Lost Light | Hyunlix

Katana dance

Hyunjin's POV

The moonlight filtered through the thin rice paper windows of the Japanese house, casting long shadows across the blood-soaked floor. Hyunjin stood in the center, katana in hand, his breath coming in slow, deliberate exhales. Around him, bodies littered the floor—motionless, lifeless. He'd moved through them like a ghost, silent and deadly, his strikes precise, his heart empty.

The katana dripped with crimson as he let it fall to his side, the weight of it heavy in his hand but light compared to the burden he carried within. His fingers shook slightly, though not from fear. There was no fear left in him. Only the hollow, numbing grief that had taken root deep inside his chest, spreading like a sickness. He felt it with every breath he took—the loss, the pain, the realization that he had truly lost the game. There was no winning this battle, no reclaiming what was already broken beyond repair.

He wiped the blood from his cheek with the back of his hand, his mind detached from the violence he'd just committed. The room stank of iron and death, the metallic tang of blood filling his nostrils as he gazed at the mess of bodies, some still twitching in their final moments. But Hyunjin didn't feel disgust. He didn't feel anything.

The cigarette slid from his lips as he flicked it onto the floor, stepping over the bodies to sit in the middle of the carnage. His legs stretched out, blood pooling around his boots as he stared at the ceiling, the faint wisps of smoke curling into the air. This—this was his life now. No purpose, no hope, just endless killing at the whims of people he despised. His mind, once sharp with rebellion, was dulled by the crushing weight of his circumstances. He was nothing but a tool, a weapon wielded by others, and he was too tired to care anymore.

A soft creak echoed from the entrance of the house. Footsteps approached, slow and deliberate, as a man stepped through the door, his shoes clicking against the hardwood floor. He was dressed in a sharp black suit, the smirk on his face a sharp contrast to the grim scene around them. Hyunjin didn't bother looking up. He knew who it was—one of his handlers, another one of the faceless men who held the leash to his cage. The one who always came to collect him after he'd finished the dirty work.

"Well, well," the man drawled, his voice mocking as he surveyed the room of corpses. "You sure know how to make a mess, don't you? I'd say you've earned yourself a bonus for this one, but then again... you don't really care about that, do you?"

Hyunjin stayed silent, his grip on the katana tightening as he stared ahead, his eyes distant. He could feel the smirk on the man's face without even looking. It made his skin crawl. He despised them—every single one of them—but there was no room for rage anymore. Rage took energy, and Hyunjin had none left.

The man chuckled, stepping over the bodies with a casual air, as if death was nothing more than an inconvenience. "You're efficient, I'll give you that. Cold, calculating, a perfect little killer. Exactly what we need. You should be proud."

"Shut up," Hyunjin muttered, his voice hoarse from the silence that usually occupied it. The man's mocking tone grated against his already frayed nerves, and he could feel the tiny spark of irritation flare inside him. He didn't need their praise, their twisted validation. He hated them. Hated what they turned him into.

The man seemed unfazed by the remark, his grin widening as he leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "Ah, come on, don't be so gloomy. You've earned yourself a break. And besides, you do good work. That's something, isn't it?"

Hyunjin finally looked up, his dark, emotionless eyes meeting the man's smug gaze. For a moment, he imagined driving the katana through the man's chest, wiping that arrogant smirk off his face. But he didn't. He simply stood up, dropping the blade onto the floor with a loud clatter.

"Let's go," Hyunjin said, pushing past the man without a second glance. He couldn't stand being in that house any longer—the smell of blood, the memories of all the lives he'd taken. He needed air, even if the air outside reeked of the same poison that surrounded him every day.

The man straightened, still smirking, and followed him out. "Tough crowd tonight, huh? Don't worry, Hyunjin, I'm sure you'll warm up to the job eventually. Or maybe not. Either way, we're getting our money's worth."

Hyunjin ignored him, stepping out into the cold night air. The black car idled at the edge of the property, waiting for him like a hearse. He slid into the backseat, sinking into the leather and closing his eyes. The door slammed shut, and the engine purred to life as they pulled away from the house, the flickering lights disappearing into the distance.

The man continued to talk, but Hyunjin wasn't listening anymore. His mind drifted into the familiar void he'd come to know, a place where he didn't have to think, didn't have to feel. It was easier that way. Feelings only made things worse—made him remember the things he'd lost, the things he'd never have again. And every time he let those thoughts in, they hurt. So he shut them out, burying them deeper with every mission, every kill.

As the city lights blurred by, Hyunjin leaned his head back, closing his eyes. The blood on his hands was dry now, but the weight of it would never fade. The man beside him cracked another joke, but it fell on deaf ears.

For Hyunjin, there was no laughter left in the world. Only survival, and the slow, suffocating realization that he was nothing but a dead man walking.