#he has like a flower in his pupil to symbolise already flowered

[pastelxcrown]

Lloyd Allen

[neocatharsis]

Ten on his new Represent capsule, grappling with creativity, and evading genre lines.

As Ten Lee - a vocalist and dancer in K-pop groups NCT (with whom he debuted in 2016) and Super M, and Chinese group WayV - is musing over his proclivity for partnering music or visual styles in a way that others deem strange, he veers off on a tangent. “Anything can be matched… except juice and coffee,” he says, suddenly. “Those two should never be.” Ten is infamously anti-fruit. It stems from a mistaken process of association in childhood where “I had the image of a spider and the image of fruit mixed up,” he laughs awkwardly, “so now whenever I put fruit in my mouth, I think there’s spiders in my mouth.”

Random abstractions such as this pepper his rapid-fire conversation, like small fireworks fizzing through the dark. Excitable, enthused and sharply alert, if Ten’s energy was visible it would be a shimmering mantle of gold and silver dust. As a dancer, he moves with a sinuous, controlled power that can shift from elegant to explosive on a single beat. As a visual artist, the Bangkok-born, multilingual 25-year-old recently added the title of designer to his growing list of achievements, launching an already sold out collaboration with the bespoke merch platform Represent.

Aptly, he named his collaboration “What is ??? THE ANSWERS”, for although being a chameleonic artist is one of Ten’s greatest strengths, the personality traits that enable this created within him question marks around how he saw himself fitting into the world. “People ask me, ‘What kind of music do you like?’ And I say, ‘I like R&B but hope it sounds rock’. And they’re like, ‘That doesn’t make sense’.” It was troubling to Ten that people began telling him who he was and how he should be, instead of accepting him as is.

In a recent Instagram Live, the myriad of Ten’s contrasts tumble forthwith. He’s the doting cat-dad. His inner emo, who loves rock music, shows off dried roses, with the stern, black, geometric lines of the large tattoo on his inner right arm sometimes visible. But he’s also delicate in a way, with his butterfly tattoo and hair lightly permed, who names daisies as his other favourite flower, and plays Fousheé’s breathy TikTok hit, 'Deep End'.

“Have you seen the image where I have my name in a cross in lots of different languages?” He pulls the image up on his phone. The design sits on his Represent long sleeve tee. “I was thinking [about this], like, what you’re saying... Ten has this luvvie flower side and a very ‘rawwrr!’ side. I’m always like, ‘Ten, what kind of person are you?’ I do ask myself that, too, because everything I like is so different [to the other].” He could have conceded, and reined himself in. He’s pushed back instead. “I thought, ‘I can be anything I want, I can be this in the morning and this at night. I can be any person I want to be’. And that’s what makes me comfortable and happy.”

On his Instagram, Polaroids feature scrawled messages, like “Don’t tell me what to do!” and “Whatever! I’ll do it my way”. The designs of his collaboration seek to challenge being boxed in by other people’s standards, thus limiting ourselves. The recurring symbol of a cross tipped with arrows is a nod to the Chinese letter for 10, but doubles as a plus sign. He’s added it to his Instagram, writing “TEN_+•10” in his bio. “A plus sign can mean that you’re adding on and growing.” He points to another version of the arrow-cross, one with short diagonal dashes between its points that symbolise light. It means, he says, “that I’m radiating. I’m burning, I’m active, I’m doubling myself.” He touches his forearm, where crowning his geometric tattoo is a blazing sun. “I have this, like, if you want to be the light, you have to burn. I relate to that.”

This isn’t to say Ten’s self-exploration is complete. While celebrating his strengths, the artwork also portrays parts of himself not yet conquered. He admits to being a chronic overthinker: “Even very small things that happen to me, I rethink a thousand times, and I get stressed out because of the things I do. Like, the main theme [here] is me overthinking but trying to find an answer even though it doesn’t have any answer.” Fittingly, spiral shapes dominate his designs, looming large amongst bright, bold shapes that evoke 80s Pop Art and graffiti, though Ten shies away from defining himself as “fully an artist, I’m not in the position to say things like that yet.”

“I’m still learning and trying new things. You learn by getting different elements from different people and I’m in that stage now.” He enjoys wandering the infinite halls of Instagram and Pinterest where he screenshots art that he likes, lost in the images, often for hours. He explains that he’s mostly influenced by whatever his current visual obsession is. “I’m interested in tattoos lately so my paintings look like tattoo designs. I’m that person who, when they see stuff, it goes into my brain and instantly comes out from my hands,” he laughs.

Ten’s introduction to art and design was through his mother, who believed music, art and sport were more important in a child’s development than traditional academia. “She didn’t care if I got an A* or not, just don’t get an F or a D,” he grins. Like any kid forced to do something, Ten railed against spending his weekends at art school. He attended but he didn’t draw. He befriended his teacher and other pupils and, as they worked, he chatted. “I was a very talkative kid! When I came to SM Entertainment (in 2013), I had a lot of my own time because my parents were in Thailand and I was alone. I had to absorb all the new culture and adapt to a new environment.’” When he felt surrounded by “negative energy”, he began drawing, enamoured with the space and freedom it offered because in art, as he often says, “there’s no right answer.”

