Ngc - 6853, established in 2024.
Woven in league with @/ngc - 6802, @/ngc - 7052 as well as @/hd - 340611.

祝日 / Permanent Vacation
noise dept.
taylor price
hello vonnie

No title available
Sade Olutola

Kiana Khansmith
No title available
Not today Justin

titsay
d e v o n
todays bird
almost home
Peter Solarz
i don't do bad sauce passes

★

pixel skylines
Xuebing Du
Three Goblin Art
NASA
seen from Brazil
seen from Germany
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seen from United States
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seen from United States
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seen from Türkiye

seen from Malaysia

seen from Netherlands
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seen from Netherlands

seen from Türkiye
seen from United States

seen from United States

seen from United States
seen from United States
@ngc-6853
Ngc - 6853, established in 2024.
Woven in league with @/ngc - 6802, @/ngc - 7052 as well as @/hd - 340611.
Diclaimer: please be advised that though inspiration has been drawn from real-life figures, Yang Nayoon is fictional, set in a fictionalised world of figure skating, and the below profile is merely a by-product of that world.
⁽ᵃ⁾ Yang Nayoon was born on January 31, 2000 — at the age of three, in 2003, she started skating.
────────────────── categorised among South Korea's female figure skaters in the category of female single skaters.
⁽ᵇ⁾ At the age of thirteen, in 2013, Yang became known as Miss Axel for her ability to jump and land her axels ("A")¹ , but most famously the triple axel ("3A")², to near perfection — it is the consistency of her triple axel ("3A"), however, that marked her career.
At the age of twenty-one, in 2021, Yang was recorded to have landed the most triple axels ("3A's") in the ladies' category, out of which eighteen ("18") were produced in the short program³ and thirty-three ("33") in free skate⁴, totaling an amount of fifty-one ("51").
Moreover, Yang's skating was not merely marked by her axles ("A"), or, triple axels ("3A's"), but by its seamlessness, speed, step sequences ("StSq")⁵, and spins (layback ("LSp")⁶, haircutter⁷, Biellmann spins⁸...).
────────────────── (notable...) coaches: Kim Yookyung⁹, Kwang Katherine
────────────────── (notable...) choreographers: ████ █
⁽ᶜ⁾ At the age of twenty, in 2020, Yang was awarded the International Skating Union ("ISU") Figure Skating Award in the category of Most Valuable Skater.
⁽ᵈ⁾ Yang was peculiar, albeit particular — she did not wear white skaters without skate covers, ideally nude, preferring the whiteness of the skate not be visible.
Nevertheless, Yang did only train in (pale, pastel...) blue.
Her, usually, self-selected outfits on ice, however, varied, though black was preferred.
⁽ᵉ⁾ Her programs, on one hand, existed on the edge of elegance — its artistry carefully crafted to evoke deep emotion in her audience. This effect was all the more striking given Yang’s own restrained demeanor — she rarely displayed overt emotion, save for shows of gratitude.
On the other hand, her performance at the Olympic Exhibition Gala, in 2018, marked a sharp departure from that signature style. It was unorthodox—playful but laced with provocation—and stood in contrast to the emotional gravity of her competitive programs. The routine sparked discussion online and offline, with some netizens even interpreting it as, potentially, politically charged.
Since 2018, however, her style has evolved — it, deliberately, became a fusion of the two. A dark, albeit emotionally resonant core heaped with moments of daring, expressive playfulness.
⁽ᶠ⁾ In 2017, Yang won the title of World Champion in the World Figure Skating Championships in the category of ladies' with a score of two hundred seventy-seven and twenty-two hundredths ("277.22"). The title, and the record-breaking score it produced—being the highest ever recorded by a female figure skater in competition, surpassing her own previous record of two hundred seventy and two hundredths ("270.02") set the year prior at the World Junior Figure Skating Championships—catapulted her to an unprecedented level of fame for a figure skater, amassing a nine point nine ("9.9") million followers on Instagram by the end of 2017.
⁽ᵍ⁾ During her free skate in 2018, Yang was showered in a show of arctic fox plushies — most of which were donated, some of which were kept. The whole ordeal, subsequently, became known as her "Arctic rain".
⁽ʰ⁾ In the aftermath of the 2018 Winter Olympics, Yang was recognised as one of South Korea’s most influential figures and was dubbed an “It Girl” — a label typically reserved for K-pop idols.
────────────────── (notable...) competitions:
