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Realistic or Modern ⚜️ — χρυσωπός
VALEN T.
Member
Ahn Chi-Won. (안치원 )
"Shit." The harsh voice of this stranger was crushed under the pellets raining from the thunderous skies, his heavy boots splashing in the water that's quick to form ponds in the dips in the cement lining the dark alleyway. "Oh, damn it," he curses once more after accidentally wiping his blood-stained hand on the dark juniper-green trousers he's donned (that coupled with the black turtleneck shirt and he practically blends in with the night). Fuck, I hope that doesn't stain, he thinks right as the wireless earphone buzzes its static in his left ear.
He taps its matte surface once, letting his body collapse against the towering brick wall behind him. "Agent three-two-three?" It's impossible to distinguish who's speaking to him right now, but the deliberate distortion in speech is characteristic of all case officers (handlers, as they're known between the laymen) in the company he works for. Besides, he knows his handler is the one and only-
"I hear you, Noona, what's up?" Si-Eun, the name of his handler. It's always a pleasure to talk to her (though not necessarily when he can barely recognise her voice) but whenever she reaches out while he's mid-task, it alerts him. And now is no exception, as his eyes flit to either openings of the alley, racing over rooftops to catch sight of anything unseemly; one of those wretched gang baboons slowly closing in on him maybe.
He identifies nothing, and it's revealed that there was nothing to identify in the first place when Si-Eun speaks again: "Return to HQ as soon as you've completed your task." That's new: there's a tone of strange urgency lacing her cadence that he's never been subjected to before.
"Roger that," he replies and the connection cuts off. He slips the blood-stained knives back into the leather garter around his thigh, the metal still slightly warm from the body that'd hugged it, greeting it with showers of scarlet confetti that now pooled around Agent three-two-three's—Chiwon's—boots; the canon that'd shot it now laying uselessly dormant by his feet now that it'd expended everything it held inside.
He kicks the man square in his stomach once just to check for the quality of the job done; the fresh splatter of crimson lace that spouts from the deep wound in his torso makes Chiwon cringe in disgust because the silk fucking wraps around the hem of his trousers and, This is gonna be a bitch to clean out. But at least, he doesn't have to worry about the dead old man gaining consciousness and stirring trouble for him again (it was a rookie error he made in his early years, when he first started this job).
He doesn't have to worry about packing his belongings up when he gets back to Headquarters as well because as it turns out, Si-Eun's already done it for him. "Excuse me, what the fuck is this?" He barges into his room—a pristine, glossy door in a hallway of hundreds standing the exact same.
The woman merely turns around once to give him an empty expression. "You're being transferred, that's what the fuck it is." She throws a half-full box on his bed, dusting her hands off. "Do the rest yourself, I'm tired." She rolls her shoulders, resting her hands on her hips and herself adjacent to the carton. "Close your mouth, you look like a fish."
"I-" Chiwon snaps his mouth shut, slamming the door behind him as he enters his room. "No one told me anything about a transfer!"
He must've raised his tone with her without knowing, because she sends him a venomous glare, her razor-straight hair cascading past her right shoulder like a sleek waterfall. "Don't act like I've been hiding this from you. I told you the moment I found out." He rushes to his wardrobe, only to find that it's already been emptied. "It's an order from The Board: your belongings have already been transferred to the Thirteenth Ward."
"The Thirteenth-" His eyes bug out in surprise. "You're joking..." Hell, even he had been joking last week about wanting to work in the Thirteenth Ward: the unmarked district located right at the heart of the city, known for its extravagant lifestyle but more importantly, the bloodshed and the deadly brawls that break out between the local gangs and the employees of their company. Regardless of this, there's nothing he can do but comply if the precept came directly from The Board itself. "Do you know why?"
Si-Eun's smile is sympathetic and that's the only answer he needs.
He taps its matte surface once, letting his body collapse against the towering brick wall behind him. "Agent three-two-three?" It's impossible to distinguish who's speaking to him right now, but the deliberate distortion in speech is characteristic of all case officers (handlers, as they're known between the laymen) in the company he works for. Besides, he knows his handler is the one and only-
"I hear you, Noona, what's up?" Si-Eun, the name of his handler. It's always a pleasure to talk to her (though not necessarily when he can barely recognise her voice) but whenever she reaches out while he's mid-task, it alerts him. And now is no exception, as his eyes flit to either openings of the alley, racing over rooftops to catch sight of anything unseemly; one of those wretched gang baboons slowly closing in on him maybe.
He identifies nothing, and it's revealed that there was nothing to identify in the first place when Si-Eun speaks again: "Return to HQ as soon as you've completed your task." That's new: there's a tone of strange urgency lacing her cadence that he's never been subjected to before.
"Roger that," he replies and the connection cuts off. He slips the blood-stained knives back into the leather garter around his thigh, the metal still slightly warm from the body that'd hugged it, greeting it with showers of scarlet confetti that now pooled around Agent three-two-three's—Chiwon's—boots; the canon that'd shot it now laying uselessly dormant by his feet now that it'd expended everything it held inside.
He kicks the man square in his stomach once just to check for the quality of the job done; the fresh splatter of crimson lace that spouts from the deep wound in his torso makes Chiwon cringe in disgust because the silk fucking wraps around the hem of his trousers and, This is gonna be a bitch to clean out. But at least, he doesn't have to worry about the dead old man gaining consciousness and stirring trouble for him again (it was a rookie error he made in his early years, when he first started this job).
He doesn't have to worry about packing his belongings up when he gets back to Headquarters as well because as it turns out, Si-Eun's already done it for him. "Excuse me, what the fuck is this?" He barges into his room—a pristine, glossy door in a hallway of hundreds standing the exact same.
The woman merely turns around once to give him an empty expression. "You're being transferred, that's what the fuck it is." She throws a half-full box on his bed, dusting her hands off. "Do the rest yourself, I'm tired." She rolls her shoulders, resting her hands on her hips and herself adjacent to the carton. "Close your mouth, you look like a fish."
"I-" Chiwon snaps his mouth shut, slamming the door behind him as he enters his room. "No one told me anything about a transfer!"
He must've raised his tone with her without knowing, because she sends him a venomous glare, her razor-straight hair cascading past her right shoulder like a sleek waterfall. "Don't act like I've been hiding this from you. I told you the moment I found out." He rushes to his wardrobe, only to find that it's already been emptied. "It's an order from The Board: your belongings have already been transferred to the Thirteenth Ward."
"The Thirteenth-" His eyes bug out in surprise. "You're joking..." Hell, even he had been joking last week about wanting to work in the Thirteenth Ward: the unmarked district located right at the heart of the city, known for its extravagant lifestyle but more importantly, the bloodshed and the deadly brawls that break out between the local gangs and the employees of their company. Regardless of this, there's nothing he can do but comply if the precept came directly from The Board itself. "Do you know why?"
Si-Eun's smile is sympathetic and that's the only answer he needs.
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reveriee
☆⌒(≧▽° )
lee si-young (伊柴榮) .•. gang member .•. 26 .•. cismale (he/him) .•. bisexual panromantic
"Oi, Siyoung-ah!"
Siyoung lifted his head, grinning broadly when he caught sight of a familiar face. "Hyunseok-hyung, haven't seen you in a long time," he greeted, his voice low and quiet. Siyoung was said to have a demeanor matching his personality; reserved and always one to keep to the shadows, but reliable. "What were you up to?"
Hyunseok shook his head, his gaze flickering back and forth like an inconstant light source. "Ah, you know. Business. Just playing my part." Siyoung didn't respond, his gaze lingering on the other man. Hyunseok wasn't necessarily a bad liar, but he tended to fall back onto the technique of being purposefully vague.
Siyoung stared at Hyunseok for a long time, his gaze heavy like dark chocolate. At last, his lips twitched into a small frown. "You went to Japan."
Hyunseok shrugged. "My mom's Japanese. I have roots there, Siyoungie." He said it smoothly, voice spilling over like melted butter. Despite his purposefully vague words and intentional lack of information, Hyunseok always managed to convince people and put them at ease. It was his demeanor; he was charming -- but not necessarily genuine -- and had an ability to twist the blandest words into speeches of grandeur entirely through his bearing and his tone. Siyoung only knew there was more to the story because he knew Hyunseok personally, and had memorized every crevice of the other man's inner persona that was exposed even for the briefest moments of time.
"You can't keep working with that yakuza group," Siyoung said knowingly, his tone serious, but not overbearing. "If they found out who you really are, they'd retaliate against us." Siyoung glanced around, making sure to muffle their already quiet conversation. "And we can't take them. They're a much bigger group than us."
"Don't be a worrywart, Siyoungie," Hyunseok chuckled warmly, but his words were clearly flippant. He casually leaned against the graffitied brick wall, shrugging lazily. The two of them were outside their gang's turf in the Thirteenth Ward, so their surroundings were nowhere near as extravagant or modern as they were used to; instead, they were more befitting of a place most people would assume a gang would reside in, with the widespread graffiti, cheap, broken-down plaster walls, and the occasional home in shambles.
"Look." Hyunseok began to speak more seriously once he saw Siyoung's frown deepen. "That yakuza group has direct connections in the continental US -- they're bringing in more meth than we could ever get. We'll get to the top of the drug trade with this." Siyoung immediately recognized the passionately convincing tone of voice Hyunseok had turned on, and it did little to ease his worries.
Siyoung tilted his head slightly in a deliberative manner. "You're not wrong," he admitted, "but I don't want to see this backfire on you."
This time, Hyunseok's laughter burst out in cackles. "I feel like you forget who we are, Siyoung," he murmured, clearly amused and a little mocking, much to Siyoung's offense. "Well, you've always been soft-hearted."
Siyoung clucked his tongue, annoyed, but to his frustration, he only made Hyunseok laugh harder. "I'm just being responsible here," Siyoung snapped, cuffing Hyunseok on the back of his head. His reprimand only got a guffaw and a, "respect your elders, mom," in response.
"Yeah, yeah, whatever. It's your downfall, hyung. Let's get back now."
---
"Where the hell were you?"
Siyoung and Hyunseok looked at each other, as if hoping the blame would be transferred solely to the other person. "Calm down, Jaesung," Hyunseok finally said, rolling his eyes. "We're not some official company or anything. It's not that deep, dude. Go jack yourself off for a lil bit or something -- you look like you need it."
Siyoung couldn't help but snort, even if he usually wasn't one to be as vulgar as Hyunseok. Jaesung glared at the two of them, clearly ruffled, but otherwise unperturbed, considering that he refused to leave.
"A lot more of those assassins have been transferred to this ward," Jaesung seethed. "If you cared to be on time, you would've known."
Siyoung's head snapped to Hyunseok, giving him a sharp look. The other man shook his head, but there was a glint of doubt in his eyes. The assassins worked for the highest bidder, so the reasoning behind their actions was rarely the same. The transfer suspiciously coincided with Hyunseok's risky activities.
"Do you know why?" Siyoung asked carefully. Jaesung gave him a condescending glare, and Hyunseok began to bristle.
"Of course we don't know why," Jaesung snapped. "Maybe someone here fucked up, and a wealthy client decided to make a move." Siyoung and Hyunseok made a very pointed effort to not look at each other. "Regardless, it happened. Those leeches are in our territory now, so prepare yourself for a lot more conflict."
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VALEN T.
Member
Ahn Chi-Won. (안치원 )
Chiwon's only been here a full day, but the debriefing he and the other transfer had received the moment they stepped inside the Thirteenth's Headquarters' precinct has made it all too clear that the code of conduct and consequences of breaking it stand miles apart from what they're used to back in their states. Even here, the reason why these cherry-picked agents were relocated remains pressed under the soles of the higher-ups, and it seems that no one is keen on asking any questions either.
Questions: another part of this job that's often met with condemnation. As an expendable assassin working for a highly influential organisation that manages to evade every government search warrant (not that there are too many granted to private organisations to begin with: the people running the state don't mind this murderous company nearly as much as they claim to for public propaganda. How could they when they're the ones benefiting from it the most?) you're expected to trust without laying a single finger on the prickly woollen blindfold sewn into your eyes the first day you even think about joining their troops.
That's something Chiwon has become acclimated to—the do, don't ask law—and he understands, probably better than anyone else that they're trained to receive summarised case files then carry out whatever request has been directed to them for whatever amount of compensation asked in return.
But the Thirteenth raises these expectations weights higher, because the moment Chiwon opens his mouth, Daesung, his assigned partner—that's new too: they have field partners here—simply shakes his head. "Don't ask," is all he says. He must've seen the way Chiwon's eyes lingered on the disclaimer sign outside the arsenal compound: borrowed weapons are never to be brought back to the armoury. It's all quite ominous, or maybe Chiwon's head's just spinning from the from the lack of air reaching his brain due to the heavy black obstruction shielding his face.
