless sputters and tears. San is crying, but not like Wooyoung. His face is stoic, the only sign of grief being the wetness that graces his face. The way he stares ahead makes it appear like he's mad. Steady tears roll down his cheeks, hang onto his chin, steadfast in the glistening daylight. No matter how strong San his, his heart stays on his sleeve. Yunho is in the same calibre, grief etched onto expression not as a resounding pain, but as a hurt settled deep in his chest. 

Hongjoong leads them forward. His eyes meet Seonghwa’s, focused and unblinking, and it’s all the oldest needs to confirm the worst. Tears spring to his sockets immediately, before he can fight to hide them away. His eyes meet Yeosang’s body again just to get a glimpse at the eternal resting face of his friend, just as Jongho descends to the darkness of the basement. All he gets is a clear view of the the bullet wound that seeps into his body into its undoing.

Sobs wrack through his shoulders as he tries to breathe through the panic. His wheezes only grow in volume as San crosses the living room to reach his side, an affectionate hand on his shoulder bringing him in. He holds the man in a a short embrace, affectionately. “It’s okay, hyung,” He says, but there's a raw restraint in his voice.

Seonghwa’s eyes screw shut as he cries, breathing into his hands that slam over his mouth. San has to leave him as soon as he comes, searching for Wooyoung, who falls into a deeper mania at the sight of the body rocking in Jongho’s arms. 

Yunho comes to soothe him as well, wrapping long and loose arms around his shoulders in a short embrace. It’s meant to comfort, to calm, but he knows nothing can fill the hole that was just torn away from him- from all of them. His presence is wordless, yet the absence is heavily felt. Hongjoongdraws near, and Yunho parts, moving to Mingi's side in a solemn step. 

Seonghwa’s slouched, balance stripped from him, crookedly standing as he holds himself. 

An affirming hand rubs his back, between his shoulder blades and down to the small of his waist. “It’s alright,” Hongjoong says strongly. 

It makes Seonghwa fall more. 

Wooyoung breezes past them, brushing past Hwa's shoulder and making a break for the treeline. With a desperate call and multiplr protests, San leaves too, staying hot on his tail. Wherever he goes, San goes too. He can’t lose anyone else. 

Seonghwa feels like crashing down- all he wanted was to be together- with everyone. A unit again. It keeps crumbling out from under him.

“Hey,” Hongjoong calls to Seonghwa. “Listen to me.”

Seonghwa removes his hands from his eyes find his, but they’re glistening, squinting in grief, mouth in a grimace of pain.

Having confirmation that those senseless stories Wooyoung spat at him held some truth, he felt his world falling apart. 

Yeosang’s dead. 

And you- 

“Seonghwa, can you hear me?” 

He didn’t even realise he was lapsing before his vision was torn from the ground back to Hongjoong. The leader didn’t like the way tears stained Seonghwa’s face, something so perfect and always hopeful now glistened in sorrow.

“Focus,” the leader ordered.

“Is he,” Seonghwa breathes before the other interrupts. 

“Don’t,” He warns. 

“Did she,”                                      

“Aurora didn’t do anything.” Hongjoong growls. “Whatever nonsense Wooyoung fed you was a frantic lie.”

Seonghwa can't really think about blaming Wooyoung right now. The loss and grief of Yeosang felt too powerful, too great-

There’s a hand pulling at Seonghwa’s hair. He yelps in surprise, finding Hongjoong's grip demanding direct eye contact. They lock eyes, and the gaze is intrusive, forced, and immediately tranquillising. 

It’s lifted in mere seconds- the mess, the pain, the grief and loss carved deep into his heart. A temporary stitch for a fresh wound. Seonghwa chokes on his breath at the sudden change. 

Hongjoong’s gaze softens noticeably as his friend struggles with balancing this newfound steel heart. “I’m sorry, but I need you cognitive for this.”

Seonghwa hates the way Hongjoong entered his mind without asking. Hates the way he barges in and steals emotions that were not his to take. However, if he said the lack of torment wasn’t sinfully relieving, he’d be lying. 

“What is it,” He grunts. 

“Southeast, there’s a car next to the state route. It crashed right before the curve,” Seonghwa's expression flickers in recognition, so he continues, “I need it looted, and gone,” 

“If I ask why, will you tell me?”

“Unwanted visitor,” his answer is curt, “I'll save the rest for later. Go, please, before something else finds it. 

That's how Seonghwa finds himself here. Arms deep in the junk occupying the front seat, his sensitivity has been held at bay for a long while. Then, like a drug wearing off, it comes surging back with every new heartbeat. It comes with the anger- at Hongjoong, for breaching his mind's barrier so shamelessly. Sadness, for the team, and their fractures. And grief. Yeosang.

 It comes with the realization that when he gets home, Yeosang won't be there. 

He doesn't notice he’s been staring at an old newspaper article until it blows out of his hands and into the breeze behind him. His gaze follows to where the wind pulls it away, tossing it carelessly against the grass until it falls before two boots. 

A hand snatches it. Picks up the newspaper lazily, eyes peering at the weeping article through clear lenses. Then, the irises dance to Seonghwa. 

Seonghwa has a gun on his thigh he’s hesitant to uncover. Usually, he can intimidate enough for a normal bystander to be creeped out and leave on their own accord, but something’s different about this guy. Based on the way he’s eyeing Seonghwa, this interaction is going to be far from normal. Instead, the tall boy squints at the intruder, in both curiosity and in warning. There's no vehicle he could have come from. No warning of his presence. 

“Damage control?” the man asks, nodding towards the car, once smoking lump of bent metal but now seemingly out of black gas to cough up. 

Seonghwas voice is demanding, urgent, “Who are you,”

The man answers with a slow step forward, “I could ask you the same,” he hums. “I could assume this your car that is having some… engine troubles,” The car huffs a dark cloud of smoke behind a tense Seonghwa, “but something tells you’re not here for that.”

At the decreasing distance, Seonghwa’s arm shoots up in a stance that reveals his weapon, 

“Whoah,” the man says calmly, hands raised. “Quick to escalate, I see.”

“Step back,” Seonghwa grunts. 

The man grins, “Come, now, I know there’s no need for that.”

“If you keep stepping closer, I’ll find a need to shoot your foot.”

The man laughs. Deep, earnest. Easy. He’s calm. 

“I know you’re capable of much, much more,” His grin widens, “Except, I think it’s in your best interest to hear me out. I have something you need.”

“Who are you,” Seonghwa repeats, louder this time, squinting at the intruder. 

“No one that deserves your fear, friend,” he smiles. “Merely trying to make an alliance.”

Seonghwa’s eyes don’t falter. He’s steeled, despite the way his heart hammers in his chest at the forced interaction. There’s only one man who knows of their existence, who would be this far out of society. Still, he can’t fully believe.

“Seonghwa,” The man says, and the attention of the killer is snapped back onto his form. “Have you ever wondered why you have that mark on your neck?”

For the first time, Seonghwa stutters, “What?”

The patch of skin on his neck burns at the recognition. The tattoo, a branding, an identification for his body used by the facility that went beyond physical appearance. He was numbered, like cattle. 

“Why do you have the mark when none of your friends do?” At the response, Seonghwa’s eyes glare at the man, but do not answer. He takes this opportunity to continue. “It’s because you were made to be much, much more.”

“What do you mean?” Seonghwa urges. 

“Why did everyone else get abilities that provoked survival, while you were stuck with mere night vision?”

His eyes widen slightly at the remark. His whole life, Seonghwa has bitten down insecurity about his lack of purpose with his eyes. He sees as night- great. Not as well as Wooyoung. Can’t lift like Jongho, dodge death like San, heal like Yunho-

“We were only in Phase One,” the man purrs. He’s effectively gotten Seonghwa is his grasp. He’s breaching his deepest desire, his desire to be more, to be better, to be truly dangerous. Unsurvivable. More than a killer.

“Seonghwa,” he says again, coaxing the deepest hopes out of a boy who’s lost it all. There’s a glint in his eyes as he takes off his thin eyeglasses, staring down the young man’s soul. “You took us out before we conducted Phase Two. We didn’t forget about you. You were meant to become so much more.”

⤜⚘⤛

Hidden away from everyone, fighting off the terrible demons that plagued your mind every long second, you’re bitter, and lonely, and trapped in an endless misery. This kind of solidarity resembles the time you spent with the boys initially, the bed in the attic being you’re only comfort. Refusing to eat, shutting everyone out, staring out the small window and waiting for hours to pass by- you’ve reverted back to who you were then.  It was darker here. But it was safer. 

