minsung/skz one shots

miracle.

I wanted to dress the blade up in red with both of our necks, but I wasn’t able and I wasn’t stable, I guess.

' ֶָ֢

Minho;
Minho’s eyes widened in shock as the cold steel of the dagger pierced through his chest, stopping just short of his heart. For a split second, he couldn’t believe it – Seungmin had really done it. He had stabbed him. Minho's gaze dropped to his white button-up shirt, now rapidly staining red as the blood spread from the wound. If he had to guess, though he was never good at these things, he would say that Seungmin missed his heart by mere inches. His breath hitched, shallow and ragged, as he looked up, meeting Seungmin’s eyes. He tried to speak, but the words stuck in his throat, caught between disbelief and pain. Seungmin stood there, looking as innocent as he always did, his expression calm and untroubled, a contrast to the violence he had just committed. The reality of it twisted Minho’s insides – it was hard to reconcile the boyish face in front of him with the act of betrayal that had just unfolded. Minho's hand instinctively moved to the dagger, his fingers trembling as he wrapped them around the handle. Every instinct screamed at him to pull it out, but he stopped himself, knowing that would only make things worse. He could feel the blade lodged deep, each breath sending waves of pain radiating through his chest. His mouth felt dry, his tongue heavy, and he struggled to swallow. Finally, he managed to whisper, “Why did you do that?” His voice was barely audible, strained with a mix of confusion, disbelief, and a profound sense of betrayal that cut deeper than the dagger ever could. Seungmin’s eyes remained devoid of emotion, his face a mask of indifference as he responded simply, “You deserve it.” With that, Seungmin turned on his heel and walked away, leaving Minho alone in the dark, bleeding and bewildered. The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the sound of Minho's labored breathing. He stumbled forward, his vision blurring as he looked around the dimly lit warehouse. The towering, rusted shelves and abandoned machinery loomed ominously, shadows playing tricks on his eyes. Old warehouses were creepy on their own, but with a dagger lodged in his chest, it felt like a nightmare came to life. Panic set in; he didn’t want to die here, not in this forgotten place, not like this. His hands, slick with blood, fumbled in his pocket until he managed to pull out his phone. The screen was smeared with red as he dialed the emergency number, his voice shaking and breathless as he told the operator his location and what had happened. He could feel the air thinning around him, each inhale more labored than the last. It dawned on him that the blade might have nicked something vital – his airways, a lung – and he couldn’t afford to lose any more time. The adrenaline pumping through his veins pushed him forward, each step a battle against the searing pain that threatened to bring him to his knees. He staggered towards the exit, the cold night air hitting his face like a slap when he finally stumbled outside. His vision swam, the world around him tilting as he collapsed onto the ground, just as the flashing lights of the ambulance and police cars pulled up. He was vaguely aware of the paramedics rushing towards him, their voices urgent but distant, like they were underwater. The cold, wet pavement pressed against his cheek, grounding him in the present even as his consciousness began to waver. The flashing lights flickered in his vision, red and blue blending with the inky darkness, and for a moment, he wasn’t sure if he was going to make it.