The Afterlife

10) Between What's a Joke, and What's Me

(a/n: i hate this chapter

also, listen to 'yet to come' all along for a better experience hmm, thx... enjoy)

It did not take Sihyeon much to look up and find Jisoo's eyes, hands still locked on her gun, though she found no signs of threat but the blood still leaking fresh beneath her shoes.

"They might still be here," she motioned with her head at the rest of the house, eyes rocking back and forth to the vastness of the place, "I will go upstairs."

All Sihyeon needed was a nod for her to proceed where she saw what was nearest; the staircase lied on the right of their entrance, only a few steps away from their feet; it was dark, but even then, the blood reflected the mere lights that was theirs just fine. 

It had obviously been dragged from way upstairs, so Sihyeon found no meaning in going back up; if anywhere, the culprit should have either already left, or hiding somewhere down where they had dragged their two victims.

Sihyeon just figured there were never enough guarantees. 

She minded that her steps be quick yet careful, for she knew no time which she could spare shall the killer be already at the window.

The rest of their forces lied still and vigilant around the house, but even then, Sihyeon knew not of chances, and she picked her pace, step by step, up to where the rest of the house sat.

It was unclear why a middle-aged couple lived alone in so much space, and Sihyeon looked around should there be any signs of a larger family, but there was none.

Just as silent as the night's darkness, the house entirely was, and Sihyeon landed her steps oh so quietly, yet she heard them all the same; they were distinct, the only true life amongst so much void and death. 

"Dux," Sihyeon had only walked past one of the rooms' doors when she heard Jisoo speak in her ears, "it seems like they ran far and well."

"Yeah," Sihyeon looked around; although blood still smeared the whole of the room, there was a contrasting peace that clung itself to the walls, a serenity that could have tricked the blind into believing that nothing out of the ordinary happened. 

In her mind, Sihyeon could only remember Wooshik, and it bothered her how her heart still reacted to the thought of the mere name.

Sihyeon remembered killing him, no different than how she killed the rest of her victims, but it was his hands, his close, close hands that held her and lead her, and Sihyeon was all over again a sixteen-year-old, lost about the halls of a large building where she knew, nowhere without, the meaning of home for years. 

She was sixteen, and no matter where she looked, there was blood, and there was her heart, lying somewhere on the floor, begging to be picked, but all she could do was take a step, before the bright, glistening shoe stepped on it, and Wooshik's face was never not too familiar. 

Sir. She remembered. That smile, that smirk that always came easily to his face, the unyielding belief that was so wrong but so right, then, to her ears.

Her body shuddered with the memory, plaguing it like a pest, and the title of respect she gave no one but him rocked her hard against the chest.

Sir. She used to call him, even when he hurt her, and even when he had her beg; Sihyeon felt small, shrinking as she stood amidst the large hall, barely breathing but, regardless, living as she swayed, mind hunted by that which she never understood, that which she never had say in. 

Sihyeon felt her bones aging sick, and not once had she ever thought the sight of blood would sicken her, so much of it. It had always delighted her, stirred her up and excited her; she had always looked at those she killed with much of what Wooshik looked at her with, and she understood him well enough when they cried, begged for her to stop.