Your thoughts died with Yeosang. 

You had heard the commotion when the rest returned. Wooyoung’s muffled voice shouting returned with an equally voluminous Hongjoong and Jongho. Mingi excused himself much too quickly before heading down. He had been waiting for any sign of their return. The voices that passed intensely were a melody that layered on top of your misery. A background song to your caged thoughts. You had no energy to decipher what muffled noises you heard, it only promised misfortune. Maybe they’re talking about where to put Yeosang's body after their examination. Where he’d be disposed. 

Surprisingly, the sounds seized quickly. The quiet which followed afterwards was eerie, especially after such cacophony. With strained ears, you lifted your chin, only to find the conversation hadn’t ended. They were simply… talking. Softly. 

Still, nobody came to you. You were left in the attic, out of the conversation, and there you stayed. 

After all, it was no surprise to anyone that you remained idle there.

You passed in and out of sleep for the next few hours, and the memories that replayed behind your eyes made sleep it very difficult to get rest. Exhaustion must have overpowered fear at one point, because you finally open your eyes to find that the dull, hard ache behind your head seemed to lessen. 

Although, well rested is far from how you feel. Your mouth tastes metallic and your eyes are dried to the point where you can't really see. Still, upon hearing movement somewhere around you, you lift yourself anyway, taking in the figure who shrugs off a large shirt. His back, wide in the shoulders but thin on the waist, holds no barrier between skin and muscle. You see the divots crease and rise as he shrugs on another garment, clean and soft. 

The name escapes your throat in a croak before you can stop it, “Yunho,”

He turns, urgency in his eyes as he rests on your form. “Baby,” He sighs, relief flooding his lungs at the sight of you finally awake, and he makes no hesitation to make his way to the foot of your mattress, crawling into the sheets as he grabs your figure in a tight embrace. 

“Yunho,” you say again, face buried between the skin of his neck and chin tucked over the cotton on his shoulder. 

“I’m so glad you’re here,” he rambles, “I was so worried about you. I couldn’t stop thinking about you. Didn't want to wake you up..."

The woman he saw cradling a dead body was very different from the girl in front of him now. Both were terrified, both were grieving, but one completely lost their sense of sanity in the mourning, and the one in front of him had floated back down to earth, at least enough to find her voice again. 

“I’m so sorry,” You feel tears threaten to pour down your eyes, but Yunho is quick to find them, to wipe them away before they can even dare to leave. “I didn’t want to hurt anyone.”

His kiss to your forehead is eager- eager to comfort, eager to quiet. “Of course you didn’t,” he assures. The way your hands grab at his sides, desperately gripping at his shirt, is dizzying. This feeling- the feeling of being wanted by you, needed by you is intoxicating. Even if it's to pull you out of a terrible mindset. “You did everything just right.”

And maybe that’s it. The magic string of words that hit you right where you needed it, the consolidation that it wasn't your fault. That you did your very best. Whatever it was, words died in your throat as it quickly replaced by your chest heaving. Strange, painful lumps of air that seem to leave your lungs correctly without making your whole chest tremble. Yunho shushes your gasping, placing himself right beside you so you can properly hold onto his shoulders. And you do, surging your head into his hoodie that masks your heavy inhales. 

“Big breaths, okay,” He murmurs into the quiet, large hand coming into your tangled hair and stroking it down. “Focus on me. I’m right here. Can you feel me?”

He grabs your hand and leads it to his chest. The warmth of his skin seeps in through the soft cotton, his breaths moving steadily under your palm. You notice you can feel his heartbeat, too- hard and heavy enough to reach your fingertips. It's not rapid like yours- still fast, but steady.

Nodding is the easiest way to communicate. 

“Good, now, feel my breath. Try to match yours to mine, okay, deep- that’s good. Try again, longer now, okay?” 

You’re not sure how, but in mere minutes, Yunho lured the calm back into your chest, and long, deep gulps of fresh air flooded into your lungs. Manually, because you couldn’t trust your brain to do it herself. 

It’s like the grief was so placid, so forefronted, so large that it took up all space in your brain. No room for involuntary actions- breathing and blinking came hard. Everything was just Yeosang.  

Yunho comforts you throughout the whole thing, collecting your limbs in a tight embrace as he lures the calmness to the surface. Not intrusive. Gentle Yunho. 

“God,” he muttered once you’ve finally calmed down, talking into the space of your hair. “I’m so happy you’re here.” Alive.

Bitterly, you internally scream out in disagreement. You should be anywhere but here. The amount of blood you are willing to bleed for Yeosang to come back- so he could take your place in the living world. 

He shouldn’t have died. That was supposed to be you.

Lips press against your hair again and you’re reminded to force an inhale. It’s much needed. 

There’s a guilty rupture in your stomach that has you pulling away from his hold. You look at him, really look at him, and Yunho finds your eyes as well, blinking solemnly. 

You have to ask.

“Where is he?”

He blinks, expression curling in confusion before he asks, “Who…” 

“Yeosang. Where did you put his body?” 

His hands tighten on your arms like he feels your intentions. Except he can’t lie to you- whether it’s because he can’t or he won’t- so his words fall easily. “The basement- Aurora, wait!” 

Your hands rip the comforter away from you as you spring off the mattress. Yunho’s trying to grab you again, but you’re already out of his hands and crossing the cold floor. It’s not enough, because he stumbles out of bed to scramble to place himself between you and the trapdoor. Your disinterested eyes bore into his. “Move, Yunho,” 

“You can’t see him,” he urges in defence. 

You’re quick to summon scepticism, “Why? Why are we keeping him there, Yunho?” 

“Why?” He asked, incredulously. “Five seconds ago, you were hyperventilating at the thought of it. You think you’re ready to see the body?”

“I need to.”

“No.”

“I need to say goodbye,” 

“Baby, we’re not even ready for burial.” He sighs, shoulders sinking as he’s desperate to cut your efforts short. It’s the same tired, exasperated look Mingi gave you when you fought. “Please, Y/n, just trust me,” 

You physically recoil at the word. The way you stumble back does not go unnoticed, and he’s quick to match it with a step forward, “Y/n, what’s wrong?” 

“Please, just,” you start, wrapping your mouth around words that won’t form. “Don’t call me that anymore. Aurora is fine.” 

You expect him to understand, to correct his mistake or apologise. Instead, his eyes dim into something more defeated and pathetic. He looks at you as if it’s just hitting him, all the things you went through in the days you were away. 

“Baby,” he breathes, closing the distance again to take your hands. “What happened when you went home?” His eyes dance between each of yours, that softness taking over again. “Talk to me.” 

It’s suffocating, the way he cares for you. The way he wants to be involved with every thought that runs through your brain, just as much as you are. 

“Please, baby,”

Maybe it’s the grief that’s getting to him, the loss of a friend making him hold onto his other ones much tighter, but you know this isn’t how you want to be treated. Coddled, suffocated. “It’s fine, really.” 

“Tell me what happened,” Yunho says, again. 

Annoyance, then. You keep it far out of your tone, “Yunho. Please. Not right now.” 

Again, as if he caught another mistake he made, he closes his eyes tight for a moment. He swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing, and realigns himself. Pushing his burning passion down just below the surface, just enough to be hidden.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. It’s earnest, this time. 

Fighting off the excessive amount of guilt in your system, your hand finds his cheek in a soft hold. His eyes flutter shut, and he practically melts into your touch, his shoulders sinking like the contact gave him the reassurance he needed. 

You’re tired of this. You don’t want to ruin any more friendships. 

“You just care so much,” you mutter to him. His hands drop to his sides, and his expression flickers into something painful, more restrained. “Asking me these things, but you haven’t had a chance to breathe.” You say it carefully, earnestly. “You need to take care of yourself, Yunho.” 

His eyes shut, and his shoulders slump at your words, one hand falling to his side while the other rises to shield half of his face. He’s frozen there as you watch his hair shake with the motion. The first exhale he releases is long and shaky. He’s holding it back, but the tears still leave him, escaping through his fingers in an uncontrolled release. It breaks your heart to hear. 

The way you reach for him is like you’re on autopilot, grabbing his shoulders and calling to him to release his hands. When he does, it’s not pretty. You can’t find yourself to care, wiping away wetness from his cheeks and nose as you pull him down for an embrace. 

