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pkg4mumtown · 1 day ago

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Scream (‘Til There’s Silence)

Pairing: Ghostface!Hotch x GN!Reader

Rating: Explicit / R

Summary: A serial killer comes to your small town. Will the FBI finally catch him?

Content Warnings: DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT, murder, stabbing/knives, manipulation, stalking, sexual content, strong violence, choking, GN!reader (no Y/N, usage of ‘mouse’ as a nickname), strong language, first person POV, Ghostface is his own warning

A/N: HEED ALL WARNINGS!! Keep yourself safe, seriously. Just because I wrote this does not mean I condone any of these actions in real life. This is a work of fiction. Also, if I missed any warnings, please let me know.

Now, POSTING TWO FICS IN ONE WEEKEND?? Who the hell am I? I hope you enjoy this as much as I did writing it. Also, enjoy the art and custom Ghostface costume that Hotchy-boy wears. Also, do not talk to me about plot holes lolll

I made an unsub playlist inspired by some of the Criminal Minds unsubs. I’ve embedded it below. A few in that playlist that gave me vibes for this fic were: Change (in the house of flies), Scream, Possum Kingdom, and Tear You Apart.

Also available on AO3

Aaron POV

Thump.

…

Thump.

…

Thump.

…

A satisfied hum left Aaron’s throat as the young woman's heart finally stopped beating underneath his hand.

It was his favorite part, feeling the life drain out of their bodies. Choosing who and how each innocent person met their end. It felt different from killing an unsub on the job, which didn’t satisfy him whatsoever. In those cases, he usually preferred the satisfaction of outsmarting them through the legal system. He had only killed a handful of unsubs as Ghostface, ones that were legally elusive to the BAU and needed something more permanent. Still—it wasn’t the same. Sure, he still felt them die but they never fulfilled his prey drive. The terrified screams, the vulnerable situations…no. People like him didn’t do that. They fought back with anger, stoicism, and a little glee. They watched their back, paranoid of the government. They were armed more often than not.

Not satisfying at all.

Only once did he have to kill an unsub as Ghostface to protect his identity, the unsub having profiled him right back with terrifying accuracy. Foyet was able to clock that monster inside of him and despite the expressionless façade he gave the older man, it was jarring. Dare he say he was actually scared for once in his adult life. So, Foyet had to go, simple as that. But he let the older man die with his suspicions confirmed about Aaron. Let him watch the grin that pulled across Aaron's teeth as the knife slid into Foyet's heart with a satisfying grunt. It was poetic, and okay, maybe a little satisfying.

Ghostface had become such a problem that he was made a priority case for the BAU, the file having permanent residence on their desks since the killer—since Aaron—drove Jason Gideon to leave the FBI. Since Ghostface was directly responsible for David Rossi's reinstatement with the FBI. Since SSA Aaron Hotchner was made the golden boy to spearhead the Ghostface investigation. Oh, how giddy it made Aaron to see the rest of the BAU's frustration every time a new case popped up.

Yanking the long hunting knife out of his current victim's body, Aaron squinted underneath his mask for anything he might have missed—a rarity, but he liked to take precautions anyway. He had designed a mask that provided very little in the way of field of view, so he always took extra care with his surroundings. It was entirely his fault for the poor design but he wouldn't be caught dead in that cheap, plastic costume mask. Plus, he enjoyed the design process and threw in a little flair for the dramatic with sharp angles and pointed teeth.

He checked his watch, clasped neatly over a black, stretchy base layer he wore to keep his body hair at bay. It made him sweat like hell underneath the ribbed, long sleeve thermal, tactical pants, and cowl he wore but this was how he lived his life.

The plan was relatively simple each time. Aaron picked a city when they had a stretch of time off, drove there—because planes were obviously out of the question—paid cash for everything, found an easy victim, and terrorized the town for a few days. Usually racking up two to four bodies to get the police on high alert. His team unwound with vacations and family. Aaron? He preferred a different kind of alone time to unwind.

When the BAU was inevitably called in he would terrorize the town a little more in between working the case and find an easy scumbag to pin it on.

It was stupid how easy it all was when citizens and police were desperate to find a killer in a small town. They were willing overlook discrepancies and blame just about any bad guy in the town if they remotely fit the bill. They usually chalked it up to Ghostface copycats and despite the profile saying otherwise—Aaron didn’t mind a damn bit that the murders were blamed on a copycat. Anyone but him was good enough.

They didn’t even have a definitive profile on him, too many theories about whether he worked alone or if these “copycats"—copycats that didn’t exist—were a network of unsubs posing as Ghostface killers. Theories on if the continued murders were because they were catching the wrong people and the real Ghostface wanted recognition. In reality, it was easier for people to believe that one person couldn’t be this demented and bloodthirsty.

This was his last one for this stretch, having terrorized East Liverpool, Ohio enough for the moment. He had to report to work in oh…twenty-seven hours anyway. Roughly six hours to drive back to Virginia with no toll roads—cameras equal bad—time to stash his spare car, clean his equipment, etcetera. It was a full day ordeal.

Checking his secondary phone, one he set up to receive voice-mail from his work phone—which sat lonely in his apartment—showed a lack of incoming messages. He was grateful because it was a pain to locate public Wi-Fi or spoof a location on short notice, especially at 3:00 AM.

Humming to himself, he exited the house. He made sure that the neighbors security system caught a blur of movement as he arranged some staged, bloody equipment as a false disposal site and took off.

Aaron’s actual bloody equipment was wrapped neatly in plastic and stored in an aftermarket storage he created in the car—just in case he was pulled over. When he was safely in his spare car, Aaron still didn’t take his face covering—the one he wore underneath the Ghostface mask—off right away. He was too cautious of cameras despite the small city. He would wait until he was on a dark stretch of highway where he could quickly put some normal clothes on and change his license plate.

It's not until he does just that, that he feels wet, slick mud transfer onto his hands as he takes his boots off. It’s not the texture that makes him curse. It’s not even getting his hand dirty that makes him stop. It’s how high the mud was on his boot and how clear of a print he might have left that makes him overthink and wonder. Wonder where he left it, specifically, and if it would even get noticed.

Aaron quickly shook it off. He’s on a highway and doesn’t need to draw attention to himself.

People were dumb.

He was smart.

It would all work out.

It took all of two days for the small town of East Liverpool to get overwhelmed. The East Liverpool Police Department had a whopping twenty patrol officers to cover the nearly ten thousand citizens. Their station was lacking in equipment, forcing them to call in the Columbiana County Sheriff's Department for assistance with the three murders Aaron left behind. CCSD was barely any better in the personnel department.

The BAU was called in by the ELPD Chief, something Aaron expected, though he gave them much less credit and had estimated a day at most. The flight was quicker than the twelve-hour round-trip Aaron subjected himself to.

As soon as they arrived, Aaron was splitting his team up amongst the different crime scenes. He sent Rossi and JJ to the first murder to see if they could get a handle on victimology and patterns. Reid and Morgan went to the second to see what else they could get for their profile and set up a timeline.

Aaron needed to be at the most recent one to see if he really did fuck up. The evidence there was the freshest, so if he needed to fix anything, he would do it here without alerting Prentiss.

Aaron and Emily arrived to the modest, single-story house with police tape blocking off the front lawn. A few citizens were gathered, worried expressions as they murmured amongst each other and stared down the federal agents. Their glares felt like they blamed the agents for the massacre.

Well, that was sort of true.

The scene was quiet, eerily so, except for the murmur of officers and the clicking of cameras. As many Ghostface crime scenes as they’d been do, Emily couldn’t help the breath that left her throat at seeing the blood all over the walls as the victim was chased—hunted—in their own home. The interior was disturbingly pristine with no overturned furniture, no forced entry, nothing impulsive. Just controlled violence.

The body was in no better condition.

Cuts were strewn over the young woman's body, a common torture seen in these murders, with deeper stab wounds, and ending with a final deadly stab to the heart.

One thing that had always helped Aaron was his lack of preference in victimology. Well, maybe “vulnerable" was a preference but he could make just about anyone feel that way with a little bit of effort. The ones that spiraled into madness were extra special to him.

A detective—Hotch presumed—stepped out of a hallway to greet them, accompanied by a crime scene investigator with a camera hanging around their neck.

“Detective Miller,” she introduced herself. “We were both brought in from Columbiana County,” she gestured to the tech.

County or city didn’t matter. In an area like this? Aaron was confident wherever he left his boot print wouldn’t matter.

“Run us through it?” Emily asked.

The detective looked at the forensic investigator, who comically pointed at themselves in question. Another urgent nod from the detective and the nervous investigator finally started speaking.

After introducing themselves, they stuttered before speaking under the heavy gaze of the federal agents. It was irking Aaron that they couldn't get a word out but also gave him more confidence that these departments were not equipped to handle this.

“R-uh-right, so the killer entered here through the side window. We have a couple boot prints on the floor, but they’re too smudged to see much. Looks like the killer ambushed her here in the living room and started slashing. The sprays here and here indicate they were running toward the hallway where the victim fell. They didn’t move from there and the pooling suggests this is where the victim died. No prints or hair here but we did find camera footage from a neighbor across the street showing the killer disposing of evidence in the foliage. I did bag some traces of hair from those clothes that we’re testing now back at the county lab.”

Aaron was surprised. Not necessarily at any of the information because it was pretty spot on but surprised at the accuracy and detail as the forensic investigator continued explaining. The hairs were also not surprising. He planted those himself on the false evidence with short, red hair he snatched from someone in town.

He liked his chances, so far.

“Anything else?”

“Yea, well,” the investigator started and stopped. “Yes, actually. But a thing about the hair we found with those disposed clothes...it felt…I don’t know. Out of place?”

“I told you not to speculate like this,” The detective interrupted sternly.

Aaron cocked his head, intrigued at what the investigator had to say but would wait patiently.

“Sorry, Miller,” they shifted awkwardly.

Hotch nodded along, feigning impartial analysis. Internally, he scrutinized the investigator, watching for any sign that they picked up on anything else that was crucial.

Emily chimed in, “This level of organization is consistent with the other two. It’s almost surgical how controlled the scenes are.”

The investigator’s eyes brightened despite the glare of the detective warning them to back off.

“T-that's what I thought, too,” the investigator blurted out. “I’ve read up on the past cases you worked and I know there’s stuff left behind often but it doesn’t feel…right. The murders are so meticulously planned, with no evidence, and the killer throws stuff in a bush or makes rookie mistakes? We found a boot print on the side of the house and I know some of the ones you’ve caught haven’t even done that. I’ll show you. Follow me and—er—watch your step.”

As everyone stepped outside, two more SUVs rolled up to the house, the rest of the team getting out and walking toward the house. None of them looked like they had anything important to share which pleased Aaron.

“We found a boot print back here in the mud. It was raining early last week, so the ground has been pretty soft,” the investigator guided everyone around to the side the killer entered from.

Aaron suddenly remembered feeling like he had lost his footing climbing in through the window. It was the mud. He hung back in the group following behind Reid.

“Just watch your step he—”

The forensic investigator was cut off as the front of Hotch’s shoe met the instep of Reid's foot as the group turned the corner. Reid stumbled and Hotch did his “best" to grab the back of the younger man's collar to yank him back but wasn’t fast enough. Reid's foot stepped in the mud next to the print, distorting the print near the heel.

“—re…” the investigator sucked their lips in, an awkward smile pulling across their features. “And I thought the city guys were bad.”

Morgan snorted as Reid pulled his foot out of the mud. The rest of the team consisted of varying levels of cringing and head shaking while Aaron did his best to hold in the devious laugh threatening to bubble up.

“Sorry…” Reid mumbled.

“It’s alright, we took the cast yesterday and they’re analyzing the print now. We’re estimating size eleven boots and one-eighty to two hundred pounds.”

Aaron’s elation promptly died. He kept his hands in his pockets, fingers digging into his palm.

Derek stepped forward, frowning. “So, we’re looking at someone fit, strong, tall? Especially if he can get into this window. It’s a bit of a pull up.”

Emily nods. “Clearly trained if we're running with the idea that planting those clothes are forensic counter measures?”

The investigator turned back to the group, “I’m guessing you’ve seen that before?”

The forensic investigator’s eyes fixed mostly on Hotch, who looked calculating but conflicted.

“We have,” Rossi murmured.

Hotch's mouth formed a grim line but not because that theory is absolutely in one of their profiles of Ghostface. No. For the first time, Hotch studied the investigator not just as another mediocre forensic scientist, but as a genuine threat.

MC POV

Doing all I could at the underfunded and understaffed ELPD station, I made my way back to the Columbiana County Sheriff’s Station. About half of the BAU joined the twenty-minute drive to the station for a closer look at the findings our lab eventually called about.

The hair didn’t match DNA from any known criminal investigations, bringing us to a dead end right away. All we knew was that the color was a natural red, fairly thin, and that the hair was forcibly yanked versus falling out naturally.

The BAU theorized to no end.

“The hair could have gotten stuck to the mask when he ripped it off?”

“Could have ripped the hair off someone, too.”

I wasn’t satisfied with the dead end and left their conversation in the conference room Sheriff Tanner let them convene in, a step up from the dinky broom closet Chief Banks set up for them at ELPD. I retreated to the lab, moving on to the boot print. The forensics lab was cold, humming with fluorescent lights, the kind that made everything feel clinical and impersonal but I was too focused on my work. It was also empty, many of the other investigators having left for the night with no other evidence to examine in these murders.

That boot print shouldn't have been there.

Everything else was methodically cleaned up—no DNA, no fibers, no obvious traces. But the print was deep in the mud near the side of the house and was hidden enough in the bushes that most would have overlooked it.

I only noticed it by accident, seeing the bushes dented unnaturally as I examined the outside of the house.

We ran the tread pattern through several databases, cross-referencing it against law enforcement, military, and civilian models. Unfortunately, it was a common brand, nothing special or expensive.

But something about it stuck with me. A gut feeling I couldn’t seem to shake despite there being nothing helpful to go off.

This was a mistake.

An actual one. Not whatever cover ups were passing for mistakes in the other cases the FBI worked. The Ghostface murders rarely, if ever, had actual mistakes in the hunt itself. The killer took far too much pride in it to leave mistakes like that.

Then, my phone buzzed and interrupted the eerie silence. I clenched my jaw, worry building up in my throat despite knowing there were officers and agents just outside the doors.

Unknown Number.

I hesitated before answering, not usually one to answer unknown numbers, but something told me it was important.

“Hello?”

Silence.

Then a distorted voice crackled over the line.

“What’s your favorite scary movie?”

I rolled my eyes, how had someone gotten ahold of my number for prank calls?

“I’m hanging up. It’s a crime to prank call police departments,” I sighed, hoping to scare whatever idiot was on the other line.

My thumb hovered over the red circle to end the call, when the voice spoke again.

“You like playing detective, don’t you?” His voice sounding harsher but still robotic like a modulator. “You should be careful. It’s not good to be too smart.”

A cold shiver ran down my spine as his voice vibrated unnaturally.

“Who is this?” I asked dumbly. At this point, I knew full well who it was.

A soft chuckle passed through the receiver.

“Come on, sweetheart, you don’t have to dumb it down that much,” he just about giggled. “I’ve been watching you work. It’s impressive, really.”

The seriousness of the interaction finally dawned on me and I frantically tried to get my desk phone working to have Detective Miller run a trace.

“Ah, ah, none of that.”

“None of what?” I mentally cursed as I typed the wrong extension.

“Trying. To trace. The call,” he growled. “Maybe I was giving you too much credit. You’re playing dumb a little too well to be acting.”

I stopped pressing buttons, clenching my fist closed.

“We don’t want you getting hurt, do we?”

“Okay,” my throat tightened in fear, my breathing increasing.

I had hoped that the more he talked, the more I might recognize the rhythm of his voice. Unfortunately, it wasn’t recognizable, not to anyone I knew at least. But, the way it spoke—calm, assured, with a hint of humor—it made my stomach turn.

“What do you want?” I finally worked up the nerve to ask.

“I just wanted to say how much I admire your work,” he cooed, voice shifting to another ragged growl in an instant. “But you’re getting a little too…interested…for my taste. Not that I don’t appreciate the enthusiasm, really. It makes me wonder how enthusiastic you are for cock,” he snickered over the line.

All I could do was clench my teeth. Any threat I wanted to throw at him was meaningless, not when he could easily do to me what he did to those innocent people. I made a mental note to keep my gun out and ready at home until this case was solved.

“I’ll see you soon, little mouse.”

Click.

The line went dead.

Hours later, I had changed gears again, going over crime scene photos and camera footage from residences. I was waiting on the FBI’s analyst to look over the footage for height estimates. Most of the footage was unusable, but the blurred mask in the corner of the screen was haunting me. It was like he did it on purpose, got just enough of himself in frame to guide us where to look.

And we were falling for it.

I was startled out of my trance by a hand on my shoulder. Reaching for the wrist quickly, I grabbed ahold and turned my chair in one motion.

Oh.

“Agent Hotchner,” I sighed, gulping and putting a hand over my rapidly beating heart.

“Reflexes are good but you should probably not have both of those in,” he gestured to my earbuds.

“Yeah, um,” I cleared my throat. “Was there something I could help with?”

“Oh, no. We’re going to get some shut eye and come back with fresh eyes,” he leaned his hip against my desk, glancing briefly over the files on my desk. “Long night?”

“Long couple of days actually. Just one murder scene is rough enough on us. But three? Most of the techs that went home today hadn't slept in a couple days.”

“I imagine it would be hard to considering...,” he added.

“Yea,” I glanced at my screen again. “It’s freaky. How do you guys manage?”

“We usually partner up and sleep in shifts,” he sighed. “You shouldn't be here this late, though. Finish it at home.”

“I was probably going to sleep here. Feels safer.”

His head cocked slowly to the side, looking at my expression where I was focused on the screen and not on him, “Did...something happen?” His gaze flickered to the entrance of the lab before looking back at me.

“I just—no—I, uhm,” I stumbled over my words, lying poorly through my teeth.

His gaze was so heavy. Why was it so heavy? Why wouldn’t he look away?

“Come on, I’ll give you a ride.”

I hesitated, but the pinched look on his forehead softened and he let himself smile just the slightest.

Was it stupid considering my thoughts on the killer?

Yes.

Would it be stupid to leave alone?

Also, yes.

Would I hate myself if I fell asleep under my desk?

Most definitely.

I nodded, and picked up the file to look over at home, stuffing my notes underneath all of the official paperwork in the file. I gathered my other belongings and shutdown my computer for the night.

The air outside was crisp and cold. I felt myself looking around wildly at each pitch-black space created by the old street lights and dim glow of the moon. The streets were mostly deserted, the only cars left in the parking lot being the night shift deputies. Even Agent Hotchner’s team was gone.

“Where do they have you holed up?” I asked as I climbed into the SUV.

“Uh, some motel back in East Liverpool.”

