✈　❛ bar

@❛ taekwoon jung。 Digits flex under the turmoil of lights keeping her attention inbound. Gilted into an unknowing trap. An obnubilation of the senses. Obscurity. Synonyms, synonyms — a diaphonous truth. This is what it is.

"You do know how to keep a girl." Her words yield into the night, sultry and hoarse. Vaporous threads of it curling into the pedantics of darkness chiseling their figures into the outpour of colors; it drenches them in a pattern. The clock ticks, the thin frost of seconds evaporating into droplets of mist skidding down the so-called expedition. His features quip into a mask of pleasantry, his flesh-coloured tiers abound with the hues saturating his own into a mesh of the shadows.

Sana's extent gradually wisps off into a moiety, a quarter, to a miniscule. Until no more. Divulging her hold from her sanity, his patient interstices are soon filled with her fingers, tangling into a tight grasp. Long nails the color of her lips graze the stretch of his skin, smooth but arid. Arid, parched, needy. For blood — literally or figuratively. It sings into her, sings, the notes of which reaching a note undulating beneath the boil of her blood. Just beneath; nothing more.

Nothing more, she convinces.

An admonishment, her downfall, a consensual trip into a pious lair. His touch — touch. He touched her, the fleeting motion: Once there but soon no more. The ghost thereof hums, the hair on her neck, every which strand standing on edge. A false alarm, at least that's what she thinks.

A mote of a dust — she is, dancing into the wash of sunlight keeping her ablaze. A mere speck, but a spectacle not to be forgotten like stars made anew bursting into the colors once the stark contrast of darkness peeks in to the edges of one's vision.

Darkness. A consensual trip into a pious lair.

@❛ sana minatozaki。 The hitman’s expression, previously blank afore, begins to rouse with flickers of emotion, and the pertinacious tenebrosity settles over the calm countenance. It is mildly manifested in the way that he closes in once more and behaves in an enigmatic matter; it is the narcotics in the ichor and the expeditious high that comes afterwards to elate and pacify him (only to be followed by a /morbid low/ that comes in fragments) and he’s sunken into the infinite loop of depredation, annihilation of all that was once equable and soundly within, now alternated pitch black.

He likens the other to a moth, drawn to the all-consuming fires that burns like perdition within him. It’s bizarre now he’s encountering such beguiling characters lately, when none of the grey-masses had ever piqued his attention—they were either marks or collateral damage. The new conception is a foreign divergence to him.

“Why then, are you scared of the dangers that might have been lurking in the dark?”

The verbosities which sleek past his lips may not be wholeheartedly candid. Beneath the arteries of semantics lie the skeletal fingers of enmity (underneath their feet where the basilisks slither) crooked around unknowing neck. A brief nod of conclusion; he locked his stygian orbs with a similar pair, midnight hues being camouflaged by the void.

His name eulogized in the verbosities and the tone of her voice is cloying honeydew; the smile which finesses his tiers is minute (albeit simultaneously brazen and conceited, solicitous and malefic) and mellow is his gesture sutured in the act. He does, however titter against the shell of her ear in riposte, the whispers faint as dexterous digits come adjoin the base of her neck. “I’m assuming you won’t take no for an answer?” Osculations of a man whose entire purpose on earth is to ruin the terebinth in his embrace, rest upon shoulder (splinters of it sink into his flesh. subbles of it sit on his shoulders. A reminder.) he  keeps  her  close  to  himself,  to his torso—sanctioning the euphony, the cacophony of the atmosphere embracing them both. Seconds harness beneath the partriture of applause. And he merely pulls away from the enigmatic woman to proffer his hand for the taking.

@❛ taekwoon jung。 "Take me home, Taekwoon." Sana's voice falters to a lustre meant to grasp him aframe to the threshold of her invitation. Hallowed eyes ring with a challenging glint, the pupils resounding and bouncing off of the lines of his face in search of a constellation nestled into the maps thereof, in connection and in tune with an Achilles' heel, such far off distance. His mouth a riverine of lies unspooled, a coiling apparatus.

A coiling apparatus? Of what? The answer dangles, extolled from such a distance parting in between the gap of her open hands. The liminal space of which she has been enthralled under. Entranced, enamored, this game has stretched for too long now. The power dynamics. Marx said, Marx said. What? What'd he say? The withering of the state. Abolish the class system, seize the power. The power. It echoes hollow in her ears, the lights dancing on her eyes with an urgent pace as she places her hand on the smooth skin of his cheek. A simultaneous , the reaching of nirvana. Ecstatic. Sodden irises burn into one another.

Syntaxes. Answer in syntaxes. "Taekwoon, Taekwoon." A lilt to her voice, the name echoing off in a panegyric. Playing. The music halts in a sudden motion, the people stand up, celebratory cheers ensue. Consequential singes of the noise faltering follows. "You are too serious."

Conquest. That's what he all is. Seduce to destroy because who exactly are you, Taekwoon? A figure enmeshed into the pallid, indelible curtain of nicotine chiseling their figures into dark.

Urban totems in a pine-forest sky, a chassis of her identity cracking and crippling through the complexion of her skin. Her carmine lips pulled back in a grimace, a morphing sneer. Who are you? Who are you? It jolts into her, grazing her nerves. Christen the land.

Sana, your crimson lusted fangs are peeking.

@❛ sana minatozaki。 It has become a push and pull type of situation: pushing and pulling in tune with the cosmos, dauntless defiance of baselines where a cold war ensues—a delicate line, balancing on glass rings for neither inclines to bend, to fall and decay. In here, Taekwoon witnesses the enigma’s brand—sent down his spine an uncaptured eloquence—amaranthine skin filling the room like a beauteous chasm, folded cathedral, papier-mâché daydream in northerly luminosity as the night beckons.