Daesung is awfully chatty though, so there's a lot the blood-haired man can deduce from the bits and pieces his partner unknowingly reveals during the hushed conversations they have crouched by the twenty-third-story window of a building still under construction. "It's so asinine," he huffs one time, breaking his perfectly calculated aim on the skyscraper neighbouring them (albeit a couple hundred kilometres away) to swing the muzzle of his rifle around. The colourful laser beam follows the movements of his hands, though its target can only be viewed through the uncomfortable eyepiece wedged into their right socket.
"They know how transparent walls and windows put them in such vulnerable positions yet, they continue to build with this material?" Daesung continues to gripe. At the very least, society's has upgraded from the use of glass to something a lot more durable: and then the assassin groups and local gangs upgraded their ammunition to be heavier than this new material. It's always a race of who can surpass the others earliest. The ones in charge of weapon smuggling, surely, and that's the thought that has Chiwon gritting his teeth, the softest of click sounds made when his thumb lodges the trigger in its critical point.
He doesn't have the opportunity to fire it because in the blink of an eye, Daesung's goes rigid beside him, raising a finger to perpetuate absolute silence. Chiwon refuses to even breathe, a familiar sense of dread he'd felt yesterday when Si-Eun contacted him mid-mission, clouding painfully in the middle of his chest. "Fuck," the man's one visible eye widens, but Chiwon still doesn't hear the clamouring of heavy boots on concrete stairs until Daesung flinging his gun across the room and tearing Chiwon's from his hands and repeating the same.
"GET UP, GET UP, GET UP!" He's shouting, fingertips digging like the pointed tips of knives into his arms when he forces Chiwon to his feet and almost trips the both of them again in the process of pushing both bodies out of this room. The muffled speech of a hoard of strangers is becoming louder, following the noise they make like a hound that attracted to the very scent of red iron in the air. He leaves Chiwon in a darkened corridor that doesn't feel like it's meant to be a known part of the main passageway of the building layout, and without any further instructions except a nod.
He's not a fool: he knows who Chiwon is and where he comes from and the reputation he managed to acquire in an iron fist over the years. And Chiwon knows this fact too: he knows he's not a force to be reckoned with, he tells himself as his hand instinctively creeps closer to his garter, unable to feel the cold of the blade tied to his thighs through these new gloves (design: x but black). Now if only his heart can compose itself from the first filings of fear Daesung's reaction to these intruders tried instilling him, then maybe he can concentrate harder on hearing if he truly is alone in this location or not.
Questions: another part of this job that's often met with condemnation. As an expendable assassin working for a highly influential organisation that manages to evade every government search warrant (not that there are too many granted to private organisations to begin with: the people running the state don't mind this murderous company nearly as much as they claim to for public propaganda. How could they when they're the ones benefiting from it the most?) you're expected to trust without laying a single finger on the prickly woollen blindfold sewn into your eyes the first day you even think about joining their troops.
That's something Chiwon has become acclimated to—the do, don't ask law—and he understands, probably better than anyone else that they're trained to receive summarised case files then carry out whatever request has been directed to them for whatever amount of compensation asked in return.
But the Thirteenth raises these expectations weights higher, because the moment Chiwon opens his mouth, Daesung, his assigned partner—that's new too: they have field partners here—simply shakes his head. "Don't ask," is all he says. He must've seen the way Chiwon's eyes lingered on the disclaimer sign outside the arsenal compound: borrowed weapons are never to be brought back to the armoury. It's all quite ominous, or maybe Chiwon's head's just spinning from the from the lack of air reaching his brain due to the heavy black obstruction shielding his face.
Daesung is awfully chatty though, so there's a lot the blood-haired man can deduce from the bits and pieces his partner unknowingly reveals during the hushed conversations they have crouched by the twenty-third-story window of a building still under construction. "It's so asinine," he huffs one time, breaking his perfectly calculated aim on the skyscraper neighbouring them (albeit a couple hundred kilometres away) to swing the muzzle of his rifle around. The colourful laser beam follows the movements of his hands, though its target can only be viewed through the uncomfortable eyepiece wedged into their right socket.
"They know how transparent walls and windows put them in such vulnerable positions yet, they continue to build with this material?" Daesung continues to gripe. At the very least, society's has upgraded from the use of glass to something a lot more durable: and then the assassin groups and local gangs upgraded their ammunition to be heavier than this new material. It's always a race of who can surpass the others earliest. The ones in charge of weapon smuggling, surely, and that's the thought that has Chiwon gritting his teeth, the softest of click sounds made when his thumb lodges the trigger in its critical point.
He doesn't have the opportunity to fire it because in the blink of an eye, Daesung's goes rigid beside him, raising a finger to perpetuate absolute silence. Chiwon refuses to even breathe, a familiar sense of dread he'd felt yesterday when Si-Eun contacted him mid-mission, clouding painfully in the middle of his chest. "Fuck," the man's one visible eye widens, but Chiwon still doesn't hear the clamouring of heavy boots on concrete stairs until Daesung flinging his gun across the room and tearing Chiwon's from his hands and repeating the same.
"GET UP, GET UP, GET UP!" He's shouting, fingertips digging like the pointed tips of knives into his arms when he forces Chiwon to his feet and almost trips the both of them again in the process of pushing both bodies out of this room. The muffled speech of a hoard of strangers is becoming louder, following the noise they make like a hound that attracted to the very scent of red iron in the air. He leaves Chiwon in a darkened corridor that doesn't feel like it's meant to be a known part of the main passageway of the building layout, and without any further instructions except a nod.
He's not a fool: he knows who Chiwon is and where he comes from and the reputation he managed to acquire in an iron fist over the years. And Chiwon knows this fact too: he knows he's not a force to be reckoned with, he tells himself as his hand instinctively creeps closer to his garter, unable to feel the cold of the blade tied to his thighs through these new gloves (design: x but black). Now if only his heart can compose itself from the first filings of fear Daesung's reaction to these intruders tried instilling him, then maybe he can concentrate harder on hearing if he truly is alone in this location or not.
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reveriee
☆⌒(≧▽° )
lee si-young (이시영)
"Look, Siyoung, I really don't think the assassins got transferred because of what I did."
Siyoung shrugged when Hyunseok turned around to glance back at him, the other man walking backward so the two could keep facing each other. "You never know," he responded mildly. It was true; while the Thirteenth Ward was rife with gangs like their own, it was also a relatively wealthy area, and there was always some corruption when huge fortunes collided. Large conglomerates had no qualms about hiring assassins to go after each other. It was assumed that the Thirteenth Ward was dangerous because of the gangs, and while Siyoung did prefer to think that they had some impact, he knew that the wealthy CEOs in the area went far beyond basic white-collar crimes. There was no doubt that those masquerading as perfectly law-abiding, albeit extraordinarily wealthy, citizens did most of the damage.
Even if Hyunseok's loyalties did somehow get revealed to the yakuza he was dealing with, Siyoung doubted that they would pay for an assassin. No, they would definitely hunt him down themselves, and the realization did nothing to ease Siyoung's worries.
"Wanna go to that building that's been under construction?" Hyunseok changed the topic. "It's on the border of our turf; we gotta fucking mark our territory to those businessmen. Show them we're still a threat." Judging by the wide grin on his face, Hyunseok just wanted to scale the building and have fun graffitiing it for the sake of it rather than for the sake of establishing their gang's dominance.
"C'mon, Siyoung," Hyunseok urged, pouting dramatically. "You're like a grandpa -- you never do anything fun."
"All right, all right, I'll go with you," Siyoung rolled his eyes. He wasn't much like Hyunseok, who liked scaling walls and mocking the other gangs and threatening businessmen and overall, just putting himself in compromising positions because he got a kick out of it. Hyunseok did dangerous things for the gang, but most of the time, he was doing dangerous things just for himself. Siyoung was the opposite; he considered himself duty-bound to the gang, who had so generously taken him into their ranks and practically raised him when he was just a kid, kicked out of his home. He was close with Hyunseok -- the two of them had been friends for a solid decade -- but didn't care for many of the same activities. Maybe I am like a grandpa, Siyoung mused to himself.
"Great!" Hyunseok jogged back to where Siyoung was trailing behind him and dropped his arm on the younger man's shoulders. "Donghyuk and Minjoon are heading over there with spray paint. Hurry up, Siyoungie, before those dicks leave us behind."
Siyoung found himself chasing after Hyunseok through the city, trying not to pant as the other, more athletic man scaled walls, jumped from roof to roof, and slid down poles. "Is this really necessary?" Siyoung called, trying not to make too much noise as he jumped from a building down to a dumpster.
Hyunseok laughed. "It looks like you're doing just fine to me! Or are you getting old?"
Siyoung knit his eyebrows, forcing his legs to move faster as he identified a shortcut, sliding through it and arriving at the unfinished building a mere few seconds before Hyunseok. Siyoung gave Hyunseok a smug look, causing the older man to bark out a laugh.
Hyunseok whistled, impressed, slapping Siyoung on the back. "I guess you're not that old."
"Yeah," Siyoung watched Donghyuk and Minjoon walk out of the shadows. "Didn't think you had that in you, kid."
"Hyung, I'm twenty-six."
Hyunseok sighed dramatically, clutching his chest. "They grow up so fast nowadays."
The group laughed as Siyoung shoved Hyunseok, their boots loudly and repetitively pounding the ground as they jogged up the stairs to somewhere around the twentieth floor.
"Guys, shut up," Minjoon suddenly snapped, their conversation ceasing into nothingness. In the background, Siyoung distinctly heard something that sounded vaguely like someone yelling, "get up, get up."
"I hear it," Siyoung murmured lowly, the air around the group growing cold and serious. The four of them immediately dropped all their enthusiasm from their previous chatter as they met eyes, silently agreeing on what to do.
"Siyoung, Hyunseok, in there," Minjoon ordered, sending the two of them into a room as he and Donghyuk continued down the hallway. Hyunseok immediately caught sight of the guns, tossing them to Siyoung to check for the model. Siyoung was known in their gang for being able to memorize the most minor details; he was good at identifying such things.
"It's a newer model, but not new enough to be the most recent shipment on the streets," Siyoung muttered, flipping the gun around in his hand. The smugglers in one of the adjacent gangs, more known for weapons than drugs, had very recently come back with new handguns and specialized rifles from the United States that morning. Siyoung would know, because his gang had sent out people to go after them.
Siyoung checked the ammunition, immediately recognizing it. There was a heavy frown set on his lips. Siyoung looked up at Hyunseok, who was staring at him apprehensively. "Professional."
"Shit, not those fuckers," Hyunseok hissed under his breath. He glared at the gun in his hand, annoyed. "Even if we find those bitches hiding out in here, these rifles are long-range."
"So let's just take them back," Siyoung muttered. He glanced at Hyunseok. "Do you think one of them is still here?"
Hyunseok grit his teeth. "Maybe. You go that way, I'll go this way. Don't let that fucker jump you."
Siyoung nodded, heading down the dark corridor. He really hoped he wouldn't find the assassin. Killing rested on his conscience, even though it was a part of life on the streets; the other guys always clapped him on the back, chuckling, and called him soft-hearted.
Siyoung stealthily moved through the hidden hallway, clutching the gun in his hands. If you see him, shoot him, he chanted to himself as a mantra. He doubted he would be able to aim and shoot from the long-range rifle at point-blank, but Siyoung didn't have too many other options. The ammunition was loaded, and if needed, Siyoung was prepared to shoot. I should've brought a handgun.
Siyoung saw the figure and immediately placed his hand on the trigger. Before he could shoot, however, he caught a glimpse of the assassin's face in the extremely dim lighting of the corridor and hesitated. His body took over as Siyoung's mind buffered, deciding to swing the end of the rifle at the guy's head. Why didn't I shoot him? Siyoung's mind yelled at himself despairingly. Hyunseok, you better come here and give me backup.
Siyoung shrugged when Hyunseok turned around to glance back at him, the other man walking backward so the two could keep facing each other. "You never know," he responded mildly. It was true; while the Thirteenth Ward was rife with gangs like their own, it was also a relatively wealthy area, and there was always some corruption when huge fortunes collided. Large conglomerates had no qualms about hiring assassins to go after each other. It was assumed that the Thirteenth Ward was dangerous because of the gangs, and while Siyoung did prefer to think that they had some impact, he knew that the wealthy CEOs in the area went far beyond basic white-collar crimes. There was no doubt that those masquerading as perfectly law-abiding, albeit extraordinarily wealthy, citizens did most of the damage.
Even if Hyunseok's loyalties did somehow get revealed to the yakuza he was dealing with, Siyoung doubted that they would pay for an assassin. No, they would definitely hunt him down themselves, and the realization did nothing to ease Siyoung's worries.
"Wanna go to that building that's been under construction?" Hyunseok changed the topic. "It's on the border of our turf; we gotta fucking mark our territory to those businessmen. Show them we're still a threat." Judging by the wide grin on his face, Hyunseok just wanted to scale the building and have fun graffitiing it for the sake of it rather than for the sake of establishing their gang's dominance.