Just like he had held you before, you hold onto him now, anchoring him to reality.

When he speaks, his tone strikes you through a broken voice, “I don’t know what to do, now.” It’s decorated with a squeaky inhale, like he realized he made a mistake. He pushes through and you rub his large back with the tips of your fingers. you’ve never seen yunho look so small. “Everyone’s hurting and separated and- and, there’s so much to do. I don’t know where to start.” 

You stay silent. He needs to get it out, somehow. He likes your quiet because he knows you’re listening. When you don’t expect it, a confession releases itself. “San and Wooyoung are gone.” 

Your rubbing stops, “What?” 

“Wooyoung bolted, earlier, when he saw Yeosang’s body.” he explains, “San went after him. Haven’t seen them since.” 

The lump in your throat turns to the size of an apple, and it hurts to swallow down your surprise. You’re not sure what to say to that, your own worry clouding over any calming thoughts. 

Yeosang, now Wooyoung and San. You’re down three.

This had to have been at least a few hours ago, right? Sure, they know their way around the forest and its threats a lot better than you, but still. It’s a lot of time of be up against the forces of nature. 

“They’ll come back,” is all you can manage. 

Yunho looks at you then, dark eyes challenging yours, as if he doesn’t think you believe it yourself. And he’s right. You don’t. 

“You need to come downstairs,” He looks at you expectantly. 

Your answer is immediate, “no.”

“Aurora, you need to,” he responds. “You don’t get to hide up here. Not now. Not anymore.” 

He’s right. You can’t dodge this forever. Still, the thought of seeing everyone again makes your skin crawl. 

“Stay with me?” The question is pleading, a request for familiarity in the unknown. He moves his head so his nose nudges your own, nesting in the skin of your cheek before he plants a steady kiss there. 

“Always,” he hums. 

The living room is occupied by a lonesome Jongho. The bottle he’s nursing remains idle on his lap, condensation staining his jeans, humming mindlessly into the radio that’s perched on the coffee table. He doesn’t ignore you when you come downstairs.  His hand drops from his temple to his chin so he can give you a long glance. 

You swallow thickly just as Yunho’s feet hit the ground. 

He speaks first, “Hey.”

You can only call back, “Hey.”

There’s a breath of hesitation before Yunho’s hand nudges your hip to keep walking, and you begrudgingly plop down on the same couch Jongho sits. The kitchen is quiet, most downstairs lights are off, and there's not a peep to be heard around you.

“Beer?” Jongho offers. His tone is light, unexpectant, like the offer was just something to fill the room. You’re still wrapping your mind around the offer, but the answer slips out anyways. 

“Sure.”

“I’ll get it,” Yunho shoves his hands in his back pockets and heads down the hall to the kitchen. Jongho takes a long swig of his beer as the chimes of beer bottles echo from Yunho rummaging through the fridge. 

You watch Jongho as he stares off into the wall while the man on the radio introduces the next song. He doesn’t say much else to you, and his expression is mostly unreadable. A part of you wants to ask him how he’s doing, the other part of you doesn’t want to know. 

A long synth begins to play from the speakers, familiar enough to be catchy but unfamiliar enough to blend into the background. Jongho doesn’t budge as the radio begins to spew static nonsense. Neither do you.

It’s only when Yunho comes back with two beer bottles does the boombox get a light kick to the side, moving mere inches away from the edge of the table. It stutters, but continues playing, filling the stuffy living room with noise as the taller man waltzes closer to you. 

You thank him for the drink, already opened, and take a swig. It bites your tongue, awakens your mouth, and rests your mind. Jongho must think the same. 

There’s nothing said between the three of you. Jongho’s humming is the closest you’ve gotten to a conversation, but not much else has been traded. 

Your eyes drift to the mouth of the basement. The stairs are cascaded in darkness, disappearing the deeper they go, and it never struck you as creepy until this very moment. Knowing something’s down there, something you can’t see, something you want. It makes you feel sick. It fills you with an unfamiliar fear. 

Yunho’s hand rests warmly on your thigh. You move your chin to meet his eyes, and he’s already looking at you. He knows what you're thinking, and he’s not mad, but the warmth of his hand is enough to pull you from your thoughts. 

The minutes bleed together of you, Yunho and Jongho sipping beers wordlessly on the couch. For you, the room is plagued with Yeosang’s presence. This is the closest he will ever be to you ever again. 

“You know, you should celebrate,” Jongho mutters, his words slightly slurred together. You notice the discarded bottles that rest on the coffee table, even in the circular corner table. You wonder just how much he’s been drinking before you arrived. 

Your heart sinks, assuming this has something to do with Yeosang. “Why?” 

He takes a another swig before he meets your eyes, “You killed somebody. You’re one of us, now.” Then, before he can stop it, “You’re officially a monster.”

“Jongho,” Yunho whips his chin. He glares at him with a look that says he shouldn’t have been so blunt, but the damage is done. Your eyes are the size of saucers, the stress of the night not enough retrospect to realise he’s right. 

Now, there’s nothing that makes you different from them. 

You are a monster. 

“Aurora, don’t listen him,” Yunho chides, “He’s drunk.” 

Drunk doesn’t equate to a lie. In fact, the words hit you with so much clarity you need to drown your shaky inhale with a wash of beer. You swish it around your mouth as you would with mouthwash, the sting of carbonation hurting you where you need it most. 

“I’m just sayin’,” Jongho dismisses the anger Yunho directed at him. “Yeosang would’ve been proud.”

His words hang in the air and sink heavily to the depth of your stomach. The beer in your mouth gets swallowed down forcefully as you stare at the mouth of the basement. You feel Yunho’s arm stiffen beside you, gripping your thigh, and it becomes less grounded and more aware. Not even he can argue with the fact that Yeosang would’ve loved it. The man always had pride in killing with bullets. 

Your hands push off the soft sofa as you stand on wobbly legs. Gripping the bottle like it can help your balance, your legs move carefully to lead you around the back of the couch, ready to hide in the bathroom or retreat to the safety of your sheets. 

It’s only when you reach the back of the couch does the front door swing open. 

Seonghwa stands there, ghostly, eyes strewn to the ground below your feet. He takes his time in lifting his gaze up your body, taking in every detail before meeting your eyes. 

Your widened, frightened eyes. 

He knew they looked too familiar. The truth is staring at him in the face now. 

His name rests on the edge of your lips as you watch him shut the front door. His movements are mindless, as if he’s stuck on autopilot, face devoid of emotion as the door shuts with a soft click. 

The two men on the couch lean back to see who you’re staring at. At the sight of Seonghwa, Jongho turns his head back to the radio dismissively. Out of eyesight, you are unable to see how Yunho’s expression darkens. 

Heavy footsteps stalk towards you. You expect an acknowledgement of some kind- a soft touch, the sound of your name, hell, even one of his forced, awkward smiles- but when Seonghwa reaches you, he stares down at your face with an unfamiliar coldness. His skin is as smooth and flawless as stone, and there’s a certain cruelty in his eyes as his stature dominates yours. 

Your heart hammers in your chest. He’s close, and proximity has never been an enemy in your dynamic. Closeness was a sweet indulgence shared between the two of you- it’s what made your relationship so special. This interaction felt like anything but sweet. 

His words are soft, low, and anything but familiar. 

“Move.”

Your breath is lodged in your throat as you blink helplessly up at him. However, your body reacts to the command before your mind does, because one side-step is all it takes for him to latch a hand onto the ladder and ascend. 

The sound of the trapdoor closing makes you flinch. 

Yunho meets your eyes with a soft gaze. He beckons you back to the couch with a jerk of his head and a soft smile. From beside him, Jongho takes another swig of his beer. 

You shake your head, “No, I’ll…” You need space, away from their eyes. “I’ll grab another one…” 

“I’ll get it,” Yunho interrupts. He pushes his knees when he stands, coming to your side and gracing your elbow with a soft touch. “You go sit down, okay?” 

He shoots you a soft smile. It’s wonder how he’s keeping himself together, and manages to pamper you, too. His figure dips back into the kitchen as the familiar sound of clinking bottles reaches your ears again. 

You don’t want to go back to the couch. You want to be alone, with Yeosang, and give your mind that final sense of closure with him, one that doesn’t occur while your manic. 

You don’t move fast enough, though. Voices breach the safety of the front door and you can hear them before the large piece of wood is open. 