There is perpetual mirth to be attained via inducing scrutiny in others—draws one’s attention to their weakest points and provide various semblances of laudable disport. To ascertain that his companion is already embroiled in the tendrils of curiosity, he plants the pads of a thumb and index under her chin. (The molten demons seep into pores, like coagulation formed from this holy waxwork.) Each movement methodical. Each motion measured. In a matter of verity, he is the epitome of the archetypal pococurante. “Nothing good. I suppose...” the cadence of his voice remaining consistent—it is a verbal contract albeit tinctured with a distant somnolence (supposed to be evidently kind of fake but there’s nothing but the gelidity of his tone that follows.) Nothing but a tool. Nothing but a barrel only for the encore, but when the audience disperses and the smoke clears he won’t be there. Just a ghost of an apostrophe. Nothing but an apex. A pivot. A freefall.

Eyebrow twitches, confounded yet persistent. A scintillation of rapture igniting in the dusk of the sclera. For a transience has him breaking contact to retrieve cash from his person, sliding across the lacquered counter before he eases off the stool. “I don’t know what you’re on about.”

Probably dying. Rotting. Forgetting. /Decaying./

“Am I supposed to know, or was that a trick question?” A murmur falls, the hum and sluices of the abyss barely audible underneath the surface of gentility. “You might’ve had too much. Go home, Sana.”

@❛ taekwoon jung。 Roaming eyes in an outspread of deep ochre drench through the dilated fiords of her pupils, insisting and prodding through the pallor covering his skin in the hues meshing against one another. A consummation of the teeth and lips — a smile — the canvas of her face subdued, her movements languidly enlivened by the subtle touches of the buzzing in her head. Predatory orbs akin to chocolate winded and spellbound by an emotion swirling with malice.

A power play.

Tinges of crimson adorn her cheeks in a pattern of a staccato stuttering through, effervescent with fluster and alcohol. Turbulent and intermittent, a nondescript warmth bursting through her chest, a supplanted heat fuming through the lurching of her heart. "And what do you demand to do?" The drumming in her veins sycophantic and panting patented with anticipation whispering with a demand that she get out of there.

What—why? What is it?

Her muddled sense grazes through, rigor mortis in a human body? Impossible. Help, help, her eyes round in. Eyes blurring and focusing, his face splintering through jagged claws digging with a fervent grip stilling her there.

"Who ar—are you?" asks she, a repeated motion. One meant to disrobe a mystery blearing through in its full regalia jostling through her good judgment. The words an epidemic, a malaise with the intention to damage his exterior. His eyes swirl with malice.

Malice, malice. Malice.

It chants through her nerves, an acclamation with the sixth sense she was graced with. She smiles once again. This time it was her hand that slithered to cover his, her pretense of inebriety lifted up. Velleities of who she really is shine through the clarity of her eyes.

"Where is mom?"

A Judas' kiss.

@❛ sana minatozaki。 Around him sprawl the seething conglomeration, rapid and vapid voices vociferating mingled amusement and condemnation into the clement atmosphere—desolate beasts whose gnashing fangs seek only to rip into multihued flesh. “Nothing, actually.” He lifted the glass slightly letting the light catch the crystalline, kaleidoscopic hues of the austere liquid bouncing off the edges. He thinks, at least if there’s any fruition hanging from it all, it would be this: she’s something else, he gathers. Her hands are ripened wine, and her smiles satirize the reality. In the stale of the nighttime, tessellated and crisscrossed to the point where the heart is disguised, passionate roseate tiers called in with a dulcet enchantment. “Thought maybe I needed a distraction, that is... until you.”

Ghastly oculi of obsidian pinioned upon her celestial-made pools, starburst-bright, imploding nebulae (but serve not to withdraw attention from the target in mind.) anomalies smoothing themselves in the cracks of the moment—the air, metallic against his taste buds—iron, copper, everything meddles in, molten with the parentheses where seconds crawling on the concrete; anchored to the point zero, sutured with complexities. (Albeit he enjoys the little frazzle of neurons running through the head, whizzing endlessly, stripping and dissecting the very drawl of her words from his tone to the way the dismissive, placid eyes to the girl, synapses a cluster of wishes for her mind to whirl in intrigue.)

(Because surely, his mind does.)

He’s closing in again, but never close enough to kill the gap. “Your presence did however, demand my full attention.”

@❛ taekwoon jung。 An arguable silence meshes into her parted lips, carmine fading into the tinges of her flesh-coloured ones penetrated by the saturation dredging up the haze of smoke dragging by through nicotine curtains of transparency. Her prescience lingers in the pockets of her petering consciousness, a sudden flinch to the invitation of his subtle touch adorns her stature — mitigated by his mystifying intentions and disposition of which Sana has not been exposed to long enough. She should know. A good journalist would. The pretense of his nature upholstered by his good sense far removed from the exigence of everyone else surrounding him like paper dust and he, the graphite of which has been blessed to outstand and outshine each cream coloured page. His good natured sense should not be one of evading suspicion; he is just a suspect as anyone else. "Well," a drawl, the aching in her head a relentless surge to the turbulence of her keen senses. "Yeah, yeah. You must be good." A smile predatory in nature in guise of an intoxicated touch to the tinges thereof, her teeth reflexive of the colors shrouding their pallor in a ticking hue of red, blue, green. Red, blue, green. Red. The metallic smell of blood hanging in the air as another assignment singes to waste, the woes of yesterday behove the woes of today in which she, herself, is trapped amongst the cage of crimson lusted fangs. "What brought you here?" A glint in the darkness.

A common mistake.

