#it really just needs to be natural and make sense

[dalishbarmitzvah]

so i read and cook from historical recipes for fun, and this prompted me to look up when, exactly, "vegetable" meaning "plant cultivated for culinary purposes" was first attested in english (because i cannot recall encountering it in anything prior to the victorian era), and, in fact, the date etymonline has on it is 1767, which makes it quite a recent construct indeed!

prior to use of "vegetable" for this purpose, "wort" or "wyrt" was used similiarly in old english and into middle english (though it's not common by late middle/early modern, which is where i've done the most reading), basically just meaning "plant" (or more specifically "root/branch/thing with roots and branches/growing thing/herb/plant"), so not necessarily strictly "culinary plant grown specifically for food". which makes sense, given how much of the food people ate was also medicinal and how much of it was foraged or functionally indistinguishable from wild varietals until fairly recently in history. for all all we've had agriculture for quite a long time now, humans really did not cultivate specific types of most plants for most of the time we've had it, especially not at large scale or with any measure of standardization, and our language reflects that. a quick look at the history of the use of the word "vegetable" as in "culinary cultivated plant" shows that it definitely follows the trajectory of shifts in agriculture, and in trade of agricultural goods. basically: you don't need a word for vegetables until you need to sell large amounts of them.

but, re: @biglawbear's comment here, and going back to the medieval cookbooks: those are not far off from the culinary categories that DID get used before we had our modern fruit vs vegetable thing. the average middle english speaker discussed the plants they ate in a way that much more closely resembled botanical classifications than the way modern english speakers tend to. which is perhaps not so surprising, considering how much closer to the natural world the average middle english speaker was vs now! anyway, you may find the following terms interesting, given what your remark was:

"herb", originally "erbe", brought from french to english sometime in the 1300s, overtaking the aforementioned "wort" (from old germanic "wurt") in common parlance: an "herb" being ultimately a "non-woody plant, especially a leafy one, especially for food, especially for people", although the word in early modern (12c) french originally referred more to "non woody plants, especially leaves and grasses, especially as food for livestock". "herb" is used as a general word for "leafy green vegetable" or "edible leaves" rather than its current, more narrow common meaning of "leaf used as seasoning" in many recipes i've encountered from the 1300s and onwards (i simply haven't seen as many from much before the 1300s. not as many surviving texts.). herbs are often cast by their use or type, ie, "pottage herbs" are herbs you would put in a soup, and "strong herbs" or "bitter herbs" are herbs with strong or bitter flavours/odours. of course, you also get stuff like the forme of curye's "frytour of erbes" that calls for "gode erbys", which is extremely subject to personal opinion (which perhaps may be the point, but is hardly a way of sorting something).

"root" goes back to old english and/or old norse, and has meant "root" in exactly the same sense as it currently does basically for as long as anyone can tell. it also gets use in medieval cookbooks as a general category, and many recipes don't call for exact ingredients, though roots are get the list treament, ie, list everything you conceivably might have, often with the sense that it's fine if you don't have all of the items on the list. it's usually written as "rotes" in the 1300s, though, and i'm not entirely sure when it stopped being said with a big, robust "o" sound and became a long, wiggly "oo" instead. (as a fun aside on one particularly now-ubiquitous root: "carrot" (sometimes spelled "karette") came from french "carrote" to english somewhere in the 1500s, overtaking the late 1300s "dauke" and earlier and considerably more delightful "pasternak", which also referred to parsnips, parsley root, and possibly sometimes celeriac. pasternak came primarily in white, but purple varietals were introduced in the 1100s from the arab world - the orange sort we know so well today, on the other hand, were developed in the netherlands in the 1500s-1600s! so any time someone in a movie set in the high middle ages eats an orange carrot... that's an anachronism!. just. fun to think about. i think.)

recipes also refer directly to using the flowers or fruits of things, and will refer to using multiple parts of the same plant or just specific parts, which is always especially neat to encounter when the recipe is suggesting you use a part of a plant that is different than the part you might be more accustomed to (as for instance: parsley roots got a lot more use in the medeival kitchen than they do in the modern one!).

what is also interesting to note is much as our modern sense of some significant barrier between what is a fruit and what is a vegetable is both quite new, very constructed, and rather limiting in terms of what plant bits many people consider putting in what kinds of foods, that is also true for our concept of sweet vs savory, and what ingredients belong where. medieval cookery does not limit cinnamon and nutmeg to sweets, nor does it keep olives and black pepper out of them. fruits go in soups with meat, and meats go in pies with fruits, and all of it gets plenty of spices and seasonings. roots are especially paired with fruits in many things, which i personally endorse people trying out more often, especially when you're cooking some of the heartier, more bitter roots that people don't fancy as much these days.

oh, and about mushrooms:

people in the middle ages were profoundly weird about them. sometimes they were regarded as delicacies, sometimes peasant food fit only for the poor and desperate, sometimes widely panned as universally poisonous (or universally poisonous raw). sometimes viewed with scrutiny for being creatures of the wilderness and therefore pagan, sometimes considered a memento mori from heaven to remind us of the transient nature of life, sometimes as a sign of impurity or sin (because of growing in the dark, dank places). weird little guys then as now!

(and on the word mushroom: "mosserouns" and "musseruns" appear in the 14th century "diuersa cibaria" manuscript, but i've also encountered specific varietal names, like bolete, morel, and chanterelle, as well as "champignon" (field mushroom) in french sources around the same time and earlier. it is my understanding that you find more speciifc description in english of mushrooms for medicine than for food, generally, probably because of the aforementioned weirdness, held in conjunction with the understanding that a little poison, used correctly, was medicine, so it wasn't odd to consider mushrooms evil and suspicious but also medicinal.)

Honestly bizarre that tomatoes get all the flack for “not being a vegetable” because they're technically a fruit when:

A) There are a ton of fruits that get categorised as vegetables. Like this also applies to pumpkins, squashes and cucumbers.

B) The fucking mushrooms are standing there at the back of the crowd in this witch trial, trying to look inconspicuous because they somehow got into the vegetable club with no fucking controversy despite the fact that they're not even plants.

[thatfeelinwhenyou]

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

perm taglist. @m1kkso @hajimelvr @s00buwu @urmomssneakylink @grayscorner @catlicense @bubblytaetae @mrchweeee @artstaeh @sleeping-demons @yuviqik @junsflow @blurryriki @bobabunhee @hueningcry @fakeuwus @enhaslxt @neocockthotology @Starryhani @aishisgrey @katarinamae @mitmit01 @youcancometome @cupiddolle @classicroyalty @dearsjaeyun @ikeucakeu @sammie217 @m1kkso @tinycatharsis @parkjjongswifey @dcllsinna @no1likeneo @ChVcon3 @karasusrealwife @addictedtohobi @jyunsim @enhastolemyheart @kawaiichu32 @layzfy @renjunsbirthmark13

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

non-grey/underlined = cannot tag

[twistedpink]

nsfw below the cut! 2 1

The format is Character/Length (in inches)/Bedroom Skill

Rook Hunt - 4 - 6/10

-His only sexual education is very much “Rabbits make more rabbits” but his romance is to die for!!! You won’t even have to ask to be indulged- all you have to do is say yes :)

-Rook is astonishingly well groomed for someone who works on their feet. The spare hours of self care he gets between his beauty sleep and people watching does wonders for any sport-stenches (I mean, unless you’re into that kind of thing). He’s always doing something with the “presentation of his undercarriage”, and isn’t afraid to let you cop a feel in public!

-He’s all about experimentation with your pleasure, and it’s not that he refuses online resources, but isn’t it so much better naturally? Where’s the sense of adventure if some stranger on the internet is telling you where to touch him? After lots, (loads, really) of trial and error, he’s sure you’ll get a sense of rhythm. It’s never too early to start exploring!

Idia Shroud - 7 - 3/10

-Everyone can agree that Idia is too big for his own good. Massive, really- And he hates it. He’s been perma banned from the most comfortable thing on earth! How’s he supposed to enjoy going commando when his tip’s out in the open??