Yunho doesn’t make it past the doorway of the kitchen, as the door swings open and he’s forced to yield to the large pile of boys trampling in. 

“Wooyoung, stop,” San grunts, and through the restraint you can hear the pleading in his tone. He looks a mess- dripping with rain and sweat, hair plastered into his skin as his jacket weighs his shoulders down into a slump. His eyes are tired, skin pale and cold, as he relentlessly fights against the push of his best friend.

The man only responds with more grunts. He’s being held like a rabid animal, pushing at the muscles that cage him in, San’s strong arms tight around his waste where he can simply left his kicking legs off the ground. You can only wonder how in the world they managed to haul him all the way back to the warehouse without losing grip.

Your can’t keep down a gasp when Wooyoung’s ferocity makes San lose hold. A  moment was all he needed to lose Wooyoung entirely. Except, in the safety of four walls, there was no pressure to restrain him again. 

Instead of bolting like you expected him to, Wooyoung merely pushes San away, falling to the ground and rubbing the shoulders that made impact. He glares at San, as if the way the manhandled him was a small loss of humanity. There’s a reddened mark on his cheek where it looks like he’s been struck in the face, and frankly, the whole group looks like they’ve been pulled fresh out of a fight. 

Mingi lurks behind the two fighters as the captain saunters deeper into the room. His eyes don’t quite reach yours yet. Instead, places himself where he can see everyone. His gaze lifts, and he acknowledges everyone in one, simple, agonizing stare.

San, Mingi, Wooyoung, Yunho, you and Jongho.

Mingi runs a desperate hand through his wettened hair, pulling on the strands just as you’d seen him do hours ago. Yunho remains towards the back, towards the hallway of the kitchen, leaning against the hard wooden frame, and his eyes hooded as he glances at the leader’s hesitance. 

Wooyoung is… lying there, eyes widened, labored breathing catching up to him as his body is released from submission. Then, as if sensing your attention, Wooyoung’s gaze snaps to you. 

You, who stares right back at him. Two stray cats in one territory. The look in your eyes hits him like a trigger; a match to his heap of gasoline. And he remembers every ounce of fire he wanted to throw at you. 

“Are you done yet,” He says. 

It is more so expectant than a genuine question, boredom flirting with scrutiny. 

A long pause follows after he speaks, as if he expects you to answer, despite not caring for one. “Are you done messing with our lives now? Everything was fine before you got here.”

Wooyoung is not questioned or stopped by anyone when he pushes himself off the ground. His feet are planted unevenly, hands hanging low while his spine uncurls, his normal posture returning. On instinct, your muscles tighten, body stiff, as the deadly hunter takes his time drawing close, testing your boundaries. His prying fingers prod at your false sense of safety, built up after weeks of protection. 

Something says that’s gone now. 

“All this time, you were waiting for a chance.” He says like it’s obvious, “you stayed here, laying low, playing victim, just waiting for a chance. Aching for that one moment you could finally stuff a knife in our backs.” 

He smiles in front of you. Grins, sickeningly, but it doesn’t meet his eyes. They remain burning with intensity, voice feathery as he teases the humor in the irony of it all. He warned them. The situation, frankly, was brought upon themselves. 

“Stupid,” he scoffs, his steps now stopped at the front of your feet. You have to lift your chin to keep eyes on his seething face. “I bet your daddy’s proud of you.” 

Hongjoong snaps, “Wooyoung,” a slow warning that slips past Wooyoung’s ears.

“Don’t you see it?” Wooyoung shouts, so loud you flinch under his proximity. “The resemblance is fucking uncanny, I gotta say. We couldn’t see it before. And this whole thing - all of this - living, sleeping, eating, fucking us one by one until we trust you enough that you kill our best friend behind our backs.” 

He whips to face you again, mismatched eyes peeling you open and dissecting every motive you never had. “He was the easiest one, wasn’t he. The one with the injury. No ability to protect himself.” 

He waits for a reaction from you, pausing just enough to notice your eyes welling with tears. Then, softer, as if coming to a realization, he adds, “this is your revenge for everything we’ve done.” 

No. He’s wrong. He’s got the wrong idea. 

“Wooyoung, please,” San says, words slow and calm, soothing even to you when it’s aimed at Wooyoung. “It wasn’t her fault.” 

“That’s what you think?” Wooyoung snaps. “‘cus precious Aurora can do no wrong? ‘Cus she can’t even shoot a gun? Well, perfect fucking timing, cus she finally managed to once Yeosang was alone and vulnerable.”

He’s right- for some reason, the one time you actually managed to grow a pair and shoot something was when Yeosang wasn’t able to. The situation wasn’t in your favour, but is it that hard to believe you trying to protect him?

You suppose it is, when he was dying long before you even shot the woman. 

Maybe you are guilty.

“Why would she stay, then, Woo?” Yunho asks tiredly. “Why would she kill Yeo only to come back to us?” 

“‘Cus she wasn’t finished.” Wooyoung answers too easily. Eagerly, as if the truth is right in front of them. “She won’t be finished until each of us is dead, one by one.” 

“No,” You call. Your stomach hurts, sickened with grief and Wooyoung’s lies. “That’s not true, I-“ 

“You what? Hm?” He’s all up in your space, now, mocking you, not letting you get a word in. “Wanna pretend to be innocent, incapable of murder? You wanna crawl into bed tonight and have Sannie rock you to sleep? Forget about this whole thing? Rip us apart more and more?” Wooyoung leans in, breathing in your air, words brushing against your face as he uses micro aggressions to flaunt his dominance. “Or do you wanna tell them who you really are,”

Fiery eyes lock onto yours in challenge. He won’t back down, you can feel it, and the way he’s looking at you makes it obvious there’s no winning for you. He’s shoved you in a corner and pulled your skeleton out of the closet, flaunting it, telling everyone like he know’s more about you then you do. 

Slowly, you start shaking your head. Maybe if he was more human he'd find empathy in your tears. Maybe if he was more like San he’d feel pity in your frightful eyes. But he’s tried to trust you, and he’s given you a chance, and when they turn their back for two fucking hours they find Yeosang dead in your lap. 

Hongjoong is fixated on Wooyoung’s intrusiions. This could go one of two ways. He’ll be satisfied at your patheticness and back off, or he’ll take it too far. You glance at the leader helplessly, begging for a hint of what to do or what to say. 

Hongjoong told you to never, ever tell the others the truth about your father. 

No matter what. 

“I can’t,” You whisper to Wooyoung, hoping only he will hear you. 

There’s no crack in his demeanor. Actually, he smiles at you, reaching up to playfully twirl a strand of your hair delicately before he mutters. 

“Of course you can’t.” 

It happens too fast- his arm shoots up and grasps your neck, fingers wrapping tightly around the airway like it was just made to be gripped. You claw at his arm, nails digging into his flesh and he savors it for a millisecond, the chorus of protests behind him convincing him to throw you to the ground. 

You slam into the small, circular table, which cries with the sudden force. Your fall collides with one of the chairs, and you manages to slam your head into the thick wooden edge. There’s no time to feel the burn with Wooyoung’s advances; he’s grasped a forgotten beer bottle and smashed it against the table above, sending green shards flying across the area. The sharpness of the makeshift weapon flashes in front of your eyes as he moves again.

You’re lucky the boys moved quickly enough so you never have to find out how slow of a death can be caused by a broken bottle. Wooyoung struggles to strike it down on you with three arms holding his him back, but he still manages to drop it. The remaining glass lands right in between your legs, miraculously missing you completely, but sill sending shards everywhere.

Mingi and San grasp his arms while Jongho places himself in front of him. There’s a cacophony of yelling and arguing, but the threat is forcefully neutralised once again. You can’t hear much over your newfound tinnitus. Under continuous ringing, you watch Wooyoung back fight with grit, but sheer aggression can’t overpower the rest. Especially not Jongho, who plucks him out of their grasp like he was a feather.

With a hesitant hand placed on the ground, you regret to find out the floor has been littered in glass shards. You are still able to push yourself off the floor you had been intimately acquainted with. Yunho is a presence behind you, watching you get up, there if needed, but not quite stepping in yet. You’re not bleeding, you don’t think, so you wave him off, but you’re feeling strangely dizzy.  

“Hongjoong, help me!” Wooyoung calls over a tangle of Jongho and Mingi. 

Hongjoong stares down the bridge of his nose at the boy, “She didn’t kill him.”