"C'mon, Siyoung," Hyunseok urged, pouting dramatically. "You're like a grandpa -- you never do anything fun."
"All right, all right, I'll go with you," Siyoung rolled his eyes. He wasn't much like Hyunseok, who liked scaling walls and mocking the other gangs and threatening businessmen and overall, just putting himself in compromising positions because he got a kick out of it. Hyunseok did dangerous things for the gang, but most of the time, he was doing dangerous things just for himself. Siyoung was the opposite; he considered himself duty-bound to the gang, who had so generously taken him into their ranks and practically raised him when he was just a kid, kicked out of his home. He was close with Hyunseok -- the two of them had been friends for a solid decade -- but didn't care for many of the same activities. Maybe I am like a grandpa, Siyoung mused to himself.
"Great!" Hyunseok jogged back to where Siyoung was trailing behind him and dropped his arm on the younger man's shoulders. "Donghyuk and Minjoon are heading over there with spray paint. Hurry up, Siyoungie, before those dicks leave us behind."
Siyoung found himself chasing after Hyunseok through the city, trying not to pant as the other, more athletic man scaled walls, jumped from roof to roof, and slid down poles. "Is this really necessary?" Siyoung called, trying not to make too much noise as he jumped from a building down to a dumpster.
Hyunseok laughed. "It looks like you're doing just fine to me! Or are you getting old?"
Siyoung knit his eyebrows, forcing his legs to move faster as he identified a shortcut, sliding through it and arriving at the unfinished building a mere few seconds before Hyunseok. Siyoung gave Hyunseok a smug look, causing the older man to bark out a laugh.
Hyunseok whistled, impressed, slapping Siyoung on the back. "I guess you're not that old."
"Yeah," Siyoung watched Donghyuk and Minjoon walk out of the shadows. "Didn't think you had that in you, kid."
"Hyung, I'm twenty-six."
Hyunseok sighed dramatically, clutching his chest. "They grow up so fast nowadays."
The group laughed as Siyoung shoved Hyunseok, their boots loudly and repetitively pounding the ground as they jogged up the stairs to somewhere around the twentieth floor.
"Guys, shut up," Minjoon suddenly snapped, their conversation ceasing into nothingness. In the background, Siyoung distinctly heard something that sounded vaguely like someone yelling, "get up, get up."
"I hear it," Siyoung murmured lowly, the air around the group growing cold and serious. The four of them immediately dropped all their enthusiasm from their previous chatter as they met eyes, silently agreeing on what to do.
"Siyoung, Hyunseok, in there," Minjoon ordered, sending the two of them into a room as he and Donghyuk continued down the hallway. Hyunseok immediately caught sight of the guns, tossing them to Siyoung to check for the model. Siyoung was known in their gang for being able to memorize the most minor details; he was good at identifying such things.
"It's a newer model, but not new enough to be the most recent shipment on the streets," Siyoung muttered, flipping the gun around in his hand. The smugglers in one of the adjacent gangs, more known for weapons than drugs, had very recently come back with new handguns and specialized rifles from the United States that morning. Siyoung would know, because his gang had sent out people to go after them.
Siyoung checked the ammunition, immediately recognizing it. There was a heavy frown set on his lips. Siyoung looked up at Hyunseok, who was staring at him apprehensively. "Professional."
"Shit, not those fuckers," Hyunseok hissed under his breath. He glared at the gun in his hand, annoyed. "Even if we find those bitches hiding out in here, these rifles are long-range."
"So let's just take them back," Siyoung muttered. He glanced at Hyunseok. "Do you think one of them is still here?"
Hyunseok grit his teeth. "Maybe. You go that way, I'll go this way. Don't let that fucker jump you."
Siyoung nodded, heading down the dark corridor. He really hoped he wouldn't find the assassin. Killing rested on his conscience, even though it was a part of life on the streets; the other guys always clapped him on the back, chuckling, and called him soft-hearted.
Siyoung stealthily moved through the hidden hallway, clutching the gun in his hands. If you see him, shoot him, he chanted to himself as a mantra. He doubted he would be able to aim and shoot from the long-range rifle at point-blank, but Siyoung didn't have too many other options. The ammunition was loaded, and if needed, Siyoung was prepared to shoot. I should've brought a handgun.
Siyoung saw the figure and immediately placed his hand on the trigger. Before he could shoot, however, he caught a glimpse of the assassin's face in the extremely dim lighting of the corridor and hesitated. His body took over as Siyoung's mind buffered, deciding to swing the end of the rifle at the guy's head. Why didn't I shoot him? Siyoung's mind yelled at himself despairingly. Hyunseok, you better come here and give me backup.
Last edited:
VALEN T.
Member
Ahn Chi-Won. (안치원 )
The chatter isn't nearly loud or distinctive enough in these walls for him to discern what these strangers mutter right outside, but one thing Chiwon is able to pick up on is how the silence suddenly drops on the entire building like a blackout cloak: one moment the footsteps blazing up the stairs were loud and blaring (or maybe his senses just zeroed in on that), and the next, there's an eerie lull fallen over the floor.
But then again, they're fickle beings, these "virtuous" gang swines. No ones in Chiwon's organisation bothers learning the name they go by, no one bothers differentiating each gang from the next, because in their eyes, these barbarians were only present to cause significant business losses by making weapons of all classes available to the general public in the black markets. Or at least, that's one of their goals highlighted time and time again during the biannual seminars at their company when new recruits are welcomed and the elders are retired.
"Ah, shit," Chiwon hisses under his breath when the steady thump, thump, thump of heavy footsteps advances in his direction. His hand tightens around the one knife he'd slipped on him at the arsenal compound earlier, unable to refuse his hands and the coveting glean in his eyes that reflected the glimmer of light on the sharp metal. There was nothing special about it: a lightweight, thin blade that fits perfectly in his palm. (Hopefully, he won't get in too much trouble for not returning it... ever.)
A shadow appears in the empty doorway and Chiwon slices his dagger out of its sheath. Something more ranged, he decides as the body fully appears inside this secluded hallway, Would've been ideal. A kunai, or even a handgun. But his weapon of choice becomes the last of his gripes when this unidentified dark figure—with his rifle in hand—turns their head ever so slightly in the direction Chiwon hides. The next few seconds are a grave sin from his part: he waits like a fucking donkey while this stranger progressively walks nearer to his location, hoping that the shadows embrace his black attire like a long lost twin.
But alas. How poetic are the first words that flash lightning white in his head when the person, instead of jamming the head of the rifle into Chiwon's guts and shooting right there, decides to hit the assassin with the blunt butt of the gun. Chiwon sees this coming of course, his eyes shooting to his bare left side, and although his forearm aches from the meaningful impact—Man sure knows how to strike—his quick reflexes still aid him in evading any visceral damage and a very unfortunate fate.
His next course of action is rapid and untamed, his mind momentarily propelling all physical responsibility to his muscles alone, because his jaw sets hard before he pushes the gun using the same bruised arm to back the body against the same wall he was glued against just moments earlier. "Not today, princess," he utters, his voice hoarse from how low he speaks to keep the sound contained in this man's vicinity only. And to ensure no other unnecessary cries are made, he taps the rifle's muzzle right under his counterpart's chin. "You got that?" His eyes convey as they flicker between his face and metal stock separating their bodies.
He could shoot, he realises in that moment: what's a drop's worth of blood in the ocean that already drenches his heavy soul? He doesn't shoot though, is the thing, because even in the night that hides their vile and wicked behaviour, Chiwon's eyes find a strange... glimmer in this stranger's. I know you, it's his own voice burgeoning in the cave of his head at first but somewhere there, it becomes two—one of which he subconsciously recognises, his eyebrows furrow in confusion, but can't quite pin down.
It's this very state of befuddlement that has him jolting violently when his other hand, the one placed on this man's arm accidentally slips, causing the tip of his knife to snag on the cloth covering it, cutting a tear in the shirt. "Shit." It may not sound anything like one, but the word is meant as an apology. And that surprises him enough for him to go lax on the weight he's exerting to keep the stranger pinned in place.
But then again, they're fickle beings, these "virtuous" gang swines. No ones in Chiwon's organisation bothers learning the name they go by, no one bothers differentiating each gang from the next, because in their eyes, these barbarians were only present to cause significant business losses by making weapons of all classes available to the general public in the black markets. Or at least, that's one of their goals highlighted time and time again during the biannual seminars at their company when new recruits are welcomed and the elders are retired.
"Ah, shit," Chiwon hisses under his breath when the steady thump, thump, thump of heavy footsteps advances in his direction. His hand tightens around the one knife he'd slipped on him at the arsenal compound earlier, unable to refuse his hands and the coveting glean in his eyes that reflected the glimmer of light on the sharp metal. There was nothing special about it: a lightweight, thin blade that fits perfectly in his palm. (Hopefully, he won't get in too much trouble for not returning it... ever.)
A shadow appears in the empty doorway and Chiwon slices his dagger out of its sheath. Something more ranged, he decides as the body fully appears inside this secluded hallway, Would've been ideal. A kunai, or even a handgun. But his weapon of choice becomes the last of his gripes when this unidentified dark figure—with his rifle in hand—turns their head ever so slightly in the direction Chiwon hides. The next few seconds are a grave sin from his part: he waits like a fucking donkey while this stranger progressively walks nearer to his location, hoping that the shadows embrace his black attire like a long lost twin.
But alas. How poetic are the first words that flash lightning white in his head when the person, instead of jamming the head of the rifle into Chiwon's guts and shooting right there, decides to hit the assassin with the blunt butt of the gun. Chiwon sees this coming of course, his eyes shooting to his bare left side, and although his forearm aches from the meaningful impact—Man sure knows how to strike—his quick reflexes still aid him in evading any visceral damage and a very unfortunate fate.
His next course of action is rapid and untamed, his mind momentarily propelling all physical responsibility to his muscles alone, because his jaw sets hard before he pushes the gun using the same bruised arm to back the body against the same wall he was glued against just moments earlier. "Not today, princess," he utters, his voice hoarse from how low he speaks to keep the sound contained in this man's vicinity only. And to ensure no other unnecessary cries are made, he taps the rifle's muzzle right under his counterpart's chin. "You got that?" His eyes convey as they flicker between his face and metal stock separating their bodies.
He could shoot, he realises in that moment: what's a drop's worth of blood in the ocean that already drenches his heavy soul? He doesn't shoot though, is the thing, because even in the night that hides their vile and wicked behaviour, Chiwon's eyes find a strange... glimmer in this stranger's. I know you, it's his own voice burgeoning in the cave of his head at first but somewhere there, it becomes two—one of which he subconsciously recognises, his eyebrows furrow in confusion, but can't quite pin down.
It's this very state of befuddlement that has him jolting violently when his other hand, the one placed on this man's arm accidentally slips, causing the tip of his knife to snag on the cloth covering it, cutting a tear in the shirt. "Shit." It may not sound anything like one, but the word is meant as an apology. And that surprises him enough for him to go lax on the weight he's exerting to keep the stranger pinned in place.
reveriee
☆⌒(≧▽° )
lee si-young (이시영)
I hate myself. Siyoung watched in horror as his body went against his own mental commands, turning the rifle around to slam the butt end into the other man.
Siyoung liked to think of himself as a composed person -- organized, responsible, never one to dive into things headfirst. He always had a plan; even if he could only afford the time for a rough sketch, Siyoung made sure he was never in a position where he would have to wing it. And while he couldn't call himself the cold or calculating type, Siyoung's habits lent themselves to calm, precise movements, and a steady demeanor.
This time, however, Siyoung started to panic. He always had a plan; he didn't know what to do now that his body had betrayed him. Even as he was in the process of slamming the gun against the assassin's side, Siyoung pinpointed everything that was wrong with the decision; firstly, he had made the mistake of simply not eliminating the other man efficiently and immediately, but most drastically, he had turned the muzzle of the rifle against himself. It wasn't like Siyoung had made a slight slip up; no, he was a mouse that had walked directly into a trap and to its demise.
Thus, when the other man had predictably turned the tables against Siyoung, backing him against the wall and completely switching their positions, Siyoung could only lament his own actions disappointingly.
"Not today, princess," the assassin spoke, his voice low and hoarse like the rough scrape of sandpaper. A flurry of emotions began to swirl in the pit of Siyoung's stomach, accompanying his already panicked state; he was more aware of his surroundings than ever. The only sounds Siyoung could pick up were the rasp of the assassin's lowered voice and the quickened beat of his own heart; the sensation was so visceral -- Siyoung could practically feel the roughness of the assassin's voice scrape against the empty air. He was eerily aware of the cold metal tip of the gun tapping on his chin, and the heat of the other man's hand pressed against his arm, the two sensations contrasting like fire and ice.