-He does NOT know how to use the monster in his pants, but he’s not objecting to a teacher :) When you first start getting “active” he’s painfully professional about it. No eye contact, no problem! You’ll wear him down eventually, but it’ll take awhile for anything truly intimate,,

-The worst thing about sex with Idia is the need. White-hot and throbbing, but so infrequent!! His libido is SO high, always pawing at you after school, but he can’t hold back for the life of him :/ Ten full minutes of rest for another three of penetration? Oh no, your only option is to overestimate him,, whatever shall he dooooo

Malleus Draconia - 3 - 7/10

-Two words. FUCKIN MARATHONS!! Malleus is comically bad at anything sexual- and you’re the one who has to initiate most things, but he can go hours without any pain between the two of you! And the AFTERCARE?? 10/10. Imagine playing with his scales while you wait on breakfast in bed <333

-Malleus is far too big for any usual quicky spots, but nobody can compete in forced proximity! It’s so easy to drag him into a broom closet between classes- Everyone avoids him anyways, and because he very rarely slouches he has to in the confines of your rendezvous, so it’s a completely new angle!

-He’s a little (lot) inexperienced, but he’s learning so much with your help! Nobody questions that he keeps his nails short or demands chapstick whenever he recalls the time, because nobody questions Malleus Draconian. He’d like very much for you to change that- order him around, kiss him bloody! So long as it’s you he’ll be happy :)

Lilia Vanrouge - 5 - 8/10

-Lilia’s a believer of “it’s the motion of the ocean - not the size of the wave”, and he KNOWS his ass has motion. All these years working on his core and arms only to be reduced to some petty slut :/ It’s all he’s ever wanted!

-Doesn’t bother shaving, nothing on him grows quickly enough for regular maintenance, and that does include his sex drive :( He wakes up sweaty and shaking whenever he ignores his rarer urges, but he’s lucky enough to have you! You’ll indulge him for a little biting, won’t you? Not his fault if you want more,,

-He’s a MASSIVE whiner, but he knows you loveeee it <3 All these years muffling his voice for colleagues and kids, it’s a miracle to have soundproof walls! With his little bouts of energy, you won’t be leaving bed anytime soon- lay back and let him cook for you! Or maybe you’d rather he just eat?

(no full proofread until tmr, we die like Malleanor)

[ventique18]

~ Unwilting Flower~ 🐉🌸

It's Valentine's Day. Your friends are giving each other flowers just for the heck of it, because if they're not going to celebrate it, who else would? You yourself are already committed, but real friends don't exclude anyone. So that means you're part of their celebration too.

And you could only guess what the exact thought process is going on in his head when your darling-- your Valentine Malleus Draconia's delightful smile turns into a deep scowl the moment he sees you carrying a bundle of assorted flora in your arms.

"Hmph. Wait for a moment."

He disappears without your confirmation. Why, is he jealous? You shrug and thought you'd just let him simmer down on his own-- you have nothing to feel guilty about. He knows your bonds with your friends are strictly platonic. If he feels jealous in any way, he could just join your merry band of flower giving, present something to everyone, and receive some himself.

... And then you arrive at your classroom for that hour... to a blossom of multicolored roses decorating your desk; as gaudy as a flower cake, with only a few inches of blank space left in the middle. As if the decorator only realized at the last second that you're supposed to be studying and not gardening.

You can't help but feel everyone's gaze on you throughout the entire lecture, naturally.

But that's not even the end of it. Random bursts of flower petals would shower on you when you enter a room. A student you don't know the name of would present you a bouquet of various knickknacks for seemingly no reason. (You note that they're all suspiciously wearing Diasomnia uniform.) And flowers start blooming at your feet when you accompany Grim to the field for his Spelldrive practice.

But the straw on the camel's back is when you go back home. Right there, in the dead center of your lounge, sitting pretty and sipping tea-- is the main culprit. Surrounded by what you would guess are thousands, and thousands, of roses.

Ever the pleasant look on his face, he smiles slowly at you with a clink of his teacup. "Did you like my little surprise for you?"

"Little--"

You have to remind yourself that this man has no common sense.

You refuse to sit next to him even as he discreetly pats the empty space on the couch. "Well, I appreciate it. It really made me feel the depth of your love for me--"

"The depth of my love? If you believe it so, then I must offer you more posthaste--"

"That's, that's exactly my reservation... I think you don't need to be this excessive. I mean," You gesture helplessly to the roses around you, "It'll make me sad when all of this wilts."

You see him surprised for a second. Does he finally understand? Did he get that the cleanup will be a huge pain? You live alone, and you're sure as hell Grim wouldn't be willing to help play janitor for an entire day.

"Then," he grins at you amusedly, as if you just asked if he knew how to spell his name, "If you wish to be reminded of my devotion to you every waking day, then it'll be child's play for me to ensure than not a single petal wilts for as long as you live."

No! Absolutely not!

"Hornton. I thought you'd have understood who I am at this point." You look away from him, a bit nervous to be rejecting his efforts when he looks so earnest in trying to win your approval. "You know I'd rather spend time with you. A little bit of wine and dine, maybe? Maybe watch a cheesy movie or two."

He pauses. Looks at you seriously. He seems to have caught on.

He stands up, and every blossom in the room-- every rose petal on the carpet and every vine that carefully lined the curtains, disappears with a sparkle. Devoid of the sudden fancy, only the bare homeliness of your dorm remains.

He doesn't walk to you, but he attracts your gaze anyway. "My apologies. I seemed to have focused on satisfying myself, rather than think of what would satisfy you."

You smile reassuringly. "It's alright. I know how hard you try."

It's you who finally approaches. You stop in front of him, then take his hands in yours. He returns the gesture by affectionately rubbing the tips of your fingers, and there you're reminded of how much heavier he can show love through little actions like this, compared with the pomp of public exhibitions.

You entwine your fingers together.

"But why the sudden display? Were you jealous?" You ask.

He urges you to sit down with him. "Jealous?"

"That our friends gave me flowers."

Our friends. The corners of his lips quirks up at that; in his eyes, it's the little considerate messages that you weave in your words that makes you stand out from everyone else.

"No. In fact I'm delighted that they appreciate you. It's just..."

"Just..?"

"... That I saw Schoenheit behind you, carrying a much larger bouquet than you were. I thought he did not deserve to be the most appreciated person in this place."

"... And so you... tried to one-up him by doing all that for me?"

He nods.

And you laugh.

"What's so amusing?"

He really doesn't realize how funny he is sometimes. You cover a hand to your mouth to try and slow down the giggles. "You're so unpredictable. I just can't correctly guess what goes on in your head."

"It's you who's unpredictable."

"Then that's good, isn't it? We have an eternity to try and decipher what each other's thinking." Your gaze roams; settling on his tea gone cold, "Then at the end of the world... we can reveal our answers and decide who got each other most accurately."

The crinkles on his brows slowly smoothen when he takes in your words. His hands unconsciously trail to the inside of his coat; toying with something as he wonders idly.

"... I have something for you." He says solemnly.

You stop giggling, but the smile remains on your face. "Don't tell me it's another Valentine's token. Maybe chocolate?"

He grins, but doesn't answer you. Instead, his hands wander to your jacket; fingers expertly pinning something on the lapel. Just above your left breast.

"A gift for you, but a promise to myself as well."

It's a brooch. Perhaps a bit more simple in design-- a tasteful black with a muted sheen of alexandrite-- definitely not themed around the gaudy red of Valentine's, but very distinctively him.

"May I always be the one closest to your heart, and though our bodies may decay before the end of time..."

You press his hands closer to your chest; determined not to let go as you finish his promise for him. For yourself.

"May this unwilting flower bear witness to the many promises we will make, and how we stayed true to all of them."