@❛ sana minatozaki。 The sonnet of eventide’s melody infuses symphonic quiet within him as the choir in his thoughts play the tune of early elegies—drilled into the back of his head: arsenide, syllables (rea-dy-to-com-ply) and caskets as consequences. Drip-drop in reds and periods in black—that crusted darkness, shade of blackening derangement, smiling nebulae that stomach cruelties. Surely he’ll give her just that: spectral whispers, gilted rumors from the very drawl of her words in the susurrus of nighttime; the acute discernment of an observer, impressive to some extent, yet not precisely enough to shatter the alluded curves stretching further into a peculiar simper. Unspoken truths is the killing floor, he’s known this all his entire ing life. Tangerine against his taste buds; vines around his bones, dripping its plethoric anthem sailing in his abdomen with precision.

In the blended curiosity that collars his crown, the next question comes with a faint string attached to undying dissimulation, shape of an awfully feigned concern mutate across the muted visage. “Well... have you talked about it to someone else? The authorities, perhaps?”

Fingers flex ineffectively, a fructiferous attempt to reach out, palpable as it seeps through the interstices of his digits, before a palm eventually rests flat against the latter’s, enough pressure applied to jostle the paranoia so orbs may rake the burgeoning galaxies into the female’s eyes. He closes the gap, inch by inch, according to the overture of equanimity in his ribcage. “Can’t have that happening under my watch now, can I?” Intonation amiable, yet the nature of underlying serpent language reigns in every composition, voice dead on octaves. “Hm?”

(A game all it is, designed, shaped and molded by the hands of the devil for a battle to oblivion.)

@❛ taekwoon jung。 "Hm, you're right," an acquiescence of syllabicated syntaxes, a lethargic doubt drifting past her, unconscious of the dangers circling in to pounce upon her unassuming flesh in the dark. The scattered luminescence undulate and throb through the laboring of her eyes, held with much introspection as much as the glance given and sent to Taekwoon's direction. "However, to your question..," a slur has taken in possession of her sibilance, the hisses of her words an emphasis to her solid state of inebriety. The music starts again, feathering through the congestion seeping in between the cracks of her facade, her neutral repudiation. Phrases made anew and spurted ashore into the silence of the music leafing through the lilt of her hefty syllables, persistent and persuasive still, words made erse by the alcohol held onto tightly as an attempt to produce her thoughts into the palate of the keen eyes of her partner spirals her into a downward abyss of unconsciousness. "What was the question? Oh right. I am being followed," she repeats. The details of which still remain obscure within the proximity of her grasp, wisps of smoke are all she can grapple towards an unsuccessful series of detective works. However, tinges of a man remain foreseen by the jagged senses of which she has been graced with. She knows. "A car followed me to this place," a whispered admission, an incantation from her lips procured sharply, her nails digging in to his skin. "I just know it."

@❛ sana minatozaki。 “Sana.” He repeats, numbly. For a moment, the hues studied her from his hardened features, soaping his structure with the magic dust she emanated from her feather-like complexion. The consternation surges over Taekwoon's countenance, rendered into obmutescence as the latter's claims are mulled upon. (Hanging in the air are the windchimes crafted out of her lingering doubts – that’s for certain. Albeit veiled with the presence of alcohol, he knows the stench of it, tainting with the redolence of ever-shifting thoughts, more prominent than that of copper from blood. He knows the reek of questions when they are shouldered by the woman, pungent against the stark emptiness between them, he can almost taste it on the tip of his tongue. Paranoia. If that is really what has settled in the back of her mind.)

He fists the proclamations by granules, letting it seep through the interstices, slowly but surely.

There is a pause, a transience of faux astonishment, but it soon dissipates into whorls of genuine amusement (might as well burrow his fangs into his marrow and leave an impression like condensation on cold glass, devour the absolute truth of what it felt like to let the beast settle within the wreckage of his somewhat tête-à-têtes with the universe) inducing lulled hesitation over a typically assured form. “Ah, you’re right,” he speaks after a further progress into the convoluted thoughts. A scoff ensues this time around when another portion of liquor seeps into his system. "I might as well have..." he continues, forcing an amicable ring to his voice, inundated in the nullified calculation toward his companion. "yet you're the one who so pulled me out of my boredom." He muses, a primitive hum rumbling against a ribcage. "What gives you the assumption that you're being followed?” Anomaly detected, he cannot risk it. (The thought filters through his cognitions like a viscous entity in a languid brain. This is a job that's supposed to be finished, completed, done-and-ing dusted tonight.)

Something worth considering: tomorrow, maybe. He sighs at the thought. He’s a puppet wrapped in too many strings, each length of a finger coated in blood-rushing ropes. Too lost to save, too tight to cut. (Not that anybody has ever tried—condemnation is the primary answer to a sinner, hands bathed in too much blood, intentions put aside.)

But at the end of the day, the bullet shoots through.

Agenda: fulfilled. Except this time, there was a distortion.
Mission: incomplete.

@❛ taekwoon jung。 "Sana," a brief reply to the words made intangible by the air left hanging with the carcass of words. Remnants of lights hide in between pedantics of darkness following every scattered blink presumed by the eyes as an undulating ache slithers in with fervor on the side of her head — perhaps due to an upholstering intoxication caressing the thin thread of her wrathful sobriety. Bewitched under such gossamer of alighted hues and a strong consensus for alcoholic tendencies, a surmise of a stoic profile and sharp nose pierces through the thinly veiled gauze of her inebriety. The luster thereof tampering the clarity of her eyes as an attempt to behold him with her eyes fails due to such unfortunate circumstances, but his well-meaning facade suffuses her sight enough for Sana to consider him attractive in the threshold of her nonextistent standards. "I think I'm being followed," her words spill into the silence of their shared space, defiant of the cacophony of voices booming through in their bubble of quietude. Such prejudices of a good, sensible mind lost astray amidst the gullible insensibilities in possession of a perpetual midnight's elation. Eyes, delicate from the lights saturating her vision, pursuant of a faceless stranger whose disposition might be illaudable enough for her to pick him out in the riverine of faces sending her disgraceful stares. "What's up with you, huh? You're not following me are you?" the last sentence ends in a gibe meant to be playful however one that comes out in a spurt acquitted of annoyance and a foreboding accusation.