First mom, and now princess. Somehow, through the whipping winds of adrenaline and faintly ebbing consternation, Siyoung managed to find peace in simple thoughts at the eye of the storm. It's always the feminine terms. I could use more incidences of 'old man' or 'pretty boy' instead. Despite the faint urge he felt to laugh hysterically at the ridiculousness of the thought, Siyoung felt far calmer than he had before; the storm had settled, perhaps, and he was taking in his situation, ready to retaliate.
Yet when Siyoung shifted his gaze to glance at the assassin, he was reminded of why he had faltered in the first place. Somehow, looking in the assassin's eyes simultaneously felt like meeting an old friend and stumbling across a captivating stranger -- a stranger Siyoung would only ever see once in his life. For some untold reason, Siyoung felt the compulsion to stay and not let the moment slip away tug deep in the crevices of his heart.
But of course Siyoung wouldn't stay. The man standing across from him, with hair the color of merlot and red velvet cake, and a gun held under Siyoung's chin, was an assassin. He was an assassin, the very kind that local gang members like Siyoung himself constantly tussled with. They were enemies, and Siyoung was currently pinned to the wall with a gun held against his neck. Of course he wouldn't stay.
It seemed as if the universe was giving Siyoung a free pass that day, however; the assassin's steady hand slipped, the knife in his hand cutting a tear into Siyoung's shirt and digging into his skin. Siyoung hissed in both pain and surprise as the assassin muttered a curse. Siyoung could feel the cut on his arm, but it was a minor one; what really caught him off guard was how the red-haired assassin acted. The assassins who worked in the organization were notoriously skilled -- after all, how else would they earn a spot in such an elite agency?
Siyoung didn't expect one of their assassins to make such a simple slip up, and it seemed like the red-haired man across from him was continuously slipping downhill. Siyoung felt the force pinning him to the wall weaken, and he took that opportunity to knee the assassin in the crotch and forcefully shove the other man off of him, kicking the gun away and simply taking the chance to escape instead of fighting back. The way his mind had blanked when Siyoung's eyes initially flit across the other man's face frightened him, and he didn't want to risk slipping up on something so simple again.
Siyoung quickly spotted Hyunseok once he emerged from the dark corridor. "Let's go," he said, words short and succinct. "Where are Minjoon and Donghyuk?"
Hyunseok followed Siyoung's order without any comment. "They're in the stairwell," he said, nodding at the pair as they came into view. As soon as Minjoon and Donghyuk caught sight of them, they continued descending down the stairs, around a floor level below Siyoung and Hyunseok.
"Did you find the assassin?" Hyunseok asked intently. The events that had just taken place flashed through Siyoung's mind; he didn't realize that Hyunseok was still waiting for an answer until he heard an obnoxiously dramatic cough. Siyoung shook himself out of his thoughts.
"No," he muttered belatedly. "They were all gone."
Hyunseok sighed, shaking his head in mock disappointment. "I mean, I guess that's a good thing, but I was really in the mood to kick some prissy princess ass." Princess, a voice inside Siyoung's head rasped the word, imitating the assassin from before. The dark-haired man stumbled, almost tripping down the stairs, earning a strange look from Hyunseok.
Hyunseok gave Siyoung a once-over, frowning. "Dude, where's your gun? I thought you said we were gonna take them back."
Siyoung winced; he was too busy getting away to even consider wrestling the gun back from the assassin. "Yeah . . . I forgot it."
Hyunseok's eyes widened. "You forgot it? But you don't forget anything!" Siyoung was detail-oriented; he remembered the small things, like his friends' favorite cat breeds or when they last ate. There was a reason why Siyoung was jokingly labeled as a mom, and there was a reason why his brothers depended on him to identify things like gun models or ambiguous graffiti tags.
"Wait, are you bleeding?" Siyoung's head swiveled to where the assassin's blade dug into his skin. It was nothing drastic, but there was a faint trickle of blood.
Siyoung shrugged as he continued jogging down the stairs. "I guess I must've cut my arm . . . on the wall." He winced -- the words were awkward and choppily-said, and it seemed Hyunseok noticed it as well, considering the disbelieving look on his face.
"You are a really bad liar." Hyunseok gave Siyoung a contemplating look, before softening his stare, sighing and turning away. "Whatever, we'll talk about it later. I'm more upset that we came all this way and we couldn't even give the construction workers a heart attack."
Siyoung liked to think of himself as a composed person -- organized, responsible, never one to dive into things headfirst. He always had a plan; even if he could only afford the time for a rough sketch, Siyoung made sure he was never in a position where he would have to wing it. And while he couldn't call himself the cold or calculating type, Siyoung's habits lent themselves to calm, precise movements, and a steady demeanor.
This time, however, Siyoung started to panic. He always had a plan; he didn't know what to do now that his body had betrayed him. Even as he was in the process of slamming the gun against the assassin's side, Siyoung pinpointed everything that was wrong with the decision; firstly, he had made the mistake of simply not eliminating the other man efficiently and immediately, but most drastically, he had turned the muzzle of the rifle against himself. It wasn't like Siyoung had made a slight slip up; no, he was a mouse that had walked directly into a trap and to its demise.
Thus, when the other man had predictably turned the tables against Siyoung, backing him against the wall and completely switching their positions, Siyoung could only lament his own actions disappointingly.
"Not today, princess," the assassin spoke, his voice low and hoarse like the rough scrape of sandpaper. A flurry of emotions began to swirl in the pit of Siyoung's stomach, accompanying his already panicked state; he was more aware of his surroundings than ever. The only sounds Siyoung could pick up were the rasp of the assassin's lowered voice and the quickened beat of his own heart; the sensation was so visceral -- Siyoung could practically feel the roughness of the assassin's voice scrape against the empty air. He was eerily aware of the cold metal tip of the gun tapping on his chin, and the heat of the other man's hand pressed against his arm, the two sensations contrasting like fire and ice.
First mom, and now princess. Somehow, through the whipping winds of adrenaline and faintly ebbing consternation, Siyoung managed to find peace in simple thoughts at the eye of the storm. It's always the feminine terms. I could use more incidences of 'old man' or 'pretty boy' instead. Despite the faint urge he felt to laugh hysterically at the ridiculousness of the thought, Siyoung felt far calmer than he had before; the storm had settled, perhaps, and he was taking in his situation, ready to retaliate.
Yet when Siyoung shifted his gaze to glance at the assassin, he was reminded of why he had faltered in the first place. Somehow, looking in the assassin's eyes simultaneously felt like meeting an old friend and stumbling across a captivating stranger -- a stranger Siyoung would only ever see once in his life. For some untold reason, Siyoung felt the compulsion to stay and not let the moment slip away tug deep in the crevices of his heart.
But of course Siyoung wouldn't stay. The man standing across from him, with hair the color of merlot and red velvet cake, and a gun held under Siyoung's chin, was an assassin. He was an assassin, the very kind that local gang members like Siyoung himself constantly tussled with. They were enemies, and Siyoung was currently pinned to the wall with a gun held against his neck. Of course he wouldn't stay.
It seemed as if the universe was giving Siyoung a free pass that day, however; the assassin's steady hand slipped, the knife in his hand cutting a tear into Siyoung's shirt and digging into his skin. Siyoung hissed in both pain and surprise as the assassin muttered a curse. Siyoung could feel the cut on his arm, but it was a minor one; what really caught him off guard was how the red-haired assassin acted. The assassins who worked in the organization were notoriously skilled -- after all, how else would they earn a spot in such an elite agency?
Siyoung didn't expect one of their assassins to make such a simple slip up, and it seemed like the red-haired man across from him was continuously slipping downhill. Siyoung felt the force pinning him to the wall weaken, and he took that opportunity to knee the assassin in the crotch and forcefully shove the other man off of him, kicking the gun away and simply taking the chance to escape instead of fighting back. The way his mind had blanked when Siyoung's eyes initially flit across the other man's face frightened him, and he didn't want to risk slipping up on something so simple again.
Siyoung quickly spotted Hyunseok once he emerged from the dark corridor. "Let's go," he said, words short and succinct. "Where are Minjoon and Donghyuk?"
Hyunseok followed Siyoung's order without any comment. "They're in the stairwell," he said, nodding at the pair as they came into view. As soon as Minjoon and Donghyuk caught sight of them, they continued descending down the stairs, around a floor level below Siyoung and Hyunseok.
"Did you find the assassin?" Hyunseok asked intently. The events that had just taken place flashed through Siyoung's mind; he didn't realize that Hyunseok was still waiting for an answer until he heard an obnoxiously dramatic cough. Siyoung shook himself out of his thoughts.
"No," he muttered belatedly. "They were all gone."
Hyunseok sighed, shaking his head in mock disappointment. "I mean, I guess that's a good thing, but I was really in the mood to kick some prissy princess ass." Princess, a voice inside Siyoung's head rasped the word, imitating the assassin from before. The dark-haired man stumbled, almost tripping down the stairs, earning a strange look from Hyunseok.
Hyunseok gave Siyoung a once-over, frowning. "Dude, where's your gun? I thought you said we were gonna take them back."
Siyoung winced; he was too busy getting away to even consider wrestling the gun back from the assassin. "Yeah . . . I forgot it."
Hyunseok's eyes widened. "You forgot it? But you don't forget anything!" Siyoung was detail-oriented; he remembered the small things, like his friends' favorite cat breeds or when they last ate. There was a reason why Siyoung was jokingly labeled as a mom, and there was a reason why his brothers depended on him to identify things like gun models or ambiguous graffiti tags.
"Wait, are you bleeding?" Siyoung's head swiveled to where the assassin's blade dug into his skin. It was nothing drastic, but there was a faint trickle of blood.
Siyoung shrugged as he continued jogging down the stairs. "I guess I must've cut my arm . . . on the wall." He winced -- the words were awkward and choppily-said, and it seemed Hyunseok noticed it as well, considering the disbelieving look on his face.
"You are a really bad liar." Hyunseok gave Siyoung a contemplating look, before softening his stare, sighing and turning away. "Whatever, we'll talk about it later. I'm more upset that we came all this way and we couldn't even give the construction workers a heart attack."
Last edited by a moderator:
VALEN T.
Member
Ahn Chi-Won. (안치원 )
Chiwon tastes blood in his mouth, the sour iron permeating every cranny of his mouth when he his teeth jam into the supple flesh of his tongue in a vain, painful attempt to box the screams that threaten to surge and gush from a deep part of his core. "You fucking bastard," he only has the energy to hiss, body crumpling over in pure, unadulterated agony that prickles down the sides of his thighs; his legs no longer able to support his weight, causing him to collapse on the concrete ground.
A kick to the groin was not something he'd been expecting, nor something he was prepared for. But then again, he and his expertise wasn't supposed to make such a fatal error on a mission either. And all because of- Chiwon's head snaps up, dark eyes dripping with venom. I will kill you, he promises, gaze brushing with this dirty. The nightlight bounces off his orbs like sharpened silver and it drives Chiwon up the wall. I will kill you, he repeats to the receding the figure, The next time I see you, you're a dead man.
That's how Daesung finds him: sitting on the dusty floor. His eyebrows lift in silent question at first, but then his pupils slip lower to where Chiwon holds himself, and he cringes so thoroughly, his whole face contorting in a sympathetic disgust. "Say anything to anyone and I will rip your tongue out," the redhead threatens, his tone laced with a nightshade-coloured menace. Daesung make a display of zipping his mouth shut and tossing away the key, but Chiwon's mood is still sour a few minutes later when the some of his strength returns. He harshly elbows Daesung to the side when his partner pushes himself off the nearby wall he was against to help Chiwon.
"Did you see who they were?" He asks through grit teeth, taking the lead in walking the two of them down the building.
Daesung shakes his head, frowning at his shoes, "No, they didn't find me." Oh God, he really wants to punch a pretty mug right now. "The voices were familiar though, we've probably encountered these punks before."
Then why haven't you dealt with them yet?! Chiwon wants to shout, but bites his tongue right in the indents his molars made earlier, irritating the wound and causing more of that tangy wine taste to flood his mouth. He's overstepping a line—that's the realisation that makes him holds his bark like a fucking man: it's only his second day at the Thirteenth, and he's already taking his frustrations out on his colleagues? Not to mention, an older, more experienced colleague who still managed to complete their task despite Chiwon's shortcomings.
It grinds his goddamn gears to swallow down his remaining pride and turn to apologise: "I'm sorry," the words are like acid on his palate, "For being... such an inconvenience to you today." The angry wrinkles on his forehead from how firmly he keeps his brows furrowed might just become a permanent feature of his visage, the rose-scented headache they bring as their consort a constant pain.
He only eases up when Daesung ruffles his hair and says, "Not your fault. I've had worse, anyway," then grins all cheeky to tack on a, "Besides, you can always make it up to me later!"
And make it up to him is precisely what Chiwon finds himself doing when he replaces Daesung's position on the nightly patrol team a couple days later.
