#capitalism 001

[michaelwheelerdefiodental]

Stranger Things on Capitalism and Communism:

So, i've seen some discussions about Stranger Things message about politics during the years, that started in season 3. To start, i need to make it clear that the series has a really strong anti-communism message, but i don't really think they're really giving a pro-capitalism propaganda, i mean, they're kinda doing it, but as y'all know, American Democrats know how to make it enjoyable for both sides.

How the American Military and Government is depicted:

They're pretty much show as "for the greater good" trope, they'll do horrible things with a supposed "good intention", but at the end it shows that they are just power hungry, but those characters have more depth, this make them more "likeable", like Brenner, Sullivan and Owens (YES, HE AIN'T FOOLING ME WITH HIS EMPATHETIC PERSONA).

How the Soviet Union is depicted:

So now it starts to get more complicated; in season 3, all of them are 99% stereotypes, while in season 4, i think they can be described as 50/50. Anyway, most of them are shown as sadistic, power-hungry people who don't care about anything else, so this makes them less likeable, besides Yuri and Dmitri (Enzo).

Season 3 Communism Satire:

I don't think there's much to say here; they're just power-hungry maniacs that at the same time can be smart (building a fucking military base on an American shopping underground, even though they were helped by Larry), and then be extremely stupid and ignorant. At the end, they don't even explain what the ideology behind them is, so they are just generic villains.

Season 3 Capitalism Satire and Alegories:

America without Erica

I will start with a scene where many people seem to not see the purposeful irony. Erica, as a black kid, saying that capitalism is great is clearly a joke. She says that on capitalism she will do a job and get paid as she deserves, but she ends up entering on an enemy military base and almost died all because of A ICE CREAM, that at the end she didn't even receive it and didn't either receive the recognition for saving the city either. It can be compared to Black soldiers that fought in wars for the USA and then got discarded.

Rats on The Mall

Now talking about the Starcourt Mall. It's an alegory about consumerism in a capitalist society; the kids would go there thinking it would be more fun because of the things you can pursue, but at the end it was their company that made it really enjoyable. Mike buying something for Eleven was a great way to show it; he could make peace with her by simply talking to her like he did with Will (this has something to do with Mike's character and byler, but this ain't the point of this essay, lol).

The Blonde Pig

There's Larry and the small business closing to discuss too; i see the meaning as the greedy capitalist going against the people and letting the enemy get a hold of their nation.

The Nationalist Lovers

Murray and Alexei are the classic nationalist enemies that understand that they can live together blah blah blah... it's easy to understand. But the scene where Murray explains the July 4th games is kinda confusing, he makes a critic about the way of America using people happy hour to make the rich even more rich, and the poor even more poor, and says that all these are rigged, you can't win them, then Alexei wins one of the games and then Grigori (Soviet super-soldier) kills him. That scene is kinda weird to me, was the meaning that at the end capitalism is the right way and then the "commie pig" had to kill the traitor, or it was to show that at the end you really can't win, because this system will make you go down on a way or another??? It's up to you that is reading to decide.

Brand New Flavor

Lucas and Mike Coke's ad is another scene that is weird; it's obviously a way of the show making propaganda for one of their sponsors, but there's a criticism about the product evolving but at the end being the same shit.

The Consumers

Now this that i will say can be seen as a stretch, but the Mindflayer consuming people could be seeing as this system consuming everybody's souls, until they turn into a literal zombie only following orders. And when they have no use anymore they're just consumed entirely and turn out to be just one of the victims of the system. It shows that even the most reactive and violent people can't outdo this force, as we can see with Billy and Nancy's bosses.

Henry and his (not so) New World:

As we know, Henry was tired of the way the world functioned and wanted to create a new one. There was a bigger force (time) that stopped everybody from fulfilling their potential. What he doesn't understand is that his world will end up being the same; the powerful will control it just as our world, and honestly, this is what Henry want to happen, but what he doesn't understand is that he isn't the most powerful being there, it's the Mindflayer, and he will use Henry until he isn't valuable like the rest. At the end, Henry is just another victim of the same system.

So basically:

"I AM THE CAPITALISM, HENRY!!!"

The Mindflayer said laughing.

Me at the Cinema:

My Conclusion:

They make a rant about both sides, but the anti-communism part is way more explicit and more stereotypical, while the anti-capitalism part is more subtle, and Americans from generation X were the target audience at the beggining of the series, and we know that they aren't the most clever to see behind subtle things or even what is already obvious.

(this is a remake of a post from my old account)

[fullscoreshenanigans]

Hi🥰. I have this tpn theory for months now, so I would like to know what you think about it 🥰.

Could be 'Him' (Demon God) be a member of the Evil blood clan?

I was flicking through the pages of the Artbook because of the BTAD Zine and found these two pages next to each other.

This could be just a lucky placing of course, but I began to think. Mujika's and the One's design looks similar (or maybe I just overthink it lol)

But what if the royal demons made up the tradition of Tifari to get themselves more food?

They do look pretty similar with their horn placements! Though the demon god's always remain larger in proportion to his mask whereas hers are more dainty.

(Chapter 181 | 158 | 49 | 176 | 140)

They also have similar body shapes when he's in his preferred smaller child form.

(Mystic Code Book Chapter 5)

And while not directly related as parent and child, there's the aesthetics of having a singular god (even dubbed "The One" when they had to decide on a name when adapting the anime) and Mujika acting as a fairly solid parallel to Jesus. (Kei Toda gets into this more in her book, Reading The Promised Neverland with a British/American Literature Scholar, which can be found here.)

Shirai doesn't have any interest in divulging the demon god's origins prior to the original promise, so all we have to go on is this:

(Mystic Code Book Chapter 6 Q&A)

With another parallel of both being shunned due to being considered a threat to the greater social order of the demon world.

I'm of a similar mind to Shirai in that I don't think it's necessary to have a concrete origin for the demon god beyond his role as a profoundly powerful entity in the narrative that the demon aristocracy use as a means to justify their rule over the general populace. This extends to the arbitrary creation of Tifari, though why it falls on/around November 10th of the Gregorian calendar (introduced in 1582, roughly 500 years after the original promise) could have been due to other demon world customs or historical events besides it being the time of year the original promise was made. But if you wanted to expand upon these origins in a fanfic, all the more power to you.

But what if the royal demons made up the tradition of Tifari to get themselves more food?

They sort of did, depending on what you mean by get more.

(Chapter 142)

Again, Tifari is arbitrary in that the demon god doesn't actually need the highest grade meat for sustenance. He's evolved beyond that centuries before the demon nobility find out about the evil blood. He just wants it because he knows it's what the demon king and later Legravalima covet the most, and under the monarchy they've established they'd normally be the ones receiving the best meat (by their metrics).

It's possible more offerings than what we see at the 2047 Tifari were demanded in the past, and that surplus was siphoned off by the upper echelons.

(Chapter 146)

But for simplicity's sake, it's probably been the three highest grade since the beginning for how it mirrors the significance paid to the full score trio being the first time in Grace Field's recorded history there's ever been three children of that caliber at a house at the same time.

(Chapter 1 | 76 | 80 | 152 | 156 | 159)

There's also the three marks on the demon god's mask to keep the trinity/trio visuals going.

(Chapter 142)

So it didn't get them more food in the sense of increasing the amount of meat they hoarded for themselves. Like we see 700 years prior when the demon world was experiencing a famine, they would have finagled some reasoning for why they should have more to maintain their level of comfort and security.

(Chapter 147)

It did, however, continue to justify why they received the larger share of high quality meat. By ensconcing Tifari as a tradition and holding festivities for it every year to ostensibly appease The One that all the citizenry participates in, it legitimatizes their claim to rule and the system by which they maintain their authority, so it did get them more food in the sense of maintaining uncontested access as opposed to the citizens staging a mass uprising across the kingdom.

[kris-karpets]

y’all ever think about the speech that 001 made in st4 when he was like, “we’re just mammals, just animals, El, we eat, we sleep, we work, we eat, we sleep, we work, we DIE” and he has like cracked eyes and is shaking and is literally falling apart, and El starts crying

I think about him a lot lol

[walkingshcdow]

Shego & Kim | Continued

"Not in the slightest. " She might have even argued that she was at her peak...might have, but didn't because there were days that the red bulls in the trash can blinded her in the morning. Of course she wouldn't admit as much to Shego and instead took the champagne glass offered- swig taken (a larger amount than she should've) and shook her head at the idea. Tempting as it was- and it was tempting to have a little more income than the part-time she was constantly ditching out on- it felt wrong to do contract work. To put a price on doing the right thing? There was evil and there was capitalistic evil. Both were lines she tried to make sure she didn't cross. "I'm really not in this 'biz' for profit, you know. Even if the perks can be pretty spankin'. "Which it often was. Early access to things, private planes, elite invites and favors owed by some of the top governments in the world. It wasn't a job without its niceties even if it was her neck on the line.

"Spankin'," Shego echoed flatly.

That was one way of putting it. She thought of the tax-free cash bonuses she'd gotten over the years. The services. The travel. She was in it for the thrill of the game, but sometimes the perks were all you had to remind you that you were winning. She took a sip of the wine and puckered her lips.

"Don't tell me you're still convinced you're helping people. You're smarter than that, princess. Think about it. Who does more damage to the average Joe - a lunatic like Dr. D or a corporation with sharks for stockholders?"

[two-white-butterflies]

you'll live forever | part one

Description: Hwang In-ho joins the newest edition of Squid Games as Player 001. He sees the wife that he believes to be dead, and she cannot remember him.

Pairing: hwang in-ho/reader

A/N: I love Squid Games but let us not allow the capitalism-fication of this franchise to let us forget about the series' core message. capitalism sucks. Don't let violence desensitize us. Warning: idk if I used the word hyung correctly... multipart, comment to get tagged.

There were times when he'd wake up too early in the morning when the sun would greet his sensitive eyes, and he'd take a longer time to adjust to the brightness. In those rare moments, he sees the faint silhouette of your body, in those rare times, he even smells your cherry blossom perfume.

A sigh escapes his mouth as he sinks further into the sheets.

No matter how far his hands reach out - you won't be there to hold it.

"I have work tomorrow, I don't want to drink." A complaint escapes In-ho's mouth as his younger brother drags him to the nearest bar. In-ho has never been fond of spending time around other people, he'd much rather focus on work and getting that new promotion...

"Who said anything about drinking, hyung? You promised me that you'd make time to meet my girlfriend," the younger man rolls his eyes, dragging his brother to the center of the room where everyone was huddled near the television. Yep, soccer. "My schedule is cleared next Saturday," In-ho raises an eyebrow.

"Oppa!!" He hears someone scream at the top of their lungs, and his brother quickly makes her way towards the woman - greeting her with a hug. 'Young love,' In-ho thinks to himself, as he turns to look the other way - he suddenly catches a glimpse of someone.

You.

One.

His eyes trailed upwards, soaking in the sight of your face. He sees his future inside of your eyes, your perfect lips, the way you slowly begin to smile at him.

Two.

His gaze trails downwards as he sees the beautiful dress that you're wearing. He begins to praise the summer days, his eyes brushing against your creamy thighs, making his heart thump erratically.

Three.

"Hyung, this is my girlfriend Hee-jo and that's her friend. What was your name again?" His brother turns to look at you, and that smile deepens - your eyes meeting his. "My name's In-ho," he greets, and you mumble your name underneath your breath, shaking his hand.

"I'm sorry for tagging along Jun-ho. Hee-jo's dad made me come with," You blushed. In fear that you were intruding on the couple's personal moment. "Don't worry, you're like a sister to me." Jun-ho chuckles, sitting beside Hee-jo - leaving his brother with no choice but to sit beside you.

As Hee-jo raises her hand to drink a glass of beer, the entire bar erupts into a cacophony of cheers - South Korea has earned a point! Everyone stands up, but In-ho and you remain seated.

He smiles, watching you cheer for the motherland.

This particular memory has been burned into his mind. It only took him three seconds to see you and fall in love. "Yay," you giggled after the bartenders announced a round of drinks on the house. And after that encounter, fate seemed to smile on you both.

He remembers all the memories, the good and bad.

He also remembers your first date. It was the first winter of 2008. "You were born in 1976?" You raised an eyebrow, continuing to stuff your face with beef and lettuce. "Yes, is there something wrong with that?" He pretended to look offended.

'How old is she?' his eyebrows merged together.

He places a piece of kimchi inside his mouth. "How old are you?" He asks, cursing himself for forgetting to ask Jun-ho. "I was born in 1986. I honestly thought that you were much younger," you pouted.

'That would make her...' he calculates your age in the back of his mind. Ten years younger than him! He almost bites his tongue. "Is that going to be a problem?" He tilts his head. He definitely does not have a chance with someone like you, so beautiful and young.

"No, I like older men." You say bluntly. He almost spits out his drink, earning a giggle from you. "Ouch," he pretends to be hit. "So, what is it exactly that you do for work?" You ask with a smile, happily eating your meal. "I'm a police officer. I mostly do detective cases, what about you?" He inquires with interest.

"I just graduated. I work at the hospital." You informed.

"Are you a doctor?" He asks.

"No, I'm a nurse. It's always been a dream of mine," your eyes sparkle at the mention of making your dreams a reality. "Saving people," you quickly added. "- I guess you feel the same way too, since you're a police officer." You pointed out.

In-ho nods.

"I guess we are the same," he continues nodding. The entire date, the smile does not leave his lips...then,

One date, becomes two, becomes a thousand.

And finally, you are getting married to him.

"Hey, are you okay?" In-ho wraps his arms around you, preparing to meet your guests who are waiting in the reception. A deep sigh escapes your mouth. "I'm scared," you confessed. He wraps his arms around you, already aware of your fears.

"I mean everyone's going to be from your side of the family - and everyone's already talking about how I don't have parents." You chuckled nervously. All these ajummas won't stop talking about your personal life. In-ho has even contemplated not inviting them at all, but his father insisted. "Fuck them," he shakes his head, cupping your cheeks and pressing a tender kiss on your forehead.

"Let's enjoy our wedding," he smiles.

"I love you, In-ho." You repeated.

"I love you more," he responded.

He has always loved you more.

The beautiful days of the roses were over, he was only left with the darkness of the night. "ESRD," the doctor opened his mouth to speak. "How dangerous is it?" In-ho fights against that heaving feeling in the back of his throat.

"ESRD, End Stage Renal Disease is where the kidney can no longer support the body's needs. Most typically, I would recommend dialysis in moderate cases, but for severe cases, I strongly advise a kidney transplant. Your wife has a very common blood type, it will be easy to get a match, but that's not the problem." The doctor hesitates, In-ho recognizes the man to be one of your closest friends.

He hands In-ho a stack of files.

"It's expensive to pay for kidney transplants in this country. There is a waiting list for donors, but it'll take decades - there are some who sell their kidneys but it costs almost a billion won, and then there's the medicine, the operation, and the hospital. It takes a lot of money and she's one of my closest friends so please feel free to reach out to me. I can give a bit of what I have." The doctor rambles.

Whatever it takes, even when the cost is too high.

₩649,344,412

In-ho stares at the cost of your transplant, and he knows that he doesn't have that money. "We'll be fine," he tells himself.

"I need to borrow money," In-ho stares at the loanshark. The man looked like a typical gangster, with tattoos all over his forearm, and the smell of cigarettes looming over the air.

"The high and mighty detective borrowing money from someone like me?" The man teased. In-ho has been watching this man for the past two years, waiting for a mistake - the loanshark's #1 enemy, and now begging at his doorsteps for money. "10% interest rate, you pay every month." The loanshark emphasized.

His cronies laugh, and one of them continues to massage him.

"5% and you give me the cash today," In-ho demands, an air of authority radiating around him. "Borrow money from someone else," the man scoffs. "- I know about the money laundering." In-ho leans cooly on the chair, pretending to be confident about the situation.