[starry-bi-sky]

first off -- you posted this 7:35 AM my time and 10 minutes later i woke up so im choosing to believe that the universe saw you made this and decided to shake me awake screaming "GIRLL YOU GOTTA LOOK AT THIS" i am so 💖💖💖💞💖♥️💖💗 over iiiIITT. i love it. i love them. the first video being from the same day as the fight bruce saw is so good. That's such a good tie. Beautiful, poetic. They make me so emotional.

"Who am I if not a blood blossom stan and yapper" 🤝 CHEERS I'LL DRINK TO THAT

im dedicating this to @detectivedarling. i felt inspired after seeing their little ficlet yesterday sadhjfl 🫶

-

Danny's grip on his cane tightens.

"What—"

His voice cracks. He stops, clears it, then tries again in spite of the nausea twisting in his gut. "What are — you, uh, watching, Bruce?" He sounds horribly far away.

Bruce doesn't look at him, his attention laser-focused on the screen. Which is— fine. It's usually not a problem, Bruce gets like that when he hyper-focuses on a case, and unless it's urgent — or he's been at it for hours — Danny sees no need to pull him away from it. He likes the quiet camaraderie they have, it's companionable and unique to the two of them.

He wishes he was right now though. Looking at him, that is.

That way he wasn't watching what was clearly one of Danny's ghost fights. One of the nastier ones, if the collateral damage and rubble on the street is of any indication.

Danny tries to remember which one that is. He shuffles a little closer to the desk, ignoring the rock in his stomach or the ugly weightlessness in his arms. It's not the blood blossoms, that much he knows. He just recently had an injection so it shouldn't be bothering him this soon—

So it's just nerves. Perfect.

Most footage of his fights are— messy, at best. Unusable at worst. Amity Park was obsessed with appearing 'normal' when they first started happening, and typical news stations censor the worst of the fights anyways for publishing, since they can get pretty gory at times. And ghosts move too fast to be caught on regular standard cameras, not including distance and light and—

That is to say— finding usable ghost fight videos is hard.

Danny wonders how Bruce got his hands on this one, and then stops wondering.

The audio is muted, which is - good. Good, because the fight is ugly and chaotic and clearly this was taken on someone's phone. Fuck, he can't remember if he ever saw that before — clearly not. They're hiding behind an overturned car, and Danny grits his teeth so he doesn't tell that idiot to run.

The camera turns up, and focuses on two figures in the air. It takes a few seconds, but when it does, Danny gets hit with a wave of vertigo. His grip tightens and he leans heavily on his cane, he waits for the black dots to disappear.

He- uh, he remembers this fight now. Uh, sort of.

He remembers being twelve at the time, and he remembers some of the injuries he got out of it. His eyelid spasms abruptly. This ghost wasn't one of his regulars, so he doesn't remember whatever name they had, barely remembered what they looked like up until- uh. Now.

Was he always that small? Well— Phantom's never been particularly big, perks of being a dead kid, but— it's - different. Seeing it from an outsider perspective. Was he that small? Or is it just because he's wearing a jumpsuit clearly too big for him that casts the illusion of being small?

Doesn't really - matter. Now. He can't access his ghost form, and he already knows the answers to his appearance.

Phantom is clearly bleeding, viscous and violently green like the bubbles of a lava lamp, clutching onto a limp shoulder that's missing an arm from the elbow down. Half his face is drenched in similar blood, the eye on the drenched side is closed — not because he can't see through the ectoplasm.

Danny's memories of that fight slowly come in a bit clearer. Right. He took a pole to the eye in that one. That had - hurt. A lot. Getting an eye gouged out usually does. It and the missing arm took hours to grow back.

He rubs his eye with his palm for no other reason than it itches.

The other ghost isn't untouched of any injury either, but he's not in a state of dismemberment like Phantom is.

Danny drops his gaze down at Bruce, whose sitting in his chair with his hands threaded together, looking so tense that Danny half expects to meet solid steel if he were to touch his back. His face is - blank. Terribly blank, with an intensity in his eyes that Danny doesn't see often.

He looks terribly distressed.

He opens his mouth, and finds that nothing comes out. His throat is thick with an ugly, tar-like feeling that makes his eyes sting. Kinda reminds him of when someone wraps their hands around your throat and presses. He closes his mouth, then tries again.

"B—" hhhhhh, "Buzz."

Finally Bruce looks at him, one hand slaps the space button on the keyboard, and the video pauses. His expression doesn't shift, but there's a weight in the lines of his face that reminds Danny of a set of weights sagging.

He looks quite like he's grieving something.

Bruce opens his mouth, his voice comes out terribly soft and heartbroken: "He looks like you."

Which is— a terrifying sentence in and of itself. One that makes Danny's legs shake and ignite his ragged, poison-chewed nerves alight with the need to run. An instinctive urge to deny, deny, deny.

How could he? He could say, that's a ghost, Bruce. I'm not a ghost. He could crack a joke, and ask, 'do I look dead to you?' or say something about how he knows that his parents studied ghosts, but that didn't make him one.

He could say that, and he could say it knowing full well that Bruce would see right through it. He'd probably let Danny too.

Danny closes his eyes. They sting, you see? So does his nose, right in the back like someone popped him in the face. And his throat is thick and gross and like someone stuck a spider, the big fat tarantula kind, right down into his esophagus.

He breathes in — through his mouth, because his nose stings and so it'd be best not to irritate it further with air — and it's terribly shaky and uneven. But it clears a pathway to his lungs big enough for him to say — whisper, really:

"You know, I think you're the first person to notice that."

[theshunbun]

Hi~ I also an artist and I've been follow you for a while. Know you since the time you draw cute drawing to sexy adorable girl with positive messages >vO I love reading them, thank you for always bring on positive, happy messages on my new feed ❤️

And I surprise how can you draw 3 pieces everyday, that's so fast >o< I wish I can draw fast like that. I feel like drawing human like you draw now it's very hard (the anatomy is my weakness >^< your drawing is so good). I wonder how much time you spend in a day for drawing? Does your main job is being a fulltime artist?

Hey hey! 😊 First off, thank you so much for your kind words! 💖💖💖 It really means a lot to hear that my art brings some positivity to your feed ;w; That’s exactly what I aim for, so knowing it resonates with you makes me super happy! 🥹💕

As for drawing three pieces a day, phew, it definitely took me time to build up that speed! At first, I was way slower like my energy level is very low, but with consistently getting my mind into the work mode, I found ways to streamline my process. Over time, I got better at simplifying certain details, trusting my instincts, and letting go of perfectionism when it wasn’t needed. Some days, I can knock out art fast, and other days, I take my time like if i have a commission so dont stress about speed! It naturally improves as you keep drawing fr. ✨

But I totally get you on anatomy being a challenge! It’s honestly one of those never-ending learning curves for me, and I still study and refine my approach even tho my proportions are wayyy off and make no sense. The best trick I’ve found is focusing on flow rather than stiff details, if it feels good to me then I will go ahead with it, I know ill never be 100% all the time but I do fin that gesture drawing helps a ton 💖

As for time spent drawing daily, ehh it varies, but I’d say anywhere from several hours to the whole day depending on what I’m working on. Some pieces come together quickly like within an hour (When im livestreaming my work on youtube), while others take longer. I’m always juggling that balance really

And yes, at this point, I do consider myself a full-time artist! It’s a mix of art commissions, social media content things, and other projects like the Tato TTRPG and rpg maker game that keep me going. It’s a lot of work, but I love it, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything! That said, it’s totally okay to take things at your own pace whether you’re full-time or just making art for fun, what matters most is that you enjoy the process. its a thing im still learning 💕

[sixofwandsss]

who wants to be your valentine's?

pick a card with @cosmicbyeol

1 2

3 4

pile 1

your person is probably someone that you met on a random day within your common environment, you catched their eye at first sight. they might have liked how smart you looked as you could appear a bit cold and detached, this is what makes them attracted to you.

they know you are probably a bit hesitant when meeting new people as a way of protecting yourself although they believe that deep down you are a goofball.

they are hesitant to ask you out because of their fear of not being reciprocated. they might admire you from afar while punishing themselves a bit because of their passive approach. your person could be in their head a lot even though they really want to make a move towards you and are currently building the courage to actually do it.

