Seonghwa's body stirred, heavy with a dull, relentless pressure that pulsed in rhythm with the pounding in his skull. His head throbbed as if a hammer was driving into it, and even though his eyelids barely cracked open, the faint light slipping through the curtains stabbed at his vision. He flinched, squeezing his eyes shut, yet the ache only deepened. His body was draped across the couch, the cushions beneath him failing to provide any comfort. His limbs felt leaden, each muscle stiff and reluctant, his joints groaning in quiet rebellion as he shifted ever so slightly, like an old door forced open after years of neglect.
A low groan escaped his throat, rough and strained, as fragments of last night flickered at the edges of his consciousness. His mind groped for clarity, but the memories slithered away, disjointed and distorted. He could almost hear Yunho's laugh, a bright burst of sound, and the soft clink of glasses, toasting to something—or perhaps nothing at all. But the rest was murky, lost in a haze that hung over his thoughts like fog clinging stubbornly to the shoreline, refusing to clear.
Seonghwa's hand drifted upward, fingertips barely brushing against his tired eyes, the slight tremor in his touch betraying the weariness that clung to him like a second skin. He pressed harder, hoping to banish the fog that clouded his vision and mind. But even with the pressure, the exhaustion remained, lingering like an unwanted guest. Brief snapshots of the night flickered in the dark spaces behind his eyelids—Wooyoung's impish smirk as if caught in the midst of a prank, Yunho's hearty laugh that seemed to echo from a place deep in his chest. These were familiar, comforting faces. Yet, amidst them, a sudden, chilling image surfaced—Hongjoong's face.
It felt wrong. Hongjoong wasn't supposed to be there, not that night. The image of him floated up from the recesses of Seonghwa's mind like a ghostly reflection in a murky pond, disjointed, misaligned. He frowned, trying to place the memory, trying to make sense of its presence. Wooyoung had clearly said earlier that Hongjoong was away—on some business trip. He remembered that much. Yet, why was his face haunting him now? Why did the memory feel so tangible, so intrusive?
With a groan, Seonghwa shifted his weight, pulling his heavy body upright. The couch beneath him seemed to resist, clinging to his aching limbs as if reluctant to let him go. Each movement sent ripples of discomfort through his muscles, a reminder of the night's indulgences. He sat hunched over, his elbows digging into his thighs, head hanging low as if the weight of his thoughts was too much to bear. His breath came slow, deliberate, as he tried to center himself in the present.
But then, as if carried on the stillness of the room, Hongjoong's voice echoed through his memory—clear, unmistakable. "You belong to me." The words were sharp, carving through the haze, leaving a cold shiver in their wake. His spine stiffened involuntarily. The voice wasn't some vague recollection; it was too vivid, too real, and with it came a creeping sense of unease, like the sensation of being watched. He could almost feel the weight of those words pressing down on him.