@❛ sana minatozaki。 The peak of interest births in insouciant syllables dying alongside white noise on the background, and perhaps it is the sole reason as to why a counterfeited façade is relinquished for reality to slither through the cracks. Taekwoon does appreciate the lightheartedness that comes partnered with Sana Minatozaki, so he traded his penchant the decay for a momentary gentleness on the tongue. “Is there any reason as to why you’ve been getting drunk at this hour?” Swirling the ichor in the glass, idleness heaves at his fingertips, instigating a softness to billow over a mask composed normally of dogged apathy; he observed its rich texture, attention albeit tangled to the cinnamon-washed girl’s presence. Fingers soon then drum the wooden surface, much out of habit, as a pair of hues is held captive to the latter’s countenance. He’s gazing, aimless. A shaded glaze sans emotion burrowed down deep within a cadaver (silken temptation to implement the pursuit dancing within the forefront of his thoughts until her inquiry is spilled into the night.) The hitman elevates his shoulders, shrugging a vaguely apathetic response. “It’s Taekwoon... although I don’t think you’ll remember once you’re sober.” He hums, flippant; concurrently loosening the tie on his dress shirt as the unspoken words persist. “And you are—?”

@❛ taekwoon jung。 Amidst the flurry of thoughts bestowing upon Sana in a threshold of shame and embarrassment, an apology urges out of her carmine lips, trails of it ending in a voice barely audible upon the symphony of voices reaching their infiltrated by the intoxication curbing deep into their bodies. Despite the lack of sobriety possessing the consciousness of her mind, Sana finds herself retracting in a bout of tension as the genteel voice of the stranger hisses up to the confounding silence that has beheld her in a bubble of embarrassment. "It seems like that," she whispers, trudging through to be seated beside him, the motion belying the kisses of shame whispering up to her dusting awareness. "I've been waiting and getting drunk," slurred words elicit from the forgotten hesitation of her lips. Acquiescence to her newfound company arguably suffices the haze of loneliness and thoughts petering in through the mounds of stress coiling in her body. "What's your name?" A question lilts out in a preemptive attempt to the nature of her distrust.

@❛ sana minatozaki。 The thrill of the buzzing jazz melody has proven itself to be perpetual—creeping, consuming, vivid like a new born, gnaws at the veins under his skin. Was it not the obnoxious claps burgeoning subsequent to a pianist’s performance end would have most likely basked into the comfort found between piano notes overcoming the incessant noise of the bar, yet here he is, once again snapped out of a benevolent trance and devoured once more by reality. In that moment he is unsure if to deem it as a curse or a bless when the event aids on regaining his sense as a consequence.

A bless it is, he decrees, as it takes the time of interval of five seconds for a distinctive vox picked up by his ears. The source? It is no mystery because the colors of such captivating core dance around within the other in the enclosed space, along with the wisps of cabaret scented incenses burning listlessly at the corner. So he raises a glass, dawns the remnants of the drink made cold by a couple of ice blocks and rests the recipient back on a wooden counter.

The curling of his lips manages to stay enigmatic, veiling the oddity of what it was to come across his mark—just in time—preponderated by the aroma of alcohol in the air and yet outshines that which is set to haze one’s mind. “It’s fine.” He quips lowly as he answers, lips once more unfurling soundlessly against his cheek whilst hues meet her features. It all comes with sense of burlesque and a smile, a meticulously sculpted mask meant to entertain and deceive. He might have look friendly—perhaps, uncannily curious. And for a moment of brevity, he might have hoped he did. “But I don’t think your friend is coming. Otherwise he would’ve called for you by now.”

@❛ lalisa manoban。 Once having made their great escape from the suffocating hectic confines of Casia’s lounge, the previously furious rage displayed almost instantaneously vanished into thin air– As if mere moments ago Youngho hadn’t been on the very brink of ripping out every single raven black lock atop his head. Even to himself it came as an amazement how in such haste the male’s demeanor flipped like a light switch. Now he is cool, calm, collected as he heaves out quite the exasperated sigh. “Sorry you had to see that.. Some people just put me on edge I guess. Perhaps I’m just cranky and in need of a drink.” Finally reaching their final destination, the local town bar, does he stride with those long spider legs over to swing open the front door and step aside for his lovely companion to enter. Despite the gentlemanly gesture he simply cannot help but to reach over and play with the partially tousled tresses of hers which were ruined by his meddling earlier. While chuckling he taunts, “Think your hair will ever recover?”

@❛ taekwoon jung。 When Sana comes to, her friend is already seated under the glow of the lights somber in their luminescence. Her steps stop to a halt as the lonesome profile of the nameless figure sires itself into her vision, an effulgence of a smoke wafting through his back like a mist etching his features into the darkness of the bar. Staggering forward, Sana's steps slur in a mismatched rhythm of intoxication pounding ardently at the back of her head; the lights in her eyes defer from a diminution of being harsh as she struggles to step forward into the recently vacated stool beside her buddy. "Hey," her voice flies over to him in a deep timbre as her body catches up to materialize in the wide chasm she's left in the clouds of smoke accompanying his desolate figure. But realization creeps into the apples of her cheeks as Sana stares deep into the stature of the guy whose figure she mistakenly recognizes. "Oh, oh!" Indignation apparent at the way the words tumble out of in a hasteful manner. "I'm sorry I'm kinda out of it."

