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@nchaejin
smerks
scarred memories.
nckiyoon:
@nchaejin
he grits his bloody teeth as he runs towards the perpetrator. with the metal pipe found close to him in hand, he swings horizontally, hoping to disarm him before he could attack him any longer. the pipe strikes at the other hand protecting the other. kiyoon, more confident than he should have, exposed his arm to a deep gash on his right forearm. he stood back and swung again, quickly disarming the other. quick on their feet, kiyoon watches as the enemy runs away, leaving a wounded soldier with a woman he’s unfamiliar with. it’s a common situation for him- protecting someone he doesn’t know. but as long as he has knowledge of their connection with the yuripa, he will not question his actions.
with heavy breaths, he drops the metal pipe and picks up the knife in order to leave little evidence at the scene (he will have to have someone clear the blood up later). kiyoon holds a firm posture as he walks towards the woman, adrenaline withstanding the pain that will soon surge throughout his whole entire arm in a few minutes. in the mean time, he escorts the woman closer to yuripa’s premises, his attention centered more on their surroundings rather than his injury or the woman’s possible injuries she might have. in his mind, it’s more important to rush to safety than worry of the harm done.
inside, kiyoon stops halfway, grunting to himself in pain. “are you okay?” his grim demeanor fades slightly whenever he speaks for his words are formal with a voice pained and gentle at the same time. his arm begins to shake the longer he stands there, but kiyoon is taught to persevere until the target is in a safe state. he conceals his arm behinds the other and keeps his eyes on her to distract her from his injuries. his eyes find more than her eyes, but a familiarity in her features that he could not pin point in such a ragged state. perhaps she is nobody. perhaps it’s his injury is playing tricks on him again.
a jab lands against her jaw the very moment the world goes still — along with it, the air from her lungs, senses seized by true, unadulterated terror. she barely discerns the unsheathing of a knife behind rapidly blinking eyes, the quickening pace of shoes against pavement: in these prolonged, almost cruel, last seconds, her thoughts travel to how pathetic the entire situation has become. to be slaughtered under an icy moon, cradled by nothing but the warmth of her own blood? fate really is a brutal thing, the image of death an abrupt visitation. then — a dark figure uptakes her vision, the blade’s sharp gleam flung into the shadows. her feet shuffle back, heart pulsating wildly, attention rattled by this intrepid interference. a brief scuffle and just like that, the fury that had targeted her life disappears.
her recovery is quick, awareness returned to familiar acuteness, yet there’s a humiliation that stings her. she tries, desperately, to shrug off those last few minutes of utter helplessness, though by the time the man has returned them both to safety, choi haejin has taken form once again. “thank you,” she breathes, looking up for the first time at his taller frame, lips parting just slightly when coming to the realization of who, exactly, she faces. this time, her fortune takes shape in a tall and perplexing individual, an enigma of sorts surrounded by secrets and hearsay. nam kiyoon: the prodigal guardian, a name that has never failed to prove its worth. his instinct, she’s heard, is unparalleled — reflexes rendered so sharp that it was once a silly rumor that even a fruit fly could not make it safely past. no wonder he was so easily able to overcome the prior encounter.
yet there’s always been something about kiyoon that she could never place a finger on, an intrinsic ache despite only have encountered him in passing. the few times they spoke were in the contact of eyes, a small dip of the chin, bowing to the same kingpin of the same empire that gave them mercy. so really, not ever. now the fragmented pieces of his image manifest before her, a soothing voice filling the space between them. “you’re bleeding,” she observes, ( since a while ago, when the only things she could see were his shoulders and the incision he seemed so concentrated on concealing ), not really answering the question, sure that the rawness near her neck will dissipate in a few days’ time.
but his arm would need immediate attention if he wishes to keep it. almost hesitantly, haejin steps closer, ignoring the growing volume of laboured breaths and her quickening pulse. the faint agony in his expression makes her wonder why he would try to hide his source of pain, but more than anything, they both know she now owes him a debt of the highest price. “can i take a look?” mentally, she pleads that he’ll comply.
