a ghost

𝘥𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘦 𝘷𝘪𝘰𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦

[yureong]

#YUREONG   .    .    .   hello  and  welcome! this  is  an  independent and  highly  selective  portrayal  of  an  original , fandomless  assassin  oc  SEO  MINJAE. lore  is  entirely  my  own  and  i  do  have  various  verses  available  for  him.

a  study  in   ——   emotional  isolation, the  consequences  of  trauma, and  the  corrosive  effects  of  vengeance

CARRD. (other links tba)

[khslana]

If I was born as the 𝗯𝗹𝗮𝘇𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘀𝘂𝗻 𝗼𝗳 𝗗𝗲𝘀𝘁𝗿𝘂𝗰𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻, then let you and your lackeys be the flares erupting from my core! And let this rage, burning futilely for thirty million epochs, engulf everything- And grant you 𝙖 𝙙𝙖𝙬𝙣 𝙬𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙧𝙨 𝙗𝙪𝙧𝙣 𝙩𝙤 𝙖𝙨𝙝!

independent and highly selective Phainon Khaslana of Aedes Elysiae from honkai star rail. dearly loved by gumi. not spoiler free.

[dullached-deactivated20250529]

@yureong

It felt strange , the sense of normalcy another broken soul could give. Truthfully , if you had asked him six months ago where he'd see himself , Morgan would've had some cynical & poorly received joke to respond with. ' Six feet under in a ditch. '. That's just the type of guy he was. The kind that , even with the strongest pair of binoculars in the world , could scarcely see himself anywhere , let alone anywhere in his own future.

Now ? It was a lot less clear. The transition from breath taking fling to going steady had been near seamless. He'd already been several dates deep before it occurred to him there was a lot more between them than just a clean up rag. Something soft & tender had planted itself in his open wounds & begun to grow. The more he stared ahead into Jae's eyes , the closer he felt to feeling like something was about to bloom in his chest. How wonderfully foreign that warmth was.

❛ You should tell me more about yourself. I want to know more about you. Like - What's your favorite color ? Your favorite food ? Are you free next weekend ? ❜

A curious & gentle hand reaches across , fingers tracing the lines of a faded scar , shyly peeking out from under Jae's clothes.

❛ - & what are all of these ? Are you secretly fighting crime on the streets , huh ? My hero. ❜

[yureong]

He never forgot the rooftops he used to sit on, the way the city lights buzzed beneath him like static in his veins. And that billboard—God, that fucking billboard—burned into his memory like a prayer he never dared to say aloud. He used to stare at it for hours, something aching behind his ribs, some nameless yearning he couldn’t carve out of himself.

Back then, softness was a myth. Love was something that belonged to other people, safer people. He wasn’t built for that kind of warmth. He didn’t grow up with it, didn’t understand it. His life had been cold steel and sharp words, scars instead of lullabies. There was a time, not long ago, when he didn’t think he’d make it to twenty-five. When disappearing sounded more merciful than surviving.

He hadn’t planned to linger. Not in one place. Not in someone’s life. Vulnerability was a luxury he couldn’t afford, so he stayed on the move. No attachments. No second glances.

But then Morgan smiled at him like he wasn’t something dangerous. And suddenly, everything shifted.

The first time his fingers brushed over old scars, over skin that still remembered pain like it was yesterday, something in Jae cracked—quietly, but deeply. Just enough to make room for the warmth he didn’t know he missed. His soul, once ice-cold and withdrawn, sparked to life under the weight of someone else’s gaze. And maybe it wasn’t a surprise. Not really. Who wouldn’t light up when someone like Morgan looked at them like that?

Still, it caught him off guard—how easy it was to smile around him. Real, not rehearsed. Something genuine. “ My favorite color’s black, I think, ” he murmured with a little shrug, almost shy. “ I don’t really have a favorite food. I just eat what tastes good. ”

Then a pause—his lips twitching into something lighter, softer. “ Next weekend? For you . . . I’m free. ”

But the moment Morgan’s fingers touched the scar against his collarbone, just barely visible beneath his shirt, the smile faltered. That one had a story. They all did. His father had carved that memory into him the night he’d dared to speak out—just once, just enough to be punished for weeks. After that, he kept his mouth shut. He learned how to become quiet. How to survive.