"6%," the man clenches his jaw.

"You have yourself a deal," In-ho agrees.

After the secret meeting, the loanshark got arrested. In-ho was fired from his job - the superiors believed that he was bribed to hide the loanshark's secret. And then he got a call from a random number.

He played ddakji with a strangely well-dressed man in the middle of the subway station, and he joined the 28th Squid Games.

He won the 28th Squid Games.

He exited the black van, his white shoes meeting the dirty ground. He stands to look at your home, everyone is staring at him. "What are you doing here!" Hee-jo screams at him. "She's dead, you didn't even visit her, she's dead!" Hee-jo yells.

In-ho stares in shock, looking around him, to see different types of flowers scattered all over the porch. 'I have the money,' he wanted to say as tears spilled out of his irises. "How dare you come here." Hee-jo continued crying as her grip on his forearm tightens, hurting him.

"In-ho," his younger brother looks shocked to see him.

"I'm sorry," In-ho mumbles.

I'm sorry.

Comment to get tagged for PT. 2

[omniliquid]

OmniLiquid's Church of Discordia: Sermon #666

So, I've been thinking, and drinking, and there's a thing that's been on my mind lately, so it's time for one of OmniLiquid's infamous mostly unnoticed rambly drunken rants about the failures of capitalism on a basic fundamental level that will undoubtedly devolve into a profanity-laden enraged scream into the void, but we'll burn that police station when we get to it.

But the topic for today's sermon in this church of Discordia (all hail Discordia, praise Eris) for which I am the most important pope, naturally, is the fundamental meaning of what it means for something to be a social construct. Listen up folks, this is important shit. This is, in essence, at the core of much magic.

I will begin, as I often do, with a thought experiment, and I will borrow the language (and you may use the voice in your internal reading) of Ben Shapiro, because it is funny to me (I am pretty sure Ben is smart enough to not make this argument, so don't attribute it to him, that would be strawmanning. I am taking the most naive and facetious possible take on economics here, and his voice happens to be my first thought, as a mere coincidence).

"Let's say, for the sake of argument, let's say that there are only two countries, and one of those countries, call it America, is amazing and has a bunch of gold in the ground so they can produce 10 trillion dollars worth of gold or, because the gold makes farming harder, they can produce 1 trillion dollars worth of corn. And let's say the only other country, call it South America, has no minerals in their soil but it's great for growing crops so they can produce 10 trillion dollars worth of crops or they can be lazy and produce only 1 trillion dollars of, like, crafts and stuff that gets sold on etsy. Wouldn't it be best if America focused their efforts on gold and produced 10 trillion dollars worth of gold and South America focused their efforts and produced 10 trillion dollars worth of food and they traded 5 trillion of each so both countries had way more than they could have had otherwise?"

And, yes, I am going to very much take down this strawman, but bear with me, because I am not aiming for the strawman. Like Batman, I am going to aim past the scarecrow and pull the wall down on it from behind. Save your questions to the end, folks, I can't hear them until after I post this anyway because that is how time works (maybe make a note of them, though).

So the first obvious question is, hey Mr. Strawman, what happens when something restricts trade, like if there's a blockade by the trade federation, the Evergreen gets stuck in a canal, or orcas declare war on shipping routes? Won't America just starve if all they have is gold and won't South America's food surplus go to waste and wouldn't this trade arrangement be dumb anyway because without Discordian and witchcraft-related crafts on Etsy the market is just a bland deluge of corporate excess? And yes, that is a very good point and that's where you might expect Batman's grapnel shot to connect and your expecting the absolute shock of Batman just straight up shooting the strawman with one o his tools and breaking his first rule, but no, it goes deeper, and the bards among you are overpowered indeed for seeing this coming and keep that up. Because the real question is, who decided that the 10 trillion dollars worth of gold and the 10 trillion dollars worth of food were equivalent (aside from me in coming up with the dumb argument).

Now we start to hit upon the thesis of this sermon: money is a social construct: what does that mean? I will now use another hypothetical. Suppose we only have two currencies, call US dollars and spicybucks. And suppose the exchange rate is a bit wonky so 1 dollar can be traded for 1 spicybuck and vice-versa for a negligible fee (if done in volume) but because of differences in regulations between countries, the work required to create a dollar worth of products in the US costs 0.95 dollars but the cost to create a dollar's worth of goods and ship it to the US in spicyland is 0.94 spicybucks and through the magic of hypotheticals this happens across every industry for every product and every service. What will be the result? This would be a short-circuit of the dollar, and every corporation would either buy all of their products and services in spiceland or they will be outcompeted by those who do, meaning workers in the US will be completely unable to find jobs , unable to buy anything, complete economic collapse, 100% deathrate in the US.

But this is FUCKING RIDICULOUS. Because if Spiceland didn't exist, the US would just create the products and services it needed and distribute them as normal. Spiceland is a kind of destructive spell that drains the economy, somehow. How? Why? We'll get to that. Maybe. Maybe we already did. Maybe we can only describe the features but not the thing itself. Maybe there's an amorphousness to magick and to experience and to everything, maybe the whole issue is that we are trying to get to the cores of things but there are no cores, just wibbly wobbly things. ALL IS LIQUID.

Quick aside, in Final Fantasy Tactics there is a stat called faith, which varies from 0 to 100, representing lore-wise the amount of belief the character has in the gods, but mechanically the effectiveness of any magical ability is multiplied as a percentage by the faith of the performer AND THE RECIEVER of the magick.

So getting back to the point, money is a social construct. It is a system of exchange rates that is agreed upon by some sort of consensus of the people we interact with and we just kind of agree that a loaf of bread is about a dollar and a two liter bottle of off brand soda is about half that and a modest house is about 50 to 100 thousand and a big mac is two but a double cheeseburger is 1 and rent for a studio or a 1-bedroom is about 350 *whispers from non-existent producer*....

...

...

And wages have gone up by an equal ratio, right?

[insert the Anakin and Pade meme if you aren't as lazy as me]

right?

...

Ok. How's civil unrest looking? High and growing? Goddessfuckingdamnedright it's high and growing, and it needs to be!

Don't people FUCKING GET IT! MONEY IS A FUCKING ILLUSION! GENDER IS A FUCKING ILLUSION! SURE, SEX HAS SOME REAL FUCKING IMPLICATIONS FOR REPRODUCTION BUT THAT ISN'T A FUCKING PROBLEM RIGHT NOW! PEOPLE SAY ELON MUSK HAS ENOUGH MONEY TO END WORLD HUNGER BUT IT DOESN'T MATTER IF HE TRANSFERS A BILLION DOLLARS TO A STARVING KID IN AFRICA'S BANK ACCOUNT THAT DOESN'T DO SHIT IF THE KID CAN'T GET FUCKING FOOD AND PROBABLY MEDICAL ATTENTION!

People act like money is this thing that can transmute itself into anything and it's sure easy to think that when your experience is driving to the store or ordering shit on Amazon with next day shipping, but money is not the philosopher's stone, it is a false stone, it has limitations, and excessive use degrades the soul. What matters is FUCKING MATERIAL CONDITIONS.

I think if you meditate on these truths and consult your pineal gland, you will gain deep knowledge, but I will add a few further remarks to aid in you meditation before expanding further and bringing in today's scripture.

There is no such thing as an illegal strike, only an unsuccessful one.

I don't recall the exact quote or who said it and I wish I could find it, but I saw someone quote it in a post once, and it was to the effect of: "When we go on strike, they will villainize us and lament that it came to such a terrible place, but don't let them fool you. When we go on strike, we are showing them grandmotherly kindness by not showing up on their doorstep with the guillotines at the ready."

Today's scripture comes from Illuminatus, near the beginning of the fourth trip, between Illuminati memo #16 and Illuminati memo #16 (not a typo) (extra-relevent passages (afaik) in pink, and shit that just resonates with me by syncronicity or otherwise in purple):

""They were using Mace now, and I saw one photographer snapping a picture of a cop while the cop was still Macing him (Heisenberg rides again! From out of the west come the thundering hooves of the great hearse, Joint Phenomenon! Except that I was on acid; if I'd been on weed, then it would really, royally, be a Joint Phenomenon). And I heard later that the photographer got an award for that shot. Right then, he didn't look like he was getting an award. He looked like they had just taken off his skin and touched each raw nerve with a dentist's drill. "Christ," I said to Hagbard, "look at that poor bastard. I hope I come out of this with just another teargassing or two. I don't want any of that Mace." But acid is placid, you know, and a minute later I was on Joyce's juices again and thinking of a drama called 'Their Mace and My Gripes." I made the first line fruity, in honor of Padre Pederastia: "What a botch of a pair to plumb this hour's gripes."

"Bism'allah," Hagbard said. "Our karma is made by our deeds, not by our prayers. You're on the set, so you take the action as it comes."

"Oh, cut out that Holy Man craperoo and stop reading

my mind," I protested. "You don't have to go on impressing me." But I was off on another tangent, which went something like this: If this set is Mayor Daley's circus, then Mayor Daley is the ringmaster. If the things below are the things above, as Hermes hermetically hinted, then this set is the bigger set. Mr. Microcosm, meet Mr. Macrocosm. "Hi, Mike!" "Hi, Mac." Conclusion: Mayor Daley, in a small way, is what Krishna is, in a large way. QED.

Just then some SDS kids who'd been teargassed across the street came running our way, and Hagbard got busy handing out wet handkerchiefs. They needed them: they were half-blind, like Joyce splitting his Adam into wise hopes. And I wasn't much help, because I was tod busy crying myself.

"Hagbard," I gasped in ecstasy. "Mayor Daley is Krishna."

"Worse luck for him," he said curtly, distributing the handkerchiefs. "He doesn't suspect it."

I thought, suddenly:

Hubert the Hump has coughed and hawked And spat on the streets that Lincoln walked

The water turned to blood (Hagbard was a joking jolting Jesus: you expected wine maybe?) and I remembered my mother's story about Dillinger at the Biograph. We all sit there, like him, in the Biograph Theatre, dreaming the drama of our lives, then walk outside to the grandmotherly kindness of the lead kisses that wake us back to our slipping beatitude. Except that he found a way to come back. What was it Charley Mordecai said: "First as tragedy, then as farce?" Marxism-Lennonism: Ed Sanders of the Fugs, the night before, talking about fucking in the streets as if he had read my mind (or had I read his?) and Lennon's "Why Don't We Do It in the Road" was recorded a year in the future. The Marx and our groupies. The bloody handkerchiefs dipped into water, or wine, and the mass rite went on, the mass went Right On, the Mace they rowed. Capone set it up for the Feds, but John was fed up and left the set, so an extra named Frank Sullivan got the bullets. The Autobiograph Theatre, a drama house and a trauma, yes. I maybe should have taken only half a

tab instead of the full 500 mikes, because at that point the SDS kids, all of them siding with RYM-I at the split next year, looked like they had altarboy robes on and I thought Hagbard was distributing communion wafers, not handkerchiefs. He looked at me, suddenly, with that hawk-faced Egyptian glare, and I observed that he had observed, Hopalong Horus Heisenberg, just where I was at You don't have to be a waterman, I thought, to know which way my mind is blowing.

There was a sound from the crowd, like a subway opening all its doors with a suck of air, and I saw the police coming, crossing the street to clear the park.

"Here we go again," I said. "All hail Discordia,"

"Snafu ueber alles," Hagbard grinned, starting to trot beside me.

We headed North, figuring that the ones who retreated eastward would get trapped against the wall and creamed. "Democracy in action," I said, panting along.

'There thou might'st behold the very image of Authority," he quoted, shifting his water bucket to keep it in balance. I caught the Shakespearean reference and looked back: my mind had already: each policeman indeed looked like Shakespeare's dog. I remembered the frantic semantics at the LBJ anti-birthday party, when Burroughs insisted Chicago Cops were more like dogs than pigs, in contradiction to the SDS rhetoric. Terry Southern, taking his usual maniacal middle course, claimed they were more akin to the purple-assed mandrill, most surly of the baboon family. But most of them hadn't discovered writing yet.

"Authority?" I asked, realizing I'd lost something along the way. We were slowing to a walk, the action was behind us.

"A is not A," Hagbard explained with that tiresome patience of his. "Once you accept A is A, you're hooked. Literally hooked, addicted to the System."

I caught the references to Aristotle, the old man of the tribe with his unfortunate epistemological paresis, and also to that feisty little lady I always imagine is really the lost Anastasia, but I still didn't grok. "What do you mean?" I asked, grabbing a wet handkerchief as some of the teargas started to drift to our end of the park.

"Chairman Mao didn't say half of it," Hagbard replied

holding a handkerchief to his own face. His words came through muffled: "It isn't only political power that grows out of the barrel of a gun. So does a whole definition of reality. A set. And the action that has to happen on that particular set and on none other."

"Don't be so bloody patronizing," I objected, looking around a corner in time and realizing this was the night I would be Maced. "That's just Marx: the ideology of the ruling class becomes the ideology of the whole society."

"Not the ideology. The Reality." He lowered his handkerchief. "This was a public park until they changed the definition. Now, the guns have changed the Reality. It isn't a public park. There's more than one kind of magic."

"Just like the Enclosure Acts," I said hollowly. "One day the land belonged to the people. The next day it belonged to the landlords."

"And like the Narcotics Acts," he added. "A hundred thousand harmless junkies became criminals overnight, by Act of Congress, in nineteen twenty-seven. Ten years later, in thirty-seven, all the pot-heads in the country became criminals overnight, by Act of Congress. And they really were criminals, when the papers were signed. The guns prove it. Walk away from those guns, waving a joint, and refuse to halt when they tell you. Their Imagination will become your Reality in a second."

And I had my answer to Dad, finally, just as a cop jumped out of the darkness screaming something about freaking motherfucking fag commies and Maced me, as was certain to happen (I knew it as I crumbled in pain) on that set.""

In case you missed it, and I am not throwing shade, I first read this passage in 2003 and somehow missed it because let's be honest, it is a fucking huge shock to the system to realize the importance that a law passed by congress is in physical reality a few soundwaves and scribbles of graphite and ink on some paper and some electronic shit nowadays but it changes the reality of the lives of people far and wide, but the deeper implication of this, that A IS NOT A, that is FUCKING HUGE.

Because here's the thing. In a world without magick, in a world where people don't have conflicting interests or neurodivergences or imperfect communication or a sense of playfulness or all the other shit that makes us lie to each other and encode messages and make up stories and create false narratives, ok, there is a "possible world*" where A would be A, where every dragon would be a dragon, every spade would be a spade, and where every lost person's journey of self discovery would consist of them uttering I am [a short description]. And that world would be bleak and boring and all of the interesting stories about it have been told and it's called The Giver. But that isn't this world. This world has magick, in fact it has a lot of magick, and you see it everywhere, but maybe you don't recognise it as magick because all the fantasy novels have you sold on this idea that magick is wrapped up in this aesthetic of pointy hats and medieval shit and low science and alchemy is a bit more scientific but got superceded by chemistry, etc.

But, no! LET THE RABBITS WEAR GLASSES (I've just had an urge to shout that recently)! MAGICK IS STRONGER THAN EVER AND THE UNIONS PROVE IT! Magick, in some sense, is the ability to distort reality, and to see reality beyond the distortions. And some magicks stretch thin when the presented reality differs so greatly from actual reality as to breed incredulity. And there are a lot of magicks, I'll bring up housing/ret prices, and point ominously towards the idea of land ownership as a concept, are starting to get pretty fucking thin. And when a longstanding spell breaks, that shit cascades. My advice is for all y'all to be prepared to capture that lightning, and don't just bottle it, Goddess knows we got plenty of bottled lightning, chain that fucking shit, channel it towards good and away from destruction as much as possible.