There is, however, sometimes a middle ground. His goal was to make the Represent collection accessible to his diverse fanbase. “I wanted to make things that people can easily wear because it was my first project to make something with clothes and it’s a collab. If you go too far out, no one will get it. If you go too far back, people won’t reach for it. So finding the middle ground is important but that’s the hardest thing to do. If it’s my own project, I’ll be like, ‘I’m the president of this brand, I’m gonna make all the weird clothes that I can imagine!’”

He sought second opinions to ensure his designs landed the way he hoped. “I have a lot of good friends around me - my choreographer, (SHINee and Super M member) Taemin hyung, my manager. I randomly ask people I’m comfortable with and have known for a long time, like Mark (Lee, of NCT and Super M). Mark has the same kind of perspective as me, but I’m a person who is arrghhh!” He waves his hands in the air. “And he’s very calm. I need a person who is opposite of me because when I’m in a mood, I talk nonsense - ‘I wanna do this, I wanna do that, I wanna make this!’ - and Mark’s like,’Bro, calm down’,” he says in a rather uncanny impression of the Canadian-Korean.

Ten works fast when he’s drawing. He has to. He describes his personality as someone who can't wait until the next day to do something. “I’m very impatient,” he smiles. “If I’m going to paint or draw, I’m going to finish it in, like, two hours. I can’t sit down for three hours.” When inspiration hits him, it’s off the back of deep contemplation, sometimes about the mundane - “Like, why do the cats come to me when they’re hungry only? Is it selfish or instinct? - at other times, something affecting him emotionally.

But whereas his job as a singer and dancer sees him project his energy outwards, art offers the opposite. He’s often alone in his room when he works. As is for many artists, the right mood is fundamental. “When I’m in a good mood, I can’t draw,” he half-sighs. It’s also a multi-sensory process. “Smell or the temperature of the room, that really helps me draw. I light three or four candles. And when I draw, it’s kind of heavy, the feeling,” he explains. “It feels like you’re sinking into something, into yourself, and everything seems so small. Everything narrows down into me, my pencil, the paper.”

The more work he does in different creative mediums, the less Ten’s desire is to keep them separate. His art, dance and music influence each other, whether it’s customising his own collaboration pieces, a choreography video in an art gallery or dancing underwater with a film crew. When someone tells him that something won’t work or match up well, he refuses to let the idea go until he’s attempted it.

“I’ve had that since I was young. I think everything is possible. If you don’t try, you don’t know. When people say it’s impossible, like dancing in water for three minutes, I’m like, then let’s make it possible. You don’t need to walk a straight line [in life], you can walk this way,” Ten says, pointing along an invisible line before switching sharply in direction. “Then go back on track, go that way, come back. No one should tell you to walk in a line, I don’t see the point of that.”

© Clash Magazine

[lorei-writes]

Pages from the Calendar, 1892

Theodorus van Gogh x OC (MC?) Theodorus & Arthur - Gen Fic Fluff Humans AU

Written for: Dice be Nice Event Request: @readerinsertfanfiction​ Roll: Theodorus + Detective Work AU + “I trust you.”

I... Went a bit ahead, I suppose. I hope it holds together. The premise is that it happens sorta-of in the real world, but nobody is dead + Arthur and Theo work together.

Content Warnings: pregnancy, self-harm (implied; side character), anxiety (momentary)

“Can you believe it? ‘I trust you’. I trust you my ass, Arthur!” Theodorus exclaimed, hurriedly taking off his coat and tossing the much dreaded hat onto the hanger. Irritation seemingly oozing out of each of his steps, he strode towards the couch, little Z already sitting over it. The piece of furniture sighed dramatically, his back touching onto the green pillows as he lay down, his head soon resting over her lap.

January, 1892

“Can you believe it? ‘I trust you’. I trust you my ass, Arthur!” Theodorus exclaimed, hurriedly taking off his coat and tossing the much dreaded hat onto the hanger. Irritation seemingly oozing out of each of his steps, he strode towards the couch, little Z already sitting over it. The piece of furniture sighed dramatically, his back touching onto the green pillows as he lay down, his head soon resting over her lap. “The case isn’t going quite as planned?” she asked, feeling this certain kind of dissatisfaction might have stretched past the usual mismatch between his and his partner’s preferred ways of handling matters. Theo turning onto his side, her brows knitted together, the tension in his shoulders leading her to believe her worries were indeed founded in the reality. “It’s about Vincent,” he sighed finally. “Has something happened since his last letter?” “No. The culprit is playing us. They left a note, ‘Asylum 1889, van Gogh’s flower time. Await the delivery, ma’am’.”