when they do approach you they will probably be like: YOLO and approach you with nothing planned to say.

as they're asking you out, it will probably be in a confusing way. the reason is that they will not think about their proposal in detail. they are sick and tired of keeping silent so they will do it anyways even if it is weird at first.

signs: gemini, virgo, scorpio, pisces, cancer, pisces, mercury

pile 2

the person who wants to be your valentine is someone that may have recently broken up with someone or ended something with someone else. they feel like they can maybe start someone new with you.

they like the idea of you and think you’re a good person, they want you as a whole. but they��re okay with just being by your side, they’d like it if they didn’t have to tell you about how they’re feeling. they want you to automatically know how they feel.

they don’t really know how to tell you directly how they feel, they’re not very in tuned with themselves. they probably don’t know the difference between something platonic or romantic or even what it feels like.

they might be attached to you. like they never want to leave you or to be without you. they just want to be with you and know everything about you all the time. 25/8. this could possibly be a problem, it could cause you to be stressed out and bothered.

they honestly won’t stop being by your side, they’ll probably do anything to be with you. or for you to be theirs willingly or naturally. they probably only do like you as a friend and they’ll sometimes think about that and second guess their feelings. they won’t fully see or believe that what they feel for you is just platonic.

pile 3

the person who wants to ask you out is someone you probably already know. maybe this is your committed partner or even an ex of yours (whatever resonates).

there's a feeling of not being a beginner in pursuing you (symbolized by the page of wands in reverse). this is someone you share or shared intimacy with.

they feel as if they are not good for you, in the sense of not being able to cater to your needs. the king of pentacles reversed tells me that they are not big in gift giving or planning dates for the two of you. this could lead to them thinking that they don't know how to take care of you. however, they repressed these feelings and are trying to give their love to you in the only way that they know how. they're the type to spend quality time with you but not so the type to be into physical touch.

this person really wants to treat you the way that you deserve so they're really planning the correct way to ask you out. they want you to have fun and embrace your carefree attitude with them. it needs to be different this time around, a surprise!.

signs: libra, cancer, taurus, capricorn, aquarius, neptune

pile 4

this is someone that is wanting to start something with you immediately. they’re probably low key bugging you ( not to the point of annoyance ) in a flirty light hearted way. they mean almost every word by the way.

you might not think that they mean it or that they’re serious about you. you might think that they just want to be with you for a little and then leave when they get tired of you or when they get what they want. they have a plan and they’re working towards you and keeping you for a period of time.

they might be too focused on their feelings and might push their agenda, they’ve had some fails but they’re planning away. making a step by step plan, if one step fails or this certain plan isn’t working they’ll make a new one.

their planning and wanting to charge forwards towards you could be in fact their doom. their want that they have towards you could have their head in a daze or in the clouds. so it could be someone with a one track mind. they don’t care if you’ll cause them doom or bring them to their demise. they just want you.

[lotties-ashwagandha]

I THINK IM BEING STALKED…

valeria garza x fem!reader

you’re being stalked, and valeria is the only one who believes you (bc she’s the stalker!!!). this fic is part of the red flags look pink event. 1.5k words. NSFW at the end but I lost the motivation to get too crazy bc im sick.

Not that there’s a way to bring it up, but this certainly isn’t it.

“I think I’m being stalked.”

She shifts beside you in bed, but you keep your eyes trained on the ceiling. Her voice is groggy with sleep when she speaks – it’s one of the few mornings you have woken up together, since the nature of your relationship is usually devoid of any emotional attachments. You come and go, off and on, and it is a harmless escape for the both of you. Casual. “Stalked?”

“I’m being stalked. Someone is stalking me,” you state again. You turn and meet her eyes — tired yet always alert even in the early hours.

Valeria lies on her side facing you, processing your statement with unabating intensity. “What makes you say that?”

You hesitate. It all sounds a bit silly when you say it aloud, but there’s no going back. “I saw someone outside my house the other night. It has happened a few times. I see cars I don’t recognize parked nearby, I always feel watched.”

She waits. “Is that it?”

“I keep finding things outside my front door. Expensive things, gifts, things I want that I haven’t told anyone about. There are pictures of me at the most random places, pictures of me at work. And there are these notes…”

“What do they say?”

“They say I should keep it between us,” you shake your head. “That I shouldn’t tell anyone.”

“And you’re telling me?” Valeria asks. Her gaze is sharp, reflective of her tone.

“They’re blackmailing me, Valeria. Digging up things from my past ages ago to try to keep me silent.”

She sits up, pulls the covers over her bare form and shrugs. “What do you want me to do about it?”

You hadn’t considered it. You know about her line of work, that her cartel has given her unimaginable power. Perhaps you thought she would offer you protection. That just being around a woman of such influence would give you a sense of safety – but if that has been what you’ve been searching for this whole time, you’re in for a disappointment.

Valeria is strong – she is sturdy, unwavering. Yet she is volatile.

Meekly you ask: “Do you believe me?”

Valeria considers it. She’s quiet, but after a moment she nods. “Of course I believe you, cariño.”

“No one else does,” you murmur. You’ve tried telling your friends, everyone close to you, everyone short of the police that you firmly believe you are being watched. But so far no one has believed you – no one but Valeria. They laugh it off, tell you that you are being paranoid.

Her voice rings with concern. “How many people have you told?”

“A few…”

“The notes say not to–”

You sit up. “Are you really agreeing with my fucking stalker?”

“No,” Valeria huffs. “I’m only saying that if the notes say to keep quiet about it, then maybe you should– or you should have come to me first.”

You sigh, swinging your legs over the bed and finding the energy to get up. You need some time alone, even if you are never truly alone anymore.

Valeria’s brows furrow. “¿Adónde vas?”

“I have to work,” you lie.

“Fuck your work. Stay with me.”

You hesitate. “And do what? Talk?”

“Are you so averse to talking to me?”

You shake your head and gesture around her bedroom, set on the highest floor of her mansion. “Unlike you, some of us can’t afford a day off.”

“I’ll pay you instead,” she offers. “How much is your wage today?”

While you know her intent isn’t to offend, it’s the last straw. You stand, get dressed, and grab your purse.

“That’s not what I meant,” Valeria attempts, cursing under her breath as she hurries to get dressed across the room. “Wait a second before you–”

You’re already out the door.

When you get home a few hours later from a day out, a small gift bag is at your door. You stand frozen in front of it, hardly able to breathe. It is disgusting in your view, disturbing even to be around, sickening like the bag itself is laced with poison.

You look back. You don’t see anything out of the ordinary, anyone who doesn’t belong on your street. You are still uneasy — your repulsion lingers as you take the gift bag and head inside.

An unsigned Valentine’s Day card, a circular gold locket with your initials engraved. A few thousand dollars in the bottom of the bag like an afterthought. Picture after picture of you – at stoplights, at work, having drinks with your friends.

This time, though, there is no letter. No blackmail, no threats. That – above all – is what has you unnerved. You have nowhere to hide, either. Your stalker knows where you live. They know where you work. They know every detail about your life from all angles and you have no escape.

You can’t call the police. Your ties to Valeria are too strong, it would be more dangerous than beneficial to draw attention to yourself. You call the next best option: Valeria herself.

“I thought you were sick of me,” she says when she answers the phone. “I wasn’t expecting to hear from you for a few weeks.”

“I need you to come over,” you tell her quickly. “They came back, they left something else. I don’t feel safe here alone.”

There’s a brief silence on the other end, and then you hear her grab her car keys. “Stay there. I’ll be right over.”

“Sit down,” Valeria urges. She has made herself at home on your sofa as she watches you pace the room. “I’m here now. No one is going to fuck with you.”

You do feel safer with her here, but the threat still lingers. You can’t distract yourself from the fact that someone is stalking you.

“Come here,” Valeria urges. She reaches for you and you let her tug you down onto the sofa next to her. “Calm down. No one is going to hurt you.”