South Korean Figure Skating Championships ⁽²⁰¹⁰⁾, in the category of "Junior Ladies" ⁽¹⁾
South Korean Figure Skating Championships ⁽²⁰¹¹⁾, in the category of "Junior Ladies" ⁽¹⁾
South Korean Figure Skating Championships ⁽²⁰¹³⁾, in the category of "Junior Ladies" ⁽¹⁾
International Skating Union ("ISU") Junior Grand Prix ⁽²⁰¹³⁾/⁽²⁰¹⁴⁾, in the category of "Junior Ladies" ⁽¹⁾
World Junior Figure Skating Championships ⁽²⁰¹⁴⁾, in the category of "Junior Ladies" ⁽¹⁾
International Skating Union ("ISU") Junior Grand Prix ⁽²⁰¹⁴⁾/⁽²⁰¹⁵⁾, in the category of "Junior Ladies" ⁽¹⁾
International Skating Union ("ISU") Junior Grand Prix ⁽²⁰¹⁵⁾/⁽²⁰¹⁶⁾, in the category of "Junior Ladies" ⁽¹⁾
World Junior Figure Skating Championships ⁽²⁰¹⁶⁾, in the category of "Junior Ladies" ⁽¹⁾
South Korean Figure Skating Championships ⁽²⁰¹⁷⁾, in the category of "Ladies" ⁽¹⁾
Four Continents Figure Skating Championships ⁽²⁰¹⁷⁾, in the category of "Ladies" ⁽¹⁾
World Figure Skating Championships ⁽²⁰¹⁷⁾, in the category of "Ladies" ⁽¹⁾
International Skating Union ("ISU") Grand Prix ⁽²⁰¹⁷⁾/⁽²⁰¹⁸⁾, in the category of "Ladies" ⁽¹⁾
South Korean Figure Skating Championships ⁽²⁰¹⁸⁾, in the category of "Ladies" ⁽¹⁾
Olympic Winter Games ⁽²⁰¹⁸⁾, in the category of "Ladies" ⁽²⁾
World Figure Skating Championships ⁽²⁰¹⁸⁾, in the category of "Ladies" ⁽¹⁾
International Skating Union ("ISU") Grand Prix ⁽²⁰¹⁸⁾/⁽²⁰¹⁹⁾, in the category of "Ladies" ⁽¹⁾
South Korean Figure Skating Championships ⁽²⁰¹⁹⁾, in the category of "Ladies" ⁽¹⁾
International Skating Union ("ISU") Grand Prix ⁽²⁰¹⁹⁾/⁽²⁰²⁰⁾, in the category of "Ladies" ⁽²⁾
South Korean Figure Skating Championships ⁽²⁰²⁰⁾, in the category of "Ladies" ⁽¹⁾
World Figure Skating Championships ⁽²⁰²⁰⁾, in the category of "Ladies" ⁽¹⁾
International Skating Union ("ISU") Grand Prix ⁽²⁰²⁰⁾/⁽²⁰²¹⁾, in the category of "Ladies" ⁽¹⁾
South Korean Figure Skating Championships ⁽²⁰²¹⁾, in the category of "Ladies" ⁽¹⁾
────────────────── up to date, Yang has never finished off of the podium.
¹ The only rotational jump counted as a jump element that starts with a forward approach. An Axel jump has an extra half rotation, one hundred eighty ("180") degrees, and is landed with the skater gliding backwards.
² A jump with three full rotations, one thousand eighty ("1080") degrees, in the air. The triple Axel requires the skater to complete three point five ("3.5") revolutions, one thousand two hundred sixty ("1260") degrees.
³ The first and shorter of the two programs performed at a competition. This program has certain required elements that must be completed.
⁴ Also known as the free skate, free program. The second of the two programs performed at a competition is unofficially known as the long program. Historically, a term for the segment of a figure skating competition that was not compulsory figures.
⁵ A series of footwork and field moves.
⁶ An upright spin position in which the back is arched and the head is dropped back, with the free leg bent behind, and the arms often stretched to the ceiling or arched overhead.
⁷ A catch-foot layback spin where the free leg is brought up to head level, but not above. In some cases, the head is dropped back, and it appears that the skate blade is in a position to cut the hair of the skater performing the spin.
⁸ A catch-foot position where the free leg is pulled above the head from behind. Can be either a spin or a spiral position. By regulation, a spin becomes a Biellmann at the moment the skate passes over the level of the head.
⁹ Kim Yookyung is a former South Korean figure skater and a three-time World Champion, having won the title in the World Figure Skating Championships in the category of Ladies in 1966, 1968, and 1969. Yookyung is the paternal grandmother of Yang Nayoon. In 2009, Yookyung became Yang's legal guardian.
────────────────── sources: ████ █, ████ █
There was a stiffness to her body, seemingly, only noticeable to her — a quiet, albeit insistent, tension seeping past epimysium, and settling deep into the bone. To the eye of an observer, Yang Nayoon moved as she always did: spine long, shoulders pulled back, maneuvering the ice in a silent show of confidence of one in incontestable control of their movements. It came at a cost, however. A combination came out slightly under-rotated at first, and, as expected, her coach—the Kim Yookyung—would not have let her leave the rink until it was not. It was a simple request, straightforward, really: to carve the combination into muscle, and memory, and that immediately. So she did.
The memory of sleep surged through morning to afternoon, light hanging low, soft, but, supposedly, borrowed.