Anyway, I suck at conclusions, but I hope this shit has been informative. Keep fighting the good fight, confuse the enemy, do your things, and make sure to disobey every authority at least once, especially me.

This message is highly conversational. Dictate it to a reporter while exclaiming that you could have deconversationalised it while in office, but you didn't. If they point out that you're still in office, act like you had forgotten and issue a papal edict of your choice.

Praise Eris, All Hail Discordia.

[fatebinds]

he's so used to keeping his head down that barry really does look like he's dragged him here—little did they know that the two of them had come to the decision equally. more or less. "i think enough people are causing scenes tonight that it doesn't matter," he mumbles, downing half his drink in the first gulp. he doesn't shudder or sweat or groan anymore, but he still makes a face. there's nothing more disgusting than drinking something straight. "but don't worry, babe, i won't ruin your fun."

He drags Leon over to the drinks stall and he smiles, ordering a beer for himself and straight up Fireball whiskey for his loving husband. A few stares are caught their way, a side-effect of him being attached to the guy whose murder is going to be broadcast on the silver screen for all to see—thanks for that Linus. "Don't spend it all on one place, baby." Barry has a grin, warm and yet pointed at Leon like a knife in the face of his loathing. "Wouldn't want you to cause a scene. That's my job."

[interlunium-opus]

►DANCING WITH THE DEVIL #004: FINALE [Sunghoon.]

Parts ‣ #001 | ‣ #002 | ‣ #003 | ‣ #004: Prelude | ‣ #004: Finale

Abstract: Eight years have passed since you betrayed Park Sunghoon, leaving his fate shrouded in uncertainty. You thought you'd left that world behind, but the serial killings in the capital city —which bore a haunting resemblance to that in your past—pulled you right back into the shadows you once escaped. What began as a quest to prove your worth soon unraveled into something far more sinister: a labyrinthine network of power, deceit, and danger hidden beneath a veneer of opulence.Now, amidst the grandeur of a castle steeped in blood-soaked tradition, you find yourself, once again, entangled with Sunghoon—a ghost from your past whose motives remain as inscrutable as ever. The stakes are now higher, the games deadlier, and survival feels like chasing a mirage. As you navigate a web of twisted rituals and deadly alliances, the tension between you and Sunghoon ignites once again.But this time, the game is different. With whispers of betrayal and lingering wounds threatening to consume you both, you must decide if trust is a risk worth taking—because in doing so, you are not just exposing the truths they've hidden, but also the feelings you’ve fought so hard to suppress and bury.

Parts ‣ #001 | ‣ #002 | ‣ #003 | ‣ #004: Prelude | ‣ #004: Finale

Genre: vampire!sunghoon | horror | thriller | fantasy | romance (or is it? 😋)||| wc: ~13.2k

Featuring: Anton from Riize. [ PSA! ] There's also a Jaeyun here -- this is actually Enhypen Jake lol. Soz, no one fits the role that Jaeyun has in here better than Dark Blood Jake so I plead you guys to just go along and imagine that the Jake in Part 1-3 and Jaeyun in this Part are two different people ((who happen to look alike)) HAHAH

Warnings: blood; violence; injuries (some are self-inflicted); suggestiveness (some are forced); mentions of crimes (missing persons, murder, serial killings); manipulation; toxicity; trauma.

A/N: because Part 4 is too long, I had to split it into two parts and this is the 2nd part, the Finale. So if you're new to Part 4, please start with the Prelude first if you haven't :>

— xi

The gates groaned open, their rusted hinges echoing like a death knell through the oppressive stillness. Beyond them, the maze stretched into darkness, its towering hedges jagged and irregular, as if the structure itself had grown wild and angry over centuries. You stood among the others at the entrance, the flickering torchlight casting distorted shadows across their pale faces. Fear lingered in the air, clinging like smoke.

The host’s voice rang out, its unnerving cheer slicing through the tension. “Thirty minutes!” he announced. “That’s the grace period you’ve earned, dear victors. Thirty minutes to navigate the maze and claim your freedom. Once the thirty minutes is up, your claimants will descend and should you get captured then your fate is sealed in blood and eternity."

The sharp crack of a gunshot shattered the night, and chaos erupted. Humans surged forward like a desperate tide, plunging into the maze’s gaping maw.

It didn’t take long for the maze to reveal its true nature.

Branches lunged like claws, snagging at clothes and tearing through skin. You flinched as a woman ahead of you stumbled, her sleeve caught and shredded. Blood welled from her arm, the crimson stark against her pale skin. A man further ahead tripped, his cry piercing as a hidden root twisted around his ankle, sending him sprawling. His hand scraped against a jagged stone, a deep gash splitting his palm.

“It’s a... trap,” you muttered under your breath, the pieces clicking into place. Every twisted path seemed designed to injure, every branch poised to tear flesh. Every movement, every stumble left behind the scent of blood, marking them like a beacon. The maze wasn’t a challenge; it was a slaughterhouse, designed to render them helpless before the hunt even began.

You glanced back toward the castle, your breath catching as you spotted the vampires in the Grand Hall beyond the glass-paneled windows. Warm light spilled out, casting golden reflections on the darkened grounds. They lounged at long tables, wine glasses glinting in their hands as they laughed and gestured. It wasn’t chaos to them; it was entertainment. A grotesque theater of blood and desperation, framed perfectly for their amusement.

Resolve hardened in your chest. You weren’t going to play their game.

Turning sharply, you broke away from the panicked crowd and ran back toward the castle. The thought struck you with chilling clarity as your feet pounded against the ground: the staff had been dismissed, the mortals were in the maze. The castle wasn’t just the safest place to escape the hunt—it was the perfect trap as inside those walls, only vampires remained.

There was no way you would let the maze tear you apart piece by piece. If they wanted a game, you’d give them one on your own terms. And so with bold and calculated steps, you headed back, but instead of the Grand Hall where vampires lounged with glasses of wine in hand, reveling in their twisted theater of blood and desperation, you headed deeper—to the cellar you’d stumbled upon yesterday while frantically searching for a first-aid kit after finding Sunghoon bloodied at the foot of your bed.

Back then, you hadn’t paid much attention—your mind consumed with stopping the bleeding. But the sight had lingered: towering racks of bottles and colossal barrels stacked like monoliths. Most importantly, you recalled how the cellar was situated directly beneath the Grand Hall—a precarious foundation for a room already weathered by centuries. Its position alone made it a powder keg waiting for a spark.

Now, as you descended the spiral staircase once more, your steps were deliberate, your breaths steady. The cellar stretched before you, even larger than you’d remembered. Rows of barrels lined the space, their labels faded but still legible in the dim light: port, sherry, even brandy. The air was thick, carrying the faint tang of aged wine and the sharper bite of spirits—a volatile combination.

You moved quickly, tipping barrels one by one. Thick liquid gushed out, pooling across the stone floor in a growing lake. As the pungent scent of wine filled the air, an idea struck you: a trail. The fire couldn’t stay confined to the cellar—it needed to climb, to reach the vampires in their gilded cage above.

Grabbing an uncorked bottle from the shelves, you dipped it into the pooling wine and began creating a path. The liquid splashed as you worked, leaving a continuous, glistening line up the stairs and toward the hall’s entrance. When the first bottle ran dry, you spotted a smaller cask labeled lamp oil. Without hesitation, you tipped it into the mix, thickening the trail. Your hands moved with precision, painting a path meant to spark chaos.

At the top of the staircase, you paused, heart pounding. The torchlight flickered in your grip as you surveyed your work. The lake of wine and spirits in the cellar. The trail snaking upward. The puddle pooling at the hall’s threshold. It wasn’t perfect, but it would do. You recalled overhearing a maid speaking about the Grand Hall—its ancient foundations riddled with cracks and shored up by makeshift supports. If any place in the castle would collapse under fire, it was here.

But, as your surveyed the trail you'd left, you knew it wasn’t enough. You needed chaos. You needed to bait them. You need to cover all the loopholes. Maximise the impact.

So you swiftly reached for the dagger concealed in your garter belt, your eyes darting for a spot to make the sacrifice. Your forearm. Without hesitation, you pressed the blade against your skin, slicing deeper than ever before—this time, you needed more. A sharp sting shot through you, making your breath hitch, but you didn’t falter. Blood welled instantly, warm and vivid, tracing the edge of the wound like liquid fire. With hurried yet deliberate steps, you smeared your blood on the walls leading down to the cellar.

All your near-death interactions with vampires teaches you one important thing: they do not think when it comes to fresh blood when desperation hits.They are creatures of impulse and in the desperation stoked by an inferno—yet another exploitable weakness—the smoke and heat would confuse their senses, leaving the scent of fresh blood as their only compass. Thus, just like how the maze was meant to draw blood—you’d turned their weapon against them, your blood would lead them straight to the hottest part of the castle.  

Once you decided blood had strategically been spread enough in certain key locations, you wrapped a torn fabric from your gown tightly—trying to staunch the bleeding before you set your plan in motion.

Your torch flickered ominously, its light casting jagged shadows across the stone walls. It was time.

Crouching low, you ignited the flammable trail at the midpoint of the staircase. Immediately, flames surged to life, spreading upward and downward with terrifying speed. The fire roared as it consumed the path you’d created, its glow painting the narrow corridor in hues of gold and crimson.

You didn’t wait to see the inferno take hold. Spinning on your heel, you darted into a nearby passage—a maid’s shortcut you had overheard during your time wandering the castle. The narrow corridor was damp, the air thick with mildew, but it offered a chance to slip past the chaos you��d unleashed.

When you emerged, the familiar Eastern end of the Corridors of Treachery loomed before you, its twisting halls stretching endlessly into shadow. But this time, you didn’t falter. One last thing, you thought, your steps confident and resolute as you opened a door—the Library.

This was your next target.

The blaze below would cripple them, but the knowledge contained in this room—the ancient texts, the records of their lineage and power—it needed to be destroyed. If the castle was to fall, their legacy must, too, for every words here were like poison, waiting to be unleashed by the next power-hungry bloodsucker.

Your steps were steady as you made your way to the shelves, already knowing where to go. The Obsidian Testament waited for you in its usual place, its ominous presence untouched even amidst the growing chaos. The moonlight spilled through the tall windows, catching the hidden coat of arms engraved on its cover—a silent reminder of Sunghoon’s bloodline, regal and intricate, yet tainted by the weight of its history.

Without hesitation, you lit the edge of the book, watching as the flames began their ravenous work. The coat of arms—so proud, so immovable—gradually crumbled under the heat. You hurled it onto a growing pile of texts, the fire spreading hungrily across the brittle pages.

Let it all burn.

“I knew it was you—" a voice pierced through the sound of crackling flames and the ominous groan of weakening wood.

Jaeyun.

He strode forward with a deliberate, menacing pace, his hand sweeping back his golden hair in a single, frustrated motion. The movement exposed his sharp, angular features. Gone was the mischievous grin that had once softened him, replaced by a cold, predatory expression that turned his beauty into something terrifying.

“I was going to grant you an escape and this—" he roared, “is how you repay me?!”

“As if,” you spat scornfully, “I saw the layout of the maze the other day from the tower–it’s a labyrinth, all towering hedges and twisting paths. No flowers, no statues, no space for anything but confusion. So the moment you told me of statues as the hint for escape, I knew you were trying to bait me."

He scoffed, dragging his sword behind him, the blade scraping against the ground with a grating hiss. The nearby flames cast flickering shadows across his face, making his sneer all the more menacing, “I get it now. You chose me exactly because you needed me here. If you had chosen Sunghoon, you knew I’d left the castle and gone after you–"

You stepped back instinctively, his sneer slowly twisting, faltering into a grimace that betrayed the quiet fury simmering beneath the surface. “You chose me,” he continued, each word dripping with venom, “to trick him. To let him escape this carnage you’ve been planning.”

He didn’t flinch as burnt books tumbled from the crumbling shelves, landing in smouldering heaps around him. His grimace deepened, a bitter edge curling his lips. “How disgustingly cliché.”

“You read too much fairytales.” you hissed, your voice cutting through the crackling of the flames. “I chose you because I knew what a narcissistic, overconfident, manipulative prick you are. I knew you’d let your guard down the moment your name is picked and that is all I needed to take this whole place down. To take the rot down.”

The taunt landed like a strike, and Jaeyun lunged. His speed was startling, and before you could react, your back slammed against a nearby wall. The impact forced the breath from your lungs, your body pinned as his eyes—blazing with a fury to match the fire—bore into yours.

Fuck, you thought, the heat pressing against your skin, the air growing heavier with smoke. At this rate, even you might not escape the fire.

But you’d banked on this. Vampires were slaves to their emotions when pushed to the brink. Jaeyun could have fled. He could have saved himself. Instead, here he was, his rage blinding him to the inferno that threatened to consume them both.

“I can still reap you now,” he snarled, his fangs elongating to their full, menacing length. “You’d be my 100th you know. Two cycles of reaping, countless bodies left in my wake, and still standing. Do you think your little bonfire will end me? Pray harder.”

His hand tightened around your throat, pressing you harder against the wall. The pressure wasn’t just threatening—it was exactly what you needed. His body leaned closer, his focus narrowed to you and his fury. This was the calculated risk you’d taken: baiting him to lose control, to get close enough for you to finish this. And he had proven you right.

You could have fled, but you hadn’t. You’d gambled on his inability to walk away from the stage you’d set ablaze. Jaeyun, the cunning puppeteer, wouldn’t let his masterpiece burn without trying to stop it. His pride wouldn’t allow it. And now, blinded by anger, he failed to notice the flames inching closer, the smoke curling around his form.

“Big talk,” you rasped, your voice steady beneath his crushing grip. “And yet… you’ve already lost.”

His eyes narrowed, a flicker of confusion cutting through the storm of rage. For a split second, his body tensed—but then his gaze dropped.

There, plunged deep into his abdomen, was your dagger. The blade caught the firelight, its hilt adorned with a small charm bearing Sunghoon’s crest. The ruby glinted wickedly, its light reflecting the chaos of the flames around you.

Jaeyun’s grip faltered, his hand loosening slightly as blood, dark and thick, bloomed through his shirt, and you didn’t hesitate. Summoning every ounce of strength you had left, you shoved him off, wrenching the blade free as you bolted out of the library. The flames roared louder now, licking hungrily at the walls, their heat pressing against your back.

But you didn’t make it far. A force barrelled into you, slamming you to the ground with a weight that knocked the air from your lungs.

“Fucking get off me—” you gasped, twisting under his grip.

Jaeyun was on top of you, pinning you with an iron hold. His nails had elongated into claws, sharp and gleaming in the firelight. He pressed them against your neck, just enough to draw thin lines of blood.

“Look at you—squirming like a wounded rabbit. How adorable,” he murmured, his voice soft but dripping with cruel amusement. His weight crushed you against the stone floor, unforgiving and cold beneath you. He forced your head to an unnatural angle, his claws digging deeper, anchoring you helplessly in place.

"Haven't you heard? struggling makes the blood sweeter," he drawled, his head dipping into the crook of your neck, his breathing hot and heavy, "so go ahead—struggle all you want, you are just sweetening my feast."

His tongue dragged across the cut he’d made, slow and deliberate, a mocking gesture that sent a shiver of revulsion down your spine. “Ah,” he exhaled sharply, shuddering in such a revolting way, “there it is—so much sweeter when you fight.” The words dripped from his lips like venom, each syllable a mockery of your helplessness. He lingered, the softness of his lips a deliberate contrast to the sharp sting of his claws. It was as if he was deliberately prolonging the act to rattle you—to cut where it hurts the most: your autonomy and dignity.

“Do you think he tasted you like this?” he whispered, his lips brushing the edge of the wound in deliberate malice and intimacy, relishing in your revulsion and savouring the power he held over you and every flicker of your discomfort. “Or is this my privilege alone?”

