the man in front of him was baring his teeth, snapping. there’s a dark flame burning in his eyes, and in it a strange desperation to consume all that it can reach. they are opaque mirrors that consume taekwoon and spit him back out mangled, and in his mind, he wished to shrink into a corner and hope that the attractive man would forget he was there in the first place.
but his feet remain unmoving from where they stand, and, to put it simply, he is talked at. it was as if he had stopped in time the moment he had stepped outside his room, for his blank expression had remained the same as the minutes passed.
( a wolf, cornered by a hyena. a strange sight, wasn’t it? )
it is only when the words “sociopath” and “murderer” run by him that something flickers inside him - an incomprehensible amalgamation of displeasure and fear - and he growls back. it is then that he realizes that fingers are being pointed.
( his mind screams flight, but a world where fight is the only way to avoid being convicted of manslaughter, he is forced to stand his ground. )
he wants to hiss back at the man, to ask him what warrant he could possibly have to approach him on such grounds.
this wasn’t an interrogation. it was an accusation.
but he tames his anger as quickly as it flares up, and instead avoids the butler’s gaze.
“no.” he speaks evenly, calmly.
no, he was not a sociopath. no, he was not the murderer.
he had simply found himself in the ballroom in an attempt to put his mind at ease, but here he was, denying the other male’s allegation as if he had been framed.
it is only natural that no one was to be left alone, for a depraved crime had just been committed in this very household, and among all those fingers pointed were their twelve owners, all of which were deemed equally suspect.
it was always much harder to prove innocence than guilt, wouldn’t you agree?
even then, there was something terribly sinister about the context of the arrangement. it was, to some degree, what you would call a randomized controlled trial - mixing and matching innocents with the guilty in hopes of finding a particular reaction (namely, another murder) that reveals their presence. in other words, it was a strategy to determine who the killer was, was it not?
nevertheless, he is not particularly surprised at the declaration; more so the assignments.
ji changwook. a charity organizer.
there was something about running a business that was akin to making it a rumor mill, and no matter how vehemently he would deny participating in any form of gossip, for gossip was always an antecedent to drama - the petty, relationship-ruining little thing it was - what has been heard cannot be unheard.
he did not sound like a bad man, yet those who did not sound like bad men were rarely good men; in fact, yang had sounded like a good man, but here he was, a cold corpse lying in a cold mansion teeming with people who had enough reason to do more than just hurt him.
and who knew about the rumors that had reached the man that were about taekwoon himself?
(not that he cared for them - or ever would - of course.)
there is a guarded way to his actions, and as he opens the bedroom door, maybe expecting to be held at gunpoint just a little, he is instead met with a calm man on the other side of the room and a -
what the hell?
there is a small ball of fur making the smallest indent on the sheets of what he would assume was his bed. its tail is tucked in neatly, and its back rises and falls at a leisurely pace, as if taking a comfortable nap.
the unfazed expression on the other male’s face is enough to get him to briefly wonder if he might actually have to compete with the creature for a mattress that was probably meant for him in the first place, and he lets out a quiet huff, perplexed. he wasn’t disgusted, per say; it was actually quite cute and rather cleanly looking, but it was literally right in the middle of the entire bed, and looked as if it could drown within the layers of blankets it laid on top of.
so he raises his voice just the slightest (his indoor voice, he found, was more of a library voice than anything else), and speaks with caution as to not wake the small animal up.
“um.” once he catches the man’s attention, he gestures at it, as if trying to make a point.
hello - i’m stone canon / taekwoon’s mun, pika! i’m super excited to be part of conundrum~ i look forward to working with everyone!
with that being said, this here is also a plot call! i did put up a plot page here, but i’m always open to individual brainstorming (nevertheless, the chance that i’ve already messaged you is quite high hehe) ^^
i’ll also provide some trivia under the cut to introduce his character a little better!
vv easily misunderstood because he’s terrible at having conversations with strangers ngl
barely speaks and people are either scared of him or initially don’t like him very much because they think he’s looking down on them or that he thinks them a waste of his time (read: he seems like the rich condescending type but he’s really n o t)
actually super chill and docile - like a tamed wolf (no seriously when he’s mad he's more likely to growl than shout) and isn’t into fighting so if you’re not constantly on his case it’s hard to get on his bad side
has a bad opinion of manipulative or particularly sly people tho (although he’ll mostly just be like //squints eyes at you and judges//)
(no one knows this except for people who’ve witnessed it but he’s weak against animals and children especially children he loves them a lot and kind of just mel ts and turns mushy whenever they’re around)
(likewise he can get really attached to and protective of people he considers to be innocent and pure but you didn’t hear that from m e)
basically the whole super-scary-and-tough-looking-giant-but-actually-too-soft-to-hurt-a-fly trope
but but but he gets vv guarded whenever anyone mentions the failure of his business venture because although it only made a minor dent in the jung family fortune he considers failure the root of sin and all vices and because of his strict childhood he can get incredibly unstable whenever the topic is pressed
coughs aka when he’s reminded of it (see: mr. yang) he becomes a tad bit unpredictable no one knows how he’ll act (then again most people don’t know him that well nevertheless s o)
but yes! ; 7 ; again i’m glad to be here with all you lovely people~
thank you for stopping by and feel free to hmu whenever!
