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thatfeelinwhenyou · 2 days ago

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SAFE & SOUND — part 5

Navigating one year post-apocalypse, when the dead began to walk and the living proved to be no better, you decide that trust is a luxury you can no longer afford. But after a run-in with a group of seven peculiar survivors, you learn that there are bigger problems than just the undead roaming the streets. You also start to wonder if there’s more to survival than simply staying alive.

word count: 23.7k

a/n: there's a lot of lore dumping in this one, please read this when you're 100% awake or you'll probably not understand a single thing. additionally, i must preface by saying that this part is all kinds of fucked up. i really urge you to read with discretion. REALLY.

MASTERLIST

People.

They’re dangerous—more dangerous than the dead. It’s a fact that’s been drilled into your mind, reinforced over and over by the world you’ve come to know.

Once stripped down to their core, people will cling to any semblance of purpose. Not just in the sense they'd do anything to keep themselves alive. But they’ll latch onto whatever scraps of hope they can find—convincing themselves that a crumbling building, a barricaded corner of a burning city, is worth dying for if it means they don’t have to face the one truth that terrifies them most: that nothing is safe. That nothing lasts.

But now you understand something even more unsettling.

The only thing more dangerous than people are people with something to lose.

That’s what Jungwon is. That’s what he’s become. He’s not just surviving anymore—he’s holding onto these people, this place, like a lifeline. Like it’s all that stands between him and the abyss.

And that’s what makes him dangerous.

You don’t keep your distance because you think you’re smarter or stronger than him. You do it because you’re afraid. Afraid of the weight he carries every day, the weight of responsibility, of leadership, of knowing that every decision could mean life or death for the people who trust him.

And maybe that’s why being alone feels safer. Because if you’re on your own, you don’t have to deal with the messy, volatile nature of human emotions. You don’t have to shoulder the weight of someone else’s hope or risk letting them down.

You glance around the camp, taking in the barricades, the makeshift beds, the worn-out faces of people who are holding onto hope with everything they’ve got. You’ve already done enough for them.

You’ve gotten them the medicine they need. You’ve made sure they have enough food and water to keep going for however long the heavens permit them to stay alive. You’ve fought alongside them, bled alongside them, and given them more of yourself than you ever intended to.

But that’s it. You’ve reached your limit. You don’t have to hold yourself back for their kindness anymore. You don’t owe these people anything more than you owe yourself. And what you owe yourself—more than anything—is your chance at survival. And with that renewed mindset, you steel yourself.

Quietly, you gather your things. You don’t need much. Just what you can carry. The essentials—enough to keep you moving. Enough to keep you alive. Your hands tremble slightly as you pack, but you don’t stop. You’ve survived this long by knowing when to walk away.

And that’s exactly what you’ll do.

At this juncture, you have to walk away. Now. Before it’s too late. Before hope takes root in you too, and you lose the capacity to leave. You told yourself you’d do it once the immediate danger had passed. Once you were sure they were safe—at least for a little while. It seemed logical, practical. The right thing to do.

But now, standing here with that gnawing sense of dread in your gut, you realise that even that thought in itself was hope.

And hope is stupid.

You can’t stay. You won’t survive if you do—not just because of the imminent danger, but because of them. Because losing them would destroy you in ways the world never could.

The only thing more dangerous than people is people with something to lose.

And you have something to lose.

“I don’t want to see you lose yourself.” your own words echo in your mind, sharp and piercing. They’d felt like a knife to the chest when you said them, and they still do now. Because what you didn’t realise then is that it’s not just about Jungwon, or the group, or the rest stop. It’s about you. You’re afraid of losing yourself, of what you’d become if you stayed.

When you die—because everyone in this world eventually does—you only hope you can die as yourself. Human. Both physically and mentally.

It’s the one thing you’ve clung to since everything fell apart. The idea that, no matter how bad things got, you’d hold onto your humanity. You wouldn’t let the world take it from you. Because once that’s gone, what’s the point? What’s left of you then? A shell. A husk. Something that breathes but isn’t really alive.

You’ve seen it happen to others from the community building. People losing themselves, bit by bit, until there’s nothing left but desperation and violence. Until they become unrecognisable—barely different from the monsters they’re trying to survive. It’s why you’ve kept your distance, why you’ve chosen solitude time and time again.

Once you stay, once you put down roots, the danger will come for you. Because in this world, the danger never truly passes. It’s not something you can outrun or wait out. It’s relentless, always coming back, always finding new ways to haunt you. It’ll keep chasing you and every other survivor until it slowly, inevitably consumes you—or worse, you’ll have to stand there and watch it consume the people around you.

You’ll then risk losing yourself as their deaths start to carve pieces out of you, leaving nothing but jagged edges and hollow spaces.

And you can’t afford to lose yourself like that.

Not to them. Not to hope.

Tonight, you’ll take the first watch, sit through the long, silent hours, and leave without waking anyone for their shifts. Just before the sun rises—before they stir, before they have a chance to notice you’re gone—you’ll disappear.

It’s the best time to disappear—when the world is caught in that liminal space between darkness and light. This way, they won’t be in any immediate danger. They’ll wake to the sun rising over the horizon, unaware of your absence—at least at first. It’ll give them time to adjust, to make plans without you. And it’ll be easier for you to convince yourself it’s for the best.

The thought repeats in your head like a mantra, though it does little to ease the ache in your chest. You pull your jacket tighter around yourself, trying to ward off the chill creeping under your skin. The others are tucked away in the convenience store, huddled in their sleeping bags. Jake is next to Jay, keeping an eye on his breathing. Sunoo and Heeseung are resting against a stack of supplies, their heads lolling to the side in exhaustion.

Climbing onto the roof of the rest stop to take up the watch, you’re greeted by a perfect view of the vast horizon. The landscape stretches endlessly before you, dark and quiet under the blanket of night. From here, you’ll be able to spot a threat from miles away—long before it reaches the camp.

The night air is still, save for the distant rustle of leaves. The barricade feels impenetrable for now, but you know better than to trust in fleeting security. Nothing in this world is permanent. Not safety. Not peace. And certainly not the fragile connections you’ve built with these people.

Your gaze drifts toward the campfire, where the flames flicker weakly in the dark. Jungwon sits there, motionless, the rifle resting across his lap. Sunghoon and Ni-ki are beside him, their quiet conversation dwindling as the fire dies down. But Jungwon hasn’t moved since you started your watch. His posture is tense but controlled, his gaze fixed on the flames.

You wonder what he’s thinking—if he’s still replaying the events of the day in his mind. If he’s questioning the choices he’s made. The burdens he carries are etched into the lines of his face, visible even in the dim moonlight.

A part of you wants to go to him. To say something. To apologise for what you’re about to do. But that would be cruel.

Instead, you sit in silence, letting the minutes crawl by as the night drags on. Every second feels like an eternity, your heartbeat loud in your ears. You keep your gaze on the horizon, but your thoughts keep pulling you back to Jungwon. To the people who’ve come to trust you enough to leave you on watch alone, unaware of what you’re planning.

Slowly, one by one, they start turning in for the night. Sunghoon is the first to get up, quietly disappearing into the convenience store beneath you. Then Ni-ki. But before he goes, he pauses, glancing up at you on the roof. His expression is soft, boyish in a way that reminds you just how young he is.

“Don’t forget to wake me for my shift,” he says quietly.

You don’t think you can trust yourself to speak without your voice betraying you, so you simply nod, managing a small, tight-lipped smile.

Ni-ki lingers for a moment, as though sensing something is off. But when you don’t say anything, he finally turns away, disappearing inside.

And then it’s just Jungwon.

He hasn’t moved. The fire has almost gone out now, leaving only embers glowing faintly in the dark. His silhouette is barely visible from where you sit, but you can still feel the ghost of his presence.

Another hour passes before you sense it—a subtle shift in the air, the faint crunch of footsteps retreating into the convenience store.

You glance toward the campfire. It’s nothing but darkness now, and Jungwon is gone.

You don’t even know how much time has passed when you notice it—the faintest hint of dawn creeping over the horizon. The dark sky softens to a deep grey, the first light of morning stretching across the landscape.

And you know. It’s time.

You descent from the rooftop quietly, careful not to make a sound. The camp is still, the soft snores of your companions the only indication of life. Your gaze lingers on each of them, committing their faces to memory.

Your feet move silently across the gravel, carrying you toward the gate. The path ahead feels both endless and final, the weight of your decision pressing heavier with each step. You push open the metal gate just small enough for you to slip through, pausing only to adjust the strap of your bag.

Freedom.

The word feels hollow as you take your first steps beyond the safety of the camp. The road stretches out before you, bathed in the soft glow of dawn. The world is vast and empty, and for the first time in a while, you’re completely alone.

But as you take another step, a voice cuts through the silence.

“Y/N.”

You freeze.

Slowly, you turn around, your heart hammering in your chest. Jungwon stands by the gate, his silhouette outlined against the rising sun. His rifle hangs loosely in his hand, but his posture is tense. His eyes meet yours, dark and unwavering.

“You’re leaving.” It’s not a question. It’s a statement—a quiet, resigned truth.

You swallow hard, your throat tightening painfully. There’s no point denying it. He’s always been able to read you too well.

“I thought you might. After everything… I knew you wouldn’t stay.” His voice is steady, but there’s a roughness to it, like he’s holding something back.

Jungwon takes a step toward you, but you instinctively step back, creating distance between you. The space feels heavier than it should, like the air between you is suffocating.

“Don’t. Don’t make this harder than it already is.” Your voice is barely above a whisper, but it cracks under the vulnerability of your own emotions. The real shock is in the pain you hear in your own words—pain you weren’t ready to acknowledge.

He stills, his gaze never wavering. There’s anger in his expression, exhaustion and a deep sadness that cuts through you like a knife.

Jungwon’s jaw clenches. “Last night, you said you were going to share the burden with me.” His tone is quiet, almost hollow. “Was that a lie?”

You clench your fists at your sides, your nails digging into your palms. “If you already know, why ask?”

A humourless laugh escapes his lips, the sound hollow and bitter. It echoes in the quiet of dawn, amplifying the ache in your chest.

“I had hope that you would stay,” he says simply.

Hope.

Not that damned hope again.

Silence stretches between you, heavy with everything said and unsaid. But you both know there’s nothing either of you can say to change the other’s mind. Nothing Jungwon says will convince you to stay—not if it means standing by while they get hurt, while they die. And nothing you say will convince him to leave—not when he’s already made this place feel like home.

“Why?” His voice breaks the silence, softer now. There’s something in his eyes—exhaustion, yes, but also something more vulnerable. Something broken. “Why are you leaving?”

You don’t answer him. You just stare at the void in his eyes and that’s when you notice the bags under it, the way his shoulders slump under the weight of everything he carries. He hasn’t slept all night. He must’ve been waiting—waiting for you to wake Ni-ki up for his shift. Waiting to prove himself wrong about you.

But you never did.

“So that’s it?” His voice rises slightly, frustration seeping in. “You’re already convinced we’re going to die? You don’t even want to try to fight?” His grip on the rifle tightens, his knuckles turning white. His whole body trembles with barely contained anger.

“For god’s sake, Jay took a fucking bullet for you!”

The words hit you like a slap. You flinch, your mind racing back to that moment. The blood. The panic. The sheer terror.

He’s right. Jay did take a bullet for you.

And you repaid that debt by risking your life at the bus terminal to get him the medicine he needed. Give and take. That’s what survival is, isn’t it? But suddenly, that line of thinking feels wrong. Twisted. Because with that mindset, you could justify anything. You could justify stealing from innocent people, killing whoever stands in your way, and calling it necessity. Just like The Future.

Your chest tightens. “I’m sorry,” you whisper, but even to your own ears, it sounds hollow.

“Sorry doesn’t cut it,” Jungwon snaps. His voice is raw, laced with hurt and anger. “If you were going to leave, you should’ve done it that night at the motel. You didn’t have to wait until I started caring about you.”

His next words strike harder than anything else.

“What makes you different from the people who walked away from you?”

The question hangs in the air, cutting through you like a knife to the gut.

What makes you different from the people who left you behind?

Everything.

Because those people didn’t care about you when they chose to leave. They didn’t hesitate when they abandoned the community building. And you didn’t care about them when you barricaded yourself in that corner to survive.

But here? Here, you care.

And walking away makes you a monster.

Jungwon steps closer, but this time you’re rooted to the spot. His eyes are searching yours, almost pleading. “You don’t feel anything at all?” His voice trembles, and it shatters you to see him like this—vulnerable and exposed in a way you’ve never seen before.

“Y/N. Say something. Don’t just stand there—”

“You think it’s easy?” Your voice cracks, rising with anger you didn’t even realise you were holding in. “You think it’s easy choosing to leave you? To leave them?”

Tears burn at the corners of your eyes, blurring your vision but you don’t bother wiping them away.

“I wanted to leave that night at the motel,” you continue, your voice trembling. “Hell, I should’ve left. But that would’ve meant leaving all of you to die. I thought I could stay long enough to help, long enough for you to let your guard down so I could slip away. I never meant for it to come this far. I never meant to care.”

“You’re leaving all of us to die now. What’s the difference?” he asks quietly, though you can hear the spite in his words.

“Because I don’t want to stay here,” you choke out. “If you’ve already decided to settle down, there’s nothing I can do to change that. But I will not let myself stay here and watch the worst things imaginable happen to any of you.”

Your voice breaks, the tears flowing freely now. “At least out there, I can tell myself you’re still alive. That maybe I was wrong to think this place is a trap.”

Jungwon takes a shaky breath, his frustration cracking through the cracks in his composure. “Then stay,” he says quietly. “Stay and see for yourself. Stay and make sure you know damn well we’re alive. Leaving won’t keep us safe, Y/N.”

“Well, staying won’t keep you alive either!”

The words come out louder than you intended, your voice breaking as you sob. “I can’t lose any of you. You already saw the state I was in when Jay almost died. Sooner or later I will have to experience that kind of grief—if I have to lose you—I don’t think I’ll survive it.”

He scoffs, and you wince at the evident annoyance. "Back then, you barely knew any of us, and you were willing to sacrifice yourself to save our lives. Now that you do know us, you want to leave because you’re too afraid to see us die?" His voice trembles, rising with frustration. "You’re so full of shit, you know that?"

The words hang in the air, harsher than either of you expected. You see it in his face—the way his eyes widen slightly, the way his lips press together, as if trying to pull the words back. He hadn’t meant to say it, at least not like that. But it’s out there now, and there’s no taking it back.

Jungwon’s expression softens almost immediately, the anger melting into something quieter, something more painful. His shoulders sag, and you can see the weight of everything pressing down on him, heavier than ever. When he speaks again, his voice is low, barely above a whisper, broken by the raw emotion behind it.

“I—I didn’t mean it that way—”

“No.” You cut him off, shaking your head. “You’re right.” Your voice trembles, the truth unraveling inside you, spilling out in a rush you can no longer control. “I’m a coward. I’d rather walk away than experience that loss.”

Jungwon flinches at your words, his expression crumpling as though he’s trying to keep his composure, but failing. His gaze locks onto yours, and in that moment, all the walls he’s built to keep himself steady come crashing down.

“And it’s not a loss to leave us? To leave me?” His voice cracks as he takes a step closer, his eyes dark and glassy with unshed tears. There’s no anger left in him now—just pain. Raw, unfiltered pain.

You can barely breathe past the lump in your throat, your chest tightening with each second of silence that passes. You blink rapidly, trying to push back the tears threatening to fall, but it’s no use. The emotions you’ve tried to bury rise to the surface, clawing their way out.

Jungwon’s hand reaches out, hovering just beside your face. He’s waiting for you to lean in first, to close the distance, to give him a sign that you won’t leave. His fingers tremble slightly, so close that you can feel the faint warmth of his palm.

But you don’t move.

“You’re the greatest loss, Jungwon.”

Your voice is so quiet, you almost don’t hear yourself say it. The words slip out like a confession you’ve kept buried for too long. And for a moment, everything is still. Silent.

Jungwon’s eyes widen slightly, as though he’s just realised the weight of what you’ve said. His lips part, like he’s about to say something—maybe to beg you to stay, maybe to tell you he feels the same—but you don’t let him.

You don’t give yourself the chance to change your mind.

You step back, his hand falling limply to his side, and the space between you feels insurmountable. You take another step back, then another.

And this time, when you turn your back on him, you don’t look back. Even with tears streaming down your face, even as your chest aches with the implication of everything you’re leaving behind, you force yourself to keep walking.

Because you know that if you see the look on his face—if you see the heartbreak in his eyes—you won’t be able to walk away.

But even now, as you tell yourself it’s better this way, there’s a small, nagging voice in the back of your mind. A whisper that wonders if isolation is really strength or just another form of self-destruction.

You have no idea how long you’ve been walking. Your thoughts swirl chaotically, clouded by the argument with Jungwon that still plays in your mind like a broken record. The sun hangs high in the sky now, its rays cutting through the morning mist as the chirping of birds fills the air—a hauntingly normal sound in a world that’s anything but.

When you turned your back on him and walked away, you hadn’t planned on where to go. You’d just moved, one foot in front of the other, mindlessly pushing forward like one of the undead you’ve fought so hard to avoid.

All you know is you have to keep moving. Don’t stop. Don’t let yourself get tied down by people, places, or promises.

Before you even realise it, the bus terminal comes into view on the horizon. That bus terminal. The one where everything nearly ended for you. Where Jungwon saved your life.

The memory threatens to surface, but you shake your head sharply, forcing it down. No. Don’t think about him. Don’t think about any of them. You left them for a reason.

And yet, here you are, heading back toward the city. Back toward the very place you tried so hard to claw your way out of when the outbreak first began. It’s almost laughable, the irony of it. Back then, you were desperate to escape, fleeing the chaos and death that seemed to choke every street. But now? Now you’re willingly going back.

It’s not because the city has become safer—it hasn’t. The streets are likely still teeming with the dead, and the stench of decay probably still clings to the air like a curse. Survivors rarely venture in, the danger too great for most to justify. That makes it a kind of sanctuary in its own twisted way.

You don’t know when it happened—when avoiding the living became more crucial than avoiding the dead. But after everything you’ve been through, after everything that went down with the group, you realise now that some people are better off left alone. Like you.

It’s easier this way. In the city, you don’t have to constantly look over your shoulder for someone else’s sake. Every action, every decision you make will only affect you. There’s no group to protect, no lives depending on your choices, no shared weight to carry. You can move freely, without the suffocating burden of responsibility pressing down on your chest.

As you approach the outskirts of the bus terminal, you freeze, your breath catching in your throat.

What lies ahead makes your stomach churn, the sight so incomprehensible it feels like your mind is playing tricks on you. A horde—massive, grotesque, suffocating in its sheer number—fills the gaps between rusting cars and crumbling buses, their guttural moans and the wet shuffling of decayed limbs filling the stagnant air. The commotion from last night must’ve drawn them here.

No, something is off.

Your first instinct is to duck, to press yourself against the side of a nearby car, but curiosity keeps your eyes locked on the scene. The horde’s movements are... strange. It’s not just the usual shambling chaos of the dead, not the erratic, aimless wandering you’re used to. It’s too... coordinated. Sections of the group lurch forward in unison, turning together as though responding to some unseen signal.

And then you see them—figures standing atop the cars, scattered like silent sentinels amidst the chaos. Their heads swivel, scanning the area, their posture betraying an awareness the undead don’t have.

From your hiding spot, you squint, trying to make sense of what you’re seeing. Their bodies are draped in something you can’t quite make out at this distance—tattered rags, maybe? No. Your stomach twists as you squint through the haze. It’s flesh. Patches of rotting skin and gore strapped to their bodies, like grotesque armour. Their faces are hollowed out, decayed. But their eyes… it’s clear. Just like the zombie you spotted in the clearing that day. The one that stood eerily still, watching, waiting.

Then one moves. Not with the jerky, mindless motion of the dead, but with purpose. Deliberate. Intentional. Your breath catches in your throat as the realisation hits you like a punch to the gut.

They’re… human? But the dead is not going after them. How is that possible?

You watch as one of the figures on a car stomp its foot onto the roof. The horde responds almost immediately, a section of the undead turning in unison, moving as if corralled toward a tighter group of vehicles. Another figure lets out a whistle, low and sharp. The sound sends a ripple through the horde. The zombies lurch toward the source, shuffling like sheep to a shepherd’s call.

It’s sickeningly methodical. Choreographed chaos.

Your mind races as you try to process the scene. These people—whoever and whatever they are—they’ve figured out how to control the dead, how to manipulate them like tools.

Then, you spot another one of them on the roof of the terminal, the one you and Jungwon came from. He’s wearing the same decayed face but his stance is confident, almost arrogant, as he surveys the horde below.

“Friends!” he calls, his voice echoing above the chaos, carrying an authority that you’ve never heard before in this ruined world. The horde reacts immediately, pushing forward as if his words alone are a leash pulling them to heel. They claw at the walls of the building, their rotting fingers scraping against the brick, desperate and unrelenting.

Your heart hammers in your chest, the sound almost deafening in your ears. Friends? The word twists in your mind, warping into something grotesque. He’s speaking to the dead like they’re equals, like they’re allies in some twisted cause.

“We’re not far now,” he continues, his voice filled with a fervour that makes your stomach churn. The horde responds again, the shuffling and groaning growing louder, almost like a chant. “Tonight, they’ll pay for what they’ve done!”

Your breath catches, and your grip on your bag tightens. They? Who’s they?

The man raises his arms, the action reminding you of a preacher before his congregation, a maestro before his orchestra, and the dead press closer to the building, their movements frenzied in response to him.

“They won’t even know what hit them!” His voice reverberates, filled with rage and something else—something almost gleeful. It’s the sound of someone relishing the thought of destruction, of revenge.

Your gaze darts to the figures on the cars. At first glance, they seem indifferent, but then they raise their fists in unison, a silent cheer. A rallying cry without words, their collective movements eerily synchronised, like a grotesque sermon preached to the dead.

The noise of the horde grows, a crescendo of chaos that grates against your nerves. You can’t tear your eyes away from the man on the roof as he reaches back, his movements slow and precise, untying something from the back of his head.

Your breath catches as he pulls it forward, letting it swing for a moment in the wind. It’s a mask—thin, gnarled, stitched together from the decayed skin of the dead. The detail makes your stomach churn: patches of dried flesh, sinew hanging loose, and hollowed-out eye sockets that must have once belonged to something that used to breathe. When he looks up again, your blood runs cold.

It’s him. The guy Jay went after.

Your stomach flips violently as the pieces snap together in your mind. The zombie from the clearing—that eerily still, haunting figure that locked eyes with you—it wasn’t a zombie. It was him.

Your gaze jerks back to the other figures standing on the cars, to the masks they wear, and the realisation makes your skin crawl. They’re all wearing the dead. Covering themselves in the stench of decay to mask their scent, blending seamlessly with the horde. Walking among them. Herding them like livestock.

The realisation sends a cold shiver racing down your spine, leaving your limbs heavy and unresponsive. The world around you feels like it’s tilting, the ground shifting beneath your feet as you struggle to process the horror in front of you. Your mind races, frantically revisiting every moment that didn’t make sense before: the horde that ambushed you in the city, the back door at the motel, the perfectly timed attack at the camp. It was them. It’s always been them.

The bile rises in your throat, burning and bitter, but you force it down, swallowing hard as you cling to the only thing you can do right now—stay quiet. Your breath comes shallow, the sound of your pounding heartbeat drowning out the chaos around you.

Your hand trembles as you steady yourself against the car, the metal cool under your palm. You’re not sure how long you can stay here without being spotted, but one thing is clear: these people are dangerous. More dangerous than the dead, more dangerous than any survivor you’ve encountered.

Every instinct screams at you to run, to put as much distance between yourself and this nightmare as possible. But you can’t.

They’re moving the horde.

Towards you. Towards Jungwon. Towards all of them.

Without realising, your legs move on their own, instinct taking over as you bolt back in the direction you came from. It doesn’t matter that it took you nearly an hour to walk here; you’re running now, faster than you thought your body could manage.

Your mind races just as fast as your feet. The whole thing feels like some cruel cosmic joke.

And now, with every step closer to that rest stop, you feel the pull of something you thought you’d severed. It’s not just the danger that’s pushing you back—it’s them.

Jungwon, with his quiet, unshakable strength that masks the unbearable weight he carries. Jay, who bled for you without hesitation. Ni-ki, who never stopped believing in the group��s survival. Sunoo, Jake, Heeseung, Sunghoon—they’re more than just people you met along the way. They’re the only thing tethering you to this broken, crumbling world.

And that’s exactly why you left.

You left because you couldn’t stand the thought of watching them die. Not Jungwon. Not any of them. Because you know what would happen if they did. The rage would consume you, boiling over until it scorched everything in its path. The grief would hollow you out, leaving nothing but an echo of who you used to be. You’d do things you promised yourself you’d never do, and the world would win. It would take you, just like it’s taken so many others. You’d become a stranger to yourself.

But the irony isn’t lost on you now. You left because you didn’t want to watch them die. You told yourself it was about survival—your survival. You couldn’t stay and risk being reduced to ashes by grief and rage.

And yet here you are, sprinting back to possibly watch them die. Back into the chaos. Into the danger. Into the pain.

You don’t want to go back. You do. You don’t. The contradictions whirl in your mind like a storm, a tempest of fear, anger, and regret. Every step forward feels like a step closer to doom. But every thought of turning back feels like a betrayal of something you can’t quite name.

Back then, it was just an invisible threat—a vague, looming shadow of danger that hung over you like a storm cloud. You couldn’t see it, couldn’t touch it, you don’t know for sure, you could only feel it. That gnawing dread, the constant whispers of worst-case scenarios. And you’d told yourself that leaving was the only way to spare yourself the pain of the inevitable.

Or maybe they wouldn’t die at all. Maybe you were just being paranoid. Maybe you were wrong about that place. Maybe they’d prove you wrong by thriving, by turning it into the refuge they so desperately wanted it to be. You told yourself all of that to justify the decision to walk away, to convince yourself it was the right thing to do.

But even that was just another lie. Another twisted attempt to deny what you really felt. And despite your best efforts to shut it out, to drown it in logic and practicality, you realise now—that thought in itself, that denial, that ignorance—is hope.

Hope that leaving would somehow shield you from the pain of watching them fall apart.

Hope that they wouldn’t die, that you were just being overly cautious, overly cynical.

Hope that you were wrong about that place, that it wasn’t a death trap waiting to claim them all.

And maybe that’s why you hate the whole idea of hope.

Hope, in all its naive, fragile glory, has been the cruelest trick the world ever played on you. It’s a poison wrapped in pretty words and good intentions. You’ve told yourself time and time again that hope is what gets people killed. It makes you reckless. Makes you believe in things that don’t exist. Hope makes you stay when you should run, makes you trust when you shouldn’t, makes you care when you can’t afford to. And the worst part? Hope doesn’t stop the bad things from happening. It doesn’t save you from loss, from grief, from pain. It just makes the fall hurt that much more when it all comes crashing down.

And now, running back down this highway with every nerve in your body screaming at you to hurry, you feel the weight of it pressing down on you.

You didn’t leave because you thought they’d be fine. You didn’t leave because you believed they’d prove you wrong.

You left because you hoped. In your own twisted way.