@❛ sana minatozaki。 For starters it’s easier to read the bloodshot in his eyes like a map: destination a; exhaustion. Destination b: silence, c: insomnia, d: 4.5 miles deep into sorrow and somber. His last stop is in six miles headed down nostalgia, hollow line like a city at five in the morning with nowhere to go. A vapid shell of what’s left of him abandoned on the streets. Yet he finds solace in the same concrete mattress where he grew in—there’s a certain kind of calm here: abandoned cigarettes and the afterglow of a 2 AM moon, washing pale yellow across drab cobblestone and rice-paper skin. Taekwoon rushes for no one, purposeless footsteps meandering through the alleyways and dimly lit streets as the city around him recedes to a humming buzz.

And perhaps it is a subdued moment where bones are lead by a puppeteer’s strings and control utterly slips through the fingers.

Two o’clock finds Taekwoon in the rasping wisps of violent fumes, blue veins clotting up the skin of his neck, welcoming a consolidation of all things bad with strangled gold heating at the tip, the borrowed-type 64 silenced pistol is just about indiscernible underneath his black suit jacket, lodged in the holster looped through his shoulder. He inhales the grey plume and exhales the rest of his breath, stubs the amber tip of the cigarette under a loafer, adrenaline pounding segments of rushes that soon transpire.

Tonight, the bar stays open as usual, the neon sign outside hums a pasty blue, not too harsh on the eyes when he stares, it glows in narrow pockets of concrete with midnight trailing on the outskirts. Subtle shades and muted undertones that fit with the weather, he thinks as he pushes through the door. Taekwoon adjusts his earpiece and waits for the incoming blip.

“I’ve been informed she’s coming in ten. Anyway, proceed as instructed. I know you already know, but... g’luck. The raven has high expectations from you.”

He glances at his watch and rids the contraption off his ear, watching the /tick tick ticking/ of the seconds—his mind on a raging catalyst is alight. Time is a bittersweet concept that leaves behind a lingering metallic aftertaste that one grimaces at and hope to push at the back of their subconscious. Such an intangible yet tangible trace of life that weaves through the concourse of fate or whatever punishing force is working out there to make that he witness a stretch of time: an endless reality of hell. Flames of anguish have already the tips of his toes before frenziedly zipping through the rest of his body to scorch his bleeding organs inside and out to charred ashy remains of something that could have been so brilliant. The graphic imagery with hues of siren red and burnt orange instantly flicks a switch at his own subconscious.

And just like that he’s into the venomous cycle of rehashing his trauma. (Flash, pull a trigger. Flash, stab the flesh. Flash, mark his prey. Repeat encounters. Reverse targets.) What he’d scrubbed off his fingers the days prior: filth of blood. He’d travelled too many kilometers, imbibing the imprisonment of a lifestyle with chipped teeth and ghost beneath his feet. These ghosts too, bear the snarling of rancid nightcrawlers—his backward beasts, gnarls of moon-howlers with their head bent dirtwards, waiting to pull him in.) Finds himself with the last memory of a silhouette under the jaundice lights that hands him a file overflowing with the data of a woman; paths the female had treaded past, every memory, every acquaintance, tidbits of her habits, and Taekwoon imbibes each millimeter of the information. As the silhouette prepares to leave, the anxiety is palpable in her form but she veils it with faux confidence whilst she sways to the door, and stern and curt she blurts it out, “I don’t care how, or whatever scheme you come up with but do it cleanly. Quick and precise as you always do. I just want to get rid of her. I don’t want her nosing around in our... family business. I just want her... /silenced./”

———–

When he is jerked back to the present, he situates himself on an empty bar stool, and in this he begins to revel in reeling in the debauchery: by skimming the sanctity of purging virtues with a glass of Sazerac, a concoction of 2 AM and 3. Under his coruscating thoughts, the drink becomes a distraction, blues cascading down his body like running water like blood, like anything else but himself. It crawls beneath his skin, fills the spaces between his fingers that belong to no one in particular. All render empty, empty. Empty.

Gossamer threads smashes fervidly against searing pavement, it evaporates in effervescent, serpentine hisses, rising in chalky curls when the darkness consumes the half-asleep city. For Taekwoon, slumber is often a concept not present. When it is, it is forked, like roads, like antlers, and he feels like a loose thread hanging from the edge of a waterfall, always filled with absenteeism that lack of rest proffers. (But how does rest when their sleep is haunted?) These nights, sleeplessness becomes more prominent, their fingers around his throat, leaving wraiths of phantom bruises. Taekwoon doesn’t know if he’d prefer it this way, or he’d rather sleep in the illnesses (illnesses that are both his and the universe’s) where the whirlwind of his thoughts is sometimes acute, sometimes blurred but it’s always there. Tonight is no exception, and combing the capillaries of the city he was in, the forefront of his thoughts are cluttered with the weight of his last conversation through emailed means. The numbers on his phone screen looked too much like a stopwatch, counting backwards and all too quickly for anyone to catch up... still he supposes five minutes is /enough/, and a loose smile hangs from the corners like a hinge to his thoughts. Somewhere in the distance, the eventide shrouds him too—a natural camouflage to conceal those up to no in’ good.

When his ears caught the familiar sound of the engine, he blinks, eyes too dry as his line of vision moves from the lights outlining a building to the cobbled path on the road.

See, figure one: under the night’s coolness, a glossy black car pulls up, the engine subsiding into a requisite slumber. Figure two: the door unlocks, and a coal umbrella blossoms, colliding in streams, a dark-haired man steps amongst the blacked-out windows; wielding a tenebrous soul to match. A warm puff of air leaves the hitman’s lips, giving the cigarette between his teeth a final drag before he kills the amber on the end underneath a loafer, and stride along the gritty pavement toward the parked vehicle.