↺ pastorale
ncyeonju:
“helps me focus,” she speaks between interludes of ditties, fingers tugging up her rolled sleeve further to reveal four nicotine patches arranged neatly down the soft of her inner arm. there is no particular need for explanation, but yeonju strives for conversation in between the cutting and twisting and bone breaking and whatever.
anything to better distract her from the crack of bone—the lurch in her gut—and strong metallic tang of blood.
notably, if she could get high (which she had, but only served to further upset her already sensitive stomach), she would.
“you should try it sometime.” perhaps it is ill-mannered (almost crude) to speak to the man cuffed to the chair, but what else could she do? when his one working eye remained fixated on her the entire time. pleading for mercy yeonju simply could not give.
but that is the line of occupation she chooses and this man—whatever it may be that led him down to being cuffed to this exact room (she’s sure haejin has mentioned it, yeonju simply hadn’t listened)—is here for a reason.
though sad, tragic, and thoroughly regrettable—it was still none of her business.
in fact, most of yeonju’s responsibilities now (at least for tonight) centers only around keeping stomach contents in and the chances of last time slim.
“so,” the woman swallows the bit of bile pooling at the back of her throat and replaces it with a cough, pushing thick black shades further up her nose at the start of another sonata. pastorale. as if she hadn’t already committed to memory (and association) every allegro and every cut into skin. absolutely revolting. “how much longer?” her veins itch for reprieve, fingers rubbing at her nose absently, the faint scent of nicotine has her twisting with ache. maybe she should have opted for another patch.
“because our dinner reservation is at 8 and i would like to go before i shoot up out of boredom.”
yeonju bites out a smile, arguably lopsided and not the slightest bit shamed. till this day it’s still a wonder as to who guards who.
—tagging @nchaejin
she can afford barely a glimpse in yeonju’s direction before a rough collision of flesh erupts against her recently buffed ( and previously spotless ) granite tiles. chopin bleeds into the chipper keys of beethoven’s sixth symphony, seemingly quickening the pace at which a familiar, viscous substance creeps across the floor. an irritated, measured breath — “if he wasn’t being so difficult, i’m sure we’d be well on our way,” eyeing the tan patches flush with her arm. it’s presumption that these means of temporary assuage are enough to pacify her escort’s more...urgent needs — not that haejin would reprimand her for substituting impatience with ecstasy.
more importantly, the man’s made a mess at her feet ( somehow deciding that flipping himself backward was the best chance at relief ), the chair’s framed backing reduced to splintered smithereens beneath his bulk. prior contact to the face now blooms in spotted hues of purple && pink, wrists and ankles chafed so terribly that they begin to blacken. his jaw, looser, perhaps a painful ramification of excess rough-handling, presses against the floor. haejin can’t help but indulge in the comicality of the scene, resting hands slick with blood on the table.
she’ll admit he might’ve once been appealing ( “it’s a shame it’s this face we’re breaking,” she’d observed when yeonju had been helping organize an impressive supply of mints and fresheners ), but with eyes bloodshot and barely visible under swollen tissue, pointed not at his tormentor but rather toward her less maniacal companion, haejin finds her sympathy running increasingly thin. “that’s quite unfortunate. i’m afraid his immobility will prevent him from trying out anything, anytime soon.”
work, play — it’s all indistinguishable. at the end of the day one large assemblage of perverse pleasure, in the same manner her top 100 playlist of euphonious classics blends into a single tremendous && fiery sonata. but haejin hasn’t yet wrung out the confession she wants. perhaps it would be wise to hope for better results in the morning. with a deliberate nudge of her heel, haejin rolls him to the other side.
“yeonju-yah, i’m so sorry to ask this of you — just try not to look... you know, down. at him. anywhere.” tilts her head toward this grisly presentation, then at the elevated surface nearby. “i need help. how much do your shades dim the colors?” as if that would help. delicately, haejin extends a fresh pair of latex gloves toward the woman, ignoring the tickling of rogue flyaways against her cheek. it would constitute a victory if they make it to dinner with stomachs intact.
