why? // ateez au

hongjoong.

There's something undeniably comforting about art. It's as if each piece holds a glimpse into the artist's soul, their emotions laid bare on canvas or sculpture. The rawness and unexplainable nature of these emotions make me appreciate and admire the creations even more. Knowing that an artist was vulnerable enough to infuse such profound emotion into something so beautiful adds another layer of depth to their work.

Personally, I've always poured my own emotions into my art. Whether it's a painting or a simple reformed shirt, there's always a story or an underlying emotion behind it. The piece I was currently working on was a pair of white shoes, deliberately stained with red to symbolize the suffering and pain my dear friend Yunho experienced in his last moments of life. Each stroke of my brush served as a reminder of the haunting words San had spoken five days ago: "Yunho's dead."

And, in the aftermath of that revelation, chaos ensued, and I found myself fleeing to this rundown studio. Day in and day out, I dedicated myself to perfecting this pair of shoes, a pair that would forever serve as a reminder of the precious moments I shared with Yunho. However, the completion of these shoes seemed to elude me. 

The crimson color I used consistently smeared, no matter how many times I applied it. It was thick and yet disturbingly runny, emitting a putrid odor that assaulted my senses. It smelt fucking awful.

I painstakingly painted and repainted the shoes, my determination unyielding, until finally, after five long days, they were complete. The perfect pair, encapsulating the essence of Yunho's tragic story.

"Hongjoong... are you here?" a voice called out from behind me.

"No, I'm not. Go away,"

"Don't be an asshole," the person persisted, walking in front of me.

"Just leave me alone, Seonghwa. Isn't that why I came here?" I sighed, my gaze fixed on the ground, refusing to meet his eyes. Seonghwa reached out, lifting my face with his right hand, and delivered a light slap to my cheek.

"Do you not give a shit about anyone else? We've been worried sick about you," Seonghwa asserted. "Yunho's death is now being treated as a fucking murder, you know."

My eyes widened, my breath caught in my throat as his words sank in.

"We need you here with us, Hongjoong. Don't hide away again,"

My breathing grew heavier, tears welling up in my eyes. Seonghwa was right. I had always isolated myself when faced with adversity, I convinced myself that it was the only option. Growing up in a family that suppressed emotions, never allowing a tear to be shed, I learned to bury my own feelings and shut myself away. Over the years, I had become painfully apathetic, detached from the world around me. People saw me as a robotic figure, incapable of caring about anything.

Everything changed when my mother passed away. In that moment, I experienced a depth of sorrow I had never known before. Alone in my room, I cried, but my father and brother? They showed no emotion, simply carrying on with their lives as if nothing had happened. From that day forward, I made a silent vow never to speak about my emotions. "I'm good," I would say, flashing a fake smile to conceal the pain within.

For years, my art became my refuge, a means to express what words failed to convey. It became a safe space for me to share my emotions, where I could communicate without uttering a single word. It was a comfort, a language of its own.

But now, there was a part of me that understood I couldn't just be there for myself. I had to be there for others too. For the first time in my life, it wasn't solely about me and my struggles.

"When can I see everyone?" Seonghwa's smile beamed as he sat down at the table in front of me.

"Tomorrow, 4 pm, warehouse. Do you want me to come with you?" I asked, returning his smile.

"Yeah, that'd be nice," he replied. Standing up, he walked toward the door. "I'll pick you up from here at 3:30, okay? Also, please go home. You need rest," he insisted.

I nodded, feeling a warmth spreading through my heart. "Goodbye, Seonghwa."

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As I stepped out of the studio, the frosty breeze whipped against my body, reminding me of my lack of warm clothing. My lips turned a dark shade of purple as I struggled to lock the door behind me. When I looked up, my eyes were met with a chilling sight—a note, written in the same crimson color I had used on my shoes.

My heart pounded in my chest as I read the ominous message:

ONE OF YOU IS NEXT.