It is how she spotted her at the center of the ice, mid-movement, a figure belonging to rhythm rather than stillness. February appeared to afford her the last rays of sunshine—it was a scarce resource during this season—and for a moment that was neither too short to register, nor too long to doubt, time stilled. Marguerite. The season’s contender for gold. Same as her. They had been friends once—during their junior years, before rising to their senior ranks turned them into competitors—but nowadays only the mask of friendliness existed between them, a civilness thinly curated for the courtesy of cameras. The facade of being friendly, nevertheless, had become more exhausting over the years, moreso than the real thing, and today, a choice has been made: to actually mean it.
Rapport was built: you skated beautifully today, I thought you should know, and you weren't so bad yourself.
It was not elaborate. Nothing extra. Tittle-tattle. The agreement of amicability hung in the air between them in an abashed sense of awkwardness. It made her want to smile. Almost. Just as awkwardly. “We should go for a jump together — or we can watch them do it," her charcoal grey gaze drifted towards the newly turned seniors, then returned to her, gentle, honed with a hint of fondness, “your choice."
It was the nature of an anomaly — once it happened, it could not unhappen. In fact, it would appear that another was to happen time, and time, and time anew, lurking just around the corner, waiting, patiently, for its predecessor to take its course. This was such an abnormality.
The question had been asked. The answer assigned. Allegedly. The figure—who?—frowned, features immaculate, though indifferent. “To fate. Really?” a scoff, sardonic. “This is ridiculous,” sounding matter-of-fact, it was spoken in a silent manner — sarcastic, surely, though solicitous. “Do I get to go first?" a suggestion, “or do you?” It did not deny. It did not invite. The personal belief of believe versus not believe become of no importance in the grand scheme of things. It, conclusively, didn’t matter if one did or didn’t believe in what other had to say, what mattered was was this: this was a game, and the game bid her to play. Nova couldn’t pinpoint what or why it was, but felt she would find out, and that she would find out soon — and then, apparently, did.
@delicategods texted: do you know anything about doing stitches? I may have swung the bat the wrong way
TEXT: you beat someone up with a bat?
TEXT: classy
TEXT: what exactly do you need from me? A wikiHow?
It was not entirely horrible — this fox deal. The acknowledgement did not go further than that. No deeper meaning. The mind, deliberate in its quiet act of self-defense, did not allow for remembrance, amnesiac in its precision to narrow its focus on a singular directive: survival. Only the rescue was recalled. Clear in memory. Him. Existing, solely, in the dim margins of subconscious—not in focal awareness—was everything else. Indirect. Indistinct. Fragmented. It lingered at the rim of reminiscence, but never fully emerged into thought. It was, seemingly, not permitted to. In the few days she has spent at the safe house, however, there was never a need to revisit that night — the phantom pain of limbs tearing, the splintering of bones, the body being but a foreign object, hers and, simultaneously, not hers. It was unnecessary to bear the weight of it, let alone grieve what—who—had happened to her. She was not ready to face the reality of it yet, and besides, here, she was safe. A pretty thing at the tapestry of molded walls, a caved-in roof, and rot. She was fed. Warm. Well-kept, in every way that had come to matter. He was kind to her. Kinder than most ever cared to be.
In dreams alone, while curled up next to him—though neither appeared to be familiar with peaceful sleep, but rather the price of it—did that night return to her. Snippets. Shards. Bits and pieces. Soon to-be swallowed in the early light of morning's maw.
No promotion suggested that this dawnbreak would be any different. In all respects, it was an accident — indicating no apparent trigger, it, just, transpired. The transformation. One moment, she was asleep. The other, she was not. An appendage lengthened, then another. Limbs adjusted. White-wrought wintertide blurred black, bistre—no longer fur, but hair—adapting a thick, and in texture loosely curving s-pattern. The charcoal gaze remained. It is how he found her: small, back, still, pressed against the wall, barren with her legs pulled up to her chest. Covered, scarcely, by the cascading of hair over unclad skin. He must have, concurrently, left and returned before dawn.