They walk together. There’s urgency in the rhythm of their footfalls as they traversed the less-paved path, occasionally interjecting puddles as the drops scatter the garish lights like a kaleidoscope. At some point the narrow street turn into an entrance of an establishment; and they’ve wandered into the type of neighborhood Taekwoon frequents for a few good reasons. Albeit now the area had a silence he isn’t fond of, a sort of emptiness that even a faint sigh sounds like a whistling train to his ears. It could be worse—somewhere in the dark hours that made him think about his little tête-à-têtes with the universe—but he’d rather not deal with his own pandemonium right now. If anything, this serves as a distraction he craves if only briefly—it’s a pleasant interjection to the dull static in his ears—like the liquor on rocks he soon held too tight between cold palms in a distant booth. Drinking isn’t a habitual act, he’s no alcoholic, doesn’t think it really does anything to him now. Tastes bland like everything else he eats or drink, following into constant patterns—leaving him nothing. It evaporates just like that, leaving him desolate—it could've been great to have an escape every now and then, but it seems, unlike everyone else, he's not fitting for such a wish... and his companion made that clear when a file slid across the counter—a listing, categorization, descriptions ticked off one after another.

“I simply want all the information reported back to me. I want this job done to perfection. After all, I employ only the best.” Under the bar’s light, the hitman’s face is calm amidst the havoc that drowns the other; the rim resting upon a thin lower lip before astringent liquor invades taste buds and downs the highway of his throat—drinks it without phase before a single word rolled off his tongue.

“Affirmative,”

@❛ tzuyu chou。 After that full week of work Chungha had to find some reason to get dressed up and go out even if it wasn’t that fancy, it felt good to be out of her work clothes. She had a yellow green and black pinstriped shorts romper with short sleeves and some strappy black open toed heels. The weather called for less being more; it was so humid and the sun wasn’t even in the sky anymore. She had asked Tzuyu to meet her at the bar because she thought she would be late putting on makeup but now she right on time matching into the bar like she owned the place and ordering two shots. That was her usual starter in a mindset of start high and work your way back down. She couldn’t have too many though if she was gonna be singing later, didn’t want to stress her voice. Whiling down a shot of tequila, biting into the lime she texted Tzuyu. ‘ I guess I wasn’t late. I here?’

@❛ yerim kim。 Unfortunately for some, Youngho didn’t seem to mind quite a many things. Such as aiding in the bitter downfall of a marriage. Why should he mind anyhow? If all the s he often caught weren’t so damn guilty of filth then there never would be the sad situations which were pursued. After so many years of being surrounded by the sinful and evil nature humanity loved to dabble in, the gloomy young man seemed to lose himself painstakingly slow. Just lost enough to the point where he couldn’t have cared less how he was treated. Yerim was kind enough on the surface. What more could a guy drowning himself in booze ask for?

Never being one to dwell on the past for too long did he try to simply forget whatever feverish internal desire for justice had previously consumed the man’s soul. He was no hero who brought no true satisfaction to those whom he called clients. Sure, they always got results for which a handsome paycheck typically came through as reward for such effective efforts. Though deep down he knew of all that pain and damage people were put through. Sometimes it hurt. Usually it didn’t. He’d learnt the hard way many years ago that getting attached only dragged down even further into the pitch black pits of ceaseless despair.

For now there is a momentary bliss in a job well done and, to much surprise, a potential friend at his side. Friends were hard to come by. Perhaps this one would be worth something. “And quite a lovely decoy indeed.” The air looming just above swiftly shifts from tense to calm as airy little bubbles of laughter fill the spaces in between and meshes in perfect melodious tune with that of her own. Once settling back down does Youngho signal to the bar tender for another round of drinks, finding both their glasses to then be running empty. Far too empty for his liking.

“I already gave up on mankind long ago.. But there are a few special exceptions,” He divulges in slow bewitching tonality. Heavy eyes stay lidded with a dreamy sort of allure as soon enough their second drinks of the evening come around to the counter. There are no further physical advances beyond a light grazing from the back of his hand or a calculated habitual thumping from the bottom of his boot against the stool legs causing just a mere friction between the girl’s heel and his shin. A sudden sense of yearning seems to wash over as he brings the rim of the glass up to plump pursed lips and sipping on the savory taste. Yet any desires he has are solely of intrigue rather than carnal needs, a brow raised high while inquiring, “What about you? Given up on all us men yet?”

@❛ yugyeom kim。 The female had made a fool out of herself by walking past the lounge once again, her detour made obvious by the flustered grin that exemplifies nothing but bashful anxiety. Bashful, because, for the first time in a while, thousands of butterflies have taken refuge in her stomach. Each pair of wings fluttered within her lower torso, rendering her absolutely unable to control her body. She has become out of her element, confidence wavering by just the idea of going through with her arrangement with this man, who somehow had just enough charisma to bring her to second guess herself. Not exactly an easy feat, considering the fact that this woman radiated with confidence; self-assurance beaming off of her like rays of a sun. But yet, when she had passed the gates of the front entrance, the pace in her footsteps had decreased, instead slowing to a traipse as she approached his vehicle. “Are those for me?”

@❛ lalisa manoban。 There he was, a foolish grin plastered on his visage in the middle of the street, practically feeling like a highschooler once more for this was his first date since he got home. he couldn't help sensing a sort of..special vibe from it. Eyes glued to the screen of his cellphone, his slender fingers rapidly tap against the keyboard, subject to the eyes of passersby while struggling in texting with one hand and holding the bouquet in the other. The latter's antics had never failed to amuse him. Only this time, they were as dumb as his own, slipping a laugh from him until she sent those three hearts and flashbacks of her words to jongin begun playing in his head 'since when do I give anyone love and affection' and just like that, the male was smiling even wider if that was possible, muttering to himself. "sweet, sweet victory."

@❛ yugyeom kim。 The transience of a cacophonous ring sounds from her back pocket, the spirited tone inducing both hope and apprehension in the female's otherwise tranquil state. Deft digits reach behind her to slip the phone out of the pockets of her light-wash denim, lifting it up just enough so that the camera recognizes her appearance. As the heels of her leather Yves Saint Laurents click frantically against pavement, her thumbs busy themselves by tapping on the retina display to send text after the other, only ever bringing her line of sight to the screen to check for spelling errors.