I knew the one. There weren’t even many options anyway. One motel there and one bed & breakfast. One hotel across the river (and state lines) and one a half an hour north.

I directed Agent Hotchner where to go, my house being just on the outskirts of East Liverpool. You could say I was a little invested to catch the serial killer based on that fact alone. The leather seats had barely warmed up to my body heat when he spoke again.

“Your talents are wasted here,” he spoke.

If I had a nickel for every time someone complimented my work today...well, I’d have two. And one of those was from a serial killer, so I didn't know if I even wanted the nickel.

“Thank you?”

“Just saying. You’ve caught a lot of details that many small departments miss in cases like this. A lot of them are so eager to see it go away that they don't make conclusions based on the evidence.”

“It’s my job,” I stated simply.

“It is,” he agreed. “But you’re better than your average forensic investigator. Have you ever thought about bigger departments? The Bureau, even? I can pull some strings if you ever wanted to apply.”

“I like helping the communities I grew up in,” I shrugged.

“Shame,” he hummed.

He soon pulled up to my house, following my directions to a T. Agent Hotchner put the car in park but I didn't immediately move to get out. Tapping his fingers against the steering wheel, he looked over at me as I stared out through the windshield.

“I lied earlier,” I finally murmured, glancing at my dark house with only the porch light on.

“About?”

“I think Ghostface called me.”

“What did he say?”

“That he’d ‘see me soon’,” I punctuated with finger quotes and scoffed. “Can you believe that bullshit?” I shook my head, feeling the fear rising like bile.

“He has an obsessive personality. There's been evidence of victims being stalked and called repeatedly. You’ve seen the phone records,” Agent Hotchner shrugged. “So, yea I can believe it.”

I chewed the inside of my cheek and glanced at the house once more. I was being ridiculous.

“Let me walk you up and clear the house,” he nodded his head toward my house.

“It’s fine, that’s not necessary—,” I shook my head and moved to open the door.

“Humor me,” he smirked and shut the car off.

I finally relented and jumped out of the SUV, leading the tall agent to my front door. I hadn’t led a man to my door in ages, but that was beside the point. I unlocked the door and stepped aside, following him into the house and shutting the door behind me. His gun was drawn and his steps made virtually no sound—besides the old wood creaking beneath his weight—as he cleared every inch of my house. Every movement was practiced and deliberate from years of training, each lock, window, and room checked with efficiency.

It was kind of hot.

Which was a big deal for me as I tended to ignore the advances of the cops at the station.

I poured a glass of water as he finished up in my living room, setting the file I brought with me on the counter and my bags on the floor. I heard the back door open, as he presumably checked outside, then closed and locked again.

“You live alone?” his voice was casual, as he came into the kitchen, but the realization of it made me uneasy. “Not even a dog?”

I shrugged.

He stared at me again, a little too long, just like before.

“That’s dangerous.”

I nearly choked on the water I was drinking. Clearly, he thought just about everything I did was dangerous.

The way his voice deepened when his voice lowered in volume and the way he smiled, small and almost imperceptible made my skin tingle. I couldn't tell if it was a bad feeling or a good one and I was just out of practice.

“Well, this area doesn’t normally have trouble like this.”

Silence hung heavy between us as he made no move to announce his exit.

“I’ll stay,” he offered. “You’ll be safe and you can get some rest.”

“That’s not necessary,” I protested weakly.

“Well, I think it is. He’s threatened all of us at least once.”

I chewed the inside of my cheek, finally nodding, “Okay.”

Agent Hotchner nodded, “Be right back.” He opened the front door quickly and jogged outside and I was compelled to watch is back as he opened the back of the SUV to get his go-bag.

I let out a breath as he came back in safe and sound.

He ditched his bag near the door, finding his way back to me in the kitchen and leaning on the counter.

“Hungry?” he asked.

I shook my head, “Not really.”

“Yeah, me either.”

He looked down in thought, then took a step closer. His eyes darted all over my face, looking for any sign that I would push him away. He stepped closer still, hand reaching out and brushing the wrist of my hand that was propped on the counter while the other held my water. If I had been any weaker, the glass would have probably slipped out of my hand. His touch lingered longer than necessary, the tension growing in the room. His half-lidded expression casted the slightest of shadows over his eyes with his eyelashes.

Wow, they were pretty.

As if he expected me to drop the glass, he gently took it from my hand with his free hand. His stature, demeanor, presence...it was all overwhelming—commanding, like he could see right through me. The logical part of me screamed that he had no business standing this close and looking at me like that.

This was exactly what you didn't do in a scary movie.

And yet, when he leaned in, my breath hitched.

“You should trust me,” he murmured.

I didn't have the bandwidth to analyze the choice of words.

‘Should.’

Not ‘can’.

‘You should...?’

‘You can...?’

Against my better judgement, when I felt his mouth on mine, I responded by immediately grabbing his lapels and pulling him closer.

Aaron POV

Aaron didn’t normally do this: sleep with the object of his obsession. He killed them. That was the whole point.

But, they were so scared.

So alone.

So brilliant.

So willing.

From the second he walked into the lab and to their desk, he fantasized about how easy it would have been to drive his knife into their back. Over. And over. And over.

He saw that spark. The one he saw when his victims were fighting that fear, trying to keep from spiraling out of control. And, oh, how he wanted to make them crack.

With how guarded they were, Aaron was surprised they even told him about the call. As they did, though, he had to dig his thumbnail into his finger when they called his carefully crafted praise, ‘bullshit’. He would address that later.

He could see the fear in the way they shifted in his car, staring at the dark, empty house. Oh, it made him so excited. So, he played the action hero: clearing the house and making sure there were no cameras, animals, or lovers to get in his way.

No cameras? Check.

No animals? Check.

They tore into his dress shirt, belt, pants, boxers. Oh, that was warm, oh. His fingers gripped the counter tightly, his head thrown back in pleasure.

No lovers? Check. Double—no—triple check, even.

Aaron wasn’t averse to sex by any means. It was the people, the feelings, the time, and the effort that all made him grimace at it. Luckily, it was easy to ignore with his day job.

Pulling their mouth off his cock—why were they so good at that—he practically dragged them over to the bedroom he located earlier and pushed them not-so-gently onto the bed and stripped whatever garments were left.

It was almost cute how they fumbled in their drawer for a condom. Aaron was actually grateful for the precaution, not wanting to leave more DNA here than he needed to and waited impatiently for them to grab everything they needed.

His patience was short-lived.

He was a busy man, after all.

Clenching his jaw, he took the items and unceremoniously dropped them on the bed. Wrapping a large hand around their ankle, he dragged them back down into a laying position and covered their body with his. As calculated and methodical as Aaron was, he was rushing. He had a limited amount of time to put them to sleep, dig through their shit, drop another body, and get back in their bed before it was time to get back to work. If he was lucky, he might get to enjoy another round in the morning.

Pressing into their warm, welcoming body was a struggle of control. He wanted nothing more than to take and take, but he was Aaron Hotchner right now—a simple, sex deprived, busy, stoic, charming government agent. He had to check in, be attentive, and obviously make them cum, too.

Ugh.

So, he slowed down, mindful of his fingers digging bruises into their body. The last thing he needed was them looking at their arm and realizing the prints were the same size as the prints on the victims. It was a long shot, but Aaron had already fucked up with the boot.

He stared at them amidst the thrusting, no longer looking like a staring idiot since they were otherwise preoccupied. The way they moaned his last name, reaching for him and the weight he provided, the way they gripped his hair...it was all so needy. He hated to love it. He'd much prefer to hear them scream. Actually—he could do that part. But he’d enjoy their screams of terror so much more.

Hotchner

Hotch

Hot--

Oh, there was the scream. And it was pretty damn close.

Their neck was tense and long as they came. It was so inviting. It would be so easy to tear into and make a mess. He didn't even let himself bite down and have a taste of their skin, knowing he’d get too carried away. Kissing them was much safer.

He came shortly after with a series of grunts, sighing against their lips. Pressing one last kiss there, he retreated. Aaron was careful to not make a mess as he tied off the condom, wondering how to get this wrapped up and into his bag without suspicion.

“Water?” he asked and they nodded gratefully.

It was a little brave to bring his bag into their house but a little thrill never hurt. Plus, he was prepared. Digging through his bag, he pulled out some over the counter sleeping pills that he’d crushed ages ago.

It should be relatively tasteless, though, tasting the water...

He grimaced.

The chalky pills might actually be an improvement.

Ensuring they dissolved and his DNA was safely stashed away, he drank an untampered glass of water, washed the cup, and brought the other back to the bedroom with a damp paper towel for any messes they might have made together. When he did, they were staring out their bedroom windows through the cracks in the blinds.

“Are you okay?” he asked, snapping them out of their thoughts.

Aaron handed over the glass, eyes widening as they gulped down the entire thing.

That was easy.

“Yea, just thought I saw...something...outside.”

Aaron fought back a snort. The paranoia was setting in, goodie.

“I can do a sweep outside really quickly?” he offered.

“No, no. I think I’m just tired and imagining things,” they settled deeper into the covers.

Wordlessly, he slipped in behind them, wrapping an arm over their waist and brushing his lips over their shoulder, “Just let me know if you need me to make you more tired,” he hummed, smiling as he pressed himself against their back.

They laughed. An honest to God laugh.

Aaron didn't get those much. It was...weird.

The pills set in quickly, but Aaron gave it a good hour to make sure they were in a deeper sleep. The way the front door had creaked loudly when the two of them came in meant he was definitely using the back door he checked.

First, though, he needed to look through their notes. Untangling himself from the bed carefully, he placed a pillow in his place. He started changing, wanting to be ready to dash if he needed to. Dressed, except for his Ghostface mask and cowl, he flipped open the file. He had watched them throw the notes into the file earlier—where were they?

Tucked behind all of the documentation were handwritten notes. He was a little excited to see what they thought. The first thing there made him freeze.

“Possible law enforcement?

· BAU suggests he understands police procedure.

· No DNA, no prints, no physical evidence in kill area – knows what we look for.

· Different states (if the copycats are frames) but consistent method.

· Aware of local jurisdictions not cooperating but continues with FBI involved? Travels on purpose in car, ‘05 Honda Accord.

‘05 Honda Accord

· Located car on residence footage, plates not visible.

· Tracked to cameras on US-30 E, Pennsylvania State Police combing footage.

Forensic countermeasures

· Footprints – too careless, actual mistake?

· Red hair and stashed evidence – too convenient? No matches

· Why bother misdirecting if no one saw? Panic? Copycats? Framing?”

Finally, Aaron got to the last part of their notes in all caps, circled and underlined.

“Is he inserting himself into investigation??”

Aaron had to resist the urge to crumple the notes and throw the file across the room.

Fucking.

Nosy.

Ass.

Shit.

He had warned them and one chance was all he afforded people; his next phase was set in motion. But first? He had some anger to let out. Shoving the notes back in the folder, he grabbed his mask and cowl and headed to the back door, silently opening it and stepping outside. He fitted the cowl over first, keeping the cold away from his body, then fixed the mask over his balaclava.

Committing the murders when the team was in town was trickier. One, he didn't have his car and would have to hoof it. Two, it was much harder to hide his clothes and make sure no blood was on him when he went back to work in the morning. It was a challenge, but he liked that.

Luckily, he’d done some recon while they were in town and the trek to his next victim wasn't going to be as rough as he expected. His sleeping little mouse’s house wasn’t a far hike from the next victim.

Aaron was extra careful around the mud this time around. He really needed to rethink how narrow the eye slits were in this mask.

His next victim lived alone, spending his evenings getting shit on in first person shooter video game lobbies. Aaron had briefly watched from the window, wondering how any of that could be appealing when the real thing was so much more fun. Slipping his lock pick set from his pant pocket, he made quick work of the backdoor and slipped side. The light in the office where the resident was playing video games had been on as he was casing around the house, so Aaron was safe for now in the opposite corner of the house.

Aaron’s steps were silent as he swooped around the house, figuring out where to begin his hunt.

Screw it.

He leaned against the counter, feeling over confident in his post-coital haze. He pulled out a burner and dialed the man’s number, which he acquired earlier in the day during interviews.

Aaron could barely hear the phone ring over the man’s shouting at the game. He sighed as the call rang out and called again.

“What the fuck!?” Aaron heard from the room, followed by a clatter.

The bastard threw the fucking phone.

Aaron’s head hung in discontent.

Unbelievable.

No one answered their phones these days.

He was still too pissed at the notes he read to be patient and try something else. This one was going to be bloody.

Making his way over to the room, he leaned against the threshold, arms folded as the man was hyper focused on the screen. He hadn’t seen a webcam through the window, so nothing would be live streamed—he wasn’t a monster. With the shouting clearer now, he was talking to someone, though, Aaron couldn’t be sure how many people as he squinted through the mask at the screen.

At least the headphones had a visible microphone and were hardwired to the computer. That made his job a little easier.

Not bothering to take out his knife yet, Aaron stalked toward his victim, standing behind them and watching the screen flash. Did this guy have zero self-awareness?

Reaching forward and grabbing low on the wire, Aaron gave it a hard pull. The wire gave way, whether it ripped out of the ports or broke the wires itself didn’t matter to Aaron. The chair spun; his victim startled with hands ready to fly.

The fight left his body immediately. Flight wasn’t even an option as the man stared at the menacing figure in front of him. No, freeze took hold.

“It’s rude not to answer someone’s phone call,” Aaron sneered through the modulator in his mask.

He grabbed the man by the throat, pushing him back on the chair so roughly that both man and chair flipped back onto the floor. That seemed to knock some evolution into the man and—surprise, surprise—flight kicked in.

The whimpering man scrambled to get up to his feet while Aaron watched the pathetic attempt but the arms of the chair slowed his escape down.

Sighing, Aaron stepped forward, pressing the front half of his boot onto the man's trachea and kneeling down to the ground.

“You’re not making this fun for me.”

He only received gurgling in response.

“Does it help if I show you this?” Aaron unsheathed the knife strapped to his chest under the cowl that draped across his body.

The man’s movements became more frantic form both the pressure on his throat and the sight of the sharp knife.

“Then get to running,” he growled, taking his boot off the man’s neck and watching him scramble to his feet.

The man was halfway to standing, ready to take off into a run with his weight poised on his front leg. Aaron might like the hunt but it wasn’t supposed to be fair. He kicked in the side of the man’s knee, hearing a sickening crack and pop followed by screaming.

“Fuck you! You sick fuck!” he screamed.

“Aww,” Aaron cooed. “You’re making me blush.”

The man hobbled out of the room, propping himself up on the hallway walls as Aaron strolled after him. He made a beeline for the front door, making Aaron chuckle through the modulator. Aaron hopped over the sofa that the man had to hobble around, making it to the door first and stalking toward him head on.

“Wrong way, peanut. It’s like you’re not even trying.”

Aaron was enjoying the moment of hopelessness on his face. Doing his best to turn and run, the man made a very slow break for the back door.

Aaron checked his watch.

He hummed sadly, not having enough time to play anymore. He grabbed the collar of the man’s shirt, shoving him roughly to the floor.

“Sorry I can’t play longer,” Aaron sighed sadly, stepping over and straddling the man’s ribcage as he groaned on the floor.

To prevent the man from grabbing Aaron's weapons, he slid up to his upper chest, stapling the man’s biceps to the floor with his knees. Between the pathetic sobbing, screaming, and effort, the man was struggling to breathe even more now.

Aaron trailed the tip of his knife down the man’s forehead, to his nose.

“I want you to pick a number between one and...twenty.”

“W-wh-y?” came a strangled sob.

“Because I fucking ask you to,” he snapped. “Maybe you’ll get lucky.”

That little sliver of hope glimmered in his eyes for a second, quieting his sobs briefly.

“Uh-uhm.”

“I don’t have all night,” he pressed the tip harder into the sensitive flesh of his nose.

“Twelve! Twelve…please,” the man wailed again. “Please don’t kill me.”

“Wow,” Aaron breathed. He pinched the man’s cheek with a gloved hand, “You’re so brave. You won twelve stab wounds…are you ready?”

“N-no-no—" his screams filled the living room as the knife slid into the muscle of the man’s shoulder.

“Count with me,” Aaron requested. “One, two, three, four, five, six—look, we’re half way done—seven, eight—no, no, no nine not ten—mhm good boy, now ten, eleven…”

The blood was pooling rapidly and as excited as it made him, Aaron took precautions to be covered in as little of it as possible. He had his knee and shin across the man’s stomach with his other leg planted out far for stability, just beyond the edge of the pooled blood.

Aaron pressed the tip of the knife where he knew the man’s heart to be underneath the shirt. Slowly but surely, Aaron put pressure down, “Twelve.”

The life finally faded from the man’s eyes. Aaron stayed there, staring at the widening pool of blood. He was still angry. If he bothered to profile himself right now it would be the irritability and anger that made him play with his food a little more than usual. He felt the need to take control again after feeling derailed by those notes—how, when did they find so much and would they even be able to scrounge up evidence for some of those claims? Either way, making the hunt more fun reinforced his need to dominate every situation blah, blah, BLAH.

Aaron continued staring.

The blood was inviting.

He wasn’t stupid enough to write with it, though he’d love to write that cute little investigator a letter in blood. Describe how good they felt on his cock. He was right about them being enthusiastic after all, he laughed to himself.

It was tempting but no.

He grunted as he heaved himself up, careful to not step in blood. As far as blood went—he looked down at himself—he didn’t do too badly.

Pleased with himself, he gingerly exited the house, careful of what blood he did have on him and stripped the outer layers off, mainly his heavy cowl, mask, and gloves which he doubled up with rubber gloves underneath. He stuffed them into a clean plastic bag he’d brought with him and took off into the dark.

Entering his little mouse's surprisingly quiet back door, he carefully stripped the rest of his clothing, leaving the door unlocked. It was all intentional, aiming to imply Ghostface broke in—because he did. Once his balaclava came off, he could breathe clearly again.

He’d memorized some of the squeaky floorboards on his clearing of the house and used that knowledge to make his way over to his bag and stashed his gear. Peeking in to make sure they were still asleep, Aaron checked himself in the bathroom for any blood and was happy to find none.

The body odor?

Well, a little hand soap would have to do.

Coming back out of the bathroom, he spotted their gun on the nightstand.

Naughty little mouse.

He grabbed a couple tissues and picked it up, ejecting the magazine, clearing the chamber, and unloading all of the bullets. He snapped the magazine back in with a sharp click and placed it back. They weren’t a cop; they didn't carry the gun out with them but he didn't need any surprises the next time he paid them a little visit.

Aaron gingerly climbed back into bed, feeling the steady rise and fall of the breathing next to him.

MC POV

The morning light filtered through the blinds in thin, slanted lines, cutting across the disheveled sheets. My body ached—not entirely unpleasantly—but there was a strange heaviness to my movements and an unease that gnawed at the edges of my mind and woke me up.

