Discover Top Posts Tagged with #sehaa-threads.

ent. @aprisonder

silly. it’s silly, silly, silly.

slouched against the gilded wallpaper of the overlook, seha cannot help but smile into his fingers as he peers just around the corner where the parlor and production crew awaits, setting up for the evening’s party trick.

a séance; absolute child’s play. he was no writer, but the script must’ve been written by a five-year old. rubbing its snotty nose with crumb covered fingers in pride of its work. no, seha retracted. even a five-year old was more imaginative than this.

he questioned the the director’s aim, the motive. as bewildered and intrigued by the unexplained as he was, seha couldn’t see how this rouse would contribute anything to the investigation, much less evidence. physical evidence, that is. no, he surmised the intent had less to do with lending aid to the untimed death of heeseung and more to do with a greed for ratings. the maggots had not even touched the man’s body but human’s did not wait to eat him up for fatter pockets; for entertainment.

because people were obsessed with death. he could imagine they might crawl in their seats from the comfort of home as though the show were another true crime documentary, in nail-bitten anticipation, watching the misfortune unravel to sate their sadistic need for the plight and the drama. seha could only guess whom, in the desire of their black little hearts, they wanted to see rot next.

the elevator chimed. seha craned his head towards the lift, looking for his partner in this game. he knew her—knew of her that is—but did not assume she’d remember his face among the dozens of others behind the cameras.

“miss ryu sumin, yes?” he stepped out into her path (to persuade, not to block) his hands splayed at his sides in a seemingly awkward, unthreatening manner. he shifted his glasses with a nod. “i’m ahn seha, i’ll be working with you today for the…seance.”

he chuckled, his voice quiet, a pinch of ridicule in his smile. “kind of silly, isn’t it?”

#sehaa-threads.#with-sumin.#fourth.#lvk:event002

ent. @boyjove

the steamer hisses, spitting out wild heat and a fresh flow of espresso. gold foam, brown bean, tan cream. seha thinks of the laminar flow of other things; water to boiling water, wine to glass, blood to snow. to him, voices have the same effect, thoughts, people. like the barista's who speaks over the clinking of glass and chatter. he leans into her voice, her question pulling his eyes from the coffee stains on her collar to the corner of the little shop where a man sits, the airs about him like the smoke of nicotine: turbulent the closer to the embers that swirl into magnetic, solid wisps. her tired eyes take on a silver shine of admiration when she asks: "is that-"

harsh air pushes through seha's teeth, his smile curt and widow-legged. he passes her a wink as she passes him their coffee, her smile tucked between her lips, the name left under her tongue a secret only they share.

seha takes his seat across from tae chilseong whose back faces the counter, either unaware of the eyes on him or uncaring. (by the way his gaze gravitates from the window to the coffee, seha is confident its the latter.)

"one americano for you and a hot one for me," seha curls his hands around the warm belly of his mug, twisting the gold band around his pinky. he waits for chilseong to take a sip before tasting his own piece of liquid solace. it almost makes it worth the trouble.

a fading headache pulses at his temples at the argument (one of few) between him in the director. this time on replacing the fire-breathing effects post-production. as if seha hadn't already arranged for talented professionals to cover the job. as though they had the budget for digital effects after bending to jung hyunsik's creative wiles. as if seha hadn't been hired for the very thing they were attempting to replicate. it was a punch. it was annoying. they could certainly touch-up in the editing stages, but without substance they might as well have replaced a blowtorch with a lighter.

perhaps he had been unreasonably stubborn. perhaps he was being traditional, a purist. didn't matter—it allowed seha to pull chilseong aside to get his opinion. it was killing two birds with one stone—putting the director in his place and putting chilseong in seha's reach. as the steam from his mug rises, so do the questions. how did it happen? was it you? why did you do it? he asks none of these. not yet.

"we're all passionate about our work," the mug and saucer clink as seha sets it down, folding his arms with smile and ease. "in case you were curious why i dragged you into our mess," he shrugs. "mr. jung had a vision, and i had sense. i figured your opinion would shut one of us up." seha laughs. "don't hate me too much if i start targeting you more often."

#sehaa-threads.#with-chilseong.#third.#lvk:flashback

ent. @lvnderhaze

CREAK. CLICK.

click. pause. click. the restroom is an black-brown vinyl and ivory porcelain echo chamber, minimally decorated for the user to have some sort of scenic experience. in comparison to the lavish, moody decor of the overlook, it's simplicity is a sight for sore eyes. never mind that it's the only corner of privacy on the island, where lens follow and eyes follow closer. the faucet runs, drowning out the burbling melody of the virtual call loading on the laptop sitting on the countertop. seha slips off his spectacles to cup the water, dousing it across the warmer patches of his face. he looks in the mirror. smiles, frowns, then smiles a little less, practicing what he'll show his psychiatrist this time. the better he's doing, the shorter the meeting. he'll smile, nod, tell her he's doing fine and wait for her to sign off on 3-month refill of his medications. it'll be curt and easy, he tells himself. then he can go back out, look into the cameras and lie about how nice it is to see so-and-so again when he can barely remember half of their names. "seha? hello seha, are you there?" the screen loads with his psychiatrist's greeting (her voice is agonizingly enthusiastic, with a condescending edge that gives away her specialty in children and that seha, who she's been treating since his high school years, is a special case).

he switches on the camera, the mic, smiles (tired but not too tired) and returns the greeting. their exchange is a practiced formula; he talks, she listens. she talks, and he pretends to listen, gaze somewhere between the camera and the time, occasionally responding with nods, hums, and the well-timed laugh to an unfunny joke.

his eyes flicker to the door, the psych's voice fading to a mum. it's cracked, unlocked, a sliver of light melding through. from beneath the frame, a shadow shifts from foot to foot. wordless, seha closes the laptop, taking off his airpods. he washes his hands, shuts off the faucet, and opens the door with a smile (kind, but not too kind).

"sorry," he says, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder. "you can use it now."

#sehaa-threads.#with-mikayla.#first.