But now? Now, knowing what you know, hope feels like a cruel joke. There can’t be hope. Not anymore. Because you know the truth. You’ve seen it with your own eyes.

The people on the cars, the masks of flesh, the herded horde—it’s all proof that this world doesn’t care about hope. It doesn’t care about survival. It only cares about death, about how it can twist and shape and devour until there’s nothing left.

They’re not fine. They won’t thrive. They won’t prove you wrong. You can’t even tell yourself that you’re overthinking it, that you’re paranoid, that it’s all in your head. Ignorance is no longer bliss because you know. It’s not just some superficial, nebulous fear anymore. It’s real, and it’s heading straight for Jungwon and the others, and you’re the only one who knows.

They don’t know what’s coming. Jungwon doesn’t know. The group doesn’t know. And if you don’t make it back in time—

The thought hits you like a sledgehammer, knocking the breath out of you. You trip over a crack in the asphalt, your body hitting the ground hard, the impact jarring your entire frame.

For a moment, you’re dazed, your palms scraped and bleeding against the ground. But the sound of your ragged breathing snaps you back to reality. There’s no time to stop. No time to let the pain sink in. You scramble to your feet, dirt clinging to your hands and knees, and keep running.

You don’t even know how long you’ve been running. All you know is the tightening in your chest, the fire in your lungs, and the unrelenting truth clawing at the back of your mind.

They’re actually going to die.

That knowledge burns, searing away any last shred of hope you might have clung to.

And maybe that’s why you hate hope so much. Because you wanted it to be real. You wanted to believe, even if it was just for a moment, that they could have a chance. But this world doesn’t allow for chances. It doesn’t allow for happy endings. It only allows for survival—and only for those willing to tear apart everything and everyone in their way.

Your pace slows as the rest stop comes into view in the distance, the barricade just barely visible against the horizon. Your heart twists at the sight of it. It looks the same as when you left, quiet and still, like it’s waiting for something to happen.

You can’t stop the bitterness from rising in your chest as you picture Jungwon’s face when you walked away. The disappointment, the anger, the heartbreak—it’s burned into your memory like a wound that refuses to heal. He probably thought you were giving up on them, giving up on him. And maybe, in a way, he was right. Because you couldn’t bring yourself to watch them cling to hope like a noose tightening around their necks

And yet, here you are, running back. Not because you believe you can save them. Not because you think there’s still a chance. But because you can’t bear to let the world prove you right. Not like this. Not when the price of being right is their lives.

You hate hope. You hate what it does to people. But what you hate even more is the thought of standing here, doing nothing, and watching it die. Not just them—you.

Because saving them is saving yourself.

You realise that now, with every step you take. You can’t separate the two. You can’t convince yourself that walking away from them doesn’t mean walking away from who you are, from the part of you that still has a purpose.

The choice isn’t about hope or survival anymore; it’s about what you’re willing to lose in the process.

If you’re going to lose yourself, let it be in trying. Let it be in throwing everything you have into saving them, even if it breaks you in the process. Let it be because you cared enough to fight.

Because the alternative—the guilt, the regret of turning your back and knowing you could have done something—would be far worse. It would eat away at you. Hollowing you out in a way you’d never recover from.

So if saving them means letting the world take the last piece of you, then so be it. If the cost of trying is everything, you’ll pay it. At least this way, when you lose yourself, it’ll be with a purpose. At least it won’t be for nothing.

And if it comes down to it, if the fight doesn’t go the way you hope, you just pray you won’t live long enough to witness the fallout. You hope the world will be merciful enough to take you before it forces you to watch it take them.

You’re close now, your breath coming in shallow gasps as you force your legs to keep moving. The thought of Jungwon and the others pushes you forward, fuels your determination. You can’t let them be caught off guard. You can’t let them die.

The gates swing open before you can even catch your breath to announce your presence. Figures. They probably saw you miles before you even reached the rest stop, perched from their vantage points or perhaps by sheer habit of being on guard.

It’s Sunoo who greets you at the gate, his face lighting up when he spots you. “Y/N! Back already?” he asks, his tone casual, cheerful even. Like you’ve just returned from a harmless errand rather than the most tumultuous hours of your life.

Back already. The words settle uneasily in your chest as you step through the barricade. You glance at him, noticing the messy state of his hair, sticking up in odd angles, and the faint marks of sleep still etched onto his face. He doesn’t know. None of them know.

You scan the area, catching sight of the others. Sunghoon is by the fire, stretching as if he’s just woken up. Heeseung’s leaning against a pillar, rubbing the back of his neck. Even Ni-ki, who usually has a sharp, alert edge to him, is sitting cross-legged in the back of the van, yawning into his hand.

They don’t know you almost left for good. They have no idea that you had stood on the edge of this very decision, ready to walk away from all of this—from them.

Your chest tightens as you realise how quickly things could have gone another way. If it weren’t for what you saw back at the terminal, you’d be gone right now, miles away from this place, convincing yourself that this is how it had to be. And yet, here you are, standing in the midst of them, and not a single one knows how close you were to never coming back.

And then you see him.

Jungwon is leaning against the wall near the van, his arms crossed over his chest. His gaze locks onto yours the moment you step into the camp, his expression unreadable. There’s no accusation in his eyes, no anger, no “I told you so.” He just looks at you, and you know.

He didn’t tell them.

Whatever passed between you before you left—whatever anger, whatever hurt—it’s gone now, buried under something heavier. Something you can’t quite name.

Your breath hitches as you hold his gaze, a silent exchange passing between the two of you. There’s no point in asking why he kept it to himself. You know why. He’s protecting you, just like he always does, even when you don’t deserve it.

Sunoo, oblivious to the weight of the moment, grins at you and gestures toward the rest of the group. “We figured you were off hunting or something, but damn, you’ve been gone for three hours. Did you get anything?”

Three hours. That’s all it’s been. You glance down at your hands, still clutching the strap of your bag like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded. It felt like so much longer. Like a lifetime has passed since you last stood here.

You glance back at Jungwon, who hasn’t taken his eyes off you. And in that moment, you understand something you didn’t before. He didn’t just protect your secret because it was the right thing to do. He did it because he knows you. Knows how close you were to walking away. Knows how much you’ve been wrestling with the weight of staying. And somehow, despite all of that, he’s still here, waiting for you.

“Well, are you going to stand there all day, or are you going to tell us what you found?” Sunoo’s voice jolts you out of your thoughts, and you force a smile, your mind already racing with how you’re going to explain what’s coming.

Because they may not know that you almost left. But they’re about to find out what you came back for.

You take a deep breath, willing your trembling hands to steady as you adjust the strap of your bag. Sunoo is looking at you expectantly, his cheerful demeanour a stark contrast to the storm brewing inside you. The others are starting to notice now—Heeseung raises an eyebrow, Sunghoon straightens his posture, and Jake steps closer, his gaze narrowing slightly in concern.

“I… didn’t go hunting,” you begin, your voice low but steady. You glance around the group, meeting their eyes one by one before landing back on Jungwon. His expression remains unreadable, though you catch the slightest twitch of his jaw. “I went back to the bus terminal.”

The ripple of confusion is immediate.

“What?” Jake’s voice cuts through the silence, his brow furrowed. “Why the hell would you go back there?”

“I had to check something,” you say, your words rushing out faster than you intended. “Something didn’t sit right with me about that place, about what happened. So I went back to see if—” You pause, your throat tightening as the images flash through your mind again: the horde, the people, the masks.

“If what?” Heeseung prompts, his voice calm but edged with concern.

Your fingers tighten around the strap of your bag as you force yourself to say it. “There’s a horde at the terminal.”

“A horde?” Sunghoon echoes, his voice laced with disbelief.

“Yes,” you say firmly, your eyes scanning the group to make sure they’re listening. “A massive one. Bigger than anything we’ve seen before. But that’s not the worst part.” You take another breath, steeling yourself. “There are people. People controlling it.”

The words hang in the air, heavy and suffocating.

“People?” Sunoo’s face twists in confusion, his earlier cheer replaced with unease. “What do you mean, controlling it?”

“They’re… wearing the dead,” you say, your stomach churning at the memory. “Masks. Clothes. Covering themselves in the scent of decay to blend in. They’re herding the zombies like livestock. I saw them. They’re leading the horde.”

Silence. The kind that feels too loud, too sharp.

“That’s not possible,” Jake finally says, his tone disbelieving. “No one can control the dead.”

“I’m telling you, I saw it with my own eyes!” you snap, the frustration bubbling to the surface. “They’re moving the horde, and they’re coming this way. They’re coming for us.”

Heeseung’s expression darkens, and he exchanges a look with Sunghoon. “How do you know they’re coming here?”

You hesitate, your gaze flicking to Jungwon. He’s still silent, his eyes locked on yours, waiting.

“Because he was there—the guy that Jay went after,” you admit, your voice dropping. “I saw him. Seems like he’s the one in charge too. They’re planning to attack tonight. They know you’re here.”

The weight of your words sinks in, rippling through the group like a shockwave. The air shifts, heavy with dread, the fragile sense of safety they tried to hold onto cracking under the pressure. Sunoo looks pale, his cheerful energy drained away as he stares at you like he can’t quite believe what he’s hearing. Jake’s jaw tightens, his eyes narrowing with determination, though the tension in his shoulders betrays the fear he’s trying to suppress. Ni-ki, who’s just stepped out of the van, freezes mid-step, his expression hardening into one of unease.

Then, movement from the convenience store catches your attention. You glance over, your breath hitching when you see Jay standing in the doorway. Relief washes over you at the sight of him upright, alive, looking much better than the last time you saw him. He’s out of bed—too soon, really—but still, he’s here. Thank god.

But then the relief wanes, replaced by a twinge of worry. The pain in his posture is evident in the way he leans slightly against the doorframe, his body curling in on itself as though every breath takes effort. His complexion is pale, almost ghostly, the lack of colour suggesting someone still in convalescence, still vulnerable. Yet he’s standing there, bearing witness to everything.

And there’s something else. A look on his face that tugs uncomfortably at your chest—regret. It’s there in the tight line of his mouth, in the way his gaze flickers between you and the others. He must’ve heard what you said about the guy. About how he’s still alive. About how he’s leading this horde straight to them.

The regret in his expression cuts deeper than any words could. It’s not regret for himself, not for the pain he’s in or the bullet wound that’s barely begun to heal. It’s regret for what he didn’t finish. For the job he couldn’t complete. And now, because of that, the people he cares about are going to suffer the consequences.

Jay’s the type to bear the blame even when it’s not entirely his to bear. And now, standing there, he looks like he’s drowning in it, his regret and guilt weighing him down like a stone tied to his chest.

“What do we do?” Sunoo’s voice is small, almost childlike. It trembles with fear, breaking the heavy silence that’s gripped the group since your return. His wide eyes dart from person to person, searching for reassurance that none of you can offer.

“We leave,” you say firmly, your gaze locking onto Jungwon’s. The words leave your mouth with more force than you intended, your desperation bleeding into every syllable. “We pack up and leave now, before it’s too late.”

But Jungwon doesn’t respond. His dark eyes remain fixed on yours, unreadable, like he’s searching for something he’s not sure he’ll find.

“Jungwon,” you press, your voice rising slightly as the urgency claws at your chest. “You know we can’t stay. Not with what’s coming.”

His jaw tightens, his posture stiffening as the group watches the two of you with baited breath. You can feel the tension rolling off him, coiling tighter with every passing second. For a moment, you think he’s going to argue. But then he speaks, his voice low and measured. “If we leave now, they’ll follow us. A moving group is easier to track. We need to think this through.”

“Think this through?” you echo, incredulous. The disbelief cuts through your voice, sharp and biting. “There’s nothing to think through. They’re coming, Jungwon. If we stay here, we’re sitting ducks.”

“And if we leave, we’re exposed,” he counters without missing a beat, his calmness only fuelling your frustration. “We don’t even know if we’d make it out of the area before they catch up to us. We need a plan.”

The group falls silent again, their eyes darting between the two of you like they’re caught in the middle of a battlefield with no way to escape. The weight of their stares presses down on you, amplifying the tension already thrumming in your veins.

Your chest heaves as you search for the right words to push through his resolve. But before you can, Jay speaks, cutting through the thick air like a blade. His voice is quiet but firm, carrying a gravity that makes everyone turn toward him. “He’s not going to stop, you know.”

You snap your head toward him, your breath hitching at the resignation in his tone. His gaze locks onto yours, and in that moment, you understand what he’s trying to say.

“He’ll find us,” Jay continues, his voice steady despite the obvious pain he’s in. “And he’ll keep finding us until he gets what he’s looking for.”

"If you're suggesting we leave without you, forget it. We—"

“The only choice is to stay and fight. To settle it once and for all.” Jay’s eyes flicker to Jungwon, then to the rest of the group, his words slicing through the growing sense of dread.

The silence that follows is deafening. You can feel the ripple of fear that passes through the group, the unspoken understanding of what staying to fight would mean. It’s not just survival anymore. It’s war. And war always demands sacrifice.

Jungwon’s gaze shifts to you again, his expression unreadable but weighted with expectation. He’s waiting for you to argue, to push back. But you don’t. Because deep down, you know Jay’s right. This isn’t just some random attack. It’s a personal vendetta.

Even if you manage to convince them to leave, to escape the immediate threat, it won’t guarantee their safety. These people don’t just want resources or a fight. They want vengeance. They want blood. And they won’t stop until they have it. Running will only delay the inevitable.

You swallow hard, the words catching in your throat. “If we stay,” you finally manage, your voice trembling slightly, “we need to be ready. Completely ready.”

Jungwon nods once, the tiniest flicker of approval crossing his face before it’s gone again. He turns to the group, his voice steady and commanding as he begins issuing instructions. “Ni-ki, Jake—check the barricades. Reinforce every weak spot you find. Sunghoon—bring out all the guns and ammos from the backroom. Sunoo—gather anything we can use to secure the perimeter. I saw some extra rows of barb wires in the basement earlier. Heeseung and I will map out entry points and blind spots. Jay, you stay inside.”

Then Jungwon turns to you.

You wait, holding your breath, anticipating the order he’ll give you. But it doesn’t come. Instead, his gaze lingers on you for a fleeting second before he looks away, addressing the others again. He’s leaving you out of it—deliberately. The realisation hits you harder than it should.

At first, you think he’s still angry, that the tension from your earlier argument hasn’t fully dissipated. But as you study his face, the way his jaw is set but his eyes avoid yours, you see the truth. He’s not mad at you.

He’s giving you an out. He’s leaving the option open—the option to walk away, still.

The group disperses quickly, each person moving with purpose as they carry out their assigned tasks. The sound of hurried footsteps and shifting supplies fills the air, but you remain rooted to the spot. You feel like a ghost, watching them prepare for a battle you’d been so desperate to avoid. A battle you tried to flee from. A battle you brought right down on them.

You glance back at Jungwon. He’s already bent over Heeseung’s map, pointing at something with a furrowed brow. His posture is tense, every muscle in his body coiled like a spring ready to snap. Even from here, you can see the weight on his shoulders, the burden he carries not just as their leader but as someone who cares too much.

Your chest tightens. You can’t tell if it’s guilt or anger—or maybe something messier than both.

He’s leaving the choice to you because he knows you. He knows you’d hate being told to stay, that forcing you would only drive you further away. But this, this silent permission to go—it feels worse. It feels like he’s already preparing himself for your absence. Like he’s already accepted that you might leave.

You tear your gaze away, your fists clenching at your sides. He’s giving you what you wanted. The freedom to walk away without confrontation. The chance to escape without tying yourself to their fate.

So why does it feel so wrong?

Just then, Jay approaches, his steps slower than usual, but his presence steady. “You look like shit,” he says flatly, his voice cutting through the quiet.

“Could say the same thing about you, Jay,” you shoot back without thinking, the words slipping out with a touch of dry humour. Your chest tightens as you’re brought back to the moment on the roadside—the weight of his voice when he confronted you, the guilt that still lingers in your bones. You wonder if he knows just how close you came to leaving.

Jay tilts his head, studying you in that unnervingly perceptive way he has. “Come on,” he says finally, nodding toward the convenience store. “We can keep watch together on the roof.”

Your brow furrows. “Jungwon told you to stay inside.”

“Inside and on top, same thing,” Jay replies, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “At least on the roof, I get to feel somewhat useful.” He clicks his tongue, and there’s a stubborn edge to his tone that you know all too well.

“Jay,” you start, but he cuts you off, his gaze narrowing.

“Don’t start. I know my limits better than anyone, and sitting around waiting to feel like dead weight isn’t doing me any favours.” His voice is sharper now, but not angry. Just resolute. “You can watch my back if you’re so worried.”

You let out a quiet sigh, glancing toward the roof. He’s not wrong—at least up there, he’s out of harm’s way but still contributing. And truthfully, part of you is relieved for the company. You nod reluctantly. “Fine. But you’re not pulling anything heroic. Got it?”

Jay grins faintly, though the usual arrogance in his expression is muted. “I’ll leave the heroics to you this time.” His voice softens as he adds, “Come on, let’s go.”

The scent of the morning feels sharper now, almost intrusive, carried by the cool breeze that brushes over your face as you and Jay sit cross-legged on the roof. The faint rustle of leaves and the distant chirping of birds fill the silence between you. Both of you lean back against the convenience store sign, the metal cool against your shoulders.

“How’s recovery been?” you ask, your voice quiet as your gaze stays fixed on the horizon stretching endlessly past the rest stop.

“Good,” Jay replies, his tone nonchalant. “Thanks to the medicine you and Jungwon brought back. And, well, Jake, obviously.”

“So, it doesn’t hurt anymore?” you ask, glancing at him briefly, searching his face for any hint of dishonesty.

Jay lets out a dry chuckle, shaking his head. “Are you kidding? It was only two days ago. Of course, it still hurts like shit.”

A wave of guilt crashes over you, sharp and unrelenting. Of course, it hurts. He’s carrying the pain for both of you—for a bullet that was meant for you. Your chest tightens, and before you can stop yourself, the words slip out.

“I’m sorry.”

Jay turns to you, his brow furrowing slightly. “I told you, it’s fine—”

“No, it’s not fine, Jay,” you cut him off, your voice trembling with emotion. “You really could’ve died.”

“Yeah, if you were a little bit taller.” His lips twitch, and you can see him trying to hold it back. But it doesn’t last long before he bursts out laughing—a bright, unrestrained sound that feels almost alien in this grim world. The laughter cuts short, though, as he winces and curls in on himself, the pain from his wound quickly bringing him back to reality.

Your instinct is to reach out, but you hesitate, your hand hovering in the air before dropping back to your lap. “See? It’s not fine,” you mutter, your voice softer now.

Jay breathes through the pain, shaking his head with a faint grin still lingering on his face. “Worth it. That reaction was worth it.”

You stare at him for a moment, incredulous. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re predictable,” Jay shoots back, his grin lingering, though the weariness in his voice cuts through the lightness. Then his expression shifts, something sharper and more knowing in his eyes.

“This morning, you left, didn’t you?”

You freeze, the words hitting like a jolt to your chest. Of course you can count on Jay to call you out on your contrarian shit.

You don’t answer right away, but the silence is all the confirmation he needs. “Yeah, I figured when I woke up and saw Jungwon sitting on the roof. Legs dangling over the edge, just staring at the horizon. Like he was waiting for something. Guess that something was you.”

Your chest tightens, and you turn your gaze back to the horizon. You want to say something, to deny it, but what’s the point? He already knows the truth.

“Did he say anything?” you ask cautiously, your voice quieter now. “Jungwon, I mean.”

Jay’s eyes flick to you, studying your face for a moment before he answers. “Not much. He’s not really the type to spill his guts, you know that.” He pauses, his gaze turning distant, like he’s replaying the memory in his mind.

Jay continues, his tone lighter, but there’s an edge to it. “For what it’s worth, he didn’t look angry. Just… resigned, I guess. Like he already knew what you were going to do before you did.”

You exhale shakily, your fingers tightening around itself. “I didn’t mean to—” you start, but Jay cuts you off.

“I know,” he says, his voice softer now. “And so does he. Doesn’t mean it didn’t mess with him, though.”

His words land heavier than you expect, and you nod, swallowing hard as the guilt settles deeper into your chest. It’s a hollow ache, twisting and gnawing, but you can’t bring yourself to say anything else. The silence between you stretches thin, and you feel yourself teetering on the edge of collapsing into the depths of your own self-loathing.

Jay, ever the mind reader, speaks up before you spiral. “But that just means he truly cares about you. That you bring him comfort and hope in a world that’s devoid of it.”

Hope. That word feels like an accusation, like it doesn’t belong anywhere near you.

"Why?” you whisper, barely able to hear your own voice. “Why does he care about me? I met you all barely over a week ago.”

“What about you?” he counters. “Why do you care?”

His question takes you off guard, echoing in your mind like a challenge. Why do you care? You left to avoid caring, to avoid the inevitability of their deaths, to avoid watching the world tear them away from you like it’s done to so many before. Yet, here you are, sitting on this roof, your chest tightening with every word, every thought.

You glance at Jay, his face calm but expectant, the faint lines of pain around his mouth betraying the effort it takes for him to even sit upright. He doesn’t push. He doesn’t have to. The weight of his question lingers in the air, demanding an answer you’re not ready to give.

“I shouldn’t care,” you say finally, the words falling flat. They feel like a shield, something to protect yourself from what you’re afraid to admit. “It’d be easier if I didn’t.”

Jay lets out a soft laugh, though it’s tinged with sadness. “Yeah, it would be. But that’s not who you are, is it?”

You don’t respond. Because he’s right, and you hate that he’s right. You hate that you care, that you couldn’t stop yourself from coming back, from throwing yourself into the fire again and again. You hate that their survival has somehow become entwined with your own, that you can’t even think about saving yourself without thinking about saving them.

Jay shifts slightly, wincing as he adjusts his position. “You care because you see it, don’t you?” he continues, his voice quiet now, almost gentle. “What we have here. It’s not perfect—it’s messy and dangerous, and it might not last. But it’s something. And for some reason, you want to protect that.”

You shake your head, frustration bubbling to the surface. “I came back because I knew what was coming,” you argue, more to yourself than to him. “Because if I didn’t warn you, you’d all be dead by midnight. That’s it. That’s the only reason.”

Jay tilts his head, studying you with an expression that feels far too knowing. “Sure,” he says, his tone neutral. “Keep telling yourself that.”

You glare at him, but there’s no real anger behind it. Just exhaustion, and maybe a little bit of fear. Because you know he’s right. You look away, your gaze drifting back to the horizon. The beauty of it feels almost mocking, a cruel reminder of what you’re all trying to hold onto in a world determined to take it away.

“I don’t know how to do this,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know how to keep going when everything feels so... fragile. Like it could all fall apart any second.”

Jay’s expression softens, and for a moment, he looks older, wearier. “None of us do,” he says simply. “We’re all just figuring it out as we go. Even Jungwon. But I guess he tries to hide that from the rest of us.”

“Why?” you ask, finally turning to look at him. “Why does he feel like he has to hide it?”

Jay leans back further against the convenience store sign, his expression heavy with something close to regret. “When things fell apart, we were all with him at his new university. We were stuck there—trapped with him. And Jungwon...” He pauses, rubbing the back of his neck. “I think he blames himself for that. Like it was his fault we were there instead of safe at home with our families when it all started.”

You’re reminded of your first real conversation with Jungwon, the way he spoke about the group as if their survival was entirely his responsibility. He hadn’t said it outright, but now, hearing it from Jay, it all makes sense. The guilt he carries, the sleepless nights, the endless drive to keep moving forward—it’s all because of them. Because of what he believes he owes them.

“He really thinks it’s his fault?” you murmur, half to yourself.

Jay nods, his gaze distant. “Yeah. But it’s not. We wanted to be there. We wanted to stay. Hell, we probably made it harder for him by refusing to leave. And now, we’re his reason to keep going.” He lets out a quiet laugh, but it’s hollow, lacking any real humour.

You don’t say anything, letting Jay continue. You can tell he’s speaking from a place that’s deeper than his usual wit, pulling from a well of memories he rarely lets anyone see.

“Somewhere along the way, we just… started relying on him,” Jay says. “On his reassurance, his direction. It wasn’t even intentional. It just… happened. Even someone like me, who hates showing weakness—I faltered. When it happened. When she died.” His voice cracks slightly, and he swallows hard before continuing. “And I would go to him, night after night, just so I can fall asleep. Because his presence brought me that comfort. That feeling that everything might be okay, even when I knew it wouldn’t be.”

Jay’s gaze flicks to you, his expression distant, as though he’s caught between the past and the present. “He does it because it’s in his nature. He feels like he has to carry us, all of us, because we’re still here. That’s just who he is. He’ll carry the world on his shoulders if it means we can breathe a little easier. But it made me realise… Jungwon probably gets scared too. He probably has countless sleepless nights, only he has nobody to lean on.”

You stare at Jay, his words settling over you like a weight you’re not sure you’re ready to bear. The breeze brushes past, carrying with it the faint scent of morning dew, but even that isn’t enough to distract you from the raw honesty in his voice.

You’re quiet for a moment, processing his words. Then Jay’s voice softens even more, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Well, until you came along.”

That catches you off guard. “Me?” you echo, frowning slightly. “What are you talking about?”

Jay tilts his head, his expression somewhere between exasperation and amusement. “You’re really going to pretend you don’t see it? The way he looks at you. The way he listens when you speak, even when you’re arguing. Especially when you’re arguing.”

You do. You do see it. Only you didn't think it was that significant for someone else to notice it too.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you mutter, but the heat creeping up your neck betrays you.

Jay raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “Come on. You’re not that dense. The guy practically lights up when you’re around. Even when you’re pissing him off.”

You open your mouth to argue, but the words catch in your throat. “He doesn’t need me,” you say finally, your voice quieter now. “He’s strong enough on his own. He always has been.”

Jay lets out a low, disbelieving laugh. “That’s the thing. He doesn’t need you to carry him, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t need you. You’re not taking away his strength; you’re giving him a reason to keep using it.”

“Don’t underestimate the kind of relief you bring him,” Jay says firmly. “He’s been carrying all of us for so long, I don’t think he realised how much he needed someone to push back. To challenge him. To make him feel like he doesn’t have to carry it all on his own.”

You glance at Jay, his expression serious now, his usual smirk replaced with something softer. “Why are you telling me this?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Because someone has to,” he replies simply. “And because I know you care about him, even if you’re too stubborn to admit it.”

The silence that follows feels heavier than before, but this time, it’s not uncomfortable. It settles between you like a fragile truce, delicate but unbroken. Which is surprising, considering you’re having a heart-to-heart with Jay, of all people.

You glance at him from the corner of your eye, half-expecting some sarcastic remark or a biting joke to cut through the moment. But he doesn’t say anything. Instead, his gaze fixes on the horizon. His profile, usually so sharp and full of defiance, seems softer now, like the weight of the conversation has smoothed out his edges.

“You know,” you start, breaking the silence, “you remind me of someone from the community building.”

Jay glances at you, curious. He notices your attempt to change the topic but he doesn't call you out on it. “Yeah? I bet they were a real charmer.”

You snort, shaking your head. “No, he was an idiot. But it’s something about the way neither of you know how to sugarcoat your words. That brutal honesty, whether anyone’s ready for it or not.”