But he didn’t dwell. Instead, he reached out, took Morgan’s hand in his own, and pressed a kiss to his palm—soft, grounding.

“ Ask me again some other time, ” he said, voice low, almost teasing. “ And I’ll tell you about every one of them. ” A slow smirk curved his lips then. A mask, maybe. But one that didn’t feel so heavy tonight.

“ Your hero, huh? ” he murmured. “ I could get used to that. ” Even if he was anything but.

[yureong]

sorry just wanted to flex my top 6% wrio real quick

[yureong]

anyways excuse me while i clean up this blog a bit

[paedeul]

I bet on losing dogs . . . I know they're losing and I'll pay for my place by the ring

independent and selective blog for shin youngwoo. loved by gumi

[yureong]

wanted to share the last bit of new content and i-

[yureong]

i am absolutely thriving

[yureong]

jae’s hands . . .

[yureong]

the cursed prince in the shadows : The night his mother and sister died, Death claimed Seo Minjae as its own.

He was eight years old when he stumbled through the blood-soaked halls of the palace, his mother’s body lying broken before him, his sister—his closest companion—gone in an instant. The assassins had left nothing but ruin in their wake. His father, the king, did not weep. He stood over their corpses with a hardened gaze, speaking not of grief, but of vengeance.

It was in that moment, as Minjae knelt in the crimson pool of his family’s demise, that he felt it—something unseen, something vast, something watching. The air turned frigid, his breath visible despite the warmth of the palace. A whisper brushed against his ear, weightless and cold. He did not understand it then, but he would come to know: Death had chosen him.

Marked by Death

From that night forward, Minjae was never the same. He did not cry. He did not tremble. And when his father looked at him, he saw not a grieving child, but something else—something unnatural.

The first signs were subtle. His wounds healed too quickly, as though reluctant to linger. The air around him was always colder than it should have been. He did not fall ill, did not bleed the way others did. Animals shrank away from him, sensing something beyond mortal comprehension. And though he grew, time seemed hesitant to touch him.

The palace staff whispered in secret—of curses, of omens, of a prince who no longer belonged to the living. His father, a man of pragmatism and power, said nothing aloud. But Minjae saw it in his eyes—the fear, the unease. Minjae did not seek power, did not desire the throne, but the king feared him all the same. Feared what he might become. Feared what he could not control.

The Phantom Prince

Minjae had no place in court, no role in politics, no seat among the royal advisors. His father ensured that. He was a son in name, a prince by blood, but he was meant to be unseen, unheard—hidden in the shadows of the dynasty. So he embraced them.

While his brother thrived in the gilded light of nobility, Minjae carved his own domain in the dark. The royal family had always needed a blade that could strike where honor could not, a hand to move unseen where the crown could not afford to be known. Minjae became that blade. He became the shadow behind his father’s throne, the whispered name in the underworld, the unseen force that kept the kingdom’s enemies at bay. A prince in the daylight, a phantom in the dark.

He was not merely his father’s assassin—he was the leader of those who thrived in the depths. Spies, mercenaries, informants, killers. They did not kneel before the king, but they answered to Minjae. He ruled over them not with the weight of a crown, but with the certainty of his presence. He was Death’s chosen, the one who walked between worlds, and none dared challenge him.

The Shadow That Never Left

And through it all, Death remained at his side. It did not speak, did not guide, did not demand. But it lingered, a constant presence at his back. He felt it in the moments between breaths, in the cold that seeped into his bones even beneath the summer sun. He had reached out before, speaking to the empty air, but he had never received an answer. Until the night he did.

It was late, the palace quiet, the city resting beneath the veil of darkness. Minjae sat in the dim glow of candlelight, his tea untouched, his mind clouded with thoughts he did not dare name. And then—

“You have questions.”