He chuckled low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your skin. “I wonder…” he murmured, his voice curling with mock tenderness, “does he know how much sweeter you become when you squirm?” His claws pressed harder, the sharp sting blossoming into pain, his next words cutting deeper than his nails ever could. “Or is that just for me too?”

The sharpness of his teeth grazed your neck, far too close, far too sharp—sharper than you remembered Sunghoon’s ever being. Your breath hitched, panic clawing at the edges of your mind, the firelight around you seeming to flicker with your racing pulse. You squeezed your eyes shut, bracing for the inevitable—

But then instead of pain. You felt the weight lifted.

A rush of air and heat overwhelmed you as Jaeyun was torn away. Your body trembled, the world tilting for a moment. When you clambered back to your feet, you saw them—two figures clashing across the corridor, their movements a blur amidst glowing embers and smoke-choked air.

Sunghoon and Jaeyun.

The firelight cast jagged shadows across the walls, illuminating the ferocity of their battle.

Sunghoon’s strikes were calculated, but desperation bled into each swing of his blade—precise yet strained. His strength, though formidable, seemed frayed at the edges, each swing costing him more than the last. As he stepped closer to the firelight, you saw it clearly: the cuts marring his face and the dark smudges of ash clinging to his disheveled clothing. He must’ve faced other vampires on his way here, you thought.

In contrast, Jaeyun moved with unnerving ease, his blows quick and unrelenting, each one a chilling display of power. The oppressive heat and smoke clawed at the air, suffocating and disorienting, but Jaeyun seemed untouched—his strength unfaltering, a cruel testament to the reaping cycles that had forged him into something far beyond human, even vampiric.

“You came just in time, Romeo.” Jaeyun sneered, sidestepping a blow with maddening grace. "Did you see how perfectly she fits in my hand?" he taunted as he swung his blade, forcing Sunghoon back, "ah—and her taste. Her warm skin. The way she shivered. You know, if you hadn't interrupted, I’d have heard her make that sound again. You know the one—soft, breathless, perfect."

It was revolting to hear him say those filthy words but at that moment your dignity took a backseat for all you could think of was Sunghoon. As if Jaeyun knew exactly how to play with someone's mind, Sunghoon’s strikes came faster, heavier—but clumsier. Fury bled into every swing, the precision of his usual attacks dulled by anger. Then their swords met with a thunderous crash, the force sending sparks flying as both pressed forward, neither giving ground. Sunghoon’s chest heaved, his labored breaths a stark contrast to Jaeyun’s unnerving composure, his taunting smirk growing wider.

Jaeyun continued, his voice dripping with cruel amusement, “but I guess you wouldn’t know, would you? She has never let you touch her like that, has she?” His grin sharpened, his next words a venomous whisper. “Not the way she let me, at least.”

Sunghoon charged again, his blows landing harder than before, but Jaeyun danced out of reach, his blade glinting in the firelight, "—because she will never accept you the way you are Sunghoon," his voice was laced with mock pity, "you're just another bloodthirsty beast."

Then, with a sudden shift, Jaeyun lunged, forcing Sunghoon back with a flurry of heavy strikes. “You should’ve stopped pretending to be noble and reaped her,” he hissed, his blows driving Sunghoon toward the corner. “That’s the only way you’ll ever have her.” His grin twisted into something darker as he leaned closer, delivering the final barb. “And maybe—just maybe—it would’ve brought back the strength you used to have because this…” Jaeyun’s blade pressed closer, his eyes gleaming with disdain. “—is just pathetic.”

You swallowed thickly for the odds doesn't seem to stack up for Sunghoon. Your body reacted instinctively to go after him, but his gaze stopped you cold. The sharp jerk of his head said it all: Run.

But you couldn’t.

Then their blades clashed again, the sharp ring echoing through the suffocating heat. Sunghoon’s strikes, though deliberate, were slower now, his movements burdened by the corner he’d been forced into. The stone wall pressed against his back, leaving him little room to manoeuver. Yet even there, with Jaeyun bearing down on him, his defiance burned brighter.

“You can amass all the power and influence you want,” Sunghoon said through gritted teeth, his blade locking with Jaeyun’s in a deadly stalemate. His voice was low but cutting, his eyes blazing with quiet fury. “But you’ll never be able to claim something you’ve never had the right to.”

"The blood you take," Sunghoon shoved him back with a surge of strength, their blades separating with a hiss of steel, "won't make yours anymore purer. It just taints you irreparably."

Jaeyun froze for the briefest moment as if the words had landed exactly where they were meant to. The smirk on his lips faltered, not gone but strained, like a mask beginning to crack.

"That is probably why," Sunghoon continued, his strikes growing sharper, each one cutting closer, "my very existence riles you so isn't it? even when I've never made any moves to challenge your house of cards?"

Jaeyun’s movements lost some of their calculated ease, his strikes heavier but less precise, each blow betraying his frustration. The tables had turned and now it was Jaeyun’s turn to be riled up, his composure unraveling with every word.

Sensing the shift, Sunghoon adjusted his stance, lowering his weight in anticipation. Jaeyun lunged, his overconfidence driving him forward—but Sunghoon was ready. With a blur of motion, he pivoted sharply, driving his shoulder into Jaeyun’s chest with brutal force. The impact sent Jaeyun sprawling backward, skidding across the debris-strewn floor until he collided with a broken pillar.

Sunghoon didn’t hesitate. Before Jaeyun could recover, he closed the distance with unrelenting precision, dropping to one knee and driving his blade into Jaeyun’s exposed abdomen. The force of the strike pinned Jaeyun to the ground, his body jerking under the weight of the blow. Blood bloomed instantly, dark and thick, pooling across the cracked stone beneath them. Jaeyun hissed, his hands clawing at the blade embedded in his torso. For a moment, it seemed as though Sunghoon had won. You held your breath, hope flickering to life.

Then, Jaeyun’s lips curled into a bloodied smirk. “You're nowhere enough,” he rasped, his voice laced with venom, “—of a challenge Sunghoon.”

It was only then you noticed it—Jaeyun’s own blade, slick with Sunghoon’s blood, had been driven deep into his flank. You hadn’t seen the strike. Neither had Sunghoon. But there it was, protruding cruelly through his abdomen, crimson spreading across his shirt like spilled ink.

“Sunghoon!” The name tore from your lips, sharp and raw. You stepped forward instinctively, but before you could reach him, the ceiling above groaned ominously. A massive chunk of debris collapsed, slamming into the ground between you and them.

The impact sent you stumbling back, coughing as a thick cloud of smoke and dust billowed around you. “No—” you rasped, your voice cracking as you strained to see through the haze.

Sunghoon gritted his teeth, his knuckles tightening on his blade, though he didn’t withdraw. Nor did he stagger nor falter. Instead, he shifted his weight forward, his strength bearing down on the blade, every ounce of effort ensuring Jaeyun couldn’t push him off.

“You sure about that?” Sunghoon rasped, his voice hoarse and strained.

Jaeyun’s smirk twisted into confusion as his eyes darted down. Horror dawned as he saw Sunghoon’s blood streaming from his wound, dripping steadily onto the gaping injury in Jaeyun’s abdomen—the wound you had inflicted earlier. The reaction was instantaneous. Frost-like patterns spreading outward from the contact point, jagged and unrelenting, crystallising his torso and limbs, locking him in place. His claws scrambled at the stone floor, scraping against it in desperation as his body stiffened. His voice cracked, teetering on the edge of panic. “No-no—you—“

You recalled an excerpt from The Annals of Kings—a fleeting detail about how the blood of a Pureblood, though inert on the skin of another vampire, becomes lethal toxin when mingled with another’s wounds—an alchemical reaction born of their cursed lineage. And therein lay the tragedy: the blood they so revered—the symbol of their purity, power, and immortality—was also their undoing. The very essence that granted them supremacy over all others carried the seeds of their destruction, a cruel paradox embedded in their existence.

You realized then what Sunghoon had allowed Jaeyun to do. He hadn’t just been defending himself; he had turned his own wound into a weapon. Sunghoon had weaponized the very thing their kind held sacred, knowing it would be Jaeyun’s end—even as it left him vulnerable to his own impending collapse. In heaving, ragged breaths, Sunghoon rasped, “I only finished what she started—". His eyes met yours for a fleeting moment the weight of his gaze—the unspoken truth behind his sacrifice—struck you harder than any blow.

Jaeyun regurgitated, his body stiffening as the crystal consumed him entirely, his face locked in a mask of rage and terror. A sharp crack echoed through the hall as his crystalline form splintered, into ashen dust, swirling briefly in the fiery glow before dissipating into the suffocating smoke, vanishing as though he had never existed.

Sunghoon staggered back from the remains, his breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps. His hands moved to the blade embedded in his flank, his fingers trembling as he gripped the hilt. With a sharp, agonized groan, he wrenched it free, the sound of metal against flesh almost drowned out by the crackling flames around him.

The moment the blade left his body, blood poured from the wound in thick, unrelenting streams. His face, already pale, lost what little colour it had left, the crimson staining his hands stark against his ashen skin. He swayed, his frame lurching unsteadily as though the weight of the air itself had become too much to bear.

And then he pitched forward, catching himself on trembling hands before he collapsed entirely. Blood dripped from his wound in heavy rivulets as his body sagged against the stone floor. For a moment, he seemed almost unrecognizable—so human in his fragility, so far from the invulnerable figure you had known.

You should have ran away then.

The exit was there, your path to freedom blazing clearly through the smoke and flames. You could have escaped—left behind the horrors that had haunted you, the chaos that had led you to this moment.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you ran toward him. Through the flames and falling debris, through the suffocating heat, you reached him. His weight sagged heavily against you as you tried to pull him upright, your arms straining with the effort.

His face was pale, slick with sweat, and streaked with soot. Blood continued to pour freely from his wound, dark and thick, in a way that was achingly human. His eyes, so often guarded and unreadable, now lay bare—soft and raw, stripped of all pretense.

“You’re stupid!” you choked out, your voice trembling as you pressed your hands against his wound, desperate to staunch the bleeding. “Why did you come back to the castle?”

“You’re the stupid one,” he rasped, a faint, ghostly smirk tugging at his cracked lips. “Why haven’t you run? I stalled long enough for you—”

“Shut up,” you snapped, panic lacing your words as you struggled to lift him again. His body was limp, heavier than you could manage alone, and he slumped back to his knees, his breathing shallow and laboured, each breath a fight.

He was worse off than the last time you’d patched him up—far worse—and the realization sent a jolt of fear through you. At this rate, neither of you would escape the flames. You’d both burn together in this crumbling castle.

“Perhaps,” he murmured, his voice barely audible now, “we’ve bantered long enough.”

His body pitched forward, and you caught him instinctively. His weight collapsed into your arms, his head coming to rest weakly in the nook of your shoulder. You felt the faint brush of his lips against your skin—soft, fleeting, and entirely unlike the possessive ferocity you’d known from him. His hand trembled as it moved to your back, curling with a weak insistence, a stark contrast to the vice-like grip he had on you just hours ago.

���I’m letting you go now, y/n,” he whispered, his words a quiet confession, laced with both sorrow and resolve. “This is the only way I could ever let you go.”

Your breath hitched. You knew what he meant, and you didn’t want that. Perhaps you never did.

“No,” you said, your voice trembling but firm, the weight of your conviction cutting through the chaos around you. Tears welled in your eyes, but they didn’t fall. Not yet.

Your hands moved with purpose, tearing the makeshift bandage from your arm. Blood pooled from the cut, rich and red, but you didn’t hesitate. “Take my blood, Sunghoon,” you demanded, thrusting your arm toward him. “Quickly. You need it—”

He shook his head weakly, his breaths shallow and uneven. “y/n, go,” he rasped, his voice barely audible above the roar of the flames. “We’re running out of time.”

“Damn it, Sunghoon!” you barked, desperation breaking through the cracks in your resolve. “You don’t get to tell me what to do—not now, not like this!”

His eyes, already losing focus, flickered with something—protest, perhaps, or regret. But you didn’t give him the chance. Before he could stop you, you brought your arm to your lips, the sharp metallic tang of blood filling your mouth. Without hesitation, you grabbed him by the collar and pulled him close, crushing your lips to his.

The transfer was immediate. You felt his body stiffen, his hand twitching weakly against your back in surprise. When you pulled away, his lips were stained crimson, his gaze dazed, unfocused.

“Is that enough?” you asked, your voice trembling. “it’s not right? take more.” You leaned closer, your breathing uneven as you tilted your head to the side. “Take it from my neck. That works best for you, doesn’t it?”

“y/n, stop—” he croaked, his voice fractured.

For a moment, you froze, your gaze locking onto his. The sight of him—so pale, so vulnerable, teetering on the edge of collapse—was unbearable, it was twisting your heart painfully. Frustration burned through you, hot and unrelenting.

“You’re making this hard,” you muttered under your breath, your voice shaking.

Before he could utter another word, you shifted upwards, wrapping your arms tightly over his shoulder, steadying him and angling yourself so that his face was close enough to your neck. “Bite me,” you whispered, your voice thick with both resolve and something far more raw. “I’ll let you.”

The hand he already had on your back shifted, his fingers curling faintly into the fabric of your gown, but it wasn’t a grip of possession, but one of desperation—as though he was afraid you might disappear if he didn’t hold on tight. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, his other hand began to move. Trembling, hesitant, it brushed against your shoulder, its path uncertain, as though he feared you might flinch or pull away.

The roughness of his palm met the curve of your neck, his touch both gentle and weighted. His fingers curled there, delicate yet unyielding, cradling the nape of your neck as though it was something fragile, irreplaceable. Each movement was deliberate, almost reverent, as if he was memorizing the feel of your skin beneath his hand.

It wasn’t the possessive grip you’d known before. This was something far more tender, far more devastating. It was as though his very existence hung by a thread, and you were the only thing keeping him from unraveling completely.

“y/n. You don't understand. I’ve lost too much blood,” he murmured, his lips brushing featherlight against your neck. “I wouldn’t be able to stop—”

“I trust you,” you interrupted, your voice trembling but unyielding as you held him tighter. “I trust you, Sunghoon. I trust that you’ll take just enough to survive.”

His hold on you tightened as if trying to ground himself in the weight of your words. I trust you—the words hung between you, fragile yet immense. It was the very words he needed to hear all along; the very words you’ve fought so desperately not to feel, much less say.

Then, slowly, he pulled back just enough to look at you, his dark eyes searching yours for something—reassurance, resolve. The firelight danced across his face, highlighting the shadows of exhaustion etched into his features. The vulnerability in his gaze was a blade cutting both ways, and you knew it would haunt you long after this moment passed.

“I trust you,” you repeated softly, your voice unwavering this time.

Above you, debris crashed to the floor, the flames roaring louder. The heat was suffocating, the air thick with smoke, but you didn’t move. Neither did he. Time was slipping away, but in this moment, it felt as though the world had narrowed to just the two of you.

His expression twisted, as though your words had broken something in him. Pain flickered across his face—not just physical, but something deeper, something that had been buried for far too long. His hand, trembling now, reached up to brush a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers lingered there, gentle and deliberate, as if committing the feel of you to memory. Then his hand shifted, cradling the side of your neck. His thumb grazed your skin, reverent, unhurried, as though this was both a goodbye and a plea to stay.

“We’re always at odds, aren’t we?” he murmured softly, "I asked you to run but you stayed. I asked you to save yourself, but you're trying to save me instead."

You grinned bitterly, “always.”

For a moment, his gaze lingered, searching yours, before he dipped his head into the crook of your neck. His breath was warm against your skin, almost hesitant. Then the sharp prickle of pain came—a fleeting sting as his fangs broke your skin—but it was eclipsed by the strange, disarming lull that followed.

His grip on you tightened, his body pressing closer, desperate and unyielding. You could feel the urgency in every movement, the hunger in every pull of his lips against your skin. It was overwhelming, the pull of his fangs relentless, like he was drawing not just blood but something far deeper—something he couldn’t bear to lose.