“How do you know?” You snap. “They could be anywhere. It could be anyone.”

“And if anyone tries to harm you, I’ll shoot them in the fucking face,” Valeria gestures to the gun on your coffee table like it’s a box of candy. “Mírame. You have nothing to worry about.”

You meet her eyes. You take comfort in the sureness in them. Valeria is completely certain of your safety, and you feed on it. You need it.

“You have to take your mind off of all this,” she says softly, shifting to be closer to you, knee bumping against yours and one of her hands taking yours to idly trace patterns on the back. The softness is more domestic than you’re used to, more caring than you ever thought was in bounds. Less casual, yet you know her — you’re well aware of what she’s trying to achieve. “Let me help.”

You will indulge her, always you will, because you can never deny her when she looks at you with such admiration — such need, and she is only satisfied with your closeness. You test her, leaning in slightly and resting a hand on her thigh to gauge her reaction. Yet as soon as you start you give up on timidity — you pull her in to kiss you.

You witness it again, the way she hungers for you. She is insatiable, grabbing at you with a roughness that has you feeling wanted in the best of ways. The way she holds you is nearly in worship, the pride she takes in every gasp she elicits from you, the firmness after she repositions and holds you down onto one of her thighs once your clothes have been almost completely discarded.

Moaning against her lips, you start to grind on her thigh. You’re growing impatient. You crave her, desperate for the attention she is so apt to give, but somehow she is still holding back. To test you, to see how much you really want her.

Your movements falter when her hands find your chest, kneading at your breasts and running her thumbs over your hardened nipples.

Then she stops. She reaches for the bag you found on the porch that you have put on the table beside the sofa.

“What are you doing?” You breathe, letting out a dramatically impatient sigh.

“Put it on,” she holds up the locket, circular and golden, your initials carved in dainty cursive. “I want you to wear it.”

You’re wary, but your hesitation disappears when she grabs your jaw and forces your gaze to hers. “You’re mine.”

She releases you. At your confirmation she fastens the locket around your neck. Not because she gave it to you, you tell yourself. You twist it in any way you can. She’s using it to show that whoever is your stalker can’t have you, and any other excuse you can come up with — because red flags look pink, and all that matters is that you get your release and she gets you.

“¿adónde vas?” = “where are you going?”

“mírame” = “look at me.”

tags: @webism @szczurkanalowy . comment to be tagged in the other days of the event!

find my masterlist here and the red flags look pink event here. as always, comments and reblogs are appreciated! :)

[tenivan]

From the GM side, I've found that this also works really well with D&D. It's not just an "other games" thing. For a while, I had pretty bad writers block for D&D. All problems with the core gameplay loop aside, I couldn't figure out how to justify there being dungeons everywhere, and large numbers of people who would band together in small groups to go and slaughter their way through those dungeons. I just couldn't figure out how to make it line up with any genre of fiction I'd read or any historical event I could think of. What I eventually settled on was getting rid of any idea that the players were "heroes", and instead casting them as mercenaries in a war. With that framing, dungeons don't need to be natural phenomena or remote sites filled with ancient evils that must be stopped -- a dungeon is most often an enemy stronghold that you don't have a large enough army to attack head-on. Deserter hideout? Dungeon. Occupied castle? Dungeon. The literal dungeon beneath that castle? Another dungeon. And this way, it also makes sense why the PCs are going through killing and pillaging and looting. They aren't stopping some supernatural evil, it's not gamified so that they can gain XP and treasure out of character, it's not just handwaved away for the sake of the game -- they're killing the residents of the dungeon because they're at war, and the residents of the dungeon are enemy soldiers who would (theoretically, in the minds of the PCs) do the same to them if given the chance.

one of the most freeing things you can do in ttrpgs is let go of the idea that your player characters should be/are morally good. Once you've accepted that your characters might be bad people or do bad things, the possibility space of what your characters can do opens up wide. Plus, you no longer have to contort your setting into bizarre and problematic shapes to make sure your player characters are always in the right.

a good example of this is combat. The normal approach is:

violence is what our characters will do. therefore we must make it so it is good for them to do violence. therefore their enemies must deserve it. therefore we will create a class of being for them to fight that is inherently evil and deserving of violence.

Which, needless to say, veers into extremely racist territory extremely easily.

Whereas once you no longer need player characters to be in the right, you can instead get:

violence is what our characters will do. killing people is bad, and when our characters kill people they're doing a bad thing.

which is actually a far less fucked up set of ideas to express!

like, okay, a concrete example. Right now, I'm playing in a Vampire the Masquerade game. My character, Molly, follows the Path of the Feral Heart and is in the blurry border between the Anarchs and the Sabbat. What this means in practice is that she's totally abandonned any pretences of being human and instead embraces being a monstrous predator, with no qualms about killing to survive and get what she wants, and who is essentially a Vampire Terrorist who cheerfully murders, sets bombs and massacres humans in order to destabilise the vampire government.

Molly is not a good person. She is, in fact, a terrifying monster! You aren't meant to agree with the things she does and says! And, sure, when she explains her backstory, you can see how she got like this, but that doesn't make it okay, her ending up like this is meant to be itself tragic, because in a better world she wouldn't be like this.

The story becomes more interesting because I can, in fact, play a character who does horrible things and let them be horrible. Playing a sabbat-sympathising path-follower would be entirely meaningless if the game contorted itself so nothing she did was ever actually horrific.

[lottienathive]

right off the bat, nat and lottie are introduced as complete opposites - lottie is rich, sweet, soft-spoken, etc. and nat is poor, extremely brash, and bold. even wearing a skirt and jacket, but in completely different ways. this is an easily understood set-up for their first time in the wilderness. the very first dilemma of the show—the allie situation—is also very representative of this. lottie is unsure on how to approach the situation and doesn’t assert herself (“she kinda sucks, but… i don’t know.”) whereas nat makes her opinion very clear (“that’s because it’s bullshit” / “you know what? fuck this.”) after the crash., nat throws herself onto travis almost immediately following the loss of his father. she immediately sticks up for him when lottie makes a jab (“who died and made him king of snacks?” “his dad, lottie, literally his fucking dad.”) this is already showing us that nat is considered with the individual feelings of people around her, whereas lottie is more focused on the hive mind and likelihood of the group as a whole.

further into their time in the wilderness, both of the girls establish themselves as providers. nat becomes a hunter, providing food and protection since she’s the one who earns the privilege of having the only weapon. on the other hand, lottie is slowly made into a group leader because of the spiritual comfort she provides the girls with. in a desperate time of need, both of them are ready to provide and protect the group, but in completely opposing ways. they aren’t so different, really just two sides of the same selfless, caring coin. this complex rivalry makes much more sense when you look at their childhood individually. we see in season 1 that nat grew up in terrible circumstances, with an abusive alcoholic father and a dismissive mother, she is responsible for making her own way. her father’s death is symbolic of this; although she didn't kill him directly, it was her fault he died. because of this upbringing, nat has heavy walls built around her. she sees the world for what it's been to her: cruel. however, despite this cold shell that her parents caused her to develop, she's incredibly caring all the less. this is especially represented through her relationship with travis. lottie, while she grew up rich, clearly didn't have very loving parents. the first scene we see of her at home is before the crash, and while most of the other characters are being goodbye-hugged by family members, lottie is receiving a bottle of her medication from her maid. at the beginning of season 2, we see that lottie has had some sort of psychic abilities, able to predict a car crash before it happens. instead of taking time to understand her, her parents throw her into therapy and pump her up with medication following the rescue, lottie's parents take no time to process that their daughter has been heavily traumatized, and immediately send her away to a whole different country. the dismissiveness of lottie's parents, similar to nats, affected her in a completely opposite way. instead of building up walls and becoming cold, lottie seeks to use her abilities to give comfort to everyone else around her. while dealing wth similar core traumas, they react to it in very different ways.