Jay chuckles, the sound low and surprisingly genuine. “Well, I hope he’s thriving and doesn’t have a gaping hole in his side.”

“Yeah, well… he was a real troublemaker,” you say, your tone growing more reflective. “Got into all sorts of shit before everything fell apart. He was one of those kids the adults would always shake their heads at. A ‘bad influence,’ they’d say. But I went on a few supply runs with him, so I got to know him better. Yeah, he was reckless, stubborn, and constantly looking for trouble, but he was a nice guy deep down. Helped me out of a few tight spots.”

“He had a little sister. Around four years old when it started,” you continue, your voice lowering. “She was everything to him. No matter how much of a mess he was, he took care of her like his life depended on it. You could see it in the way he looked at her, the way he’d always make sure she had enough food or that she wasn’t scared.”

You pause, the memory sharp and painful. Jay’s quiet, sensing that there’s more to the story. His gaze sharpens, but he doesn’t interrupt, letting you take your time.

“One day, there was this fight. Between him and an older man in the building. It got… bad. Heated. I don’t even know what it was about anymore—something stupid, probably. Everyone was watching, caught up in the chaos, and I guess no one noticed his sister trying to stop them. She ran in, got caught in the middle.” Your voice falters, and you swallow hard before continuing. “She got pushed. Fell against the edge of a table. Her skull… cracked open.”

The words hang heavy in the air, and for a moment, neither of you speaks. The weight of the memory presses down on you, and you can feel Jay’s gaze on you, quiet and steady.

“At first, he was devastated,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “Grief just… swallowed him whole. But then, something shifted. His entire demeanour changed. He didn’t cry. He didn’t scream. He just… got up, grabbed the man who’d pushed her, and dragged him outside. Fed him to the dead. No hesitation. After that, he left. Never saw him again.”

Jay exhales slowly, leaning forward slightly. “What’s the moral of the story?” he asks, his voice careful, like he’s testing the waters.

“I guess…” you hesitate, trying to put your thoughts into words. “I guess I’m afraid of becoming like him. Detached. Insane. Letting grief consume me to the point where I’m not even me anymore. I still remember his eyes that day, when he dragged that man outside. It was like… everything human about him was gone. And I don’t want that to happen to me.”

Jay watches you closely, his expression unreadable. Then, after a long pause, he asks the question you’ve been dreading. “Is that why you left? Because you were scared to face what you’d lose?”

You flinch, the truth hitting you like a slap to the face. “Yeah,” you admit, your voice trembling.

“Do you think he made it?” he asks suddenly, his gaze still fixed you.

You blink, caught off guard by the question. It’s not one you’ve ever let yourself think about, not in detail. “I don’t know,” you admit, your voice hesitant. “I think about it sometimes. Whether he found somewhere safe, whether he made it out of the city alive... but I guess I’ll never know.”

“Do you think you would’ve done the same? If it had been you?”

The question hangs in the air, heavy with implication. You hesitate, but only for a moment. Because deep down, you already know the answer.

“Yes,” you say quietly, the weight of the admission settling deep in your chest. Your fingers curl into your palms, your throat tightening.

“I think I would’ve done the same thing. And that’s what makes it worse.”

Jay nods slowly, his expression unreadable. His gaze lingers on you, as if weighing something in his mind.

“There are some things in the universe that are just out of our control,” he says, staring up at the sky like the answers might be written in the clouds. “Like the weather, for example, or who your parents are. And when things go wrong, it’s easy to say, ‘It was out of my hands,’ or ‘There’s nothing I could’ve done about it.’”

Jay’s voice is steady, measured, but there’s something raw underneath it, something that makes you listen even though you don’t want to. He glances at you then, his expression unreadable. “But when you do have control over something—when you actually could have done something, but you choose not to—and then you lose control? That’s worse. That’s so much worse.”

Your fingers curl into your palms, nails biting into skin, but you don’t stop him.

“Because this time, you actually had a hand in it,” Jay continues, his voice quieter now. “Not doing anything about it, knowing what you could’ve done to prevent it—that thought consumes you. It haunts you in your sleep, over and over again. And I think, deep down, you already know this.” He lets out a soft breath, shaking his head slightly. “If you didn’t, you wouldn’t have come back.”

“Human emotions are fickle. And more often than not, we’re driven by the negative ones,” Jay muses. “Anger, fear, guilt, regret, grief. I mean, it’s hard not to be when you’re forced into a world where the undead is constantly trying to eat you.” He huffs a quiet, humourless laugh, running a hand through his hair.

“But the one thing stronger than all of those emotions? Hope.”

He says it so simply, like it’s a fact, like it’s something undeniable. Like he knows you've been grappling with this dilemma.

You want to deny. You really really want to.

“It’s a funny thing, hope,” Jay says, looking back at you now. “You can’t survive without it—not really. It’s the one thing that keeps people moving forward, that makes them cling to life even when it feels impossible. In the apocalypse, you can never have too much hope. Because it’s all we have left.”

His gaze sharpens, like he’s making sure you’re listening.

“That includes each other.”

The lump in your throat grows tighter.

“We’re hope for one another,” Jay says, his voice unwavering. “You’re hope for us. And we damn well need to be hope for you.”

You let out a shaky breath, turning your head away. You stare down at your scraped hands as Jay’s words settle deep into your bones, into every part of yourself you’ve spent so long trying to shut off. You hate hope. You fear it.

Jay leans back against the sign, watching you carefully. He doesn’t press, doesn’t rush you. He just lets you sit with your thoughts, lets you process.

Eventually, you find your voice, though it comes out quieter than you expect. “But you only feel those negative emotions when you hope. Hope sucks the life out of people. Hope gives people false reassurance. People lose all sense of logic just to hold onto hope and yet, it's hope that makes the pain so much more excruciating when it's ripped away from you. You’re only disappointed because you hope. Too much hope is dangerous.” You don't even realise you've been raising your voice until you're done.

Jay huffs out a small, humourless laugh, shaking his head. “It’s a paradox, isn’t it? This fragile, beautiful thing that’s supposed to keep us alive is also the thing that can destroy us.” His voice is steady, thoughtful. “Hope is the spark that ignites negative emotions—but it twists them into something else. Something with purpose.

“Anger, fuelled by hope, becomes determination. Fear, tied to hope, becomes caution. Guilt and regret, tethered to hope, becomes redemption. Grief, woven into hope, becomes strength.”

You flinch at that, but Jay doesn’t let up. “Without hope, those emotions are just weights dragging you down, holding you back. But with it, they’re a reason to fight. A reason to survive.”

“Hope is what gives meaning to every choice, every sacrifice. It’s what makes us human.”

You stare at him, your throat tightening. The words claw at something deep in you, something you’ve spent so long trying to bury.

“And that’s the cruel irony of it all,” Jay continues, his voice quieter now. “Because hope is also the thing that hurts the most. The thing that leaves you raw, vulnerable to disappointment and despair when it’s inevitably taken away. But even knowing that, we can’t let it go. Because without hope, what’s left?”

His gaze flickers to you then, sharp and knowing. “Not you,” he says, his voice gentle but firm. “And definitely not me.”

Jay’s words settle into you like a slow, creeping ache—one you can’t ignore, no matter how much you want to. They seep into the cracks, the ones you’ve spent so long trying to patch over, the ones you told yourself didn’t exist.

And for the first time in a conversation with Jay, you have no response.

You know he’s right. But it hurts—because hope is also the reason you’re here. The reason you turned back. The reason you’re sitting on this rooftop, trying to make sense of the war that rages inside you.

Hope, in the apocalypse, is both a necessity and a curse—and that contradiction is what makes it so powerful.

If you hadn't seen what you saw, you would have been long gone by now. You would’ve walked away with the comfortable lie that they’d be fine, that they’d beat the odds like they always do, that their naive faith in safety would somehow be rewarded.

But you know the truth now. And the truth doesn’t allow you the luxury of ignorance. Because they’re not okay. They won’t be okay.

Not unless you do something.

Leaving now—knowing what’s coming—wouldn’t just make you a coward. It would make you complicit in their deaths. It would mean standing by while the world tears them apart, pretending it isn’t your problem.

And you know yourself well enough to understand exactly how that would end. A lifetime of guilt. A lifetime of knowing you could have done something but chose not to. That guilt would fester inside you, wear you down, strip you bare until there’s nothing left of you that’s worth saving. Until the world finally wins.

And either way—whether you leave or stay—you’re not going to come out of this intact. You’re already too deep, too tangled in it all.

So you choose the path that has even the smallest, most fragile hope of something good coming out of it.

In the end, you chose hope.

And hope guided you back to them.

The silence between you and Jay stretches for another half-hour, comfortable in a way that doesn’t demand words. There’s no need to fill the space with forced conversation, no pressure to dissect the weight of everything you’ve just talked about. Just the two of you, sitting side by side, watching the horizon as if it holds the answers neither of you have.

Occasionally, your gaze drifts downward, taking in the organised chaos of the camp below. The others move with purpose, their figures threading seamlessly through the makeshift fortifications, pulling them together, binding them to one another. Binding you to them.

Your eyes find Jungwon without meaning to. He’s hunched over a roughly drawn map with Heeseung, tracing escape routes with a furrowed brow. His lips are pressed into a thin line, his jaw tight, his entire body braced as if the sheer weight of their survival rests on his shoulders alone. Heeseung says something, pointing at a different spot on the map, and Jungwon nods, his fingers tightening around the paper.

You wonder what he’s thinking. If he truly believes they have a chance, or if he’s just convincing himself to. Because no matter how much you try to push it away, the doubt creeps in before you can stop it. It slithers through the cracks in your resolve, wrapping around your thoughts like a noose.

The horde is too big.

There’s no way this place will hold against it.

Even if you get past the first wave, they’ll surround the camp before you even get the chance to turn around and leave.

You press your lips together, gripping the edge of the roof so tightly that your knuckles turn white. The old wood groans under the pressure, but the sound is drowned out by the weight pressing down on your chest.

It’s a losing battle.

You know it. They must know it too.

But then, you look closer. The exhaustion on their faces is unmistakable. The shadows under their eyes, the weariness in their shoulders, the way Sunghoon drags a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply as if trying to breathe the tension out of his body.

They don’t fully believe this will work. Not really.

But they’re trying anyway.

Because what else is there to do? Give up? Lay down and wait to be torn apart? No. That’s not who they are.

And despite the gnawing dread in your stomach, you realise—it’s not who you are either.

Just then, panicked voices rise from directly beneath you, coming from a blind spot you can’t see. Your body tenses instinctively as your ears strain to make sense of the commotion.

Jay stiffens beside you, his head snapping toward the sound. You exchange a knowing look, silent but immediate in your understanding—something’s wrong.

You focus, trying to visualise the situation in your head, piecing together what you can hear against what you can’t see. The sharp edges of alarm in the voices. The sound of someone struggling. A threat, spoken with dangerous intent.

Your eyes flick to Jungwon. His expression is tight, unreadable at first—until you notice the tinge of worry, the fear etched just beneath the surface as his gaze locks onto the entrance of the convenience store.

You’re already counting heads.

Jungwon. Heeseung. Jake. Sunghoon. Ni-ki. Jay, beside you.

Your stomach twists.

Where’s Sunoo?

Before you can say anything, a voice cuts through the tense silence. A voice you don't recognise.

“I know there’s two more,” the stranger calls out, their tone sharp with authority. “You’d better show yourselves before I do something to this boy.”

The world around you stills.

Your breath catches.

Sunoo.

You and Jay exchange another glance, this time urgent, alarm bells ringing in both of your heads. Without hesitation, you inch closer to the edge, careful not to make a sound as you peer over.

Your worst fears are confirmed.

Sunoo stands frozen in the doorway of the convenience store, his hands raised slightly, his posture rigid with fear. His chest rises and falls in quick, shallow breaths, his eyes darting toward Jungwon—toward all of them—searching for an escape that doesn’t exist.

Behind him, partially obscured by the pillars, you catch a glimpse of someone else—an outsider. A woman, dressed in ragged clothing with a cloak draped over her frame. Yet, despite her tattered appearance, her stance radiates a quiet, dangerous confidence that sends every instinct in your body on high alert. With one hand, she presses a pistol firmly against the back of Sunoo’s head, keeping him locked in place.

She’s inside the rest stop. How?

Then it hits you.

She’s been here. Probably ever since you arrived. Hiding. Watching. Acting as a spy for your attackers.

Jungwon’s expression remains unreadable, but you see the tension in his shoulders, the slight tremor in his fingers. He takes a slow step forward, his hands raised in a non-threatening gesture. His voice is calm, measured.

“You’re outnumbered. Are you sure you want to do this?” He tilts his head slightly, eyes locked onto hers. “Let him go, and we can talk.”

The woman doesn’t even spare him a glance.

“I said show yourself,” she orders, her voice sharp, unwavering. “You have ten seconds.”

And then she starts counting.

"Ten."

Your gaze flicks to Jay.

What should we do?

"Nine."

Jay’s jaw tightens.

Let’s wait it out.

"Eight."

Your stomach knots.

And what if she shoots him?

"Seven."

Jay exhales sharply, weighing the risk.

I don’t think she will. She’s outnumbered.

"Six."

Your fingers twitch at your sides.

She’s bluffing.

"Five. I’m really going to do it."

Your breath catches.

She’s not bluffing.

"Four."

Jay hesitates.

She has nothing to lose.

"Three—"

“Alright, we’re coming out.”

The words leave your lips before you fully process them. Your arms lift above your head, palms open, your body moving before your mind can tell you to stop. Slowly, carefully, you begin your descent from the roof.

Jungwon’s eyes flicker to you the moment your feet touch the ground, but he doesn’t say anything. His jaw tightens, his fingers twitch slightly at his side. You know he doesn’t like this, but what other choice do you have? You had seconds to decide—risk Sunoo’s life, or give her what she wants.

Your boots hit the pavement, dust kicking up beneath you as you step forward, keeping your hands where she can see them. Jay lands behind you, slower, deliberate. You sense the stiffness in his movements, the way his breathing subtly shifts as he fights to keep himself from wincing. He’s trying not to show it, but he’s still weak.

She can’t know that.

“See? That wasn’t so hard,” the woman sneers, swaying the pistol trained on Sunoo. He flinches but doesn’t make a sound, though you can see the tension in his frame, the fear flickering in his eyes. He’s trying to be brave. You need to be braver.

You and Jay stop a few paces away, keeping the distance just wide enough to not seem like a threat. Jungwon, Heeseung, and the others remain still—coiled like springs, waiting for the right moment. Looking for an opening. But you know there might not be one.

A chill creeps down your spine, slithering like ice through your veins, settling deep in your bones. You swallow hard, forcing air into your lungs. Stay calm. Stay in control.

The air around you feels thick, suffocating in its stillness. Each breath is laced with tension, heavy with unspoken words, unspoken fears. Your fingers twitch at your sides, hovering near your weapon, but you don’t dare move—not yet. One wrong twitch, one flinch in the wrong direction, and the woman’s finger might tighten around the trigger.

Then, as if the universe is offering you a cruel favour, a faint breeze stirs the stagnant air, cutting through the oppressive heat and unsettling the dust beneath your feet. The edges of the woman’s tattered cloak flutter with the movement, lifting for the briefest moment.

But it’s enough.

Your breath catches and your gaze snaps to the sight beneath the ragged material, to the place where her left forearm should be.

A stump.

Jagged, uneven, the skin around it healed but rough—evidence of a wound that wasn’t treated with care. A makeshift bandage barely holds in place, frayed from time and neglect.

Your mind races, the implications hitting you like a blow to the chest.

She’s injured. She’s weaker than she wants you to believe.

The realisation strikes you hard, but before you can fully register how to use it against her, a voice cuts through the tension.

“Hey, I know you.”

It’s Jake.

His tone isn’t hesitant, but certain—sharp enough to make the woman’s smirk falter ever so slightly.

“You do now?” The woman regains her composure quickly, her smirk returning as she idly plays with the safety of her pistol, flicking it on and off, the quiet click-click-click filling the charged silence.

Jake doesn’t flinch. “Lieutenant Kim Minseol. Ammunition Command. You’re part of The Future.”

His words send a ripple of confusion through the group.

Jungwon stiffens beside you, his gaze sharpening as he scrutinises the woman up and down, searching for recognition in her face. The others exchange uneasy glances, but Jake keeps his eyes locked on her.

“I remember you,” he continues, voice controlled but unwavering. “A few weeks before our escape, you came into the treatment facility with a fresh stump on your left arm. It was because of your absence that we were able to sneak into the supply depot.”

For a brief moment, something flickers in her expression. A shadow of something sinister, something ugly. Then she lets out a hollow, bitter laugh.

“What a good memory you have there, Doctor Sim.” The mockery drips from her words, but beneath it, there’s a tightness—like the words taste sour in her mouth.

Jake doesn’t react, his expression carefully guarded.

And then her smirk disappears altogether.

“But you’re wrong about the first part,” she says, her voice dropping lower, losing its feigned amusement. “I was part of The Future. Until they expelled me. Said resources were running low. But of course, that’s because someone helped themselves to six months' worth of supplies.” Her gaze sweeps over all of you, sharp and knowing.

A chill settles over the group.

“It’s not our fault,” Heeseung says evenly, though there’s a tightness in his jaw, a flicker of tension beneath his composed exterior. His gaze shifts—almost unconsciously—to her left arm, lingering for just a second too long. “They would’ve expelled you anyway. For your… unfortunate disability.”

Her head tilts slightly, eyes narrowing like a predator sizing up its prey.

“Someone of my rank would still be valuable enough to keep around, even with my unfortunate disability,” she counters, her tone dripping with cold certainty.

The click of a pistol’s safety disengaging slices through the silence. Sunoo flinches, his breath catching as the muzzle digs harder against his skull.

“You think I’m lying?” Her voice sharpens like a blade, each syllable cutting through the air with precision. “Then what about the dozens of able-bodied men and women they cast out with me?” Her eyes sweep over the group, daring anyone to challenge her, to deny the truth she’s laying before them.

“What excuse do they have?”

No one answers.

“How did you end up here?” you ask, grasping for something, anything to keep the upper hand.

The woman lets out a scoff. “What? Didn’t think a lady with a stump could survive this long?” she sneers. “I was military for a reason, you know. And lucky for the group of us that got expelled, we ran into A.” Her smirk widens, something cruel glinting in her eyes. “Who just so happened to have a long-standing unresolved affair with one… of… you.”

Her gaze sweeps the group deliberately, before landing on Jay.

It lingers.

Your breath stills.

Is she talking about him? About the man Jay went after?

Your head snaps to Jay instinctively, and sure enough, you see it—the slight stiffening of his shoulders, the sharp clench of his jaw. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move, but that’s all the confirmation you need.

You keep your voice even, biting back the unease bubbling in your gut. “Did A suggest you lot dress up as freaks too?” you taunt, eyeing the grotesque remnants of the dead clinging to her clothes.

Her smirk doesn’t falter. If anything, it deepens.

“Call it whatever you want,” she purrs, rolling her shoulders back, “but it’s kept us alive.” There’s something almost reverent in the way she says it. “It’s what got us this sanctuary of a rest stop.”

Sanctuary. The word makes your stomach churn.

The woman gestures around like she’s unveiling some grand conquest, her voice thick with smug satisfaction. “The Future didn’t see what was coming when we rolled over this place. They never even put up a fight.” She shakes her head, laughing—mocking. “That’s how confident they were in this place. That sure of their survival.”

She spreads her arms wide, as if to drive the point home. “And just like that, they left all this behind! For us, of course.” Her eyes gleams with something almost predatory, as she levels her gaze at you. “Not you.”

She’s getting caught up in her own villain monologue. She’s getting cocky.

“‘The Future are monsters.’” She spits the words out like they taste bitter on her tongue. “It’s easy to just say that, isn’t it?” She lets out a mocking laugh, one filled with more exhaustion than humour.

“Have you ever considered that some of us were just doing what we were told? That we were just trying to survive?”

Silence.

Then, her smirk fades, replaced with something colder.

“Bet you didn’t think stealing wouldn’t have any implications on the rest of us, did you?” Her grip on the pistol tightens, her knuckles turning white.

“Did you?” she repeats, quieter this time, but the threat behind it is unmistakable.

The weight of her words settles over the group like a thick fog, suffocating in its quiet accusation.

She’s right.

They had never stopped to think about what had happened to the people they left behind. The ones who weren’t part of The Future’s elite, the ones who had simply been following orders. The ones who weren’t cruel enough, strong enough, useful enough to be worth keeping around.

And when they took those six months of supplies, when they ran, they might not have pulled the trigger on those people themselves—

But they might as well have.

It’s a sickening realisation.

The Future is a tyrant military organisation. That much is true. But tyrants don’t survive without followers, without structure, without soldiers willing to do anything to keep their people alive.

Isn’t that exactly what they’ve been doing?

Taking what they can. Keeping their own alive, even if it means condemning someone else.

The guilt twists in your stomach like a knife. You feel it rippling through the others too. She leans in ever so slightly, her lips curling into something almost gentle—but the pistol pressing into Sunoo’s skull tells a different story.

“You see it now, don’t you?” she murmurs, tilting her head. “The hypocrisy. The way you tell yourselves you’re different.”

“You’re no different from The Future.”

“And now you’re back,” she continues, voice like poisoned honey. “Trying to steal something that isn’t yours, again.”

The shift in the air is almost tangible. It’s subtle, like a silent crack forming in a foundation that had once seemed unbreakable—but it’s there.

You see it in the way Jake’s shoulders slump just slightly, in the way Sunghoon’s lips press into a thin line, in the way Heeseung’s gaze flickers to the ground like he can’t quite meet anyone’s eyes, in the way Ni-ki’s jaw is clenched so tight it looks like it might shatter, in the way Jay’s hands twitch at his sides, in the way Sunoo disassociates even with a gun pointed at his head, and among them is Jungwon’s gaze—still sharp and unreadable.

It’s setting in—the weight of her words, the seed of doubt she’s planted.

Because she’s not just threatening them. She’s challenging everything they’ve told themselves to keep going.

The belief that they’re different.

That they’re good.

That, somehow, their survival is more justified than anyone else’s.

But survival is never clean, is it? And now that she has said it, now that she’s painted that picture in their minds, you can see them starting to crumble.

These people—your people—their sole reason for fighting is the belief that they are not monsters. That they are not like The Future, or A, or the ones who take and take and take without looking back.

But now, faced with the consequences of their own actions, you watch that belief fracture.

They’re breaking.

She sees it.

And she revels in it.

This has been her goal all along—to make them doubt themselves. Because a group that doubts itself is a group that falls apart from the inside.

You need to stop this. Now.

“Then let’s talk about what is yours, Lieutenant,” you say, keeping your voice steady, sharp. “Tell me—what exactly did you earn?”

Her smirk falters, just barely. But you catch it.

“What?”

“You and the others,” you press, eyes locked onto hers. “Did you build this place? Did you earn the supplies you’re hoarding? Did you put in the work to secure it?”

Her lips part slightly, like she’s about to say something, but you don’t give her the chance.

“No,” you answer for her. “You stole it. Just like The Future stole from the people before them. Just like we stole to survive.”

Her fingers twitch.

Good.

“You think you’re better than us?” you continue, pressing the words forward like a knife slipping between ribs. “You took this place the same way we would’ve if we’d gotten here first. Yet, you’re walking around acting like it's your birthright.”

Her expression darkens, her grip on the pistol tightening, but you don’t miss the way her jaw clenches.

A flicker of something shifts through the group.

They exchange glances, the tension easing just slightly, as if your words—blunt and unforgiving—have cracked through the air of helplessness surrounding them. Jungwon’s stare flickers between you and the woman, the gears in his head turning, assessing, waiting for her next move.

The silence that follows is thick, heavy with unspoken truths and fractured justifications.

Then, she speaks.

“We did steal,” she admits, her voice low, sharp, controlled.

Her head tilts, dark eyes locking onto yours, something almost amused flickering in them despite the rage simmering beneath her skin.

“But the difference between us—” she leans in slightly, voice dipping into something razor-thin, something meant to cut, “—is that you’re parading around, pretending you have some kind of moral high ground.”

And this time, it’s your turn to flinch. It takes everything in you to keep your face blank, to not let her see the way her accusation burrows under your skin like a splinter.

Because she’s right. They all know it.

Survival was never about who deserved to live. It was about taking. About seizing what you could before someone else did. About carving out a space in a world that no longer cared who was good, who was bad, who had once been kind.

Because kindness doesn’t keep you alive. Compassion doesn’t put food in your hands or a weapon in your grip. Morality doesn’t stop the teeth that tear through flesh or the hands that pull the trigger.

And if you’re all the same—if you’re all monsters—then what’s left?

There’s only one answer.

Whoever wins.

The only law that exists now is power.

Not justice. Not fairness. Not mercy.

Just power.

And the only ones who get to live in this world are the ones strong enough to take it for themselves.

Survival of the fittest.

That’s what the world was before, and it’s what the world is now. Only now, the stakes are higher. Much higher.

Because before, losing meant failure.

Now? It means death.

And if you hesitate, if you second-guess, if you let yourself be weighed down by the ghost of a world that no longer exists—

You’ll lose.

And the world won’t mourn you. It won’t stop. It won’t care. It will keep turning, indifferent to the bodies left behind, to the names that fade into nothing.

Because nothing from before matters anymore.

Not the rules. Not the morals. Not the person you used to be. You can no longer afford to hold on to the past.

Because the past won’t save you.

Only the future will.

And the only way to have a future—is to take it.

"You think you’ll make it out of here alive if you pull that trigger?” you challenge her, forcing your voice to remain calm, steady. She tilts her head, lips curling into something almost amused as she meets your eyes.

“You should’ve left when you had the chance,” she says, completely disregarding your threat. The blood in your veins turns cold.

“But who knows? Maybe A will let some of you go. Like what we did with The Future,” she continues, leaning in slightly, as if daring you to flinch. “Let them scurry back to HQ like little mice. So they know to never come back here again.”

Her grin widens, twisting into something cruel. “And now that you’re here, fallen right into our trap, you’ll soon be one of us!” She laughs, the sound sharp and jagged, like glass shattering in the quiet.

Never come back here again…

Soon be one of us…?

The words settle like a stone in your chest. And then, like a curtain being pulled back, you see it—the bigger picture.

She’s laughing. She thinks she’s won. But she doesn't realise what she's just given away.

If A and his people wanted you dead, they wouldn’t have resorted to games. They wouldn’t have wasted time luring you into an ambush or toying with you—not with all these guns and ammos at their disposal. No, they would’ve wiped you out back at that forest clearing when they had the chance.

They haven’t. They insist on bringing the dead down on you—because they have an ulterior motive.

They don’t want you dead. They want you alive.

Why?

Because only when you’re alive—when you’re standing, breathing, fighting—can you turn. Turn into the very army of the dead they control. Become one of them.

That’s why they let The Future walk away. Not out of mercy. Not because they couldn’t fight them. But because they didn’t need to. The Future was never the target—you were. They wanted you to lead the others right back here. They’ve been waiting for this moment.

And The Future? The Future won’t come back. Not for revenge. Not for a counterattack. They cut their losses and retreated—not because they were outnumbered, not because they were weak, but because they were unaware.