You should have been terrified. You should have fought back.

But you didn’t. You couldn’t.

Even as your vision blurred, as the edges of the world dissolved into the inferno raging around you, one truth anchored you to him:

You trusted him.

— xii

You woke with a jolt, a sharp gasp tearing through your chest as sterile, artificial air filled your lungs. The glaring white walls seemed to close in around you, their starkness more oppressive than calming. Fluorescent lights hummed faintly above, casting an antiseptic glow that made the space feel detached, clinical—eerily devoid of life.

Your gaze darted frantically across the room, your pulse racing with every detail that didn’t belong. There was no warmth here, no trace of familiarity. Just the suffocating stillness pressing down on you, as though the air itself had weight. For a terrifying moment, it felt like a void, a purgatory for fractured souls. Perhaps you were dead. After everything—the chaos, the blood, the flames—was this where it all ended?

A tremor passed through you, the memory of his voice, his face, flashing like a spark in the darkness. The desperation in his eyes. The warmth of his hand against yours, the fragile connection you clung to even as the world burned around you.

“Sunghoon?” The name slipped from your lips before you could stop it, trembling with hope and fear. It wasn’t just a question; it was a plea, a tether you threw into the void, praying it would hold. The sound of it shattered the oppressive silence, leaving a raw ache in its wake.

You swung your legs over the edge of the bed, and pain flared like lightning through your body. Every nerve screamed in protest—your ribs, your limbs, even the faintest breath. “Sunghoon?” you called again, louder this time, the desperation cracking through your voice.

You forced yourself upright, your bare feet meeting the icy bite of the tile floor. Your legs wobbled beneath you, your strength slipping like sand through your fingers. The IV pole clattered to the ground as you collapsed, clutching the bedframe in a desperate bid for balance.

The sound shattered the room’s oppressive quiet and almost immediately the door swung open with a sharp creak. Your heart leapt, relief surging through your veins. “Sungho—”

But it wasn’t him.

“y/n!” Anton’s voice cut through the tension as he hurried to your side, his face etched with concern. He dropped to his knees beside you, steadying your trembling frame. “What are you doing? You’re still too weak. Lie back down!”

“Anton,” you rasped, your hands gripping his shirt tightly. “Where’s Sunghoon?”

“Sunghoo—?” He frowned, confused, before realization dawned. “Ah, Mr. Park? y/n, he left weeks ago. Don’t you remember? He was called back to his headquarters. Some urgent matters in Prague.”

You shook your head vehemently, your grip on him tightening. “No, that’s not right. He was with me. He—”

“y/n,” Anton said gently but firmly, helping you back onto the bed. “you’ve been unconscious for 2 weeks—your mind is probably still foggy especially given all you had to endure. Don’t you remember? We held a farewell lunch for him? You were there, muttering spiteful things under your breath when he delivered his farewell speech.”

You froze, staring at him in disbelief. “We didn’t,” you whispered hoarsely. “He was—” The words died in your throat. You clung to the fragments of memory that felt more like splinters now. “What about the people then? and the- the castle?”

Anton’s sat beside you, voice gentle, “the castle is gone, razed to the ground. Some people were found scattered across the compound, but all of them had hazy memories—smoke inhalation and trauma-induced amnesia, according to the doctors. No signs of foul play though. Just a gas leak in an old building. The fire spread too fast.”

“How about casualties?” you asked, your mind flashing to the vampires that should be stuck in the hall.

Anton shook his head. “None. Just scattered jewelry and strange clothing pieces found in the halls—probably left behind by looters after the fire started. Authorities have investigated it thoroughly though and nothing indicates foul play. Even the castle’s owner isn’t pressing charges or requesting further inquiry.”

“But Sungh- someone – someone must have been with me,” you pressed on, the words stumbling out.

“y/n,” Anton repeated, his voice more serious now, “no one was. You were alone in the glasshouse. The only one unconscious, in fact. They theorised, given the proximity, you must have spent a lot of time inside compared to others which is why you were unconscious. But point is—investigations had been done and foul play is ruled out. Everyone is safe.”

“Every..." you echoed, “—no. I think there were some who didn’t— do you have a list? the guests? the survivo—" your words faltered as your head spun, a sharp pang cutting through the fog of your thoughts. You groaned, swaying unsteadily. Anton was quick to catch you, steadying your trembling form as he guided you to lean back against the bed.

"y/n, stop—" he said, his tone full of concern. "Look, you've been unconscious for almost 2 weeks. You're not in the right state of mind yet. Let me get the doctor first, okay? don’t move.”

You barely registered his words as you stared up at the sterile ceiling, your mind racing with fragmented memories. Sunghoon. The flames. The battle. His bloodied body against yours. The way he’d looked at you in those final moments—his eyes full of something unspoken, something that clung to you even now.

Instinctively, your hand rose to your neck, brushing against the skin there—and froze. Faint but undeniable, you felt it: a mark. His bite mark.

Your breath hitched as the weight of it sank in. It was the confirmation you needed. That he was real. That your memories weren’t muddled or fabricated. That he had been there.

For a moment, a spark of relief lit in your chest. He’d been there. You hadn’t imagined him. The connection you clung to wasn’t some fever dream born of smoke and fear.

But as your fingers lingered over the faint indentations, that spark dimmed, flickering under the weight of a new truth.

Anton had said you’d been unconscious for two weeks. Two weeks. Two weeks is a long time for someone like him to stay away. Too long.

Suddenly, the silence felt unbearable—crushing in its emptiness, each second a reminder of all the truths his absence could mean. Each one as cruel as the next.

— xiii

A month had passed, and unlike before—when you could sense Sunghoon in the shadows, catch the faintest trace of his cologne lingering in the air, or swear you felt his touch as you brushed past strangers—he was utterly, completely gone.

His absence was deafening.

So you buried yourself in work, to drown out the silence that followed you everywhere and to lock the memories away. Perhaps if you don’t think about it, the ache would dull. Even better, fade entirely.  

Until one night.

You were reaching for something from the shelves in your bedroom when your elbow knocked a box off the shelf. It crashed to the floor with a hollow thud, its contents spilling out in an unceremonious heap. You froze, your pulse quickening as you recognized it—the box of belongings you’d had with you when they took you to the hospital. You’d refused to unpack it then, shoving it out of sight to avoid reopening wounds that hadn’t even begun to heal. The castle. The flames. Him.

But it had been a month. Surely, someone like you would have moved on by now.

“It’s just clothes,” you muttered to yourself, crouching to gather the scattered items. Your fingers brushed against the fabric of the dress you’d worn that night. It felt foreign and familiar all at once, its torn edges and scorched seams tangible remnants of that nightmare. As you bunched it up, you winced and drop the dress, a sharp sting prickling your fingertip.

“Ouch,” you muttered, seeing it draw blood. “What kind of dress would be this sha-"

It was a brooch.

No, not just any brooch. It was a brooch bearing his crest. Sunghoon’s crest.

The ruby gleamed faintly, tarnished by smoke and fire, but still unmistakable. Regal. Intricate. For a moment, you froze, your breath catching in your throat. It lay nestled in the folds of the dress, as if it had always been waiting for you to find it. Tentatively, your fingers closed around it, and as you pulled it free, the weight of it settled in your palm like a stone.

Your breath hitched as the dam burst. Memories flooded in—his voice, his touch, the way he’d looked at you in those final moments. The way he’d fought for you. The way he’d bled for you. The way he’d let you go.

The way he was gone.

Your chest tightened painfully as you stared at the brooch, its sharp edges pressing into your palm. This was all that remained. The only proof that he had existed, that any of it had been real.

The thought clawed at you, unrelenting, as a darker possibility crept into your mind. Vampires left no trace when they perished—no ashes, no remains. If he was gone, truly gone, you might never know. And that terrified you. In fact it terrified and pained you even more than if he was gone simply because he had walked away.

Your grip on the crest tightened, the sharp edges digging into your skin, grounding you in a pain that couldn’t compare to the ache tearing through your chest. You closed your eyes, clutching it to your heart, as though holding it closer might somehow bridge the impossible distance between you and him.

You closed your eyes, whispering his name into the stillness of the room, hoping—praying—that somehow, somewhere, he could hear you.

But the room offered no answer.

Only silence. Only absence.

And the ache—deep and unrelenting—remained.

(( just kidding 🤡 ))

Five years had passed.

Sunghoon never re-eappeared in your life.

You have by then made peace with the fact that perhaps he was never coming back. Perhaps he was gone. Forever.

Memories of him didn’t sting as sharply as they once did. The ache was still there, faint and distant, like a hole you cannot fill but it’s at least not a gaping hole anymore.

By then you could even convince yourself that perhaps, you have really gotten over him.

But then you’d be an outright liar.

Because you still wore his crest as a pendant, hidden beneath your shirt—a weight you carried, not just on your chest but deep within you. It was a quiet reminder, a silent wall you couldn’t breach.

And while memories of him no longer brought tears to your eyes, dreams of those nights—the chaos, the fire, the way his blood soaked through your hands—still jolted you awake, your face damp with tears you didn't remember shedding. They were the only testament to how deeply, how irreparably, the experience and memories had scarred you.

So you did what you did best: buried yourself in work. You numbed the ache, dulled the thoughts that haunted you, and clawed your way to higher pinnacles of success, reaching farther than you’d ever imagined. Even now, halfway across the world in Venice, Italy, you weren’t here for leisure—you were here for work.

It wasn’t until your final evening that Anton managed to drag you to the Carnevale di Venezia. “You need to live more,” he said, practically shoving you into the car. Begrudgingly, you agreed.

But the moment you stepped out of the car, you were greeted by men and women in elaborate period gowns and Venetian masks—and your stomach twisted.

The sight wasn’t just familiar—it was identical. Hauntingly so. To that of five years ago.

Sickening memories long buried clawed their way back to the surface—the blood, the shadows, the terror. It didn’t carry the ache it once had, but it brought something far worse: a creeping fear that wormed its way beneath your calm exterior, unraveling the composure you’d worked so hard to rebuild.

You swallowed hard, legs heavy, but Anton was too enamoured with the festivities to notice. He grabbed your wrist, pulling you through the crowd like an overexcited child.

When he stopped in front of an antique shop selling ornate masks and extravagant dresses, you could feel the air thinning. The shopkeeper offered you a delicate mask to try on, but as Anton reached toward your face to put one on, your body reacted faster than your mind did. Your hand shot up, gripping his wrist in an iron hold, your fingers digging into his skin, as if you were trying to fend him off. As if he was attacking you.

“y/n—” he froze, his voice laced with shock, his playful grin vanishing. His gaze flickered to your trembling hand, then back to your face, his concern deepening.

Your heart pounded, the masks and laughter around you blurring into dark suffocating shadows. For a moment, you weren’t in Venice. You were back there—in the castle, in the nightmare. You blinked rapidly, forcing yourself to breathe, “sorry,” you stammered, dropping his wrist as though it burned you, “I—uh—the breakfast I had this morning—it’s not sitting right.”

Anton rubbed his wrist, his brows furrowed in confusion and concern. “y/n, are you okay?”

You forced a smile, though it felt like it might crack under the weight of your panic. “I’m fine,” you said quickly, waving him off. “Just... go ahead and try something on. I’ll stick with you—just not with all this.” You gestured vaguely at the masks, hoping he wouldn’t press further.

Anton sighed, his concern still visible. “Fine. Promise me you'll stop brooding and actually try to have some fun after?”

“What are you? Five?” you teased halfheartedly, shoving him playfully toward a nearby fitting room to change.

When he emerged from the fitting room, the sheer absurdity of his appearance—a frock too large, a mask so elaborate it drowned his features—pulled a reluctant laugh from you. For a fleeting moment, the tension in your chest eased and you let yourself be dragged along as Anton paraded through the festivities, snapping pictures and weaving through the crowd with unabashed joy.

But then, a procession swept through.

Figures in hooded cloaks and plague doctor masks glided past, their movements deliberate and haunting. The crowd murmured in awe, parting to let them pass, but you froze. The sight slammed into you like a blow, the memories rising unbidden—shadows in corridors, masks that promised death, the chase that had nearly taken everything from you.

“Anton,” you called, your voice tight, panic edging in. “Let’s move on—”

But he was gone.

“Anton?” Your voice cracked as you turned in place, your eyes darting through the sea of masked strangers. The crowd swelled, pressing against you, their laughter sharp and hollow, the music twisting into a dissonant wail. “Anton!” you shouted, louder now, desperation threading through your words.

No response.

The world spun, the faces around you blurring into grotesque shapes. Each mask seemed to leer at you, each figure a spectre of the past. Your breaths came shallow and rapid, the air thick, suffocating.

You stumbled, muttering apologies to strangers who didn’t respond, their masked faces a wall of indifference.

Then suddenly ahead, you caught sight of a figure perched on a raised platform, dressed in elaborate silks that shimmered in the flickering light. But it wasn’t the outfit that made your stomach drop—it was the mask.

A jester mask.

The painted grin stretched unnaturally wide, its hollow eyes glinting as though they could see through you. Bells dangled from the cap, their faint chime cutting through the distant hum of laughter. The figure moved with a deliberate slowness, their head tilting at an unnatural angle as they raised their hand. A thorny rose appeared in their grasp, the gesture painfully deliberate, as though meant just for you.

And then, with a flick of their wrist, the rose ignited, flames curling up the stem until it disintegrated into ash. The sharp smell of burning filled the air, suffocating and bitter, clawing at your senses. The fire, the laughter, the castle, Jaeyun—it all came rushing back, vivid and unrelenting. You spun on your heel, desperate to escape, only to collide with someone else.

A man in a Bauta mask loomed over you, his breath audible through the thin slits. His towering frame bent closer, murmuring something low and indistinct. But you didn’t hear him. Couldn’t. The panic clawed at your chest, your vision tunneling as you shoved past him and broke into the crowd again.

The masks blurred together, grotesque and faceless, shadows from a nightmare that wouldn’t end. You moved blindly, each step unsteady, until—

You saw him.

An uncovered face, sharp and unmistakable in a sea of obscured ones.

The air seemed to leave your lungs. The noise of the carnival faded, the crowd melting into a haze of color and motion.

No mask. No cloak. Just him.

But it couldn’t be, you told yourself. It had to be a hallucination, your mind playing cruel tricks, dredging him up from memories you’d buried too deep. Then suddenly the crowd surged again, jostling you sideways. Your feet stumbled against the uneven pavement, your balance slipping.

You braced for the fall, but strong arms caught you.

“I’m sorry—” you began, your voice trembling as you tried to gather yourself. But then your gaze drop, and the words died in your throat. Right in your line of sight, pinned to the lapel of his suit, was a ruby crest, gleaming faintly under the dim, flickering light.

The very crest you wore as a pendant, tucked close to your heart like a secret you refused to let go of.

Your breath hitched, the roar of your pulse drowning out the world, the air turning electric as the ache in your chest returned with a vengeance. The carnival around you dissolved into nothingness, leaving only the man before you.

Your trembling eyes trailed upward, hesitation clawing at you with every inch. Fear mingled with hope, disbelief warred with yearning. And then you saw him.

Sunghoon.

It was really him. The sharp lines of his jaw, the darkness of his eyes, the way his presence seemed to draw the air from your lungs. He wasn’t wearing a mask, just like you. Amidst a sea of hidden faces, he stood barefaced, unapologetically himself.

Time seemed to still. Your heart clenched painfully as the flood of emotions you’d spent five years suppressing surged forward, overwhelming you.

You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move.