despite this, lottie (especially adult timeline) stays prominent as the only person who can comfort nat. after years following the crash of replacing her pain with drugs, sex, etc. it took one week at lottie's camp for her to want to start healing. lottie did that for her. the regression scene shows that no matter how old she is, lottie is still the only person who can bring out the parts of herself that she tries to bury, in both positive and negative ways. the season 2 finale is where everything about their relationship shifts. i don't think enough people process that "the wilderness" is really just, obviously not completely, but in simple terms a manifestation of lottie's inner nature. when you listen to it, it gives you what you want. when lottie decides that nat should be the leader by saying "the wilderness already chose who should lead us," what she's really saying, unconsciously and metaphorically, is that she has noticed nat's resilience and determination to lead as a reflection of her own determination to lead. now...we talk about nat's death scene. happening parallel to the scene where she's crowned leader adult nat is accidently killed during a hunt put together by lottie to give the wilderness its final sacrifice, an exercise intended to help them let go. in her final moments between life and death, nat finds herself in that plane again. in her very final moments of life, what is nats last sight?? young lottie next to her, hand on her heart, telling her that it's going to be okay. as she says, "IT'S not evil, just hungry." this line correlates with what lottie said a few episodes earlier: "just because you don't understand something doesn't mean it's evil." nat and lottie both don't understand each other's ways of dealing with their issues, so they argue and they oppose. in a tragic end to their story, nat's death is documented as a drug overdose and lottie is sent away to a psych ward by her friends. despite everything they went through, the ups and the downs and the healing, lottie and nat will always be the psycho and the druggie. they are similar in this way: they are stuck with these issues and that's all they're seen for by anyone else. but they see each other as more.

you made so many excellent points. great analysis! they really are two sides of the same coin and narrative foils.

"the dismissiveness of lottie's parents, similar to nats, affected her in a completely opposite way. instead of building up walls and becoming cold, lottie seeks to use her abilities to give comfort to everyone else around her. while dealing with similar core traumas, they react to it in very different ways."

this part in particular reminded me of a thought i had the other day. about lottienat and the deer + moose symbolism. it pretty much reflects what you just mentioned. lottie being associated with the deer (a creature considered in many mythologies to be connected to the supernatural and the divine, a creature that prefers to live in herds. just like lottie who doesn't isolate herself by choice. she surrounds herself with people) vs nat being associated with the moose (unlike other deer species moose do not form herds and are solitary animals)

[on-a-lucky-tide]

As someone who wants to join the fandom more but it’s too scared to do so, I’m wondering how did you cultivated this community…? It’s so sweet to watch the way you talk to others and helping their works and such. How did you meet like…??? people ??? Like I always see you tagging the artists (ngl I found your blog because of Gomz) and I’d really want to learn, I’ve tried joining previous fandoms and it was always too competitive in some sense, like everyone was busy pushing their works for likes and retweets (maybe it’s more of a twitter thing)

Oh yeah. That's a Twitter thing. Twitter is a cesspit and I only go there for porn. The whole thing is set up to make people feel shite because people that feel shite scroll for longer/look at more adverts. Lock your account, bud. You'll feel a lot better.

But everywhere else? Gratitude and humility. Also, understanding what I wanted from fandom; a small community that hypes each other and encourages new people. Those are my bros (non-gendered). My Cakeshop Bros I found five years ago in fandom; they have slept in my spare bedroom, I've gone drinking, played boardgames, and we laid on the floor in London in a space art installation near Soho being weirdos drunk off our heads. Not just fandom friends now, friends for life.

When I first started posting for CoD, I was dead nervous as I'd been stung in a previous fandom. People took a chance on me as a new person; they reblogged my work with the sweetest tags. They hyped me. They took the time out of their day for a stranger, and they didn't have to. They coulda just read it and moved on. So, I said thank you in their inbox, or in their DMs. We started talking more, I was a bit weird and they vibed back. They are also good people. Genuinely. You mentioned Gomz; literally, so kind, so sweet. Deserves the world.

When I can, I make sure I hype them back; I wish I could do more but my job is absolute pig in terms of time. It's mock season (now over, woohoo) so I have a backlog of fics to catch up on - Nekro, Mikey, T, Oliv, Nikkie, Hexx, Gomz (who I deffo know have written), but there are probably more! I'll set a few hours aside over half term with a beer and crack on.

Also, I guarantee everyone is as nervous as you are. Everyone gets imposter syndrome. And also, everyone gets jealous. Jealousy is a natural human emotion that you need to process into something productive. "I'm jealous" = "this person is really fucking good, has worked hard, I'm gonna encourage them and learn from them because they clearly know their shit". Reframing rather than ignoring or letting it fester. They're just people after all and probably shitting themselves as much as I was.

I also guarantee you I am not everyone's cup of tea. And that's ok. Letting go of the burning desire to be liked by all, sometimes at the expense of my own bloody happiness and seeing it as a personal failing if I wasn't, was probably one of the most powerful things I did for myself over the last five years. The only thing I care about in regards to others is if I acted with integrity and kindness (not necessarily niceness). That's all I can control.

Sorry, mate. That came off as a bit of a rant! But uh, don't be scared. Keep reaching out. Be feral.

[mysticinsightstarot]

😗Svt HHU : Jealousy & Possessiveness Tarot Reading 😗

SEVENTEEN Hip-Hop Unit – How They Act When Jealous & Possessive 💭✨

When the Hip-Hop Unit gets jealous, their personalities shine through in different ways. Some hide it behind cold logic, some play it off with humor, and some wear their emotions openly. But one thing is for sure—when they’re feeling possessive, you will know. Let’s break it down!

🦁 S.Coups – The Protective & Grounded Leader

Expression: The Box 📦 → S.Coups is the type to bottle things up. If he’s jealous, he won’t start an argument or make a scene. Instead, he’ll keep his emotions in check, observing everything quietly. His words are carefully chosen, with just enough weight to make you stop and think: ➝ “Do whatever you want, but don’t make me regret trusting you.” 👀

Passion Initiation: Anima Mundi, The Stone, The Cave 🌎🪨🏚️ → When his jealousy reaches a peak, he might not say much—but his actions will be intentional and grounding. He’ll make it clear through small gestures that he’s there, unwavering. A steady hand on your shoulder, a protective stance near you in a crowded room, or an extra second of eye contact. His love is deep and enduring, and he’ll remind you of that in his own quiet way.

🖤 Wonwoo – The Silent & Mysterious Observer

Expression: The Underworld 🌑 → Wonwoo doesn’t show jealousy outwardly, but there’s a shift in his energy. He becomes more observant, more withdrawn, and his usual calm demeanor takes on a sharper edge. He won’t start an argument, but he might drop a single, loaded sentence: ➝ "I trust you, but I don’t trust them." 🔥

Passion Initiation: The Vow 💍 → Wonwoo values deep, meaningful connections. If he feels a sense of competition for your attention, he won’t make a big display of affection. Instead, he’ll remind you of his commitment in a way that leaves no room for doubt—whether it’s through a simple, heartfelt conversation or a quiet moment that speaks volumes.

🎭 Vernon – The Playful but Sharp Challenger

Expression: The Comic & The Hunter 🎯 → Vernon doesn’t show jealousy in an obvious way. Instead, he’ll use humor and sarcasm to mask his feelings. He might tease you about it, but there’s an edge to his jokes: ➝ "Wow, they’re really funny, huh? Should I be taking notes?" 😏 His approach is subtle—he watches, he analyzes, and he waits for the perfect moment to remind you that he’s paying attention.

Passion Initiation: The Eternal Child 🧸 → If Vernon decides to act on his feelings, he’ll do it in a way that feels natural and lighthearted. He won’t demand attention, but he’ll find ways to pull you back into his world—whether it’s through an inside joke, an unexpected challenge, or a small but meaningful gesture that only you would understand.

