2.1 | renegade effect (on hold until 2024)

04 | tacenda

t a c e n d a : words that are better left in silence

***

SHE'S BEAUTIFUL.

It's the kind that reminds him of whispered sonnets and record players, of honeyed rose tea and the crisp smell of antique libraries, pages flickering to the floor. It makes his chest ache from the bond that slowly snaps into place, chills slowly draining his body as he looks at her and burns. From the podium, his stare casually flickers down to watch her fingers tremble before she tucks them behind her back, hastily reading out the other names on the list to dissolve any confusion from the students. It's calculated. Practiced. And oh, Cohen thinks to himself, so quietly that not even he realizes his internal conflicts. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.

He looks. Sees the low-ponytail and tendrils of hair that escaped it, which frame her face in choppy, uneven strands and highlight the classical structure of her face. Scout Taylor stands like someone who has been acquainted with authority her entire life, and Cohen notes the open stance she takes as she begins her lecture, eyes completely ignoring the back row where he sits. Which is good. It's good. He doesn't know how to look at her without remembering flashes of lightning and blood and pain.

And yet, something inside of him yearns to be seen.

(This is a luxury he cannot afford. Cohen feels small small small.)

Underneath his sweatshirt, the assassin closes his eyes as his stomach stirs, a prick of anxiety and worry and such relief that it causes the air to catch a bit at the bottom of his throat. Guilt nudges at his wrists, a bit bolder than usual. It takes him a moment to realize that he's the one who caused those emotions, who kept her up at night and in the dark simultaneously in efforts to stay hidden, shadows clinging to his back, satin and silk. Maybe if he'd gotten his head out of his ass and considered thinking about how his soulmate probably fell asleep in shivers, they wouldn't be meeting in this situation.

But still. But still, he's here, even if he's disguised as a twenty-year old student when he's actually twenty-three and surrounded by people who are most likely trying to become nurses and surgeons. Cohen lowers his head and takes in the security of his ability to hide in plain sight, mind wandering to the idea that he's unable to save lives and just takes them instead. Death flirts past midnight. His body feels numb—useless.

Listening to Scout discussing something about the formation of cells and breaking down the different internal structures, he realizes that he likes the sound of her voice: heavy, firm, syllables almost barely slurring into each other with ease. It's a rare voice—one that he could pick out in his sleep, Cohen letting it wash over him in concentrated waves. She looks tired with the skin under her eyes a bit darker than he'd remembered it to be; it's almost as if Scout's running on autopilot, mind entirely somewhere else as she avoids his gaze.

If he's being honest with himself, Cohen isn't sure how he feels yet. His feelings take time to show its colors, and he's still—processing. Still thinking. Maybe this means he's being selfish to take these quiet moments and just look, but his heart takes a few minutes to slow down until it's calm and present. Cohen thinks about his conversation with Jimin before he left, in which the boy he grew up with warned him of certain things to stay away from. To be on his guard.

"Cohen," Jimin says, and he registers it as Jimin Yoon's Serious Voice—the one that's gotten people killed. The one that's killed people. "You're shaking."

He looks at his knees. Sees them shake. "Sorry," Cohen whispers, biting down on his bottom lip as he packs his clothes into three oversized suitcases that lie on his bedroom floor. It's a large room, with bay windows and sheer curtains hanging to the side. The blankets on his bed nearly hang to the floor as they cover wrinkled sheets and the essence of inner turmoil. It's empty—deserted, almost, as if Cohen's a stranger in his own room. "I just—everything's moving so fast," he says under his breath, hands closing around the sleeve of his jacket. "Hyung, everything's going too fast. I can't—I can't keep up. I can't."