His gaze was still so intense and all-consuming, yet it no longer had the same sharpness as it did before. It no longer aimed to paralyze you or probe the depths of your mind. Instead, it carried a softness, an ache, as though trying to express all the things that words had failed to capture. And just like that, in the silence, in the circle of each other's arms, the years of separation unraveled in the space between you. Every unspoken word, every lingering ache, every memory you’d fought to bury rose to the surface, raw and undeniable, contained in that one look.

Your lips parted, but no sound came. You weren’t even sure what you wanted to say. His name? An accusation? A plea?

Yet, as if avoidance and defensiveness were hardwired into you when it came to him, you started to pull yourself away—but, as always, he anticipated it and before you could even take a step back, his grip on you tightened.

“y/n, don’t,” he said, his grip strong yet his voice soft, almost pleading.

The sound of your name on his lips shattered something inside you. You swallowed hard, your pulse hammering in your ears. “You left,” you whispered, barely able to hear your own voice. “You never came back. I—” you stammered, “—I even thought you might have died.”

“I’m here now,” he murmured, his voice steady but laced with something heavier—guilt, perhaps, or regret. “I never wanted to leave you y/n. But I had to.”

You stiffened, the heat rising in your chest overtaking the trembling in your hands. “You had to?” the bitterness in your voice surprised even you. “That’s what you’re going with? You had to vanish, leave me with nothing but questions—nothing but ghosts—and then reappear like you’ve done nothing wrong? like some noble martyr?”

His jaw tightened, but he didn’t look away. “You think it was easy for me? That leaving you behind was some choice I wanted to make?”

“Then why?” your voice cracked, the words sharper than you intended. “Why did you leave? You could have left a trace, a sign, let me know that—” you caught yourself, shaking your head as your hands balled into fists, “—no. You know what, it doesn't matter anymore. You should have continued to stay away. I was doing just fine. Finally doing just fine and yet here you are. Must have been fun staying in the shadows and trailing me around—seeing me lose my mind in the past 5 years then coming back just when I've finally gotten over you?!"

The accusation lingered, heavy in the space between you.

But even as you spoke, the weight of your own words pressed against you. Wasn’t this exactly what you wanted—to see him again? To demand an answer for the questions that had haunted you in the dead of night? And yet, now that he was here, standing in front of you, the anger felt hollow. A shield, yes, but one that barely held back the ache threatening to flood through the cracks.

You glanced at his face, searching for something—anything—that would reignite the rage you clung to so desperately. But his eyes, dark and steady, reflected none of the sharp arrogance you once associated with him. Instead, they were quiet. Soft. Aching.

Damn him. Damn him for looking at you like that, as if you meant something to him. As if he was hurting just as much as it had hurt you.

His grip on your wrist loosened, but he didn’t let go, his thumb brushing lightly against your skin. “y/n I had no choice," he said softly, his voice steady despite the tremor beneath it. “The fire may have purged the deviants who deserved punishments but it sent shockwaves through my world. If I’d stayed, I would have brought danger to your door..." he sighed, "so I stayed away. And continued staying away especially after seeing you finally able to smile and laugh so freely over the recent years—as if you could finally breathe. I realised then that perhaps this was the sacrifice I needed to make, the debt I owed you—your peace."

His voice dropped, quieter now, as though the memory itself was unbearable. “But then tonight…” his hand flexed at his side, his grip on your wrist tightening briefly. “I saw the terror and dread suddenly return to your face—the very expressions I swore I’d never let you feel again." He paused, his jaw tightening as his gaze flickered to meet yours, “—and before I even knew what I was doing, it all broke. Every reason I had to stay away dissipated and all I wanted—all I want—is to protect you. To take it all away.”

He took a step closer, the space between you shrinking. His voice softened, steady but raw. “And when our eyes met. I thought there was something there—some sort of softness. For once, you didn't look at me with the usual armor in your eyes…" he faltered, his throat tightening, “—and that stripped away the last vestiges of my resolve; every lie I told myself. I realised then, I was never meant to be a saint nor be selfless. Not with you."

You froze, his vulnerability hitting you harder than it should have. But the simmering anger, the years of buried hurt, clawed its way back to the surface. “You’re always so good at that you know—vanishing, making me go nearly insane with guilt, and then coming back just when I thought I’d finally gotten over you.” You swallowed hard, the bitterness in your voice sharpening. “Exactly like 13 years ago, after I poisoned you.”

He stilled, his gaze flickering with something unreadable—regret, pain, guilt. But you didn’t give him a chance to speak.

"Back then, you should have come back, hunted me down and killed me—" you hissed, your voice trembling with suppressed emotion. "We'd have nipped it in the bud. Save ourselves. But instead, you dragged it on for so long. Perhaps this was your way of ruining me—from the inside out. The first time through guilt. The second time through loss."

He swallowed thickly, his mouth parting as though to sigh, but the sound never came. His jaw tensed, and when he finally spoke, his voice carried the weight of a confession dragged from the depths of him. "y/n. I stayed away the first time because I was afraid."

His gaze flickered down for a moment, as if grounding himself, before rising to meet yours again. "After you poisoned me, I was afraid that if I saw you again..." he paused, his jaw tightening as though the words physically hurt to say. "—I wouldn’t want to kill you. That instead—like some pathetic moth drawn to the flame, or worse, like a stupid dog that doesn’t see the cruelty of its master—I’d come running to you. I’d embrace you."

The words hung between you, the implication of every words filling the space—a confession that tore through you even as it laid him bare. That was when you realised, perhaps, just like how you've avoided him to prevent anything from growing between you, Sunghoon's scathing and predatory words were perhaps his way of masking his devotion—a way to convince himself that it was all simply powerplay and primal desires. And you take that bait too literally as it all fitted with your own defense mechanism—the logic and rationality that you always employ to stop yourself from becoming vulnerable. But knowing the truth didn’t soften the ache. If anything, it sharpened it—because it meant you had been fighting the same battle, just on opposite sides. Both of you circling the same truth but never daring to claim it.

"Then maybe all this proves is that we're never meant to be. Like fire feeding fire, we burn each other alive, pretending it's warmth, until there's nothing left of us but smoke and ruin," you said, your voice hollow but steady, as if the words had been carved out of you.

“Then let me be the ruin,” he closed the remaining distance between you, his presence towering but his movements slow, as though afraid to startle you. "Let it burn me down to nothing. Let it hollow me out, scorch every part of me. But don’t ask me to extinguish it—not when it’s the only thing keeping me alive."

"You've lived for so long," you murmured, your voice heavy with exhaustion. "you, of all people, should know better that being self-destructive like this doesn't ensure happiness."

“It’s exactly because I’ve lived for so long,” he said, his voice low and weighted with a quiet sorrow, “that I know ruin is the only thing that stays, where nothing else lasts.”

The silence that followed was thick, not suffocating but heavy, like something unspoken had finally settled between you. When he drew closer, you didn't back away this time. When his hand cupped your cheek—warm, steady, and lingering—you didn’t pull away either. It wasn’t forgiveness, and it wasn’t surrender. But for now, it was enough for it conveyed more than words ever could.

Two years had passed since you were reunited with Sunghoon. Seven years since the fire. And fifteen years, in total, since you met him—the man who had brought chaos, danger, and frustration into your life than you thought possible.

If someone had told you then that he would become a near-permanent fixture in your life—and your apartment—you might have laughed. Or rolled your eyes.

Or poisoned him again.

“Fuck,” you nearly dropped your groceries as you stepped into your apartment to find him lounging on the couch like he owned the place, dressed in pajama bottoms and a black robe. Its opening, casually loose and just revealing enough to hint at his chest, made the sight far too leisurely for your liking. In fact, he looked so at ease, so disgustingly domestic, like he belonged—but the sight only made his presence feel more invasive. “Why are you always here? Go back to your penthouse. It’s way bigger.”

“But there’s no you,” he said, far too smoothly, suddenly reappearing beside you. Before you could protest, he took the groceries from your hands, unpacking them into the fridge and shelves with alarming familiarity.

Perhaps it wasn’t alarming anymore. He’d been doing this for months—showing up whenever he had a moment to spare from whatever duties occupied a vampire’s time. He even bought the unit next to yours, offering excuses to drop by that were as ridiculous as they were transparent: needing eggs, faulty lighting, lost keys. All nonsense, of course, since he didn’t need nourishment, had no reason to fear the dark and can teleport just fine if he wanted to.

“Right, what’s your excuse tonight?” you asked, flopping onto the couch.

“The a/c is broken,” he replied smoothly.

“You used that excuse two weeks ago Sunghoon.”

“Did I?” he mused, unbothered. “Well, this time it’s the sprinklers. Got set off when I was trying to sear my steak. Now the place is flooded. Disgusting, really.”

You scoffed. “Sunghoon, cut the crap. What do you want from me?”

“Nothing. I just want to be with you,” he quipped with a shrug. “You always rejected my offer to ask you to move in with me—penthouse, townhouse, heck even the manor near that hiking spot you like—so here I am. Playing househusband. Or maid, depending on the day.”

“Right,” you said, raising a brow, “you definitely need to stop lounging around in that robe. It’s too casual. People might think you’re my husband or something.”

He grinned, the corner of his mouth tilting upward in that infuriating way. “That’s the goal.”

“You know normal humans and vampires can’t co-exist in that way right?”

“We’re anything but normal y/n,” he replied smoothly, making his way to the living room and plopping down to your left. His elbow propped lazily on the headrest, his posture screaming nonchalance, as if daring you to challenge him. “We can do whatever we please. Or however you please.”

You furrowed your brows, annoyed. If his teasing back then had been a game of one-upmanship—an endless, borderline competitive battle of wits—now it had shifted into something more dangerous. Flirtatious, deliberate, and entirely designed to fluster you. A different ball game—one you weren’t used to playing.

Leaning back, you crossed your arms. “Well, bad news. It’s time for me to do normal stuff and settle down, and the guy earlier—”

“Right, the one you had a date with—“ he cut in, “—or rather the one you were forced to meet up with—“

“—is the best candidate so far,” you continued, rolling your eyes at his interruption. You were used to it by now—used to him knowing too much about your life, like an ever-present fly on the wall, “—he is mature, understanding, and not clingy.”

“Sounds exactly like me but a pale imitiation because come on, I am way good looking in a way no human can replicate and most importantly,” his hand found your jaw, tilting your face toward him. His voice dropped, low and steady. “Only I understand you and your complexity y/n and only you understand mine. We are made for each other—we’re too dysfunctional for others, but perfect for each other. No one else could survive us.”

“Then what if one day I feel so suffocated and poison you again?” you shot back.

“I’ll let you,” he said quietly, his lips curving in a subtle, almost resigned way as his eyes bore into yours. This could have been lighthearted and playful but those voice and those gaze were anything but. “I've told you this before: I’ll let you ruin me in the end as long as you’ll have me.”

“Don’t you ever feel that you’ve given too much and I’ve not given enough—" you retorted. It wasn’t meant to hurt him. You just wanted to come clean with him.

“Oh, I know that very much. Better than anyone in fact—” he murmured, his fingers brushing your collar before slipping beneath it, catching the chain that lay hidden against your skin. “And this—” he lifted it gently, his thumb grazing the crest you wore as a pendant with a reverence that only he could feel, “—you wearing this—it says more than you ever could.”

“Don’t get any ideas,” you muttered, smacking his hand off. “Your crest has been very useful—it keeps other biters at bay.”

Then suddenly, his hand moved before you could react, sliding to the curve of your right waist with a deliberate slowness that sent a shiver racing up your spine. His fingers pressed lightly into your side, tracing the curve of your body as though memorizing the path. The motion was unhurried, grounding you in place while leaving no question of his intent. Then, he shifted closer, bracing one knee on the cushion beside you before the other followed suit in one fluid motion. The couch dipped under his weight, trapping you effortlessly. His hand found the headrest behind you, his presence closing in until all you could feel was him—the heat radiating from his body, the cadence of his breath, the way his fingers lingered just a second too long before trailing upward along your side.

“Then use me like you use the crest—” he murmured, his voice dipping to something quieter, almost reverent. His lips hovered inches from yours, his breath mingling with yours as his hand trailed up the curve of your spine, the warmth of his touch seeping into your skin, “—you know I’m completely at your mercy.”

“For someone who should be wise beyond his years, you don’t seem to learn your lesson,” you managed to say back, raising a hand to his chest in a feeble attempt to stop him.

The tension thickened, swallowing the space entirely as his right hand slid up the nape of your neck, warm and deliberate, sending a sharp jolt through your senses. Without warning, he tilted your head back sharply, making you look up at him in a strained way as he towered over you, his dark eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that made the air around you feel heavier. "I never learn my lesson when it comes to you," he murmured as his face dipped closer. His voice was steady almost reverent—but the weight of control behind it was unmistakable.

His eyes moved slowly, tracing a path from your eyes to your lips, his Adam’s apple bobbing sharply, the motion betraying the thin thread of restraint he clung to. It was as though swallowing was the only thing keeping him tethered, holding back something far more dangerous than words. When his gaze returned to yours, it was darker, sharper, and filled with a hunger barely leashed, “—and I don’t want to. Ever.”

His words hung in the air for only a moment before his lips crashed against yours. The kiss was anything but gentle—it was a brutal collision of yearning, years of pent-up emotions, frustration, and something far darker that had simmered between you for far too long. The force of his kiss drove you backward, your head pressing into the unyielding headrest as he claimed your lips. The angle left you no choice but to tilt your head farther in a strained way, a soft gasp escaping you—one he seized without hesitation, deepening the kiss, consuming you entirely.

He tasted of power and desire, a heady combination that made your head spin. Then, with a sharp, sudden motion, he pulled you towards him with startling strength, pressing your bodies together with a searing intensity—making you feel every inch of him: the hard, unyielding planes of his chest, the muscular ridges of his abdomen, even the tension in his body, the coiled power, the barely leashed restraint. His hand, splayed over your back, was like a steel band around your waist, forcing your body to arch unnaturally backwards as his kiss pursued you, driving you farther back, lips growing more demanding and insistent by the second.

Your body gradually grew pliant under his domineering, possessive, hold–overwhelmed by the ferocity and sheer possessiveness of his every kiss and touch. There was literally no room to think, no space to resist—not that you wanted to. He overwhelmed every sense, each touch unraveling the walls you’d so carefully built. You told yourself it was only physical, that the fire consuming you was nothing but desire. But deep down, you knew better. You weren’t just losing control—you were giving it to him.

Your hands flew to his biceps, clinging for balance, your fingers digging into his tense muscles for support, feeling the power and strength that lay beneath. His muscles flexed under your touch, a silent warning of the raw, untamed masculinity that simmered just below his skin. As you struggled to draw in air, your lips parted unwittingly, and Sunghoon was quick to take advantage. Before you could even gasp for breath, his thumb pressed down on your chin, forcing your lips apart, his tongue already breaching past to plunder your mouth with a fierce and primal intensity that left you breathless.

Emboldened, Sunghoon's hand slithered up your back like a serpent claiming its prey, his large hand nearly covering the entire width of your back. Then with a fluid motion, without breaking the kiss at all, he lifted you with surprising ease, his arm muscles flexing in a display of raw power and dominance, as he manoeuvered you sideways before forcefully pushing you down onto the cushions with controlled strength—enough to knock the air out of your lungs but not enough to suffocate. Yet.

The couch groaned under the weight of your entangled bodies, sinking further as Sunghoon hovered over you, his powerful legs bracketing your hips, his muscular frame dwarfing yours. He pushed you deeper into the cushions, his body a solid, warm weight pressing you down, his lips never breaking contact with yours, his kiss relentless. He angled your head to his liking, his free hand exploring your body with a gentle dominance, fingers tracing the curve of your waist, down to the swell of your hips, a teasing caress that made your heart race. It was as if he was trying to etch every curve into memory.