I didn’t actually want to open my eyes. Not because of what might lie beyond my eyelids, but because they felt so damn heavy. My head and arms did, too.

For a few moments, I let myself exist in that haze, the warmth of another body beside me was unfamiliar but not unwelcome. Then, reality began to settle in. It wasn’t just a body.

SSA Aaron Hotchner was in my bed.

I slept with the lead agent working this case. With a literal serial killer on the loose. Was I stupid?

For the millionth time, this was how people died in scary movies.

Finally opening my eyes, I was startled at how close his face was. His breathing was slow and even, his bare chest rising and falling rhythmically. In the dim light, he looked almost peaceful—normal, even—from the robotic stoicism he held in the field. But something in my gut screamed that something was wrong.

I shifted to sit up, nearly jumping out of my skin when his eyes shot open. He stared at me, almost as equally confused as I had been from the looks of it.

Fragments of last night flickered in my mind: the ride home, the way he insisted on checking the house, the way his gaze lingered too long. The way his touch had burned—slow and deliberate.

“You’re up early,” he commented, looking at the clock over my shoulder.

It was barely 6:00 AM.

“Yea, I don’t know. I just felt weird,” I furrowed my brows. “I just feel so heavy.”

He stared at me for a beat before his features grew mirthful, “Last night took a lot out of you?”

My face heated up, “Shut up.”

I turned over, facing away from him. He hummed behind me, shuffling closer. His hand drew a wide path over my hip, rising higher until he could pinch my nipple. My hips involuntarily pressed back against him.

He laughed softly, pressing his nose against my ear, “We have some time to kill.”

I ignored the poor choice of words and chewed my lip, finally nodding, “Yea, okay.”

“Stay there,” he rolled away to find the drawer I’d rifled in the night before.

I shivered as the cool air made its way under the blankets, but I didn’t have to wait long before his warm skin was pressed up against me again.

The slicked-up condom was as cold as the air above the covers, making me jump as he prodded around.

Stars, he hit the lottery when they were handing out dicks.

My mouth dropped open as he fully seated himself, the fullness forcing out a gasp from my throat. He controlled the pace with a firm grasp on my hip and used his other arm to wind under my head, grasp my jaw and force my face to look at him. My mouth was all too willing to open for him and the way his hand engulfed my jaw made my brain buzz with excitement. He was just so large.

The hand on my hip slipped low, working its way between my legs until it landed on my heated, sensitive flesh. I could feel his mouth spread into a satisfied smile as I practically moaned into his mouth. He moved his hand in time with his hips, stroking faster until I was shaking in his arms.

“Sh-fuck,” I felt the pleasure building.

I was so close.

“Ho-otch-chn…” I moaned.

“Aaron,” he corrected.

“Aaron, please.”

That seemed to shift another gear for him, his movements rougher, his teeth scraping my skin.

“That’s it,” he grunted. “Come on my cock. Need to feel you.”

Holy hell, the mouth on this man when he wasn’t buttoned up tight.

And just like that, my orgasm hit me hard. My loud moans breaking the silence of the early morning. His hand didn’t let up, making me grasp at his forearm to get him to stop as overstimulation set in.

He didn’t stop.

His teeth scraped my neck this time and I wondered if he’d finally do it—sink his teeth into my neck as he came. I could feel him holding it back, not wanting to ask and not wanting to just spring it on me. He didn’t, and I was only mildly disappointed. He buried his face into my neck, moaning loudly as he finally came.

We lay there, not moving except for our heavy breathing making our chests expand rapidly. Aaron’s tongue laved over my sweaty skin, pressing a kiss, and then another.

Do it.

With one more kiss there, he pulled away with a soft groan.

“Mind if I use your shower?” he asked, groaning as he stretched.

“Go ahead, I’ll get some coffee started.”

Aaron smiled gratefully and went to grab his bag, bringing it into the bathroom with him and closing the door.

I pushed myself up to sit upright on my bed—which was a total mess that I wasn't looking forward to cleaning. My limbs still felt heavy and yeah, maybe he was right and I was just out of practice. I stood and stretched, pulling on underwear and a t-shirt from the floor while I waited for my turn.

I padded over to the kitchen, my feet softly scraping the old wood. I doubled my usual coffee routine and looked out into the living room from the kitchen as I leaned back against the counter. My eyes drifted over the counters, seeing the glass he washed last night—very considerate—before landing on the file I brought with me. Some of the pages were sticking out. I didn’t think I threw it there so casually that papers fell out—well I did end up in bed with a federal agent so anything was game at this point.

It was my notes that made me freeze when I opened the folder. I distinctly remember putting them in the back before leaving the station with Aaron. The paper was haphazardly shoved back in, crinkled deeply in some parts where it looked like someone was holding it tightly.

What the fuck?

I hadn't realized how long I stood there looking at it when Aaron emerged from my bedroom in a black polo and dark jeans. It was a far cry from the suit he showed up in but I’m sure suits weren't exactly space savers. I wasn't complaining either, the way the sleeves clung to his biceps and contrasted with his pale skin made my mind race. His hair was still damp, flopping innocently onto his forehead.

“What?” he stared at me with a half-smile.

Ripping my eyes off the way the polo stretched across his chest, I shook my head, “Uh, did you go through the file last night?”

“No, why?”

“Because I know where I put these when we left the station,” I gestured to the notes. “And now they’re in a different spot.”

His smile was gone, replaced by a pinched expression. His eyes darted around the room, hand automatically flying to his hip. Silently holding out a hand to me to tell me to stay put, he made his way to the living room taking overly cautious steps. It was unlikely that Ghostface would be out in broad daylight but everyone was on edge already.

“I locked this before...well, you know,” he was stopped at the back door, both locks undone.

My heart dropped into my stomach.

Ghostface been in my house.

I was frozen. I hadn’t heard a thing. How could I be so stupid?

“I-uh,” I wrung my fingers together, suddenly terrified. “I’m gonna get ready, coffee’s almost ready.”

The shock settling in was distracting. Ghostface knew my suspicions now and if they were anywhere near true, I was in deep, deep shit.

I made my shower quick and was putting on my shoes when our phones rang at the same time.

Damn. That can’t be good.

“Hotchner. Okay, be there in a bit.”

My conversation went mostly the same. The coffee was packed in to-go cups and only upon stepping through my front door did I realize I didn't have my car or my spare kit.

“Oh, fuck me,” I groaned.

Aaron made a noise of amusement from his throat.

“Not a word,” I grumbled. “My car with my spare kit is at the station. Those fucking oafs are going to ruin my crime scene.”

“It’s okay, we have lights,” Aaron grinned as we got in the SUV and flipped the lights and sirens on, letting us speed up the road to retrieve my kit, then back down into the residential area for the crime scene.

We arrived at the same time as the rest of the BAU. I had a one-track mind to catch this fucker and ditched Aaron, grabbing my kit and racing to the house. Detective Miller was already inside, along with a few other officers which made my eye twitch.

“Can you get them out?” I asked her, gesturing to the cops who were standing around. “Who found him?”

“His online friends called the station, I guess he was playing some video game with them and his microphone got disconnected. He wasn't answering his phone and he never logged off the game. I guess he’d told them there was a serial killer so they were worried. Rightfully so, too. ELPD did a welfare check and saw him through the window. Back door was unlocked so, looks like he came in through there.”

Marking what I immediately saw, I squinted at the body. I snapped pictures of the deep stab wounds, the way his knee was caved in at the wrong angle, and zooming in on his neck.

“Look at this,” I tilted his head up. “He was stepping on his neck. That’s not just playing with his food. He’s mad.”

Fuck. I had to tell her.

“I think I know why, too,” I continued.

Detective Miller looked at me quizzically.

“My back door was unlocked, too. We—I had locked everything before I went to bed.”

“We?”

“I.”

She looked at me pointedly, “We?” Her body leaned to look around me at where the BAU was talking outside, “Which one was it? The old one? I know you prefer salt over pepper.”

“Oh, fuck off, Miller.”

She laughed, making eye contact with Aaron by chance as he glanced inside through the open front door.

“No...” she gasped. “The Neo looking, mother fucker? Come on. He’s weird.”

“He’s not weird. The kid is weird.”

“No, he’s cute.”

I stared at her, gesturing to the body on the floor to remind her of why we were here.

“Did he at least have a big—”

“Yes.”

“You do know this means your place is a crime scene now,” she scribbled notes on her notepad.

“There was nothing of use, I looked. He went through my notes and left. I’ll document it.”

“Deal,” she sighed. “Struggle started over here,” she cocked her head toward the hallway.

Walking into the small office, I got an overview of the scene, moving to the desk first. The computer was still on, the game having disconnected from the servers for inactivity. The entire computer tower was skewed from the headphones being ripped out so violently, that one of the wires had ripped off of the jack. Pictures of the computer and chair were snapped, then Miller directed me to the phone across the room.

“Dent in the wall here and the phone over here,” she commented.

Once I took the pictures, I clicked open the phone. It was locked but I could see the recent notifications. Several Discord notifications from the guy’s gaming friends and two missed calls from an Unknown Number.

“Maybe he tried to call 911 and Ghostface chucked the phone?” Miller suggested.

“One sec,” I grabbed the phone and unlocked it with the body on the floor of the living room. “Sorry, buddy.”

The phone immediately opened to Discord, not the phone keypad. I scrolled through the recent calls and only saw the two missed calls from the unknown number, nothing outgoing or incoming after that. Making my way back to Detective Miller, I sighed.

“But, we know he calls his victims to taunt them. What if the guy didn’t answer and it made him mad? That coupled with the notes? Guy is sitting here, playing. The phone keeps going off and he throws it because, I don’t know he's frustrated with the game?”

“It’s a theory. Got everything? I’ll call them inside.”

“Yea, let me check the back really quick.”

I went out through the back door, photographing scratches where the lock was picked and looking around for anything out of place. Anymore boot prints, blood, anything. Looking out into the lawn I saw one of the ELPD officers reaching for a plastic bag.

“Stop! Stop, stop, stop!” I shouted but he had already grabbed it and stood.

I heard a commotion behind me, several footsteps hurriedly rushing out the back door.

The officer looked at me cluelessly, “What?”

“Are you being serious right now? You’re not wearing gloves!”

“Just trash, I mean...” he shrugged, thrusting the bag toward me.

I need a vacation.

“It’s an active crime scene, Christ.” I pulled an evidence bag out, shoving the plastic bag inside and grumbling to myself.

“Everything okay?” Aaron and a few of the agents had rushed out of the house with guns drawn.

“Sorry,” I sealed the evidence bag, writing on the outside. “Going to have to eliminate his prints now,” I commented, annoyed.

“You found that here?” he questioned.

“He did, yea. Then, grabbed it without gloves,” I shook my head. “Might take you up on that FBI offer.”

I heard him laugh softly next to me.

“Want me to—” Aaron offered his hand to hold the bag as I couched down.

“I got it,” I cut him off clutching the evidence bag like a lifeline, I photographed the area around where I saw the officer pick it up but nothing stood out.

“I want to hear your thoughts on this come on,” he indicated his head back inside.

“So, I know he likes to taunt people, but I thought the phone was strange,” I said as they followed me to the office, stepping carefully around the mess. “He called the guy twice, neither call was answered, and the phone ends up thrown over here.”

“So, maybe he was trying to call the cops when he saw him?” the blonde one, JJ, I think answered.

“Maybe, but he had headphones on and was playing this video game. I find it hard to believe he heard much of anything. He was playing with other people, who said he just cut off—and look, the cords were yanked out of the computer. I don’t think he had time to call.”

“So, the unsub gets mad that he's not answering, then,” the older agent, Rossi, chimes in.

“Video games, particularly first-person shooters like this one, have been shown to increase aggression, especially when players experience frustration or failure. Studies suggest that competitive gaming can elevate cortisol and adrenaline levels, leading to heightened emotional responses. If the victim was fully immersed in the game, already experiencing stress, and then received repeated phone calls, it’s plausible that he reacted impulsively—throwing the phone out of frustration rather than fear.”

I blinked at the information that fell out of Dr. Reid’s mouth but eventually nodded, agreeing wholeheartedly.

"And that would explain why he didn’t bother to check who was calling. He wasn’t worried about being watched—he was just annoyed,” Emily agreed.

“Which pissed off the killer,” Morgan ran a thumb along his facial hair.

The only one who hadn’t spoken at this point was Aaron.

“It’s possible. Repeated interruptions, especially in the middle of a game, could have made him dismissive of the calls instead of suspicious. The unsub might have expected a different reaction—fear or immediate compliance—but instead, they were ignored. That could have triggered an escalation,” Reid continued.

“Which lines up with the scene. The killer physically yanked the cords out—cut him off from the game entirely. If he was already feeling slighted by being ignored it could have been a way to force the victim’s attention back on him,” I turned around, pointing back to the living room. “I have more for you.”

I led them out of the office and to the body.

“This guy was mad, like he was being mean...” I started, stopping and cringing at myself. “...okay murder is mean but he was meaner than the other three.” I crouched, mindful of the blood, “This here looks ante-mortem, he was stepping on the victim’s throat for an extended period causing this bruising. And then this bruising here is also ante-mortem,” I pushed up the sleeves of the victim’s t-shirt. “I was going to say he held the victim’s arms down with his hands but he has one on each arm and it's not tactically sound to have both hands occupied. I’m thinking he was kneeling on the guy's arms and he was sitting on his chest. I don’t know if the twelve stab wounds has any significance to you guys but each murder had a different count, so I don’t have anything there. But, his knee is shredded, look at the angle. No wonder he didn't get very far.”

“Didn’t we interview him yesterday?” JJ tilted her head to get a better look at his face.

“Mm,” Detective Miller located his wallet, “Tommy Crites?”

“We did,” Prentiss nodded. “Maybe he knew something?”

“Why do you say he was being “mean”?” Rossi asked curiously.

“Well, ripping the cords out and making the guy pay attention was easy, right? He could have killed him there in the chair. The guy has to get out of the chair or off the floor and the killer is just standing there watching him struggle? He was taunting him, playing with him.”

“He wanted to be in control,” Aaron finally spoke up.

“Yea. So, he takes back control,” I paused taking a breath. “And I think it was because he saw some of my notes. I think he broke into my house last night and didn't like what he saw.”

“What did you write?” Rossi asked.

I paused, surrounded by the very people I was accusing.

“That he might be law enforcement and inserting himself into the investigation.”

The BAU looked at each other grimly.

“So, he sees your notes, gets pissed off that you’re getting too close, and comes here to blow off steam,” Morgan murmured.

“We’ve all been threatened by him, welcome to the club,” Reid smiled sadly.

We leave the body to the county coroner and begin to leave, immediately met with several media vans outside. The reporters are being held back by a few deputies but could easily overwhelm them if given the chance.

“Who called the media?” I looked over at Detective Miller.

“Don’t look at me,” she glared, looking pissed at their presence.

Questions were immediately bombarding us as we tried to leave:

“Is the BAU any closer to identifying the suspect?”

“Is it true that the killer has been targeting people at random, or is there a pattern to the victims?”

“Some sources claim the killer has made direct contact with law enforcement. Are you in communication with him?”

"Do you believe he’s local to the area? Could he be someone within the police force?”

I almost stopped walking at that. Aaron shifted next to me, looking for who asked that question, his expression cold and unreadable.

“We can’t comment on that,” he answered.

“Then, should we be looking for a 6-foot, red-haired male, 180 pounds, with size 11 feet?”

Everything stopped there.

The words slammed into me like a physical blow. That information hadn’t been released to the public. I hadn't even mentioned the height that the BAU’s analyst had managed to figure out from the video footage in the notes.

My stomach twisted as I finally located the reporter in the crowd and snapped toward him, my voice sharp, “Who told you that?”

The reporter just laughed, shrugging. “Can’t reveal sources, you know how it is.”

Before I could stop myself, my hand shot out, grabbing the front of the reporter’s shirt and yanking him closer.

I was furious and practically shaking, “Who. Told. You?”

The cameras flashed more frequently at the scene. The reporter looked startled, but also amused.

“Touchy, aren’t we?”

A firm hand clamped down on my shoulder. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw that it was Aaron’s hand.

“Let him go.”

For a beat, I didn’t move and my grip tightened. Then, I realized how bad it had to look and shoved the reporter back, storming off toward the SUV.

From then, the station was a madhouse.

The tip lines were ringing off the charts. The town had gone feral in a matter of hours after learning about the description.

Someone—an anonymous “inside source”—had leaked that the partial evidence suggested a red-haired suspect, male, with an approximate height and shoe size matching a partial tread found at the scene.

The result was pure, unfiltered chaos.

Every red-haired man within a thirty-mile radius was getting side-eyed. People were calling in tips over neighbors they’d known for years. People called to tell on their male friends who recently changed hair colors from red to something else. The worst one was a young man who worked at a family-owned auto shop in East Liverpool getting the shit beaten out of him by some overzealous vigilantes because his hair was lightened by chlorine and the sun from his time on the high school swim team.

The kicker was that it was all bullshit.

I knew it and the FBI knew it, but there was nothing we could do to calm the panic. The shoe print had been a lucky find, but something about the way the case was unfolding reeked of misdirection and I couldn’t help but think that the killer released the information, further supporting my theory that he was working on the inside. The evidence was just too convenient—just enough to keep people focused on the wrong thing.

The plastic bag at the scene was a dead end, too, forensically. The only prints we managed to pull were the cop’s and he was far too stupid to be our killer. The killer must have had several bags and dropped one in his haste to protect the evidence from us.

I was hesitant to start picking out who it could be. One, it could piss Ghostface off even more. Two, accusing the wrong law enforcement officer is a surefire way for me to get fired. Three, based on just this case alone, I was absolutely certain it was the real killer and not some knock off. Which, four, meant that he wouldn’t be from here with all the traveling he did and the fact that neither the East Liverpool Police Department nor Columbiana County Sheriff’s Department had any recent transfers. He couldn’t insert himself through local channels—so that only left federal.

And ‘federal’ was a scary word. Connections were everything and I had zero, except maybe Aaron but he could very well be on the suspect list, too.

My own weakness for dick was apparently shooting me in the foot.

If I had to make a list, Prentiss and JJ were not on it. Not because they were women—I'm an equal opportunity accuser—but because of the height and weight. Rossi was on the shorter, older, and therefore potentially weaker end, still possible but not in my top three. No, my top three would be Morgan, Reid, and, unfortunately, Aaron. All three fit the height requirements though Reid was maybe on the lighter side of the three. All three men were also highly intelligent with in depth knowledge of law enforcement tactics and forensics.

All that to say: I really should not have slept with Aaron.

I was pulled out of my thoughts when Sheriff Tanner barged in to the lab, which was a rare occurrence when he had several detectives to do that for him.