“You don’t know that,” Wooyoung seethes. The fire in his eyes burns, and despite not speaking to you, the anger still burns through his veins. “You know who her father is. You know what he’s capable of.” 

His voice cuts through the beginning of a stretched silence. As if someone drenched you in cold water, you freeze, breath held, at the confession. 

“Wooyoung-“ You start. 

“How do you know about that?” Hongjoong demands. At the bitter laugh that escapes Wooyoung, the captain marches forward, grabbing a fistful of his onyx hair and pulling him forward. “What do you know, Wooyoung?” 

“Why do you keep mentioning her father?” Yunho asks from across the room.

“Is this…” San turns to you suddenly, and your eyes are as wide as saucers when they meet his gaze. He asks you, sternly, no room for evasion. “Y/n, Is this what Yeonjun was talking about?” 

There’s a certain hammering in your chest and in your head that makes it hard to think clearly. Did Yeonjun say something to San? 

As if Yeonjun took control of your thoughts himself, your mind speaks his voice, clear as day. 

The journal. 

What did Yeonjun know? 

“Y/n,” Yunho drawls out lowly, dangerously, removing you from your thoughts. “What do you know?” 

“Her father is the man who started it all,” Wooyoung says, more than happy to enlighten his friends about what he knows, despite being physically restrained. “He’s the reason we’re stuck here and hidden from the rest of the world. He’s the reason for our torture, our abilities.” He turns to you, venom laced in his tone. “It’s all thanks to your daddy, isn’t it? And now, with him burning in hell, who has taken his place?” 

Looking around the living room, these boys don’t feel as familiar as they once did. Each man stares at you with their own array of distrusts, confusion, or for Wooyoung, livid entertainment. It confirms your fear- your father was every ounce as serious and dangerous as Hongjoong made it out to be. 

In an instant, the warmth of your friends are gone. These men surrounding you regard you with the cold calculation of the killers you met all those weeks ago. Their eyes scream murderous to you. 

“No,” You say, “No, that’s not true. I don’t know him.” 

“Oh, sure you don’t,” Wooyoung scoffs. “Because why would his daughter have her own abilities that powerful? Why would she be a Class A without any of the trauma we've had to go through?” 

Fear fills your heart. It’s not the way Wooyoung looks at you, or speaks to you; it’s because when you find the faces of the others around the room, they look as though they’re beginning to believe it. Even Hongjoong lets Wooyoung speak for longer than he should. 

“Hongjoong,” Mingi asks, confusion fraying his once steady tone. “Is this true?” 

Hongjoong’s eyes remain on you. You meet his gaze, as if inviting him in, pleading for any help on what to do. You need his guidance. You need him to lead you.  

Instead of a clear voice of consciousness like you expect, it’s something softer. More grounding. It pulls the frenzied nerves your systems out like cleaning a cobweb. The migraine that found itself pulsing beneath your head dims as well. 

“Y/n?” Jongho calls, gaining your attention. You lock eyes with the youngest, and though he’s usually guarded, you find him looking at you hopefully. 

Clear-minded and steadied, you find it in yourself to tell them everything.

“The man who created the facility was my father.” You pause, as the room falls into a devastating silence, the kind that hollows the air from one’s lungs. Around you, faces pale, jaws tighten, and eyes flicker with something deeper than anger. It’s betrayal - sharp enough to wound, to kill. 

You’re only defense is the truth.

“I have no memory of a facility, or of torture, or even of his face.” Your voice wavers too much for your liking. Speaking about the past was always bothersome. This, though, is different. When all the people you care about on this green earth begin to turn on you, being vulnerable becomes necessary. 

“My father had full custody since birth until Mom won it back when I was maybe three or four. She said that he took me straight from the hospital and disappeared, so it was classified as a kidnapping. That kind of crime won her full custody.” 

Robotic. You sound like you’re reading a script- God, the least you could do is act normal.

“When I got older, she told me that my father had been fighting to get me back. He was influential in the government, so, the trials were nasty. People followed my mom home, watching our windows, trying to get dirt on us. So we moved away- to Kinsung- where my Father couldn’t find us anymore. Since then, I hadn’t heard anything about him in a long time,” 

After some anxious glances to the men around you, fear fills your lungs when there’s not a crack a sympathy. They might not even believe you, like this is a lie you pulled out of thin air. Thoughts like that only make this harder. 

Forced breaths. It’s your story, and it’s the truth, so just get through it.

“Mom had died so suddenly. The week leading up to her death, she said she felt like she was being followed. She had just gone to the station that same day to inform the police, and that night, she died.” 

You haven’t properly told the story since the detailed rehashing you gave to the detective a million times that night. The horror left an imprint in your mind- a stain you can’t get out, and a memory you can’t redo. 

You should have done something. Told the police yourself so she could’ve stayed safe. The guilt lodged itself deep in your gut, a certain heaviness you can never get rid of. 

You avoided this story as much as you could. Feelings like this disgust you- in a quiet room where everyone is scrutinizing you and your struggle to breathe, you feel the smallest you have ever felt in a really long time. 

You are not weak. You know this now. This goddamn story has proved that you are painfully resilient. You have no choice but to move forward.

“What I’m trying to say is that I don’t know him. By blood, I am an Adney, but my mother removed that name from our house before I could learn the alphabet. And eternally, for everything he’s done to her, I’ve resented him. And I didn’t kill Yeosan- the reporter did. She was trying to save me from you all,” The first one who ever tried, you think bitterly. “So I shot her.” 

And it rang out. The confession of a fucking lifetime. 

“I killed her.” 

And it still didn’t bring Yeosang back. 

If the distress evident in the way you spoke, the rate of panicked breathing that wrecked through your chest could only be described as pathetic. 

With that, there was no indication for any change of hearts, either. You were cornered, so you played your hand- the same hand that Wooyoung thought to be the endgame turned out to be dry.

“Happy?” Hongjoong called to him. Wooyoung looked at him through his lashes but didn’t answer. 

Hongjoong moving his eyes off you broke a spell, and everything slammed back into place. The world moved the slowest it had in a really long time. These shallow breaths turn out to be useless; your vision begins to betray you while the sound of your heart hammering in your ears muffled everything else. 

“I’m sorry,” you mumble, though your mouth is heavy and you are unsure if the words leaving you are coherent. “I really need to sit down.”

“So polite,” Mingi’s voice comes from somewhere in front of you. 

Just as you think you can’t do this anymore, someone’s hands come to your shoulders to steady your wobbly feet. 

“Baby, I think you’re concussed,” Yunho’s voice is warm, quiet. Familiar. 

You don’t know if you had a choice in whether you allowed him to help you up or not. What you do know is that the soft leathers of the couch meet your ass in milliseconds and you’re coming to and from waves of unsteadiness. 

“Always a goddamn damsel,” Wooyoung mutters. 

San looks at him, incredulous. “You can’t say anything,” He mutters lowly. “You needed half the team to get you back home. Then you got here and threw another fit.” 

Wooyoung shakes his head. He doesn’t say anything about his outburst. He was in his own right, after all- and though your sob story had him reel in his anger, it wasn’t enough to wipe you squeaky clean just yet. Why else would Hongjoong force you to keep it all a secret?

“You’re not going anywhere anytime soon,” Hongjoong says to him through a steeled voice. “You’re upset, and you’re allowed to be, but you’re at least getting a full night's sleep before you decide to run away again.” He looks at San, too. “Same with you. You’ve been up for a day and a half, and I’m not having you die of exhaustion while you’re searching for him out in the forest.”

“Yes, captain,” San says easily. He clasps a hand on Wooyoung’s shoulder. “C’mon, Woo,” 

San helps him up with a strong hand. At his feet, Wooyoung’s head hangs low and San wraps a friendly arm on his shoulder, shaking the smaller one slightly. 

“Yeah, that’s probably what this is,” Yunho hums softly as he thinks out loud, kneeling at the couch where you sit. You sink further down, hunched over the armchair. “You’re probably exhausted.”

Jongho is still standing beside Hongjoong, hands on his hips as he stares at the mess they made. San and Wooyoung are slow to ascend to the attic, where San sends a quick glance your way before leading the firecracker to the rungs. Hongjoong lags behind but follows. Sedating Wooyoung is probably the best for everyone’s safety.

“I already slept,” You argue, neck angled at an uncomfortable degree so your head can rest against the cushion. Like this, the reddened handprint on your neck is at full display, evidence of Wooyoung’s disdain for you. Yunho’s brow furrows.