Silence fell thick between them, Z brushing his hair affectionately. Seemingly lost in thoughts, she stared at the bookcase standing by the wall opposite of her. Her eyes gliding over the various titles, it appeared she searched for something rather than just looked for inspiration, her lips finally parting: “Vince painted irises and sunflowers during that year, didn’t he?” “He did. Sunflowers, irises, rose bushes, lilacs, poppies, ivy over the trees, whole gardens too.”

The world slowed down, words reaching him with a delay. “Floriography.” Theo shot up, his body seemingly materialising before the row of volumes, his hand already reaching for the suggested position. He opened it feverishly, his pupils rushing to follow the neat rows of letters, pages threatening to tear as he turned them. The volume shut nearly as fast as he got to it, his eyes gleaming in a familiar way. “Indeed, Your Royal Canniness!” he spoke, a hint of Arthur’s influence resurfacing, his steps gaining a spring to them – and there he was, on the other side of the room, petting her hair a couple times, only to kiss her forehead and rush to the rack before she managed to protest, the hat returning to its position over his head. “I must catch him before he latches onto any skirt.”

The door closed. Z shook her head, a faint smirk appearing over her face. “I’m sure the hat will scare them away,” she laughed to herself.

Late April, 1892

Aroma of freshly brewed coffee rose into the air. “And this is why you are a Watson to my Holmes, Theo,” Arthur laughed, his eyes crinkling as he set his cup down. “Or much rather, you are watsons, given the latest insight from little Z. Is she doing well? I haven’t talked with her properly since the wedding, I believe…” “Don’t be so triumphant. We still haven’t solved it – and don’t you even think about dragging Z into this.” Theo narrowed his eyes, a server placing a plate of pancakes before him. He dug into it almost immediately, reaching for a pen with his free hand, soon scribbling something over a spare piece of paper. “What do we have so far?” he asked between bites, turning his eyes towards Arthur. “What, my Watson? Well. The flower language used to be quite a craze in the days of youth of our suspects.

“From the start: The Lady X feels threatened, odd letters begin to appear around her mansion. Her husband opts to ignore them, but she nags him to seek a medium. No help came from the underworld, and so, they turn towards us – mere mortal detectives.” Arthur set the cup aside, thus freeing the small plate. He sprinkled some white sugar over it, guiding the particles in place with the spoon handle.

“Act I: The van Gogh clue,” he continued. “On that note, how is Vince? I do know he had a breakdown, but it seems he –” “Vincent is well, he came over to paint the nursery. Can you stick to the subject?” Theo almost barked. Arthur, however, only chuckled at his glares. “Act I: The van Gogh clue. Irises symbolise a message, sunflowers for adoration, lilac for ‘joy of youth’, pink roses for happiness, poppies for consolation-s and ivy for marriage. Nothing too certain, but perhaps a lover of days long passed. We interviewed all the men who once strove to obtain the hand of lovely Lady X. What did we learn through that, my Watson?” Theo shook his head. “Stop calling me that. If you so want a Watson, then finally finish writing up your stories and publish them,” he sighed, his pen stopping for a moment. Nevertheless, it resumed its jittery dance soon enough. “Lady X had quite a number of contestants and few pre-marital affairs.” “Great! But nothing came out of it!

“Act II: The delivery. Mere few days after the first rhododendrons bloomed, few cut off heads of those appear on the doorstep of our lady.” Arthur stopped to take a sip from his cup. He set it down with a clack. “Act III: Our dearest lady is delivered a dried rudbeckia hirta. There is no return address on the envelope. Beware, justice!” Arthur rose his voice, the table trembling as he hit it with an open palm. “What do we do now?” “Wait?” “No, you mutt, we evacuate the lady! Now, let’s go!”

Late April, 1892

The night had already fallen by the time Theodorus set off to return home, the culprit having been captured. As quietly as possible, he turned the key inside the lock, hoping he wouldn’t wake anybody up. Much to his discontent, however, it was futile, dim light of an oil lamp lighting up the narrow corridor. A head of brown hair peaked from inside the living room, the woman rubbing at her eyes. “Theo?” she yawned. “Is everything all –” Z didn’t get a chance to finish, her husband having seemingly been blessed with a gift to transport himself through space at a pace much too great for it to be noticeable. His arms locked around her in an embrace, she listened in to his heartbeat, her hands reaching to pat his back. “An ugly finale?” she asked knowingly, almost wishing she was there with them, like during the ‘good old days’. “An ugly finale,” Theo sighed, pulling back. “You were right. Sunflowers were for haughtiness.” “And who was the culprit? A lover?” “Illegitimate son born from the affair.” Silence fell between them for a moment, an unspoken question taking residence deep within it. Both curious to know and unwilling to find out, Z hesitated, the tension in his muscles alone being rather telling.