“I need all the reports you have on the evidence from these Ghostface murders,” he barked, ‘Ghostface’ leaving his lips with a scowl.

“Yes, sir, but the hair—”

“I asked you for the reports, not your opinion.”

“But, Sheriff, it’s not--"

“ELPD has ten thousand frightened citizens blowing up their god damn phones and ours. I’m done with Miller entertaining your conspiracies. If you still want a job after all of this, shut up and give me the reports.”

I begrudgingly handed him the reports, following him as he stormed back out into the main bullpen. The BAU was lined up in front of the press just finishing up their interview, trying to ease the public about what had been fed to them.

The Sheriff was on his way to tell them to go to hell and follow the evidence.

I stormed into the media briefing behind the Sheriff, cutting through the sea of reporters. The consequences of my actions were the least of my worries when compared to a serial killer.

“Sheriff, this entire investigation is a cover-up!”

The bullpen went dead silent, the only sounds being the rapid clicking of cameras. Video cameras snapped toward me, away from the federal agents they had been focused on.

Aaron, stood among the BAU and other law enforcement officials. He barely twitched at my exclamation but his eyes locked onto me with an unreadable expression.

I was already putting my foot in my mouth, so I kept going.

“You’re looking for the wrong person. The real killer is someone in law enforcement, and you all are wasting time hunting some imaginary suspect instead of looking deeper!”

At that, the reporters started whispering, murmuring. Sheriff Tanner’s face turned an ugly shade of red.

Aaron, though, Aaron didn’t look angry.

He looked amused.

Like he was enjoying this.

Aaron POV

Oh, his brilliant, little mouse. His brilliant, stupid, little mouse.

It wasn’t enough that they read his beautiful kills like a book, dissecting every piece and fucking up every ounce of his enjoyment. Then, they had to go and do it in public when he had specifically told them not to.

He was lucky that the plastic bag didn’t have any forensics on it. That was mistake number two of East Liverpool, Ohio and he wondered if he wasn’t as sharp as he used to be or if his infatuation with this smart, insignificant, funny, irritating, fool was messing up his game.

They were gone by the time the team had decided to call it a night—Sheriff Tanner having told them to pack their shit and get out—which worked out in his favor. Aaron snuck out of his motel room late that night, when he was sure the rest of the team was asleep. He’d slipped Rossi some of the same sleeping pills, ensuring he’d be asleep for the rest of the night. Not like he needed to worry about Ghostface trying to kill him, Aaron laughed to himself.

Aaron stepped out into the dark, melting into the shadows of the barely lit town. It would have taken him close to an hour to walk to their house, which he cut down to about twenty-five minutes by running the couple of miles. He took off his cowl to be a little more aerodynamic so he wasn't weighed down by the wind resistance, and shoved it in his backpack. The backpack he carried made the feat a little more challenging, but it was all for a good cause.

His cause.

As he approached, he slowed down, blending into the bushes that separated the investigator’s house from the one next to it. He pulled out his burner, seeing them through the blinds just enough to see that they were distraught. Their knees were pulled up to their chest, head heavy in their hands. Smiling to himself, he found their number, double checked his modulator, and made the call.

At first, he was sure they wouldn't answer. But then they lifted their head up a little, peering down next to them on the bed.

Stupid blinds, he cursed to himself.

“You really don’t know when to quit, do you?” Aaron asked with a disappointed edge to his voice. “That was a cute stunt.”

“Not when some asshole is threatening my town, no, I really don’t.”

“I thought I told you to keep your mouth shut.”

“Doesn’t mean I had to listen. Why don’t you come shut it yourself?” they responded, irritated and coarse.

Oh, his mouse. His brave, little mouse.

“Answer me this,” they spoke again. “Why haven’t you killed the feds following you? Surely, they pose a bigger threat?”

“I’m not bulletproof, baby. And I’m not stupid enough to poke a hornet’s nest.”

“Hmm,” they hummed over the phone. “See you soon?”

“See you soon,” he practically giggled.

He watched the bedroom light flick off.

His mouse wanted to play?

Oh, he would play.

Aaron hugged as close to the house as possible, already at a disadvantage since the outside was now illuminated by the moon while the inside of the house was pitch black. Was it too obvious to use the back door again? Yes, but he would have a more silent entrance that way.

Unlocking the door with his lock pick set, he let the door swing open, waiting—listening—before making his first step over the threshold. He dropped the backpack near the back door to be more mobile.

Where, oh, where could they be?

They wouldn't hide or cower, no, his mouse was pissed, so Aaron needed to be ready for a fight. He tip-toed gently around the house, mostly remembering where the creaks were except for a couple. With his hand gripping the handle of his knife—where it sat strapped to his chest—he started passing the kitchen, free arm reaching out to push open the bedroom door.

Before he could step toward the bedroom, two arms wrapped around his leg from behind, emanating from the kitchen floor.

Like an actual little mouse, oh, sweetheart.

One arm wrapped around the outside of his ankle, the other wrapping through his legs and on his quad. Feeling a strong push on the back of his hamstring and a yank on his ankle, he was soon careening down to the ground face first. Aaron had to let go of the knife handle to brace his fall with both hands, stuck in a sprinter’s stance. They still kept a hold of his leg, trying to drive him onto his hip, but his foot was able to twist free. It took him two tries to yank his foot back to him enough to donkey kick back, landing directly into their chest if the resulting wheeze was anything to go by.

“Not bad,” Aaron consolidated his limbs, standing back up and trying to anticipate their next move in the dark.

A punch barely grazed the edge of his mask. Reaching out, he grabbed the forearm of that arm, pushing it away from him so they were turned around—back against his chest. From there, it was easy to entrap both of their arms with his and lift them, dragging them to the bedroom.

“Oopsie,” he laughed in their ear. He flicked the light on with his elbow, glancing around and spotting their cellphone set up suspiciously. “Sweetheart—tsk—filming me? Really? I didn’t consent to that...”

“Fuck you,” they spat back.

Aaron laughed, the modulator making it all the more terrifying. Been there, done that.

Throwing them on the bed, he straddled their hips and reached over on the nightstand for their phone.

Pause.

Delete.

To add insult to injury, he snapped the phone in half and tossed it across the room.

“You won't be needing that.”

He was so preoccupied with the phone that he missed their hand travelling under their pillow until a pistol was pointed in his face.

“Oh,” he taunted. “And what are you going to do with that?”

“You said it yourself. You’re not bulletproof.”

“You’re right,” he wiggled, making himself comfortable in their lap. “Come on, then,” he urged, pressing the forehead of the mask against the end of the gun. “You feel that power? It feels good, doesn't it?”

Their hands shook from the adrenaline and fear.

“Are you like me?” he grinned under the mask. “Are you going to get off after you pull that trigger?”

They readjusted their grip on the gun, their sweaty hands making it slippery.

“Do it, Mouse,” he pressed harder. “Do it, don’t be a little bit—”

Squeeze.

Click.

The shock on their face was priceless.

“Performance anxiety is super common, baby, don't worry,” Aaron teased, prying the empty gun from their hands and tossing it to the floor. “You should always check your chamber before starting a fight.”

To avoid any more surprises, Aaron turned them on their side and zip tied their hands behind their back, laying them back down on top of their hands. He enjoyed the way they struggled as he shimmied his way up their chest.

“Just kill me, you coward,” they spat, still struggling. “Hiding behind a mask,” they scoffed.

He leaned down, keeping his weight balanced by framing their head with his hands on each side as he brought the mask to their cheek, “Oh, I’m not here to kill you. You’re far too smart, I need you.”

“I’m not helping you.”

“Frankly, I don’t need your permission for that.”

He gripped a fistful of their t-shirt, hooking his fingers into the collar and pulling the fabric across the centerline of their neck so it pulled taught against their carotid artery. With his free hand, he made a fist and pressed it slowly into the other artery. He kept his face close, hovering just above theirs as they worked to loosen their hands to no avail.

There was silence between them, just the sound of struggling.

“Which one of you is it, huh?” they laughed, smiling through it all. Their consciousness was struggling to hold on as the blood was slowly cut off from their brain. “Is that you, Aaron? Gained my trust by being a knight in shining armor and fucking me?”

Aaron just stared, clenching his jaw tightly.

He hated them.

“Or sweet little Dr. Reid? Pretending to fumble and mess up the crime scene?”

He cocked his head to the side, pressing harder with his fist.

He loved their brain.

“Or Morgan? So, charming, strong, and witty.”

He was stronger. He was better. He was smarter.

He could see them fading away. It was relaxing, watching them fight it. If the shirt had been any thicker, they would likely be asleep already but he had to hold this one a little longer.

Aaron got sloppy, leaning too far into them to see their teeth scrape the edge of the mask and bite down. He felt a tug and yanked back, the mask staying and his head exposed. This was why he wore the balaclava. But it didn't matter.

Recognition gleamed in their eyes as they met his rich, honey, brown eyes, darkened from the shadow he was casting over them.

They opened their mouth to say something but it was too late. Their eyes shut and their body went limp.

MC POV

My eyes blinked open slowly, the blinds drawn tight in my room. My head and body felt heavy and I wondered how long I’d been out. Waking up after being choked was usually fairly quick, unless it's so long that brain damage or death happens. But, I was very alive.

Aaron.

Fucking. Aaron.

Then, I remembered how I felt after waking up the other morning after we slept together. I felt just like this.

Had he drugged me?

Feeling around for my phone, I realized it had been destroyed last night but my alarm clock blinked at me.

10:42 AM.

Brief panic set in before I realized I didn't have anywhere to go. No words needed to be said as Sheriff Tanner basically fired me yesterday—’pack your shit’ was explicit enough.

I needed to go, I needed to explain to the Sheriff—to Miller—about yesterday. Trying to sit up was a feat as my body protested. My chest and neck throbbed and I was sure I had a fist sized bruise on one side of my neck. I had to catch myself several times as I looked for clothes, barely managing to get pants on when my front door was kicked open with such force that pieces of the threshold went flying.

Fight? Flight? Freeze? I couldn't do any of it. The room was still spinning, making me feel nauseous as I finally successfully buttoned my pants after attempting for the fourth time. When I was able to focus on the commotion around me, I couldn’t process much of the screamed orders at me, but I focused in on several guns pointed my way.

Morgan. Prentiss. Aaron.

They were all in the front, sights trained on me with unwavering focus.

My eyes locked onto Aaron’s.

“Oh, this is rich,” I laughed, not able to do much besides stumble and barely catch myself.

Aaron holstered his gun, giving the everyone a command to search the house as he pressed me up against a wall and cuffed me.

“Ow, that hurts,” I winced uncomfortably.

“You think Tommy Crites thought that when you stabbed him twelve times? What about Carolyn Turner when you stabbed her six times—” he snarled.

Bastard.

“Oh, what a load of shit,” I spat. “I’m the wrong shoe size—the wrong, everything!”

“But you’re just the person to be able to fabricate that,” he chuckled.

“I can't fabricate video footage, asshat.”

I could hear the police and agents tearing apart my house like rabid animals. Papers were falling to the floor; evidence bags being filled with things I’d never seen before. I watched, craning my neck as a knife was pulled out from under my sink, bloody and dark clothing from under my floorboards and—

The realization crashed over me as Morgan pulled muddy boots out from under my bed.

Aaron was framing me.

He squeezed my wrists tighter, daring me to say something.

“Are you kidding me? Those aren't even my size,” I struggled against Aaron’s firm grip.

Morgan peeked inside the boots, seeing padding stuffed into the toes to mitigate the wrong size. His glare was almost as deadly as Aaron’s as he left the room to log the evidence.

“You’re sick,” I whispered harshly to Aaron under my breath.

“Maybe,” he leaned in laughing softly, his warm breath ghosting over my ear. “It really is a shame you couldn’t keep your mouth shut when I told you to,” he said, sounding regretful. “I really do like you.”

“I’m going to nail you for this—”

He shoved me harder against the wall, making me wince as the wall bit into my brow and cheekbone, “You’re going away for four murders. You’re not getting me for shit.”

The cuffs bit into my wrists as he pulled me off the wall and led me outside. Reporters were shouting over each other, cameras flashing like strobes but the noise barely registered. My mind was racing, trying to find a way out—any way out. I looked around for a familiar face.

Miller.

Miller, please.

She refused to even look my way.

Aaron matched my wobbly steps, following at a measured pace. His presence was so heavy at my back. How could I have let this happen?

Just as we reached a patrol car, he leaned in again. His voice was low and calm, with such malice behind it that it sent another wave of nausea through me.

“You’ll call me,” he stated.

I jerked against his grip.

“Like hell I will.”

He only chuckled, like I was telling him a god damn joke.

“You will. When you get tired of rotting in a cell. When you realize no one else can help you—you'll call me.”

I forced myself to meet his gaze over my shoulder, challenging his domineering stance.

“I’d be happy to reopen an investigation,” he continued, feigning nonchalance. “Get you exonerated. Clear your name,” he paused, his voice shifting. Almost affectionately he cooed in my ear, the venom so much more pronounced without the robotic tin of the modulator, “But you’ll owe me.”

His words settled over me like poison.

“You’d work for me,” he murmured, tilting his head. “You’d go where I tell you. Do what I tell you.”

I swallowed hard, my jaw clenched and tense.

“You’d be free,” he promised, eyes shimmering with something dark. “And I’ll own you,” he smiled sweetly. Aaron opened the car door, hand on my head as he guided me in roughly. “Plus,” he pouted, mouth so close that I felt his lips skim my ear as he bent over and looked at me through the still open door, “you’ll miss me so much, little mouse, I just know it.”

He slammed the door shut.

I barely registered the car starting. I didn't even register Detective Miller getting in the front passenger seat, flipping down the visor and looking at me through the mirror.

All I could hear was his voice echoing in my head.

Aaron POV

Aaron watched the patrol car drive away.

Would they call him? Maybe not today. Maybe not even this year or the next.

But Aaron was a patient man and he always got what he wanted.

Some extra art:

#criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds x reader #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner fanfiction #hotch x reader #hotchner x reader #hotchner x you #Fic: Scream (Til There’s Silence)#gn!reader #ghostface #ghostface!hotch #Spotify

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shinysobi · 1 day ago

Text

chunhyangjeon redux

If I had time, I would learn to love him in a softer way, perhaps, where my hands are bloodied and bruised from trying to hold on too hard.

☆ historical!au jihoon x reader

☆ word count: 17.8k

☆ rating: M

☆ genre/warnings: historical, major character death, period-typical sexism, physical violence (not between jihoon and mc) angst, so much goddamn angst, fluff if you squint, but mostly angst

☆ notes: look i had a thought about guqin player lee jihoon, yapped to people, and that's it, this happened. many many thanks to @gyubakeries for beta'ing this, and @imujings for encouraging my delusions. dedicated to kae @ylangelegy, because I yapped in her dms about this first, and then this baby happened. banner from here. love you loads, everyone.

The string breaks off with a discordant twang, and everyone winces, including the gardener, who's been weeding on the opposite side of the yard from me. I scowl, and Songhwa, my maid, offers me a drink of water. It does nothing to calm me down. My fury is great, and my present agony even greater. There's absolutely nothing that can stop me from breaking the instrument, my own arms, or someone else's leg in the process.

“Young lady,” Songhwa manages to whisper with a pitiful look, but I'm already on the warpath, angrily pushing the offending instrument away from my lap, and standing up to stomp around the yard. The gardener takes several steps away. “Young lady, please,” she pleads again, to my better sensibilities (I have none) “you shouldn't get angry, you're still weak—”

“If you say ‘weak’ one more time, I'm going to jump in the well with a grindstone tied to my leg,” I threaten, before flopping down in an entirely unladylike manner, my hands threatening to rip out my entire braid, “they're going to hate me. Why did my mother go ahead and boast about me being good at the guqin? I hate the instrument, I've never played it. Why couldn't she tell them I'm good at the gayageum?”

“Well, you see—”

“And now I have to perform for the whole family. My would-be husband’s family. Does this make any sense to you, Songhwa?” I moan, before sitting up and glaring at the offensive instrument, “I'm going to burn it. I'm going to burn it and die.”

“Well, that would be inadvisable, lady,” Songhwa says, ever the picture of serenity. Good for her. She's not the one being sold into marriage, “the Master did say that you have one month to prepare for it.”

“And one month is too little!” I stand up, determined to go into theatrics, because then, at least, I'll have the privilege of being termed as a madwoman, and get out of this mess. “They've already delayed the marriage by years, not months, mind you, Songhwa, but years, and then they tell me to perform for them? What do they think I am? A monkey?”

“Your father and mother both agreed to this marriage arrangement, Miss.”

“My father and mother are not the ones learning an entirely unfamiliar instrument a month before having to play it in front of an audience consisting of the Minister of War, so I don't much care about their opinions.” I mutter darkly, “Their opinions matter little to me.”

Songhwa now looks abjectly terrified, “do you mean the marriage, miss?”

“Not the marriage, of course,” I wave a hand, “I've always known I'm going to be married to someone I didn't know and wouldn't care about. I've known since I was sixteen, that I would be married to the third son of the Minister of War, whenever they saw fit. I'm talking about the absolutely unconscionable decision of making me learn the guqin in a month. And when my mother knows, that I'm proficient on the gayageum! This is insanity, Songhwa, insanity, I say.”

“Well, they're both zithers, so—” Songhwa begins to say something, but shuts up immediately when I glare at her, “Very well. You require help, then.”

“I require a hammer, so that I may destroy this monstrosity and go back to playing my gayageum. Anything less than that is not acceptable, I'm afraid.” A large fruit falls from the tree outside the yard as if on cue. How impudent. Do I need to consult with a shaman after all? “Tell my father that I shall not be playing the guqin for the Minister of War’s family. And if they insist on hearing me play, well, they’ll have to be satisfied with hearing me play the gayageum.”

“You see, Miss, that is the problem,” Songhwa grimaces, “the Madam said that the War Minister's wife said that playing the gayageum was—” she squints, avoiding my eyes, “was beneath the station of a minister’s daughter.”

“Ha!” two crows fly across the sky, “and as if she, with all her love for the Great Ming, has managed to make any kind of meaningful contribution to society save bullying her second son’s widow to death? Has she? And she comes to talk to me about the station I should maintain? She should learn how to shut up!”

“Miss,” Songhwa is close to tears now, “miss, you must not be so loud. What if the Madam hears you? What will happen to you then?”

“I’ll die,” I say, seriously, and she huffs, “No, I’m serious. I’ll die, and then I will haunt this house until the end of time.”

With that, I flop down next to the imported guqin, brought in only the other day by a trader from the Imperial Ming, and go silent. Songhwa takes this as a sign to bring me something to eat, and returns momentarily with a couple of candied orange slices, no doubt swiped from the kitchen, and the two of us sit in the late morning sun, in companionable silence. There are two songbirds on the tree, and the sun is mild; it's early autumn, and the biting chill of winter will come much later. For now, they are happy, content in their own world, trying to survive yet another day.