They didn’t understand what they were fighting. They couldn’t defend against something they had no clue how to fight. They knew they couldn’t stand against an enemy that moves undetected through hordes of the dead. Couldn’t win against an army that grows stronger with every person it kills.

So they ran.

But you? You don’t have to. Because you know exactly what’s coming.

And now, standing in the heart of what should have been your own grave, you see it—hope. This place isn’t just a temporary solution. It’s an opportunity.

If A and his people could take this place, then so can you. If they could push out The Future, then there’s a way to do the same to them. And if they could survive out there, using the dead as shields and weapons, then you can find a way to use it against them.

Your fingers tighten into fists.

If you secure this place, they’ll never have to run again.

Not from A. Not from The Future. Not from anyone.

You let out a slow breath, forcing your heartbeat to steady as you shift your stance, eyes locking onto hers.

She thinks she’s won. Thinks she’s backed you all into a corner. But she’s just handed you everything you needed to know.

You tilt your head slightly, allowing the barest hint of a smirk to tug at your lips. “What makes you so confident we can’t just take it from you?”

Her smirk holds firm, but you catch the slightest twitch in her expression—just for a second. “Oh?” she muses, arching a brow. “I’d love to see you try going up against military-trained personnel and a horde of zombies. It’ll be fun.”

You shrug, feigning indifference. “Who said anything about confrontation?” You let the words hang in the air, watching carefully as confusion flickers across her face. “If you lot figured out how to walk with the dead, why can’t we do the same?”

For the first time, her bravado falters. Her eyes widen ever so slightly, and there it is—realisation and doubt all at once. Almost like she had never thought about it. Which makes sense because you finding out about their mechanics, isn't part of their plan.

That hesitation—that moment of uncertainty—is all Sunoo needs.

He moves in a blur, striking before she even registers what’s happening. His fingers close around her wrist, twisting sharply as he wrenches the gun from her grip. It clatters to the floor with a thud, and in a single fluid motion, Sunoo has her pinned.

She lets out a sharp grunt, struggling against his hold, but she’s at a disadvantage—distracted, handicapped, unarmed.

And just like that, the tides turn. Sunghoon is on her in seconds, his knee pressing into her back as he yanks her arm behind her. The fight drains from her quickly, the weight of the situation finally sinking in.

You exhale, the adrenaline still buzzing beneath your skin, your mind racing through every possibility.

This place can be yours.

They don’t have to run anymore.

Hope is starting to take root.

“Fools. You think it’s easy? Walking among the dead?” she sneers, her voice laced with mockery despite the fact she’s sprawled face-down on the cold, hard floor. Sunghoon’s hands move swiftly over her, searching for any hidden weapons.

“It takes everything you are to walk with the dead.”

There’s something unsettling in the way she says it, something almost reverent. Like she’s speaking of a religion rather than survival.

Sunoo scoffs, standing over her with her pistol now in his hands. He checks the magazine, clicks the safety on and off before shaking his head. “Yeah, yeah, keep talking, lady. It’s not getting you anywhere.”

But she just smirks. That same infuriating smirk that hasn’t left her face since the moment she was caught. She’s lying completely still now, unnaturally calm as Sunghoon and Heeseung haul her up onto a chair. She doesn’t resist—not even when they start binding her arms—or whatever's left of it—tightly behind her, securing the coarse rope around her torso and the back of the chair. If anything, she lets them.

"I've really underestimated you, Y/N." Her voice drips with amusement, her lips curling into something eerily close to admiration, but there’s something sharper beneath it—something darker. "You’re not just similar—you’re just like us. Conniving. Merciless. Dead."

She giggles then, a sound too light, too mocking for the weight of her words, for the quiet horror settling deep in your chest. "You might not even need to wear their skin to walk with the dead."

A chill slithers down your spine, but you force yourself to hold her gaze, to not give her the satisfaction of seeing how deeply her words sink in. Heeseung pulls the final knot tight, the rough rope biting into her skin, binding her in place. Yet, she doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t struggle. She just leans back, head resting against the chair, exhaling like she’s settling in, like she’s making herself comfortable rather than sitting bound and at your mercy.

As if she’s the one in control.

"But don’t say I didn’t warn you," she murmurs, her voice almost singsong, a taunting lilt woven through her words. They linger in the space between you, curling like smoke, seeping under your skin. The room feels too quiet now, as if the weight of what she just said has stolen all the air from it.

She tilts her head slightly, her eyes gleaming—not with anger, not with fear, but with something worse. Something that almost looks like pity.

"You’ll understand what I mean soon."

The smirk widens. It stretches across her face, slow and deliberate. You stare at it for too long—long enough for Ni-ki to shove a loose piece of cloth into her mouth, silencing whatever cryptic words she might have let slip next.

But her eyes remain fixed on you, unwavering. Cold. Calculating.

You can’t look away.

Something about the way she’s staring at you feels wrong. Like she’s seeing straight through you, past the layers you’ve built, past the walls you’ve tried to keep up. Like she’s already figured you out before you’ve even figured out yourself. Like she knows exactly how this will play out, and you don’t.

In that sense, you’re already losing. Not in the way you expected—not in battle, not in blood, not in death. But in yourself. Because you can feel it, can sense it creeping in at the edges of your mind, curling into your thoughts, whispering where doubt used to be.

You’ve already begun losing yourself.

It’s only when someone calls you over that you manage to tear your gaze away, the spell breaking.

“What the fuck happened, Sunoo? Where did she come from?” Heeseung demands the second they’re out of earshot, his voice low but urgent.

Sunoo, however, huffs, dramatically rubbing at his wrist as if he’s the real victim here. “Geez, I’m fine, thanks for asking,” he grumbles.

Heeseung rolls his eyes. “Sunoo.”

“I was in the basement,” Sunoo starts, crossing his arms, “looking for anything we could use to fortify the barricades. Found this stack of those things—the masks—hidden away in one of the boxes shoved in the corner. Thought, great, more nightmare fuel. And then—bam! She jumped me out of fucking nowhere. How the fuck was I supposed to know she was there?”

His frustration is evident, his gestures exaggerated as he recounts the moment. “If I had known, her one-armed bitchass wouldn’t have even been able to pull that gun on me like that. Ugh.”

The irritation in his voice doesn’t quite mask the underlying unease. She had been down there the whole time—hidden, watching, waiting. Maybe that’s why you couldn’t shake the unsettling feeling of being watched.

And yet, you left them here. With her.

A chill runs down your spine. The weight of realisation presses against your ribs, suffocating, threatening to pull you under. But before your mind can spiral further, you hear it—your name.

Spoken by the very voice you’ve been yearning to hear call out your name since you left.

“Y/N.”

Jungwon.

“Are you okay?”

Your breath catches as you turn to face him. His expression is unreadable at first, but his eyes—his eyes betray him. There’s worry there, concern woven into the fabric of his gaze, despite everything. Despite the fight. Despite the fact that you left. You walked away. And yet, here he is, standing before you, asking if you’re okay.

He still cares.

You don’t trust your voice. You’re afraid it’ll betray you, that it’ll crack under the sheer force of everything you’re feeling. That if you try to speak, all that will come out will be fragments of whimpers, of apologies left unsaid.

So instead, you nod. A small, barely perceptible movement. The best you can offer.

Jungwon watches you for a moment, searching. Then, after what feels like an eternity, he nods back. A silent exchange. An understanding.

“Y/N… did you really mean that?” Ni-ki’s voice cuts through the thick tension, pulling your attention away from Jungwon. You turn to him, barely registering the weight of his question. Your mind is still foggy, reeling from everything.

“You think we can walk with the dead?” Ni-ki presses, his gaze unwavering.

“I—I don’t know.” The words feel hollow in your mouth, the uncertainty hanging in the air like a guillotine. Your eyes drop to the ground, unable to meet his stare. “I’m sorry, I just—I always say shit, but half the time, I don’t even know if it’ll work.”

A beat of silence. Then, you swallow hard, forcing yourself to push through the self-doubt. “But… I have seen them do it. They blend in with just a mask over their heads. It can work.”

“But once they get inside the walls, it’s going to be chaos. It’ll be dark. We’ll probably lose sight of one another. You won’t even know if the zombie in front of you is actually dead or one of them.”

“Wait. Once they get inside?” Heeseung’s voice is sharp, cutting through the moment like a blade. His eyes narrow, scanning your face. “You’re saying we let them in?”

Ni-ki exhales sharply through his nose, shaking his head as if trying to process it all.

You inhale deeply, forcing yourself to meet their gazes. “You and I both know the barricades won’t last,” you say, steadying your voice. “Against a normal horde, maybe. But they will be walking among them. Herding them. Pushing them against the gates. Even if they can’t break through the main entrance, they’ll find another way in.”

The unspoken horror settles over the group and you see the fear flicker across their faces.

“But if we leave the gate open,” you continue, your voice quieter now, more deliberate, “they’ll walk in on their own. And we can blend right in.”

“Okay, but then what?” Jake asks, his voice cautious, calculating. “What do we do after that?”

“We take them out.” You don’t hesitate this time. You don’t waver. You meet his gaze head-on. “From within.”

A thick silence follows your words. You can feel it—the doubt, the fear, the pure insanity of what you’re proposing.

“Fight?” Sunghoon is the first to break the silence, his voice incredulous. “Surrounded by the dead? You must be insane.” He lets out a bitter scoff, shaking his head in disbelief. “The moment we make a single sound that doesn’t match the dead, we’re finished. You know that.”

You exhale, willing yourself to stay patient. “No,” you say firmly. “Not fight. Just—sneak up on them. Get close. A small cut, enough to draw blood. That’s all we need. The scent will do the rest.”

They stare at you.

Realisation dawns.

It’s not about fighting. It’s not about going up against them in a losing battle. It’s about turning their own strategy against them. The horde is their weapon. But it can be yours too.

Heeseung’s throat bobs as he swallows. “You mean…” His voice trails off, understanding sinking in.

You nod. “We let the horde do it’s job.”

The plan is reckless. Insane. Dangerous. But it’s the only shot you have.

And if you’re being honest—it’s a solid plan. But you’re not sure if it’s a plan you’re proud to have come up with. You should be. A plan like this—calculated, ruthless, effective—should bring you some sense of relief. Some assurance that you can outthink them, that you can survive this.

It makes sense. It’s logical. It’s exactly the kind of plan The Future would execute without hesitation if they had known what was coming for them. And that’s what unsettles you the most.

Jungwon hasn’t spoken. He’s been listening, watching, absorbing every word you’ve said. When you glance at him, he’s already looking at you—his expression unreadable, his gaze sharp and searching, as if trying to pick apart what’s going on inside your head.

You’re dragged back to your conversation with Jay on the rooftop. The way he told you—so plainly, so matter-of-factly—that Jungwon relies on you more than he lets on. That you bring him comfort in ways you never realised.

Then your mind goes back further. To the conversation with Jungwon yesterday. The way he told you that he felt a sense of reprieve when you came along. That you were his moral compass.

The weight of that knowledge settles in your chest, and then, just as quickly, it twists into guilt. It crashes over you like a tsunami.

You wonder if he still feels that way about you.

“Sounds like a plan.” Jay’s voice cuts through the silence like a blade, slicing through the tension that had been suffocating the group. Everyone turns to him, eyes wide, like he’s just said something insane.

You’re staring at him too.

“Why are y’all looking at me like that? I’m not the one that came up with this insanity.” His lips twitch with the ghost of a smirk, but the humour doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

Then, as if on cue, they all turn to you. Then back to Jay as he continues, “But it’s a plan that could work,”

“Of course you think that,” Jake snaps, his frustration bubbling over. “You’re always about killing people. I mean, look what got us into this shit in the first place.”

The words hang heavy in the air, and you know he doesn’t mean it—not fully. It’s the fear talking. The frustration. The sheer helplessness of the situation that’s clouding his judgement. But it doesn’t make it hurt any less.

For a moment, you expect Jay to fight back. To argue. To defend himself.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he giggles. It’s a quiet, breathy thing at first—then it morphs into something sharper, something bitter, something unhinged. And it unnerves you.

“You’re right,” Jay says, still grinning, his voice eerily calm. “If I could go back to that night when I went after him, I’d have made sure I watched him die before I left.”

The silence that follows is deafening.

Then, you feel it—the weight of it pressing down on everyone’s shoulders. No one dares to speak, as if acknowledging it would make them sinners.

And the worst part?

You had said something along those lines to Jay, back at the field. You told him if you were in his shoes, you’d have done worse. But back then it was a figure of speech, a way to make a point. You hadn’t really thought about it, hadn’t truly placed yourself in his shoes, in the heat of that moment.

But now?

Now, you know.

You would have done the same.

And hearing Jay say that—hearing him put words to the rage, to the vengeance clawing its way up your throat—it brings you a twisted sense of relief. A reassurance that you’re not the only person losing yourself in this fucked-up world.

And maybe that’s why you don’t flinch. Maybe that’s why, instead of recoiling from his words, you find yourself gripping onto them like an anchor, like something grounding you in the mess of it all.

Sunoo clears his throat, shifting awkwardly, his fingers tightening around the pistol he’d confiscated from the woman. “Alright, well. That’s… dark.” He tries to break the tension with forced levity, but no one laughs.

No one even breathes.

Jake rubs his face with both hands before exhaling sharply, shaking his head like he’s trying to clear his thoughts, like if he could just reset for a second, maybe this whole situation would make more sense. Ni-ki shifts uncomfortably beside him, his fingers twitching at his sides. His gaze flickers toward Jungwon, waiting—hoping—for him to say something. Anything.

But Jungwon is quiet.

He’s still watching you, his expression unreadable. There’s no anger in his eyes, no judgement, not even disappointment. Just thought.

And that’s almost worse.

Because you know that look. It’s the same one he gets when he’s met with an epiphany. When something suddenly clicks into place in his mind, when a realisation takes hold and refuses to let go.

He’s thinking.

Not just about the plan. Not just about them.

He’s trying to make sense of you. Trying to piece together something about you that he hadn’t considered before—

No.

Something about himself. Something about his own moral dilemma. Something he’s been trying to lock away, bury deep beneath all the responsibilities, all the weight on his shoulders.

Jungwon blinks once, his gaze hardening, focus snapping back to the present.

“If we’re doing this, we can’t leave any room for error.” Jungwon’s voice slices through the silence, steady but weighted. It’s the first thing he’s said in minutes, and yet it carries the kind of finality that makes your stomach twist.

He’s still looking at you, but it’s different now. It’s like he’s seeing you for the first time—not just as another survivor, not just as someone he needs to protect, but as something else. Something more dangerous.

Something like him.

And for the first time, you see it too.

You’ve cracked something in him. You’ve forced him to acknowledge something he hadn’t wanted to. You’ve opened Pandora’s box.

He knows it. You know it.

But neither of you say it.

“We can’t leave any room for error,” Jungwon repeats, his voice firm, sharp with an edge that slices through the tension like a blade. “We do this clean. Precise. No heroics. No last-minute changes. We stick to the plan, and we survive.”

The shift is immediate. The air changes. Everyone straightens, pulling themselves together, waiting for instruction. No one argues. Not even Sunghoon, who had been the first to call you insane. Because there’s no alternative. No second option. It’s this, or death.

Jungwon’s eyes sweep across the group, calculating, weighing every person’s strengths and weaknesses in the space of a single breath. “We’ll move in groups. When the dead come through, we stay in pairs. No one moves alone. We cover for each other, watch each other’s backs.”

His gaze lands on Jay. “You’re still injured. One wrong move and your stitches will come apart. Not to mention you have the biggest target on your back. So, you stay on the roof.”

Jay’s mouth opens, already ready to protest, but Jungwon cuts him off with a look. “We’ll cut the access off, so nothing can get to you. You’ll have the best vantage point—watch for gaps, any tight spots, and make noise to draw attention elsewhere if things start getting too close.”

Jay exhales sharply, jaw tightening, but he nods. He knows better than to argue.

Jungwon turns to the rest of the group, his expression unreadable. “Like Y/N said, it’s going to be dark. We won’t be able to see clearly, but neither will they. Remember, you just need to draw blood. The dead will do the rest.”

Jungwon’s gaze sweeps across them, sharp, calculating. His hands are loose at his sides, but there’s tension in his stance.

“And they don’t know that we’re on to them,” he continues. His voice is even, but there’s something colder beneath it now—something sharp-edged and deliberate. “We use that to our advantage. Move slow, stay quiet. Don’t rush. If you panic, you die.”

The words settle in like a final nail sealing a coffin.

A heavy silence settles over the group, thick and oppressive, pressing into your lungs like a vice. The weight of the plan is suffocating in its reality. The risk, the blood that will spill before the night is over.

This is it.

There’s no turning back. No room for hesitation. No time to process the sheer insanity of what you’re about to do. Your hands feel too light, your heartbeat too loud, hammering against your ribs like it’s trying to escape.

You picture the bodies—your people, their people, the dead in between—limbs tangled, faces unrecognisable beneath the blood and decay.

What if you fail? What if you hesitate at the wrong moment? What if someone doesn’t make it? What if you don’t make it? Would it matter? Would it change anything? Would the world even notice if one more person disappeared?

You inhale sharply, trying to ground yourself, but the air feels thin, slipping through your fingers like sand. You don’t realise you’re gripping the hem of your jacket too tightly until your knuckles ache.

Move. Breathe. Don’t think.

Because thinking means fear, and fear means weakness, and weakness means death.

Your mind spirals again. It’s been doing that a lot—a relentless, asphyxiating current dragging you under. And just as it’s about to bury you, a palm presses against the small of your back. Warm. Grounding. Your breath hitches at the unexpected touch.

"Y/N, let’s talk."

Jungwon’s voice is quiet but firm, a stark contrast to the storm raging inside you.

He doesn’t wait for a response, simply leading you away, up to the rooftop, where the two of you are left standing under the weight of everything unsaid. You face him, but suddenly, all the words you’ve been rehearsing, all the explanations and apologies you’ve run through in your head over and over, disappear. The moment you look at him—at the quiet intensity in his gaze, the weight in his shoulders—you’re speechless.

Jungwon opens his mouth first. "I—"

But you don’t let him finish. The words burst out of you before you can stop them, raw and desperate. "I’m sorry." Your voice wavers, thick with emotion. "I’m sorry I left you. I know now that I shouldn’t have. God, I was so stupid."

The words come faster now, tumbling over themselves. "I know you said before that you don’t hate me, but you must hate me now—after everything. After I left you. I left you to die." Your breath shudders, a sob catching in your throat. The tears you’ve been holding back finally spill over, burning hot against your skin. "I’m so sorry, Jungwon. I—"

He exhales sharply, shaking his head as if exasperated. "God, you never let me speak, do you?"

You blink through your tears, caught off guard. "What?"

Jungwon watches you for a moment before his expression softens, something almost amused ghosting across his face. "I told you before, I don’t hate you." His voice is steady, deliberate. "Nothing in this world will ever make me hate you."

You struggle to believe it, your chest tightening as you shake your head. "But I saw it." Your voice is barely a whisper. "That look on your face, when I suggested this insane of an idea."

You swallow, trying to steady yourself. "I thought I told you I didn’t want you to think. To second-guess what you’ve always believed in just to weigh me in."

Jungwon sighs, rubbing a hand over his face before lowering it again. "Well, it can’t be helped," he murmurs. "You’re someone that makes me think. A lot."

His words make something crack inside you, splintering under the weight of your guilt. "I’m sorry." Your voice is smaller this time. "I’m sorry I brought out the worst in you. All I did was shatter your resolve."

Your gaze drops, unable to bear looking at him any longer. "And them? Have you seen the way they look at me? They look at me like I’m a monster."

Jungwon tilts his head slightly. "No," he counters. "Have you seen the way they look at you?"

His response catches you off guard. You open your mouth to argue, to insist that you’ve seen their fear, their hesitation. But something about his tone makes you stop. He gestures for you to look, to truly look.

And so you do.

Your eyes drift down to the group below.

Fear, dread, terror—it’s all there, woven into their expressions, etched into their postures, marinating in the thin air. It clings to them like a suffocating fog, thick and unrelenting. Your stomach churns at the sight of it.

But then, as you really take them in, you notice something else. You see it in the tight-set jaws, the clenched fists, the flickering light behind their eyes. You see it as clear as day—something beneath the fear, the dread, the sheer, gut-wrenching terror.

Determination.

Resolve.

Hope—

"Hope." Jungwon’s voice cuts through the moment, soft but certain.

The word reverberates through you, lodging itself deep in your chest. He says it as if he knows exactly what you’re thinking. As if he sees the moment you realise what you’ve done.

"And you gave that to them."

His words knock the breath from your lungs.

Hope. The very thing you ran from. The thing you tried to abandon. The thing you convinced yourself was a lie, a cruel trick played by the universe.

And yet, here it is. Staring back at you in the eyes of the people you are trying to save.

Jungwon studies your face, watching as the realisation settles into you. Then, almost casually, he asks, "Has anyone told you what division I was in back when we were still in The Future?"

You blink, thrown off by the sudden change in topic. "No," you admit.

He exhales, his gaze flickering to the horizon before meeting yours again. "Tactical Functions."

The words hang heavy in the air between you. You wait for him to elaborate.

"I was one of the people who decided who got to stay and who was expelled. I played a part designing the tactics and strategies The Future used against the communities around them. All hell could break loose, and I would still be prioritised to stay. Because they needed people like me."

Your blood runs cold.

Jungwon’s voice remains even, but there’s something detached in it now. "You can’t bring the worst out of me, Y/N. I’m already him. And every night, I would see their faces in my sleep. In the trees. In the breeze." He swallows, his throat bobbing. "What’s worse is the only reason I even suggested we leave in the first place was because the committee brought up the discussion to expel Jay for insubordination."

Your breath hitches. "Jay?"

Jungwon lets out a dry chuckle, shaking his head. "Yeah. The man just couldn’t sit still without stirring some kind of shit. And they saw it. Saw how he could be a problem to the system. So, I orchestrated the entire escape. I left those people to reap the consequences of my actions. And I’d only done it because of Jay. If it wasn't for him, I would've sucked it up and continued doing whatever it took for us to survive.”

A weight settles in your chest, heavy and unrelenting.

He turns to you fully now, his eyes unwavering. "So no, I’m not going to sit here and let you talk about yourself like that."

It's a shocking revelation. Your mind reels, trying to reconcile the Jungwon standing before you with the boy who once stood on the watchtower, his voice laced with pure, unfiltered hatred.

You still remember that night vividly—the way his face twisted with something raw and wounded when he first told you about The Future. The way his voice dripped with venom as he spoke of them as something worse than the dead. Back then, you thought it was just anger, just the words of someone who had been wronged, betrayed, and left to fend for himself.

But now, the truth wraps around the two of you in a slow, suffocating chokehold.

He wasn’t just talking about them.

He was talking about himself.

It’s only now that you realise—when he cursed The Future, when he spat their name like it was poison, it wasn’t just about what they had done to others. It was about what they had turned him into. What they had forced him to become.

Jungwon looks at you, waiting for a response. But what can you even say? That it’s not his fault? That he was just doing what he had to do to survive? You already know those words will mean nothing to him.

"I—I didn’t know." Your voice is barely above a whisper when you say.

"Now you do."

Jungwon tilts his head slightly, his expression unreadable. "And knowing what you know, does that change how you see me?"

Your response is immediate. "God, no. Never."

A flicker of something—relief, maybe—passes through his eyes. He nods, as if confirming something to himself.

"Precisely. And that's why you don't have to worry about how I see you.”

A humourless laugh escapes him, but it lacks warmth. "I was crazy to think I could be even a fraction of a good person. Maybe my obsession with holding onto my humanity was just deluded because I had already lost it a long time ago."

His voice drops to something quieter, almost contemplative. "And hearing you and Jay say that? It made me feel… normal. Which, in hindsight, fucking sucks."

A faint, bitter smile tugs at his lips. "But it’s oddly liberating."

All this time, you had convinced yourself that you were a burden to him, that your presence chipped away at his resolve, that you were the thing dragging him into the dark. You thought you were making him worse—forcing him to question himself, to second-guess the beliefs he had once stood so firmly upon.

But standing here, you realise the truth is something entirely different.

You weren’t breaking him.

You were keeping him together.

Jungwon was relying on you in ways you hadn’t even considered—not just for your insight, not just for your ability to challenge him, but for something far more simple. Something far more human.

You made him feel normal.

In a world that demanded ruthlessness, in a life that had forced him to carry responsibilities far heavier than any human being should bear, you were the thing that reminded him he was still just a person. Not just a leader. Not just a tactician. Not just the one keeping them all alive.

Just Jungwon.

And maybe you needed him for the same reasons.

Maybe the two of you had been holding onto each other without even realising it, tethering yourselves to something real in a world that had long since lost its meaning.

Tears spill down your cheeks before your brain even registers them. They come silently, effortlessly, like they belong there—as if your body has been holding onto them, waiting for this moment to finally let go. You don’t wipe them away. You just let them fall, streaking warmth down your cold, dirt-streaked skin.

It’s a bittersweet moment, one that catches you off guard with how deeply it settles into your chest. And you realise, standing here in the quiet, in the wreckage of everything you once thought you believed in—how truly fucked up the two of you are.

But it’s not the kind of fucked up that makes you recoil. It’s the kind that makes you stop and think.

Because if you had truly lost your humanity, would you be standing here now? Would you be looking at Jungwon, voice trembling, hands shaking, with tears running down your face? Would he be standing here, looking at you with something equally raw and conflicted in his expression?

No. You’d be long gone. And they’d all be dead.

But you’re here. You came back. And it’s because you have your humanity that you did.

It’s because Jungwon has his humanity that he’s still here, still standing, still trying. Still fighting to be something more than the sum of his past.

Yes, you’re fucked up. You’d cross lines. You’d do the unimaginable. You’d become a version of yourself you never thought possible if it meant keeping the people you care about alive.

But if that’s what it means to survive in this world, if that’s what it takes to hold onto even the smallest fraction of something real—then maybe it’s not such a bad thing.

Maybe it means you’re still human after all.

And in that sense, you’re fucked up in the most beautiful way the world has left to offer.

Your eyes flicker to his hands, catching the way his fingers twitch at his sides, hesitant, uncertain. He’s deciding whether to reach for you—whether to wipe your tears away or let them fall.

It reminds you of this morning. The way he had extended his hands towards you, offering comfort, only for you to step away. You remember the flicker of hurt in his eyes when it happened

This time, you won’t step away.

Before you can second-guess yourself, you move, reaching out and grabbing his hands. Jungwon flinches at the sudden contact, startled, his breath hitching ever so slightly. His fingers twitch beneath yours, as if caught off guard by your warmth. For a second, he just looks at you, wide-eyed, unreadable, but you don’t let him pull away.

Gently, deliberately, you guide his hand to your face, pressing his palm against your tear-streaked cheek.

His expression shifts. The surprise fades, softening into something else—something quieter, something careful. His thumb brushes against your skin, tentative at first, then firmer, wiping away the tears that refuse to stop falling.

“Y/N…” your name comes out tender. So achingly tender that it makes your throat tighten, your chest ache.

His touch is careful, almost reverent, as if he’s afraid that if he presses too hard, you’ll shatter. But you won’t. Not here, not now. You lean into his palm, closing your eyes for just a moment, letting yourself soak in the warmth, the steadiness of him.

