Residue, JJK

01

You should have known it was a bad idea to take the shorter way home tonight.

It's only a few minutes less of a walk than your usual route, but that means all the world on a Friday evening where bright-lit streets were bustling with friends hanging out and couples on romantic dates; where you, having just finished an afternoon consisting of a boring lecture and a long shift of waitressing at a mediocre restaurant, wish to get from the public bus to your front door as quick as possible.

On exhausting nights like these, getting home at 11:42 p.m. sounded almost like heaven compared to getting home at 11:50.
The time reads 11:36 on your phone right before the low battery signal pops on the screen. It's no surprise that it's almost dead, considering that you spent half of your shift scrolling aimlessly on social media (and as you saw people's pictures, you thought of how nice it seemed to have worthwhile things to actually post about). There's a portable charger in your backpack, but since you're already a few turns away from your front door, you slip your device in your pocket and continue walking. This is another mistake you make.

The neighborhoods in this part of Busan have narrow streets and very few lamps (they're only on the route you usually take, and they flicker so horribly that it can hurt your eyes if you stare at them), but the reasonable rent and the moderate distance to your university kept you from complaining. Besides, you didn't need too much light for guidance. Just another left, two more rights, and–

As you round the corner building, you stop at the sight of someone committing a murder a few feet in front of you.

It's dark, so dark that the blood looks black instead of red, but even in the ill-lit night, you can see it all: an ominous figure in a raven-colored hoodie straddling a middle-aged man wearing a bloody business suit on the ground, the knife sunken deep in the man's gruesomely slit throat getting pulled out with a tug from a gloved grip, the slight jerk the victim's body makes before falling limp forever. The bundle of cloth shoved in the man's mouth is covered in drool and blood, and in his glossy, open eyes, you can see the emotions of fear and desperation coursing through his unlucky soul before his last moments.

After your heart stops for what seems like too long, it picks up speed. Your forehead sweats, but your body feels cold. Your mind begs for you to run, but your legs stay in place. Your lungs crave for air, but not a single breath is taken in. You're unable to do anything but watch the killer's head turn to you. Because of his face mask and his hoodie, you see nothing but his eyes.

They're dark, animalistic, and ready to take another life.

That's when you bolt in the opposite direction.

A piece of you knows it's futile; your stamina is weak and the last time you properly exercised was beyond forgotten. But even so, your feet fight to make you fly far from the scene. A scream for help erupts from your dry throat and you hope that it's enough to get at least one person looking out their window. But logical thinking crushes your desperate wish. No other soul is in sight of your senses other than the killer catching up to you. The quick footsteps from behind are loud and scary, but not as scary as the thought of facing the same fatal fate you witnessed.

It's strange. Despite all those lonely days you wished to disappear, you're here running away from this opportunity given to you on a silver plate.

A large hand grabs you by the arm, yanks you into an ally, and slams you on the brick wall with so much force that you shout out at the impact. The killer's palm slaps on your mouth, keeping you from making any more noises other than muffled cries. It tastes horrible, the dried blood now painting your lips, but you can't move at all. Your hands are restrained above you and the killer's knee is shoved between your legs.