A kick to the groin was not something he'd been expecting, nor something he was prepared for. But then again, he and his expertise wasn't supposed to make such a fatal error on a mission either. And all because of- Chiwon's head snaps up, dark eyes dripping with venom. I will kill you, he promises, gaze brushing with this dirty. The nightlight bounces off his orbs like sharpened silver and it drives Chiwon up the wall. I will kill you, he repeats to the receding the figure, The next time I see you, you're a dead man.
That's how Daesung finds him: sitting on the dusty floor. His eyebrows lift in silent question at first, but then his pupils slip lower to where Chiwon holds himself, and he cringes so thoroughly, his whole face contorting in a sympathetic disgust. "Say anything to anyone and I will rip your tongue out," the redhead threatens, his tone laced with a nightshade-coloured menace. Daesung make a display of zipping his mouth shut and tossing away the key, but Chiwon's mood is still sour a few minutes later when the some of his strength returns. He harshly elbows Daesung to the side when his partner pushes himself off the nearby wall he was against to help Chiwon.
"Did you see who they were?" He asks through grit teeth, taking the lead in walking the two of them down the building.
Daesung shakes his head, frowning at his shoes, "No, they didn't find me." Oh God, he really wants to punch a pretty mug right now. "The voices were familiar though, we've probably encountered these punks before."
Then why haven't you dealt with them yet?! Chiwon wants to shout, but bites his tongue right in the indents his molars made earlier, irritating the wound and causing more of that tangy wine taste to flood his mouth. He's overstepping a line—that's the realisation that makes him holds his bark like a fucking man: it's only his second day at the Thirteenth, and he's already taking his frustrations out on his colleagues? Not to mention, an older, more experienced colleague who still managed to complete their task despite Chiwon's shortcomings.
It grinds his goddamn gears to swallow down his remaining pride and turn to apologise: "I'm sorry," the words are like acid on his palate, "For being... such an inconvenience to you today." The angry wrinkles on his forehead from how firmly he keeps his brows furrowed might just become a permanent feature of his visage, the rose-scented headache they bring as their consort a constant pain.
He only eases up when Daesung ruffles his hair and says, "Not your fault. I've had worse, anyway," then grins all cheeky to tack on a, "Besides, you can always make it up to me later!"
And make it up to him is precisely what Chiwon finds himself doing when he replaces Daesung's position on the nightly patrol team a couple days later.
reveriee
☆⌒(≧▽° )
lee si-young (이시영)
Siyoung was aware of what he had done from the moment he left the unfinished building, but it didn't truly hit him until a couple days later.
He, Lee Siyoung, a man of over a decade's worth of gang experience, had run away from a potential threat instead of exterminating it. He panicked like a schoolgirl who couldn't face her crush before dashing away in shame. Despite his unassuming and perhaps gentle demeanor, Siyoung knew how to extinguish a threat, be it through threats and mains or actual murder. Now, he seemed like a newbie who felt bile rise in their throat at the mere sight of blood; Siyoung ran away from a threat and let them escape, and the heavy, leaden guilt set into his bones and seeped into everything he did until he finally blurted out the truth to Hyunseok, who had been pressing him ever since the incident under the veneer of his constant chattering.
The older man had given him a look filled with all shades of befuddlement and incredulity, before awkwardly patting him on the back and saying, "wow. I mean, at least you got a good hit at his balls."
Hyunseok's oh-so-wise words did nothing to comfort Siyoung or ease the guilt that was still festering within his core. Later that night, Siyoung felt compelled to walk up to two of the members who were meant to scour the borders of their turf that night and tell them that he would take the shift for them. Siyoung seemed to have the thought that he would be able to redeem himself for his previous misstep if he managed to find an enemy gang member in their turf and beat them up -- even though no one besides Hyunseok knew of what happened, Siyoung wanted to prove to himself that he was still useful.
Kijung, one of the two members, had trailed his suspicious gaze up and down Siyoung's form, tugging the cigarette out of his mouth and grinding it into the ground with his boot. "What does the girl want?" he muttered to his partner, Byungchul, his voice low and crackling, typical of a chronic smoker. Siyoung kept his composure; Kijung never liked him.
Byungchul narrowed his eyes, nonchalant. "Whatever, let's just go. It's not like I want to do this shit." Kijung seemed to give Byungchul a look that said, "what, seriously?" to which the latter shrugged and replied, "I heard Siyoung killed a guy in cold blood when he was fourteen. It'll be fine."
Siyoung bit the inside of his cheek until he could taste the metallic tang of blood. As unflattering the statement was, it wasn't necessarily untrue. Siyoung was more troubled back then -- he liked to think that he changed for the better whilst maintaining his skill. Still, hearing about his past self made him want to bow his head in shame. He couldn't take back anything he had done.
Kijung scoffed, attempting to shove Siyoung as he passed by. The latter just moved out of the way -- he knew his nonaggressive stance didn't earn him much respect within the gang, but he didn't want to get worked up over something so minor. Siyoung wouldn't allow his anger to grow into a beast and take over his psyche as it had before.
Siyoung slipped into the shadows of an alleyway as he scanned the edges of their turf. He was around the edges of the Thirteenth Ward, where many of the buildings were either dilapidated or in the process of construction. The moonlight spilled over the area, giving the unfinished buildings an eerie, almost apocalyptic glow.
Suddenly, a thorn of uncertainty dug into Siyoung's intuition, causing him to glance around the area suspiciously. The area looked so utterly abandoned -- Siyoung was sure that the presence of another person would be amplified tenfold. Somehow, it didn't feel like an enemy gang member -- they usually weren't as delicate or discreet. Siyoung told himself to be hyperaware of his surroundings as he slid his hand around the small handgun hidden under his clothing, waiting.
He, Lee Siyoung, a man of over a decade's worth of gang experience, had run away from a potential threat instead of exterminating it. He panicked like a schoolgirl who couldn't face her crush before dashing away in shame. Despite his unassuming and perhaps gentle demeanor, Siyoung knew how to extinguish a threat, be it through threats and mains or actual murder. Now, he seemed like a newbie who felt bile rise in their throat at the mere sight of blood; Siyoung ran away from a threat and let them escape, and the heavy, leaden guilt set into his bones and seeped into everything he did until he finally blurted out the truth to Hyunseok, who had been pressing him ever since the incident under the veneer of his constant chattering.
The older man had given him a look filled with all shades of befuddlement and incredulity, before awkwardly patting him on the back and saying, "wow. I mean, at least you got a good hit at his balls."
Hyunseok's oh-so-wise words did nothing to comfort Siyoung or ease the guilt that was still festering within his core. Later that night, Siyoung felt compelled to walk up to two of the members who were meant to scour the borders of their turf that night and tell them that he would take the shift for them. Siyoung seemed to have the thought that he would be able to redeem himself for his previous misstep if he managed to find an enemy gang member in their turf and beat them up -- even though no one besides Hyunseok knew of what happened, Siyoung wanted to prove to himself that he was still useful.
Kijung, one of the two members, had trailed his suspicious gaze up and down Siyoung's form, tugging the cigarette out of his mouth and grinding it into the ground with his boot. "What does the girl want?" he muttered to his partner, Byungchul, his voice low and crackling, typical of a chronic smoker. Siyoung kept his composure; Kijung never liked him.
Byungchul narrowed his eyes, nonchalant. "Whatever, let's just go. It's not like I want to do this shit." Kijung seemed to give Byungchul a look that said, "what, seriously?" to which the latter shrugged and replied, "I heard Siyoung killed a guy in cold blood when he was fourteen. It'll be fine."
Siyoung bit the inside of his cheek until he could taste the metallic tang of blood. As unflattering the statement was, it wasn't necessarily untrue. Siyoung was more troubled back then -- he liked to think that he changed for the better whilst maintaining his skill. Still, hearing about his past self made him want to bow his head in shame. He couldn't take back anything he had done.
Kijung scoffed, attempting to shove Siyoung as he passed by. The latter just moved out of the way -- he knew his nonaggressive stance didn't earn him much respect within the gang, but he didn't want to get worked up over something so minor. Siyoung wouldn't allow his anger to grow into a beast and take over his psyche as it had before.
Siyoung slipped into the shadows of an alleyway as he scanned the edges of their turf. He was around the edges of the Thirteenth Ward, where many of the buildings were either dilapidated or in the process of construction. The moonlight spilled over the area, giving the unfinished buildings an eerie, almost apocalyptic glow.
Suddenly, a thorn of uncertainty dug into Siyoung's intuition, causing him to glance around the area suspiciously. The area looked so utterly abandoned -- Siyoung was sure that the presence of another person would be amplified tenfold. Somehow, it didn't feel like an enemy gang member -- they usually weren't as delicate or discreet. Siyoung told himself to be hyperaware of his surroundings as he slid his hand around the small handgun hidden under his clothing, waiting.
VALEN T.
Member
Ahn Chi-Won. (안치원 )
Chiwon's mood is already sour, an ever present scowl harshly tugging at his features as he trudges behind the rest of the group. He doesn't mind taking Daesung's place in the patrol even though it means he'll be getting less hours of sleep tonight while having to wake up at the exact same time everyone does; no, he's had his fair share of willful sleepless nights. He minds that Daesung had the audacity to clap him on the back and send him off with a cocky, "Don't get hit in the balls this time too."
Chiwon kicks the gravel littering the ground in contempt, several heads turning back to question him with a judging lift of their brows. He hadn't even told Daesung the full story! The only person he trusts with any anecdotes of his life is Si-Eun—who's been his handler from before he entered his roaring twenties—and she's sitting in a whole different district with no means to contact each other.
He sighs, letting his shoulders droop to allow some of the frustration to unknowingly slip from their silver-lined platter. He feels the difference in his head, how much lighter it feels. Are we there yet? He wants to ask his group, but no one has spoken a word since they left Headquarters, and while Chiwon knows of his repute, he also doesn't want to build a new one from scratch—the anomaly, he bets that what they'd call him—so he keeps his mouth glued and follows behind the dozen people walking further and further away from the bustling heart of the city.
They're awfully slow for people who're meant to be eliminating the night threats.
Chiwon comes to understand why when he lifts his gaze from his shoes to his surroundings: a wasteland. The moonlight casts an eerie luminescent glow on the unfinished construction. The Thirteenth Ward never stops expanding, he's heard, there's always a new location where the threats emerge from. And now he sees why: this is an unrestricted zone with no security. It's the perfect place for the transgressors to hide away, conspiring their plans of corruption, and concealing whatever criminal weaponry they secure from their capricious business partners.
"We split up here," the person leading their group, the mysterious Hye-In, stops their journey at the critical border of these unmarked territories. She assigns everyone a direction, sending Chiwon off somewhere to the left. "Think of it as a labyrinth," she says right before everyone takes their departure, "You try to find an exit, only to realise there isn't one, and then you head back."
The redhead raises a questioning eyebrow at that but accepts the definition nonetheless.
This time, he does have a handgun on him: cocked in his hands, actually, so that he won't be taken off-guard by anyone advancing in on him. He even keeps his pace steady like Hye-In, keeps his breathing shallow because in a vast, empty place like this... any sound he makes, is a sound he's unable to pick up on from his sur-
What was that? He freezes in place, darting back with the glock positioned in both his hands. He knows he heard something: a shuffling of feet disturbing the shattered rubble carpetting the ground underneath. Hesitantly, after not being able to distinguish any other noise of the like, he lowers his gun, and after another survey of his surroundings, continues his patrol. Only until a certain point though, because he jolts himself to a stop as soon as he reaches the bend of the street and spots a shadow right across the corner.
His handgun takes its place once more, the trigger heating under the suspense of his fingers when he takes an aim but refuses to fire. His eyepiece magnifies the person walking out in the open, and his throat constricts with thick bile when he recognises that face. No, he corrects himself, it's not the face that jogs his memory, but the eyes that bejewel it. Which is... surprising to say the least: how can he identify eyes? He's not questioning his superior mind now of course. Not when his ideal target is right there. Found you, he sings.
But doesn't shoot.
No, it's not that he doesn't shoot; his body renders himself useless, and refuses to press its weight on the trigger. It's a conspicuous conflict inside him that he can't discern the reason for. And quite frankly, he doesn't have the fucking time to either. Fuck this, he makes a split second decision to sheath his weapon and make a run for it. The stranger from a couple days ago, the person he holds a personal vendetta against, isn't too far a distance from him. Chiwon tackles him to the ground from behind, and while his own legs suffer the abrasive impact too, he's quick to swallow down the stinging pain in favour of bracketing this man between his legs: he pins the brunet's arms under the points of his knees, one hand buried deep in his scalp to force his pathetic face into the sharp debris underneath, while the other caresses the hold he has on his gun.
"Hi there, princess," Chiwon greets with a too-smug whisper right by the man's ear. "Remember me?" He releases the brunet's head (but not before grinding it into the earth one more time just for the sadistic pleasure of it) to retrieve his- He pauses. Not his gun; where's the fun in that? His hand dancing across his belt to hook into the rounded hilt of his knife.