Jungwon exhales, his breath shaky, as though he’s only just realised how much he wanted to touch you. His hands are calloused but warm, grounding, steady. His fingers move instinctively, tracing the curve of your cheek, brushing the dampness away with an intimacy that makes your stomach twist.

Then, without thinking, you move closer.

Your hands leave his, trailing up to his wrists, then his arms, gripping onto him like he’s the only thing keeping you tethered to the earth. Maybe he is. Your breath stutters as you take another step, closing the space between you.

Jungwon freezes, his fingers going still against your cheek. You can feel the tension in his body, the way he’s holding himself back, waiting, unsure.

So you make the choice for him.

You fall into him.

His arms come up instantly, as if on instinct, wrapping around you the moment your body collides with his. His grip is firm, solid, like he’s been waiting for this just as much as you have. His breath catches against your temple, his body warm and steady as he pulls you in, pressing you close.

And you let him.

You let yourself melt into his embrace, burying your face into the crook of his neck, the scent of him—faint traces of sweat, earth, and something inherently Jungwon—flooding your senses. His heartbeat is strong beneath your palms, his chest rising and falling with each breath, grounding you in a way you hadn’t realised you needed.

His arms tighten around you, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other splayed across your back, holding you together as if you might slip away if he lets go.

Neither of you speak. There’s nothing that needs to be said.

This is enough.

This moment, this embrace, this quiet understanding between the two of you.

Jungwon exhales, the tension in his body easing as he presses his forehead against the side of your head. You feel the way his fingers curl slightly against your back, as if anchoring himself to you, as if you’re the only thing keeping him from falling apart too.

His breath is warm against your temple, steady and grounding. You can feel the weight of his past pressing between you, the guilt he carries like a second skin, the ghosts of decisions he can never undo.

You wonder if he can feel it—the weight you carry pressed between you, the invisible burdens you’ve never spoken aloud, the guilt of saving yourself when the community building fell, the regret of walking away from him when he needed you most, the haunting thought that maybe, just maybe, you were always destined to be alone.

The ghosts of your past intertwine with his, shadows merging, regrets bleeding into one another. He’s carried his burdens alone for so long, just as you’ve carried yours. And maybe neither of you are saints—maybe you’ve both done unspeakable things, crossed lines that can never be uncrossed.

But here, now, in this moment, none of that matters.

Because, here, now, in this moment, that weight is shared.

And somehow, it feels lighter.

So you stay like this, wrapped up in each other, holding onto something fragile, something unspoken. Neither of you dare to move, as if the slightest shift might shatter whatever this is, whatever red strings of fate have bound you together in this cruel, unforgiving world.

part 4 - blood | masterlist | part 5 - dusk

♡。·˚˚· ·˚˚·。♡

notes from nat: this part was supposed to be wayyyyyy longer but i've been nerfed by the block limit (y'all can thank tumblr for that). so what was originally suppose to be 6 parts, i will have to extend into 7 because i doubt i can squeeze everything into one post. from this part onwards, there will be no update schedule. i appreciate your understanding on this as i'm writing on my own free time outside of my 9-5. i'm really sorry for the disappointment because i know how eager some of y'all are to read this and i also want y'all to get these chapters asap!! T.T

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taglist open. 1/2 @sungbyhoon @theothernads @kyshhhhhh @jiryunn @strxwbloody @jaklvbub @rikikiynikilcykiki @jakesimfromstatefarm @rikiiisoob @doublebunv @thinkinboutbin @eunandonly @wilonevys @sugarikiz

non-grey/underlined = cannot tag

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mel0-dy · 3 days ago

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Ran Haitani / ft. Rindou / angst

"How can you return as if nothing really happened?" Ran mumbled, gritting his teeth while he saw you again transfer back to the same high school you went through. He saw you again, he can't believe his eyes. You, walking in the same manner you used to. He can only see your back, Ran was too stunned he saw you again after you just disappeared.

"Hey, Rin..am I high, or is that her?" he mumbled to himself and didn't even realize he nudged his drink to his younger brother's arm. "Huh? whaddya talking about?" Rindou then gasped and walked in front of Ran. "Oi! Oi! Ran," he groaned, almost a scolding tone to his older brother. "Come on, move on already," he whispered, not to drag attention to anyone who might have been eavesdropping. Not that Ran care but he just roll his eyes and sigh, "as if I am missing here..move, look" but when Ran looked again you were nothing on his sight. "Dammit, Rin! you got her away!" I hiss a bit and move more and look side by side, a panic a bit creeping in. But all Ran could hear was a sigh from Rindou, "I told you to take it easy, you drink too much..come on." Rindou can just facepalmed himself, he was used to this. "No, no..but this time this is real Rindou. She was there. I'm not just hallucinating," Ran replied tiredly.

Rindou just want to slap reality to Ran for himself but ofc he wouldnt. "Ran, we have school ya know?" "Since when did you even care for not skipping school?" Ran just became more annoyed at this point. Rindou just put his hands on his waist, "then what we will do if she came back?" his brows furrowed. "Shut up-" Ran got interrupted, "Oh don't talk shit, I won't take the risk loosing my brother's head just because a girl broke up with him and went out from the blue." Ran's eyes narrow a bit and lean, speaking in a bit careful voice, "Rindou..you know how important this is for me. I'll get her back- No, I'll make her mine again. You hear me?" he mumbled. Rindou wasn't intimidad even a least. He just sighed, "bullshit fine, as if I can stop you anyways you psycho. Just be careful..I know you really loved her." With that Ran even feel a little bit of ease and smile. He put his hand to his brother's shoulder, "glad I could talk sense to ya, come on let's go" Ran just gave a smile. Who knows how he'll approach you again.

#tokyo revengers #ran haitani #haitani ran #haitani rindou #rindou haitani #tokyo rev x reader #tokyo revengers haitani #tokyorev #lololol dunno why i just randomly write this but i do missed writing for them #if you're wondering or can even read this part #idk if i can make a part 2 but yeah i loved writing ><#might came back who knows haha #tokyo revengers angst

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summertimesadnessirl · 11 hours ago

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I once read this story about Vladimir Nabokov.

About how he was obsessed with collecting butterflies, and all the weird shit in Lolita started because he realized one day he was literally murdering these little creatures.

And how fucked up that is.

I don't know if that's true or not because I never checked the sources.

But even the delusional narrator of that story eventually understands that you don't love someone if your idea of love is to suffocate someone in a jar.

Armand got 77 years in a jar with no air in it, and he knows it. But he didn't love Louis so much as he'd been in jars with no air in them his whole life and I think putting someone else in one might have allowed him to realize none of the people in his childhood, or Marius, or the other people in his life ever cared about him. That the fact that he loved them because he had never known anything other than starvation and little enclosures wasn't because they deserved it.

Lestat has a lot of problems. A big one is that he just plays the role people he likes want him to play without thinking. This is the thing he and armand have in common. They both reflexively do this in different ways and for different reasons so they can only kind of pay attention to one another by proxy, in a crowd. It's not that they don't have personalities, it's just their primary way of dealing with people. Lestat defaults to being a rebel or a villain in every story he's in, when he meets a new person he defaults to being in love with them but he also argues with them all the time. This works really well with Louis because Louis hates himself most of the time, so as long as Louis hates himself it's easy for Lestat to be kind to him. If he starts to improve, though, the focus shifts. It's on some level true that lestat is "waiting until you are happy." It's not on purpose, but if there is too much harmony, that's difficult for him. He literally needs the drama of some kind of high stakes story to be happening around him all the time. In the books he walks blithely into traps all the time, and on one level it's because he's kind of a himbo, but on another level it's because he kinda can't resist seeing what the trap will do. There's a whole part in The Tale of the Body Thief where he knows the body thief is going to try to keep his body and also he is very likely to die as a random mortal human and Louis is like "we both know this is a trap and we both know you're going to do it anyway." The only times Lestat really gets to love people is the times when he's killing them, and he constantly rhapshodizes about how beautiful all his victims are and how wonderful it is to be near them and follow them and stuff, even the ones who aren't pretty or anything, like elderly people and so on. The only time I remember him being nice to people just to be nice to them is Quinns grandmother in Blood Canticle, but that is 100% because he's enjoying the dramatic irony of letting some old lady show him her priceless collection of cameos, and also he's in the middle of a ghost story so it doesn't matter, he's playing Sherlock Holmes.

Lestat was really good when he was doing the seduction game, he was really good at "please forgive me, I fucked up" but he kept falling into some weird role over and over that's like... patriarch. Whiny wife with no hobbies who keeps getting into trouble because his husband works too much and doesn't pay attention to him. Crashing the party because no one can match his freak and he wants to go home. Bad boy boyfriend who trolls your family when they seem homophobic and eats your priest. Lestat is emotionally immature but he also has no idea how to be a person. He's too busy being the main character, and when he meets Louis, it hasn't become blindingly obvious to everybody that Lestat is the main character. It seems like once that happens it mellows things out for him a little because people know why he's like that all the time. Armand actually seems like he's the first person to have figured out that Lestat is the main character, sometimes. Good for him.

the thing with how lestat and daniel handled louis’ depression is that they had the immediate audacity to believe they could fix him with their personalities and humors and sex whereas armand thought hey let’s make the situation more dire and throw in a daughter death and bdsm. you laugh but armand got 77 years and lestat and daniel only have regrets. see?

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wisteria-lodge · 2 days ago

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why is Dramione so popular and do you think it's problematic?

I. PROBLEMATIC SHIPS

(scroll down if you just want to read about Dramione)

First thing is, I don't think any ships are problematic.

There are lots of ships I don't *like.* There are ships that squick me, or mischaracterize one of the characters in a way that annoys me, or that I think are boring. But saying something is "problematic" implies that I have an issue with it's existence, and don't think that anyone should ship it ever. And that's just not ever going to be the case for me.

Like okay. I have a really strong dislike of any relationship where Character A is "saving" or "fixing" Character B. (In my head I call them Life Coach ships.) I think that's an unhealthy dynamic that breeds resentment and also doesn't work. You can support people, but in the end they gotta fix themselves. BUT. I'm ALSO aware that fixing/saving the bad boy is power fantasy, and power fantasies are fun, and cathartic, and important. Maybe it's nice to read about Lucius Malfoy or whoever responding to that sort of attention the way you wish your father or partner responded in real life. People are messy, and complicated.

To take an extreme example, I know that some people who've been raped stay away even from sex pollen and fake dating, and others actively seek out non-con, even romanticized non-con, as a way to process and deal. Basically, I think people tend to seek out media that is good for them (or at least comforting) and backspace out of media that actively hurts them. You probably have a second of disgust where you're like, ugh that's a thing? But you're not going to read a whole Snape/Hermione fic if the premise upsets you.

I bring up Snape/Hermione because teacher/student is a huge squick of mine. Doesn't matter if they're both adults, or if it's more of an apprentice thing. It's a scenario and a power dynamic that I do not like. BUT. I understand the appeal. The premise of a lot of Snamione fics is... okay, here's this powerful, intelligent, well-dressed guy who is extremely buttoned up and repressed, who doesn't give anyone the time of day. But there's something about YOU (not your prettier friends/classmates) that gets under his skin, and now he's obsessed, wrapped around your little finger. Oh and he's damaged, so he *needs* you. That's a power fantasy. And like, irl you're generally pretty powerless as a 17 year old girl, especially when interacting with men in positions of authority.

Also, like, historically? A lot of fantasies have operated under the heading of "I know it's wrong, but I still can't resist." The fact that something is wrong, is a societal taboo, well - that's a very easy, safe way to get an adrenaline rush, and up the intensity of the fantasy situation. Even the stuff people always bring up when they talk about problematic ships - underage, incest, slavery au but it's framed like it's hot, idk. They're forbidden societal taboos for really good reasons, but I don't think it's crazy to be interested in the big red button that says DO NOT PUSH.

Like how about this. In my experience, actors who play villains tend to be the sweetest, loveliest people you've ever met in your life. And I've always wondered if it's because they kind of have to unpack all the dark, sticky, destructive, perverse parts of themselves on a fairly regular basis (and then have a good outlet for those same feelings.) Everyone has parts of themselves that are not "nice" and not "proper." I think fiction is a fantastic place to air those out.

II. DRAMIONE

I am absolutely not surprised that Dramione is so popular. First, Hermione gets shipped with everyone - for a long time she was the character everyone projected on, and while that's less the case now... she's still the most important female character, and she's a *good* character. She's intense, and goes a little extreme with the problem solving. She's good at observing people but not great with people. She misses social cues. She's compensating like crazy. That's good (relatable!) stuff.

And Draco? He slots into the worldbuilding in an interesting way, he's got a *great* backstory, he's arch and a little bit of a shit, but he's also sensitive and squeamish about violence. I also think he taps into that "oh shit I was WRONG" feeling that is such an important part of adulthood. Hermione is also just going to be the walking embodiment of that feeling for Draco, so he's going to feel some kind of interesting way about her.

I think Draco is fun to ship with any of the Golden Trio, because they've all got that martyr streak and Draco is a survivor, so they clash in interesting ways and end up balancing each other out. Draco and Hermione especially are both very politically orientated people, so they're a good ship for exploring worldbuilding, wizard world reform, or pureblood politics. I also think Hermione has a feminine, girly side that she feels a little guilty about exploring - and spending five minutes around aesthetic, fashion-conscious Draco is going to give her permission to do that. They both have a streak of practical ruthlessness that I think they would respect in each other. Draco can be... a little lazy, so passionate driven people are good for him. But then I think he would be a nice control for Hermione's workaholic tendencies. Ultimately I think they're actually very compatible.

(also like. Hermione likes quidditch players. and if her crush on Lockhart is anything to go by... she also likes pretty blonde men who dress all snappy.)

#hp #problematic ships #dramione #fandom history #censorship #cw rape #draco malfoy #hermione granger #proship #writing stuff

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sweetiebooo · 3 days ago

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guide to a morning routine ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎˎˊ˗

your morning shapes your entire day, thats why you need to have the most dolly, organized and accomplished morning routine. you can do these in whichever way order you prefer, whatever suits and improves you is what’s best! having a routine increases your productivity and helps you build and maintain healthy habits. enjoy 🎀

AFFIRMATIONS;

affirming in the morning paves the way to a positive day. it puts you in a good and good attitude. affirming increases your self esteem and reduces stress. you can use any positive affirmations to have these benefits. personally, the affirmations i use when i wake up in the morning are:

i radiate kindness.

i am sweet, kind and polite.

throughout every situation i stay cool, calm and collected.

i am always safe and secure within myself.

i am confident and believe in myself wherever i go.

you can use any affirmation that aligns with you to start your day on a positive note!

DOLLING YOURSELF UP;

dolling yourself up in the morning could be as simple as a quick rinse off, moisturizing and a change of clothes.

although showering is not a neccessity in your morning routine, it always helps brush off the tiredness from your beauty sleep, but the difference to staying in the same clothes you slept in is that when you look good, you feel good! and that always impacts your attitude and how you work!

in my daily routine i have a daily minimum of showering, moisturizing and the skincare and makeup of my preference because making myself look presentable always makes me feel like i can conquer the day and bring my best attitude.

SKINCARE AND GUA SHA;

skincare and using my gua sha is the best part of my morning routine. waking your face up and preparing for a new day puts me in the best mood.

start double cleansing! use an oil based cleanser and a water based cleanser, double cleansing removes impurities from your skin, prevent clogged pores and allows your skincare to work wonders on your skin!

READING;

i always read in the morning, it makes me feel productive, smart and it increases my knowledge. its a great way to restart your brain and brush off the sleepiness from the night before. reading at any time of the day has so many benefits including reducing your stress, expanding your vocabulary and improves your social skills. even if you dont have time to read in the morning, try fit it into your daily schedule, it does absolute wonders for your brain!

BREAKFAST AND HYDRATION;

always eat breakfast! it gets you ready for the day and improves your concentration. if you don't eat lunch when you're at school or out and about (which you should!). it helps you feel more energetic, awake and helps you function throughout the day instead of relying on the food you ate for dinner yesterday.

drinking water helps so so much. water helps solve so many problems. water hydrates your skin, detoxifies your body and helps with weight loss. drink water!! trust me.

FIXING YOUR BED;

fixing your bed and preparing your room for the day makes you feel productive, prepared and ready for the day. it helps prevent you to go back to sleep in your bed and waste the day away when you could be doing so much more!!

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cyberesc · 2 days ago

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BEST ENEMY. (2/3)

ft. Prohero!Midoriya x Villain!Reader

synopsis: The Hero Commission is tired of waiting. You've been Deku's responsibility for too long and they want results. But no one, not even the Number One Hero, gets the luxury of loving their greatest sin.

˖⁺‧₊˚ tags & warnings: heavy angst, violence, mutual obsession, self-destructive tendencies, implied fem reader

note: ugh i love writing characters spiraling/feeling guilt, if you couldn't tell, whump is my favorite type of genre

part 1 | part 3

The Commission is done waiting.

It’s been years. Years of headlines that should’ve read of your death but instead told stories of their failure to capture you. You’re still breathing, and for them, that’s a problem.

Izuku knows of the meetings he’s no longer invited to, of the glances from heroes who have long since lost their patience. If he won’t do it, someone else will.

He’s run out of time.

But when he sees you again, standing in the wreckage of your latest disaster, eyes wicked and fond, he knows he’ll never be able to finish this.

Not the way they want him to.

You knew it would come to this.

There are rules in the world, and one of them is that even heroes must bow to the men who pull their strings. Izuku, for all his strength, for all his will, is still a man tangled in a system that was never built to accommodate softness.

It’s a shame, really. You hate seeing them chip away at him, sculpting something colder from the boy who once held the whole world in his palms, promising to save everyone.

Even you.

You wonder how long it will take before they rip that hope from him completely.

The thought should make you smile.

It doesn’t.

It’s funny, in a cruel way.

Izuku can’t stand you, but he also can’t stand the thought of anyone else taking you out.

It’s a possessive, selfish thing. A terrible thing. But he can live with being terrible.

He can’t live with the thought of some faceless hero putting you down like an animal.

No.

If anyone will do it, it will be him.

And if he can’t, if the moment ever comes and he falters like he always does, then maybe that’s the answer neither of you have ever been brave enough to say.

That you were never meant to be erased.

That his hands were never meant to be stained with your blood.

That even now, even after everything, he still wants to save you.

Even if you’ve never asked him to.

“Didn't think you had it in you,” you murmur, lips curling in amusement. “I thought for a second you’d actually do it.”

Izuku’s fingers twitch at his sides, jaw tightening. He knows exactly what you’re talking about.

That night, when the hit on you went public. He lost his mind, went storming into the Commission’s offices with fury crackling at his fingertips, demanding to know who had the gall to put you on a kill list. When he found you later, still alive, still breathing, he was so angry, so relieved, so conflicted.

He kissed you.

He hated you.

He still does.

You liked that about him, didn’t you? The way he tried so hard to be terrifying, all fire and fury and justice, but all you saw was a boy too soft for the world. Your boy, once.

He can feel you staring, eyes tracing the lines of his face, the new scars he’s earned since the last time you saw each other up close.

“You’re cute when you’re mad, Izuku.” You smile. “Still pink in the cheeks, even now.”

He clenches his fists.

“I should've.."

“Killed me?” You raise a brow. “Please, you're not ready yet.”

Izuku doesn’t move.

He doesn’t correct you.

He doesn't remember when the distance between you disappeared.

All he knows is that he has his head in your lap while your fingers brush through his messy green curls. You say nothing about the tears slipping down his cheeks or the way his arms tighten around your waist. Instead, you just hum a soft tune, grounding him in the warmth of your presence.

He clings to you and he's never been more grateful for your silence.

He buries his face into your stomach and hopes that he gets the courage to put you down tomorrow.

Izuku's been acting weird lately.

It's what his friends have been thinking, they blame it on the affects of the war, but they knew it went beyond that.

Ochaco wasn't one to ask questions.

She’s known Izuku long enough to understand that some things are better left unsaid.

But she sees the way his eyes burn when he talks about you, a fire that isn’t rage but something much worse.

It reminds her of herself, in the quiet moments when she thinks of Toga. When she wonders what she could’ve done differently, if there was ever a moment when she could have saved her.

If she could've stopped her from giving up her blood. Her heart aches when she thinks about the blood flowing through her veins, her body tainted with the soul of someone she couldn't save.

She understands.

And she understands that Izuku will never let this go.

His will to save is like a rose, beautiful and precious but lined with thorns that dig into him, carving his devotion into his very flesh.

One day, those thorns will bleed him dry.

The hero they’ve hired is good.

Maybe even good enough to do what Izuku won’t.

The thought makes him sick.

He watches from the rooftops as they track you, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. He shouldn’t be here. He knows he shouldn’t be here.

But he is.

Because it should be him.

If anyone is going to save you, or kill you, it has to be him.

He has never once believed in fate.

But if there is a god in this world, then you are the princess locked in the tower, and he is the knight meant to rescue you.

Or maybe

You’re the dragon, and he’s the fool who still believes you can be tamed.

Either way, this story will only end one way.

With one of you dead.

Or with both of you realizing that neither of you were ever meant to survive in the first place.

#mha x reader #izuku midoria x reader #izuku midoriya x reader #deku x reader #mha x reader angst #midoriya x reader #izuku x reader #izuku midoriya x reader angst #Izuku midoriya angst #deku angst #my hero academia x reader #cyber.writes

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nicnak20 · 2 days ago

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Little bump:

*Nicholas loves Yn's baby bump.*

The sun, a familiar friend, streamed through the large windows of their cozy beach house, painting stripes of gold across the hardwood floor. Nicholas, his dark brown hair slightly tousled from sleep, watched Yn as she moved about the kitchen, a gentle smile permanently etched on his face these days. She was humming softly, her movements fluid and graceful, even with the adorable curve of her baby bump preceding her.

Nicholas loved watching her. Loved the way she furrowed her brow in concentration when measuring ingredients for their breakfast smoothies, loved the way she tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, loved the way her eyes, a warm and inviting brown mirror to his own, sparkled with an inner joy that mirrored his own. But these days, his gaze was invariably drawn downwards, to the miraculous life blossoming within her.

He was obsessed, undeniably, unabashedly, obsessed with Yn's baby bump.

It wasn't a creepy or intrusive obsession. It was born of pure, unadulterated wonder and love. He found himself constantly reaching out, his hand hovering just an inch above her stomach as if afraid to disturb the precious cargo. He'd steal glances at it in the grocery store, trace its gentle curve under her clothes while they watched movies, and spend endless minutes just talking to it, whispering silly songs and promises of a future filled with love and laughter.

"Morning, sleepyhead," Yn said, turning with a bright smile and two smoothies in hand. "You're staring again."

Nicholas chuckled, a warm, rumbling sound. "Can you blame me? It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

Yn blushed, a delicate pink bloom on her cheeks. "You're going to spoil this baby rotten before it's even born."

"That's the plan," he confirmed, accepting the smoothie and taking a long sip. "Speaking of which," he added, placing his hand gently on her stomach, "Good morning, little one! Did you sleep well?"

Yn laughed, a melodic sound that always made his heart soar. "Nicholas, you know it can't understand you yet, right?"

"Maybe not," he conceded, "But it can feel the love. And I have a lot of that to give." He leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to her bump. "So much love."

His obsession was endearing, but Yn couldn't deny that it was also…a lot. Sometimes, she felt like she was competing with the bump for his attention. He'd ask the baby how it was feeling before asking her, he'd rub lotion on her stomach for an hour while she sat and read, feeling slightly neglected.

One evening, as they were getting ready for bed, Nicholas was, once again, engrossed in his bump-related activities. He was lying on his back, Yn's head resting on his chest, his hand gently stroking her stomach.

"Do you think it can hear us now?" he murmured, his gaze fixed on the slight swell beneath her pajamas.

"Probably," Yn replied, trying to inject a note of levity into her voice. "Though I'm sure it's getting tired of hearing about how much you love it more than me."

Nicholas immediately sat up, concern etched on his face. "Yn, is everything alright?"

She sat up too, pulling the covers around her. "It's just…you're so focused on the baby. I know it's important, and I love that you're so excited, but I feel like I'm fading into the background a little."

Nicholas’ brow furrowed. He hadn't realized he was making her feel that way. He was so caught up in the miracle of their growing family, he hadn't considered how it might be affecting her. He reached for her hand, his touch gentle and apologetic.

"Oh, baby, I'm so sorry," he said, his voice laced with sincerity. "That's the last thing I ever want to do. You are everything to me, Yn. You always have been, and you always will be. This baby is a part of us both, a symbol of our love, but it doesn't diminish my love for you. It only amplifies it."

He pulled her close, his arms wrapping around her in a comforting embrace. "I promise I'll be more mindful," he whispered. "You are my priority, Yn. You and our little one."

Yn leaned into his embrace, feeling a wave of relief wash over her. She knew he loved her, knew he would never intentionally hurt her. Sometimes, though, he just needed a little reminder.

Over the next few weeks, Nicholas made a conscious effort to balance his adoration for the baby with his affection for Yn. He still talked to the bump, still rubbed her stomach, but he also made sure to carve out time just for them. They went on long walks along the beach, hand in hand, talking about their hopes and dreams for the future. He cooked her favorite meals, pampered her with massages, and reminded her, every single day, how much he loved her.

He also started including her in his conversations with the baby. Instead of just talking to the bump, he would address them both, sharing stories about their life together and expressing his excitement about the new chapter they were about to embark on.

One afternoon, as they lay on the couch, Yn reading a book and Nicholas gently stroking her stomach, she felt a distinct kick.

"Nicholas!" she exclaimed, grabbing his hand and placing it on the spot. "Did you feel that?"

Nicholas' eyes widened in amazement. "Oh my god, I did!" He leaned in closer, his voice filled with awe. "Hey there, little one! That was a strong kick! Are you saying hello to your daddy?"

He felt another kick, even stronger this time. Yn laughed, a joyful, unrestrained sound.

"I think it likes you," she said, her eyes sparkling with affection.

Nicholas looked at her, his heart overflowing with love. "I think it likes us both."

He knew he would never stop being fascinated by the miracle growing inside her, but he also understood that his love for Yn was the foundation upon which their family was built. His obsession with the bump was an extension of that love, a testament to the incredible woman she was and the incredible journey they were on together.

He kissed her forehead, his heart filled with a profound sense of gratitude. He had everything he could ever want, right here in his arms. His beautiful Yn, their precious baby, and a future filled with endless love and possibilities. The sun, still streaming through the windows, seemed to shine a little brighter, illuminating the path ahead. He was ready. They were ready. The bump was ready. And that, he knew, was all that mattered.

#nicholas alexander chavez #nicholas alexander chavez one shots #nicholas chavez #nicholas chavez x y/n #nicholas chavez fanfiction #nicholas chavez x reader #nicholas chavez imagine #lavender baby #nicholas chavez imagines #nicholas chaves blurbs #nicholas chavez fics #dad!nicholas chavez

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utilitycaster · 21 hours ago

Note

Sorry for the incoming wall of text, but this is something I've been thinking about a lot in light of c3.