✉ ⁇ ✘ @ % ♀
WASN’T SENT.
DRAFT( 제원 )don’t make this harder than it already is.
ø%
LATE NIGHT.
00:22( → 김 미란 ) it’s only due courtesy to return what doesn’t belong to you ( → 김 미란 ) sleep tight, kim miran.
CURIOUS
2047, 15:41( → 김 미란 ) why do u even stay for the trouble( → 김 미란 ) cop life must really be that tormenting 16:09 ( → 김 미란 ) i wonder what’s in it for you
✆ / ø / @ / & / % / ツ
MORNING.
06:29 ( → ㅎㅎㅎ) forgot to close the window last night( → ㅎㅎㅎ) did u catch a cold( → ㅎㅎㅎ)ㅋㅋ ( → ㅎㅎㅎ) wait fck of course u didn’t
rpmememaker:
Send “✆” for a MORNING text. Send “✉” for a text that WASN’T SENT. Send “☎” for a RUSHED text. Send “⁇” for a DRUNK text. Send “✿” for a SUGGESTIVE text. Send “ø” for a LATE NIGHT text. Send “✘” for a HATEFUL text. Send “#” for a RANDOM text. Send “@” for a SCARED text. Send “&” for a LOVING text. Send “%” for a CURIOUS text. Send “ツ” for an EXCITED text. Send “$” for an ACCIDENTAL text. Send “♀” for a HEARTBREAKING text.
requiem
@ncjude
despite the shouldering exhaustion from what seemed like hours of perpetuated cruelty, any && all chances at sleep have effectively evaded haejin for a third night. it’s always been this way, spinning around a self-destructive, overtaxing schedule, yet nevertheless fervently chasing what has proved itself a potent diversion. hands itch for constant involvement, mind illuminated by the clustering of streak-like thoughts. the law-abiding, reputable atmosphere of legality faces little qualms when shifting to more sinister, dissolute forms of preoccupation.
because as they say, bad habits die hard — or more accurately, bad hobbies. the notion of much needed repose unceremoniously takes shape in the thick shadows of yuripa’s beloved torture chamber. she would indulge in the deep, rumbling noises of panicked terror that hurls into every corner, dragging nails across skin && bearing particular affection for the way the room morphs under her dominion: a malleable, conceding abyss where even faint utterances grow absolute. more than anything, there’s reprieve in this wickedness, in her wickedness, and while sleep is a solemn visitor, darkness is made far less lonely in the underground layers neighboring the clearview hotel.
nowhere out of her usual, yet fluctuating, routine was she expecting him. then again, long months have passed since she last saw him, remembering only a fleeting encounter in which the pressing urgency of time spared them little mercy. she still mulls over the impossibility of him, fearing the chances that something so brief and transient could’ve simply manifested out of her imagination. the days, then weeks, then seasons that followed thereafter spent themselves not without some form of expectancy, a constant watchfulness she hoped would discern the moment his face appeared once again.
after all, he's alive. and here of all places, so close in proximity to the flesh of yuripa operations. he is so close in proximity, nearly unmistakable even when the boyish features of the past have morphed into more sophisticated contours, and the manner in which he carries himself seems to have turned half-circle. the sure sight of jiho sends electric snaps down her spine — but hesitation and some sense of foreboding premonition withholds her movement. all so suddenly conscious of how her scent of lavender is penetrated by a distinctive metallic coating: the stickiness of blood stained fabric against her skin, concealed only with the navy material of an overcoat. instinctively, haejin shoves her freshly scrubbed hands, still pink from a prior excursion, into her pockets, quelling their slight tremble.
howdie ! i present you choi haejin, ur resident doctor awake and ready to snap 24/7 :^)) also known as the hanged man. breifo summary of this lil lady below:
Seo Ye Ji - Arena Homme Plus Magazine September Issue ‘17