It would've been such an intimate moment between him and this man he barely knows. What a shame that it's ruined by even more sounds of movement. This time however, it's not physical movement this time that alerts him: it's a shift in the air, the particles skidding past his skin in a way that informs him, You're not alone. "Who else is here with you?" He hisses, digging the blunt hilt pommel of his dagger into the back of this man's neck in a tight-lipped warning.
Chiwon kicks the gravel littering the ground in contempt, several heads turning back to question him with a judging lift of their brows. He hadn't even told Daesung the full story! The only person he trusts with any anecdotes of his life is Si-Eun—who's been his handler from before he entered his roaring twenties—and she's sitting in a whole different district with no means to contact each other.
He sighs, letting his shoulders droop to allow some of the frustration to unknowingly slip from their silver-lined platter. He feels the difference in his head, how much lighter it feels. Are we there yet? He wants to ask his group, but no one has spoken a word since they left Headquarters, and while Chiwon knows of his repute, he also doesn't want to build a new one from scratch—the anomaly, he bets that what they'd call him—so he keeps his mouth glued and follows behind the dozen people walking further and further away from the bustling heart of the city.
They're awfully slow for people who're meant to be eliminating the night threats.
Chiwon comes to understand why when he lifts his gaze from his shoes to his surroundings: a wasteland. The moonlight casts an eerie luminescent glow on the unfinished construction. The Thirteenth Ward never stops expanding, he's heard, there's always a new location where the threats emerge from. And now he sees why: this is an unrestricted zone with no security. It's the perfect place for the transgressors to hide away, conspiring their plans of corruption, and concealing whatever criminal weaponry they secure from their capricious business partners.
"We split up here," the person leading their group, the mysterious Hye-In, stops their journey at the critical border of these unmarked territories. She assigns everyone a direction, sending Chiwon off somewhere to the left. "Think of it as a labyrinth," she says right before everyone takes their departure, "You try to find an exit, only to realise there isn't one, and then you head back."
The redhead raises a questioning eyebrow at that but accepts the definition nonetheless.
This time, he does have a handgun on him: cocked in his hands, actually, so that he won't be taken off-guard by anyone advancing in on him. He even keeps his pace steady like Hye-In, keeps his breathing shallow because in a vast, empty place like this... any sound he makes, is a sound he's unable to pick up on from his sur-
What was that? He freezes in place, darting back with the glock positioned in both his hands. He knows he heard something: a shuffling of feet disturbing the shattered rubble carpetting the ground underneath. Hesitantly, after not being able to distinguish any other noise of the like, he lowers his gun, and after another survey of his surroundings, continues his patrol. Only until a certain point though, because he jolts himself to a stop as soon as he reaches the bend of the street and spots a shadow right across the corner.
His handgun takes its place once more, the trigger heating under the suspense of his fingers when he takes an aim but refuses to fire. His eyepiece magnifies the person walking out in the open, and his throat constricts with thick bile when he recognises that face. No, he corrects himself, it's not the face that jogs his memory, but the eyes that bejewel it. Which is... surprising to say the least: how can he identify eyes? He's not questioning his superior mind now of course. Not when his ideal target is right there. Found you, he sings.
But doesn't shoot.
No, it's not that he doesn't shoot; his body renders himself useless, and refuses to press its weight on the trigger. It's a conspicuous conflict inside him that he can't discern the reason for. And quite frankly, he doesn't have the fucking time to either. Fuck this, he makes a split second decision to sheath his weapon and make a run for it. The stranger from a couple days ago, the person he holds a personal vendetta against, isn't too far a distance from him. Chiwon tackles him to the ground from behind, and while his own legs suffer the abrasive impact too, he's quick to swallow down the stinging pain in favour of bracketing this man between his legs: he pins the brunet's arms under the points of his knees, one hand buried deep in his scalp to force his pathetic face into the sharp debris underneath, while the other caresses the hold he has on his gun.
"Hi there, princess," Chiwon greets with a too-smug whisper right by the man's ear. "Remember me?" He releases the brunet's head (but not before grinding it into the earth one more time just for the sadistic pleasure of it) to retrieve his- He pauses. Not his gun; where's the fun in that? His hand dancing across his belt to hook into the rounded hilt of his knife.
It would've been such an intimate moment between him and this man he barely knows. What a shame that it's ruined by even more sounds of movement. This time however, it's not physical movement this time that alerts him: it's a shift in the air, the particles skidding past his skin in a way that informs him, You're not alone. "Who else is here with you?" He hisses, digging the blunt hilt pommel of his dagger into the back of this man's neck in a tight-lipped warning.
Last edited:
reveriee
☆⌒(≧▽° )
lee si-young (이시영)
The air shifted as if making room for two, and Siyoung didn't even have the time to think, oh no, before a force attacked him from behind and tackled him into the ground, shoving his face into the field of dust and debris. Siyoung thrashed, but to no avail; the attacker's body weight pressed Siyoung's chest into the sharp scattering of debris that overlayed the bare concrete underneath, his knees pinning Siyoung's arms to the earthen ground. The brunet squeezed his eyes shut as the attacker spread his fingers between the dark, silken strands of his hair, gripping it tight and forcing Siyoung's head down. The combination of rubble and unrefined gravel scraped into Siyoung's normally pristine skin, and he knew immediately that he would be teased relentlessly for ruining his "pretty girl face" when he got back -- if he got back, that was.
Somehow, Siyoung felt as if he recognized the man above him purely from the line of his frame, which sent an even stronger pulse of alarm to his head than actually being attacked did. Siyoung could count the number of people who had ever familiarized their . . . lower body with Siyoung on one hand, and he doubted that the man who was currently shoving Siyoung's face into the gritty ground had made the list.
"Hi there, princess. Remember me?"
Siyoung couldn't help but shiver when the hot air from the man's whispered words tickled the edge of his ear; after the incident, the low rasp of the assassin's voice had probably imprinted itself permanently in Siyoung's mind. His worst nightmare had just come to life -- the assassin was back for revenge, and right on the night Siyoung was supposed to redeem himself; he could feel his mission slipping out of his fingers.
The assassin finally released his grip on Siyoung's hair, who let a wisp of a sigh escape his lips, his hands itching for the grasp of his handgun. Siyoung tilted his head to the side, resting his cheek on the detritus. His dark, espresso eyes sought the faint, silvery light of the moon, before turning to the assassin's visage. His features were . . . catty. The moonlight spilled over the assassin's red locks strangely; the silver cast turned the wine red into a dusty mauve. It was an unusual sight.
Something prickled at Siyoung's intuition once again, just like it had when it sensed the assassin, and he froze from his position on the ground. The air had shifted once more, making room for a third, and Siyoung didn't know whether to be relieved or even more concerned for his uncertain fate.
"Who else is here with you?"
It seemed as if the assassin felt the same presence. Siyoung grit his teeth when the redhead pressed the hilt of his knife to the base of his neck; the more he focused on trying to turn the tables on the assassin and defeat him, the more paralyzed he felt -- it was absolutely deplorable, and the shame was so strong that Siyoung could feel it pull at his gut and press against his skull.
"I didn't come with anyone," Siyoung strained through the grinding of his teeth -- he doubted the assassin would believe him. And even if he did, Siyoung didn't think the situation would get any better. "It's just me."
Siyoung glanced up at the moon, asking the universe why he had to be forced into a position where his limbed stalled and his mind short-circuited, to the point where he couldn't even save himself from danger anymore. How could he fall so far?
From his unique position on the ground, Siyoung's eyes were easily drawn to a flash of skin, glowing white under the sheen of the moonlight. His eyes widened -- the inked design was unmistakable. Three arrows, the center one pointing upwards and the ones at its side pointing downwards -- representative of his gang's arch-nemesis, putting it simply. Their rivalry was more violent than bitter; the two gangs were brutal in their attacks of each other, and while Siyoung didn't enjoy the bloodthirstiness so many in his circles did, he was loyal, and he would never sit back and let one of their rivals stride right into their territory.
(Siyoung also had no doubt that the rival gang member would move heaven and earth if it meant pummeling him to a pulp).
"Get off!" Siyoung whispered harshly, uncaring that the assassin . . . probably wanted to kill him too. Frankly, he had no time to debate on which option was worse; the rival gang member had most definitely seen Siyoung and the assassin in their strange display, and Siyoung could only bet that the third party was much more interested in finishing him off quickly than the redhead was.
Siyoung squirmed beneath the assassin's body, jerking his arm up against the other man's knee when he was in a good enough position to do so. He could feel the rival gang member nearing, like an inevitable but unpredictable gust of wind. Siyoung scrambled up and gripped his handgun just as a shot fired, barely escaping the bullet that ricocheted off the ground littered with refuse. He fired back in the general direction of where the first bullet came from, hearing a faint snarl and the rustle of debris underfoot. Siyoung's blood was pounding like a quickening drum; the assassin escaped the grip of his anxiety and slipped away from his thoughts, leaving only the rival gang member on his mind.
Somehow, Siyoung felt as if he recognized the man above him purely from the line of his frame, which sent an even stronger pulse of alarm to his head than actually being attacked did. Siyoung could count the number of people who had ever familiarized their . . . lower body with Siyoung on one hand, and he doubted that the man who was currently shoving Siyoung's face into the gritty ground had made the list.
"Hi there, princess. Remember me?"
Siyoung couldn't help but shiver when the hot air from the man's whispered words tickled the edge of his ear; after the incident, the low rasp of the assassin's voice had probably imprinted itself permanently in Siyoung's mind. His worst nightmare had just come to life -- the assassin was back for revenge, and right on the night Siyoung was supposed to redeem himself; he could feel his mission slipping out of his fingers.
The assassin finally released his grip on Siyoung's hair, who let a wisp of a sigh escape his lips, his hands itching for the grasp of his handgun. Siyoung tilted his head to the side, resting his cheek on the detritus. His dark, espresso eyes sought the faint, silvery light of the moon, before turning to the assassin's visage. His features were . . . catty. The moonlight spilled over the assassin's red locks strangely; the silver cast turned the wine red into a dusty mauve. It was an unusual sight.
Something prickled at Siyoung's intuition once again, just like it had when it sensed the assassin, and he froze from his position on the ground. The air had shifted once more, making room for a third, and Siyoung didn't know whether to be relieved or even more concerned for his uncertain fate.
"Who else is here with you?"
It seemed as if the assassin felt the same presence. Siyoung grit his teeth when the redhead pressed the hilt of his knife to the base of his neck; the more he focused on trying to turn the tables on the assassin and defeat him, the more paralyzed he felt -- it was absolutely deplorable, and the shame was so strong that Siyoung could feel it pull at his gut and press against his skull.
"I didn't come with anyone," Siyoung strained through the grinding of his teeth -- he doubted the assassin would believe him. And even if he did, Siyoung didn't think the situation would get any better. "It's just me."
Siyoung glanced up at the moon, asking the universe why he had to be forced into a position where his limbed stalled and his mind short-circuited, to the point where he couldn't even save himself from danger anymore. How could he fall so far?
From his unique position on the ground, Siyoung's eyes were easily drawn to a flash of skin, glowing white under the sheen of the moonlight. His eyes widened -- the inked design was unmistakable. Three arrows, the center one pointing upwards and the ones at its side pointing downwards -- representative of his gang's arch-nemesis, putting it simply. Their rivalry was more violent than bitter; the two gangs were brutal in their attacks of each other, and while Siyoung didn't enjoy the bloodthirstiness so many in his circles did, he was loyal, and he would never sit back and let one of their rivals stride right into their territory.
(Siyoung also had no doubt that the rival gang member would move heaven and earth if it meant pummeling him to a pulp).
"Get off!" Siyoung whispered harshly, uncaring that the assassin . . . probably wanted to kill him too. Frankly, he had no time to debate on which option was worse; the rival gang member had most definitely seen Siyoung and the assassin in their strange display, and Siyoung could only bet that the third party was much more interested in finishing him off quickly than the redhead was.
Siyoung squirmed beneath the assassin's body, jerking his arm up against the other man's knee when he was in a good enough position to do so. He could feel the rival gang member nearing, like an inevitable but unpredictable gust of wind. Siyoung scrambled up and gripped his handgun just as a shot fired, barely escaping the bullet that ricocheted off the ground littered with refuse. He fired back in the general direction of where the first bullet came from, hearing a faint snarl and the rustle of debris underfoot. Siyoung's blood was pounding like a quickening drum; the assassin escaped the grip of his anxiety and slipped away from his thoughts, leaving only the rival gang member on his mind.
VALEN T.
Member
Ahn Chi-Won. (안치원 )
It's so strange—"I didn't come with anyone. It's just me."—how just these few words strung together (quite possibly with a thread of deceit) ease the tension in his shoulders. He believes this stranger: if only momentarily, he wants to believe this stranger whose voice tingles in his ears for the first time. What isn't a first for him is the way he reacts to this person, the way his guard loosens its taut knots in familiarity. Which sounds ridiculous, he huffs, his fingers sliding off the man's hair to rest on the back of his neck. Chiwon's never met this person before, let alone seen him.
