Beneath the Surface // Moonsun

Chapter 3

Yongsun's POV

I debate the logistics of bringing my pistol with me.

It was definitely a bad idea.

It'd make me feel safer though.

It's definitely a bad idea.

The gun remains on my nightstand as I pace the small area of my walk-in closet in absolute indecision. What does one even wear to meet their mob boss? A dress? Sweatpants and a curry-stained sweatshirt?

Jeans and a flannel shirt. I toss them onto my bed and look away. One thing settled.

I couldn't focus at all during patrol today and nearly forgot to lock the cuffs on one guy earlier. I'm currently functioning off two hours of sleep and four shots of Five Hour Energy so, rather than feeling as if I'll pass out, I feel as if I'll just drop dead from too much fright and caffeine.

I've run through every possible scenario through my brain, from having to murder an innocent person to prove my loyalty to becoming the boss's bitch. The second option is actually one of the least horrible ones my racing thoughts have come up with. And yet, this isn't prison. I can just leave and pray they never find me.

Scoffing, I begin to change in the bathroom and stare into my full-length mirror as if trying to remember myself - my appearance - for what might be the last time. Beneath my eyes were darken with drowsiness, my own natural eyeliner. One blessing to not have to worry with makeup this evening then. My hair...

I run a hand through the long, dark locks in disgust. Maybe I should have washed my hair yesterday. Maybe I should've done a lot of things differently and it might be too late for them all.

You wanted money Kim Yongsun, I think bitterly putting my hair into a ponytail, you got it. Now isn't the time for regrets. There is never time for regrets.

With that thought in my head, I snatch the gun from my nightstand and go to my car that sits idly outside the garage. Daylight's fading and I won't be late, not even for my possible death.

It's poetic in some sick way that I'm sure exposes a character flaw that I know will eventually be my own undoing. Maybe another flaw of mine is just how little self-preservation I do have. Those countless days when I sit in bed and wonder just what I live for. Not going to lie, most days it's for coffee. Without coffee no doubt I would've fucking ended it by now.

Newport's rural forested area stretches out around me as I travel towards Whitman Bay - the coast. The trees a blend of autumn yellows, oranges, and reds and the grass blanketed with fallen leaves the same shades. Another reason to live. The beauty of nature in Spring and Autumn - the cycles of life and death. If I'm to die tonight, I would regret this too. But it's a fitting season to die no less.

The drive to the coast is thirty minutes and halfway through my thoughts run dry, my fear gone, and emotions bland. I once again debate the pistol, sitting in the compartment between the seats. I don't know why I brought it along. It doesn't give me comfort.

A chill runs through my body instead.

The forest begins to thin, clearing out to give way to a small beach more jagged rocks than grainy sand with a cliff at its end. Situated on the cliff is the lighthouse, an erect structure off-white from years of wind and ocean battering its sides. A small structure that used to house whomever manned the tower is connected to it still in good repair despite its age. I wonder if the clan uses this place often.

There are two cars parked on the bottom of the cliff that I notice as I get closer, an expensive sporty vehicle one would assume a rich man would own and a simpler car more suitable for a middle class woman. One of the the simpler car is still running, evident by its headlights shining against the rock's face.