Time, however, escaped her. Altogether. The body, on autopilot, became centered on a continual sequence of breathing in, and out. She did not move. Could not move. Feeling disconnected from the ability to fully possess her being—this body disobeyed her—trembling.
Grey locked into hazel — the ask assembled its answer. “I was here.” Etched into her features were signs of shock: she was pale, cold, her breathing rapid, albeit shallow. Their eyes met, but hers looked through him moreso than at him. “I. Was. Here.” Each word landed heavier than its predecessor. In an instant, on the the last syllable, the air changed—thickening with a sudden, sizzling charge—pressing into the skin, electric and stifling. Something moved. A tail came forward, then another, nine in total. The force with which they lounged ahead, in a single, sweeping motion, was enough to send an unsuspecting person hurtling off of their feet without resistance.
I was here. I was here. I was here. I was here. I was here. I was here. I was here. I was here. I was here.
@reknight texted: I didn't say anything because I didn't want to argue.
TEXT: you should've said something
TEXT: I don't get it
TEXT: I don't have to move out if you don't want me to, but I thought you wanted me to
@ngc-7052 texted: Have you seen the news?
TEXT: I haven't
TEXT: am I on the news? Is Nari?
TEXT: the two of us?
Paralysis. Instant immobilisation — a physical plane, apparently, painted immotile. Its physique. Its psyche.
The vague, negative of a self remained. The sole sign of her continued presence in the moment became marked, only, by the body: upright, breathing, bearing its being in unmasked blackout. The apparition of an after-image in the aftermath of light imprinting in the vision when overstaying its welcome. She was there. She was not there. The shell wherein she resided, seemingly, but an anchor to day, date and place. Her mind strained. It raced—hopelessly—to seek shelter from the weight of its momentary reality with desperate precision. It never fled too far, just far enough to drift at the edge of dissociation — finding solace in a space where time stilled, disconnected from its immediate surroundings without, subsequently, unreservedly severing its ties to it. In one instant, the awareness of her actions was apparent—a subtle tension to her shoulders, jaw-tightening, head tilting to the side— the other, it was not.
A scent enveloped her. Sanguine, suffusing the air, steel-sharp, and stubborn. It entered sight, hearing, smell, taste, and touch — until it was all she was able to perceive. Blood.
Here, an honest hesitation: she knew it to be what it was, undeniably, simultaneously, however, would not accept it.
Her gaze drifted downward to where the droplets gathered, and fell. They appeared to slither along her hand—or rather she swore they did it—gleaming like rubies in the harsh artificial light. Red. Nova watched. Saw it happen. Observed the path each drop pawed on her skin, the way they curved alongside it, where the beads fell, and how some would fall faster than the others. An attempt at racionalising had been made. The hand was not hers, it could not have been, and it did dawn on her, also, that she had bitten herself. It must have been that. The realisation prompted a hand to travel up her mouth — to halt mid-way. Absent-minded, the hand, slowly, ever-so-slow, fell back.
It was not hers, the redness, it belonged to the man whose heart was, haphazardly, cast at Hyeonju’s feet. It was that which mortified — not the loss of his life, albeit the gravity of her insolence. Eyes widened. Colour, hesitant, initially, crept back into face. A blink. Another. The raw, simmering anger etched into her features did not dissipate entirely, nevertheless, reluctantly, a nod in acknowledgement at the lesson was given.
Do not make a habit of throwing your scraps at me. If you’ve no use for it, then get rid of it and do it yourself.
“You're right,” it was her manner of apologising, without many words as witness, merely accepting of not being the one who spoke true, while the other was, “I shouldn't have done that — but I'm not done just yet.” A heel-turn, accompanied by motion of her hand: minimal, almost motionless. “I did my homework — he has a brother, after him, we can go to the concert, I promise.” As if meant to say 'lesson learned', in one motion, light swallowed the evidence on her fingers in its entirety, and in the other, it drew an invisible wall between the rooftop and the crime scene where onlookers have already started to gather. “We should go.”