Finally he pulled back, but only so slightly to grant you reprieve from his lips, for his weight still anchored him firmly against you as he straddled your hips, creating a tantalizing gap between your bodies. His gaze had completely shifted then—smouldering in a way that authoritatively pinned you in place without having to physically restrain you. "This is your chance," he said, his voice gravelly with restrained desire, as he tore the robe from his shoulders with an impatient motion, letting it fall in a forgotten heap on the floor. Bare from the waist up, his muscular frame seemed even more commanding, each ridge of muscle sharp and unyielding without the confines of clothing.

This wasn’t the first time you’d seen his bare torso, but tonight, his physique felt too imposing—as if every ridge of muscle was sculpted exactly to intimidate and conquer. The air around him seemed to hum with power while the intensity of his gaze stole words right from your throat. He continued, "you can resist, push me away, or even slap me, but once I begin, I won't be able to stop".

You swallowed thickly, the weight of his piercing gaze pressing down on you, making you feel small beneath him. It wasn’t just his physical presence—towering, commanding—that made your breath hitch. It was the intensity in his eyes, the way they seemed to strip you bare, leaving no room for pretense or armor. You hated that he could do this to you, hated more that you couldn’t look away. You couldn’t lie to yourself: he was indeed intimidating at the moment. But was it fear that made your pulse race, or something darker, something you weren’t ready to name?

You could push him away, the words lingered in your mind like an invitation. But the truth was, you’d had a thousand chances to stop him before things went too far. And yet, here you were, under him. Because as much as you hated his power over you, you had already decided to let it in.

You propped yourself up on your elbows, the loose cardigan slipping from your shoulders, exposing your bare skin to his ravenous gaze. Sunghoon’s eyes darkened like a brewing storm, his chest rising and falling in sync with your own ragged breaths. Your lips still tingled from the searing kiss, the memory of his touch a constant reminder that you hadn’t stopped him. That you hadn’t wanted to.

"I wouldn’t have let you get this far if I wasn’t sure, Sungh—" you panted out, but before you could finish, he surged forward, recapturing your lips with a fierce and almost punishing force. The kiss was a tempest, a chaotic collision of passion and need, pulling you under and leaving you breathless, weightless, and utterly undone.

As his mouth consumed yours, his hands moved with purpose and urgency, stripping away your cardigan with a deft touch. The cool air against your skin was a stark contrast to the heat of his body, making you acutely aware of every inch of him. His other hand slipped under your shirt, his fingers tracing the curvature of your spine with a deliberate languor that made your breath hitch. Your body arched into his touch, your restraint crumbling under the weight of his passion. He responded by pressing you deeper into the plush couch, his body a heavy, welcome weight, pinning you beneath him, a captive to his desire.

The soft cushions molded to your form, offering a sensual contrast to the hard planes of his chest against your soft skin. "Sunghoon—" you gasped, struggling for air and begging him to slow down, but he showed no mercy. Instead, his lips descended upon yours with even greater ferocity, turning the kiss hungrier, messier and wetter as his mouth and tongue move with a frenzied passion that bordered on brutal, as if he was trying to consume you whole and leave nothing but ashes in his wake—the ferocity of which was mirrored by the rhythm of his hips as he ground against you, a tantalizing preview of what was to come.

You knew you were treading uncharted territories—felt it in the way his hands gripped you, relentless and commanding with a possessiveness that bordered on primal—every movement daring you to stop him and knowing you wouldn’t. But then again, this had always been the dynamic between you two: a dance on the knife’s edge—a battle masquerading as a game, where neither truly won. Every step only pulled you deeper into the other's orbit, not for the comfort peace or safety, but for the chaos only the other could create.

But somewhere along the way, the chaos had shifted. It was no longer about fighting against each other, about destruction for the sake of it. Instead, it had become something far more dangerous: a harmony within the chaos.

You had learned to move in sync, not because you sought peace, but because you understood each other too well. The storm hadn’t disappeared—it never would—but now, you weathered it together. No one else could bear the weight of your detachment—the walls you built, the silence you carried—but him. And no one else could bear his chaos—the storm within him, the fire that never died—the way you did.

You weren’t drawn to each other just for the fire, but because you were each other’s constant. You were his unshakable anchor: the force that rooted him in a reality he couldn’t manipulate, teaching him that respect—not domination—was the foundation of something enduring and real. And he was your constant storm: a chaotic force that blows through your carefully constructed walls, showing you that stability isn't always the answer. You let him destabilize your certainty; he lets you unravel his control.

You two were a mess and yet you two never sought to change nor fix the other. Because within one another was the only place where everything made sense, even as the world burned around you. It wasn’t peace, nor was it safety—but it was home. And it was inevitable, as it always had been.

A/N: DONE. DUSTED. GONE. PHEW. Now I can pack peacefully for my flight tomorrow. This is farthest and the most committed I've ever been in writing so please, show me some appreciation by leaving feedback. This is possibly my last writing after all. Also! just wanted to shed some light into the ending: I've created two very complex, messy as hell, multi-layered, characters who went through hell and back with a knife ((or fangs)) on each other's throat for most of the time, so you can’t expect a Hallmark-esque ending with elopement, three kids, and a cozy life baking sourdough in a quaint cottage deep in the woods. After everything they’ve been through—betrayals, obsession, bloodshed, and vulnerability—it would feel unrealistic to wrap their relationship in a neat bow. There’s too much baggage to simply ignore, and I am honoring those journey, their personality and their arcs by opting for such an ending in the epilogue. One that is unapologetically and messily theirs.

Taglist: @axartia | @my5colours | @elinushka-ka | @nowjillsandwich | @leaderwon | @moniqueovermoney | @ashrocker123 | @seungkwan-s | @hydroyaksha | @ikayyyyyy | @capri-cuntz| @asyleums | @lovialy | @nikikookie | @lunateez | @reithecat | @hocestmundi | @shuichi-sama (( tagging those who have explicitly wanted to be tagged eheh apologies if I missed some out :( ))

[jaikoyaki]

{OFF THE SCRIPT}

//Hanni Pham x Reader//Actors Smau//

| TAGS ↦ Enemies to Lovers, Actors Au, Reader is Bae Suzy's sister, Jealousy, Love-Hate Relationship, Fem!Reader, Fake Dating (to some extent), Slow Burn(?), Shipping Culture, angst and not very happy ending.

| SYPNOSIS ↦ Hanni Pham, a rising star, lands the lead role in a highly anticipated drama—unintentionally stealing the part Y/n Suji, sister of Bae Suzy, had her sights set on. Already irritated by being constantly compared to her sister, Y/n’s dislike for Hanni only deepens. To make matters worse, Hanni turns out to be a devoted Bae Suzy stan. But when the show airs and fans start obsessively shipping their characters, the director hatches a plan to capitalize on the buzz: force the two into an unexpected on-screen romance.

| !!WARNINGS!! ↦ Heavy Angst, Possible Toxic Dynamics, Unhealthy Comparisons/Pressure, dark jokes, and swearing.

Notes: Ignore the dates on the tweets, Spoiler-Free Summary, some are aged down.

| PROFILES ↦

Bowl of Rainbows, Whores without the C

•CHAPTERS•

000 •Prologue•

001 ★ Auditions (Half Written)

002 ★ #Missed

003 ★ I saw that...

007 ★ ...

006 ★ ...

005 ★ ...

004 ★ ...

009 ★ ...

008 ★ ...

010 ★ ...

011 ★ ...

012 ★ ...

[heyimcelery]

91 death seemed like a lot for red light green light in season 2. Like that's a whole bunch of people! Could you imagen that many people in your house right now? That too many. And they all died. And it wasn't enough to convince everyone else to leave?? That's so much death and people were so divided in playing more games than a single vote decided it all. They could leave with some cash, some trauma, their lives in tact and the worth of knowing they didn't pray for others to die just for another chunk of cash. But no

Okay okay I know it had to happen for plot reasons. It was more suspenseful, made the 001 reveal better and was there to further squid games message about capitalism, debt and money motivation; (though voting is also a more prominent discussion this season)

I went back to season 1 though, because 91 whole lives ending didn't feel like a big win for gihun when him coming back with the same knowledge we have should feel more rewarding, that his efforts and our own thoughts of what would or should happen would change something, anything about the outcome. That his rebellion would have a chance even with inho there spying.

255.

Season 1 had 255 players die in red light green light. Nearly triple S2. Because S1 was so long ago it was too easy to forget the massive death toll it had in the early games, but now we have a number to compare it to; 91 death feels far more like a victory, far more like a fighting chance. Even though the ending of the season was terrible in it's abrupt nature and lack of satisfying anything, the general direction it's heading in feels more earned and I'm excited for how it's going.

Basically, 456 did way better than I thought in keeping people alive during S2 and that makes me like it more

[simplyiigiselle]

SMG4 x SQUID GAME 2

(Why did I do this)

I wanted to do some silly stuff and made a au of a show about the flaws of modern capitalism and add characters from a silly meme shitpost of a channel :D

(This is a lazily done concept, I might make more, btw don’t worry there are no spoilers)

I made everyone human mainly bc I can’t draw a fucking fish in a tracksuit (boopkins I’m looking at you.)

Also everyone in this au are adults, I’ll explain their info(I changed a lot into my own hcs if they were human)

(I am including people I didn’t draw)

——————

SMG4: Player 004, Lucas Lidwerchigual, Age 29

SMG3: Player 300, Jamie Esmeray, Age 27

Mario: Player 456, Mariano Mario, Age 32

Meggy: Player 012, Megan Spitzer, Age 24

Tari: Player 359, Tari Nova, Age 26

Luigi: Player 122, Luigi Mario, Age 32

Bob: Player 302, Bob Bobowski, Age 42

Boopkins: Player 238, Frank Boopkins, Age 19

Melony: Player 210, Melanie Suga, Age 25

Axol: Player 209, Axel Kobo, Age 26

Desti: Player 430, Destiny Harper, Age 23

SMG1: Player 011, Oscar Montez, Age 39

SMG2: Player 002, Trevor Gemini, Age 34

Saiko: Player 123, Saiko Itchitaru, Age 29

Kaizo: Player 124, Kaizo Koorihara, Age 28

Francis: Player 166, Francis Fron, Age 35

Box club leader: Player 301, Benjamin Vix, Age 29

Depresso: Player 290, Dexter Hag, Age 36

SMG0: Player 008, Zeke SweetHart, Age 40

Belle: Player 360, Belle Fontiere, Age 26

Whimpu: Player 321, Hinpu Mitsuda, Age 23

Rob: Player 203, Robert Corn |||, Age 37

Shroomy: Player 087, Enoki Shroom, Age 34

Hal: Player 102, Harold Moniter, Age 36

Niles: Player 100, Niles Hunter, Age 38

Fred: Player 005, Fredrick Collin, Age 41

Karen: Player 101, Karen Katphich, Age 38

Chris: Player 071, Chris Gordman, Age 45

Swag: Player 069, Swayn Markor, Age 44

Mr Puzzles: Player 001, “Winston Harlot”, Age 35

[xi-vz]

Cheat Sheet

The world was both larger and smaller than Shang Qinghua thought it’d be. But, then again, he was still only on one continent. He knew there were a few others—4 more to be exact. But that was neither here nor there.

He was staying at a…quaint (read: rundown) inn in a place called Fojiao Town, which was located at the foot of Mount Dafan. He heard there was a Heavenly Maiden on the mountain and wanted to check it out. The locals were all too happy to tell him, an obvious cultivator, about it.

Shang Qinghua hadn’t written much about gods and goddesses in PIDW. Martial and scholar gods were a thing, but they had been human before ascending. As far as he was aware, he was the only God™️. Capital G.

Mount Dafan was like any other mountain. Maybe with denser trees. Seriously, unimpressive all around…except for the cemetery that had plenty of ghosts floating around. He ignored them as he flew above the trees until he reached the cave where the Maidens alter was.

The Heavenly Maiden was a rock formation.

Yes, it vaguely resembled a woman dancing. If one were to squint and turn their head.

“Typical,” Shang Qinghua clucked his tongue before touching the base of the alter, only to jump back in surprise when a familiar blue screen popped up.

[Congratulations! Congratulations! Congratulations! User 001 has unlocked “God Mode”. Would the user like to download now?] [Yes - No]

What the hell was “God Mode”?

After living so long with The System, he learned to be weary. Even if there hadn’t been any new updates or pop-ups other than the “Return Home” option that was now in his Settings.

He was debating on his choices when the Heavenly Maiden shook. No, it was the entire mountain shaking! Earthquake? Now? There was no such thing as coincidences in this cruel world of his. He should’ve known better. Still, as Shang Qinghua fell forward, he instinctually put his hands out to brace himself, accidentally clicking Yes.

And then something inside of him popped and Shang Qinghua felt his golden core explode.

TBC? Should I post on AO3?

[sadnightforus]

THE FATED STARS (PJS)

SYNOPSIS: Park Jongseong harbors the biggest crush on one of the most popular girls on the campus, you. You, being dared by your friend group to tweet and made a boyfriend application, initially started out as a joke, thinking that no one would applied it. Upon the tweet going viral and many applications being sent in, he decided that he would shoot his shot, even if he doesn’t know a single shit about what is the sun, moon, rising in astronomy. 

GENRES: slice of life, romance, comedy

PAIRING: secret-admirer!jay x f!reader

STARRING: xdinary heroes’ gaon and jooyeon, aespa’s ningning and karina, itzy’s yeji, le sserafim’s kazuha, the whole enhypen.

WARNINGS: a lot of actual unhinged things going on, author is a bit too obsessed with astrology so you’re now forced to learn about it, cussing, some lame sexual jokes (I promised it’s lame), they all tell each other to give up and kts, reader is not jlo’s biggest fan because she’s a mariah carey’s fan. the whole band is so broke for some reason. 

A/N: SURPRISEDDDD…. tried my hands on writing smau because too much angst kills me. I hope you guys enjoy it and if you want to be in the taglist, comment on this one.

STATUS: ON-GOING

FORMAT: SOCIAL MEDIA AU

UPDATED: EVERY TUESDAY-WEDNESDAY-THURSDAY

RELEASED DATE: 08 NOVEMBER 2023

END DATE: UNKNOWN.

ASTEROIDS

✭ INTRODUCTION/PROFILES

VICTIMS OF CAPITALISM | 7 DUCKLINGS

✭ MOST POPULAR ASTEROIDS

(001) - BOYFRIEND APPLICATION

(002) - FORM FILLED

(003) - PERSONAL OPINIONS & FAVORS

(UNCUT 003) - FIRST IMPRESSION MATTERS

(004) - CHART ANALYSIS

(005) - MEET UP (+ written)

(006) - SHE HATES ME

(UNCUT 006) - REPLY IF I SHOULD…

(007) - THOUGHTS ON ZODIAC SIGNS?

(008) - BANNED ON KAKAOTALK

(009) - KURT COBAIN’S FANSIGN

(UNCUT 009) - USERNAME CHANGES

(010) - LOSING TO IDGAF WAR

(011) - GOOD THINGS ARE COMING SOON

(012) - THE RECORD STORE HANGOUT (+ written)

(013) - TUMBLR GIRL ERA (SELF SABOTAGE)

(014.01) - BABY

(014.02) - BABY

(015) - SORRY (BUT I’LL DO IT AGAIN) (+ written)

(UNCUT 015) - THE IDOL, THE FAN

(016) - CONCERT ANNOUNCEMENT

(017) - PICKUP LINES TO USE FOR CONCERT GOERS

(018) - CONCERT'S PARADISE (+ written)

(019) - SYNASTRY AND THE SIGNS

(020) - THE COFFEE KISS (+ written)

(021) - ACCEPTING MY FATE

(022) - JEALOUSY? (+ written)

(UNCUT 022) - WHAT TYPE OF LOVER ARE YOU QUIZ

(023) - STEP UP MY GAME

(024) - THE DAY THAT YOU'RE FINALLY MINE (+ written)

(025) - I LET YOU INTO THE DARK SIDE

(UNCUT 025) - FREE CHART READING

(026) - AWKWARD ROMEO AND JUILET

(027) - COUPLE ANNOUNCEMENT

EPILOGUE 001 - TRUST FUND BABY

EPILOGUE 002 - GETTING A GIRLFRIEND IS EASY...