After seeing the post you reblogged about Trent, I was wondering: what are your thoughts on how CR in general seems to portray the intellectual pursuit of arcane magic (ie wizardry) as inevitably leading to corruption and potential world-ending consequences? The Age of Arcanum (in particular Aeor and Vespin Chloras, especially in light of how they were both understood/portrayed by Brennan) is the most blatant example, but in modern Exandria we've got Ludinus, Delilah, and everyone associated with the Cerberus Assembly generally being up to nasty shit, Vasselheim banning arcane magic only being portrayed as more of a justified overreaction rather than an injustice (given that it effectively bans sorcerers from the city), Essek being willing to re-ignite a war for the sake of knowledge, Vecna in general, and everything about the way the League of Miracles are written in Tal'Dorei Reborn.

Even wizards like Caleb and members of the Arcana Pansophical are portrayed as "one of the good ones" at best--Caleb I imagine at least partially because he's a PC and Liam was approaching from a slightly different angle than Matt, and the Arcana Pansophical are still portrayed as well-intentioned but elitist at best. You'd be hard-pressed to find a truly "good" high-level wizard in CR, while corrupt and elitist ones abound. The whole thing feels vaguely anti-intellectual to me (I don't think that was Matt's intention, but it is telling that the closest thing Exandria has to a "good" knowledge-based organization is a religious organization that doesn't seem to trust wizards in general).

I feel like you are reading things into the portrayal that I personally do not, and I also feel that the whole Wizards Vibe is directly discussed in Campaign 2, with this line from Yussa: "At a certain level of arcane practitioning, morality becomes a bit ambiguous..."

The thing about wizards is The Hubris Is Part Of It. Like if a wizard isn't kind of an arrogant prick, even if they're also a genuinely good person, they're not very fun, and also why wouldn't you be arrogant if you're a wizard? Other people have to get magic from pacts and deals and worship or sheer luck, and you worked for it and built it piece by piece yourself! I think some of it is that wizardry attracts a certain type of ruthlessly ambitious person. I also think that it's notable to consider wizardry vs. general scholarship; a lot of the scholars, notably the Cobalt Soul and Grim Verity, are portrayed very positively, and even smaller institutions that perform both arcane and general research like the Vellum Steeple and Starpoint Conservatory and Aydinlan Seminary and Marble Tomes Conservatory, are like, closed off and snobby at worst, which isn't even imo anti-intellectual so much as a valid critique of access to higher education.

I would also note that pretty much all Evil World-Destroying Wizards who had that intent come from two sources:

The Age of Arcanum's flying cities are generally portrayed as places that fed into wizard egos and led them to believe the world was theirs to conquer, but even then, the Raven Queen pre-ascension, Patia, Laerryn, Cassida, and even Vespin all in the end come off as deeply sympathetic people who, when the chips were down, tried to do what they believed was right but did not always have good judgement. None of them were evil nor malicious. There were plenty of selfish and horrible wizards (Vecna, the various wizards of Avalir and Aeor who prioritized their safety and power over those of the people of their cities), but we've seen a lot of really shitty fighters or warlocks out there too.

The Cerberus Assembly, a body cultivated specifically by Ludinus Da'leth from its inception, which means someone like Delilah, Trent, or Vess can thrive; I think the issue with Delilah was frankly the optics more than Ludinus having a problem with her (and even Vess had a bit of a too-late redemption, realizing that unleashing the Somnovem would do untold damage, and tried to stop it unsuccessfully; and I'm not sure Trent had any plans for the world, simply for hurting people). And even then, much of the assembly either fits the Yussa "morality is ambiguous"/hubristic and dickish but not evil, or is straight up neutral or good. Like, Oremid Hass is probably not a great guy but as far as I know he was just kind of a hardass with his students and a huge cat person.

Like, it feels you are really selling short the generally benevolent Arcana Pansophical wizards (Allura, Eskil, Drake); the many wizards of the Kryn Dynasty (of which we only specifically know Tuss Waccoh and Essek Thelyss); Yussa, who makes weird choices but does not harm people, and of course Caleb (and Lyra, while we're at it) to try to make an argument that doesn't make sense.

As for Vasselheim, I've always found that in-world the arcane magic rule was kind of...inconsistently applied. Like, it never really came up in Campaign 3, and they had no real issue with Allura, and Lyra and Zahra presumably are fine (and I'm not sure why, to be honest, you're mentioning sorcerers to me, the Sorcerers are the Rogues of the Casters Person, particularly since we straight up don't see sorcerers discriminated against in Vasselheim - Gilmore was totally fine and indeed appreciated in his assistance). It always felt like something that kind of got semi-abandoned in the lore and only came up to point out that Scanlan was being kind of a dick (which often he was)(affectionate).

So I guess what I'm saying is I feel you have standards for "good" that I think might be exceedingly high, or at least higher than I'd set them, as well as are conflating arcane prowess with the only form of intellectual pursuit. You are entitled to this reading, but it's really not one I remotely share.

#answered #anonymous #cr tag

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timeclipsed · 3 days ago

Note

This is a oddball question but can you name afew sonic fandom blogs? (just curious is all)

Hey anon! I'm not sure if you meant fandom blogs as in roleplayers or art accounts, so just I'll go ahead and list off a few of my favorite Sonic RPC mutuals!

@hiswrlds — First off, big blue himself! If you want a Sonic that's somehow simultaneously both canon compliant and creatively divergent, look no further than Peach's portrayal! Strive manages to be a vivacious, epigrammatic muse who always has you guessing what he'll say next, but there's still a pungent air of unresolved sadness and an edge of building rage in the way he presents. What you see might not be what you get in full, but a guy who loves adventure can also be tenderhearted, right? @tcils — For as little as we've interacted both in and out of character, I'm always clinging onto every word that Alcohol's Tails has to say! Strictly a movie portrayal to my knowledge, but he's the sweetest little guy around and Alc really hits the target straight on with how they write him! I think you'll find it hard not to read their posts without hearing Colleen's voice. @baymaxmuses — Baymax writes for a few different fandoms, but that's part of the charm when you follow for Knuckles! Titan, as he's named himself, is an amazingly fun iteration of everyone's favorite treasure hunting emerald guardian, especially with the recent event Baymax is running for him! For someone who manages to be so silly and fun in character, you'll be surprised how deeply emotional and articulate Knuckles' adventures can get, especially when he's contemplating solitude and eternity. @sweet-punch — Let's take a minute to talk about Nymphia's Amy! Mismashed with the quirky 2000s fangirl with a heart of gold and the independent free-thinking leader of her own crusade in terms of vibes, this Amy is worlds of fun just to watch in action! Even if you're not threading with her, you can always appreciate that she's trying her very best and the way she feels very in-touch and human about her flaws. (Plus, Nymphia drew the art in my icon for free without any prompting, so the mun is just as sweet as the muse!) @allcfme — Do you want a Shadow who will rip your heart out, stomp on it, then pick it up and eat it? Look no further than Kayden's Shadow! Honestly, what a cold and emotionally devastating take on the Ultimate Lifeform. I'm always gripped by the antics this wet little beast gets wrapped up in, especially the kind of in character connections/relationships with other muns' muses he mingles with. You love to root for him, but also throw him down the stairs when he does something silly (/aff). @psychokineticstarlight — You might know the wonderful mun of this equally amazing Silver better as the writer of Cats Don't Dance's lead, Danny! Bear's writing is always bouncy and exuberant, which works amazingly with Silver's optimistic and amicable personality! Seriously, as much as I love all the Silver writers I mutual with, Bear's sticks out to me as one of the most animated and fun portrayals! Although they're not too active on this blog, getting to thread properly with this sweet little starlight from the distant future is so totally and completely worth the wait to me!

Honorable mentions speed round, a.k.a. the people I never shut up about as is, go to the writers of Chronos' found family throughout the verses he's active in!

@scumbag-the-hedgehog — Missile's Scourge! He may be an uproarious jerk with a checkered past, but the slow climb to finding a better part of himself is apparent! Chronos worships the ground this guy walks on, and who wouldn't? Hail to the king, baby! @powered-by-prower — Leland's Tails! Mr. Part Time Horror Experiencer Part Time Teenage Dreamboat Heartthrob over here is Chronos' found/adoptive father in a few verses, namely the Tomorrow!AU we've been stuck on the last few weeks. How can you not love this guy? @red-eclipse — Vee's Blossom! The byproduct of Cosmo's sprout growing into a brand new seedrian and Chronos' little sister. Blossom's story will have you weeping with sympathy and rooting (pun intended) for her and her father to succeed in just getting by! (Check out their AU and art while you're at it!) @sorrowfulsidekick — Luc's Kitsunami! Chronos' beloved baby brother and arguably the most important person in his whole life through multiple timelines. Don't let yourself get fooled by the cuteness aggression, though: he's got a bite with the force of a few dozen angry attack dogs. Let your guard down, and he might just drown you in your sleep! (Chronos will help hide your body btw.) @multimusewonderland — Chex's Shadow! These tragically stupid, feral siblings may never learn how to coexist, but that doesn't mean we have to stop putting them in situations together to let them tear each other to shreds! Into The Alloy is a super fun AU and an even more interesting twist on the typical early era Sonic formula! @run-muse-dot-exe — T's Clutch! I may not be too familiar with the character on my own, or even read much of the IDW comics, but that doesn't mean Chronos won't unwaveringly support his beloved (asshole) uncle. Try to stop yourself from screaming as this iteration of Clutch both intrigues and infuriates the mind! @cxffeeshxp — Lastly, L's Surge and Kitsunami! The roles are practically reversed here in every way; Surge and Kit, now adults clawing their way to an easier tomorrow, have taken in a teenage Chronos. Aside from the dynamic duplicitous duo, L also has a variety of other different Sonic muses, all with their own lore and fun little backstories, and is always a riot to watch on the dashboard. If you follow, expect to cackle yourself into stomach pain from some of the things he posts.

Every other Sonic blog I follow should rightfully be on this list, but unfortunately we'd be here forever if I took the time to write them out. But don't discourage, anon! These amazing folks who must go unnamed for the time being are always here waiting for you to seek them out!

#( LETTERS TO US; ASK. )#( WHEN THE CITY SLEEPS; OOC. )#( COLLECT CALL; ANONYMOUS. )

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dingo-ate-my-hot-lettuce-crazy · 2 days ago

Text

Rearview - Chapter 2 - Collision Course

Summary: A slight accident on the way back from class might lead to a few interesting conversations with Cas' friend, Dean, from the party. Jo confides in you about her own perception of her relationship evolutions, leaving you to question your morals.

Characters: Dean, Jo, others mentioned

Word Count: 5K

Warnings: cursing, suicidal ideation, talk of sex, improper view of relationships, hatred of Shakespeare, mentions of panic attack-like symptoms, abuse

Author's Note: the drama is ensuing !!! leave comments if you like it or if you hate it LOL

Song: Save Yourself by Milo Greene

Series Masterlist - Chapter 3

As an English teacher-to-be, you certainly despise Shakespeare. While booking it out of the lecture, down the stairs, and into the mid-noon sun, you shake your head to yourself, wondering how the hell you’ll be able to teach it to kids who are in the same boat as you. It wasn’t that you didn’t understand the Shakespearean dialect (even though you found it to be rather cerebrally demanding), it was that you often wonder why you have to understand it. I mean, you’re reading fabricated old English that you will have to comprehend and translate into real, modern English, with obsessive, archaic vocabulary and hyperbolically plagued dialogue.

And in that moment, you curse yourself. Only Shakespeare could make you use this kind of strong, articulated diction. Damn yond Shakespeare.

Your classes this year are all starting off fairly in-depth. Granted, you finished all of your prerequisites, so now all that was left for these last few semesters were the "big girl" stuff and internships. Shakespearean Literature, Classroom Management, and Advanced Composition, all while you begin to prepare to go to an actual classroom and finally dip your feet into the oceans of high school education. And honestly, even with all these classes and your work schedule on top of that, you couldn't complain.

You're doing ten times better than you were at this time last year. Now, you still have your good and bad days, but it's an improvement from last year. Hell, you could tack on another two classes to your schedule and still have better mental stability than you did last year.

It's amazing what a little avoidance of your trauma distraction could do.

Although, it couldn't do everything. Separating yourself from the problem was proving to be the easy part, and that had been a stressful journey for yourself and others. It's the constant reminders and echoes of the past that seem to jump out on you on even your greatest days. The nightmares won't even go away completely. You assume it's this lingering fear that is permanently glued to the back burner, but your brain can't ever turn it off. And it's not like you rock back and forth in the corner with wild eyes that refuse to close. You just didn’t know how to feel safe again. Time heals, you convince yourself with pathetic naiveté. You’ll meditate, read a self-help book, and things will start to miraculously look up, right?

As. Fucking. If.

Even right now, as you walk the familiar route from your class to the populated coffee shop a few blocks down, there is an impossibly relentless anxiety in your stomach. The most frustrating part is that you don’t know why it's still there. You’ve relocated, and you have two safety-conscious girl roommates and an overprotective anthropology major three blocks away from your apartment- who insists on texting him when you make it to class or your place when you're by yourself. You’ve surrounded yourself in a completely new environment, void of any prior attachments of the past, aside from being in the same city. So why does it still feel like Nick is everywhere? Sure, he lives in the vicinity of the metropolitan area, but it’s miles away. All you can do is repeat the mantra, shoving your panic down beneath the surface:

You’re safe.

You’re safe someone’swatchingyou.

Out of instinctual precaution, you glance behind you.

You’re sa-

“Oh- shit!”

You curse as you collide with someone coming from your immediate right, and you turn your head back and stand face-to-leather jacket with the victim of your paranoia. “Christ, I’m so sorry-”

“Woah, hey, don’t sweat it.” A familiar voice assures, and you’ll be damned, that it so happens to be Dean. He steps back as he meets your eyes and smiles warmly upon the recognition of your face. “Oh, hey…” He says your name almost instantly like he’s been hopeful to say it again.

You pinch your eyes shut slightly out of embarrassment and shake your head, “Shit, I’m sorry, Dean- I was so not paying attention-”

“No, no, I wasn’t either, it was my fault, too.”

You huff an embarrassed laugh. “Wow, our insurance companies would hate to see us coming.”

“Good thing I’ve got collision coverage.” He snorts, a smirk remains.

“Your rate must be insane.”

Dean scoffs, “Oh, please. I’m practically uninsurable at this point. High-risk driver, multiple prior accidents on the record…”

“Off the record?”

“You don’t even want to know.”

“That’s okay, I'm pretty sure my 'check engine lights' have been on for years..”

“You should have that checked out.”

“I should.” You finally relent (after running out of other ways to make this situation applicable to people and car crashes).

Dean raises his lips in a lop-sided grin cleverly, “You know, I know a good mechanic.”

You close your eyelids, scoffing to yourself as you remember his major. “Right. I bet you do... Maybe I oughta make an appointment sometime.”

"First-time customers are on the house." His gleam compliments his convictive demeanor.

Flirtatious. You ponder if this was a 'Dean' thing or a 'Dean with you' thing. Although, you're sure he's had plenty of practice before. Those enticing, emerald green eyes that just hook onto your soul, paired with his nonchalance, "sweetheart" this and his masculine charm that. It would be a damned waste if he hadn’t used his own allure. You’re pretty sure he could get anyone he wanted with the wink of an eye. That begs the question, what the hell was he doing with you?

"I'll keep that in mind..." Your gazes linger, before you add, “Well- uh, I don’t wanna make you late for class.”

Dean swings his car keys in his fingers absentmindedly, “Actually, my class ended at 1:45. I'm not holding you up, am I?”

You hesitate, unsure of how you should answer. On one hand, you could say, "Yeah, I got class in a few-" Four hours from now, "But I'll see you 'round!" You can pretend that you don't want to get to know him and figure out his quirks and his interests. You can pretend that you wouldn't find it fun to imagine what he's like romantically, if he's physically affectionate, or maybe he tells you that you look beautiful when you wake up every morning- of course after you find yourself engulfed in his arms, peppered with gentle, airy kisses on your temple. Ain't it fun to not pretend any of that.

But you know that it doesn't exist. You know it doesn't happen.

He's fucking Jo. He probably just wants another notch on his belt. Another body to the count. Same song, different dance. He'll flirt, and you'll tease, which leads to him dreaming up your futures only to be together for one night, and he's gone after he's chased his high.

But then you think to yourself, Cas would never introduce me to someone of that nature, he's well aware of my past and my stances on those particular men, or boys, more so.

Which made option two a whole lot easier.

"No, I just got out of my class. Was headed to get gas," You point to Garth's- Coffee and Tea that was across the street and a congested traffic light or two away.

Dean's body follows your direction and he glances back at you with the corner of his mouth lifted with a bit of skepticism. "You know, I hear caffeine after 2PM can disrupt your sleep by three hours a night."

Funny, you're lucky to get three hours of sleep, period.

"Please, does anyone actually sleep anymore after freshman year?" You challenge him.

His eyes look up, searching in his head for an answer, maybe, until he purses his lips, "Fair point." He draws his teeth onto his bottom lip, his face morphing into a questioning gaze, with a dash of concern, as he watches closely for your reaction, "You want somebody to walk with?"

Score.

"That'd be great, who did you have in mind?"

Shaking his head with a playfully dismissive smirk, he avoids your amused stare for a moment, "You know, you're going into the wrong field here. You're quite the regular comedian."

You gesture with a slight flick of your head for Dean to follow you, now heading in the direction of the coffee shop. "I'd probably make more money."

Dean makes his way to your side, keeping by the curb, "Ain't that sad."

He swallows, he lets a brief quiet fall between you two before he licks his lips and mentions, "I'm glad I got to run into you, uh... you took off rather quickly at the party." He contorts his face into a mild concern. "I didn’t know if I had said something…"

You hit yourself internally, forgetting about your little Irish goodbye, not to mention the last time you spoke that night was when the conversation revolved around his “relationship” with Jo. When things got awkward. Way to go on that one. "No, no, I just- uh...I was starting to feel a little sick off that punch, so I just went home."

He throws his hands up, palms open, in a "no shame" motion. “Well, hey- a valid reason to disappear."

"I certainly thought so."

“Though certainly unfortunate. You left without a way for me to find you again.” He ventures, faking offense.

You couldn’t hold back the confusion that ran through you at his numerous flirts, “Not to be rude or anything, but…don’t you and Jo kind of have a thing together?”

Dean rolls his eyes at the definitive term you give for the situation. It looks like he hardly liked it to be recognized at all. “It’s hardly a ‘thing’. It’s not serious.”

That answer never fills you with confidence, from any guy. What exactly isn’t serious? How he feels when he’s inside her? The look he gives her when she’s just quenched his sexual thirst? What’s not serious? The shared noncommittal rush of pleasure when she does the thing he goes crazy for- that brings him back to her? The no-strings intimacy mystique, leaving them both driving each other crazy for more, more, more?

Or did he mean it…was it really mindless, boring, right-place-right-time sex?

You didn’t understand it to begin with. You didn’t care to engage in that kind of sex, anyway. Not that you have standards that are above it, but you just think it dims the meaning of physical connection, which you did value. Not to mention, you had all the mindless sex when you were with Nick. You’re pretty sure you checked out after doing it enough, once it became more of a condition, than an act of love.

“But what does that mean to you?”

“It’s really just friends with benefits. And we hardly really do anything outside of…the benefits.��We’re just each other’s entertainment sometimes, that’s all.”

“Oh, that’s all.” You say, almost as if you don’t want to believe that it’s true.

He holds his hands out in defense. “Why do you say it like that?”

“Listen, I’m not judging. Really, truly, I’m not.” You preface sincerely before continuing, “But I’m not trying to get in between that.”

“Jo and I aren’t dating.”

“I know you know what guy-code is,” You give him a pointed look, “Girls have a similar code.”

“So what, I can’t be interested in you?” He looks down at you with a grin, but his eyes are tinged with disappointed confusion.

You scoff, “Not while you and Jo are…doing whatever it is you guys still do.”

“And if we weren’t…”

You pause, stumbling in your thoughts. “I guess I wouldn’t be disinterested.”

“So there is an interest of sorts…?” His grin gets wider.

You run a hand through your hair, struggling to come up with an answer that wasn't quite alluding to an eventual dismantling of his and Jo’s “hardly thing”.

“It’s more complicated than that. I won’t make promises, but I’ll say I’m not disinterested.”

“‘Not disinterested’.” He repeats, satisfied. “A niche answer.”

“I think it’s necessary for this circumstance.” You shrug, becoming more certain of your reply.

Once you both reach the coffee shop, light conversation bounces between the two of you. Nothing too deep, mostly just the classes you came from and the professors you have this year. You notice his eye contact as he talks to you, how his attention is solely on you, and you feel like you're the only person in the world. It’s honestly distracting- you need a map when you look into his eyes. You have to focus ten times harder to finish a thought around him. You find yourself stuttering if he smiles while you talk.

Coffees are ordered and you give him a sly, contained smile at his Americano order, and he responds with a brag at himself,“What- never seen a guy with taste before?” You figure he might be trying to impress you, rather than order a plain, black coffee as most guys did. You turn your lips into an upside-down smile and tease him with a stereotype, which makes his face fall with a reactive scowl. But, you belly laugh at his reaction, and you swear that you can see him faintly watch with suppressed adoration, as you cover your mouth with a hand to conceal the volume of the giggle. He can’t even pretend to be annoyed with that laugh.

Conversations mold into new topics. You learn a little bit about his brother, Sammy, who just recently got into Stanford University for Pre-Law. You take note of the sad smile he has when you comment on how proud his parents must be. He asks about your home life before college, recalling your parents’ divorce when you were in high school. It wasn’t a tough subject for you, all you really tell him is that it was an adjustment. Your parents did the best they could, though. That doesn’t mean your dad was Danny Tanner, or that your mom was Carol Brady…but you can recognize that your life definitely could’ve been worse. Especially after witnessing the effects of negligent parents, Nick’s parents. Mom left, and Dad was hands-off.

Yeah, you turned out alright for the most part.

“So with a mechanic dad, and you being an Automotive Engineer major, you have to have a favorite car then.” You prompt as Dean holds the door open for you, as the both of you exit Garth’s.

“Oh, of course.” He articulates with eyes that say “Obviously!”

“So, what is it?” You implore impatiently.

He chuckles with a knowing grin, “The one I have now.”

Grumbling, toyful resignation in your tone, “I’m not gonna ask a third time.”

“1967 Chevy Impala.”

You halt, not stepping any farther as you narrow your eyes in disbelief, “Yeah, right. You have an old, classic muscle car.”

“I do,” Dean verifies with an assured smirk.

For a stunned couple of seconds, you read him to see if he was shitting you, but you believe him. “Well, you know what, mark me impressed then. That’s pre-tty fucking awesome.”

He sticks a hand in his pocket with the other hand holding his coffee out to point down the street, “I’m parked pretty close to the garage down the street. I can drive you home if you want to see her-”

“No-” You blurt out sharply, surprising yourself and Dean. The blood leaves your face for a second, reeling you into a confined panic.

You haven’t let anyone drive you in months. Not since the accident, not since Nick-

Damn it. This had been one of the few impressions Nick left that actually manifested into a foreseeable problem. It’s why you walked everywhere. From the apartment to class, to the store, to Garth’s, to everywhere. Just the thought of being in another car with someone driving you made your heart race. Trapped in a confined space, in the hands of someone else who had the power of your life in their hands, in more ways than one. You refused kindly anytime Cas offered to drive you, even to Charlie. Although, Cas had practically forced you that night to let him drive you, for the sake of your own safety and escape, even then you were griefed with fear and had nearly hyperventilated in the car. You felt guilty, allowing this stupid, barely rational fear to dictate your life, but they accepted your refusal with just a concerned afterthought. And worse, now Dean had no clue why you just denied him of showing you his pride and joy.

Blinking your eyes back into the present, you apologetically shake your head at his fallen expression, “Sorry- I don’t really do well… with people driving me. Anyone…it’s a- thing…” You lamely excuse yourself.

“Okay… no worries. Uh, maybe I can still show her to you one day.” Dean leniently suggests, his face still pinched with perplexion and a hint of worry.

“For sure,” You assure with a pleading tone, “But, don’t let me hold you up from getting back. I have to walk to my apartment in the other direction, so…” The pleading trails off into one of a shamed acceptance.

“You’re not holding me up,” He says your name with a soothed promise, “I’ll walk with you. If you’ll let me, of course.”

“Dean, you definitely don’t have to-”

“I want to,” He lifts his head, asserting a masculine, but gentle attestment.

You relentingly exhale, face gleaming with a grateful glow, “Well then. Who am I to stop you from getting the things you want?”

He says something like “Damn right,” before matching your pace down another street as you make your way to your apartment complex.

“So, am I allowed to ask? Or is it off limits?” Dean raises a cautious eyebrow.

Staring straight ahead, you bite your lip, “Oh, the uh- the car thing?”

He treads carefully. “Yeah, the car thing.”

You rub your unoccupied hand at your neck, tensing your shoulders slightly, but ultimately offering, “I mean, it’s not interesting, but it’s not…off limits.”

Dean doesn’t look quite convinced, but his curiosity gets the better of him, and he queries, “It doesn’t have to be interesting…just wondering.”

Blowing an exaggerated breath of air, you shake your head, “I mean, I was involved in an accident a couple months ago. Someone was driving my car…totaled it. So, I don’t have a car, but I’m definitely not ready to drop that kind of cash, yet.”

You can’t see him while you kick your feet in front of you, avoiding his gaze purposefully, but his jaw is clenched as you tell him. “Someone else totaled your car? That’s all kind of fucked-up. Did they at least give you reparations for it?”

You take a bit too long to answer, and Dean’s eyes snap open wider after he blinks, “You’re kidding.”

“It’s a long, long story,” You justify, not giving him much more of an explanation, “But, I don’t mind walking. I like it, actually.”

Dean shakes his head in anger, although not directed at you. He was livid for you, “It doesn’t matter- that was your car. The words I would have…” He stops himself, attempting to control his reaction.

“Honestly, I’m just lucky to be alive.” Some days you find that statement debatable.

“That’s about the only good that came out of that situation.” He remarks protectively.

“That and the fact that I have killer calves now.”

He snorts at that, transitioning the mood slightly with your joke, “I won’t argue that.” He jerks his head back, getting an angle of your legs, and smirks in agreement. He speaks up again, “I definitely would never push you to get into a car again, but on your own accord, if you ever wanted to take a ride- I’d be honored to let it be in Baby.”

You squish your brows together, “In…Baby?”

Dean smiles proudly, “That’s her name.”

“I bet she can carry one hell of a watermelon.”

He replies with a surefire tone, “Well, no one puts her in a corner.”

Fortunately, nothing along the rest of the Nick-adjacent topics arise, which leads to undeniably smooth, easy conversing. And you hate to admit it, but you can see yourself liking him. Hell, who are you kidding, you do like him. But, God, you did not want to wrap him into your shit. Why take a perfectly great guy and taint him with your devastatingly scarred emotional tendencies? Did that mean you were leading him on? No, not yet. It was just a casual walk back to your apartment. You told him you weren’t exactly at that “interested” level yet. And he understood. He was doing this for you out of the kindness of his heart (?).

The walk back concludes at the outside of the lobby, where you linger and let the conversation die off slowly. He acknowledges that the both of you arrived at your residence, and he looks up at the building, “I take it we’re stopping because this is your apartment, and not so that you can look deeply into my eyes.”