A loud thud came from above. Startled, Z sprung up a little, her lips opening to form an ‘o’. “Vincent! He must have fallen asleep on the couch!” she exclaimed, already turning away to hurry up the narrow staircase. Careful as not to slip, they navigated through the dark household, Theo carrying the lamp in one hand and keeping the other over Z’s shoulder to steady her. Z pushed the door to the nursery open, Vicent sitting on the floor, a hand massaging a sore spot over his head. Still somewhat confused, he looked around, blond strands growing conveniently longer on one side, a smudge of blue paint still staining his cheek. “Z? Theo?” he asked absent-mindedly. “I’m sorry, have I woken you up?” “No, not at all, Theo just got back. Are you okay? I must have…” Z trailed off, Theo helping Vincent up. It mattered little to her, however, paint drying over the wall by the cradle, starts seemingly shining over it.

Language of flowers:

*rudbeckia hirta - justice *rhododendron - danger, beware *iris - a message *sunflower - haughtiness/adoration *pink rose - happiness *lilac - joy of youth *poppy - consolation *ivy - marriage

Tag List: @cheese-ception , @kisara-16, @nad-zeta If you want to be tagged for my works, please, do let me know :D Please, specify fandoms as well.

[maatryoshkaa]

young god | chapter 12

serial killer!han jisung au

chapters: | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11| 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | epilogue |

word count: 4.5k

warnings: descriptions of violence, foul language, allusions to trauma and mental illness

description: Prosecutor Kim Seungmin faces pressures from his coworkers about the serial killer case. When Jisung wakes up next to you, remorse and doubt sends him back onto the streets, where one wrong decision finally leads to him doing the one thing he had feared above all.

watch the trailer here!

12| point of no return.

“Well, well, well — look what the cat dragged in.”

Kim Seungmin winced at the sound of Prosecutor Kang’s haughty voice as soon as he stepped into the office. The older prosecutor’s words had made all the others look up from their desks, directing several pairs of eyes onto the younger man, who was actively trying his best not to tuck his head down and fold in on himself to avoid their scrutiny. To Seungmin’s dismay, Kang continued speaking.

“If it isn’t our newest prosecutor. How are you holding up, Kim? I heard there have been more attacks — a witness, even. Shameful, really, how they had to call a lockdown just to keep things under control.”

Seungmin swallowed a lump in his throat, forcing his jaw to unclench. “We’ve—been actively gathering evidence.” While it was true — Chan and Woojin had called him to the precinct in the middle of the night to preserve witness statements, and he’d spent the last few days searching through Miroh Heights for clues — the words sounded incredibly lame nonetheless. Sure enough, Kang snorted, and a few other prosecutors shifted uncomfortably. 

“What kind of evidence, Kim? Enlighten me.”

“The suspicion has been placed on Miroh Heights’ students after interviewing the last witness. And we have reason to suspect that the perpetrator is mentally unstable, or at least harbours some sort of...trauma, due to the erratic selection of their victims.” Seungmin cleared his throat, hoping his voice didn’t sound as nervous as he felt. He had only repeated what he’d theorised together with Chan and Woojin, after all.

“I’m just finding it strange — embarrassing, really — how it seems like you’re getting everything handed to you, Prosecutor Kim, and yet you’re still taking this long to reach a verdict.” Kang raised an eyebrow. “Seems to me you're hesitant? Indecisive, or uncertain?”

“Beginner’s nerves, perhaps?” One woman piped up, and a few workers around her stifled their chuckles.

Seungmin clenched his fists, hoping the others couldn’t see. “Dealing with a mentally unstable serial killer calls for a different approach, Kang. We have to keep into consideration how accountable they are to be held for their actions, and—”

“There is no room for a wavering heart in prosecution,” Kang interrupted coldly, his eyes two black daggers. “What you think is being kind or empathetic is a weakness, kid. Focus on the incriminating evidence, not the humanity in the perpetrator — after all,” he gave a leer, “anyone who murders humans is a monster — and monsters deserve to be punished, don’t you think?”

There were a few murmurs of agreement, and Seungmin ripped his gaze from Prosecutor Kang’s expectant face. 

“I assure you, that is what I intend to do.” With that, Seungmin brushed past Prosecutor Kang, suddenly grateful that his office was further down the hallway. The woman who had tried speaking up for him on his first day flashed him a sympathetic look as he passed, but it only made him feel worse. Was he really that...weak? Incompetent?

If catching this killer and condemning them was what it took to get Prosecutor Kang off his back, then that was exactly what Seungmin would do. He shut the door to his office, a bit harder than he meant to, and opened his briefcase on his desk, organizing his notes. 

It was time to hunt a killer.

━━━━━━━━

All was quiet when Jisung awoke, eyes blinking as they opened and adjusted to the hazy morning light. He was in a room with off-white ceilings and walls, and the dusty blue curtains were open, fluttering lightly from a soft breeze. His even breathing filled the air — for the first time in what seemed like forever, he hadn’t had nightmares. His eyes wandered to the windows, wincing slightly — it was a cloudy day, the kind where looking at the grey sky stung his eyes. Aside from the light wind, the room was absolutely still. Almost as if it was holding its breath. 

