[ dungeon ]
→ jinyoung & sen
Twenty five years weight like stone in his lungs, a burning consequence of the crimes he comitted against himself. His chest tired of going up and down demands for a truce, not only due to the nocive black they wear but also because the air is as well painfully grotesque, filled with dancing flies that scort him to a rundown building in the Free district, away from the safety of his home. Sen is not only homesick but also uncapable of going any further. His legs push him to keep moving, there’s a prickling in the back of his neck that omens death as if the devil was just at his back, but he ignores all intituitions and decides to obey his interiors to soathe refuge; "rest", he says to himself, the night is never friendly to those cursed with weakness.
Sitting in the stone cold floor his harsh coughs echoes in the ruins of the place, "shh", he advices himself and remembers to cover his mouth while the uncontrollable itchiness of his throat assaults, for is polite to do so, Papa used to say. Sen gaze darkens as the sky does, there’s no point on recalling the past.
Once his breath is quiet enough to be mistaken for the breeze, he shrugs legs and looks at the little brooch in his jacket as a flashing smile fills the hollows in his cheeks, no trail of color, however, is found on them; he is not proud nor motivated, Sen is resigned, his spirit given to the bittersweet taste of sarcasm. “Member of the Patrol Duty Squad” it says, giving him a title of concerned civilian. He grins once again as he tries to remember the last time he felt part of a civilization, having a hard time at it just reinforces his thoughts on why he carries that little thingy in his chest; civilization is just an abstract adjetive for those who believe and live within the Military. In there lies the reason why he is trying to get some sleep in the middle of nowhere, too, relieving is to think that he’s outside seeking for a true civilian - one that’s not brainwashed - to help out, it makes his hate box a little bit smaller everyday. The moss growing in the walls tenderly brushes his nape, and he sighs, immersed in what Sen believes is absolute spacial loneliness. His mind is trying hard really, as no one would ever suspect, to bring alive a spirit that got frozen in time, is just that his body doesn’t go along. Who is the one at fault? there’s actually two demons in his timeline and sadly he is one of them, Sen sees fingers poiting at him all the time to the extend he’s lately been looking for the most beautiful forefinger of them all. Right now, Sen feels the urge to laugh but he doesn’t because it is dangerous, he almost forgot loneliness can be deadly too.
And in the moment, the smoke of a cigarette can make him less of a loner.