@❛ lalisa manoban。 setting the artfully arranged bouquet on his passenger seat, the male smiled down at it as if it were his biggest accomplishment, it's ravishing colours and eye-catching composition augmenting his complacency. He couldn't wait to show it to her, in hopes she'd be impressed by the florist's choice of flowers along her favourites. It wasn't long before he was parked outside their apartment complex, spraying his cologne in the car before stepping out with the bouquet in hand. "I'm outside." he texted, leaning against his grey Lexus.

@❛ youngho seo。 "Mmmhhhm, yes we did.", Yerim hums, taking his words as permission to take the seat next to him, her drink leaving a smear of water across the polished bar in front of them as she slides it in front of herself, fingers playing with the metal straw. "I'm not interrupting you, am-"
The young woman cuts herself off when the man by her side starts speaking, his eyes flickering over her face and away towards the other end of the bar, her interest instantly piqued as she leans that tiny fraction closer - so close in fact that from the outside, it must looks as if they are having quite the intimate conversation. Personal space and its boundaries never bothered Yerim. Not that much. On her own accord and her own terms, she could move freely into one's bubble, giving someone her full attention without nothing more than a slight tilt of her body towards them. She knows she's probably treating him like a job, what with her unconsciously tapping into her trained habits on how to treat men in her arm's length. Maybe it wasn't fair, but Youngho didn't seem to mind.

"Yes.", she nods her head, nothing more than a dip of her chin, eyes following his line of sight and easily spotting the man he's referring to. He had been eyeing her for the past thirty minutes - and Yerim knows the kind of leer men send her way from time to time. Especially men like this one. And yet, as she would normally shudder in disgust at the memory of lustful eyes running up and down her body as if to undress her with nothing but a single glance, she finds herself turning back to Youngho, lips shaping open just a fraction. Fascinated by his sudden passion, Yerim finds herself smiling, a laugh breathed out from her nose. Was there anything more captivating than someone talking animatedly, so lost in their own thing? Perhaps. But not to her.

"His mistress I assume?", she whispers as soon as the door swings open and reveals, true to Youngho's words, no other than the blonde he mentioned, quickly making her way over to the married man. Disgusting. Yerim wasn't one to talk or judge and yet maybe a part of her is rather old-fashioned. Her parents taught her nothing but that: Honor your marriage, honor your promises. Throwing it away for just a little bit of fun. But oh, how many of those married men Yerim despises so much have watched her behind her camera by now?
"They never are.", the red haired woman points out gently, her body turning to the side just so, nearly facing Youngho in the process, a shudder of repulsion running down her spine. "None. I've never met a single man who's smart enough to not be obvious about being a cheater."

At the sudden touch of his slightly rougher hand onto her own, Yerim startles - just a tiny bit. The touch is surprising but not all too unwelcome, her body reacting on instinct and pure muscle memory and only this prevents her from flinching when the man by her side turns and their legs brush together, his knee sliding against her thigh in the hint of pressure. She smiles, catching on to her own surprise as she sees the camera he's holding out of her periphery. Play along, he said and so Yerim gives him a tender grin, tucking a wayward strand of hair behind her ear with a bashful look down at her drink. Make it look believable. Well, she's good at that, at least.

"Oh.", she laughs, tapping her fingernails against her half empty glass and sending him a mischievous smile. "And here I was, thinking you'd actually want me to sit next to you. Be still, my trembling heart, we are nothing but a decoy." She's teasing, full blown, her voice dripping with saccharine sarcasm and laughter. Shrugging she crosses her legs, bumping the tip of her shoe gently against his shin. "You could buy me another drink, yes. But knowing that this asshat over there is getting what he deserves for cheating? That's amazing payment in it's own right, trust me." The girl pauses, casting yet another glance over at the kissing couple, turning down at the corners before she can catch herself. It's bodily effort to rip herself out of her thoughts, almost, as she glances back over at Youngho next to her, lips curling at the corners in a kittenish smile.
"So that's what you do for a living? Must be horrible. Giving up on mankind yet?"

@❛ yerim kim。 As far as Youngho was concerned, every single day of this miserable life . Just the price to pay for those who chase after ghosts, demons, and agonizing thrills alike. All of which came with the job of being a private investigator. Even now the poor lost soul was drowning neck deep in yet another case fueled by the sinful ways of men. Just another stupid y Monday grind.

Sat by his lonesome at the shadowy edge of the bar did the P.I. sip on a Manhattan whiskey cocktail, easily blending into the room while savoring every last bitter drop from the half–empty glass. Adorned in all black, much like the shade of every cold desolate night sky that gleams down unto the world, no one would bother to glance his way. Most were there to dwell in their own pathetic sorrows or seek out some vibrant young tail anyhow. Including that of a strange man who had a suspicious spouse– one suspicious enough to have hired Youngho for his skillful ability to seek out the very worst in people and provide hard evidence that would undoubtedly backup such awful happenings.

It was then understandable how the pessimist’s gloomy features twist into that of utter shock, his brows raising with delighted curiosity and lips pursing as the taste of surprise with cheap whiskey was so tantalizing yet oh so rare. Not only has someone noticed his presence but singled him out. Not just anyone either– a known neighbor of whom has only shared few encounters in passing. “Fancy meeting you here, Yerim. We met in the lounge at the complex if I’m correct?” Before even completing a sentence he finds himself locked into sudden social endeavors when he was supposed to be there focusing on his case for which he would soon catch human scum in the act and get that well deserved money shot. However there are no qualms in mixing business with pleasure. He could multi–task.