Jisung turned to the side, freezing when he saw your sleeping face next to him. You were sleeping with no pillow, and Jisung realised with a sharp pang of guilt that you had placed the only one on the bed under his head instead. He slowly slid his palm beneath your cheek, lifting your head as gently as he could before pushing the pillow between you and the mattress instead. You immediately buried your face into the softer fabric, still fully asleep, and Jisung chuckled. For a long moment, he gazed down at your sleeping figure, a bittersweet warmth spreading in his chest. Before he could stop himself, he leaned down and pressed his lips to your forehead, eyes momentarily closing. 

Jisung felt your hand reach up for him and he pulled away slightly, worried that he’d woken you. When he saw that your eyes were still shut, chest rising and falling in a slow, peaceful rhythm, he let out a breath of relief. Your fingers grazed his shoulder and there was a slight furrow beginning to form in your brow, and suddenly he was reminded of the previous night — when you had looked at him with the same confused, horrified expression; when you had instinctively pushed him away, looking ready to run.

He looked down at you now, gut twisting as he frowned — were you having nightmares? Were they—were they about him? Memories flooded his mind from last night: him running back to your apartment; your face, twisted with disbelief and horror; all the things he had ended up telling you. Each memory sent a wave of panic through him, a cold sweat beginning to form at the back of his neck. Jisung pulled away, sitting up and burying his head in his hands. 

What had he done?

All he could think about was the way you had looked at him when you had first found out — the betrayal, fear, raw pain scrawled across your features. That was what you thought of the real him — wasn’t it? Your shaking hands, wavering pupils, the tears brimming in your eyes — the images kept flashing in his mind, patching themselves over the memories of your laugh, the way your entire face would light up, your reddened cheeks and ears when you got embarrassed. 

They were all as good as lost once he’d told you the truth.

Even though you had let him sit down, let him stay — he swore he caught the way you stiffened slightly beneath his touch, the way you had begun avoiding his gaze. And when you did look at him — it was like he was a ticking time bomb.

Jisung slid off the bed onto his feet. Instinctively, he began pacing, his heart pounding louder and louder with every step. His chest was closing up again, the floor was beginning to spin, the thoughts were all too, too much. With one hand still clasped around his head, he bolted out of the bedroom and down the hall, coming to an unsteady halt when he reached the living room. Jisung’s vision spun, a wave of nausea inching up his throat as his gaze landed on the vase of peach coloured roses sitting on the coffee table. 

He seized the vase and brought the flowers closer to his face. They were the ones he had bought on your first date. A short laugh pushed through his lips, and even the subtle twitch of a tentative smile tugging at his cheeks felt painful. 

“First date, kid?” The florist had a lopsided grin on her face, already reaching for the shelves of rose bouquets behind her.

“Um, yeah. I—I don’t want...red roses, though. Do you have, um, anything else?” Jisung watched the florist’s brow furrow at his words.

“Hm. Roses are a classic go-to, kid, but...ah!” Her face lit up, snapping her fingers as she reached for a different bouquet. “These are much prettier, in my opinion. Peach roses!”

Jisung took the bouquet from her curiously as she continued, “Red might come off a little strong ‘n cliche, yeah? So the peach hue makes ‘em look softer. The colour symbolises strength and resilience, so here’s to wishing you and your lucky girl a love that stands the tests of time, hm?” 

They were nearly all wilted now, the edges shrivelled and the leaves drooping. But the scent dripping from the petals was heavy, so thick it seemed to make his legs buckle from dizziness. Jisung set the vase back down too hard and it struck the corner of the coffee table, wobbling precariously, and before Jisung could reach out to catch it the vase toppled over the edge and shattered against the floor. 

The crash that rang through your silent apartment sounded deafening, and Jisung whipped his gaze towards the bedroom where you were sleeping. Dried petals and glass were splayed across his feet as he stumbled back, his heel snagging painfully on a thorn. His blood was roaring in his ears as he held his breath, expecting you to wake up at any second. But a minute passed, then another, and Jisung finally tore his gaze away, fists unclenching slightly.

You don’t belong here.

The words rang in his head, an incessant throb that grew stronger with every heartbeat. Every part of him was screaming at Jisung to run — to leave behind the mess he had already made before it was too late; before the police found him with you, before he could hurt you any more than he already had—and  with that last fear pounding through his skull, Jisung slipped on his shoes, threw open the front door, and broke into a run. 

You don’t belong here. Get out. Get out. GET. OUT.

The clouds were stitching themselves together over the hazy sun when he sprinted outside, casting a dark grey shadow over the entire city. Jisung’s mind was racing as he ducked into the first alleyway he saw, narrowly missing a police cruiser that had turned around the corner onto your street. Where could he go? The dorms? Another cafe? He risked another glance out onto the main street, heart sinking at the sheer amount of officers patrolling the road. He shook his head. He had to get away — where, exactly, he wasn’t sure — but he needed to get out of Miroh Heights.

