Sequel to Little Dark Age
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"Will this really work?"
"Do you have a better plan?"
"Of course not. I'm a man of action, not thought."
"Yeah, you're definitely not a man of thought."
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You really missed the days of running from murderous prowlers, be...
Song Myunjin wasn't ready. He had done all he could; Had abandoned his car, destroyed his phone, checked in in some dirty fucking motel and yet. Yet. He knew it was inevitable.
Dino's dog wasn't like others. There was a reason for why they called him grim reaper.
Cold sweat covered every inch of his skin, forehead glistening in the pale moonlight falling through the stained window of this cheap motel room.
His hand was shaking around the gun - he knew how to use a gun. Knew his opponent would not use one as well. He should have the upper hand.
And yet.
An entirely intentional shuffling gave his killer's location away, making Song jerk around to the old oak drawer - on which he was sitting, partly covered in shadows, one leg propped up to rest his arm on, the other one casually dangling over the ground. On his left rested a silvery shining scythe.
"Song Myujin." His voice was plain, lacking any emotion or ambition, "Your name 's on my list. D' you know what happens when ya name is on my list?"
Song lifted his gun, pointing it right between the stranger's eyes, both hands gripping the item. If he shot now-
The killer grinned, pearly white teeth glittering in the darkness, "You ain't no coward, I'll give you that."
It was shocking, even to a man like him, looking into the eyes of such young boy, knowing exactly what said boy was capable of. Everyone's heard the horror stories.
Stories of manic laughter and silver lightnings chasing down the lowest of low-lives through muddy streets. Childish euphoria and - some years ago - small, chubby fingers wrapped around blood stained iron. Round, youthful cheeks glowing in excitement with the cracking of bones. The scythe of the grim reaper and his final judgement.
As Song was face to face with the terribly young man, he realized that the tales of the infant killer maybe weren't as far fetched. It was almost upsetting that he wouldn't be able to share his story.
Blood bloomed over the old wooden tiles of the motel room, seeping in between them like branches growing on a tree or the venation of a young birch leaf.
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