he is a man of light footsteps, a flitting thing that is never quite there.
he had always been a child of bated and controlled movements despite being the tallest of his classmates; it was as if his body had conceded to every whim of his mind, the words that screamed at him to just go away, to disappear and never come back.
he was a pretty doll, with a sown cherry mouth and eyes of extinguished stars that proved him to be of one and only use: to be brought to tea parties as an obligatory guest and talked at, and then tucked away into a box in the closet once he was outgrown.
nothing but ears. that's what jung taekwoon is.
so surely no one cared if he was a little late, right?
it is a languid, drawn out thought that never quite reaches his lips and instead settles on reverberating through his head.
in fact, it wouldn't make much of a difference if he didn't show up at all.
but he knew better. there were only a handful of them, and in his mind's eye, he imagined a cold, empty seat among all the sullen shadows.
he may be translucent, but he is not transparent; a semi-ghost, if you will. a man too afraid of death to die, and yet, a man with no reason to live.
the words flutter throughout his conscience as he stands up from the bed, checkered suit still just as crisp and pristine as it had been when he first stepped foot in the household, and takes a faltering step towards the door.
so far, so good.
the lavish room is quieter than a morgue, full of living corpses. he spends much of the dinner undisturbed, simply biding his time until yang showed face.
sorry, mr. yang.
he can't help but watch solemnly as a few of the guests begin to scatter, creating more vacant spaces at the table.
taekwoon takes a small sip from the wine glass carefully balanced between his fingers, side eyeing the flurry of pure white crystals that was making its way down to the earth through the window.
a storm is coming.
he takes no notice of - or, perhaps, simply ignores - the tension that swallows the atmosphere whole and spits it back out as thick and foul air, bearable yet barely breathable. the others that remained were slowly asphyxiated, impatience turning into discomfort and discomfort twisting into unrest.
there is something very wrong.
he thinks this as he gently sets the half empty glass on the tablecloth, straight lined mouth growing ever straighter.
where is he?
something in him tells him to go searching for the missing host, but it is quickly snuffed out. jung taekwoon is a patient man; he works at his own pace, and perhaps yang does as well.
so he sits there calmly, facial expression completely unchanged except for the smallest tightening of his lips, unnoticeable unless one was scrutinizing him with the utmost caution.
and he waits.
it is a piercing sound of complete and utter shock, devoid of any semblance to coherent wording.
the scream is more of distress than anything else, with a hint of thoroughly perturbing terror; he acts immediately, pushing his chair back as he stands.
the room empties within a matter of seconds, for the guests were eager to escape the thick water of anticipation and an unsettling premonition. he is the last to leave, in fact, for although he knew things were most certainly not going as planned, he does not wish to make a scene.
he only makes it a few feet down the hall when he hears glass shattering and choked gasps, and spots a crowd of confused men and women huddling around a doorway.
it is only until he sees the body, hovering over the procession just the slightest, that his eyes widen and faded rose lips part to blurt out a quiet exclamation.
(so shocked was he, for taekwoon rarely speaks, and yet, here he was, wasting his breath on saying something insignificant and most of all, useless.)
"my-"
the first syllable weakly makes it into the air before his throat tightens and he is suddenly unable to speak.
god.
deep down inside, he trembles, because no matter how clean the murder was, it was still a murder, the killing of a human by another human, a betrayal to their own race. someone like that was there, right in front of him.
but his external shock recedes as quickly as it forms, and in the blink of an eye, his expression is blank once again.
someone,
one of them was pretending.
someone...
a soft sigh escapes his mouth, as if trying to dismiss the situation - anything to keep the meltdown within cold and contained.
but they were all pretending, weren't they?
there are eyes of fear, and shock, perhaps even joy, but not grief, and as much as he wanted to be horrified at the fact that no one really cared, he couldn't.
wealthy people always died lonely.
so he takes a deep breath, and watches silently from afar.
today, one of them is dead, and another is a murderer.