“You can still be exhausted,” Mingi’s gravelly voice says. 

“Exhaustion, grief,” Jongho lists as he picks up a large shard of glass from the floor. “Alcohol.” 

“Getting body slammed to the floor,” Mingi adds. 

“Forced to relive family trauma,” Jongho continues.

“Can you not?” Yunho snaps, standing from his squat and reaching forward to trace the lines of your neck. 

Your hand meets his before you can think, and you swat his touch away. Yunho doesn’t fight it. Instead, he rises to his full height and gathers the glasses from around the coffee table, letting you rest.

“I’ll stay down here to make sure she’s okay,” Yunho says, then adds, “And to check on Yeosang in the morning.” 

Jongho’s head ducks down at the name. He keeps his face out of sight from the others as he pushes the chair back into the table. Mingi got a hold of the broom and begins to sweep up piles of glass shards and dust. “Check on him? Why would you need to do that?” 

Yunho shakes his head. “I don’t know. A gut feeling maybe.” He sighs, throwing the bottles delicately in the trash as to not wake you. “It’s just, we’ve dealt with so many dead bodies before. And maybe it’s just because it’s Yeosang but something’s… different.” 

Mingi lifts his head as Jongho grimaces, "Don't say shit like that.” 

Yunho’s eyes lift to his. “What?” 

Jongho meets his gaze, then, and there’s this type of grief etched into his features that’s gutwretching and honest. “Don’t bring up any hopes until you’re absolutely sure. Don’t talk like his life is something that may or may not exist.” 

He shuffles his way over to the trash, tossing the garbage into the bin with a reckless clang. Mingi tenses, ready to scold, “Jongho-“ 

“No, Mingi,” Yunho says. “He’s right. I’m sorry, man, I didn’t meant to… bring anyone’s hopes up.” 

“Is his heart still beating?” Jongho asks. They’re close now, where Yunho can see his eyes through the thick hair of his bangs. They’re challenging. 

“No,” Yunho says.

“Then that’s it.” Jongho says. He puts the lid back onto the trashcan. “He’s dead.” 

The youngest doesn’t linger. The ladder creaks with his weight as he climbs back up to the attic as well. Mingi doesn’t say anything else as he slowly sleeps the evidence of the night away to the dustbin. Wobbling over to the trash, he empties it, before glancing at Yunho nervously. “You good?” 

“Yeah,” Yunho breathes with a small nod. “I’m good.” 

“Okay,” Mingi says. “I’ll, uh, go check on him. Night, then.” 

“Goodnight,” Yunho returns. 

There’s a few more creaks of the ladder as Mingi climbs to the attic. Once the trapdoor shuts, Yunho’s eyes fall to you, your head tilted to rest on the arm of the couch, peacefully asleep. 

He meanders over, eyes finding the part of your neck that’s injured again. He would heal you- if you wanted- but you’ve made it pretty clear you don’t like it when he touches your bruises. 

There’s a short sigh that escapes his nose as he grabs a blanket from the back of the loveseat. Settling down next to your figure, he drags the blanket over your lap and his so the chill of the air doesn’t bite at your skin. 

There’s a moment of hesitation, before he leans to the side, fitting perfectly between the gap of your back at the couch cushion. The warmth is accepted at first, but when his arms reach around you to pull you close, you stir awake with a small huff. 

“No,” You say sharply, before correcting yourself, “You don’t have to…”

He listens as you trail off, and his brow furrows again. He doesn’t move his hand, though, instead rubbing soothing circles on your arm as he speaks lowly, “Is this about what Wooyoung said?” 

You wanna crawl into bed tonight and have Sannie rock you to sleep? 

“No,” you cut, “How could it be? He was talkimg about San.” 

That wasn’t  the point, and you both know it. 

“You know I don’t believe him, right?” He says under his breath, so close to your ear. The vibrations next to your hair makes your skin erupt in a chill. You grimace, force the feeling down, as Yunho continues, voice tight, desperate for your approval. “Don’t listen to him, Aurora. Don’t let it get to you.”

“No,” You dismiss, too quickly. The way the room froze following Wooyoung’s accusations plagues your mind. Despite the heated accusations, some were rooted in truth. And he may have hit too close to home for you to continue on like you’ve been doing. Recklessly.

The way Yunho speaks, as if he wants you to think nobody believes Woo, that it was all said in a fit of passion- it’s not working. You know that there’s something lodged in there now. Mistrust that can only grow. 

“I don’t want you to feel guilty for me,” you mutter in your exhaustion. “I don’t want pity, either.” 

“I’m not pitying you.” Yunho mutters, always quick to defend himself. 

“Okay,” you say, but you can’t find words much beyond that. 

You hear Yunho swallow before he asks you, slowly, “Do you want me to move?” 

His arms are heavy and secure around you. His breathing, husking just over the shell of your ear, is a steady reminder of a life outside your own. His touch is grounded. You’re reminded of the conversation you shared earlier today, of the grief Yunho admitted to having, unsure how to navigate it. 

It occurs to you that maybe he needs this more than you do. “You don’t have to,” you tell him. 

There’s a blooming warmth that comes from his chest as he relaxes once again, his head perched behind your own. “Thank you.” 

⤜⚘⤛

It’s been almost an hour in this position, Yunho holding you so close he can feel each breath you take, with the grace of your back softly hitting his chest. He’s tried to sleep, to relax enough to settle into a light rest, but there’s something blocking him from doing so. His mind is racing with everything that’s happened today. His heart aches with the gap Yeosang felt. While every one of his friends grieves, he takes it upon himself to suck up the way he feels. 

Especially for you. He just wants to be there for you. You haven't been sleeping well tonight, and being the first person to comfort you is a pride he doesn't ever want to give up.

Just as he tucks his chin into your shoulder, the rungs of the ladder complain with a creak. He lifts his chin to find the intruder, and a sleep-deprived Hongjoong rounds the corner of the couch. 

Yunho doesn’t say anything in greeting. He waits for Hongjoong to speak, to tell him what he needed to come down here for. 

“Aren’t you two cozy,” Hongjoong hums.

Yunho furrows his brows. “What do you want, Joong?”

“You should get some rest,” the man says, nodding to the girl he's embracing. “I’ll watch over her, make sure no one murders her tonight.”

“That’s not funny.”

A small smile stretches across Hongjoong’s lips. “Sensative, aren’t we.”

“I’m fine here,” Yunho argues. “Seriously. I can check on Yunho in the morning and make sure she’s okay, too.” 

“She’s fine,” Hongjoong says. “Small concussion. She didn’t even faint.”

“That doesn’t mean-”

“Yunho,” Hongjoong interrupts. His voice is stern, tight, and Yunho knows he’s lost an argument that hasn’t started. 

“Okay,” He sighs. Removing his arms from you is easier than expected- you let him move around without much fuss at all. He adjusts the blanket so it reaches your shoulders, and watches your face for any sign of discomfort before he turns and heads towards the rungs. 

“Good job,” Hongjoong smiles softly. “You didn’t forget how to follow directions.”

Something red-hot pulses through Yunho at the snide remark. It takes only a moment for him to clench his fists and collect himself before he reaches for the ladder once more, leaving you to the care of the leader.

You don’t know how long it's been since you’ve knocked out. You don’t exactly feel well-rested- the only sign of sleep being the lack of the migraine you knocked out with. You wear the exhaustion clean on your skin, eye bags dark and deep, cracked lips, and messy tangled hair that mirrored your thoughts. Restless nightmares reply itself in your wind, every ounce of peace disrupted heavily by a colourful memory. Yeosang’s face flashed before your eyes so many times it’s been contorted to someone who doesn’t resemble him. You held him close, and in others, you watched it happen from somewhere far away, unable to help. Sometimes it’s Yeonjun, though your dreams never depicted him as dead. Those dreams always showed you how he died. Your brain likes to do that, though. Paint over reality with fragmented truths. 

Earlier, you woke up in a sweat and had Yunho to comfort you, hushing sweet truths in your ear, like he knew you were rewriting the story in your sleep. He held you until you drifted again. The second time you woke, he was gone. You waited in the darkness, in fear, the black behind your eyes for comofrting than the emptiness surrounding you. The darkness of the basement where, if you looked, you convinced yourself you’d seed a bloodied body waiting for you to acknowledge it. 