It's Songhwa who breaks the silence first. “Miss,” she turns to me, a serious look on her face, “do you really want to get married to the son of the War Minister? You have been betrothed to him for so long, and he kept delaying the marriage on account of his examinations. Then he delayed it because he had to deal with bandits near the village he governed. He keeps delaying it, and there are rumors of him being a womanizer, going to gisaeng houses, and being one of the worst kinds of man possible. Do you really want to spend the rest of your life with him?”

I sigh. Songhwa is fiercely loyal and has been ever since the day I bought her freedom and gave her a name instead of the plaque that had hung around her neck, with a number instead of a name, but her loyalty makes her a danger to herself. I knew. I had been anticipating this ever since the news came of the confirmation of the wedding date, but one thing I had failed to calculate was how much Songhwa hated the idea of me marrying that man.

“You must not repeat anything of what you just said, to me or to anyone else,” I say, and her face drops, “you know why I’m telling you this, Songhwa. Your life is just as expendable to these people as mine is, even less so because you are a servant.”

“Miss—” Songhwa begins, and I wave to cut her off.

“It’s not about what kind of person he is, or what are the things he is known or rumored to be doing. He is a man, and therefore, he has no sins. I’ve always known my duty is to be married well, to be an asset to my parent’s reputations, and to move away from my home. It sounds difficult to you, Songhwa, because you are so young,” she makes a face at that, “but a woman’s duty is always more important than her own self. Even more so when you’re a member of the nobility. Then they’ll force the ideas of imaginary respect into your mind, and it’ll grow so big that you would not be able to walk properly.”

Songhwa giggles, “Would you like to go to the market, miss?”

I clap my hands, “Excellent.”

—

The market is a sensory nightmare. Vendors selling everything, from expensive silks to cheap norigae flock to the streets, calling out their wares. Songhwa moves closer to me as we move through the crowds, she keeps a firm hold on my skirts, afraid of getting lost in the throng of people. Usually, the marketplace is for me to savor what remains of my freedom, roaming amidst the people who are, ostensibly, less privileged than I am, but at the same time, freer than I can ever imagine becoming. I come to the market in a masochistic bid to remind myself that my station is fleeting; my freedom is imaginary, and that being a woman has essentially destroyed my prospects of ever being free.

But not today. Today, as fate would have it, I have a mission to carry out. This is the reason why the day finds Songhwa and me at the gates of the Plum Flower House, and Songhwa is tapping her foot impatiently, both out of fear and frustration. On either side of us, there are brightly-colored pavilions, with streamers of colorful paper waving in the air, and tranquil ponds where fish lazily swim by. It’s a picture of happiness and serenity. I hate this place. The facade breaks as easily as ripping apart one of those colorful banners hanging from the eaves, and all one can find underneath is the growing rot that has captured Joseon society. I hate how I have to tolerate this monstrosity, and how we have made its existence into a part of our daily lives. Songhwa, beside me, is uncomfortable, frustration etched on her features. Your betrothed comes here almost daily, she had said, why do you still want to go through with the marriage?

Truth is, there’s nothing that I can do, as a woman. I have to put up with a womanizer of a husband and an overbearing family, all to protect the honor of my father—a concept that I have been taught, but one that eludes me at every step.

“Miss,” Songhwa moans from my side, hands fisted into my skirts, “do we really have to be here?”

“Yes, Songhwa, we kind of have to,” I reply sweetly, “since we’re about to ask for help from someone, it’s only fair that we go and ask them directly, instead of making them come to us for it.”

“I—you’re asking for help? From who?” Songhwa almost shrieks, and three women in colorful hanboks stare at the two of us. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I knew you’d disapprove,” I reply, looking around, “and despite what you have to say about the music scene in Hanyang, there’s one thing that is always true.”

“Which is?”

“You can never really remain anonymous.” I give her a large smile, one that she does not return, “Songhwa, do you mean to tell me you really have no idea about the new player at the Plum Flower House?”

“New player?” Songhwa narrows her eyes in an effort to be intimidating, which falls adorably flat, “Miss, have you been sneaking out again? You know, if the master gets to hear about this, he is not going to let you go out anymore, he’s already reduced your trips to the market, Miss. We had to lie to your mother and almost sneak out of the house, Miss. You cannot be meeting men outside of the house.”

“So I should have brought him into the house?” I raise an eyebrow, dragging her away, “listen. The music is coming from that pavilion.”

Songhwa wants to open her mouth and ask me exactly what it is that I have been looking for—when the two of us are forced to stand still, because, from the pavilion in front of us, with overhanging branches of plum trees that obscure our vision, comes the most beautiful music. Songhwa stands, transfixed. I pick up my skirt and walk closer to the source.

The player is sitting with his back to us, but his guqin is on his lap, and he’s plucking the string carefully, slowly, while coaxing a familiar melody out of it. It’s an old song from the Great Ming, one that I had heard being played by an ambassador to the King, once, five years ago. I have remembered it ever since. If I close my eyes, I can imagine the calmness of the piece, flowing over me in a serenade that is almost otherworldly. I've wanted to learn this piece on the gayageum for a long time, and I've failed every single time. And yet, he's here, playing the piece with an ease that comes from years of practice and innate talent, almost monstrous in its simplicity.

“What's the piece that he's playing?” Songhwa asks, voice a low murmur. I guess even she's mesmerized by the playing.

“The ambassador from Ming told me the piece is called Mist and Clouds over the Xiang River,” I say, picking up my skirt and stepping into the pavilion, “that was a great performance, Lee Jihoon.”

The player stops and glares at me. He's dressed in a pale blue hanbok, his shoes and hat set aside. His hair is gathered in a knot at the back of his head, wisps of black hair falling to his shoulders. He keeps his hair much shorter than usual, I notice idly. It makes him look wild, and in the right light, I can imagine a faint glow coming off of him.

“Why is the youngest daughter of the Minister of Rites in the Plum Flower House?” he asks, setting the guqin down, “Miss, you shouldn't be in a den of iniquity like this one.” His voice is sharp, a contrast from the gentle music floating from the instrument earlier, and the ends of his sentences fray, making him sound like a caged wild animal, being presented to a nobleman to satisfy their curiosity.

“I don't think I should be taking advice from the main player of the said den of iniquity,” I say, settling down in front of him, “Or is it because of your father that you're here?”

His face takes on a hard look, and he stands up, his hair falling in a curtain around his face, “if you want to talk about my father, I'd suggest you leave. Immediately.”

“Take a seat, Lee Jihoon,” I say, “I have not come here to talk about your father, although I could spend an afternoon and an evening talking about him. I’ve come to you with a proposition.”

“A proposition? Made to a player in a den of sin?” his voice is dripping with sarcasm even as he resumes his seat before me, “I’ll assume that you’ve lost your way. Please see yourself out, Madam. As you know, it will be inappropriate of me to accompany you to the gates.”

I scowl, despite marveling at how easily he has managed to get under my skin, “I am not a madam.”

“Ah, but you will be, soon, won’t you?” He smiles, “We here at the Plum Flower House get to hear things too, especially when it concerns such an important client of ours.”

I sigh. Of course, that is why they know. They all know, someone in my mind tells me, they all know your fiance comes here every night when he’s in Hanyang. “It seems people are aware of my betrothed and his—indiscretions,” I reply through gritted teeth, “however, this does not concern him. I come here to seek counsel for an entirely different matter.”

“Then why are you here, Miss? I doubt very much that spending time with someone who plays the guqin at a kisaeng house is high on your list of things to do.”

“It does not,” I reply, and he raises an eyebrow, “it concerns the instrument you were playing.”

His eyebrows remain raised, but he has a curious smile tugging at the corner of his lips, “the guqin? You want to buy my instrument?”

“I don’t want to buy it from you,” I roll my eyes, “teach me how to play the guqin.”

He stares for a beat too long, and I’m compelled to return his gaze, needlessly piercing, almost as if he wants to commit me to memory, and I ignore his gaze to focus on my hands instead, fisting them in my skirt. All of a sudden, he laughs, loud, melodic, completely at odds with his voice from even a moment earlier, and I’m taken aback because his laugh is a departure from his voice, so on edge, sharp and brittle enough to cut glass. His laughter is high-pitched, free in a way I had never thought of him being. He laughs and laughs until Songhwa is itching to get away, and I am considering just walking away from the pavilion. Who does he think he is? Laughing as though it did not take me a whole afternoon to pick up the courage to ask him for his help. I would not be sitting here, forcing myself to be subjected to this, if he was not as good as he was.

“Forgive me, Lady,” he says, mock-respect evident in his tone, “I seem to have forgotten about my manners.”

“You don’t say,” I murmur, watching him compose himself. Infuriating.

“I am merely wondering at the turn of events which would have the daughter of the Minister of Rites come to me, the player of a courtesan house, for his help in playing the guqin,” he says, “you can get anyone to teach you how to play, Lady.”

“No one is as good as you are,” I say simply, hoping that the boost to his ego will make him agree to this arrangement, “I want to learn from the best. And the word is, you’re the best in Hanyang. A fact that was corroborated by the playing I just heard. Xiang River, right?”

“You know the piece,” he says, half to himself, as though he cannot bring himself to believe me, “I’m sorry, Lady, I cannot help you.”

He stands up, picks up the instrument, and prepares to walk away from me. It’s your one chance, a voice tells me, you’re never going to get back this opportunity to make the damn Minister of War pay. And unfortunately, it’s right. If I manage to fail at this task, they might actually break off the engagement, something that will make me happy, it ensures that my father will never be respected, for as long as he lives. Who would respect a man who could not control his daughter, the one person he was supposed to have full control over?

“Would you prefer it if I go to your father, then?” I say, loud enough for him to turn back and glare at me, “I wonder how they would react, to having their long-lost son come back from the Great Ming, only to have him become a player in a courtesan house.”

“You would be greatly advised to keep that mouth of yours shut, Lady,” he practically runs up the steps to where I am seated, “I’m afraid going to my father would be difficult if one finds themselves dead, right here.”

Oh, he has claws. I smile, extracting a hairpin from my head. It's my grandmother’s gold dwikkoji, bequeathed to me on her deathbed—something I have never let out of my sight. Encrusted with rubies from the Kingdoms in the South Seas, with a large pearl set in the middle of it, bought from an Arab trader who traded it for spices in the Indian Sea, it is ostentatious, suited perfectly to my grandmother’s tastes, who never let anyone forget that she was a daughter of the Joseon King, given away to my grandfather who then became the Right State Councillor. It is only fair then, that I am trading away this memorabilia, to the disgraced son of a concubine. Lee Jihoon stares at it, the meaning of the gesture plain as day in front of him. I could not have been more clear even if I had slapped a box containing ten gold nyangs in front of him.

“Are you trying to bribe me, Princess?” he mocks, picking up the headpiece and admiring it nevertheless, “a keepsake of the Late Princess Jeonggun. Almost offensive in its flamboyance. Why are you giving it to me, Princess?”

“Consider it payment, Lee Jihoon,” I say, standing up so that I can stare directly at him, “if you want, I will provide provenance of it. It is payment for teaching me the ways of the guqin.”

He laughs, and again, I am caught by how strange it sounds. In the middle of a gisaeng house, hearing this laugh should be illegal, almost—and shakes his head, “And if I refuse?”

“Then I go to the Minister of War,” I smile, relishing in how it drops just slightly, “and I tell him all about his son.”

With that, and a flourish of my skirt, I stride off of the pavilion, holding Songhwa by the arm, “Let’s go, shall we?”

We have not taken three steps when there’s that loud, sharp voice, calling out from behind me, “Wait!”

I turn around, “really? This fast?”

Jihoon strides up to me, holding the hairpiece in his hand, a lazy smirk playing on his face. “You win, Princess. I’ll teach you.”

I raise an eyebrow, “you will?”

“Be here tomorrow, in the afternoon,” he turns around, “don’t be late, Princess.”

“Why, that little—” Songhwa makes a run towards him, but I stop her, gesturing to just go back. He’s been defeated, Songhwa, I tell myself as we make our way through the crowded streets, he’s finally been defeated in something by someone. And he has to teach me how to play.

—

Unfortunately, as I had expected, Songhwa does not let me off easily. She corners me as soon as we step foot into my family’s home, quickly sliding the doors shut behind her as I collapse onto the silk bedding, fixing me with an impressive glare that would have even my mother running for her life, “Did you really have to give him the keepsake from your grandmother?”

I fix her with a look but say nothing, choosing to pull the hairpins out of my hair, and settling down on the bedding. Songhwa, emboldened by my silence, rages on, “What if the Master comes and asks for it? Why did you have to give away the most expensive piece of jewelry in your possession? What if you have a need for it later on? What will you do then?”

“I’m not such a fool to give him my most expensive hairpin without a thought as to how it might affect me, Songhwa,” I say, sternly, and she shuts her mouth, “neither my father nor my mother is aware of the gift grandmother gave me, mostly because she never told them of it. To her, it was something to be disposed of in secret, and the only witness to this was the nurse who stayed with her till the day she died.”

“And me.” Songhwa points to herself, “I’m aware.”

“You know what happened to the nurse who was there with Grandmother when she was sick?” I say, voice light, but Songhwa sees it for what it is, and sighs, evidently put-upon, and takes a seat on the floor, “You should stop threatening to kill me if you want to ensure that I never open my mouth.”

“It’s better that you don’t know, Songhwa,” I reply, “you do know what happened to the nurse who stayed with my grandmother when she was ill. She was killed three months after my grandmother died, presumably by people who thought the old, infirm woman was holding state secrets. I do not understand why you insist on knowing my family’s secrets even though you will most definitely get killed in the process.”

“It’s a testament to how much I respect you, Miss,” Songhwa says, seriously, lighting a candle in the semi-dark room, “it is already killing me that I cannot accompany you to your in-law’s house. What do they want, refusing to allow servants to be sent from your childhood home? It’s decidedly unfashionable, people are already talking about it.”

I know why they have made that demand, but I wisely keep my mouth shut. I don’t think we need to investigate the death of a minister so close to my wedding, but Songhwa is fully capable of eviscerating the Minister of War and his entire household, sentries be damned. She does not pick up on why I am silent, instead raging about the apparent lack of respect shown towards me, and I watch her amusedly as she pulls out the books that I will not be allowed to take with me when I leave my home.

“Easy, Songhwa,” I smile, “one would think you were my mother, instead of being my companion.”

“I am your maid, Miss, there’s a difference.” Songhwa sighs, “Do you still think asking that man was the best course of action? You could have received help from anyone you want.”

“He’s still the best in Hanyang, no matter how much we try to ignore his existence,” I say, pickling at the seams on my bedding, “even you saw how good he was. That’s not just hard work, it’s also talent. And that kind of talent should not be languishing in a—in a courtesan house, of all places.”

Songhwa nods, “You also brought up his father when he didn’t agree to teach you.”

I smile, “That’s because I know a little secret about him.”

—

As promised, I make my way to the pavilion at the Plum Flower House, leaving Songhwa behind, the guqin heavy on my back as I manage to haul it across the marketplace. Lee Jihoon stands in the middle of the pavilion, smiling as I walk up to him, out of breath and bent over at the waist, perspiration dotting my forehead. He raises his eyebrows as I make my way up the stairs, flaunting a wide grin as I set the instrument at my feet, “you’re late. I did specifically say afternoon, did I not?”

“Apologies, for I do not own a water clock,” I breeze, unwrapping the linen coverings of my guqin, “and I think it would be treasonous to own one.”

He laughs loudly, again, before settling down, “I hear you are proficient at the gayageum. Why can you not play that for your in-laws? You can always play the gayageum for them, instead of learning an entirely new instrument.”

“That new instrument is what my prospective mother-in-law is partial to,” I give him a wry smile, running my hands over the silken strings of the guqin, “my preferred gayageum is too lowly for her, it would seem.”

Jihoon observes my dress, plain pink and blue cotton hanbok, nothing of the pale blue silk that I had worn to the House the previous day. My braid falls over my shoulder, short but neatly tied off with a ribbon at the end. I had foregone the usual norigae at my waist too, opting for a slightly longer jacket instead. This way, I look like a maid, someone unimportant who came here to take lessons from a master. Not the daughter of a powerful man. As far as disguises go, I could have done better.

“You look like a maid,” he smiles at me, and even someone like me, who has no idea about social cues, can understand that it's all mockery—as usual—and he continues, with that annoying smile fixed on his face, “it seems a little inappropriate, teaching you out here.”

I stare at him, because we are in the open, in the middle of the day, with no one to misconstrue what we are doing, and he thinks it is inappropriate. I want to take my offensive guqin and whack him around the head. He points to his clothes, and then to mine, “I dressed up for you. Now I think I should have borrowed one of the work costumes of the many people who come here to work for the gisaengs.”

I scowl. He’s wearing a pale green hanbok today, with his hair gathered in an elegant topknot, the wide headband sitting prettily against his skin, making for a sharp contrast. Strange man, I tell myself, as he settles in at a comfortable (more importantly, respectable) distance from me, and picks up his instrument. When he bends his head, I can see his copper sangtu, wisps of his hair peeking out from within. It reminds me of the first time I had seen him, his hair wild and untamed, and it's a shame how beautiful he could be, if only for the unfortunate accident of his parentage.

Still, as he begins to teach me the basics of how to play the guqin (in a manner entirely different from what I am used to), I find myself thinking less about how disagreeable he was and more about his talent. If I were a lesser woman, I would have been jealous. All I could think about was how solemn his hands looked as he plucked the strings, instructing me to follow his lead.

—

Songhwa waits at the back of the house as I hurry back in, ushering me into the yard as soon as the curfew bells ring.

“How was the first lesson?” she demands, as soon as I place the guqin on the floor, picking out the plain hairstyle I had fashioned it in, “you never wear this one outside of the house.”

“Thought I should try my best to fit in,” I groaned, lying down on the bedding, “never thought learning an instrument would be so difficult.”

Songhwa raises an eyebrow, “I thought you said he was a genius.”

“He is, which makes it even more difficult,” I groan, suddenly overtaken by a fit of childishness, “it was as if I had been forced to come to terms with the fact that I was in fact, not a genius, and that all my efforts, monumental though they might have been, were actually no match in front of an actual, real, genius.”

She laughs, “You seem taken in by him.”

I bolt upright in bed, “I am not. He is annoying, as he is allowed to be—I am merely commenting upon the fact that he is a genius, and I am not, no matter how much I would love to be.”

Songhwa sighs, before sitting down in front of me, “Miss, I do think you’re a genius.”

“Nice of you to spare my feelings, Songhwa, but I’ve seen him perform. Twice, in fact. And there’s no way I, or anyone, even the legendary Bo Ya, could measure up to his skill. His hands—” I turn to look at her, eyes narrowed, “what do you want me to say?”

She raises an eyebrow, “You seemed to have found his hands interesting.”

