what you don’t know can’t haunt you, @luredeep: kangmin.
the ground is close, closer. three seconds to the impact. two. one. and he wakes up with a raspy gasp, heaving from the nightmare that now has become the clustered normality within his psychological flask. and this is how his thoughts follow the shape of its body: in terrors, the garrotte around his neck tight, tightened.
he wakes up with a jolt to remind himself that he would be better off asleep.
it has been three bouts of fitful sleep. the plaguing horror now is no longer prevalent, replaced by another new, coruscating fear. no, fears, plural. he is no longer the invisible man, no longer the irreplaceable ace. comprehends this: there’s something that carries the magnet of their powers. they’re not simply gifts carried by a genetic mutation, but also controlled, augmented by the shifting lines. lines that are drawn way below, too many feet under their soil. deeper than the deepest ocean’s base, this was a tale passed down by the ancients.
they told him that four days ago, he believes. and three days ago, if the clock mounted on the wall is truly a countdown, his power was negated, and he was outnumbered. gone. long. missed? he might be… kangmin. his panic is always seared with the weight of kangmin in mind. the creed second, but if these people ( ? ) have found a way to lock him in with this kind of chamber, in which he cannot even teleport to the nearest millimeter, what’s next? his death might ensue next, and he doesn’t—
in the dimly lit chamber, the led blinks. when he first opened his eyes, it was 69:21:23. it is 00:14:28. wonders if it signifies the time to his death. it’s almost risible how a few months ago, he narrowly escaped death, and now, he’s back at it. perhaps this is the price he has to pay for being so arrogant, believing he could fly when he didn’t have wings… it stings, then, the wound on his head. the dried blood that cakes his face, marring his body under the gear, they all are reminiscent of his being trapped into the black room, the heist confirmed to be a fake a minute after he stepped in. broken, beaten. fought back to no avail.
he’s no longer bleeding profusely, even when he is extremely weakened to even think of fighting back. whoever keeps him in this room wants him alive to see it strike 00:00:00.
the chamber is almost claustrophobic. in the two by two, he’s tethered to a chair, chained and strapped and gagged on what feels like an electric chair, movement a privilege he barely can afford. parching his throat on screaming would be a futile attempt, he’s learned that from the creed. body aches from the languor, the absence of movement taking its toll. the metal door before him opens outward, and he can hear some muffled noises coming from the outside. odd. whenever he’s fed through iv, and then sedated… it’s always been eerily silent save for the rustles coming from the men in white, who has been doing all the manual tasks.
he doesn’t recognize their faces.
and now, he can’t hear who’s outside the door.
in the sterile white room, the light overhead illuminates him enough. and when the door’s lock clanks, he’s driven alert. eyebrows furrowed, he’s met with the door opening heavily. 00:02:03. the outside temperature is always colder than the room he’s kept in. when it drags with a creaking metal sound, he grimaces. it’s so cold he starts trembling heavily, and from his blurred eyes, that’s when he notices the masked figure in black.
he doesn’t scream— doesn’t have the energy to, but his eyes widen slightly after squinting at the light suddenly streaming in. this is when he knows that his death is a baton passed into his lover’s hand.