Jisung darted down backstreets and alleyways, growing increasingly aware of the rumbling of thunder overhead and the light droplets of rain beginning to splatter onto his skin. When he reached a narrow strip between two brick buildings, a strange feeling of deja vu sent a chill trickling down his spine. Shaking the feeling off, Jisung pushed through the path, eyes fixed on the wavering sliver of gray light at its end—until the alleyway opened up into the familiar back parking lot of a diner.

Mia’s Diner.

The toe of Jisung’s shoe caught on the uneven gravel and he stopped running, chest heaving. Of all the shortcuts he could have chosen, this one had lead him all the way back here. To his relief, he noticed the lot was relatively secluded—the back of the diner and a tall stack of Dumpsters hid him from the main street, while a thicket of trees and the two buildings that had formed the alleyway closed up the space behind him. Even in the growing fog, he could spot the diner’s bright neon sign on the roof.

His gaze wandered towards the diner’s windows, which were glowing like a row of dim eyes. The tables were empty, a bored waitress sipping a milkshake by the counter with her back turned. His eyes landed on the window side booth from your first date. Your first date, what felt like an eternity ago.

“O-oh, hi! You’re…”

“Jisung. Han Jisung.”

It had been raining that day, too, hadn’t it? Sheets of water that had swept the streets, soaked his shoes, and nearly torn the heads off the roses he’d bought on the way. And when the storm had cleared in the evening, the way the sunset had bathed the city in gold. A small smile tugged at his lips, vision fogging over at the memory. Your warm touch on his cheek. Your tentative fingers in his hair. 

The warmth turned ice cold as soon as he spotted a familiar alley in the corner of his eye, and like a stormcloud splitting wide open, all the uglier memories began spilling out instead. The brick walls that felt like they were closing in on him, the prostitute’s catlike eyes, the choking darkness of an unkept, one-bedroom bungalow, fresh, hot blood spilling onto his hands and vodka flames licking at his feet—

“Han Jisung!”

The unfamiliar voice pulled Jisung out of his thoughts. A group of male students had come around the diner, a stocky boy with a buzzcut at their head. Jisung narrowed his eyes, clenching his fists involuntarily. He had seen them before, somewhere — a club, perhaps, or a late-night party…

“That’s cold, man — aren’t you gonna greet your old friends?” The boy with the buzzcut stopped just short of a metre from Jisung — too close for his liking — and spat on Jisung’s shoes.

“Kid’s been off in the head since the orphanage,” a taller boy with dirty blond hair that fell to his chin grinned. “Isn’t that so?”

Something in the back of Jisung’s mind clicked and he squinted in the growing darkness, eyes focusing on their faces. The orphanage. The other boys he and Minho had grown up with. After they’d all been released from the children’s home, Jisung had seen a few of them in passing — some had barely managed to get into college, while most of the others had dropped altogether and lingered around the town like parasites. 

Jisung lifted his gaze back to the stocky boy’s face, a humourless chuckle escaping his lips. His former classmates shifted nervously. 

“Fucking psycho,” someone behind the boy muttered.

“Well, that’s what he is, isn’t he?” The blond boy continued, a sneer growing on his crusted lips. He had a hand shoved into his pockets, and Jisung heard the sound of something metal clinking—a lighter? “Remember what they say brought him to the orphanage?” He took a step closer to Jisung, lowering his voice. “Arson. Patricide.”

“Get away from me,” Jisung breathed, his throat dry. The ringing in his ears was growing more and more high pitched with every second, and his limbs felt stiff — as if he could will himself to stay still, to stay in control.

“Is it true, then? You killed your old man and set his corpse on fire? Is that your dirty little secret?” The boy with the buzzcut jerked his head towards the distant screeching sirens on the main street. “Are those because of you, too?”

Dead silence fell between them, the gang’s mocking smiles boring into him. The boy with the buzzcut tilted his head, snorting when Jisung only stared back at him. 

“Forget it. There’s no way he’s the serial killer.” A third boy behind them spoke, his eyes raking Jisung up and down in a leer. “Looks like he’s about to piss his pants — probably can’t throw a punch to save his life. He’s a runner, that’s what he is.”

The blond boy laughed, fingers jabbing at Jisung’s shoulder and pushing him back. “You’re right about that one. Han Jisung, always running away. Just like your momma, yeah? Momma’s boy.” At that, Jisung’s gaze flickered up to meet the blond boy’s, eyes narrowing in wary confusion.

“What? Your momma always ran from your old man, didn’t she? Didn’t how how to do anything else. And every time your old man beat her bloody...” the boy with the buzzcut reached for Jisung’s lowered head, ruffling his hair and snickering when Jisung flinched away. “You ran away from her, too, yeah?”

Jisung froze, his fingers numb. He had been clenching his fists so tightly the blood circulation was cut off, his hands beginning to tremble as a horribly familiar ache pulsed in his temples. But before he could bring himself to move, the boy with the buzzcut suddenly tightened his grip on Jisung’s hair, yanking his head back hard.