“Enough!” I clap my hands, shaking the embarrassment away in what must have been a formidable challenge, and usher Songhwa out of the room, “I wish to sleep now. Tell the maids to send my meal to my room, please.”

After Songhwa leaves, I fall back onto the bed, waiting for the maids to bring me my dinner, trying my best to expel the image of Lee Jihoon playing the guqin, his long, elegant fingers coaxing the slow tunes out of the instrument, a testament to my utter lack of genius. And yet, I can’t find to bring myself to be jealous, because I am not a lesser woman. I am, shamefully though it might be, aware of the limitations of my talent. Besides, I am almost twenty years old. I’m not a child who might get jealous at the prospect of facing the fact that I might not be the genius that I once thought I was.

And yet—and yet I spend more than a fashionable amount of time that night, thinking about his hands, moving across the strings.

—

Surprisingly, it gets easier after that first day. The both of us talk less about our choice of clothing and more about how to play the guqin, and I can feel myself improving daily. Jihoon doesn’t make it a secret about how much he absolutely hates the idea of teaching me, but this too, I’ve managed to take it in stride now.

“How long will you be pestering me to teach you?” he asks, barely a fortnight into teaching me, “I doubt you want to establish a new qin school in the middle of Hanyang. And I don't want to spend my days teaching a noble lady how to play my instrument.”

I pull a face, “Can't you just focus on teaching me?”

He pulls a wry smile, “Maybe I wish to be rid of you.”

“Too difficult for you, Teacher,” I smile, before returning to pluck the strings, coaxing a melody (a slow, halting one, but a melody nonetheless) out of the guqin. It's almost spring, I notice, as the plum trees all around us have burst into bloom. Soon, the cherry trees will be in bloom. And as soon as the azaleas bloom on Biseulsan, I will be sent to the home of the Minister of War. I hate to be reminded of it, because all I can think of is that I have no time at all. None to enjoy the final few days of my girlhood.

Still, Jihoon seems to be warming up to the idea of teaching me, and I can take a strange sense of pride in that, having the once-prickly Lee Jihoon teach me with a ghost of a smile on his face.

—

“Miss,” Songhwa pokes her nose in my room one evening as I change into a much more respectable outfit, “there are gifts.”

I roll my eyes, huff, and stand up, “Already? They only sent the official letter last month!”

“I know. They seem like they want to speed up the process,” Songhwa waves a dismissive hand. “The minister himself is here, giving the gifts to your father.”

“The minister of War himself?” I tie the knot to my jacket, lifting my skirt, “now I need to see this.”

My father’s rooms are in another part of the yard, differentiated from the women’s quarters by a gate. Songhwa and I slip easily past the gates, and servants largely ignore us as we make our way to the other, more secluded side of my father’s rooms, where the large boiler sits, making the air too hot for anyone to remain in for more than three minutes. I sit as close to the doors as possible, and for good measure, poke a hole into the paper, for ease of listening. One can never be too careful.

“Miss,” Songhwa opens her mouth to say something, and I silence her because there are voices coming from inside the room, “fine.”

“—Of course, the lady will be an important part of the household, as she is expected to take on the duties of the madam of her own house in the future,” a voice that I know belongs to the Minister of War, says, “I have heard that the lady is playing the guqin diligently? My wife does indeed adore the guqin. It is one of her only comforts.”

Yes, I would bet anyone ten gold nyangs she holds it and goes to sleep at night when you are whoring around in gisaeng houses, you pox-ridden idiot, I think to myself, but it is the next voice that takes me by surprise. It is my father speaking, low and clear, the voice I had once adored as a small child, “Of course, minister. This is no longer her home now. She is to be a part of your family, and we will ensure that she is aware of her duties and responsibilities.”

Oh.

They go on to say more things—about the state of the economy, how they are going to manage their farmlands in the coming year, how they think the harvest will be, how the virtues of the King have always been steady in steering the nation, but I understand nothing. I am nothing. And to hear that from my father—my father whom I had looked up to all my life, my father who had adored me, once upon a time, in a parallel history, puts it all into perspective.

I stand up, feet shaking, whether due to the heat coming from the boiler or from the words I have just been privy to, I do not know. I do not remember walking to my room, I do not remember lying down on the bed. All I can think of are my father’s words. This is no longer her home now. I am no one.

—

“You did not come for lessons these past three days,” Jihoon says, as soon as I climb up the stairs to the pavilion, guqin strapped to my back, “I was beginning to think you had stopped wanting to play altogether.”

I sigh, “I was sick, sorry. I should have sent word, except Songhwa was busy making medicines for me. I’m here now, though, right as rain.”

Jihoon still has his back to me, an insufferable trait that he refuses to correct, and I shake my head, setting the qin on the ground. “Shall we begin?”

My tone is clipped, and angry, which makes him turn towards me, an eyebrow raised. He pauses for a moment, then grabs a hold of the edge of my sleeve, pulling me closer to him. I avoid his gaze dutifully, but Lee Jihoon is nothing if not relentless, a fact of life that I am becoming increasingly familiar with, as much as I hate it.

“Something’s wrong,” he says, after staring at me for what feels like an eternity, “you’re not normally this way.”

I glare, “Do you want me to hit you? I’m fine.”

“You’re clearly not fine,” he replies, standing up and walking out of the pavilion, “not if that look on your face has anything to say about it. You’re suffering.”

I roll my eyes, but he is not wrong. He is not wrong at all, which makes me nervous, because if Lee Jihoon of all people could read me this well, what does that mean for my parents? The people who are supposed to know me the best, the people who are supposed to take care of me without question, what does it mean, that they saw me like this, and said nothing at all?

It’s not their fault. I’ve been repeating this throughout the week, it’s not their fault. Even though I had refused to come out of my room and had been laid up with a fever, only my mother had come to see me, and that too from a distance. It’s not their fault. They gave birth to a girl, and now they have to take care of her, for as long as they can.

And really, who am I to complain? I am the daughter of a minister, one of the highest positions in Joseon. I should know my place, I should know my duty. Even if it meant leaving my home and settling down in a house where I knew no one, and no one cared about me beyond my abilities to provide an heir.

Songhwa had, of course, refused to let me out of her sight, nursing me through the days I was bedridden with a fever, even insisting on coming along for the lesson, something I had taken pains to dissuade her from.

“Maybe this will help,” Jihoon says, walking back into my line of sight, “you told me you played the gayageum.”

In his hands, is a gayageum, made out of the finest paulownia wood, and he pushes away the guqin currently in my lap, placing it in my hands instead. “You look like you have some feelings to work through, and I have always found solace in playing my music.”

I stare at him, “Are you quite mad? You want me to play for you right now?”

He shrugs, “I think it would be a good exercise for you since you always seem uncomfortable with the qin. Hence, the instrument that you are most comfortable with.” As if to prove his point further, he makes a ‘here you go’ motion with his hands, opening them wide for me to take in the look of the gayageum in front of me.

I should not. This is madness, someone whispers inside my head, why are you playing for him when the only people who have heard you play before are your parents? Is this not inappropriate? What will your husband’s family say, when they hear about you showing off your skills at the gayageum to an unfamiliar man, who has no ties to you? Will they approve?

I grow more irritated at that. Perhaps I am tired of thinking about my husband’s family, before myself.

“I don’t think I should be doing this,” I mutter, picking it up and running my hands over the silk strings, “it is tuned already.”

“Thought you’d prefer if I took that out of the way for you,” he smiles, “in truth, I would be lying to you if I said that I had not been interested and curious about your playing, even before you stepped foot in the Plum Flower House. Everyone knows that the youngest daughter of the Minister of Rites is proficient at the gayageum. I had kept this around—”

I cut him off with a sharp twang, and he goes back to his seat, eagerly waiting. It has been a long time since I played for another person who was not Songhwa, but the gayageum opens up eagerly underneath my fingers, much easier than the qin, but this is an instrument I have been playing since I knew how to walk. Still, the instrument itself is unfamiliar, but I can soon find it humming delightfully underneath my hands. This is what I want to do. I want to play this instrument for as long as I can live.

This is no longer her home now.

My hands grow erratic, and the gayageum follows suit, the music thundering as I chase it around, the strings keening underneath the sheer force of my hands, no longer the calm, composed tunes I have been accustomed to playing. This is no longer tranquil, this is something else entirely, the force of my rage, condensed and consolidated into a single moment in time, larger than life, hotter than the sun.

After a long time, I stop, and Jihoon’s eyes are sparkling, something I never thought I would see, not on another person, not as a reaction to my playing. He’s smiling, broad, and genuine, grabbing me by the shoulder and shaking me, so hard and fast that I can barely distinguish my surroundings. Whatever remains, is the feeling of his eyes on me, as though he was seeing me for the first time.

“You’re a revelation,” he smiles, “I’ve always been curious about your playing but this—this is brilliant. A genius.”

“Hah,” I scoff mildly, even though it does not hold any real venom or malice, “a genius, that’s a new sort of lie.”

However, as I lay in my bed that night, all I could think of were his eyes, steadfast on me, sparkling, as though he had seen a miracle, and his voice, the same sharp tone that I hated so much, saying, over and over again, you are a revelation. A revelation. A revelation, he had said.

I slept comfortably that night.

—

Apart from the gayageum, the only other thing I'm confident in, at least marginally, is my sewing. Like every other girl in Joseon, I've been taught needlework and embroidery ever since I could pick up a needle without hurting myself. Embroidery was a non-negotiable skill, especially when compared to playing instruments, because of course who did not know that the honor and prestige of a noble family relied solely on the sewing skills of their youngest daughter?

I’m exaggerating. I’ve been taught to take pride in my creations, and I do actually like it when people find happiness in it, whether it be through music or something else.

“Miss,” Songhwa lets out another of her long-suffering sighs, holding up an unfinished gwanbok, “you’re supposed to finish this by yourself, not have it done by seamstresses.”

“Don’t want to, not particularly,” I pout, trying to balance a brush on my forehead, “besides, were you not the one who was the most against this match? Why are you so adamant on me making his ceremonial dress, that probably would not be up to his standards?”

“It’s because I hate him and I am firmly against this match that I am in support of this,” she says, folding the unfinished clothing into a box, “are you going to make your fiance a handkerchief too?”

“What?” I sit up, brush clattering onto the floor, “what do you mean?”

Songhwa holds up a piece of silk, and I stare at it. Just a piece of deep blue silk, plain and unassuming, evidently cut out from one of the pre-wedding gifts sent over by my husband’s family previously. It’s obvious, with the smooth edges from where I cut out the fabric, that it was meant for something else. “Oh, that,” I try my best to remain nonchalant, “I’m thinking of making something for myself.”

Songhwa narrows her eyes, “You refuse to pick up the needle for anything other than what is strictly necessary.”

“I’m just trying to be a better wife, and since sewing is a required skill, I thought I should brush up on my embroidery,” I say, trying my best to maintain Songhwa’s gaze, “nothing special, really.”

“Miss, you know that you cannot fool me, right?” she says, hands on her hips, “I know exactly what you plan on doing with this silk.”

I turn to her, shocked, “You do?”

Songhwa sighs, “How many times do I have to tell you, miss, that you have enough hair ribbons to last a lifetime? Even the princesses of this country do not have as many hair ribbons as you do, and you’re going to make another one? That too from the expensive silk the Minister of War sent over for pre-wedding gifts?” She sighs again, running her hands over her face, “I do not know what to do here. I hate him, but also, making a ribbon out of the cloth sent over for you to make your husband a hanbok will not be accepted. Well, it’s not as though we are going to tell people, but at least, don’t let your mother know about this.”

“You think I tell my mother anything?” I ask, my eyebrows raised high, “she is the one who finds out everything about me. I don’t tell her anything!”

“No, you don’t, you just act too secretive, and she finds out anyway,” Songhwa throws me a dirty look, opening the door with a foot, hands full of clothes, “Do try and come back home early tonight, because the owner of this house is coming home early too.”

“He is?” I groan, “I’ll keep it in mind.”

—

I lied to Songhwa. It is not something I feel particularly bad about, since she keeps her own secrets from me too, regarding all the numerous admirers she has (If I knew, I would be forced to tell my mother about it, and she would be out of a job). The silk was not for a hair ribbon, not by any stretch of anyone’s imagination. It is, however, for something far worse.

“Lee Jihoon,” I say, half out of breath, setting down my qin, “you like the color a lot, I see.”

“Aren’t you a little too interested in fashion for someone who has to exercise the virtues of frugality from the moment you understood the Five Classics? Or am I to understand that the Minister of Rites did not teach his daughter the basics of a Confucian education?”

I roll my eyes, and Jihoon laughs, a sound I have become frequently acquainted with, ever since that afternoon. He’s wearing a dark blue jacket over his white hanbok, a color he has worn the most since I met him for the first time. “Just answer the question, please.”

“You should pay me more respect, you know, since I am your teacher,” Jihoon sighs, “yes, I do like blue, in fact, I wear it all the time—what are you doing?”

I had been listening intently, but I was not going to tell him that, “I was just listening.”

He scowls, “You’re very annoying, has anyone ever told you that?”

“All the time, actually, they can’t seem to get enough of telling me off,” I say, my voice a tad bit too sharp for normal conversation, and he retreats, “Never mind, I have come to the realization that I do not know you at all. If I am to respect you as my teacher, should I not know at least some details about you?”

He raises an eyebrow, “Need I remind you that you threatened me to teach you, using my father’s name?”

“Not that,” I wave, “you know, the little things. The details.”

“I’m not going to tell you details about my life.”

“Nothing? Not even about any ladies that you might be courting?”

He stares at me, and it is very strange, how his eyes resemble a cat I used to feed when I was a child, wary, as though I am going to find out all his weaknesses, “Why do you want to know so much about my love life?”

And really, why did I want to know?

“Just wondering if I should be on the lookout for any angry woman accosting me in the marketplace, demanding that I stay away from her beloved,” I reply, and he scowls again, “I’m being serious!”

“No, there aren’t. And even if there were, why would I tell you?”

“You’re no fun at all,” I grumble, “at least tell me something silly.”

“Like?” It’s funny, how he is on edge, even at a normal question like this, “I don’t have a birth flower.”

“At least tell me your favorite one, then,” I grin, “if you want to know, my birth flower is the daisy. It is said to be a symbol of a pure heart.”

He snorts, “Pure heart? I would take it up with the fortune-teller. You are one of the most aggravating people I know. Pure heart?”

“You’re avoiding the question,” I roll my eyes.

Jihoon sighs “If you have to know, my favorite flower is the barberry. They bloom even in the worst of winters, and I’d like to think I am that sort of person.”

“It symbolizes skill if you want to know.”

“I did not.”

I groan, before picking up my qin, “I’ve been improving at this, haven’t I?”

“You sound less horrible than you did before,” Jihoon acquiesces that much. “You are a genius at the gayageum; I don’t know why you must insist on playing the qin is beyond me. Instead of breaking your back to learn the one thing that you hate so much, just focus your energies on honing the skills that you already have. It is rare to see someone so talented at the gayageum outside a gisaeng house. You have all the talent in the world to be proficient at this one instrument, and yet, you are here, taking classes from me, in order to appease your fiance’s family. Why are you doing this to yourself?”

“I will answer that question another day,” I reply, trying my very best to remain nonchalant, “not today, I am afraid.”

—

I have been avoiding my father ever since that night when I eavesdropped on his conversation with the War Minister. Try as I might, I cannot look him in the eye anymore, not when I know the exact dimensions of my identity as his daughter. This is no longer her home. I have been raised for this since I was a child, but knowing that your father no longer considers you as a part of his household, or that the family you have known for all your life is no longer yours, is a bitter pill to swallow for anyone.

This is why it is a surprise to see my father, the Minister of Rites, walk into my room right as I put the final touches of a small embroidered daisy on a piece of blue silk. The door slides open, and my father steps into the room, dressed casually, with his wire hat high on his forehead. I scramble, setting aside my

sewing and offering him my seat in front of the silk screen. It is not even a conscious decision, my feet move of their own accord, forcing me to sit across my father as he takes his seat. There is a book open on the varnished table, a study on how to play the guqin. I have not managed to read more than three pages.

“It is wonderful to see you so applied to your studies,” Father says, looking approvingly at the book, “I have heard you play these past few weeks. You have managed to improve a great deal indeed.”

“Thank you, Father.” I bow my head, “I have been practicing my best not to let our family down.”

“Of course, of course,” he shakes his head, “the War Minister, along with his son, will visit next month, to finalize the preparations for the wedding. I hope you will be able to maintain the honor of this family.”

“I shall try my very best, Sir.” I reply, “I shall play for the Minister of War, as requested.”

“It is not a request,” he says, “the honor of this family depends on you being able to make a prosperous match, one that will ensure the social standing of your family and your fiance’s, as you were raised to do. It is your filial duty.”

“Yes, Father.”

He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, steadying himself, “While you might think this marriage is disadvantageous to you, this ensures the survival of this family. Your brother and sisters are depending on you to make this marriage work.”

“My oldest sister is one of the concubines of the King,” I reply, “I rather doubt that we are in any danger of survival, given that my oldest sister is the mother of a princess.”

“The birth of a princess to a concubine is nothing to be proud of!” my father slams a palm onto the desk, “if you had any sense of political knowledge, you would know that. All we have to show for our efforts is a weak slip of a girl who will not survive beyond her first five years!”

“I’m afraid you are talking disrespectfully about a princess of Joseon, Father,” I say, calm enough for my voice to remain steady in a display of impressive brashness. “Even if you are the grandfather of the Princess, speaking ill of her could be tantamount to treason. She is the daughter of one of the primary consorts of the King, chosen directly from the gantaek.”

My father sighs, pushing the conversation away from my sister, “Do not forget about your duties as the daughter-in-law of the Minister of War.”

“And live as the meek wife of a man who will never be faithful to me?” I cannot help myself now, and the words come tumbling out of me, sharper than anything I have ever said to my father, the man who raised me, “Is that the life you want me to live? You, of all people, should know about the character of the Minister of War, and how his third son behaves in society.”

“How do you know about the Minister of War or his third son?”

“Everyone knows!” I throw up my hands, “everyone knows. Everyone who comes to my house and knows about my marriage, tells me about their behavior. The Minister of War sent away his son because he could not stand the sight of him, and his third son is no better! Even I, a person with no contact with outside society, even I am aware of who my fiance is. And yet, you choose to ignore everything and push me into this marriage, when you know I shall be unhappy at the very best, and mistreated at the worst. Is that what you want? To force me into—”

I hear the sound of it before I can feel the pain, but it spreads soon enough, stinging across my left cheek, and I turn my attention to my father, whose hand is still raised, “—you want to force your daughter into servitude?”

“You will cease those thoughts at once!” his hand is still raised, “You will be married to the third son of the Minister of War because we need his political power to stay alive. You will play the part of the dutiful daughter, and you will provide his son with an heir because that is what you have been born to do. No more talk of who the Minister is or who his son is. Prepare for your wedding.”