“Who said that?” You quirk your head. Well, fuck. That was a flirt. Now you would be leading him on if you didn’t expect something more from this.

“I just used my context clues.”

“How impressive. That’s an A+ for you, mister.” You tease, activating your “teacher voice”.

“That’d be the first one in a while,” Dean concedes, laughing a bit.

You give him a slight chuckle back, looking down at your feet, then back to him. “I appreciate the walk back.”

“Don’t mention it. Maybe I’ll start walking more often.” He muses, sticking his hands in his pockets.

You roll your eyes, “You claim to have this beautiful, antique muscle car and you’re going to start walking more?”

He lifts his shoulders for a moment, leaning forward a bit to tell you, “I’ve got some motivation.”

You could not believe his charm. “You don’t even know when I’m walking back from class or wherever.”

“Well then, this would be a pretty good time to ask for your number. So maybe I can find out.” And it sounds like he almost purrs.

You inhale, not looking directly at him, biting your lip in contemplation. “I don’t know if that’s right.”

“We’re not dating,” He restates, “Like you said, she apparently has guys crawlin’ in and out of there.”

Damnit. Is it right to have his number? I mean, he was at least a friend by now. Friends have friends’ numbers.

“If you insist-”

“I’m afraid I must.” He feigns a look of dismay, then smoothly slips his phone from his pocket to hand to you.

You try to contain the smile that peeks out as you insert your number, creating a contact for yourself on his phone, and then handing it back to him. “Happy?”

“I am,” he flashes his teeth with an undoubting expression. “Let me know when you leave class tomorrow if you have it.”

“I just might,” You back into the lobby entrance, my gaze softening some, “Bye, Dean.”

He maintains his smile as he gives you a farewell wave, keeps his eyes on you as you walk through the main floor to the elevator, and waits to take off to his car until he can no longer see you.

When you amble back into the apartment, the door clicks softly behind you. You lean against it, a rom-com moment playing out by the entrance, where your mind whirls over the afternoon that played out just before you came in. A stupid grin plays out on your face. It was nice to be treated that way again. It's been years since a proper exchange of witty dialogue, eventually leading to the mushy details of the day where you part ways with the intent of seeing each other again. The fantasy of that lasting repeats in your head as you hold onto the feeling.

And the fantasy is quickly interrupted as you're greeted by Jo, currently wiping the counter in the kitchen ahead of you. She glances up and nods her head to you, “Hey.”

You clear your throat, immediately kicking yourself off of the door to head to your shared bedroom, “Hey, Jo. Charlie at D&D still?” You check, an ebb of guilt slightly boiling in your stomach.

“Yeah, she said around 6:30 she’d be back. Speaking of,” She put the cleaning spray she had out back under the sink, moving to press her palms against the counter, almost accusingly. “You’re home a little later than usual, I thought class ends at 2:00 for you?” She eyes you curiously, which is out of the norm for her. Most of the time, you didn’t think she paid attention when you returned from classes.

“Oh, it did, but I ran into a friend. We ended up shootin’ the shit for a little while.”

“Oh...cool.” She bites her cheek, an awkward silence tethers you back from your previous high, before she looks to you with a pinched expression. “Can I talk to you about something?”

Jo's never initiated much conversation between the two of you alone. “Yeah…what’s going on?”

Jo has this annoyed smile plastered on her face as she brings up the subject. She's almost oblivious as she asks, “It's weird, but... you obviously liked Nick at the beginning of your relationship, right?”

You flinch slightly, eyebrows perking up, “Oh, well- Yeah…I mean, it’s hard to say so now after everything, but there was a draw to him in the beginning.”

“What did…what did that feel like to you?”

“Oh, man. It’s torturous... I thought about him a lot, and I made every excuse to drive by his apartment complex before I lived with him. I used to go to the restaurant he works at, even though he wasn’t a server, and I knew I wouldn’t see him in the kitchen. I was real stupid for him.”

It's true. You really used to be stupid for him. You still feel stupid somehow, although in a different sense. While you weren't lying to Jo, you had a hard time recalling why you were as crazed for him as you told her. You remember everything you did before officially being in a relationship, but it's like every remotely positive feeling from that relationship had been violently dissipated. There were good times, but it's almost painful to just briefly be aware that there were times when that sick fuck got a smile out of you. Just acknowledging that he was anything but a dog felt stupid. God, I was stupid.

“Sounds it.” Jo admires.

You huff out a regretful breath. “It was. Emphasis on ‘was’.”

“Right...”

“Why do you ask?”

Jo sighs, and now you're in for it. “I started…I don’t know. I started getting these weird feelings at the party last week. Butterflies, maybe. I don’t know, it honestly has been so long since I really started to like a guy, I guess.” She leans her body onto her forearms that rest on the granite countertop.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah," Her eyes move to yours, almost looking for your judgment, "I know it’s no secret that I’ve bounced between a lot of guys, but, I just figure why go through all the trouble of figuring out who wants a girlfriend or who just wants to get into my pants when I can just initiate it first?”

You tilt your head, lifting a shoulder in a half-shrug, “Sometimes you have to weed out all the bad ones to find a good one. Getting hurt like that, unfortunately, it’s inevitable. Hell, it’s happened to me a few times.”

“But it doesn’t have to be like that. You can hook up first and then be more than a booty call if the sex is good. I mean, there’s no order to these kinds of things.” Jo is sure of herself.

Alarm bells go off in your head at her dating philosophy, if you could even call it that. Of course, if a relationship had naturally progressed from hookups to actual dates, that’d be a different story. A weird, modern story, but still viable. But Jo makes it sound like it was a typical option for finding a partner… which seems a little twisted, shallow almost. You don’t exactly know how to tell her otherwise or feel that you should, so you just nod along with her statement, staying reserved.

Jo ignores the somewhat forced silence you take and continues determinedly, “Look, somewhere along the lines, I just realized that I’m just bored of it. There’s no chase… or back and forth. Guys hardly make any effort when they already know they're gettin' it. I get free dinners and an orgasm out of some of them, which is great and all, but I want something more. Maybe I have to do some chasing, then backing away, then chasing until it forms...it keeps things interesting.”

“Forms...like an actual relationship?”

“Something along those lines," Jo nods half-heartedly, seemingly keeping her hopes at a distance.

It's hard to encourage the hopes of a falsified relationship, but in all honesty, you're not close enough with her to try and set her straight. You can't slap her silly and say, "That's not love, that's boredom!" She'll have to learn it for herself, and that poor bastard is going to have to see her expectations from miles away in order to get a head start back to where he came from.

“Try it out. I mean, you only live once, and college is the right time to try out all this stuff.” You offer basic advice, afraid true advice would get twisted somehow into further bullshit. "I mean, if a guy has you all tingly inside, then definitely worth the shot. You said you met at the party?"

Jo shakes her head, "No, actually. We've already hooked up a couple of times, but we talked at the party some, and that'skind of when I started to think about things differently."

"Oh...who is he?" A nasty feeling arises in your gut.

"Dean Winchester."

Fuck. It was your poor bastard.

A/N: I'm impressed you made it to here! I almost didn't

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fictionalcreator · 7 hours ago

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WE CAN TAKE THIS EVEN FURTHER

Maybe, with the fear of heights, he actually gets calmer the closer to the edge of a roof he is? Maybe not for things above a certain height, but if it's just two or three stories, then being close to the ends brings him a sense of reassurance. 'Cause there's no wall. No support contraption deliberately designed to only work with a counterweight. Nothing stopping him from just. Leaving. Jumping off. If he really wanted to. Which he doesn't, of course. That would hurt. But still. He could. The option exists now.

I like to think that the tower walls aren't just a vertical incline, it's actually slightly concave and surprisingly smooth, making it so you have no possibility of using the wall to support your descent. If you're going in or out, you're either like, a gecko, or you're trusting your entire body weight to the hair rope. (Or you're using the secret entrance Brother used before Cale's hair was long enough, but. Y'know.)

(Can't believe I didn't mention how having access to Roksu allows Cale to cuss that's so vital)

(Also putting the rest of this under a read more 'cause uhhhh I have so many Thoughts asdfghjkl when i tell you that i spend ALL DAY thinking about this AU...)

I also like to think that Cale's nightly visits to Kim Roksu's body are still due to God of Death shenanigans. Like, maybe in this fairy-tale world, the Hentinuse family receive the favor of GoD, and Cale ended up especially "blessed."

Maybe he encountered a "death" too young, but his parents had a fortuitous encounter with an Ancient Power of longevity in the form of an item. Something like the vitality bottle. When they used the item, it fused with Cale's body, manifesting most prominently in his hair.

Unfortunately for them, that was White Star's "personal" life-extending Ancient Power item that he THOUGHT was well-hidden...oh well. Guess there's nothing for it but to get his "item" back (kidnap and imprison a literal baby).

As Cale grows up and "Brother" starts to leave for longer periods of time, the isolation really really starts to fuck with Cale. GoD takes pity on this child and uses sleep (part of GoD's realm) to bring him to a friend. A kindred spirit.

Sidenote, but I'm only up to chapter 659, so this question may or may not be answered later, but do we know if Heni!KRS has og!KRS's abilities? Are there two copies of Record and Instant out there? Or are they uniquely embedded in og!KRS's soul? Like the Ancient Powers?

I've actually been thinking for a while that the abilities of KRS's world bear a closer resemblance to the Ancient Powers than the magic that Rosalyn and the other mages use (used without incantations/scrolls or mana(?), intrinsic to the individual, cannot be learned or [in general] transferred, must be awakened to, seem to reflect some aspect of the holder's will in a way learned magic does not. It's like, while magic can be bent to one's will in unique ways [see, everything about Rosalyn], Ancient Powers and abilities are more like a direct manifestation of that will, channeled through the very world around you. Sometimes the medium is the elements, sometimes its something more intangible, sometimes it's your own body)

So, I wonder, if krs!Cale took his abilities with him across worlds, what about Heni!KRS? Did he manifest his own power, something that could rival Instant and Record? Something that lets him continue on as if he still has those powers? To the point that he can remain the lynchpin of the company?

Well, all that's to say that I think the apocalypse still happens in this AU. Probably for different reasons than in canon, but I'm going off of vibes.

The years have not been kind to the two of them. No matter his desire to be "trash" and escape from Brother's grasp, Cale has been unable to leave the tower. Maybe he doesn't have enough hair to serve as his counterweight yet. Maybe he doesn't have enough drive to overcome the fear instilled in him by watching something fall onto the craggy rock below. Maybe somewhere, in the depths of his soul, there's a little voice saying that this is fine. At least you have food and water and shelter. Even a friend. Even books and anything you could ask for. Even Brother.

He hates that voice. It's a coward. He's not like Roksu, who's okay with running away when things get tough and has learned that he shouldn't spend precious energy worrying about others. He doesn't like cowards. He can't help but think that, if he had been in charge of Roksu's body 24/7, he would have died a few times by now. Even as it is, he's gotten Roksu in trouble a few times over the past few years.

Roksu may get upset with him, cuss him out, or kick him out for a while, but in the end, Cale comes back, and Roksu lets him in, grumbling things like, "Crazy bastard. Who told you to do something so troublesome?" But he never kicks Cale out until after the deed is done, and that's how Cale knows that he approves. At least a little bit.

Then, one day, Roksu rejects him from entering at all.

...That's weird.

Brother's been home for a few days, so Cale hadn't been sleeping as much, so he couldn't be positive what was going on over there, but...the last time this happened...

Cale tries not to worry too much. Tries not to overthink it. But he can't help it. There's not much more to do but think in this damn tower.

He outright rejection continues for days. Then weeks. Then months. And each day, Cale can feel his nerves fraying away. Brother's been gone for a while now, too. Longer than he said he'd be away.

For a moment, the thought flashes through his mind.

What if Brother never comes back?

And the thought fills him with such an intense spike of anxiety that the world spins it makes him sick and he hates it because he doesn't even like Brother. Yet, the thought of being alone is somehow so, so much worse.

By the 6-month mark of Roksu outright rejecting him every night, the hallucinations are back in full swing. They'd gotten really bad back when he was a child (he still is, in many ways, but let's gloss over that for now), to the point where it was impossible to even see the room around him. There was just this field of a flower. Not a type of flower, just the same fucking single flower.

White with five petals, like a star.

Out of all of the illusions that haunt his senses when he gets too alone and starts to feel like a stranger in his own body, that's the one that gets under his skin the worst. It's so quiet, even peaceful there, but it fills him with such an ominous sense of dread. He really, really hates that flower.

For a time, days of sleeping close to or sometimes more than 20 hours become days of no sleep at all. Brother comes back, and that grounds him a bit and he hates it so much. Cale hates relying on this person so much but he does.

Brother is busy, so he leaves almost immediately again, but that night, Cale manages to sleep. When he sleeps, he doesn't try and barge his way into Roksu's soul as usual. Instead, he merely lingers at the door, and begs to be let in.

Roksu finally complies. When Cale opens his eyes, he sees the city he practically grew up in in ruins.

Roksu explains in his usual curt, matter-of-fact way that, 6 months ago, the apocalypse started. Monsters appeared, along with ability users that fight against them. Everyone is struggling to survive.

For a few moments, Cale looks at the collapsed high-rises and blown out windows with a blank stare.

Then, he laughs. No, he cackles.

"They knocked all the walls down!" He declares to no one in particular.

The others who had been sent out to gather supplies with him look at him and mutter "Did he finally snap...?"

The general consensus is "yeah but that's none of our business. who isn't holding on by a thread out here?"

Cale doesn't care what they think. Partly because their opinions mean nothing in the face of being free to act as he pleases, and partly because has more pressing issues right now.

In that moment, Cale manifested an Ability. At the same time, he stopped hearing Roksu's voice.

(I like to think that Cale's spent so long in that world that the moment he arrived and encountered a moment of emotional catharsis the world was like "yep, that soul checks out" and gave him an Ability, which fucked up the connection, and to prevent KRS from like, dissolving into the aether, KRS got sent back to Cale's body. Even gods can make mistakes and all that. GoD done fucked up by not including 'Cale independently manifests his own Ability, like, immediately' into the calculations)

(He'd have to be a multi-ability user, like og!Roksu. The question is what would he get? Something like Record and Instant? Or maybe something else to do with escaping, or sleep? Dreams? Visions? Enclosed spaces? Would he get two at once, or just the one?)

(OH Y'KNOW WHAT?? What if this Earth didn't get hit by just a survival apocalypse, but rather, a magic-tower-climbing scenario? (is there a more elegant name for this archetype? There's gotta be, right?) Where the major shelters double as Challenge Towers that strong ability users challenge occasionally once things calm down a bit. Cale is one of the few, if not outright the only one to be invited to Challenge the Towers, only to willingly turn his back on them (and flip them off for good measure). He just KNOWS there's some bullshit on top. He'd rather try his luck with the monsters outside, please and thank you. And if that makes some people think he's some kind of altruistic saint? Sure, why not. He can weaponize that reputation! No matter what, it won't stop him from doing what he wants. That's what he promised Roksu, after all. Do act as he pleased.)

(Also the part where he actually prefers Park Jin Tae's blunt violence and transparent pettiness to Bother's emotional manipulations is just ough...you're so right. The other folks at the shelter are just like "you're just gonna forgive him? That easily?" and he's like "*shrug* it could've been worse")

Anyway i've spent wayyy too long rambling about this uhhh goodnight for now!

Rapunzel AU!

Cale has been inside of the tower for his entire life. His hair is long, much longer than his brother's. His brother doesn't have a name. Cale knows they're brothers though- because they both have red hair, even if Brother has short hair and Cale does not.

Ever since Cale was 12, he'd been dreaming of a different world. He went to sleep and woke up as someone named Kim Roksu. This Kim Roksu was not in a similar situation as he was- Kim Roksu wandered the streets and ate food from the floor and hid in the small cabinet in his uncle's house. Kim Roksu was weak and strong.

Kim Roksu is a friend to Cale. When Cale wants to see the outside, he sleeps, and he dreams.

Kim Roksu figured out how to communicate with Cale after several years of simple body swapping.

Somehow, they are similar! They both agree that being trash is the best. Kim Roksu because it's easier being a bad person than a good person, and Cale because Brother won't let him be trashy and he wishes he could throw a fit without Brother punishing him.

"Your brother keeps you in a tower?" Roksu asks when he learns.

"Yeah. Is that weird?"

"Well, I don't know anyone who stays in a tower." Cale kicks a rock on the sidewalk with his barefoot, sending it skidding across the dirt road. "Ow, my toe." Roksu complains blandly.

Sharing a body, they also share the same sensations.

"You barely felt that and you know it."

"Shut up."

"You shut up." Cale retorts. He wants to say more, but he swallows those words and tucks them into his chest.

'The bruise over your eye hurts more but you don't complain about that.'

He bites his lip and looks down.

"Do you think," he asks quietly, "if I asked Brother to let me out, he would?"

Roksu, disembodied and floating over his body, frowns. "You haven't asked before?"

Cale smiles bitterly in Roksu's body. "... I did, once." After, Brother said he was going to be leaving for two weeks, and told Cale to ration his food well. Cale knew better than to think it was a coincidence. He didn't have Roksu yet. It was very lonely for a long time.

Roksu doesn't say anything.

"If," his voice trembles, "If I got out. If I left..."

"Cale." Roksu stops him. Cale winces, expecting to be reprimanded.

"You are trash. Trash does whatever they want, no matter what anyone says. If you want to leave, then leave." Roksu's translucent body floats over to stand in front of Cale. Sternly, he says, "Don't worry about useless things. Worry about making a plan and executing it."

Then, abruptly, Roksu turns and ignores him. Cale laughs and folds in half, a childish grin splitting his malnourished cheeks. How can someone be so blunt but so shy? Kim Roksu frowns, but it looks like a pout. Cale rubs away a tear and looks up at the back of his friend. No, the person who sometimes feels more like a brother to him than his real brother.

"And will you help me?"

Roksu rolls his eyes. "Don't ask something so obvious."

Cale smiles and looks down. "Right. Obvious, isn't it?"

Something like receiving help wasn't obvious to either of them. Yet, when it came to the two of them together, it was the most obvious thing in the world. It wasn't obvious with Brother, who he shared blood with. But Kim Roksu, who was abused and beaten down at every turn, chose to welcome a wandering soul into his body and share everything with him.

'You're the one who shouldn't want to be here,' Kim Roksu said when they first started talking and Cale asked why he didn't try to force Cale out. 'When you're in control, I can relax. Why would I want you to leave? That's so difficult.'

They learned that Kim Roksu really could force Cale out when his uncle kicked Cale, sending Kim Roksu's body sprawling onto the floor, then stomped on his arm so hard they heard a clear snap. For Cale it only hurt for a short moment. Roksu threw him out so fast you could imagine that he had practiced beforehand.

Every day and night, Cale slept to try and enter Roksu's body, check on him, share the pain, but Roksu kicked him out every time. It wasn't until four weeks later that Roksu let Cale back in.

Even that much pain was a lot for being four weeks after the incident, but while Cale was struggling to keep his cool, Roksu floated around him and spoke as if nothing was wrong. When Cale started sweating a few hours later Roksu kicked him out again.

'Don't be stubborn,' he said when Cale returned the next night. 'Just say that it hurts. If you still want to stay after you admit that it hurts then I won't kick you out.'

It was a very Kim Roksu thing to do.

"Brother," Cale asks one day at 15, impatiently brushing his hair. He gets scolded lightly, and Brother takes the brush from him. "I read in a book about something called a phone. Do you have one?"

Brother gives him a blank look. Then, as if it had been a lie, his expression changes into something kind and gentle. "Fone? Can you show me the book?"

Cale and Brother roughly root around in every book for anything like the so-called 'Fone,' coming up short.

"Maybe it was a dream," Cale excuses it like that, rubbing his neck. Brother looks at him, worried.

"It must have been. Get some rest, Cale." A kiss to the top of Cale's head, Brother hugs him and promises to bring him more paint. "I'll be gone for a few days this time. Do you want something?"

"Ah," Cale smiles, pressing his face into his Brothers neck to hide his face. "Could you bring me -------?" Brother freezes.

"... you-"

"I learned it from the books! This time I really did, Brother. Please?"

Slowly, Brother releases the tension in his body. "... If that's what you want. But you have to close the window if you're going to mess around with alcohol."

"Yes!" Cale jumps with joy. Then he suddenly runs to a bookshelf, changing the topic by talking about a book Brother brought to him last time. "-and I'd like to know if the sequel is out yet."

"I'll do that." Brother smiles. "You've been asking for more things recently, Cale." Brother settles a hand on his head, stroking his hair.

"It's because of my reliable older brother!" He grabs onto that hand, keeping it there, resembling a naive little brother who only has his role model in his eyes.

He sends his brother down the tower using his hair, and watches that spot of red disappear in the distance.

His face drops.

"... Bastard."

Cale turns on his foot. It's time to see Roksu.

#fandom posting #fanfic #fic #tcf #long post

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hanzajesthanza · 13 days ago

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the training montage in crossroads re-ignited a headcanon i had of geralt waking up and doing gymnastics, performing kickflips and mid-air spins around on a fencepost outside an hour before sunrise to ‘limber up,’ and bleary-eyed dandelion wrapping himself up in a blanket to be like "heyyy... what the hell are you doing 💖"

#if you're wondering what kind of moves he's doing he's standing on a fencepost and doing your typical flexibility stretches #but alternating between reps of stretches with kickflips from one post to the other #like ciri training in kaer morhen #i'm not going to lie witchers are cool but fandom ruined them a bit for me and now crossroads has given me that childlike wonder back #because fandom heard 'physical ability and stamina' and did you know what with it #but the agility and precision of witchers remain so underrated. as part of the deconstruction of the superhuman trope #geralt doesnt really show off as much in the books and does cool stuff only when needed but #like when (mentioned) he hit the rat in the darkness with his thrown fork... as a party trick #and killing renfri's men in the market at blaviken... and killing the scoia'tael on thanedd #and RUNNING ALONG THE BRIDGE on the battle of the bridge #and the nilfgaardians were amazed and they WERE AMAZED AS THEY DIED!!!!!!!!#and killing rience's mercenaries who didn't know who they were fighting so they were like hey what the fuck... what the fuck #i'm literally back to witcher 101 basics here. nothing interesting to contribute but like a little boy i am just smiling and saying #'dude geralt of rivia is soooo cool he can like fight a bunch of guys with his sword'#half of me wants to seek deeper themes and half of me is just like YOOO GERALT SO COOL !!#listen... there is a time to plant a time to reap #a time to analyze and a time to geek #i should probably just watch a bunch of ballet or best of gymnastics comps and i'll find what i'm looking for #also sorry CROSSROADS OF RAVENS SPOILERS artamon dying was a hilarious moment i know it was like oooh this will have consequences #but it was nice to have the evil antagonist get merked in the sme chapter as he's fucking introduced #and not even by mature experienced geralt but by some literal eighteen year-old who he tried pulling a fast one on #1) i was happy that sapkowski didn't drag it out terribly. this was humorous and refreshing after in season of storms #2) geralt almost riding off but having a feeling to go back... listen i know it's so cliche and it's giving lady of the lake chapter 4 #where he eavesdrops in the caves under castle zubarran and just happens to hear stefan skellen reveal that vilgefortz was in castle stygga #but it also was satisfying to me because after reading the hussite trilogy #where reynevan (stupid and young man; like geralt here) DOES NOT LEARN after several. SEVERAL lessons #i was honestly worried for a second that we were going to get a reynevan moment. but no. because this is geralt and not reynevan #and seeing geralt develop critical thinking skills in real time was not only satisfying but a bit funny #and yes nostalgiabaiting me #like omggggg yesss his detective skills yesss that's so geralt of him

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summergoodwife · 14 days ago

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Gonna say it again, "Just stop consuming the genre" is THE WORST POSSIBLE RESPONSE to someone complaining about the lack of representation in their preferred genre!! And "Consume other stuff too" is not much better!!! I don't care how much you think varying media consumption is a Good and Holy lifestyle, not everyone wants to do that! There is no obligation to do that and there should not be! Because it's fucking entertainment. It's not a college major.

And! And and and. I would be remiss to not point out that when you tell someone, "If you want well written (minority) just get out of (genre fandom)" you are, regardless of your motivations, rhetorically aligning yourself with the exact same bigots who just want the pro-representation crowd to shut up and go away.

#I don't know how people can say “shonen is written for teen boys so obviously you're the idiot for wanting good rep from it”#as if teen boys don't also deserve stories with well-written diverse casts??#as if the poor reactions they often have to diversity are just inherent to their boyish nature and not a result of a widespread lack of rep #as if diverse casts in popular media aren't A PROVEN WAY to reduce implicit biases against groups of people on a very large scale #you people are dogs. how can you unironically say “this genre was made for teen boys so everyone else should stfu and gtfo”#and not immediately see that you've just aligned yourself with the actually bad people in the fandom #these stances also perfectly miss the point of “I love this genre and want to see a flaw in it corrected” because they are overwhelmingly..#...written by people who do not love the genre in question and are not interested in loving the genre #like yeah ultimately I understand that most of these posts don't give a true shit about helping people find rep in media #their main purpose 99% of the time is to publicly gloat about their supposedly superior media fixations #It's a real autism on autism violence (internet style) so I find it contemptible in a way that pulls all the muscles of my face downwards #“haw haw read another book (the ones I incidentally find engaging) and stop reading your dumb idiot books (the ones you find engaging)”#you can actually shut up tho that's the thing #you can just not say anything and make the world a better place Luigi Marioparty style #it's a wonderful strategy to use #if you've read through all these tags then 1. I thank you and 2. I have a little request if you're willing to give me more thought & time:#try to pay close attention the next few times you're talking about broad media fandoms which you aren't a part of #watch those little twinges in your chest and ask yourself #“is what I'm saying true? do I actually know enough to say that? what is the point of what I'm saying here? what do I want these ppl to do?#I think we all get caught up in Media Gloating sometimes #if you find that your thoughtless comments become concerning after you put thought into them #maybe it's time to not make them #or to even (as a totally random example) make a post arguing AGAINST those comments #because guess what? your bad take there was probably not yours alone; I'd wager 1000 other similar people have made similar takes #but they're not all gonna reflect on that unprompted; that's where you can come in #shonen #lgbtq representation #female representation #representation in media #queer representation

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okalanissolis · 11 days ago

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⌖ ๋࣭ ⭑♚₊🗡 ๋࣭ ꜱᴇᴇ ɪꜰ ɪ ꜱᴛɪʟʟ ᴇxɪꜱᴛ

ᴀ ᴄᴇʟᴇꜱᴛɪᴀʟ ᴍᴀꜰɪᴀ ᴀ.ᴜ.

