STORAGE ROOM

@Kim Myungsoo /Life on Hook's ship is an assemblage of personalities carrying havoc within them, a plethora of plague-instilled, sick-minded people to which I know I belong with the quirks characteristic solely for me, with the darkness existing permanently in the shadow my body creates, elongated with the angst and the mystery of an enigma too difficult to untagle, impossible to solve. My own feet drag me wherever they please, an instinct whispering to the back of my head ever so quietly to roam the ship, just as if a faint scent of trouble lingered in the air along with the perpetual smell of alcohol drenching it, becoming the main particle, substituting the oxygen that I breathe. Observing the men on the ship, I dissemble the countenance of pure disgust with a forced crack in the corner of my lips, a mere curve soon veiled with the glass I pick up, shameless in the act of stealing from companions.

"Give it back, bastard"

/The words do not reach my ears - do they? They are diminished to the muffled sound echoing numbly in the surroundings as I welcome the familiar burning and the opulence of Rum, the fundament of the sanity I artificially paint myself with. My existence on the ship is the net force of the misadventures and the pain I'm made of, it's fugacious and disappears when my feet meet the land, when my silhouette is hugged tightly by the expensive suit - and I think that nothing lasts forever, those older than me embarked with Hook on the hunt for something immortal but I know that the only neverending story I am meant for is the vicious cycle.

/The reason as to why I descended to the storage room remains encased with thousands of inquiries I won't bother answering but the bridge of my nose scrunches, natural instincts resurfacing from the depths of the calmness of my presence, steps resonating the room as if it was filled with void, though I know that I'm not alone.

Pathetic.

/With coldness constituting the timbre of my voice, I notice, with the corner of my eye, a shadow of a shape too eerie, an unusual contour I don't reckon seeing earlier. And there's no hint of hesitation when the sounds of my steps are growing louder and rougher before they stop and I grab the cloth covering you, unveiling a lost boy not akin to the pirate at all. Pride and arrogance caresses my ego at the extraordinary sense bringing me here as a strong hand grabs at your collar and tugs you up carelessly and effortlessly, making the onyx spheres meet my own of hue difficult to decipher.

What are you doing here? Wait, don't bother telling me that. You'll explain yourself to Hook, kid.

V.