“You cannot do this to me.” I whisper, swaying at the spot where I stand, “I am your child, you cannot do this to me.”

“I’ve raised you with all the freedoms you should have been given, because of your station, but do not forget your purpose.” He runs a hand over his face, “I should have married you off as soon as I could have, instead of waiting around for the Minister of War to make a proper decision.”

And with that, he walks out of the room, leaving me standing in the middle of an empty space, wondering how long I have before everything goes to hell.

“Miss,” Songhwa runs into the room, “I heard shouting.”

“Never mind that, Songhwa,” I wave away my thoughts, “there is much left to do. Will the seamstresses finish the ceremonial dress by the wedding? Who’s making my wedding dress? The preparations have to be perfect, Songhwa, you know this is the only time I will get to have a wedding.” I laugh at that last sentence, “never mind that.”

“Miss,” Songhwa is insistent, “are you all right?”

“Perfect.” I mutter, picking up my needle and thread, “Just need to finish making my fiance an assorted number of trinkets for our good marital fortune, and I will be done.”

“Miss,” Songhwa sits down in front of me, “I know people, you know.”

I narrow my eyes, “Of course, you do. We all know people, Songhwa.”

“No,” she huffs, “I don’t mean that. I know people, my lady.”

“And who might these ‘people’ be?” I ask, smiling, “Don’t tell me you’re keeping in touch with bandits or something like that.”

“Well, you’re not entirely wrong.” She shrugs, “Do you want me to have him killed?”

“Killed—Songhwa, Might I remind you that violence is not always the answer?” I sputter, almost poking myself in the hand with my needle, “I do not want you to kill my fiance.”

“Fiance, fiance, I hate the way you speak about him!” Songhwa exclaims, “Every time you speak about him, it is as though it physically pains you to do so.”

“That's not important, Songhwa.” I protest.

“This has gone on for long enough,” She ignores me, “Ever since they pushed the wedding, you have been like this. The only time in the past year that you have truly felt alive, has been these past few weeks when you have been going to the gisaeng house to learn how to play. Do you really think that is normal, Miss?”

I sigh, abandoning my sewing, because she is not wrong. What do I even tell her? In a way, Songhwa is far more free than I could ever hope to become, simply because she has no family whose reputations and honor she has to protect. Over these past few weeks, I have been looking forward to learning the qin, merely because it has given me a sense of purpose beyond getting married and beyond having heirs.

That's wrong, someone whispers in my ears, that is not the only reason why you have been looking forward to those lessons.

“Miss,” Songhwa takes my silence as acceptance, “I don't like that man.”

“You don't like any man, Songhwa,” I laugh, “but who are you talking about?”

“Lee Jihoon. The man who teaches you the qin,” she mutters, looking more like her fourteen years, “I don't like him. He's not someone you should be associating with, given your status.”

“I did not think you were someone who cared much about status.”

“I do, it's just who we are, but even I can't ignore the fact that he is the one who makes you feel alive. You're wasting away here, and it pains me to see it.”

I don't say anything because what do I even say to her? She is right, as she always is because the subject of my marriage weighs heavily on my mind despite how much I prepare my mind for it. I no longer want anything to do with my marriage, and not just because of my fiance. My fiance could have been the Crown Prince, and I would still hate it as much as I do now. I hate that I no longer have any agency over my choices in life. I hate that I have to listen to my father arrange my marriage with a beast of a man simply because it will give him the boost he has so desperately wanted in his political career. I hate that I will have to spend the rest of my living days in a family whose head of household sent away one of his sons after the death of his mother, simply because he could not bear the sight of an illegitimate offspring. I hate it all. Most of all, I hate the fact that I cannot do anything to change my situation. I might want what Jihoon symbolizes with all my heart, but at the end of the day, I will have to shut my mouth and do what my parents want of me.

“Miss, should we talk to Madam?” Songhwa asks, “Maybe she could talk to the Master.”

“My mother has no interest in me beyond what purpose I can serve. She would tell me to suck it up and endure it, as other women have before me, and as women will, as long as there are men on this earth,” I laugh, “I’m not delusional, Songhwa. I know I am living a privileged life, something that is not afforded to a majority of women in this country. I just wish—that we had some freedom.”

“We have whatever they give us,” She replies, picking up my abandoned handkerchief, “were you embroidering the daisy on here?”

“And the barberry flower.” I groan, before realizing what I had just said.

“The barberry flower?” Songhwa narrows her eyes, “did not know you were so fond of perennial herbs this way.”

“Just saw a particularly beautiful sketch of it the other day, and wanted to put it in my handkerchief,” I lie, “nothing else.”

Songhwa sighs, “I just wish you were a bit more careful, Miss, I do not want to see you in trouble.”

—

Jihoon had not even taken his seat at the pavilion the next day, when I brandished my closed fist in front of him. “Close your eyes,” I say, “I have a present for you.”

He looks at me warily, and then at my closed fists, “I feel like this is a trap made specifically for you to punch my face.”

I scowl, “And here I am, trying to give you a token of my appreciation.”

Jihoon rolls his eyes, but complies with my request anyway, and I retrieve the finished handkerchief from inside my jacket, “Here you go!”

He opens his eyes, looking at the piece of cloth held in my hands, “What is this?”

“It's a handkerchief, obviously,” I roll my eyes, “look, I even embroidered your favorite flower on there, just because you told me.”

“I do not remember asking you to make me a handkerchief,” Jihoon says, dry as always, but he takes the handkerchief out of my hands, inspecting it, “there is a daisy on there. I never asked for a daisy.”

“I put it on every one of my embroidered pieces,” I say, offering an explanation, “it feels like a signature of mine.”

“Is this what you spend your time doing, instead of making your marriage dress?” He stares at me, “My god, you are going to look very ugly in your wedding dress.”

“Why would you say that?” I ask, irritated, “I am going to look very nice in my wedding dress. And as you can see, my embroidery skills are top-notch. If you must know, I have had one of the best educations that could be given to Joseon ladies.”

“The work is shabby, and I would not be using it at all,” Jihoon makes a show of inspecting the handkerchief again, “why did you even put the daisy in there? It looks so—plain.”

And really, I should not have done this. Because all I can feel right now is shame, white-hot shame spreading to the roots of my hair. Why did I even make a handkerchief for a man who does not want anything to do with me? Really, I feel so ashamed. I should not have even wanted anything.

“Give that back,” I hold out my hand, “if it is so offensive to you, then give it back. I’ll destroy it.”

Jihoon whips it out of my reach, “Who said I am going to give it back? You gave it to me, now it is mine.”

“I made it, so it is mine,” I grind out, “give it back to me.”

He stands up, leaning on the wooden railing of the pavilion, “Don’t think so, Princess. This was given to me, so now it is mine. You’ll get it back if you can take it from me.”

The nerve of this man. I stand up, walk over to where he stands, and hold out my hand, “Give it back, Lee Jihoon.”

Instead of giving my work back to me, he holds it high above both our heads, a taunting smile on his face, “Too bad you won’t be getting your way this time, Princess.”

I try and swipe it out of his hands, but he reacts faster, swinging it out of my reach, over and over again, until I am heaving from the exertion, the skirt of my hanbok twisted and crumpled, as I hold myself up against the railing, “are you quite done playing with my hard work?”

Jihoon says nothing, just twirls the cloth in his hand, “You made this in blue, too. How did you know I preferred this color? Tell me, Princess, are you in the habit of making elaborate presents for all your teachers?”

I grab hold of his wrist with one hand, my other gripping my handkerchief, “I do not like being made fun of, Lee Jihoon. Give back my work.”

“Did not realize your work was so important to you that you grabbed hold of my hand, Princess,” He smiles, and it is less than a smile, it is a smirk, almost, as if he enjoys the feeling of my hands on his skin. I drop my hand, but he catches it, holding my hand in his.

And—god. My skin is a furnace, and Jihoon is hellfire, his thumb moving slowly across the inside of my wrist, fingers leaving a trail of what can only be described as fire. I’ve never held a man’s hand before, never even thought of initiating touch with someone who is not my husband, but I want this.

“The Princess of the Minister of Rites, holding a man’s hand, who is not a relation, nor is her intended,” Jihoon smiles, “are you being influenced by this place, Princess?”

I move to extricate my hand from his grip, but he holds fast, still smiling, “It appears that the Plum Flower House has been having an effect on you, Princess.”

I should try to pull my hand out of his grip. If anyone sees me standing here, my hands in his, there will be hell to pay. My father cannot find out about the lessons. I am, for all intents and purposes, playing with fire.

But Jihoon’s fingertips are callused, and even if I try, I cannot move my hand out of his grip. “Unhand me right now,” I say, “How dare you be so familiar with me.”

“It feels as though you are the one being familiar with me, Princess,” He’s just smiling at me, “I am not holding on to your hand, you are the one who’s keeping it in my grasp.”

I pull my hand out of his, and he moves to grab it again, but stops halfway, “Why are you doing this, Princess?”

“What?” I stare at him.

“The handkerchief. The embroidered flowers. Holding my hand. You’re the princess of the Minister of Rites. Of all people, you should know better, then why are you acting like a flighty girl—”

“Because I’m tired!” It’s the same thing as with the gayageum the previous day, and Jihoon is the same, watching as my self-control snaps, “I’m tired of this lie, waiting for someone else to make my decisions, and live according to other’s wishes. I refuse to do it.”

Jihoon stares at me for a heartbeat, “And I am what, your idea of a petty rebellion? The illegitimate son of a minister, perfect for a plaything? Oh, you must have loved getting lessons from me and then going back to your perfect little home, waiting for your wedding, like the perfect little princess that you are.”

“Do not presume to know me,” I spit out, “I have never once thought of you as a plaything. Nor is this my petty rebellion.”

“Oh, but it is,” Jihoon seethes, “that is why you sought me out in the first place, didn’t you, princess? The illegitimate son of the Minister of War, your fiance’s half-brother. Do you even know how it feels, to see him walk in here and spend entire fortunes as though it means nothing? You will never know how it feels—”

I slap him across the face. The crack of it sends a bird skittering from a nearby tree, and Jihoon steps back, holding his cheek.

“It is my fiance who steps inside this brothel every night,” I say, “he is the man I am engaged to be married to, he is the man whose bed I will share until I die. And he is out here, dragging my name through the mud at every opportunity.” Jihoon says nothing, so I continue, “Everyone knows about our engagement, and everyone knows about his proclivities.”

“Did you grow up in the same household as him?” Jihoon sneers, “he was obnoxious to the point of being impossible to be around. He made every day of my childhood a living hell!”

“And he will do the same to me, for the rest of my life, too!” I snap, “At least the Minister of War sent you to Ming. At least you get to make your own identity apart from that of your birth. I will be someone’s daughter or someone’s wife, until the day I die. So, forgive me, if I tried to dream of something else.”

“Something else?”

It’s strange watching him look at me. The same way that he did when I played for him, and somehow different. The same look, as though he was seeing me for the first time. It is no longer uncomfortable, and I hold his gaze as he puts the puzzle together.

“You don’t mean that.” He whispers, stepping closer to me, so close that I can feel his breath on my skin, so close that if I reach out, I can kiss him, “Tell me you don’t mean that, Princess.”

“You have no idea what I mean,” my voice comes out in a strangled whisper, “You have no idea what I want.”

“Tell me.” His voice is a ghost; chasing me, “Tell me what you want, Princess.”

If I want, I can kiss him right now. I can take a nebulous hold of my father’s honor, values, and morals and crush it in the palm of my hand. If I want to. The man standing next to me, with his skin flushed and with his eyes that contained a whole universe within them, this man can be my salvation. If I took a step forward. One step would do. Even if it means nothing, I will be free.

Unfortunately, I am a coward of the highest measure, and so I step away, shaking my head, “Think about it, Lee Jihoon. Think about what I might want from you.”

—

That night, when the lights were snuffed out, I think of the way Jihoon had looked at me as if he could not believe his eyes or his luck, as if I was the only person who mattered in this world. His skin flushed, his eyes glistening. If I had stepped forward, he would have reciprocated; even I could understand that. He knew I wanted him, and on some level, he wanted me too. And whatever form my desire would take, he would have followed my lead.

But why do you want him, a voice asks in my mind, why is it that you are going to such reckless lengths, for the mere illegitimate son of your fiance’s father? Someone who would not have even been on your radar, and yet, here he is, seducing you to dream of a life away from this place.

Bigger than all these questions is one that I ask myself every day: where will this end?

—

“There is someone here to see you, Miss,” Songhwa says, while I am in the middle of sewing my wedding dress, “he says it is important.”

“I will be taking no visitors, Songhwa,” I say, not taking my eyes off of my work, “I cannot meet any man while still unmarried.”

“Miss,” Songhwa pleads, and I look up at her, standing awkwardly in the middle of my room, hands twisting in the fabric of her skirt, “it’s—”

“Who is it, Songhwa?” I ask, already on edge, “There are very few people who would reduce you to that state.”

“It’s the youngest son of the Minister of War, Miss,” Songhwa says, eyes shifting, “he says he wants to meet you.”

I sigh, “My father?”

“He has gone to the palace, Miss.”

“Mother?”

“Tea, with the Left State Councillor’s wife.”

“Very well,” I stood up, abandoning my sewing, “take him to my father’s room.”

My father’s room stands in the Eastern corner of the outside yard, its roofs higher than the rooms in the inner courtyard where we live. I cross the yard quickly before the man who is supposed to be married to me even steps a foot into the yard. Inside the room, Songhwa has hung a sheer curtain from the rafters to allow us to have a conversation and still obscure my face. I suppress a laugh. All these measures against a man who is supposed to be my husband. What is the point of it anyway? If he is going to see my face after a few months, it does not make sense for him to be separated from me before the wedding.

He enters through the door, his hat obscuring his face, and I have the distinct feeling that I am not the only one who is maintaining a disguise against the other person. Songhwa sets down a platter of tea in front of us, and I gesture for him to help himself.

“Is it not custom for a woman to serve her fiance?” He asks, his voice almost the same as his half-brother’s, except it’s sharper, like an open sword, brandished right at my throat, “I thought that the daughter of the Minister of Rites would be learned in all the arts of how to serve one’s husband.”

“You are not yet my husband, my lord,” I reply, “and I am not obliged to serve you tea in my own household.”

“Very well,” He leans back, observing me through the curtain, “when they told me I had to go meet my fiancee, I did not expect to meet such a spirited woman, of all people.”

“How long have you been in Hanyang, my lord?” I ask mildly, “Was it your mother who told you to pay me a visit, or your father?”

“Neither of them, actually,” He smirks, and I can see his face vaguely through the curtain, and it is a cruel one, hard and rugged all the same, but cruel, in a way that makes a cold sweat break out across my skin, “if you knew who told me to pay you a visit, I do not think you would like it a lot.”

“Was it one of the ladies at the Plum Flower House, my lord?” The words come out of my mouth before I can stop myself, and his face darkens, the undercurrent of which is a dark thing I do not know about. But he does nothing, merely sits more comfortably in his seat, observing me.

“I was not aware that you had such extensive contacts, Princess.” He says smoothly, “do the whispers at Plum Flower House reach the hallowed halls of the Minister of Rites’ home? I did not think so.”

I sit, transfixed. Anyone else in my position would have their gazes trained on him, of all the transgressions he has committed against me, but all I can think about is that word.

Princess.

Only one person called me that, had called me that, until a minute ago. And now, there is a strange man, in my home, in my father’s room, using the same term of mock endearment, except his eyes do not have any warmth behind them.

“It is common knowledge, if one puts in a little effort, my lord,” I manage to reply, “Hanyang does not afford great people to have secrets.”

“They afford people like you to keep their secrets, you mean,” he replies, “because try as I might, I could not find anything about you apart from what I already knew.”

“That is because I do not have anything to hide, my lord,” I say, as smoothly as I can.

He says nothing, simply observing me from his seat.

There are a lot of similarities, if I look closely. There should be, since they’re born of the same father, but this man is miles apart from the Lee Jihoon that I know. Jihoon doesn’t have the same cruel turn of mouth, doesn’t have that same way of sitting that can only come from a lifetime of an aristocratic upbringing. His smiles might be wary, but they are freer, with no hidden intent underneath them. He sits upright, almost afraid of his seat being taken away. In comparison, this man, his half-brother, sits in the main room of a stranger's house of a stranger, as if he owns it. It makes me uncomfortable having him here. I do not want to sit with him any longer. Not here, not now, not in the future.

And yet I cannot run to Jihoon anymore, because what do I actually want?

Tell me you don’t mean that, Princess. He had looked so small at that moment, begging me to say something else, to say that I did not want anything to do with him, to push him away. For a moment, it had seemed to me as though he was begging me to walk away. I should not have stepped away.

Stop this wishful thinking, I scold myself, focus on how to get this man out of here.

“No secrets, you say?” He finally breaks the silence, “I have found that everyone, no matter how pure they might look on the outside, harbors at least one secret.”

I roll my eyes behind the curtain, something which goes unnoticed, “My lord, I am sorry, but we shall have to end this conversation here,” I stand up, waving to the door, “you will be shown out of the house by someone.”

I had expected him to fight me on this, to stand his ground and refuse to leave until he met my father, but he didn't say anything, just stood up, looking at me with those unsettling eyes, and turned around. Before sweeping out of the room in his expensive pale pink silk hanbok, he looks at me, through the screen, “I look forward to having you in my home, Princess.”

And he’s gone. Leaving me standing in the middle of the room behind a silk screen, uncomfortable and wishing I had never really agreed to this marriage in the first place. No, even beyond marriage, it makes me wish I had never been born in this world in the first place. Not the daughter of a minister, not someone who had to deal with the endless noise of honor and dignity and respect since the moment she could walk.

I lay my head on the pillow, and I allow myself to dream of a better world.

It’s a habit of mine, dreaming. Useless things—a better dinner, a free day, moments of stolen happiness in between buying trinkets at the market, I dream of them. On the day my grandmother died, the old dragon of a woman, I dreamt of a white canvas, white as far as I my eyes could see. There was nothing else in that landscape, save myself. This time, the dream is different.

This is a different Joseon—one without all the differences between social classes, one without the restrictions imposed on women, a space where I can think without being condemned for it. Somewhere where I don’t have to imagine a hundred threats before taking a single step. A place where, if I met Jihoon, I would be able to stand in front of him, without the chasm of societal rules separating us. A place where I can look into his eyes and tell him that I love him, without fearing for both our lives.

Maybe this is not our time.

Maybe.

“I’m leaving,” I call out to no one in particular, slipping out from the back door of the house, still in my expensive hanbok that makes people look at me as I half-run, half-walk towards the thrice-damned brothel that landed me in this position in the first place. Brightly-dressed women throw strange looks at me, walking past them, so obviously noble that it would take a miracle for this to not be reported to my father by tomorrow morning.