You hadn’t realized you woke up a third time until the dryness in your throat made you cough heartily, sitting straight and leaning over your knees. Soft feet rest on the floor heavily, like each pound you rest on your bones weighs twice as much. But you stand anyways, padding towards the kitchen. 

Hongjoong didn’t see you wake up. When he climbed out of the basement, the couch lacked a body and your blanket was discarded to the side. The kitchen was the first place he looked, footsteps so quiet he didn’t disturb the eerie silence. Your figure was only a silhouette, leaning in front of the small sink, patiently holding a glass under a soft stream of water. You’re swallowed by the thick clothes of an enormous hoodie, fiddling fingers tapping against the counter.

“I told you not to go,” Hongjoong’s voice cut through the dusty silence like a sword through water. It’s enough to make your skin jump and your chin lift in recognition, eyes fixed on the spot where he stands by the doorway, where he leans on the wood with his arms crossed. Despite his relaxed position, his stance is straight, stiff, as he challenges your curious gaze with the unwavering intensity of his own. Despite the way he maintains your stare, his eyes are tired, and limbs hang with the need to find rest. But he takes his time in speaking to you. “You went with them anyways.”

The water shuts off. 

You face him, waiting at the entrance, keeping enough distance.

The raw audacity of this man chokes you up.

There’s a chill that settles over Hongjoong’s shoulders as he watches you place the water down calmly, tiptoing closer. The look in your eyes is foreign to your expression, but to him, it's all too familiar. It's the way San looks when hunting for free flesh. The way Wooyoung’s eyes narrow when watching the light blink from someone's eyes from under him. The way Yeosang stares down the barrel of a gun. When Seonghwa finds his power within a victim’s last breath. 

The one a predator wears as it hunts its prey. 

It comes back to him, then- just how much pain he’s dealt you. The ignorance, the manipulation, the murders. The past few days wears itself on your skin. Grieving Yeosang doesn't strip away the pain you felt from him, though. In hindsight, it might make you feel much, much worse.

“How dare you,” you utter, the words hanging in the quietness of the forgotten space. “Speak to me, now, like you care,”

He could argue. He could claim that he does, how everything he has done was for your sake. Frankly, this side of you, as dark and unfamiliar as it was, intrigues him. In the darkness of the night, he remains silent. Watching, waiting. 

“Like you didn’t murder my best friend,” you spit as you draw closer. You’re mere inches away from the tip of his nose, and you stay there. “Like Yeo’s death is a gamble in a game you won.”

His jaw tightens, and you see it, the way his eyes shift from open, challenging, to half lidded and defensive. “You think I’m not grieving?"  he whispers, no need for volume in the proximity between you. “You think, between all of this, I’m holding myself together because I want to?”

Hongjoong doesn't step back. He never does. He’ll return whatever hell you give him. 

“These boys need a leader,” he enunciates the word like it's unfamiliar to you. “They don’t need another mindless heartbreak rotting in loss. They need me.”

“No they don’t,” your reply is instant and thoughtless. But the words can't be reeled back into your thoughts. Even when his demeanor cracks, anger spiking, and moving with sudden violence. A grip of steel latches onto your hips, slamming you into the wall next to him. Finally, something real. 

The force with which your head hits the wall rattles the objects tucked away in cabinets and the loose frames, bringing forward the ache in your skull from before. Except he doesn't care. Doesn’t cradle you like Yunho- he doesn't flinch at the damage he inflicted. “Take it back, take it back right now,” 

“They don't need you, Joong, they don’t need your stoic behaviour,” you hiss, almost suicidal in the way you relish in the physicality his fury. You absorb it, you take it all, because an angry Hongjoong is a better one than one who shuts out the world. “They need Yeosang.” 

 “Shut up,” he seethes, “you don’t know what they need. You don't know us.”

“I know you enough,” you return. “The way you decide which people live and die and call it strategy. Like the blood we bleed is inevitable. It’s not, Joong. People aren't pawns. Yeonjun was not a pawn, I am not a pawn!”

Lightning flashes outside. It lights up the kitchen in a muted blink through the sole window on the wall. It’s just enough time to see Hongjoong’s steeled gaze on you, reacting to the fire your words burn - right under him. 

His hands flex on your hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh and bone as if he’s gripping onto his sanity, like he’s trying not to lose control. He waits patiently for the rolling of thunder to follow the light, and it comes, powerful and deep enough to shake the warehouse walls. Neither of you dare to move. 

His breathing is heavy as his eyes hold everything. You feel it tipping over, a loss of control on himself- the deep, gashing anger that pours from his heart to yours. He’s letting emotions overcome him; his power taking over in the same way yours does. Control slips from his grasp as emotions fray. The anger, the grief, the burning loss infects your mind through the connection he creates through the eye contact. Here, only here, can you finally taste it. 

The panic. 

It’s covered by deep unrest, buried beneath defensive emotions used to distract and deny the beast that's below it all. You hadn't seen it before - he's been careful to mask it- but now, on the verge of collapse, his fear is tangible. Real. Dark and frightening. It encompasses you in the way your own fear does- but this is different. 

This belongs solely to Hongjoong.

He sees the way your eyes widen, the subtle flare of your nostrils like you've seen a beast too great, too unbeatable. An untamed mess. The monster he keeps hidden within himself. He lets go of your hips, and you slump back onto the cool wall. Control gets reigned in again, and he ties his emotions tightly to the mast of the ship in his thoughts. The insecurities biting at his fingers are only real when they become acknowledged. 

You saw him. He let go for a moment, lost control, and allowed you to see him. Into his emotions, as he can with yours.

You didn’t know he could do that.

His eyes close while he gathers himself again, choosing compression and collectiveness over the fire you stirred in him. His face steels once more, calm eyes finally opening to find you through his lashes, and your heart hammers loudly in your chest. 

“If you need something to blame,” he murmurs, “blame me. I killed Yeonjun. I ripped you from your life. I tortured you and starved you and scared you until you lost all autonomy,” 

He speaks the truth, rehashing the damage he's dealt upon you. It weighs you down, making your feet feel heavy with regret. 

“I made you rely on me, so your life was as useless and fragile as it felt. So you know how quickly I could end it with a click of a gun.”

There’s the fear. You welcome it in like an old friend, washing over your chest and making your knees feel weak. It’s familiar; it’s Hongjoong’s doing. 

“-but do not blame me for what you are becoming.” He finishes. “You’ve been like us all along, and now you’re angry because you are mourning an enemy. Hate me, loathe me, but know that I care. You don’t want to admit that I look out for you.” His gaze tightens. “Should I remind you of who is still standing here, after everything?” 

You see it, then- the truth. The rest of the boys silently sleeping above, the refusal of anyone to acknowledge your existence, check up on you, visit the girl that fucked everything up. You woke up and Yunho was gone, he didn’t want to stick around, either. What if Wooyoung had come back? What if he decided to finish you off, silently and quickly in the safety of the night? 

That finishes you. Something deep inside you snaps, an anger in your bones, cracking to life like a glowstick. It’s vicious and unpracticed, but it’s raw. 

It’s the fact that he's right. And you hate it.

Springing forward before sense stops the movement, your palm strikes him across his cheek. His head flinches at the impact. His jaw is low, mouth open, as the sound is swallowed by rolling thunder outside. He blinks, stunned, before he turns his chin to you again. His anger from before is gone, replaced with wide eyes that radiate a confused shock. 

The skin of your palm stings instantly, but the impact only makes the violence bloom in your chest. You don't stop. You can't, you bunch a fist of his shirt and shove his body hard, back into the hallway, before chasing the distance you created. A strike lands on his chest, finding no pained reaction, only a stiffened grunt. Another land, then another, each chases itself with repetition. Useless and desperate. 

He staggers back, matching your brutality with a passivism unheard of to Kim Hongjoong. He doesn’t retaliate. Refuses to block the impact at first. No, he continues to allow the hits with patience, and understanding, just waiting for your seas to calm. As if he can just let your anger and misery in your storm just run itself dry.  

Nothing gets to him. He’s unreactive and undefeated. You hit him again, quieter, slower, as if one last effort could send him crumbling. The wrongness washes over your body then, the anger that courses in your veins strong and unfamiliar, a foreign virus, an instinct buried deep in your brain that awakened too easily. Your limbs recognised it before your mind could catch up. Why are you doing this? 

In your faltering strikes, he catches your wrists mid-motion. His grip is familiar, strong, unyielding, but not cruel. Grounding, perhaps. 