⌖ ๋࣭ ⭑♚₊🗡 ๋࣭ ᴏɴʟʏ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ᴋɪɴɢ ᴀɢᴀɪɴ ๋࣭🗡₊♚⭑ ๋࣭⌖

ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴘᴀꜱᴛ ɪꜱ ᴄᴏɴꜱɪᴅᴇʀᴇᴅ ᴘʀᴇᴠɪᴏᴜꜱ . . .

pt. ii | | series masterlist

focus on: muni sarang (diane meunier), choi san, & song deokhee word count: ~4.6k warnings: language, intermittent Lore Dumping™, mentions of violence, occasional graphic imagery, mentions of semi-main character death, Even More Gods Are Introduced and i think that is lovely

ᴛᴄᴅᴜ (ᴛᴏᴏ ᴄᴏɴᴠᴏʟᴜᴛᴇᴅ, ᴅɪᴅɴ'ᴛ ᴜɴᴅᴇʀꜱᴛᴀɴᴅ) ɪꜱ ɪɴᴄʟᴜᴅᴇᴅ ᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴇɴᴅ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ !

⌖ ๋࣭ ⭑♚₊🗡 ๋࣭

lilo's mic: still knee deep in history but with more character introductions! i think at some point i might do a character recap page where i can offer some quick stats about the character's strengths and role, but idk if it would be helpful or just another way that i Procrastinate™ — let me know your thoughts !

⌖ ๋࣭ ⭑♚₊🗡 ๋࣭

⌜ my girl pinched my hips to see if i still exist / i think not ⌟

ꜱᴇᴇ ɪꜰ ɪ ꜱᴛɪʟʟ ᴇxɪꜱᴛ ๋࣭🗡₊♚⭑ ๋࣭⌖

— ʜᴀᴇᴍᴏ ᴘᴏʀᴛ was the main harbour of hoku city. home to the oldest and most robust working port on the island, the leeward side of the city was often referred to as haemopu side — an amalgamation of the names ʜᴀᴇᴍᴏꜱᴜ, the god of light and namesake of haemo port; and ᴋᴀᴘᴜ: sacred, taboo, forbidden. it was an unspoken rule that the shadows that danced on haemopu side were all puppets of that power known as serpens, and if you saw their strings or witnessed their plays, you would keep quiet, or your days were numbered — your gift from samgong through.

— still, haemo port was vast and wide, and business had to keep. it wasn't particularly bad luck to be a shop stationed near haemo port: there was so much foot traffic there, so many lives crossing back and forth, still hungry to survive; the best of money could be found for those who dared haemopu and kept their sight where it belonged — out of their eyes and in the open hands of hoku — or so the urban prayer went.

to the untrained eye, haemo port and ʜᴀᴇꜱᴜ ꜱᴛʀᴇᴇᴛ (the road that led to the devouring mouth of it) were the same as any other harbour on the island: only slightly more complicated than the sum of their intricately stacked, labyrinthine parts; bathed in light by enormous streetlamps so that when the sun went down, the majesty of ʀᴀᴋᴇᴛᴜ, night, couldn't be the refuge with which spirits attempted to thwart demons. but the fangs of some serpents still found their venomous purchase, and the storefronts along haesu street were often just that — fronts. legitimate stores, but facades for things still sinister, sliding their way through the waters, encircling your world, whole.

— on the furthest place inland haesu street ever went, there was an old business complex that had stood so long the original signage was lost and along with it, the precedent name. haesu complex, haemo park, haemo plaza, haemopu ether — old things have many names, and in legend, the many named becomes gods. inside the six story building, shops and establishments checked in and out like aimless souls in a graveyard: some lingered, some faded, some lasted the test of time.

on the first floor of haesu complex stood a taekwondo studio.

next to it, an indoor shooting range.

— we start this story with the taekwondo studio — the dojang, where mountains go to be edified and pupils to be fortified. eventually, we will open the door to see what is made with bullets and loose gunpowder, but for now, we take an abrupt turn right, through the third set of doors on the ground floor.

ᴄʜᴏɪ ᴊᴇᴏɴɢᴄʜᴇᴏʟ, father of one, was the owner of the modest studio: a stern man with a compassionate underbelly, a fourth dan black belt and the first sabeom — teacher — to enter the business complex. in the early days, when he was newly teaching and the world was more cruel and wanton than it ought, he orchestrated and ran illegal fights in the backmost part of his dojang. necessity begged it; life forced his unwavering hand. he'd never been proud, but he stood in his choices steadfast, and if you only saw the whole of him from an angle upturned and below, it seemed the might of him was his honor, unmarred.

dealing in entertainment and prestige, jeongcheol made ends meet in the evening to bring necessities and opportunity to his wife and newborn son at dawn, and by noon, instill dreams in the children that called him sabeom, center of their budding confidence.

when the serpens found out about his midnight habits, they paid a prompt price for front row tickets. by the end of the evening, jeongcheol's rental payments were moved to an account more reliable, and his small family moved out of the back office space and into one of the apartments that sat on the fifth and sixth floors. in exchange, the fights would persist on a grander scale at a more regular schedule ad infinitum, and the serpens would get their due cut.

jeongcheol always knew that this favor would amount to more debt, in the future, but for the security he was promised, in this blood oath? for the advantage and chance he could bestow upon his son? if it were shortsighted and misguided — this business deal with the serpent of the sky — then forgive him, but omniscience was simply the name of his city, not the power in his mind.

— and as san, his darling boy, grew from jeja to seonbae and in the course of time, sabeom all his own — a 3rd dan black belt and the pride of jeongcheol's world — the price of a demon's mercy became ever clearer, crystalizing into the certainty of future: law.

— it was in that very dojang, after all, that jeongcheol added to his myriad of students two young girls: diane and soyeon, dawn and dusk. jeja diane, a student named wisdom, took early to sparring with san, never minding that the younger always won, ever scheming to learn from a protégé's skill.

when san was chosen to be the demon heir's protector, it wasn't a matter of surprise or honor, simply that of providence.

and san was dignified by it, at any rate.

— only ever envisioning an inherited taekwondo studio for himself, a modest future but fulfilling dream, san's world expanded at the hands of diane — and his dojang, while still being the center of all his tethered existence, was a future now shared. ʏᴇᴏꜱᴀɴɢ, a pupil and friend, would aid him in handling the fights in the backmost part all of his father's hope and shame, an eternal rite, the sisyphean promise the choi family would never complete.

— jeongcheol had slowly backed away from the uglier side of his business as he aged into complacency and fatigue, and san had taken up the mantle in his place. now, sin would beget sin and shackled to the serpens would be yet another soul.

yeo was clear that he didn't mind.

already one foot into corruption, what was one more leg?

— he'd been cleaning up bruises from betting fights and broken limbs from shadow duels for years. he'd sewn flesh together the way others might knit tenderness and virtue, goodness and love.

every dojang needed it's medic. and every medic needed his charge.

— this was merit enough, for the both of them. respect for san in being trusted with something on which the whole of the underworld revolved; prestige for yeosang in the power inherent of a ruling head of a domain long standing, and in it's ancience, revered.

and watching them both, once the hand that led them deep into the mouth of something ravenous, still, stood choi jeongcheol, left wondering when security was no longer security — a promise no longer words of honor.

ꜱᴇᴇ ɪꜰ ɪ ꜱᴛɪʟʟ ᴇxɪꜱᴛ ๋࣭🗡₊♚⭑ ๋࣭⌖ ᴄᴏɴᴛ.

— diane had asked him to disappear, again.

— it was never an explicit demand, not since the first time, when she'd been following the tail of a banker and realized it would be so much easier to approach him if she were just a woman and not a daughter, held.

the nameless banker had decided he no longer wished to be a pigeon fed from an opened hand but a raven shot out of the sky, the shiny things he stole slipping from his traitor beak and landing back into the hand of the power that wielded the shotgun evermore.

— "you're intimidating, san." and it hadn't been her words or the command in her eye so much as it was a shift in her being — sarang to diane, veracity to something mutable and ever brewing. "i need to ensnare him..."

and he'd slipped away, taken her half-cue and was already gone.

— if the demon of hoku knew how often diane asked him to slip away, san was sure the mythic ernest would be none too pleased. it takes half a second for malignance to seize you in hoku city, and only a fraction of that if you're particularly inclined. of course, san was never far, and sarang more competent than what the wills of well meaning fathers offered her, but it would be more than just san's immortal soul on the line if something befell her and he were at all still breathing.

but it was always sarang's eyes that sought for the mercy of him, in the hairbreadth turn of her infinitesimal micro-expression, the graceful warp into something so unseen it were all but hidden to eyes that were any less devoted than his. and it was never a question because she would never need to ask; he'd learned to read the depths of her during sparring sessions in a dojang made of his youth and all his tomorrow. once, he'd crafted alongside her the armor that was so much a second skin, there were barely any joints or seams that one could rub the pad of their thumb along.

he'd seen her, then, and so he always knew.

— and that's how he found himself here, again. vanished from a spot he said he'd always defend: dematerialized, because bang chan had come to call.

— or so diane let the boy think. she'd found chan first, weeks before this encounter he'd name 'chance' or 'fate'. it had been simple to learn his routine and easier to insert herself in it. a coffee shop he always walked past. her new favorite window seat. a position so comfortable it looked as though it had always been.

and so they talked; this woman neither diane nor sarang, crafting a life by degrees of admission, chan warming to the gentle flame of her lies so that eventually, perhaps, knowledge of him would melt, secrets in him slip between them, in this place behind glass, warm between cups of untouched coffee.

not even san would hear the things chan would reveal in his adventurous, half-flirtatious speech. the thought often made the black belt's heart skid — his resolve stutter — but the bulk of him never wavered. he was a mountain and summits never crumbled; their might certainly never moved.

and that simple conflict of interest was something his friends never failed to entertain, and in mocking, enjoy.

— ᴅᴇᴏᴋʜᴇᴇ, twin sister of ᴡᴏᴏʏᴏᴜɴɢ and the one-minute younger half of their expert gunman team, was the one to first discover san's internal battle, having joked about his affection for diane from his sabeom days at the dojang. first, a true baseless joke, then overtime, a comfortable uncomfortability for san as it grew in truth and size.

san and his diane; no one loved their work the way san did; if san could marry duty he would.

— if he wasn't always looking at deokhee down the barrel of her sniper rifle, he just might knock some humility into her near prophetic teasing and her twin's identical shit eating grin.

but what was he to do when she was, in part, always right?

— sarang laughed at something chan said, and diane reached out to touch his shoulder with the soft of her hand. san turned his gaze, somehow half guilty, and that's when he saw the ephemera of a shadow he should not have.

what was kim hongjoong doing all the way here?

— first order of business would be to pull sarang from the place at which she stood. second would be to see just who the informant whisperer was that hongjoong strove to meet. third would be to evaluate just where that placed this puppet-master of secrets in the ever turbulent waters of organization and fealty — obeisance and axis.

— san was standing in front of her in the coffee shop before the shadow had ever truly dissipated — before any of the prior thoughts had fully formed in his mind.

sarang was good at smoothing her own confusion and concern, and playing the part of the innocent and sheltered. she huffed a convincing sigh and muttered something about a father that, overprotective, cut her time with this young officer short, and san caught the thrown word of 'cousin' like a fire-hot, thousand pound and ever-burning coal.

so that's how she'd explained his presence to chan.

— when she knew she'd almost been caught in the act by hongjoong, sarang swore.

— ʜᴏɴɢᴊᴏᴏɴɢ was a member of the serpens syndicate, and had, since the death of byeonghwa, been the watchful eye that extended past the confines of hoku city. loyal to the demon — a horkos made potent in the poignance of a blood debt — hongjoong was trusted... so far as anyone could be reliable, in this city that ate you whole, in these times that twisted the sinew of your very heart. at any rate, he was an informant of ernest, and while not one nearly as volatile as soyeon, still convoluted in intent.

he would be interested — perhaps even moreso curious than san, who daily burned all of his inquisition and steadfast resolve near through — as to what the demon heir was doing out here, in the pristine half of hoku city, talking with an officer that would just as soon as imprison her, if he knew even a fraction of the atrocities and moral impurities she ordered and aided, abetted and carried out.

— of course, even if hongjoong were to ask, sarang would never tell.

— not even with san, himself, did sarang reveal her true intentions in this business involving newly minted officer bang chan, a rookie at some few years post-graduation, an acquaintance turned friend from their first windfall encounter. not even with san, who knew the verity of sarang and had cherished her humanity from it's first appearance, did she let any information slip, a single hint pass.

he'd look into her eyes and unexpectedly, a wall was there — a guardedness of which he'd never known. she was no longer forthright about all possibilities with him. her thoughts were not so easily read, her want not so readily known.

— but that was not the worry that had the jaw with which to gnaw at san. not yet, anyway. not when hongjoong was surreptitiously on the same path as them, in a place where neither was colloquially seen (his informant hadn't been anyone of note, and so the consequence of his gained knowledge that day couldn't have been much, but one could never be complacent, if they wished to thrive).

— not when soyeon was unhappy, and sarang was the fool to not believe it.

— not when ernest, kingpin of terror, chessmaster of the underworld and ruler of hoku city, was mired in that slow changing-of-hands and place of gentle retreat where all of his speech was about the hand of iku, that terrify in the weight of dying.

the death of a demon was always a wounded threat that demanded first redress.

— it had started, in part, with the death of byeong-hwa. what was a king, after all, when his sworn shield had fallen? what menace was left in a monster, when his right hand was rotting, 6 feet below? the monsoon season would come, and a sickness would plague ernest along with the rain. jangma was the will of bada — the monsoon season the cursing volition of the sea. it was divine law, in some ways, that bada would claim her vengeance on hoku by taking it's epicenter and sweeping it's fortune and prosperity into her tumultuous seas, but it was still too soon, and thus, a secret well hidden.

no one in the serpens outside of the few remaining elders that sat at the demon's table, byeong-hwa's only daughter, his heir, and his warded nephew knew of the state of ernest's true mind.

the tides were swelling, the ground was saturating; bada was clambering toward the city, and at the time least affordable, the cracks between sarang and soyeon's friendship and intertwined lives deepened to a schism, with roots on either side, blooms torn apart, thorns tearing stem like gnashing teeth devouring flesh.

— when it rains, it pours, and in jangma, the storms were violent and unending; when bada raged, all the gods hovered close to witness her torrential price.

— "i'll tell ʏᴜɴʜᴏ." when they were haemopu side, diane turned to san, the silence between them broken, the confidence that always held in it's place perhaps worse for wear, if either of them had the resolve to mention it. "he'll have some clever way to spin hongjoong off our track - if he even saw anything in the first place."

— san nodded: just once, a jerky motion that left this world still buzzing, a dull, low whine.

yunho, sarang's cousin, was a close confidant of theirs. he moved into the serpens complex when he was 17. some commonplace tragedy left him with a want in the pit of his belly, and ever since the breaking down of all that tied sarang to soyeon and night to the dawining day, he had played the role of strategist and pragmatic advisor to his cousin — a safer, less volatile option for diane to pick, considering soyeon had always been her council, former.

— diplomats need their advisors; conmen require their marks. diane had a necessity for yunho and a plan for bang chan, and of course, they would be dealt with first. san was just a bodyguard, and in this way, he'd always known his place. but favor had a way of lead to want, and if he tended to that fire, it could always lick its way past his defenses and consume him whole.

— sarang blinked, and the change pulled san from his thoughts the way it always would. born to serve, her movements were what he'd been shaped to read. "i guess i'll tell hermes that you stood him up for yunho again, when it's time for your 13:00 date and you don't show."

— sarang laughed at that, warm and clear, almost chasing away the mist that had gathered all through the day day, at choice intervals and expected alleyways, thickening to the obscurity of fog. hermes was sarang's greyhound — the puppy she'd once found when younger but crowned wise. she never had taken him to the serpens complex, where he could be socialized with the dobermans she'd cared for most her life. instead, san took him in — an act of kindness she never stopped praising him for, never quite forthright about her reasoning but offering just enough to where he was satisfied.

"tell the twins when you see them i need to have a word."

ꜱᴇᴇ ɪꜰ ɪ ꜱᴛɪʟʟ ᴇxɪꜱᴛ ๋࣭🗡₊♚⭑ ๋࣭⌖ ᴄᴏɴᴛ.

— the shop never had a name: just a wordless sign in the shape of a generic gun scope: the focus for an eye you'd never look into as you took your final, heaving breath.

the shooting range, the eye, akita's place, the final shop on the ground floor of haemo plaza.

— every child who'd ever touched a gun — any soul who had enough of some small mercy they had the fire to protect it in this heaving city — had, at some point, entered the shooting range that sat haemopu side. established longer than jeongcheol's dojang, but having changed hands at around the same time, the shooting range was owned by a woman named ᴀᴋɪᴛᴀ — ex-military but dishonorably discharged, a mother of twins, and simultaneously warm yet cold: distant, but always manning her station.

it was only natural that, sharpshooter of her squad, akita had taught her children to shoot from the moment their hands had the strength to thumb a trigger.

eyes bred to look at you through the barrel of a firearm, hearts trained to see the liberation at the end of a mission and none of the causalities between. akita took her twins, cradle of her future, and gave them all the skills she broke skin and bruised knuckle to hone. they would never have to struggle, because they would be born with skilled gift. they would have the freedom of honor, because no training would mar their resolve.

— at first, the shooting range was only that which sat within the four walls in the ground floor of that complex. but slowly it expanded: the back property, accessed through the side entrance, narrow but deep, for single sessions with moving targets; the abandoned lot near the docks that akita had come into possession of by chance and was appraising for sale until her daughter showed an aptitude for long range and a spark to pursue it.

before long, what was modest expanded, and with an open mouth, devoured until engorged. the shooting range was well known. beloved. conspicuous. exactly the sort of place one would expect to find a doorway into the depths of a now illegal, though still legitimate syndicate, and therefore, a place where they could never be found. in reverence and renown, akita secured a safe haven for her children, a place where they could rest without the fear of being poached.

two doors down, the serpens paid a lease, but here, in the four walls she maintained, they could never sink in their teeth.

but fate was the domain of samgong, and mischief the trait of hoku, and here, in a city where the presence of gods were only so strong because they were so ceaselessly revered, the two powers often conspired to thwart the dreams of those who dared trying, and those whose complacency masqueraded as crown.

— wooyoung, the younger of the twins, was the impulsive to deokhee's passion. touched by caprice, drowning in compulsion — akita whispered into his ear as he grew up, tickling the soft skin hidden there, that he was born the same star sprite as hoku: before he became the omniscient eye, back when he was nameless, and his fervency was tried by the test of his father's tedium. in constant motion, neverending activity: "make no deals with iku, listen not to the obligation of horkos. you are a star, you belong to nothing but your own burn."

— deokhee, of course, was the fire burning her younger brother brighter, still, the combustion in his path that kept him from apathy, that saw all his visions through. ᴇɴᴊɪ, her mother would call her, the fire god incarnate. the ardor, the devotion, the commitment deepening to obsession, the dedication to wooyoung's whims, the conviction in her twin brother's mania. akita adored her daughter's fervency, fanned the flames of her exuberance never quenched. "shackle yourself to no one, my enji, you are not meant to be contained. never turn in on yourself; find a direction to incinerate: you are meant to set this world ablaze."

— avoiding flirtation with the fetters of the serpens was an unspoken request from akita, a desire never plainly raised. if she had been wiser — if she saw all too clearly the way serpents rise to challenge and adaptable, warp their venom to something honey-sweet — perhaps akita would have been more explicit in her demands, exact in all she envisioned and prayed to conspire. but it seemed an evident requirement, a moral anchored deep and in it's inevitability, made potent and strange.

"you are made for more," she had always told them.

but what can be done when your only framework of 'more' and 'greater' is the gunpowder residue of a superior weapon?

— once, akita built her children into crook of a firearm. ever after, they would know mostly it's bitter taste.

— none of this is to say, however, that the twins were a tragedy and their penchant something acrid, lead.

— deokhee was bottled excitement and effervescent joy in every task, and wooyoung the kind of gregarious that surrounded him with enthusiastic friendship and kindred brotherhood in every space he ventured to grace.

— and ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴜᴍɪɴᴀʀʏ was one of those third spaces that wooyoung and deokhee frequented most.

a serpens owned establishment: an electricity plant on the edge of town, with hidden rooms that opened into dark things that could only hide in the shadow of a generator as massive as that which fueled a never-blinking city. the luminary was one of the largest holes in the wall that the serpens ran. there, you could order any sin you could pay the ferryman to usher you to.

so long as you were in the right room, of course. the serpens liked to keep their messes orderly.

— the twins mostly frequented the rooms with standard bar fare. alcohol, dance, betting and games of chance, fisticuffs when more than just spirits hit you square in the jaw after one freedom too many. a common enough vice with a burgeoning sea of acquaintances and a militia of contacts and friends. it was here, in the pale of haemosu's light — all the glare they could harness but never reach — that the twin's sociability spun a web that was never meant to entrap them, but still made them the perfect players for a serpent game.

after all, it was in the luminary that the twins aligned themselves with the spine breaker bikers.

a group of criminals and delinquents that rode through ꜱᴋɪᴛ — the next door neighbor of hoku city, and the border at which the serpens let their spines halt. the serpens owned hoku, and every gang and group of would-be hopefuls that they'd long run out had taken up station in skit and brawled it out, there. a neighboring city was of no consequence to the serpens as long as they spilled blood on their rightful side of the fault line, and the spine breakers were a fairly established group that occasionally crossed the borders of hoku — careful to always show their deference and pay their dues. they were a infrequent though to some familiar face in the luminary on nights when the moon hung low, mostly to work deals with the mercenaries for hire in the back, and always to chase a drink alongside the twins.

ᴊᴜɴɢᴋᴏᴏᴋ was their closest companion of the lot, and if his drink of choice was an expected usual, and his uninspired flirtation with deokhee an affectionate and comfortable aside, then the night would be warm and the luminary waitstaff would make better money in tips than they had all month.

— and it was precisely that friendship with jungkook (and perhaps their closeness with san, though why make complicated something already written by fate?), that brought the twins to the serpens those aging years ago.

it had been hongjoong, newly syndicate minted, that noticed these two sparrows who somehow seemed to know everyone he had been keeping his thousand eyes on, and dared to ask himself what use could come with knowing their names.

it had been simple, after, for seonghwa to convince him that wooyoung was the easier approach, and for soyeon to cast the die on his fate.

(but that had been years ago: before the breaking down of factions, before suspicion and envy cast shadows that demons new not how to play, before ties were cut like marionette strings, and seonghwa and soyeon became a duo, and hongjoong, far enough from the barrel to not yet choose how to align, had to keep his ideas in his breast pocket and his lies tucked beneath his tie.)

— in the end, the twins were brought into the serpens because their connections would open doors that had no keys. it was through wooyoung and deokhee that the serpens greedy left hand reached into the heart of skit and, with an emboldened and wanting jungkook, staged a coup and installed this friend as the spine breaker's acting head.

ever after, the gang would be in debt of the might of hoku, and in perpetuity, there would be scouts and reinforcements, should there be need of aid from a distance.

— it was simply providence that the twins would have use beyond their sociability and want. it was the work of that ever mischievous hoku that in a chance encounter and a single ploy, diane was gifted with the two best marksman the city could afford.

danger, of course, in the single-minded passion of deokhee and the brilliant aimless apathy of wooyoung, but when combined together (and wooyoung under the threat of the only one he swore obeisance to: san), they were more than their arsenal, a weapon greater than their might and distant reach.

— when san found the two of them sitting on his couch, deokhee knuckle deep in affectionate rubs for hermes, wooyoung eating noodles out of the pot, on his pinky swinging the apartment's spare key, there was less a reaction of disappointment or surprise, and more an acceptance that at least this way, the message would be easily delivered, sweet.

"diane's calling."

⌖ ๋࣭ ⭑♚₊🗡 ๋࣭ ᴏɴʟʏ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ᴋɪɴɢ ᴀɢᴀɪɴ ๋࣭🗡₊♚⭑ ๋࣭⌖ pt. ii | | series masterlist

ᴛᴄᴅᴜ (ᴛᴏᴏ ᴄᴏɴᴠᴏʟᴜᴛᴇᴅ, ᴅɪᴅɴ'ᴛ ᴜɴᴅᴇʀꜱᴛᴀɴᴅ) :

1 - jeongcheol, san's father, used to run a taekwondo studio. because times were hard, he ran illegal fights in the back of his dojang, and when the serpen's found out, they co-opted his business and expanded it. as he got older, he passed down his dojang to san, who now works as the bodyguard of diane. because of his busy schedule, he co-manages the dojang with yeosang, the medic of the taekwondo studio.

2 - the taekwondo studio is situated on haesu street in an unnamed work-live complex often referred to as haemo plaza. on the same floor as the dojang there is an unnamed shooting range, owned by akita, the mother of twin gunman for the serpens deokhee and wooyoung. akita does not know of her children's affiliation with the syndicate and would disapprove if she knew.

3 - san, deokhee, and wooyoung are all friends are are closely allied with diane. diane is also close allies with yunho, her cousin and strategist council after her falling out with soyeon has deepened in the past few years (there has been a vague multi-year time skip from pt. i to pt. ii).

4 - ernest, kingpin of the serpens, is currently dying. it is a well kept secret - but not from soyeon, who diane fears will use this knowledge opportunistically. recently, diane has been keeping many secrets from even her closest confidant, san, especially regarding her consistently visiting officer bang chan, trying to weasel from him secrets... but about what?

5 - hongjoong is a member of the serpens with many secrets and many informants. diane is unsure if, in the power vacuum created after ernest's death, if he will show loyalty towards her or soyeon, and so she is wary of what he knows, when he was in the area as she was meeting up with bang chan.

6 - hongjoong was the one to originally recruit twins deokhee and wooyoung, because they have many contacts in hoku and neighboring cities - notably jungkook, now leader of a biker gang in the neighboring city named skit.

7 - diane has a mission for deokhee and wooyoung heretofore lacking details or rhyme.

now onto pt. iii . . .

#lilo.writing #writing.otbka #another 'not been beta read: we die like men' entry in the tumblr void but if you love me you'll let that go #i'm sorry if this is still lacking a semblance of a plot because WOW there's like. a lot of history here to set up.#why did i choose to start where i did when i easily Could Not Have????#anyway so sorry mingi wasn't introduced this chapter like i was hoping i got carried away and didn't want to keep you past 5k #can you tell i love a dramatic set piece half of this upload was me waxing poetic about new locations and The Trap Of Poverty #IF YOU'RE WONDERING WHY YEOSANG IS HERE I THINK I'M RECANTING MY 'CRUMBS OF JONGHO AND KYUNG-AH' IN EXCHANGE FOR SOMETHING ELSE #also hey yunho's here! maybe in pt 3 or 4 mayari will show up so i can sprinkle in exposition for their romance (it's the soft one)#also yeah i know i originally said the first arc of this fic was going to be 3 parts but i lied #anyway pls pls pls annoy me about this i have THOUGHTS about itttttt #and reblog or at least reply to the post you cowards #like if you simply cannot do anything else but bro i just want to know if you even made it to the function.#not even requesting you tell me if you had a good time.#oh yeah; san in falling into his trap of: always being portrayed in fic as the tragic 2nd male lead #also can you guys guess who the owner of the luminary is. can you.#it will become plot important but the reveal isn't anything beyond silly silly stupid.#it rhymes with wackson jang.#YOU KNOW I HAD TO DO IT TO US.#oh! and yeah; i've conflated mythology and made diane an amalgamation of diana (artemis) and minerva (athena).#diane deserves the wisdom motif okay. it fits symbollically in the narrative.#also every csl girlie has a patron god or mystical force; if you guess what they are i will give you a virtual piece of haupia

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