I grabbed hold of a young servant girl, clearly new to the place, “show me where Lee Jihoon is.”

She opens her mouth to say something, but I’ve moved on, to the same pavilion where I had met him for the first time, because he’s playing the same song he played on that day. I ran up a few steps, “You.”

Jihoon stops, abrupt, but not discordant, a picture of wide-eyed innocence, “Princess.”

I pause. Now that I am here, standing in front of him, words have apparently decided to fail me, keeping me rooted to the spot, looking back at Jihoon’s eyes, expectant and warm, as if he’s steeling himself against a harsh scolding.

“I was not joking.” I manage to say after a while, and immediately want to kick myself.

“What?”

I sigh, pushing through the shame, “I did not joke, the previous day. I’m still not joking. I love—”

It would be lying, if I said that I never imagined anything. I’ve read enough romance novels and bribed enough maids to know some things. But this—I had never imagined this. Jihoon’s mouth is gentle, hesitant against mine, as if he’s scared I’m not real.

He pauses, coming up for breath, “I’m sorry, Princess. I didn’t want to hear you saying you love someone else. Not when I’m here in front of you.”

“You didn’t have to be scared,” I mutter, holding onto him, “you are the only one I would cross a line for.”

His eyes widen, and finally, after what seems like a lifetime of waiting, Jihoon smiles at me, radiant, blinding, something that makes me hold desperately on to the belief that we will survive this. That my wedding does not loom on the horizon, that we can spend an eternity here, amidst the falling cherry blossoms, enveloped in each other. I love him in a human way, desperately, because I have never known love, not like this. If I had time, I would learn to love him in a softer way, perhaps, where my hands are bloodied and bruised from trying to hold on too hard, and I can map the exact way the errant hair falls over his face, framing his forehead, the smile of his, one that I have grown to crave.

But we don’t have time, and my hands are bloody.

“My wedding is in two weeks,” I say, and his face pales, “I cannot evade the man who is going to be my husband.”

“I know him well.”

“Then you should know how cruel he is.”

“Yes, I know, but—” Jihoon sighs, and grasps my hand, “Run away with me.”

I stare at him, “And when the Minister of War comes knocking on my father’s door and demanding his dues, then what? Who will pay up?”

“Your father!” his anger is palpable, “The man who has sold you off to the cruelest man and his equally horrible son, that man will pay for his sins! Let him!”

“He’s still my father, Jihoon.” I step away from his embrace, “even if he did all those things, he is still my father, the person who raised me all my life. I cannot simply give up on the memories because of his decision regarding my marriage.”

“Then will you marry him? The man who used to be my worst nightmare as a child, who is still the worst nightmare of the courtesans here? Do you know how many of the women here spend a night with him, only to be found bruised and beaten the next morning? And you will willingly go to his bed, have his heir?”

“I don’t know all that!” I yell at him, and he stops, dumbstruck, “I just know that I don’t want to spend the rest of my life knowing that I let love slip out of my fingers because I was a fool for honor. If I could, I would have spent the rest of my life with you, but I cannot, and therefore I have to make the most of my life while it is still mine.”

Jihoon stares at me, “Two weeks, then? Is that all the time you will be mine for?”

I sigh, “Yes. Two weeks. Then I will be married, and I will be no one’s anymore.”

“But never mine.” His regretful tone spills over into my hands, and I can feel the tears spilling onto my hands, “Princess, I think I’ll die if you’re only mine once and not forever.”

“You’re not allowed to die, Lee Jihoon.” I smile, “Write a song for me.”

“For the gayageum?”

“A song we can play together. For the gayageum and the guqin.” I reply, “Even if I cannot be there with you for this life, there will be a song for us.”

He nods, wrapping me up in his arms, “There will be a song for us, Princess.”

—

Happiness is fleeting. It is incandescent, and it is fleeting, and I will hold on to it for as long as I can.

“Show me the song,” I say, curled up against Jihoon’s chest, the soft rays of the dawn sunlight illuminating the room, “you’ve been working on that song for a week now, I want to see how it has shaped up.”

“I’ll give it to you on your wedding day,” Jihoon replies, yawning, “Oh, look, it’s almost dawn. I should be going.”

“So soon?” I sit up, “The sun is barely out, and you’re leaving me.”

“Princess,” Jihoon pulls me close, “I don’t want anyone to see me here. And that means I have to be out of here before anyone sees.”

“And leave me here to do embroidery on my wedding dress,” I grumble, “I’m better off making a shroud for myself.”

He says nothing, and leaves. Although it’s required for Jihoon to leave me alone, I hate it. I hate the fact that I have to pretend to be excited for this farce of a wedding, when my heart belongs to another person. I hate the fact that my father has never once bothered to see me for who I am, instead seeing me for the political advantage I could bring. Amidst all this, I am simply a pawn in my family’s schemes. To be bought and sold off to whoever pays the highest price. In this case, the Minister of War.

“Miss,” Songhwa steps inside the room with a bowl of water, “I’ve brought water for you to wash your face.”

“I don’t want it,” I grumble, “what will happen if I don’t wash my face?”

“You’ll hate it.” Songhwa says, far too gently for my liking, “here, it’s warm enough that you like it.”

The water is indeed warm, far too warm for anyone else, but I like it this way, and Songhwa wipes my face with a soft linen towel, before saying, “I saw that man, this morning.”

I pause, “Which man?”

“Lee Jihoon,” she replies, still calm, “he was leaving from the back gate.”

I say nothing.

“Miss,” Songhwa says, softly, “I know you don’t like this marriage, but there is no time for you to—”

“Don’t, Songhwa.”

She stops. It's the first time I’ve used this tone with her.

I take a breath, before opening my mouth again, “I know what I have to do, but for the one week that I have left—let me—let me have this one thing, Songhwa. I’ll have to give it up anyway, once I get married. Until I step into that home, let me have this one thing, please.”

“Miss,” I turn to look at her, “I will not tell anyone. You can be assured of that, at least.”

I don’t know what to say. And what do I have to say to her, the girl who has served me for so long? The tears come hard and fast, and I cling to her sleeves as I cry enough to drench her jacket. I hate this place, and yet I cannot manage to break myself out of it. This is a prison of my own making, a prison I have unfortunately fallen in love with.

“Miss,” Songhwa shakes me lightly, “you know you’re getting married soon, right?”

I nod. I hate everything about time, I wish I could stop it.

“Have you been laying with him?”

“Songhwa!” Even through my tears, I burst out an indignant squawk, “how—how dare you suggest that!”

She shrugs, “I asked a question.”

“Do you want my first time being with a man to be with that—that brute of a man?”

“All men are brutes, my lady,” Songhwa tucks a lock of my hair behind my ear, “just in different ways. I’m merely asking, do you know why you’re going there?”

“To make him an heir,” I say, so quietly that Songhwa leans forward to catch my words, “the Minister of War wants an heir from me.”

“And that man is someone’s son, I presume.”

I squint my eyes, the sunlight too glaring for my eyes, “How did you know?”

Songhwa rolls her eyes, “I’m not blind, you know. Even an old man could see the resemblance between him and your fiance. The question I want to ask is, did you approach him knowing this fact?”

“Yes.”

Songhwa sighs, “Miss, are you determined to kill me?”

“Songhwa, it’s not as bad as you think.”

“Of course it is as bad as I think!” Songhwa paces around the room, clutching at her hair, “now if they find out you have been having—”

“Songhwa!” I yell, “there could be people listening!”

“There are always people listening, Miss, you told me this,” she sits down on the blanket, “what if you end up with child?”

“Child?” I squawk, unladylike, “what do you mean by that?”

“This is not the first time I’ve seen him come out of your room at an ungodly hour,”” Songhwa gives me an unimpressed look, “you think I’m the only person who has seen him walk out of this house?”

I groan, and Songhwa presses on, “So, I’m asking, what would you do if you found out tomorrow, that you were with his child?”

“Better his than that man’s,” I reply instantly, “if I was having that man’s child, I would kill it and then kill myself.”

Songhwa nods, grim lines set into the corners of her mouth, “You know what you have to do, right?”

“Just pretend,” I sigh, “yeah, a week from now, I have to pretend that the thought of being that man’s wife does not turn my stomach.”

“I’ll help you, Miss,” Songhwa says, “whatever they say, I do not like that man, and I will not let you have his child.”

—

Two days until the wedding.

I put the finishing touches on my wedding dress, holding it up to the light. It’s a repurposed hwarot, previously owned by my grandmother, and I’ve adorned it with embroidery all throughout the fabric. Hidden amidst cranes and duck medallions, are flowers, flowers that I have embroidered overnight, small, hardy bunches of barberry flowers, entwined with daisies. Over and over again. The thread shimmers in the lamplight, almost invisible unless one pays particular attention.

“Is that the dress?” Jihoon’s voice breaks my concentration, “you did look royally pissed off when observing it. Did they make you do the embroidery yourself?”

“I’ve spent hours doing this godforsaken embroidery,” I groan, “it’s a pretty old dress. Belonged to my grandmother.”

“Explains why it is so gaudy.” He smiles, and I scowl, “well, it looks very beautiful.”

“It was already beautiful to begin with,” I replied, “do you want to see me wear it?”

Jihoon walks over to me, lightly kissing the tip of my nose, “I doubt it would be appropriate to let anyone else but your husband see you in your wedding dress.”

“The entire neighborhood is going to see me in my dress,” I grumble, “besides, I want to marry you. If it were up to me, you would be the one I’d be taking as my husband, not him.”

Jihoon smiles, something permanently broken in that gesture, and wordlessly slides off my jacket to pull on the wedding dress in its place. It’s heavy, weighed down with endless silk, the sleeves are too long, and I don’t know how to walk about wearing it, but he looks at me as though I hung the moon in the sky for him. How do I leave this man behind? In two days, I will marry his half-brother, a man known less for his name, and more for his cruelty. And in his place, I will have to leave behind this man with stars in his eyes, this man who would do anything for me, this man who holds my heart in his hand, a bloody, mangled mess that I willingly handed over to him.

“Beautiful,” He whispers, “I love you, Princess.”

“Oh, Jihoon,” My tears are salty on both our lips, “I love you too.”

This is not our time, I think to myself, as Jihoon pulls me closer and silences any other complaints I might have, this is not our time.

—

Night before the wedding.

I stare at myself, my blurry reflection blinking at myself from the polished metal. What am I even doing here? The door is open, I should run away, I can run away, far from this place, to a mountain town, where Jihoon and I would live, tending to our crops, playing our instruments in the night. I do not want to stay here, I do not want to have a wedding night with a man who is to be my torturer, I do not want to spend the rest of my life with him.

I stand up, stuffing my clothes and my jewelry into a cloth bag, pulling on my traveling clothes. Expensive hairpins, rings made of jade from the empire, everything bundled up with silk hanboks, tied together in a haphazard pile. I need to leave. Right now.

“Are you going somewhere?” Songhwa asks, closing the door behind her, “I’ve brought a guest.”

I look up, frantic, “Songhwa, I cannot—I cannot go through with this wedding. I need to go, I need to go to Jihoon. Right now—” and it is Jihoon who steps out from behind Songhwa, wearing a pained expression on his face, tears threatening to fall, “—Songhwa, let me go to him, please.”

Jihoon rushes to my side, wrapping me up in his arms, as I sob, all over the front of his robe, “Please, Princess.”

“I cannot do this, Jihoon,” I whisper, “How will I stand there and take someone else as my husband when my heart belongs to you?”

“Miss,” Songhwa breaks the tense thread of silence, “I don’t know how to give you a present for your wedding. But I can give you one thing.”

She sets down a flask in front of us, ceremonial wine, and a simple gourd, and says, “you don’t have to be married in front of a whole house of people to be married, Miss. I haven't done anything for you, let me at least do this.”

I stare at her, blinking once, twice, before it dawns on me what she wants us to do. If the courtyard of this house is to be the execution ground of your dreams, let this room be its final refuge, her eyes seem to say, I’ll help you have this one night for you, my lady.

The wine is sweet, as it goes down my throat, and Jihoon drinks after me, never once letting his eyes drift. He knows, as well as I, what we are doing. The world will be angry with us, I know, but even as I bow down to Jihoon, my forehead touching the warm wood of my floor, I cannot bring myself to care about the world. The world will hate me, but I cannot look at the world when he is in front of me.

“If there is a next life, Lee Jihoon,” I say, as he wipes the corner of my mouth with the handkerchief I had given him, “I hope we can meet there.”

“Promise me you won't forget me, Princess?”

“I’d remember you across lifetimes, Jihoon,” I smile, kissing his knuckles, “even if all you do is hurt me, I would like to meet you again.”

This is my wedding night, I tell myself, as Jihoon extinguishes the lamp, no matter what happens tomorrow, this is the night I want to honor. All my lessons of honor and dignity have led me to this moment; in this moment, Jihoon is mine, and he is the highest honor I can dream of possessing.

“You’ve rendered me entirely useless, Princess,” Jihoon says, in the end, when I am desperately clinging on to him to commit this warmth to memory, “I used to be useful before, you know. Now all I can think about is you.”

I say nothing, merely cling to him harder. If he notices, he does not say anything.

Before I drift off to fitful, dreamless sleep, and Jihoon leaves my side for the last time, I wonder to myself, if the gods approve of this union, they will give me a child. A child that does not belong to the man I am supposed to marry, a child of my own, who will grow up to be just like their father.

This is not our time. Maybe in another life.

—

Epilogue

Jihoon steps down from the carriage in front of the house that he had left as a child, vowing to never return. And yet, here he was, raising a hand to knock on the door.

He can barely knock once before the door heaves open, and it is the young girl who used to be her maid, Songhwa, looking at him with tears in her eyes, and for a second, he fears he is too late, too late to see her face for one final time, too see the spark in her eyes that had entranced him since the moment she stepped foot into his space.

“How is—” He manages to stammer out half his sentence, when she grabs him by the cuff, and drags him to a small chamber across the yard, standing separate from the rest of the house. Jihon resists the urge to laugh. So much seclusion, even though they have sent her off to the hills to give birth by herself.

“The man thinks it’s his child,” Songhwa says, gathering warm water and strips of boiled cotton in her arms, “both the lady and I know better, of course.”

Jihoon gapes at her, “You mean to say—”, but before he can finish his words, a low, pained groan reaches his ears, and then they are both running, into the humid room, where—

It's her.

After so many years, Jihoon cannot help but stop in his tracks, because she has always managed to render him speechless. Even now—emaciated, in pain, and clearly dying, she still manages to look more beautiful than even the famed beauties of Ming.

“Princess,” He whispers, stepping into the room, “you’re still as beautiful as I first saw you.”

“Flirt.” She laughs, and immediately curls up into herself, groaning in pain.

“Sir,” Songhwa hands him a bowl of cotton cloth, boiled and cleaned, “she has a fever, you’ll need to cool her down.”

“No doctor?” He asks, placing a cold compress on her forehead, her pale forehead that now had a sheen of death on it, “did they leave her here to die?”

“The doctor is coming,” Songhwa clarifies, working quickly, “my lady, it’s almost over.”

“Ugh,” she groans in his arms, and he can see how her collarbones rise, stark against her skin, and he knows why Songhwa has called him here. She’s dying. She has no hope of surviving this childbirth, and she’s going to die. In his arms, as he looks on, hopeless.

“Miss,” Songhwa urges, tearing up strips of cloth with her bloody hands, “miss, just one push, please, miss.”

“I can’t,” she breathes, her head falling back onto his arms, “I really can’t, Songhwa. I’ll die.”

“You won’t die,” He says firmly, “you can do it, Princess. I know you can.”

She shakes her head, convulsing violently, screaming bloody murder, but Jihoon has the ocean rushing in his ears, and all he can envision is a different reality; the two of them, with their own little family, in a place far, far away from here. He would never let go of her ever again. Please let me hold on to her, he had begged on their wedding night, I don’t want to ever let anything go again.

All of a sudden, she breathes heavily, and the room lights up, with a newborn’s first cry. Songhwa holds the baby in her arms, deftly swaddling it, and places it in her arms. The cries of a newborn echoes throughout the room, and Jihoon—

Jihoon cannot look at anyone but her.

Emaciated, she looks so small in his arms, a far cry from the woman who had captivated him, but he finds himself arrested by her gaze anyway, looking at her—at their child, with so much love he does not think there is a vessel big enough to contain it.

“It’s a boy, my lady,” Songhwa says, and she nods, “congratulations.”

Her breaths are coming fast and hard now, a sign of her diminishing life, and Jihoon hates himself, hates the world that has made her this way, but most of all, he hates this child, who took her so cruelly from him. He has so much to tell her, so many things to do for her. He wants her to live a long life, to live a full life. Except life is fleeting, and she is dying, right in front of him.

She looks up at him, the same bright gaze, glazed over with the pain of childbirth, “Name him.”

Jihoon stares. Even now, even now, when she is dying, all she can think about is her child. Their child, if the gods were so merciful. At this moment, he hates the gods.

“He’s your son, Princess,” he replies softly, undoing the heavy braid that must have been so painful for her, “name him for the both of us.”

She nods, cradling the crying infant, “Woo-ju. The universe.”

The universe. A fitting name, for a child who has had everything taken away from him the moment he was born. “Woo-ju,” Jihoon nods, “our universe, Princess.”

She nods, and before he can say anything in reply, make a joke to lighten the mood, her body begins convulsing, her breaths coming rapid and shallow. The beginning of the end, Jihoon thinks, an end he cannot do anything save endure.

Songhwa moves faster than him, picking up the crying infant from her arms and walking out of the room. She says nothing, but Jihoon knows, can hear her sob outside of the door. It’s a small mercy that Songhwa has gifted him, of being close to her in the final moments of her life.

“Princess,” He lightly taps her cheek, and her eyes open, “Princess, I made a song for you.”

“A song,” she says, voice faint, “play it for me sometime, Lee Jihoon.”

“I’ll play it for you tomorrow, Princess,” He sobs, holding her close, “you’ll be fine, you’ll be fine.”

“Jihoon.”

He looks up at her face, the same one that had held so much pain and love in it, “Lee Jihoon. In my next life, if you meet me—”

“Yes, Princess?”

“Come say hello to me once.” She smiles, “so I can tell you how much I love you, one more time.”

He sobs, “You’re delusional if you think I am ever letting go of you, Princess.”

She laughs, and oh how much he has craved to hear it, the same carefree, careless laughter of her youth, “I love you, Lee Jihoon.”

The sheets of music remain in his pocket until the sunrise.

—

Songhwa comes in minutes later, to find them both curled up within each other, Jihoon’s sobs tapering into quiet whimpers as he holds her close. She says nothing, cries silently as she braids her lady’s hair for one last time.

Jihoon tucks in a handkerchief inside her jacket, before he leaves the house.

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