“Stop it,” he utters, as you attempt - one last time - to land a hit on his chest through his loose hold. “Just stop trying.”

It's like the floorboard beneath you could snap and break all at once. 

You can’t hurt him. Not physically, not like this. Maybe not at all. 

The realisation is humiliating- the dawning of what you did, of what you’re trying to do. Of how your body reacted before your mind; of the utter failure to hurt Hongjoong in any of the ways he's hurt you. Of the crushing embarrassment that, after all this time of fighting off the urge to harm him, you might simply be incapable of it. 

This time, your fingers curl into his shirt to ground yourself. Your knees could give out, you think, and the exhaustion that swallows the sum of despair could knock you clean off your feet. The anger that once occupied the forefront of your mind dissipated, and in its absence, the secondary emotions make their comeback. Humiliation, fear. 

Your voice speaks to him, quiet, even. “Why,” it says, “why can’t I hurt you?”

Your grip tightens on his shirt, almost cringing at the sound of your voice admitting something so deep, so personal. 

“Why don’t I hate you?” 

The words hang for a moment. Hongjoong says nothing that makes the confession easier, and there’s no immediate relief once the truth is released into the air. Instead, guilt tears through your body and your soul as the responsibility of your emotions bleed into anger. 

You’ve failed everyone you’ve ever fought for. Including yourself. That bleeding girl from the basement has the opportunity to hurt her oppressor’s, and when handed the opportunity on a silver platter, she just can’t.

His grip on your wrists loosen, steady hands falling, only heavy breathing trapped in the space between your chests. His touch travels to the sides of your arms, and you hate the way your breath hitches at it. It’s feather light. His hands are hesitant when they perch over the hood of the fabric. It takes a few shallow exhales before he one palm reaches up, meeting the underside of your jaw, and stroking the side of your cheek with a swiping touch. 

“I don’t know,” he admits gently.

There’s quiet in the phrase, an acknowledgement of the hatred that he knows he deserves. And when he looks at you, finally, there’s a gentleness to him. Almost reluctance, overshadowed by the quick reflex that pulls you in. 

It’s comforting when he kisses you. There’s no dramatics, and it lacks anger. It’s patient, soft, and your mouth falls open the second his lips begin to slide against yours.

You can forget how you’re supposed to feel, how you need to behave because of this confession. Instead, you let yourself revel in the comfort of Hongjoong. A true luxury your heart reacts to sinfully. Its a quiet circumstance where the dynamic is forgotten. Predator and prey. The king and the gladiator. Player and pawn. Still, for some sad reason, it is enough to satiate your soul. 

There's nothing passed between your bodies except for the comfort in bodies and empty breaths. Regretfully, you melt at the feeling of Hongjoong’s chest gracing yours, his heartbeat beneath your palms, his mouth moving to match your own. You’re grateful for his stoic presence guiding you through the mental storm you fight through. 

For a minute there’s a break, where all you can do is shut your eyes tight and breathe through the aerobics your heart performs. When your eyes peel open, you find him already looking at you. Searching for what you feel. 

However, he doesn’t deserve what’s there.

“I want him back,” you confess, lowly, mind plagued with the grief that pillages the peaceful territory. 

His hands tighten slightly then release once more, “I know,” then, after a beat, “me, too.”

“What if they blame me?”

The crypticness in your question is easily solvable. The boys, people who should not be lodged into your heart ever so thoughtfully, are now the only crutch you have left for stability. But they’re going through their own battles, their own storms rage on, and it leaves friendships built on unstable grounds much more likely to fall.

Hongjoong releases your face to anchor his hands on your waist. You don't think you can look at him much longer, not like this, but he doesn’t give you a choice. One hand lifts to nudge your chin forward, his eyes wait for your own as he enunciates, “let them,”

It’s soft, and confusing, and instead of letting you ask for what he means, his lips latch onto yours again, swallowing any fear and melting anxiety like it was never yours to begin with. He speaks through a hushed breath, like the kisses were finally enough to satisfy him.

“Let them mourn Yeosang,” he continues lowly, “give them time, and peace, to mourn a brother that has been here a long time before you.” He waits, picking apart your gaze and relishing in the proximity this moment is granting him. “Let them hate you. Let them blame you. Let the anger unleash itself into the horrible beasts that we are.”

He releases your cheek to tuch a loose strand behind your ear, and his voice softens incredulously. “It doesn’t change the fact that we love you.”

You want to believe him, to swallow his words like a faithful pill that can fix all, but the bitterness rises as soon as you digest his thoughts, “They think I killed him,”

“A stupid conspiracy, honestly,” he quips. “Anyone who’s spent two minutes with you would know how incapable you are of such a thing.”

“I still killed her,” you seethe, like Hongjoong is trying to cover up a grave to an open coffin. “The reporter, the girl who was trying to protect me-”

‘-and who was trying out all of us to your father,” he defends. “You did what you had to do, to protect the people you care about.”

“And that excuses it?” you scoff, voice deep with emotion. “As if that makes a difference in life or death.”

Hongjoong’s eyes narrow, his voice deepening in honesty, “That makes a difference.”

He’s serious. And he won’t let you think otherwise. Your next words are swallowed down in submission. He says it again. “Killing out of protection is different from killing out of lust.”

His words are gentler now- kind again. Coaxing you out of the whirlwind you catch yourself in. Reaching his hand through the dust of the tornado to help you find solid ground. “Do you believe me, Aurora?”

It’s a standing question. Welcoming. Delicate. 

Your voice is soft, but decisive. “Yes.”

He doesn’t quite believe you. Not yet. 

His hold on your cheek releases, and you're quick to wipe your eyes with your sleeve. Like this, he leans against the wall. Alone in the hallway, simply watching you collect yourself from whatever the fuck that was. 

“I’m sorry, for,” You start and motion to him lazily. 

“It didn’t hurt,” He answers simply. 

You let out a short sigh, and the way his eyes stay glued to you makes your skin crawl. Then, the next string of words is a combination you’ve never imagined Hongjoong would say out loud, especially so shamelessly. 

“I don’t regret kissing you.”

You blink at him, stupidly. “I- what?” 

“Just saying before your head gets all twisted again,” He steps forward one last time, lips pulled to a lazy smile that takes your breath away. “I don’t regret it.”

He pulls away again, and it’s obvious he’s trying to tease you. Or distract you from everything. 

You wish you didn’t question his every action. Your temple pulses just thinking about the possibilities that drove Hongjoong to be the man he is. “I think I’m concussed,” you mutter.

“Ah, that,” He hums. He jerks his head towards the doorway. “Let’s get you down again, yeah?”

You find yourself tucked into the you-shaped divot in the couch, and Hongjoong is not far behind you, holding the forgotten glass of water you left to get in the first place. You mutter a thanks as he kneels down next to you, eye-level, and you don’t rest your head just yet. 

“You’re putting me out, aren’t you?”

He shrugs, “I want to make sure you sleep properly. I can make it easy. Help tomorrow come faster.”

You answer quickly, “I don’t want to see tomorrow.”

“You don’t get to control that, doll.” He smiles, his expression twitching to something more thoughtful, more honest. “You know, I thought you had learned it a long time ago, but I guess not,” His eyes travel to where a strand of hair is out of line, and he tucks it away, caressing your face as he does it. “Your life belongs to me, now, doll.” 

Your heart thuds in your ears, and his eyes flicker between each of your own in silence, resting on one just long enough before dancing to the other. 

“Are you reading me?” You ask. 

“No,” he answers. “Just looking.”

You're thankful his ability isn’t intruding into your thoughts right now, because something is stirring in you that’s forbidden and guilty. You forgot how dangerous it felt to be alone with this man. When there’s no game for a power grab, you’re left with his alluring attentiveness, his subtle curiosity. It’s like walking on ice and trailing a story you don’t want to know the end to. 

You don’t remember the night at your apartment that you shared with him. You don’t remember falling asleep, only the feeling of waking up to him already put together and ready to go. You’ve never seen him like this. You don’t want him to put you to sleep quite yet.

“Are you ready?” He asks, anyway. 

Your heart sinks, yet you kind of find the words to deny him of this. Your reasoning is unsustained. 

You feel it then, the difference between when Hongjoong’s looking and when he’s entering. You feel him pull you under from within, and just before you fully fall, you register the feeling of his hand caressing your cheek. Something he’s never done to coax you to unconsciousness before.