The memory sat at the edge of her memoir’s dossier, engraved in the walls of remembrance, it bloomed not unlike the scent of apple blossoms — a memory of a house, or, rather, a home. A child’s laughter came to her, and just as that, she was three again, her fingers entwined around what was to become an apple, eager, ever-so-eager, to show the tree’s bloom to her father. She was laughing, then, too, though it was not to last. It became a bit hazy here, the memory but shreds, parts, and pieces. Not enough to form a full picture. She did not recall how she found him, remembering only what the dissatisfaction of his tone, his pointed: why are you picking at the trees, Nayoon? Must you be so disobedient? What would your mother think? This is how the memory ended. The child never picked at the apple trees after, even deciding she does not like apples at all.
As the room became rich in the scent of apple blossoms, the fox inhaled, inhumed by the recollection, however, she decided that she still could not stand spring or apples, or the scent of apple blossoms.
The memory came and went, and Nova found herself debating if an inquiry about the window to be closed would be perceived as impolite. In a daughter-like deference, the young fox decided against asking, feeling no particular need to provide an explanation, the ask was, simply, foregone, although not entirely forgotten.
Nova accepted her momentarily predicament. Her hair was brushed. Her hands were dried. The fox would have been a liar had she said she did not enjoy the care.
It made her wonder: does she see me, or does she see my mother? Her father did. Her absence, one way or the other, was the only form of presence Nova was familiar. Was it to be different now that she was dead? Would she have to re-familiarise herself with a different form of absence altogether? Be it as it was, her mother was dead. Which was easier to come to terms with than the part in which she was the protagonist of mother’s death. A scream tore at her throat from within, an inaudible I am not her, I am but her killer, stop comparing us, but she swallowed the wail, dryly.
In lieu, Nova arched her manicured brow’s at Hyeonju, “romantic?” her tone betrayed no emotion, though the glint in the charcoal grey of her eyes that spoke true to her stubbornness, “sure hope not, it got her killed in the end,” she did.
“Unless you mean romantic in the literary sense,” a small shrug to her shoulders. “ Speaking of romance, tall, dark and handsome, slight stalker tendencies — who is he? ”
Silence. Only the sole, singular sound of stilled step seeping into the edge of existence — this space seemed illusionary. To tell where the illusion started, subsequently, to tell where it, may or may not, have ended was impossible.
One could only walk, with or without a destination in their mind’s eye. The other…. she knew herself to be dreaming. She must have been. Usually, the knowing is when she would have stirred her from sleep. Now, it didn’t. So, she walked. There wasn’t much else to do. It appeared to her that this dreamscape was without an end, and perhaps, it had no beginning, either. She couldn’t tell. Led by curiosity, the fox found herself opening door after door, until, ultimately, she stumbled upon company. Temporarily blinded by what she believed was the dream - like rendition of the sun, she blinked. Once. Twice. Thrice. The prospect of a game, while intriguing, halted her, however. She shook her head. “I don’t know any games." Chess, maybe, if she had to pick one, albeit her ability to win was doubtful — her strategy had been lacking, she could barely recall the names of the individual pieces, and it has been years since she has played it in any serious capacity. Most importantly, it was not in her personality to agree to a losing game. “What sort of game are you proposing?”
The smooth, silken material seemed macabre — a modification masking itself superficial, shallow, indescribably strange. Its intent, seemingly, to merge with its surroundings, wherever, whenever. It felt familiar to her because it was, and though Nova slipped into the fabric with a familiarity of one used to it, the other wasn’t. Nari did not know that where the fiber touched skin, nothing—naught and none—else could. Nari did not know that its seamless softness was but a trickster's play on submission, that though its layers were thin in viscosity, they were virtually indestructible. Invincible. Invisible. Nari did not know. It was the nagging, needlessly noxious timbre lingering in her subconscious that noted: not yet, anyways.
It would become known to her — this was made apparent to her mind's eye when it was not one, but two suits that were passed to her. It was the when that was left unclear. Was she to tell? Wasn't she not to tell? Nova could only assume the latter. It has become a habit to keep quiet about the ins-and-outs of the laboratory.