A voice, weightless yet heavy, neither near nor far. A voice that settled into his bones, familiar yet unknown. Minjae did not flinch. He merely exhaled, setting his cup down with careful precision.

“…It’s about time.”

A Lonely Fate

Minjae did not fear Death. He did not resent it. If anything, he understood it better than he understood the world of the living. He knew what they whispered about him. That he was cursed. That he was unnatural. That even if he did not seek the throne, he was dangerous in ways the court could never control.

And they were right.

He did not belong to the nobility, nor to the people. He belonged to the shadows, to the quiet places where names were spoken only in whispers. He belonged to Death. And yet—

There were moments, rare and fleeting, where he longed for something more. A touch that was not born of fear. A voice that did not tremble when it spoke his name. A night where he was not just a blade, not just a ghost walking through the halls of the living. But such things were not meant for him. He was Seo Minjae, the cursed prince, the phantom of the dynasty.

And he would walk with Death until the very end.

[yureong]

his eyes are genuinely so gorgeous i’m-

[yureong]

i’m home and i’m about to make it everyone’s problem

[yureong]

let's talk about the seo family : The Seo family’s power isn’t just about wealth—it’s about control. Their empire is built on real estate, a sprawling network of properties that stretch across the city like an invisible hand, gripping everything from high-end skyscrapers to the darkest corners of the underworld. They don’t just own buildings; they own influence. Every club, hotel, and luxury apartment complex under their name isn’t just a business—it’s a piece of their dominion, a place where deals are made, secrets are exchanged, and power is brokered.

Their reach extends far beyond legitimate enterprises. Many of the city’s most influential figures—politicians, businessmen, and crime lords alike—operate under Seo-owned rooftops, knowingly or not. And that’s the trick, isn’t it? Even those who refuse to bend the knee to the Seo name still pay them rent. Their businesses thrive under Seo properties, their meetings take place in Seo-controlled venues, their illicit dealings happen in the shadows of Seo-owned establishments. The family doesn't have to move like common criminals because the city itself moves for them.

It’s the very reason their rule remains unchallenged. Money buys power, but ownership ensures longevity. And when you own the foundation everyone stands on, it doesn’t matter how high they climb—you only have to shake the ground beneath them.

[yureong]

if i may speak . . .

[yureong]

❛ do you ever stop being so serious and dull? ❜ / @liarstill

jae exhales a slow breath, his gaze flicking to the other with the faintest trace of annoyance — or maybe boredom. it’s always hard to tell.

" depends, " he muses, taking a slow sip of his coffee. " you planning on saying something actually worth smiling about? " his tone is sharp in its usual way, but there’s no real bite to it, just an effortless indifference that makes it impossible to tell if he’s being rude on purpose or if it’s simply how he is.

he shifts his attention back to his phone, scrolling through unread emails and meaningless messages — things he should probably answer but never will. was he always so serious and dull? maybe. but joy wasn’t something he owed anyone, least of all himself. he tries to remember the last time he felt anything close to it and comes up blank.

with a sigh, jae pinches the bridge of his nose before glancing to him again, expression unreadable. " you’re still standing here? why? "

[infernal-ism]

𝘖𝘕𝘌-𝘓𝘐𝘕𝘌𝘙 ♡ @yureong .

❝ I bet ya get all polite when yer ACTUALLY flustered. Yessirs and please and thank yous—wonder if that carries over elsewhere. ❞

[yureong]

minjae barely spares him a glance, swirling the drink in his glass as if contemplating his next words. then, with a slow blink, he finally meets the others gaze, expression unreadable — save for the slightest, most imperceptible twitch at the corner of his lips.

" bold assumption, " he murmurs, voice smooth, deliberate. he leans in just a fraction, as if indulging the idea, before adding in that same maddeningly even tone, " but if you’re that curious . . . you’re welcome to find out for yourself. "

[yureong]

been seeing spice on the dash and i can only say that jae has the mouth of a god