𝙈𝙀𝙍𝘾𝙀𝙉𝘼𝙍𝙔 | viral hit

- 00.

—THROUGHOUT YOUR NEW LIFE, you've only cried once, and that was when you've lost the warmth of what was once yours.

It'd traumatized you, for sure—and you had to do whatever you can to survive in this new environment of yours. One filled with dread, and pain, and blood. So much blood. Too much to recall. The first time blood pooled from the wound on your head, and you hear the static that rung through your ears that silenced your thundering heart when thick hands lifted you by your forearms and out of the rubble of metal and corpses and blistering flames.

You could only recall so much from your childhood days, which you've imagined were so warm— so, so.. what was the word? Ah, happy. Right. Happiness— and so much brightness in contrast to the hardships you went through over the years. You faintly recall the mingling laughter of a woman as she cradled a babe, and a man who clutched onto your smaller hands with a grin on his features.

And that boy. A rowdy one, so full of life—you're sure you remember. With dark hair and dark eyes; a handsome grin and the graceful skill of kicks. You faintly remembered how he'd clasp his hand on your wrist and pulled you everywhere without a single care in the world, or when he'd invite you to watch him practice.

You didn't know his name.

Nor did you know yours.

It's been years now. 10 grueling years and more to come. 10 years of killing and beating and fighting—of surviving and everything in between. You've survived for 10 years, and you'll be sure (swore to god that you would—) to survive for more if you wanted to get out. The visions in your head were becoming more prominent, and you're sure they were more than visions. No, they were your memories. The memories you've lost ever since that fateful day were returning.

You were so close from freeing yourself from the camp.

All it takes is one more step. One more year. One more massacre. You'd do whatever it takes. Suppress the guilt, suppress the coldness in your heart and move. Push through and maybe then you would actually have the chance to remember who those people in your memory are.

Just maybe.

Hamchan Kang—a blonde man with a standard military build, pressed against the binds that tied his hands together uncomfortably, sweat dripping down the sides of his face through the blistering heat that the bleak, worn out walls emitted. All he could think of was where the mission went wrong, and that thought alone made his blood boil in frustration with himself, and for the informant who led them to their demise. Kang couldn't bare to face the other man in the room in front of him, eyes dilated and focusing on the dirtied ground that stained of dried red.

With his head hanging low, Kang's broad shoulders sagged in defeat. He tried to wet his mouth, feeling the guilt swallow him whole. "I'm sorry that things have turned out this way, professor."

A worn out looking male with a scuffed face and dark, slicked back hair only stared at him in pity, mouth downturned into a deep frown. When he spoke, his voice was deep and gruff—hoarse from the lack of hydration and left with a dry cavern of dying hope. "Don't say that, Major Kang." the professor started. "I'm the one who's sorry for putting you and your men in this situation."

"..." this rescue mission would've succeeded if only that goddamn informant hadn't turned on us. Kang thought bitterly, gritting his teeth. He flexed his arms, only to be reminded of the daunting reality that he was indeed taken hostage alongside the professor by a pro-movement in a foreign country. These men are highly-trained soldiers, not just common militia..

Not to mention triple the manpower of what our intel projected... the professor could've sworn he heard a crack from the major's sharp canines. They knew the details of our plans and completely ambushed us. Oh, how he felt stupid. Kang felt the slightest bit betrayed, but he should've known that deep down, no informant should be completely trusted—should they want to be slaughtered by one minuscule mistake.