“Fuckin’ mute bastard’s pissing me off. Try running now, Han.”

A fist came out of nowhere and smashed into the side Jisung’s jaw. He flew backwards, the back of his head slamming into hard gravel. For a moment, his vision went black, before coming back in fuzzy, burning flashes. His eyes had already been watering — both from his headache and the boy’s harsh grip on his hair — and just as Jisung was blinking the sand from his eyes he felt a foot crash into his ribs and knock the air straight out of his lungs.

Jisung could barely hear their taunts over his own choked coughing, his fingers scrabbling through the dusty ground as he tried to pull himself up. Pain coursed through his bones like liquid fire, sending waves of nausea shooting up his gut and black spots dancing across his vision. 

“Shit, it’s like hitting a little girl,” the boy with the buzzcut muttered. “C’mon, Han, put some fight into it, will ya?” He dropped down into a squat until they were nearly face to face, his squinty eyes twisted into a permanent sneer. “Pretend I’m your old man or someth—”

Jisung’s hand shot out, seizing the front of the boy’s shirt. He saw the sneer freeze on the boy’s face for a split second before Jisung drove his fist into the boy’s nose.

“Fffuckin’ hell!” The boy toppled back screaming, blood beginning to spurt from his face as he scrambled away frantically. One boy wearing a letterman jacket immediately moved to push Jisung back down. Hooking a foot around the boy’s legs, Jisung kicked hard and brought the boy crashing down to the ground. He pulled himself back to his feet shakily, reddening vision scanning the remaining boys that were closing in on him.

“Now you’re asking for it, kid,” the blond boy growled, grabbing Jisung’s collar. Before he could register the blond boy’s fingers curling into a fist, a hot flash of pain flared across Jisung’s cheekbone and his head snapped to the side. When Jisung turned his head back, locks of his own hair fell into his eyes, beads of sweat beginning to make them stick to his brow.

Another punch, then another, then another. Jisung could feel cuts splitting open on his cheeks and lips, as if his blood was demanding to be let out. A smile began stretching across his bruised lips, growing wider and wider with every blow. Jisung had lost count by the time the blond boy stopped momentarily, breathing hard, beady blue eyes searching Jisung’s face. 

“The fuck?” His chest was heaving as he shook Jisung like a ragdoll. The younger boy was beginning to laugh — his hair obscured most of his face, revealing only bloodstained teeth. “Are you—you a fuckin’ psycho or somethin’?”

The laughter ripping from his vocal chords felt more like sobs; as soon as the first one rolled off his tongue Jisung couldn’t stop the rest from bubbling up his throat. The blond knocked his head to the side again before jamming his fingers into Jisung’s forehead. “Hey, freak. I asked you a question.”

Jisung’s eyes were hazy, his face throbbed, the boy’s finger felt like a knifepoint in his skin. 

“If you ever speak a word of this to your mother, boy, I’ll ram that camera right into your skull.”

This felt familiar.

He shook his hair out of his face and stared straight into the blond’s eyes. “You want me to pretend you’re my father?”

For a moment the blond boy’s grin faltered, a flash of fear skipping across his pupils, but Jisung barely noticed. His hands shot out, seizing the blond by the throat in a horribly familiar chokehold. The boy cried out in silent surprise, losing his balance, and Jisung took the chance to force him all the way backwards into the diner’s brick wall. The sickening crack when the boy’s skull hit the bricks seemed to send a shudder into Jisung’s hands and body, and the high pitched ringing in his ears finally snapped.

Pure red poured into his vision as he threw punch after punch, pinning the taller boy to the wall. Jisung couldn’t tell if the screaming was the boy’s, or his, or both — or if there was any screaming at all; all he could hear was his own pounding heartbeat. Somewhere, in the back of his head, a small voice was begging for him to stop, but it grew weaker and weaker with every blow.

FATHER. FATHER. FATHER.

He felt hands grabbing at his shoulders as one boy tried to pull him back and Jisung whirled back momentarily, kicking him in the chest. The blond was beginning to grow limp, each hit feeling more and more like Jisung was punching a bag of wet rocks. Jisung felt a distant, stinging pain in his abdomen as he finally let the boy slide to the ground in a broken heap, and vaguely registered a spot of dark blood spreading across his own shirt. His shaky pupils fell on the unconscious boy’s hands, which were clutching a metal switchblade, its tip smeared with blood — Jisung’s blood.

So that had been the metallic sound from earlier. At some point—Jisung couldn’t recall when—the boy must have tried to stab him before he finally fell unconscious.

There were three of them left — four, if you counted the boy with buzzcut hair, bleeding out on the ground from his broken nose. Head buzzing, Jisung leaned down to scoop the blade from the boy’s limp hands as the rest of them closed in.