It's this exact melange of confusion and- and... sentiment, a twinge in his heart that has him wanting to stop; it's this exact weakness that caused his enemy to glide right off his fingertips last time too. But now, right now... His brows furrow and his thumb traces the skin spread down the man's arm, the action justified by the veneer of searching for weapons. He tells himself that's what he's doing even though the words "Who are you?" are lodged in the back of his throat. "Do I know you?" Please say yes.
He's still taken aback by the man's sudden movement. It jostles him where he's sat with his muscles slack and internal dilemma. It's the momentum that drives him up on his feet, pulling on his counterpart's arm to take him up too. The road is dark, but his eyes have adjusted enough in his time here for him to discern all the little pieces of gravel littering the man's cheek that he had weighed into the uneven ground. The sight makes him cringe, the phrase "I'm sorry." right there but refusing to leave him.
He wants to leave; assign someone else to chase after this miserable gang doormat so he can go back to doing his actual job but goddammit, he needs to kn-
Chiwon's reflexes act just in time for him to roughly yank the brunet out of the way, his grip bruising, leather-decorated fingers digging into the divots and mounts of bone circling the stranger's wrist. He barely sees the glint created by the silent metal pellet in the earth before he's hurling both of them out of the way, shoving their backs against the brittle concrete walls of the unfinished buildings, protected from the top by the faux-roof jutting outwards, and from the front by a hope that there's only one marksman positioned on the top floors of the same building.
He's hidden the other man behind him, an arm caging him from open view. "Did you see who it was?" Chiwon whisper, not turning to look at him when he speaks in favour of surveying the edges of the skyscrapers-in-progress for any potential threats. Or... well, he surveys as much as he can, pupils dilated from the sudden rush of adrenaline, until his eyepiece suddenly gives out: the enhanced colour and magnification going static out of the blue. Chiwon rips it off him, forcefully flinging it to the side with an angry curse. How foolish of him to ignore his surroundings earlier to fucking caress his enemy like he means something!
How easy would it be to crush this pansy with a fist and get this over with. After all, it seems like their cloaked assailant has the same objective too. Chiwon could alleviate their struggle.
No, comes the menacing threat in the form of another plunge in the surface next to him, grey swirls of smoke rising from the second bullet that landed right beside his head. We are not allies, it says, and Chiwon refuses to freeze in shock. His body toned from a decade of extensive training in combat and quick-action doesn't allow him to simply sacrifice himself like a helpless sheep, but it doesn't want him to leave this brunet behind like one either. "You have to trust me." It's comes across as a plea more than the demand he intended.
In order for the stranger to trust him, he needs to show he trusts the stranger as well. Which is why he, without second-guessing the fatal mistake he might be making, entrusts the brunet with his handgun, forcing it into his hand, and repeating, "Just for now, you have to trust me." He desperately needs this enigma of a man to have faith in his abilities. "[...]" There's words that ring in his mind like a faded memory kept just a line out his reach, always in his sight but never to be his.
But it comes again: a thunder cracking with violent light and fury. No, it bellows, copper filling the cave of Chiwon's mouth as a pain zips up his right leg. You are not allies either. He feels his shoe flood with a warm fountain of liquid as dark as this wretched night; the same one he tastes on his cherry-red tongue. "We need to hi- fuck-" He winces when he tries to walk, his foot stinging, the bullet singing its mocking jeer in his calf, the echoes blowing in the right side of his body as well.
It's this exact melange of confusion and- and... sentiment, a twinge in his heart that has him wanting to stop; it's this exact weakness that caused his enemy to glide right off his fingertips last time too. But now, right now... His brows furrow and his thumb traces the skin spread down the man's arm, the action justified by the veneer of searching for weapons. He tells himself that's what he's doing even though the words "Who are you?" are lodged in the back of his throat. "Do I know you?" Please say yes.
He's still taken aback by the man's sudden movement. It jostles him where he's sat with his muscles slack and internal dilemma. It's the momentum that drives him up on his feet, pulling on his counterpart's arm to take him up too. The road is dark, but his eyes have adjusted enough in his time here for him to discern all the little pieces of gravel littering the man's cheek that he had weighed into the uneven ground. The sight makes him cringe, the phrase "I'm sorry." right there but refusing to leave him.
He wants to leave; assign someone else to chase after this miserable gang doormat so he can go back to doing his actual job but goddammit, he needs to kn-
Chiwon's reflexes act just in time for him to roughly yank the brunet out of the way, his grip bruising, leather-decorated fingers digging into the divots and mounts of bone circling the stranger's wrist. He barely sees the glint created by the silent metal pellet in the earth before he's hurling both of them out of the way, shoving their backs against the brittle concrete walls of the unfinished buildings, protected from the top by the faux-roof jutting outwards, and from the front by a hope that there's only one marksman positioned on the top floors of the same building.
He's hidden the other man behind him, an arm caging him from open view. "Did you see who it was?" Chiwon whisper, not turning to look at him when he speaks in favour of surveying the edges of the skyscrapers-in-progress for any potential threats. Or... well, he surveys as much as he can, pupils dilated from the sudden rush of adrenaline, until his eyepiece suddenly gives out: the enhanced colour and magnification going static out of the blue. Chiwon rips it off him, forcefully flinging it to the side with an angry curse. How foolish of him to ignore his surroundings earlier to fucking caress his enemy like he means something!
How easy would it be to crush this pansy with a fist and get this over with. After all, it seems like their cloaked assailant has the same objective too. Chiwon could alleviate their struggle.
No, comes the menacing threat in the form of another plunge in the surface next to him, grey swirls of smoke rising from the second bullet that landed right beside his head. We are not allies, it says, and Chiwon refuses to freeze in shock. His body toned from a decade of extensive training in combat and quick-action doesn't allow him to simply sacrifice himself like a helpless sheep, but it doesn't want him to leave this brunet behind like one either. "You have to trust me." It's comes across as a plea more than the demand he intended.
In order for the stranger to trust him, he needs to show he trusts the stranger as well. Which is why he, without second-guessing the fatal mistake he might be making, entrusts the brunet with his handgun, forcing it into his hand, and repeating, "Just for now, you have to trust me." He desperately needs this enigma of a man to have faith in his abilities. "[...]" There's words that ring in his mind like a faded memory kept just a line out his reach, always in his sight but never to be his.
But it comes again: a thunder cracking with violent light and fury. No, it bellows, copper filling the cave of Chiwon's mouth as a pain zips up his right leg. You are not allies either. He feels his shoe flood with a warm fountain of liquid as dark as this wretched night; the same one he tastes on his cherry-red tongue. "We need to hi- fuck-" He winces when he tries to walk, his foot stinging, the bullet singing its mocking jeer in his calf, the echoes blowing in the right side of his body as well.
reveriee
☆⌒(≧▽° )
lee si-young (이시영)
Siyoung raised his gun once again to shoot at the nearing threat, but a gloved hand jerked his aim out of place, fingers curling around his wrist and gripping like it was their last chance at salvation. The assassin? There was no time to gape in shock; the assassin pulled Siyoung out of the moonlit clearing of rubble, barely escaping the silver glint of a bullet that dug itself deep into the debris.
The ensuing moments were like a black and white film put on double speed, going by in too-quick snapshots of desaturation. By the time Siyoung gathered his wits, he was once again pinned to the wall by the assassin, but this time, his arm caged Siyoung's body like a barrier and not like a restriction. This time, it was as if the assassin was . . . protecting Siyoung, instead of preying on him.
"Did you see who it was?" The man whispered to Siyoung as if they were partners in crime, like it was just the two of them against the world -- like they were on the same side.
Siyoung gaped for a few moments -- his enemy was protecting him. The man he kneed in the family jewels, the man who had him pinned to the refuse-littered earth just a few moments before, the man who had sworn to exact vengeance on him -- that man was currently caging Siyoung with his arm and blocking him with his body, as if Siyoung was worth protecting to him -- like a child to their mother . . . like a lover to their devoted.
". . . He's a member of our rival gang," Siyoung began speaking hesitantly, but once he started, the low murmur of words spilled freely from his numbed mouth. It was as if his body wanted the assassin to know such things about him, as if his mind trusted the other man. "He fucking hates us. I wouldn't be surprised if he tries to kill me."
The words were plainly spoken, but not unfriendly. Siyoung laid there, slack against the bare, concrete wall. One side of him -- the more reasonable, sensible side -- was yelling at him to do something, anything that didn't involve submitting to the assassin and whatever he was attempting. But the other side of him was saying something different. The other side of Siyoung was a voice that had been buried in a grave of his subconscious for years and years and years. It was the voice of an almost mythical intuition; the words it spoke were few and far between, like a rare flower that bloomed only once every decade. But every time it made an appearance, Siyoung was struck with the millenniums and thousands of lifetimes interwoven in its timbre, and took its advice unconditionally, knowing that he couldn't challenge one who has gained such wisdom through centuries of toiling at the earth.
The last time this voice had made its appearance was when Siyoung was kicked out of his home, thrown from the top echelons of society right to the very bottom. He had gone from a place where the whisps of clouds caressed his face, to one where he had to tread through layers of dirt and earthen rot. The voice had guided him to the gang he had called his family for over a decade, and never returned, until now. Now, it was telling him to trust the assassin, the man with hair the color of freshly spilled blood and a voice that tickled the back of Siyoung's throat. It told him to trust the assassin like he trusted the Sun to rise, and Siyoung lowered his defenses and did.
So when another bullet made its way in their direction, and when the assassin turned to Siyoung, telling him with a thin trail of genuine desperation in his voice -- "You have to trust me" -- Siyoung did, without a doubt. Yes, I will trust you, in any lifetime, in any corner of the world, always. Even if our lives may only brush for an ephemeral moment in time -- always. Always, always, always.
The assassin was pressing the handle of his own gun into the palm of Siyoung's hand, saying "just for now, you have to trust me," as if Siyoung would do anything else. Perhaps, if he had listened to his more sensible side, the side that usually dominated his mind and his words and his actions, his mouth would've dropped in shock, his heartbeat stuttering in disbelief. But Siyoung felt none of that. All he felt was a wry amusement deep in his core, saying, was there any ever doubt, Chiwon?
Chiwon.
Chiwon.
A shot, like a crackle of thunder. And a spill of red blood. Those two things had shaken Siyoung out of his rosy pink reverie and released the paralyzing shackles he had felt whenever he lingered around the assassin -- Chiwon. He narrowed his eyes, staring in the distance, as the redhead faltered in his steps. There. A ghost of a silhouette, made apparent by the faintest sheen of the moonlight splaying itself over the desolate scene. Siyoung, still pressed against the wall, primarily out of sight from the assailant, raised the gun Chiwon had given him, and, with a horrifying meticulousness that had grown to be characteristic of the brunet's steady composure, shot a single bullet straight into the man's heart. Siyoung's arms trembled and the grip on the handgun stuttered as the rival gang member slumped to the ground with a heavy thud -- he had never been that accurate before. Siyoung practiced and trained more than anyone, but he never had the natural, quick-thinking resourcefulness needed for such a precise hit in the heat of the moment.
Siyoung hadn't killed anyone in six years. He maimed and threatened, but never killed -- he swore himself off it, once his moral compass settled in place to allow the thick rise of bile in his throat whenever he watched someone's heartbeat permanently slow to a halt by his hand. He expected to feel guilty, but he didn't. Siyoung only felt a faint emptiness in his gut that evaporated as soon as his gaze flickered to the man beside him. Chiwon's right leg was gushing blood, and Siyoung's heart jumped to his throat.
"Goddamnit," Siyoung gasped, startled by the sheer fear in his voice. He rapidly leaned down, muttering a quick, "sorry, I need to apply pressure," before firmly pressing his knee against the gaping wound. Siyoung ripped his jacket off, his fingers slipping and trembling in unadulterated panic. Was Siyoung that concerned for the life of someone he had only met a few days prior, the life of someone he had stood on the opposite side of the battlefield from? Yes. Without a doubt, yes.
I can do this, Siyoung murmured to himself like a mantra. He'll be fine. He pulled his charcoal gray shirt off, removing his knee from the wound and tying the cloth around it as securely as possible. Siyoung let a small sigh of relief escape him -- hopefully, blood loss wouldn't be the issue at hand anymore.
The skin on the flat plane of Siyoung's chest prickled against the midnight cold. He grabbed the jacket he had dropped onto the ground, shaking the dust off of it before zipping it around his bare torso. Siyoung stared into the endless depths of the redhead's eyes, opening his mouth before he could lose himself in them. "You need medical care. I don't have anything on me right now to help you. Is there a doctor you can go to?"
