< headquarters >

@chanyeol p. The effect with which Chanyeol bears upon Sana is not one of pleasantry, rather her nerves feel strained and distraught by the mere juxtaposition the space has been gilded with by his presence. Her back snaps in accord to the hardness in her voice, "Stop calling me the victim's loved one; he has a name." The upper deck of her teeth reel in upon the lower ones, each word enunciated with not but a mere vexation. Carmine tiers are then shut tight before another word is flung out towards the abrupt silence.

Without saying anything, the awkward tranquil that besotted the expanse of their bodies propels Sana into a sudden movement of jolting muscles. Her hands flit towards her desk for her car keys, the shrill music that adorns the silence is a welcome distraction.

"Call me if you actually need me, Chanyeol," she tosses without turning back. High heels clip in upon the carpeted floorboards until embellished tiles quip in to create the sound of her departure.

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@chanyeol p. Upon the notation of a voice, remnants of corpulent frustration are painstakingly tucked away into the facade with which she holds herself: stalwart and effective. The gentle inflection that douses the unmistakable baritone is but a lull to a definitive coy that seemingly evades Sana. Onyx irises are then met with sable ones, his complexion incandescent underneath the phosphenes that alight the room in a sickly pallor. And yet there stands Chanyeol. A rigid stature chiseled by the fluorescent shine, tiers upturned into a smile akin to mocking Sana, the one given freely to mask the deep-seated intentions he, himself, shies away from.

Shoulders arise in the form of a sigh, and words thrown harshly are then slung into the expanse dividing them. "Oh off, Chanyeol." The drowsy effect Taejoon's death may have had on her is shaken away, jitters flying into hues of umber and gold slick away to the color of dust motes and sunlight filtering in through the ceramic windowpanes embracing them in tendrils and shadows.

"Another death, huh?" Lacquered nails then display an array of photos bordering on the macabre. Her own stomach twists in disgust and pity. An aquiline nose juts heavenward as lifeless eyes stare unseeingly into the canvas of the uncolored skyline. "What are we gonna do about it, journalist Chanyeol-ssi?"

@chanyeol p. Protecting herself, that's what Sana has always been subjected to. The prejudices which hold her, the privilege that seemingly transudes from the alacrity with which her stature has been graced, it all boils down to a pattern of her vulnerability that she seeks to foster. Azure and carmine jolts her awake, recalibrating the sighs of to words shaped into harsh delineation from the sweet nothings she whispers up to her lover. So when he winds up dead, it is befitting for the once cloying petals to wither. It is why she finds herself here: the dilapidated walls, outdated paintings, and even the milk spoiling in the fridge. The headquarters is but another remainder upholding a fortitude that cannot be weathered away with time. Even at the precipice of Taejoon's death.

"Sana," her name is uttered, and yet the influx of her attention is kept ahold of the blank slate at the wall. "Sana!"

"Yes, sir?" Her vision snaps.

"Another dead body has been found near Gyeonggi-do: Its body is, well, — uh... harbors the same wounds from that of your um.." An apologetic glance is thrown her way.

Her face contorts, only for a second. The semblance of hurt is immediately tarnished away by a taut expression. No one will hurt her anymore. But as ebony-flecked irises cascade towards the mahogany holding Taejoon's picture uptight, it is when the taut expression morphs one into a reprieve.