🌊 Mingyu – The Emotionally Expressive & Affectionate One

Expression: The Ocean & The Tear 💧 → Mingyu feels everything deeply. When he’s jealous, it shows—whether it’s through a shift in his tone, a fleeting look of uncertainty, or the way he suddenly needs more reassurance than usual. He’s the type to ask direct questions, looking for confirmation that your attention is still on him: ➝ “You really like me, right? Like, only me?” 🥺

Passion Initiation: The Kiss & Bardo 💬 → Unlike the others, Mingyu doesn’t hesitate to express his emotions. If he’s feeling possessive, he might seek reassurance through closeness—whether that’s through words, small gestures, or simply wanting to be near you more than usual. He’s open about how he feels, and when he needs reassurance, he’s not afraid to ask for it.

Summary:

💡 S.Coups → Reserved, protective, and steady. Won’t say much, but makes sure you know he’s there. 💡 Wonwoo → Silent, intense, and observant. A single sentence is enough to change the mood. 💡 Vernon → Playful, sarcastic, but strategic. Will tease, but watches everything. 💡 Mingyu → Openly emotional, expressive, and needs reassurance. Wears his heart on his sleeve.

So, which one do you think handles jealousy the best? 👀

[pukefactory]

Hello hello! I’d love some Sprout or Cosmo headcannons! Or both if you want, up to you. (◍•ᴗ•◍)

Certainly! I wasn’t sure if you wanted x reader headcanons, so I wrote some general ones for each character instead. Apologies if this isn’t what you had in mind.

‧₊˚✩彡 ‧ DOUBLE FEATURE ₊˚✩彡๋ ࣭

✮ Summary: A compilation of headcanons about Sprout and Cosmo

✮ Character(s): Sprout Seedly (Dandy’s World), Cosmo (Dandy’s World)

✮ Genre: Headcanons, SFW

✮ Warning(s): None - Completely Safe!

✮ Image Credits: ZAPZAPPY on Open3DLab.

SPROUT SEEDLY

∇ Sprout is always up before most of the other toons, enjoying the early morning quiet. He uses this time to check the kitchen, plan his day, or make breakfast. If Cosmo isn’t awake yet, he’ll leave a small snack for him before getting to work.

∇ Despite his pushy nature, he’s surprisingly perceptive when it comes to sensing when someone needs space. He doesn’t always respect it, but he at least recognizes when something is wrong. With those he cares about, he tends to linger—watching silently until he’s sure they’re okay.

∇ He has a habit of adjusting his scarf absentmindedly when deep in thought. It’s a leftover tic from childhood, back when the scarf was too big and constantly slipped off. Even now that it fits perfectly, the habit remains.

∇ Baking is one of the few things that can completely absorb his focus. He’s methodical, precise, and refuses to cut corners. When he’s in the kitchen, he expects others to either help or stay out of his way. That said, he gets a little smug when someone compliments his pastries.

∇ He’s oddly competitive about the smallest things. Whether it’s a game, a challenge, or even a staring contest, he refuses to back down. Losing simply isn’t an option.

∇ Though brash at times, he has a strong sense of fairness. He has no patience for dishonesty, cheating, or manipulation. If he catches someone lying, he’ll call them out without hesitation, no matter how awkward it makes things.

∇ While he pretends to be indifferent to affection, he secretly enjoys it. If a friend ruffles his leaves or playfully nudges him, he won’t react much—but his blush gives him away.

∇ Sitting still for too long makes him restless. If forced into inactivity, he fidgets—tapping his fingers, shifting in place, or glancing around impatiently. He needs to feel productive.

∇ He has a soft spot for Pebble, though he’d never admit it. If the rock dog approaches him, he acts indifferent—until he thinks no one is watching. Then, he’ll subtly make sure Pebble is comfortable, maybe even sneaking him a snack.

∇ If someone he trusts asks for help, he drops everything to assist them. No matter what he is doing, if a friend needs him, he’s already on his way.

COSMO

▹ Cosmo’s pockets are always filled with snacks—cookies, candies, tiny pastries—just in case someone needs a pick-me-up. If a friend looks even slightly down, he’s already offering them something sweet before they can protest.

▹ He hums while baking, never sticking to the same tune. If he’s really focused, he starts singing to himself without realizing it.

▹ He has a soft spot for kids and lights up when teaching them how to bake. He’s endlessly patient, carefully guiding them through each step. If a child messes up a recipe, he quickly finds a way to turn it into something new so they don’t feel bad.

▹ He talks with his hands, especially when excited. If he’s explaining a recipe or sharing an idea, his gestures become so animated that he nearly knocks things over.

▹ Though he’s an incredible baker, he rarely eats his own creations. He tastes everything to ensure quality, but he’d much rather see others enjoy his food than indulge himself.

▹ He struggles in high-pressure situations. When overwhelmed, he freezes, looking to Sprout or another toon for reassurance before making a decision.

▹ Sarcasm completely goes over his head. If someone makes an exaggerated statement, he takes it at face value, blinking in confusion before realizing they were joking.

▹ He’s surprisingly meticulous about his hoodie. While it may not look fancy, he keeps it spotless. The moment he notices a stain, he’s scrubbing it clean, and if it ever got torn, he’d be devastated.

▹ Despite his anxious nature, he’s incredibly generous. If a friend admires something he owns, he offers it to them without hesitation, even if it’s something he loves. Their happiness means more to him.

▹ He keeps a small notebook in his hoodie pocket filled with recipe ideas. Some are carefully detailed, while others are scribbled notes like “rainbow star cookies??” or “marshmallow surprise??? (what’s the surprise???)”

[siggiedraws]

I'd love to hear more about your view on Sonic too! What do you like (and dislike, if you want) most about him?🍀

There are so many things I love about him it's hard to choose! But a few things do come to mind:

1) Sonic's willingness to help others no matter what, like when Sonic decides to help rescue a girl's village from a dragon in Black Knight despite the fact that this would cause him to run out of time to do Nimue's tasks (luckily, that was actually a test that Sonic passed!) The fact that Sonic just wants to save people who need saving, no matter if that's an inconvenience to him, shows how compassionate and selfless he is. Not to mention his line to Chip where he says "Do I need a reason to want to help out a friend?" makes me emotional every time. He helps people simply because he wants to!

2) Sonic's thrill-seeking nature. He'll do crazy shit just because it's fun and dangerous and you can tell he just lives for it. He sounds so happy and excited whenever it happens that it's really cute. This is very much highlighted in the Storybook games, where Sonic's companion characters often express their chagrin at how reckless Sonic is. This moment in Pirate Storm and this moment in Molten Mine are my favourite examples.

I would say Sonic's thrill-seeking is emboldened by the fact that he faces death head-on and isn't afraid. When he's about to die in Sonic Adventure 2, he keeps his cool and he calmly holds the fake Chaos Emerald, wondering if he can make it through. In Secret Rings, at the realization that the Flame of Judgment's time limit is almost up, he chuckles to himself and apologizes to Shahra for worrying her. This is extremely telling of his selfless character and his lack of self-preservation. Even in death he's not thinking about himself. He's focused on cheering up his friend.

It's something I find very fascinating, for someone who enjoys living so much to lack a fear of death. Though, I would argue that it does bother him on the inside, if even a little bit, going by the lyrics of Unawakening Float: Must I float away? / Will I ever wake?

3) Sonic's love for life and the world around him. Sonic's always fighting to preserve and protect nature from Dr. Eggman's industrialization, and environmental awareness is a prominent theme in the Sonic franchise, so it makes sense that's what Sonic's all about! He remarks in Heroes that he loves Grand Metropolis, for instance, which is a huge eco-friendly city with no pollution. Also, in a 2022 Q&A, Sonic says that restoring all the levels in Generations reminded him of how great the world is, which is genuinely so sweet! 💙

As for Sonic's love for life, the thing with Sonic is that he doesn't have any ultimate goals in life or any dream to achieve. When it comes to living life to the fullest, he exists in the moment and enjoys the present day. He does what makes him happy right here and right now. In other words, he's content without a destination, and he enjoys the never-ending journey. There is a lot I can learn from him!

