#The irony of being like ''Kim's prose is super flowery and poetic'' and posting *this* as my snippet

[laesas]

🎁 Have a piece of a WIP you want to share? 🤲🥺

I'm actually finally making progress on the Kim character study I started months and months ago so heres some!

Kinn is alive. The phone is still ringing when he gets back to the office; still only Tankhun on the other end. The vibrations skitter through his bones and the itch starts up again, simmering under his skin in time with the phone against the floor. The sun has mostly set since he left it there; the sky outside a dusky bruise, neon light pollution against the smog of a city that hasn’t seen rain in days. It’s been like this since Kinn left, without a detail, to meet a disgraced bodyguard with no background check at a non-secure location. Kinn is alive, and Kim is so angry with him it feels like he can’t breathe. Kim hasn’t slept in a while. Nothing so far has helped. Kinn’s death is the pin in a grenade; Kim would have seconds between Chan’s call and the full lockdown of guards outside, a stifling mandate - to 'keep him safe'. Seconds before the leash around his throat snapped short. The alternative is running. Kinn dies and Chan calls, and Kim has a split second to carve his way out. To hope that his father is so convinced of his indifference that Khun won't be held as collateral. He knows, from the buzzing of the phone against the floor, that he hasn't done enough. With the desk almost clear, his eyes settle on the empty ornate crystal decanter at the side. It's useful primarily as a blunt instrument. Inconspicuous, and within arm's reach if all else fails. A housewarming gift from his father; the threat of his presence implied. Kim doesn't drink whisky. His brother does.