The ensuing moments were like a black and white film put on double speed, going by in too-quick snapshots of desaturation. By the time Siyoung gathered his wits, he was once again pinned to the wall by the assassin, but this time, his arm caged Siyoung's body like a barrier and not like a restriction. This time, it was as if the assassin was . . . protecting Siyoung, instead of preying on him.
"Did you see who it was?" The man whispered to Siyoung as if they were partners in crime, like it was just the two of them against the world -- like they were on the same side.
Siyoung gaped for a few moments -- his enemy was protecting him. The man he kneed in the family jewels, the man who had him pinned to the refuse-littered earth just a few moments before, the man who had sworn to exact vengeance on him -- that man was currently caging Siyoung with his arm and blocking him with his body, as if Siyoung was worth protecting to him -- like a child to their mother . . . like a lover to their devoted.
". . . He's a member of our rival gang," Siyoung began speaking hesitantly, but once he started, the low murmur of words spilled freely from his numbed mouth. It was as if his body wanted the assassin to know such things about him, as if his mind trusted the other man. "He fucking hates us. I wouldn't be surprised if he tries to kill me."
The words were plainly spoken, but not unfriendly. Siyoung laid there, slack against the bare, concrete wall. One side of him -- the more reasonable, sensible side -- was yelling at him to do something, anything that didn't involve submitting to the assassin and whatever he was attempting. But the other side of him was saying something different. The other side of Siyoung was a voice that had been buried in a grave of his subconscious for years and years and years. It was the voice of an almost mythical intuition; the words it spoke were few and far between, like a rare flower that bloomed only once every decade. But every time it made an appearance, Siyoung was struck with the millenniums and thousands of lifetimes interwoven in its timbre, and took its advice unconditionally, knowing that he couldn't challenge one who has gained such wisdom through centuries of toiling at the earth.
The last time this voice had made its appearance was when Siyoung was kicked out of his home, thrown from the top echelons of society right to the very bottom. He had gone from a place where the whisps of clouds caressed his face, to one where he had to tread through layers of dirt and earthen rot. The voice had guided him to the gang he had called his family for over a decade, and never returned, until now. Now, it was telling him to trust the assassin, the man with hair the color of freshly spilled blood and a voice that tickled the back of Siyoung's throat. It told him to trust the assassin like he trusted the Sun to rise, and Siyoung lowered his defenses and did.
So when another bullet made its way in their direction, and when the assassin turned to Siyoung, telling him with a thin trail of genuine desperation in his voice -- "You have to trust me" -- Siyoung did, without a doubt. Yes, I will trust you, in any lifetime, in any corner of the world, always. Even if our lives may only brush for an ephemeral moment in time -- always. Always, always, always.
The assassin was pressing the handle of his own gun into the palm of Siyoung's hand, saying "just for now, you have to trust me," as if Siyoung would do anything else. Perhaps, if he had listened to his more sensible side, the side that usually dominated his mind and his words and his actions, his mouth would've dropped in shock, his heartbeat stuttering in disbelief. But Siyoung felt none of that. All he felt was a wry amusement deep in his core, saying, was there any ever doubt, Chiwon?
Chiwon.
Chiwon.
A shot, like a crackle of thunder. And a spill of red blood. Those two things had shaken Siyoung out of his rosy pink reverie and released the paralyzing shackles he had felt whenever he lingered around the assassin -- Chiwon. He narrowed his eyes, staring in the distance, as the redhead faltered in his steps. There. A ghost of a silhouette, made apparent by the faintest sheen of the moonlight splaying itself over the desolate scene. Siyoung, still pressed against the wall, primarily out of sight from the assailant, raised the gun Chiwon had given him, and, with a horrifying meticulousness that had grown to be characteristic of the brunet's steady composure, shot a single bullet straight into the man's heart. Siyoung's arms trembled and the grip on the handgun stuttered as the rival gang member slumped to the ground with a heavy thud -- he had never been that accurate before. Siyoung practiced and trained more than anyone, but he never had the natural, quick-thinking resourcefulness needed for such a precise hit in the heat of the moment.
Siyoung hadn't killed anyone in six years. He maimed and threatened, but never killed -- he swore himself off it, once his moral compass settled in place to allow the thick rise of bile in his throat whenever he watched someone's heartbeat permanently slow to a halt by his hand. He expected to feel guilty, but he didn't. Siyoung only felt a faint emptiness in his gut that evaporated as soon as his gaze flickered to the man beside him. Chiwon's right leg was gushing blood, and Siyoung's heart jumped to his throat.
"Goddamnit," Siyoung gasped, startled by the sheer fear in his voice. He rapidly leaned down, muttering a quick, "sorry, I need to apply pressure," before firmly pressing his knee against the gaping wound. Siyoung ripped his jacket off, his fingers slipping and trembling in unadulterated panic. Was Siyoung that concerned for the life of someone he had only met a few days prior, the life of someone he had stood on the opposite side of the battlefield from? Yes. Without a doubt, yes.
I can do this, Siyoung murmured to himself like a mantra. He'll be fine. He pulled his charcoal gray shirt off, removing his knee from the wound and tying the cloth around it as securely as possible. Siyoung let a small sigh of relief escape him -- hopefully, blood loss wouldn't be the issue at hand anymore.
The skin on the flat plane of Siyoung's chest prickled against the midnight cold. He grabbed the jacket he had dropped onto the ground, shaking the dust off of it before zipping it around his bare torso. Siyoung stared into the endless depths of the redhead's eyes, opening his mouth before he could lose himself in them. "You need medical care. I don't have anything on me right now to help you. Is there a doctor you can go to?"
VALEN T.
Member
Ahn Chi-Won. (안치원 )
Chiwon whips his head around at the muffled sound of the merciless clack. His dark eyes are widened and when he turns back around, he barely sees the whisper of a spirit falling off the precipice, the building protecting the dead body within its precinct. His mouth is agape in awe. "How did you..." Without taking proper aim beforehand, and from such a distance. There's not many people he knows who're capable of shooting with such pointed precision without the advantages of modern technology.
The indents of his teeth strewn into the seam of his tongue spurt more blood when he bites back into it; a a thin attempt to contain the yelp of pain that constricts in his throat, stuffing the airways with a smarting pressure. "Bastard," He hisses, the weight of the stranger's knee on his shoe agonising. Chiwon collapses back against the wall, hand bruising the rough fabric of his black pants as he helplessly claws at the area to distract himself. He has never been shot before. No one ever successfully takes a shot at Ahn Chiwon.
He burns.
But the fire slowly fizzles as his shame drips like melting icicles on the rage. How dare he show a side this vulnerable to someone he's never meant to be associated with. How dare his enemy help him, vulnerable on his knees in front of Chiwon. None of this makes any sense but there's a scream, white noise in his head that keeps spelling out: This is how it should be. This is how it should be. So he watches, wounded, he watches the gangster, kneeling.
There's a blaze that lights his skin at the first inch of skin the brunet reveals, tugging his shirt off to reveal a smooth expanse of muscle that runs his mouth dry. He swiftly looks away, certain that there's a light peach kissing the apple of his cheeks, giving him the shy, youthful appearance the constant knits in his forehead don't allow him to adopt. But men are wretched things, and his eyes keep taking quick snapshots, the nerves electrifying, the pain long forgotten, long replaced by the empty ache from before.
He speaks of medical aid, this man (it feels wrong calling him a stranger when Chiwon's fingertips continuously beckon him closer) but the redhead is barely listening. Barely thinking when he acts- It's become a floral pattern with a green, grassy scent, petals singing like the ocean waves: Chiwon ceases to act based on rationale whenever Siyoung's around. And gods, wasn't it always so?
The revelation is less like struck lightning or a storm at sea that tips him over; it's... cushioned, tender as his lover’s plush lips. Like he sits in a vast meadow and looks beside himself to find-
"Siyoung." Siyoung, Siyoung, Siyoung. the name like a fresh, first gasp of breath out of water. He doesn't think, longing to covet what was once his, letting his hands scrabble to meet jacket covering Siyoung's torso. "Tell me I wasn't the only one who felt it." The moment's all too intimate to share in the open, where tons more like the man Siyoung just killed are loitering about, aiming their guns at the two who dared. But hadn't they always? Going against the words of the divided gods who never let them be.
There's a fear that gnaws him, that Siyoung might not remember, but then... how can he not? This exact moment aeons ago, Siyoung tending to his wounds, Chiwon's affectionate hold on his soft, soft hair.
This, a summer breeze he's been chasing, a purpose unfulfilled that's left him hollow. This, his finger grasp and they slip under Siyoung's jacket to touch. God, this, a sob racks his body, his head dropping on the bow of his lover's shoulder, right at the curve where it meets his neck. His body's warm, hot, magnetic, and- "The gods always did envy us," he murmurs. Because they are mortal and material; Chiwon can feel the chill on his cooler skin, can pull him close then closer till there's no room for even a packet of air to separate them, they can revel in their mortality. And that is exactly what infuriated the olympians, his mother.
"I don't care about me," he finally answers Siyoung's worries about his injury. I can surmount anything as long as you're here. "Is there anywhere I can be with you?" He asks. For who is Chiwon if he's not beside his Siyoung? So much he wants to talk about, so much he wants to ask, and so little time they have remaining now that they've found each other... He just wants his last breathing moments, before the gods tear them apart once more, with Siyoung. "I can't believe it's really you, my philtatos, most beloved" his voice trembles, and his arms snake around the man's waist to keep him close, afraid, so very afraid that this is all he'll get from this life.
The indents of his teeth strewn into the seam of his tongue spurt more blood when he bites back into it; a a thin attempt to contain the yelp of pain that constricts in his throat, stuffing the airways with a smarting pressure. "Bastard," He hisses, the weight of the stranger's knee on his shoe agonising. Chiwon collapses back against the wall, hand bruising the rough fabric of his black pants as he helplessly claws at the area to distract himself. He has never been shot before. No one ever successfully takes a shot at Ahn Chiwon.
He burns.
But the fire slowly fizzles as his shame drips like melting icicles on the rage. How dare he show a side this vulnerable to someone he's never meant to be associated with. How dare his enemy help him, vulnerable on his knees in front of Chiwon. None of this makes any sense but there's a scream, white noise in his head that keeps spelling out: This is how it should be. This is how it should be. So he watches, wounded, he watches the gangster, kneeling.
There's a blaze that lights his skin at the first inch of skin the brunet reveals, tugging his shirt off to reveal a smooth expanse of muscle that runs his mouth dry. He swiftly looks away, certain that there's a light peach kissing the apple of his cheeks, giving him the shy, youthful appearance the constant knits in his forehead don't allow him to adopt. But men are wretched things, and his eyes keep taking quick snapshots, the nerves electrifying, the pain long forgotten, long replaced by the empty ache from before.
He speaks of medical aid, this man (it feels wrong calling him a stranger when Chiwon's fingertips continuously beckon him closer) but the redhead is barely listening. Barely thinking when he acts- It's become a floral pattern with a green, grassy scent, petals singing like the ocean waves: Chiwon ceases to act based on rationale whenever Siyoung's around. And gods, wasn't it always so?
The revelation is less like struck lightning or a storm at sea that tips him over; it's... cushioned, tender as his lover’s plush lips. Like he sits in a vast meadow and looks beside himself to find-
"Siyoung." Siyoung, Siyoung, Siyoung. the name like a fresh, first gasp of breath out of water. He doesn't think, longing to covet what was once his, letting his hands scrabble to meet jacket covering Siyoung's torso. "Tell me I wasn't the only one who felt it." The moment's all too intimate to share in the open, where tons more like the man Siyoung just killed are loitering about, aiming their guns at the two who dared. But hadn't they always? Going against the words of the divided gods who never let them be.
There's a fear that gnaws him, that Siyoung might not remember, but then... how can he not? This exact moment aeons ago, Siyoung tending to his wounds, Chiwon's affectionate hold on his soft, soft hair.
This, a summer breeze he's been chasing, a purpose unfulfilled that's left him hollow. This, his finger grasp and they slip under Siyoung's jacket to touch. God, this, a sob racks his body, his head dropping on the bow of his lover's shoulder, right at the curve where it meets his neck. His body's warm, hot, magnetic, and- "The gods always did envy us," he murmurs. Because they are mortal and material; Chiwon can feel the chill on his cooler skin, can pull him close then closer till there's no room for even a packet of air to separate them, they can revel in their mortality. And that is exactly what infuriated the olympians, his mother.
"I don't care about me," he finally answers Siyoung's worries about his injury. I can surmount anything as long as you're here. "Is there anywhere I can be with you?" He asks. For who is Chiwon if he's not beside his Siyoung? So much he wants to talk about, so much he wants to ask, and so little time they have remaining now that they've found each other... He just wants his last breathing moments, before the gods tear them apart once more, with Siyoung. "I can't believe it's really you, my philtatos, most beloved" his voice trembles, and his arms snake around the man's waist to keep him close, afraid, so very afraid that this is all he'll get from this life.
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