𝙱𝚊𝚗𝚐 𝙲𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝙾𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚝𝚜

𝙻𝚘𝚜𝚝

TW: violence, blood, major character injuries, near death experience, mentioned depression, mentioned suicide

Hurtfic

Chan is going to be late. He curses as he checks the time, hurrying along the sidewalk.

He is grateful that Minho and Seong Hwa arranged this get together, that he has enough free time on his hands to actually attend this time, that he is finally getting out for what feels like the first time in an eternity.

He is nearly to the bar in question, one that is famous for its idol clientele, that protects the identities of the bargoers fiercely, something that is appreciated in the celebrity community.

He's jolted out of his thoughts by someone tapping his shoulder. Stopping short, he turns, fighting to keep a scowl off of his face. He is wearing a mask and a hat pulled low, and the sun is nearly set but that doesn't mean that he is completely unrecognisable to fans with sharp eyes.

The person who tapped his shoulder flashes a disarming smile, raising their hands slightly.

"Sorry, I just- I'm visiting for the month, and I was wondering if you could give me directions?"

Chan has to fight the urge to roll his eyes, plastering a smile over his face (not like the tourist will be able to see it), nodding. He could refuse, but that could spark a scandal later along the line, something he isn't willing to chance.

"Of course. Where are you heading?"

The pedestrian/tourist pulls away, to a nearby alcove away from the bustle of the street, motioning for him to follow, pulling out a map.

Chan curses inwardly. Of course, he had to get stopped by one of those tourists, the ones who refuse to use their phones to find places, trying to get the fully "authentic" experience.

Chan follows dutifully, inwardly cursing, yet outwardly maintaining his usual calm demeanour.

"So where are you headed?"

"Oh, I'm trying to find-um-it's a cafe that one of my friends recommended to me, but I can't find it on here, and my phone isn't working right now."

Chan nods, his next question forming on his lips when a sharp, cold pain suddenly assaults his stomach. Pain flairs through his body in a cold wave, and his knees buckle, vision blurring with the pain.

Dumbly, he stares down to the red pouring from his stomach, the flash of silver in the tourist's hand.

Gasping he presses his hand to the wound, tears springing to his eyes as the pain sharpens.

He crumples to his knees, but he can barely feel the coldness of the concrete, focused on the figure in front of him. Their arm raises again, and he tries to scramble back, but he has his back to the wall, and what he thought was just an alcove, a nook in the street, has morphed into an alley, and the pain comes, again and again, and oh, God, he can feel his body being ripped open, his chest and abdomen, and it hurts, it fucking hurts, his vision fading, the world tilting and distorting. He can see the red, there is so much of it, he shouldn't be losing this much. He is dying, isn't he?

Something drops next to him, a large piece of paper.

The map.