he only hears the knock on the door because he’s straining for it, because he’d much rather hear a knock on the door than the reports quietly trickling from the speakers of his television. a hundred and fifty people dead. another hundred injured. here’s a clip of the events sent in my one of our viewers. be warned, the content is graphic and may not be appropriate for the faint of heart.
it’s primetime news turned into a shit show, a snuff film for the masses, and it makes him sick to his stomach. his own memories of hearing distant explosions from the questionably safe confines of his workplaces start meshing with witness accounts and police reports and with the way his hands shake at the recollection, someone might think he was actually there.
he was supposed to be cooking dinner, but recipes and half-chopped vegetables lay long forgotten somewhere in his kitchen and not in his thoughts, not when he’s afraid to leave his apartment, afraid of the day black lotus shows up on his doorstep to paint floors red with him this time.
the knock on his door is a welcome relief, prince’s sharp bark at the noise pulling him out of his trance. he wipes his hands against his jeans, as if that’ll stop the slight tremor, before making his way to the door and opening it, a small exhale of relief escaping him, as if he was expecting death himself to be on his doorstep.
“no, no, it’s okay,” he reassures, stepping out of the way to make room for her to enter, “i know how busy you are. it’s good to see you.” safe and alive and not in the midst of the deadly chaos that is this godforsaken city.
“i haven’t started cooking yet,” he admits with subdued sheepishness, “i, uh…i got distracted.”
“i would have told you but my phone ran out of battery,” she explains, rather sheepishly as she steps into the apartment. though, she is careful to place herself behind hanbin, knowing well that his mongrel pet held a disdain for her. the feeling was mutual, but she always manages to hide her scorn with a facade of skittish fear.
“still doesn’t like me, does he?” qian laughs nervously, watching at the three-legged animal from behind the protection of hanbin’s shoulder. they once joked prince never liked her because she must have secretly reeked of death and destruction. it wasn’t entirely off, and if it truly were the case, at least the hound of hades would have some use in warding off other potential miscreants. at least, one could only hope.
her hands wrap around herself instinctively at the final breeze of cold air rushing into the apartment, gooseflesh forming beneath the fabric of her blouse. “don’t worry about it,” she dismisses with a wave, studying his face with doe eyes. traces of anxiety and weariness peeked through and she manages a small frown. “you want me to help? what are you making?”