“Quite perceptive of you. See that man across the bar in the black coat? Any minute now a blonde is gonna walk right through that door. When she does, his wedding band will magically disappear and there won’t be a tan line or indent. He takes it off more than he puts it on.” The somber young male mutters in mesmerized rambles as a certain look of predator ready to pounce on it’s prey washes over his visage while honeyed eyes dance about the surroundings. Just as predicted, the front door to the establishment swings open as a busty woman nearly half the strange man’s age comes sauntering in and settles at the bar beside the suspected cheater. “He thinks he’s being slick yet it’s all too clear. Even to his wife. Who so happens to have paid me a nice fat check..”

Now was the perfect moment to act. Upon instinctive reflex does a hand tenderly grasp over Yerim’s as he turns in his place on the stool to better face her, his knee grazing against the side of her thigh from such close proximity. “Do me a favor and play along,” a deep voice like velvet flows in a whisper as he uses Yerim to deflect attention from the fact a camera now peeps up over the countertop to take many damning shots of the man across the bar as he and his mistress exchange lighthearted kisses, thinking they are safe.

Satisfied with the results, Youngho stashes away his camera in the bag that hangs still over a broad shoulder then raises his glass to the neighbor worthy of praise for putting up with his workaholic tendencies. “I owe you a drink. Another Long Island?” Further showcasing his gratitude he flashes a bright smile dripping with sincerity and enchantment as soft chuckles lull into the air. For once he is calm and ready to put full attention on something other than someone else’s bull. Maybe this Monday wouldn’t have to so much after all.

@❛ youngho seo。 Mondays . There is no artistic way to say it. Mondays and then you die. Alone. At a bar close to 11 pm when all the patrons there are with someone or drinking away a stressful day at their boring office jobs. Their boring lives. The wife-troubles, the student loan debts. You find it all, close to 11 pm at a bar downtown, when the world outside is nothing but shades of indigo and cigarette smoke gray. Between frustrated husbands twiddling their marriage ring around their fingers in contemplation, casting side glances at the bubbly girl tending to the bar and silent ones running their dexterous digits over the rims of Whisky tumblers, staring off into nothing, Yerim feels a little out of place.

She feels like a child, huffing and puffing at a Korean barbecue while her parents drank and shared funny stories with other adults. She feels odd, sitting there with her Long Island Ice Tea clutched between both her hands and looking at her own, rather pouty reflection in the mirror behind the bar. She doesn't stand out. Not really, not that much. Her hair is tied back and twisted into a bun, single locks that have curled with the humid evening air when she stepped out of the office a couple of hours ago, framing her slightly sun-kissed features.

Her blouse is wrinkled like the dress shirts of the men surrounding her. Her pants are just as dusty from papers ripped and balled up to throw away. But still she looks like a child playing dress-up. A kid, to all of them. A part of her wants to slump over the bar and pout even more, twirl her straw around in her drink and make the ice cubs crack against the glass, just to be annoying. She doesn't. Yet she sighs, so heavily indeed, her entire body moves with it, heels hooking into the legs of her stool. The young woman is just about to call it a night, down her drink and drag herself back home into an apartment that still smells like paint and new furniture, when she spots a familiar face at the other end of the bar. It's just out of her peripheral, a nod of something familiar in the back of her consciousness. The man sitting there, perhaps looking just a little lost himself, is a known face. Certainly.

The spot she digs her teeth into, the right inside of her cheek, is already bitten raw from her day at work and the copper she tastes makes her grimace. She contemplates in silence, eyes trained on the mirror, before she slides off her stool and lifts her glass, leisurely making her way over to where he's sitting. When she sets her drink down again, the condensation of it has already soaked her palm. "Hi. Sorry. Youngho, right?", she hesitantly greets him, fingers brushing back a lock that has curled into her forehead.
"Don't you live in the same apartment complex as I do? I... didn't think I would run into one of my neighbors at a Monday night. Mind... mind if I take a seat? I feel like..." She pauses, falters. With a deadpan look she adds: "Well, frankly speaking I feel like meat on a platter, sitting there alone surrounded by husbands ready to cheat."

[] oof sorry I took my time I wasn't home all day lol Hope you can work with this!

@❛ naeun son。 "but you're a scammer..." he hesitated, but only for a split second, because he'd rather be in a car with naeun than stay out on the street and wait for mr. kim. plus, the sensation of the alcohol was only becoming additive in nature. with faltering steps, after what seemed like an eternity, he finally piled into the car, clumsily sliding himself into the front seat of her car. he underestimated his own strength, pulling violently at the seatbelt and getting an extra 10 feet he didn't need. clicking and locking it into place, he was finally buckled in.

@❛ chanyeol park。 "get in the car, you drunkard -- i'll explain once you're in," she said with inevitable grin just at the sight of the older male that had tousled strands, a confused expression to accentuate his question. it made him look all the more human than the stubborn, poker faced chanyeol she'd interfere with all too often in the apartment complex's lounge. despite receiving amusement from him, her eyebrows creased in mild worry for the man just at his posture and stance, man, what was he going to do if she hadn't decided to come. pressing the button to unlock the passenger door, she patted the leather seat audibly for him to hear while parting her lips to speak once more, "come in before i start chanting some ancient korean on you, loser."

@❛ naeun son。 finally, after making it out of the club, wrestling out of the reaching hands of thirsty girls, chanyeol at last reached the main entrance to the club and then outside onto the street. the fresh cold night air hit him, jolting in contrast to his feverish body. swaying, he walked slowly on the sidewalk, still talking to the other person on the phone, whom he thought was still on call with him. "mister kim, where are you.. i'm getting tired-" he turned when he heard someone whistle and say his name. he looked towards the sound. a girl sitting in the driver's seat was present, with her window rolled down. "what the fu- naeun? what are you doing here.." he asked in confusion.