4) His mystery! What is Christmas Island like? How did he and Eggman first meet? Just who the hell is this guy? No one knows, but Sonic will tell you he's just a normal hedgehog, which may very well be true. There are little hints here and there that point towards the symbolism of his origins, like his folded boots being inspired by Santa Claus, which is why they're red and white with a buckle! I find that such a cool detail. I love the vagueness of his past and I hope it stays that way.

Speaking of Sonic and mystery, did you know that there's a character called Uhu the Wind Genie in Sonic and the Secret Rings, who is known for his speed, and we never see his true form? I wonder who that could be an analogue to...

As for what I dislike about Sonic, that's much harder to answer because I love him so much. Every aspect about him is perfect to me! I suppose if I had to choose one thing… he can just leave without notice for an extended period of time, as seen in the end of Sonic Advance, and that can be very worrying. He's an independent guy and he likes alone time, but I can imagine how his behaviour could frustrate the people around him. Tails flying in the Tornado trying to look for him in the sky breaks my heart.

anyways... I love Sonic so much as you could tell. Thanks so much for your ask! 💙

[yandereunsolved]

I feel like clemens' point or shady belle is a GREAT spot for siren!reader since they would need water like humans need air to live. Imagine someone like charles or sadie having to keep an eye on them when they go in the water while on guard duty

-🐟 anon

Great idea!

They need to spend a few hours in the water every once in a while or they get incredibly ill. After all, they are naturally a siren. Staying out of the water for extended periods of time is exhausting.

Charles, Hosea, & Sadie are the main people who end up guarding reader during this time. They are the most resistant to siren reader's song. (No, Arthur is not good at resisting the siren's song. Neither is Dutch.)

Charles always feels slightly embarrassed. It feels as if he is gazing upon something intimate. Few of the gang get to see you like this. And you're so happy. It makes him happy. And he does one of his :3 smiles. But don't get it twisted. Charles isn't going to be lured into the water with you. He doesn't know your intentions. And while he is fairly certain you would never try to drown him ― he would rather not have you siphoning energy from his soul. The closest he has gotten to the water while you are in it is dipping his hands in.

Hosea is old enough to not be eagerly tempted by your song. He is also more parental in his nature so he's so proud to see you in your nature form. While also being worried that you'll find a way to escape. Believe it or not. He'll get in the water with you. He's old and growing weaker by the day. If you truly want to attack him then you might as well. Because why would you? He's been nothing but kind. And he's the one who calms others obsessive tendencies.

So if you kill him you're really fucked. Like if you killed one of the ladies (I love you characters. don't be mad at me.) they wouldn't be incredibly upset. Just because of the fact that yk misogyny and men contribute the most money to the camp. Not to mention the fact that Hosea is one of the founders.

He feels like your siren form isn't real. It's just a hallucination of his. Very much hesitates when touching you. Although he learns that your gills are very sensitive and pull... interesting noises out of you if he's careful enough. Not to mention your forked tongue. It darting out of your mouth and touching him. tasting him. It makes him feel like a young man again.

Maybe he's more susceptible to your charm then he first though... (at least while he's in the water that is.)

Sadie is no nonsense with your little games. Or at least she tries to be. She walks along the edge of the waters in hopes that you'll pull her in. Sensing her want. You often do. And she loves touching your siren form (mostly with child-like innocence). She loves your gills, claws, forked-tongue, scales, and entrancing eyes. She especially loves the texture(s) of your scales.

It's her possessiveness that makes her a good candidate to guard you. She won't let you leave. No matter how much you beg she won't give in. But she has to admit you look really attractive while doing so.

[synergysilhouette]

11 more hot takes/unpopular opinions with DC and Marvel Comics

Originally this was 10, but I had one more to mention. And remember how my first post was Marvel-centric? This one is DC-centric.

Starfire and Arsenal were better Outlaws than Bizarro and Artemis and deserve another shot--I know I phrased this like a fact, but all this is subjective. I find Arsenal and Starfire more interesting characters and enjoy their chemistry with Jason and their romance with each other. I just wasn't crazy about the art we got for their run, nor the blatant oversexualization of Starfire.

2. Harley Quinn and Red Hood are the next-gen Joker and Batman (and I ship it)--I've thought about this forever, but Jason's broody, solitary-except-when-he-needs-to-collaborate nature reminds me of how Batman is commonly depicted, though Jason is a more violent version. Harley, being a whimsical and goofy antihero, thus feels like the next-gen version of her ex (though I understand if you find Punchline or Joker's Daughter as more deserving of that). I'd also love her on an Outlaws team with Jason and Ghostmaker.

3. Jamal Campbell is the best cover artist for DC--His Nightwing art has me in a chokehold, and I love it! I also appreciate him making Nightwing curvy without it being from an ogling angle (see #5). That said, his actual work on Nightwing's issues isn't as good, but I think that's a time issue.

4. Travis Moore is the best issue artist for DC right now--I fell in love the moment I saw his work on "Wonder Woman." He's who I'd want as the artist for a "Red Hood and the Outlaws" series with Starfire and Arsenal. Really want him to do Nightwing, Titans, and a Tim Drake solo. Serg Acuna is a close second, but I'm not crazy about how he draws jawlines; they're more angular while I prefer them rounded.

5. DC needs to stop objectifying Nightwing--It's one thing to be sexy; that's cool, and it's something that the subject can (kind of) control. But Dick is constantly objectified and harassed, as well as being the victim of sexual assault on more than one ocassion. Personally, I headcanon him "being okay" with the harassment and objectification in-universe due to the trauma of being assaulted and not wanting to make the situation worse, but in any case, he should be a superhero first, sex object second. You can have him be attractive without predominantly being eye-candy; I hate how Harley Quinn's tv show, "Gotham Knights," and "Nothing Butt Nightwing" wanna not only bring attention to him solely for his curves, but make him vain about it just so no one can criticize the harassment.

6. Marvel needs to stop going the demon route with Nightcrawler (especially now)--Given Kurt's kindness and Catholic faith (that fluctuates based on the writer, I guess), his appearance as a blue creature with a tail is mainly for ironic purposes. I hate how every ow and then, they like to lean into the demonic angle for him, since it undermines his character SO MUCH. Plus since his birth has been retconned (hopefully for the last time), it makes no sense to connect him with demons.

7. Iceman has fallen out of favor with me--I don't think his solos have been very interesting, and it feels like they've made his sexuality a personality trait. I'd prefer he just stays a team member on an X-team (and eventually date Somnus if Daken is still unavailable).

8. Major X needed a rehaul, but he had potential--I already did a post on this, but the gist is that he needed a new everything: different dad (because not everything has to circle back to the Summers-Grey clan), different powers (because OP telepaths are a dime-a-dozen), a more unique costume in design and color, having a different storyline than "I came to prevent a terrible future," and MAYBE make him from Earth-13729 because I like some of the characters. Basically just keep Storm as his mom, lol. And this isn't a must, but as an advocate for more original LGBT+ characters, making him part of the community wouldn't hurt.

9. Russell Dauterman and Lucas Werneck are the best artists at Marvel right now--This is my "argue with the wall" opinion, lol. They've made amazing art, and I wish they'd do the art fr every X-Men comic, imo.

10. Where are the Gargareans?--It disturbs me that in the course of 15 months, DC has two storylines about a young man abandoned by his Amazonian mother and being (understandably) bitter about it when he finds out. Not to say everything would've been fixed, but aren't the Gargareans the male counterparts to the Amazons? The circumstance of sons of Amazons being abandoned by their mothers as per the rules of Paradise Island is never resolved despite the son's frustration and hostility. It's just like "oh yeah, that happened. Moving on!"

11. HiC was necessary (just not as it was)--We didn't need a murder plot for this to be good. Booster Gold and Harley QUinn being a duo with cute shenanigans around a serious premise was enough. Left these heroes get therapy once a year (or more; the issue could just be annual), and let us see these characters GROW, creating a stricter writing style for writing them rather than the flimsy style superheroes often face with different writers or when publishers go through a change in priority.

Hope you enjoyed this post! Any hot takes you agree with?