Jisung could barely see what he was doing; it had begun to rain, clouds casting inky darkness around them despite it being noon. The rain tasted sour as it mixed with foreign blood, the flash of the knife the only light visible. He could no longer hear the words that they were screaming as he buried the blade into every surface that came near him; all he could see were scenes from that day. It was like he had been swallowed back into the nightmare, his gut twisting like he had been thrown over the edge of a cliff and was hurtling towards the ground. His mother’s blood pooling over slivers of splintered wood, her pleading eyes, the water boiling over in the kitchen, the glass shards carving the hellish memories into the soles of his bare feet. It was his father — his father again, trying to kill them, trying to kill them all, and Jisung was fighting back. His father’s red face — or was it the boys’ terrified faces? The glint of his father’s lighter, or the shining tears of pain from the boy whose bones he was breaking? It was horrible — or was it was exhilarating?—and everything Jisung could see was red, red, endless red. 

He didn’t know when they had all ended up on the ground, the last conscious boy trembling feebly beneath him. The tiniest voice echoed in his ears as he brought the knife down again and again in terrible arcs, the warm spurts of blood onto his face feeling like a demon’s caress.

So this is what it feels like to be a monster.

Jisung was shuddering, fingers slippery with blood and rain. His ears felt as though they were underwater, a muffled voice beginning to echo through the haze.

“Ji...Ji…”

He shook his head wildly, eyes cloudy with water, but the voice persisted. It was getting louder now, growing clearer and clearer, as if it was dragging him back up from the darkness.

“Ji...sung. Jisung?”

Was the voice calling for him? The ground felt shaky beneath Jisung’s knees. He had lost his grip on the knife, his tremulous fingers tightening around the sharp blade and sending dull pain searing through his skin. He was going too far — it was too much, it was all too much — he needed to calm down, he needed an anchor to reality, he needed to be back in control before it was too late — 

“...sungie? J-Jisung?”

Feeling like his hand wasn’t his own, Jisung whirled around, switchblade swinging across his blurred vision in a terrible arc, and plunged the knife into a mass of darkness.

The moment he made impact, the cloudiness in his head began to clear away, the numbness leaving his body like venom had been sucked clean from his veins. Jisung let out a shuddering breath. He had done it, it was over, something — or someone had pulled him out of the nightmare. The rain was falling harder now, a crack of lightning flashing over the puddles around him, but all was quiet as his eyes focused in the hazy darkness. 

Eerily quiet, save for a muffled, shaky gasp of pain that made Jisung lift his gaze from the bloodstained gravel up to — 

You.

“Y-Y/N?” His own voice sounded raw, as if he’d been screaming for hours. “What are...w-why are you...here?” You were staring back at him with impossibly wide eyes, and he realised one of your hands had been clutching his arm. It was already beginning to shake as you pulled it back towards your chest, and you looked down. Time seemed to stop as Jisung’s brow furrowed in confusion, and he slowly followed the line of your gaze.

All the way to the switchblade buried deep in your chest.

“H-how did that—w-what happ—” Jisung looked down, breaking off when he saw the pools of blood welling in his palms and soaking the front of his shirt. “N-no. I—Did I—”

The sight of your face left him speechless, another flash of lightning reflecting off the stunned tears that were falling from your eyes. Your expression mirrored his own — frozen in equal parts surprise and agony — but what wrenched Jisung’s heart was the complete absence of anger on your face. 

Mouth slightly parted, you slowly shook your head, and Jisung felt a sudden, sharp pain twist his chest as if he’d been the one stabbed in the heart. Thunder rumbled above and as he opened his mouth to call your name, just as your eyes rolled back and you fell with a dull thud onto the soaked pavement.

“N-no. Don’t do this, not again, I c-can’t—”

The wind was howling in Jisung’s ears. He was screaming your name like it was the only thing he had ever learned but his head was pounding again, and it was like he had been thrust back underwater again, unable to hear his own voice. The rain was plummeting in torrents, as if the sky had been split wide open with an axe, the fat drops cutting at his bruised cheeks like shards of broken glass. The wail of police sirens was growing closer and closer, and suddenly,Jisung was ten years old again — cradling the last thing he had loved in a growing pool of blood, sobs racking through his body like gunshots.

Crimson was blooming rapidly through the front of your shirt. The neon lights of the diner burned at the corner of his eye, and a faint, warm memory echoed in the back of his mind.

“Least favourite colour?”

“Red.”

“W-well, it’s a good thing I’m not wearing red, then, huh?”

“No. No, I’m sure you would still look pretty in red.”

Red. It was everywhere; his shaking pupils took in the blood soaking your clothes, staining your skin, running from his fingers into your hair. 

No, he decided in that moment; you looked absolutely, horrifically, bad in red.

━━━━━━━━

Maybe it was the sirens wailing all throughout Miroh Heights, painting the streets in blurs of blue and red. Or maybe it was the thunderstorm pounding on the windows of the hospital all day, as if it was crying out for a lost love. Nobody could say why, exactly, for certain.

But that night, somewhere in the heart of the city, Yang Jeongin opened his eyes for the first time in three months.