Tongue-tied, the quest turned silent. Serene. It started to snow earlier in the evening, severely. Headed towards the pass - point in the hold of presumption, it was snowing, still. It didn’t bother her, however. There was no cold. No discomfort, but mere inconvenience of having to physically make the way through the snowstorm: by design, the suit was meant to shield, even and especially from environmental influence. Was Nari beginning to tell? In human understanding, and Nova thought she could call it such, being what she was, the location of the laboratory was quite far, for a human, nevertheless, not for a fox.
The proverbial portal. It was not unlike ley lines. A prominent landmark wherein light was able to be bent, and bent beyond the ability of just light - bending. For all intents and purposes, it was, in fact, a peculiar place. What would stand out to her, in hindsight, would not be the strangeness of this, admittedly, strange of a setting, it would be her tone, the timbre wherein she spoke, starting to sound similar to…. a sole, singular hand shot towards her cousin, seizing her by the wrist and pulling backward. “Yes, Nari, I do know, but what you should know is to be cautious,” the cadence was curt, warning, “one more step sideways and you are out of Hyeonju’s—” territory, the fox was wont to say, albeit Nova wasn’t certain if her attempt at articulating it made it airborne. The device, which has been stored away in a pocket to safekeep, lit up at the sudden, supposed hand-to-hand. Expecting a holographic message to pop up on its display at about any second, the fox reached for it, having a hand to spare. To her surprise, there was no message, merely a light emitting from it — in barely a blink of the eye, it engulfed them in their entirety, swallowing the two in its luminescent maw.
The next thing she knew was... a strain to her muscles, her heart heavy—every beat making it more and more and more haggard—unmistakably, the metallic taste in her mouth was recognised to be blood, figuring she must have bit her tongue. Nova found herself on the floor — Nari was next to her. A sound of heels clicking against the ground stirred her upwards. “I thought I told you to bring Nari,” Hyerin, “what went wrong?”
In this mist-maw, it became gradually difficult to distinguish night from day. Ultimately, it did not matter. The next time the sun were to rise on the horizon, it would arrive, in its aureal adorn, with her twenty-sixth birthday in tow. Twenty-six. In the eonian-eye of a fox, it begged the question: what, precisely, did twenty-six mean? Was it just young or was it awfully young? Their fate was never to age. Nova envied it. Not their agelessness, but the certainty. Neither fox, nor human… What did it mean for her?
Location: the bitter-frost of the northernmost point on Earth, the North Pole
Facing the window, dusk-lit eyes flickered to the nearby row of silhouettes hidden, properly, in the nocturnal embrace. Someone, something was outside, hiding, enveloped in the night.
Nari. Nova was—sworn, albeit the word would not have willingly left her lips—to find her, to indulge the childlike play of hide and seek, but she didn’t. Limbs stock-still, a reflection in the dormer-like glass glanced back at her. Familiar. Familial. Lashes bat. Close and tear open, panicked, momentarily. A morning visit to the market… hence the glassy-eyed face. Adjusting, the appearance, the apparition of another self, shifts into an identifiable shape: herself. She sighs. Her foxhood was ever-described in halves. Fox. Human. The part of her that was human had to make peace with it: the fabricated faces, the forgetfulness, and the certain uncertainty.
Twenty-six. Twenty-six. Twenty-six. Twenty-six. Twenty-six. Twenty-six. Twenty-six. Twenty-six. Twenty-six.
Buried beneath piles of papers, pens, and a myriad of post-it notes, a low-vibrational, albeit equally violent sound emerged from her desk. The device—Nova knew no better word for it—lit up with a message. The holographic display signalled a sense of urgency, stating, ‘come over, bring Nari — now, Nayoon’. Hyerin. The twenty-first century was characteristically modern. Hyerin’s definition of what it meant to be modern, however, surpassed even the modern meaning of modernity. Hyerin was brilliant. Hyerin was bright, but brutal. The messages did not cease. It was never an expectation that they would. Nova looked away from the window, and towards the source of the sound.
Nari was found half-way down-the-stairs. “ Nari, ” a murmur, spoken matter-of-factly. “ I am. ” A bunch of black clothes were thrown at her cousin. “So are you — Hyerin wants to see us, get dressed.”