[ohwynne]

[pm] I don't think I even want to know.

Whatever you say.

Maybe I have nothing now, but at least I chose it. Right? And what does it matter? I can't return. I don't know why you insist on pointing these things out like I don't know. [...] I don't mind working as a barista! Unless people like you come in I have my own place to live now and yes, capitalism is very flawed and I wish this world was more focused on community, but I have autonomy! I have something. More freedom than I had.

It's not. And I wasn't being sincere.

[pm] You don't know what skeletonization smells like? And you paid respects to Death? Tragic.

[...] I just like their candles.

An unselfish purpose. A greatness to be found in your duty. You had purpose. You were part of something greater than yourself. And you left! Selfishly. Now you have nothing. And despite this, you work as a barista. You obtained your freedom only to be thrust under the grip of capitalism.

Luck is a false concept, but thank you.

[82mitsu]

{18Trip} <CHAPTER 001 SIDE-A: Sun will R1ze!> 001-A01 Inauguration of the 0th Ward Mayor

A translation of 18TRIP's CHAPTER 001 SIDE-A by 82mitsu. ENG proofreading by sasaranurude.

Opening note:

I am playing with the male player character, canon name Kaede Hamasaki, and will be simply referred to as Kaede in the translation. It’s a choice made due to the characters referring to the player character in their own ways (switching between first & last name, using honorifics) and I don’t want to make it sound clunky by using “player” or “MC”, or alter when first or last name is used (due to the importance of it in the JPN language). However, the gender of the player character has 0 impact on the story, and the experience is the same regardless of male or female main character.

The morning comes.

No matter how painful the days you live through are. Even when you can’t see ahead within the darkness.

The sun is born anew every day and shines a light upon you as you are without pretense.

However, basking in the bright sunshine sometimes brings hope to our hearts, too.

Try to look ahead and walk.

If you can walk ahead with just one step, it will feel as if you can start the long journey that we call life.

Which makes today, without a doubt, a new beginning in my life.

TV station announcer: Here we are at the venue for the inauguration of HAMA’s 0th Ward Mayor. After being unable to meet the quota of tourists for two years in a row, HAMA is now drawing attention to the question of whether it can remain a special tourism ward or not.  

TV station announcer: Please look at this! There’s crowds of people at the venue and surrounding area—expectations for today's inauguration of the 0th Ward Mayor can be heard from all over! We will continue to report onsite! 

Kaede: (Even national TV stations are reporting on the inauguration… It’s a bigger deal than I imagined. It's a given when you think about it more thoroughly. Whether HAMA can remain a special tourism ward or not has caught the attention of each and every region.)

Kaede: (Kafka replacing his father, who served as the 0th Ward Mayor up until now, on such a big stage… I wonder if he isn’t nervous about it. Uweh, I feel the stress in my stomach.)

Kaede: (But! That difficult surgery was an easy success, and the rehabilitation also went great. If it’s Kafka we’re talking about… I’m sure it’ll be okay!)

Host: Uuuh, all ward residents of HAMA, the inauguration will commence shortly. To open the ceremony, the current 0th Ward Mayor Oguro Rihito and HAMA’s auditor, the 8th Mayor Ward of Tokyo, Shigematsu Hakkei will be taking the podium.

HAMA ward resident A: The change really is happening. Well… the current Ward Mayor wasn’t reliable, to be honest…

HAMA ward resident B: But look at that, his replacement is his son, no? I heard that he’s only 20 years old. Will this be okay?

HAMA ward resident C: My place keeps on bleeding customers since last year… If the special tourism ward status is revoked this year, then HAMA’s done for. Just ask yourself how many restaurants have gone outta business this year. 

HAMA ward resident A: Financial support from the capital is as minimal as it can get… Makes you wonder if swapping out the Ward Mayor will do any good. 

HAMA ward resident D: The special tourism ward collapses… taxes rise up to the heavens… companies stoop to bankruptcy… the end of life……  ruination destruction eradication extinction…

Kaede: (Uuuh… all this negativity left and right… But, I do understand everyone’s worries.)

Kaede: (Kafka’s dad… he’s a good person, but he honestly, genuinely doesn’t have the capability to be in charge. He’s the type to get deceived because he’s too nice for his own good…) 

Kaede: (Kafka is the one that’s more fit for this role than his dad, I think… Even then, we only have a year left in terms of time. Just how does Kafka intend to get over such a high hurdle?)

Kaede: (Still, it’s already set in stone that Kafka and I will restore HAMA together. Today’s inauguration has gotta make us understand what Kafka’s thinking. Let’s hear him out!)

Host: Thank you for waiting! The one who will assume the new role as Ward Mayor, Oguro Kafka, will take the podium!

Kafka: It’s a pleasure to meet you all, ward residents. As he said, I am Oguro Kafka. From now on I will be conducting the succession ceremony for the 0th Ward Mayor.

HAMA ward resident C: Seriously man, that guy really is just a lil’ kid. Look at that guy, Tokyo’s 8th Ward Mayor’s face. Disapproval is written all over it. 

HAMA ward resident B: It is said that supervisor Shigematsu-san is relentless. The special tourism ward will be gone with the wind if that man’s tourism reviews are low…

HAMA ward resident D: An explosion from Tokyo’s 8th Ward Mayor’s glare… An explosion from the disdain for the 0th Ward Mayor… An explosion of the unlivable city of HAMA…. An explosion for the special tourism ward to fall…  An explosion to end all that lives…

Kaede: (Uwawah… the worst of worst impressions…! I wonder if Kafka’s holding up.)

Kafka: Ahem. I am hearing concerns being voiced from all over. And of course there would be, since everyone has to be wondering what a little boy ignorant of the world can even do on his own.

Rihito: Ka- Kafka…!? The script says here that we succession should go peacefully. W-what’s the matter….!?

Kafka: Aaah, it’ll be okay, dad. Don’t let the sweat start forming obvious drops on your face.

Hakkei: Hmph, it seems that your son has no intention to properly put the effort in to begin with, Rihito. Are you truly going to pass your position as the 0th Ward Mayor to him?

Kafka: No need to be concerned. Esteemed 8th Ward Mayor of Tokyo. My father and I have discussed between ourselves that, if my surgery were a success, I would inherit his role as Ward Mayor. I ask if you could please refrain from suddenly interfering in decisions made between a parent and their child.   

Hakkei: Decisions made between family? This is a concern that will influence HAMA in its entirety—that I happen to have no say in the matter leaves me astonished.

Hakkei: Looks like someone has forgotten that the one who makes the final decision on how the financial support from the capital is distributed is no other than me. 

Kafka: Financial support… hmm.

HAMA ward resident A: Hey hey, aren’t they kinda fighting on stage? Tension’s been rough since the beginning…

HAMA ward resident D: Current Ward Mayor shaking… New Ward Mayor glaring… Tokyo’s Ward Mayor unrelenting… A sign of HAMA’s ending… 

Host: W-we’re moving on to the succession ceremony now! By your leave I, the host, will recite the statement of succession!

Host: Current 0th Ward Mayor, Oguro Rihito, will pass the torch of his authority over leading the tourism industry in all of HAMA’s 18 wards to the new 0th Ward Mayor Oguro Kafka—  

Host: Oguro Kafka takes the role of the new 0th Ward Mayor, and under the fair Law of Tourism, will engage in HAMA’s tourism industry, and lead all Ward Mayors of each ward. Can each party involved take the pledge? 

Rihito: Ah, h-have to follow the script… Yes! I pledge to transfer all authority to the new 0th Mayor Ward.

Kafka: It is an utmost honor that I will gladly accept.

Host: 8th Ward Mayor of Tokyo, Shigematsu Hakkei, in accordance with Law of Tourism, auditor of HAMA as supervisor of the special tourism ward, will give guidance and submit appropriate reviews of tourism to the state. Can the individual party involved take the pledge?

Hakkei: It is most likely that this function will be terminated by the end of this year. Be as that may, it is my assignment. As supervisor, I pledge to my role as a fair auditor.

Kafka: You’re retiring this year? So that means we’ll have a different supervisor next year~

Hakkei: Such impudence… 

Kaede: (T-the mood in the room is in the ditches…! Even though we can hear everything both of them are saying—don’t fight in front of the public…)

Host: N-now then, the insignia from the current Ward Mayor will be entrusted to the new 0th Ward Mayor!

HAMA ward resident B: Thought he was a kid too big for his britches, but… he’s a kid with more guts than we thought, right?

HAMA ward resident A: He might do things more properly than Rihito-san did…

HAMA ward resident B: That reminds me, their mother who passed away was a genius scientist… His appearance resembles hers quite well.

Kafka: Eeeh, I’m Oguro Kafka who has taken up the position of 0th Mayor Ward. To everyone in attendance, I will be discussing matters concerning the management of HAMA going forward. First of all…

Kafka: HAMA will fully cease accepting special financial support from the prefecture of Tokyo!

Kaede: (….Eeeeh!? What’s your aim here, Kafka—-!)

next chapter>>

chapter 001 side A directory: TBA upon completion

[yes-asil]

Hey so I’m about to watch detective Conan for the first time and I just wanted to make sure but Cased Closed is the one I’m supposed to watch first right? Cuz there are a could other detective Conan stuff on the site I’m using

I have the perfect list on how to rewatch the show under the cut

We've got a German website over here, so this is kinda??? official, but not really, it just makes the most sense as far as I'm concerned.

Episodes 001-054

Movie 01 (The Time-Bombed Skyscraper)

Episodes 055-097

Movie 02 (The Fourteenth Target)

Episodes 098-139

Short Stories 01-03 (Wait for Me, Wandering Red Butterfly, Santa Claus of Summer)

Episode 140

Movie 03 (The Last Wizard of the Century)

Episodes 141-173

OVA 01 (Conan vs. Kid vs. Yaiba - The Grand Battle for the Treasure Sword!)

Short Stories 04-07 (Detective George, Ten Planets, Play It Again, Making of Conan)

Episodes 174-186

Movie 04 (Captured in Her Eyes)

Episodes 187-231

Movie 05 (Countdown to Heaven)

Episodes 232-262

OVA 02 (16 Suspects!?)

Episodes 263-275

Movie 06 (The Phantom of Baker Street)

Episodes 276-303

OVA 03 (Conan, Heiji, and the Vanished Boy)

Episodes 304-315

Movie 07 (Crossroad in the Ancient Capital)

Episodes 316-344

OVA 04 (Conan, Kid, and the Crystal Mother)

Episodes 345-356

Movie 08 (Magician of the Silver Sky)

Episodes 357-383

OVA 05 (The Target is Kogoro!! The Detective Boys’ Secret Report)

Episodes 384-396

Movie 09 (Strategy Above the Depths)

Episodes 397-424

OVA 06 (Follow the Vanished Diamond! Conan and Heiji vs. Kid!)

Episodes 425-434

Movie 10 (The Private Eyes’ Requiem)

Episodes 435-452

Drama Special 01 (A Challenge Letter to Shin'ichi Kudo ~Prologue Until Goodbye~)

Episodes 453-459

OVA 07 (A Challenge from Agasa! Agasa vs. Conan and the Detective Boys)

Episodes 460-470

Movie 11 (Jolly Roger in the Deep Azure)

Episodes 471-490

OVA 08 (The Casebook of Female High School Detective Sonoko Suzuki)

Drama Special 02 (Shin'ichi Kudo Returns! ~Confrontation with the Black Organization~)

Episodes 491-504

Movie 12 (Full Score of Fear)

Magic File 02 (Shin'ichi Kudo, The Case of the Mysterious Wall and the Black Lab)

Episodes 505-520

OVA 09 (The Stranger from Ten Years Later)

Episodes 521-529

Lupin III vs. Detective Conan (TV special)

Episodes 530-531

Movie 13 (The Raven Chaser)

Magic File 03 (Shin'ichi and Ran, Memories of Mahjong Tiles and Tanabata)

Episodes 532-561

OVA 10 (Kid in Trap Island)

Episodes 562-570

Movie 14 (The Lost Ship in the Sky)

Magic File 04 (The Osaka Okonomiyaki Odyssey)

Magic Kaito Special 01

Episodes 571-610

Detective Conan vs. Wooo 01

Detective Conan vs. Wooo 02

Drama Special 03 (A Challenge Letter to Shin'ichi Kudo ~The Mystery of the Legendary Bird~)

Movie 15 (Quarter of Silence) (Love that movie aughhh)

Magic File 05 (Niigata ~ Tokyo Souvenir Capriccio)

Episodes 611-616

OVA 11 (A Secret Order from London)

Episodes 617-623

Drama Episodes 01-02

Episode 624

Drama Episode 03

Episodes 625-626

Magic Kaito Special 02-03

Drama Episodes 04-07

Episodes 627-628

Drama Episodes 08-09

Episodes 629-630

Drama Episodes 10-11

Episode 631

Magic Kaito Special 04

Drama Episodes 12-13

Episodes 632-634

Magic Kaito Special 05

Episodes 635-641

OVA 12 (The Miracle of Excalibur)

Magic Kaito Special 06

Episodes 642-651

Movie 16 (The Eleventh Striker)

Magic File 06 (Flower of Fantasista)

Drama Special 04 (Shin'ichi Kudo and the Kyoto Shinsengumi Murder Case)

Episodes 652-666

Magic Kaito Special 07-08

Episodes 667-670

Magic Kaito Special 09

Episodes 671-674

Magic Kaito Special 10

Episodes 675-680

Magic Kaito Special 11-12

Episodes 681-694

Movie 17 (Private Eye in the Distant Sea)

Episodes 695-721

Lupin III vs. Detective Conan: The Movie

Episodes 722-735

Movie 18 (Dimensional Sniper)

Episodes 736-753

Magic Kaito 1412 01

Episodes 754-756

Magic Kaito 1412 02-04

Episodes 757-758

Magic Kaito 1412 05-06

Episodes 759-760

Magic Kaito 1412 07-08

Episodes 761-762

Magic Kaito 1412 09-11

The Disappearance of Conan Edogawa ~The Worst Two Days in History~

Magic Kaito 1412 12

Happy New Year, Kogoro Mouri (Fugitive: Kogoro Mouri)

Episodes 763-764

Magic Kaito 1412 13-14

Episodes 765-766

Magic Kaito 1412 15-16

Episode 767

Magic Kaito 1412 17-18

Episode 768

Magic Kaito 1412 19

Episode 769

Magic Kaito 1412 20

Episode 770-771

Magic Kaito 1412 21-22

Episode 772-773

Magic Kaito 1412 23-24

Episode 774

Movie 19 (Sunflowers of Inferno)

Episode 775-813

Movie 20 (The Darkest Nightmare)

Episode 814-844

Episode “One”: The Great Detective Who Shrank

Episode 845-854

Episode 856-874

Episode 855

Movie 21 (Crimson Love Letter)

Episode 875-898

Movie 22 (Zero the Enforcer)

Episode 899-935

Movie 23 (The Fist of Blue Sapphire)

Episode 936-1002

Movie 24 (The Scarlet Bullet)

Episode 1003-1038

Zero’s Tea Time 1-2

Episode 1039

Movie 25 (The Bride of Halloween)

Zero’s Tea Time 3

Episode 1040

Zero’s Tea Time 4

Episode 1041

Zero’s Tea Time 5

Episode 1042

Zero’s Tea Time 6

Episode 1043-1058

The Culprit Hanzawa Episode 1

Episode 1059

The Culprit Hanzawa Episode 2

Episode 1060

The Culprit Hanzawa Episode 3-4

Episode 1061-current