v e n g e a n c e (d i s c o n t i n u e d)

prologue

~?~

The cigarette smoke hung low as it swirled around. The atmosphere was almost toxic, the fumes unfurling throughout the heat of sweaty bodies.

His nose cringed at the revolting stench; breath sharpening as he raggedly inhaled and exhaled.

Rust-colored hair parted to right draped over his circular, hooded eyes. His head rested on a gentle hand propped by one elbow. His figure sat in ease, with one sleeve of his leather jacket lazily slipped off his shoulder exposing the smokey gray hoodie underneath. His other hand was roughly clutching a half-empty shot glass.

Scanning the room, he noticed that there were scores of people. More people—especially such a substantial amount— was not for a moment good.

Never.

Because the enemy always lurked just beyond peripheral vision, veiled by the rabble; prowling.

Senses rushed back to him after deep in thought, overwhelmed by the surroundings. Wearily, he slipped a brisk side glance to catch a rapid flash of black and white.

Suddenly, someone alarmingly rammed into his stool in a tipsy manner.

"Hey, sexy..." a female voice slurred, hiccuping in between her words. She slumped onto his back, blowing air into the crook of his neck. Her hands leisurely climbed up his back to feebly grip his shoulders.

Back tensing, he seized the shot glass in between his hands rigidly; knuckles turning into a ghostly, pale color. Almost to the point of shattering the glass. He pressed his lips together tautly, inwardly groaning.

"Get off," he hissed, curling his lip into a snarl.

He peeled her clingy feminine hands off of his spine, leaving her moaning about her oppa. Avoiding her whiny, disgusting expression, he hastily slipped a few bills to pay for his drinks and sidled to the door.

Glancing back, he repulsed at the sight of the girl puking right on the table. He watched as she choked on her own vomit, and suffered.

Serves that bitch right.

Her sooty hair— neatly brushed medium-high bangs and unevenly layered lengthy hair— looked strikingly familiar. Her frame sparked a heartbeat at the back of his head, and a jolt rushed through his back. He abruptly halted, catching her appearance. A growing fear began eating at his heart— even if she was in no state of mind to recognize his face— as if it was telling him to retreat immediately.

His hands were shaking vigorously now, but he concealed them by shoving them into his jacket pockets. Sweat dripped down his forehead as he made his way out of the expanding crowd.

It was somewhat like deja vu, where it was familiar but you didn't know why. But he could feel something wrong about her presence...

His breath hastened anticipatedly as he pulled his hood over his hair and above his eyes with his clammy fingers.

As he burst free from the congested bar, he stepped outside of the doors. The asphalt was slick with the dirty slush that had collected the grime of car tires.

Looking up from underneath his bangs, he sucked in the crisp, fresh air.

Scouring his surroundings, he noticed that the thick mist hung low like storm clouds; the bitter cold nipping at his exposed facial features. His teeth lightly chattered in response.

Bunching his shoulders against the biting gales, he tried to focus on getting home unscathed. Well as in no more injuries. He clenched his jaws at the thought of fighting, it felt good. He felt as if he had power and could obtain victory. He lifted his digits to touch the abrasion under his eye.

It was his pride, a trophy. It screamed out "Look at me, I'm the boss here!"

He had never felt so disinclined towards a late-night fight, nonetheless walking the streets this late at night; in fact, it was the norm. But his heart was about to burst through his rib cage as if it was warning him in advance for the unsuspected. It made him wonder if a seventh sense truly existed; because a sixth sense did exist...loathe, anger, justice, and vengeance.

He balled his hands into fists within his pockets, ready to defend if someone was lurking around the corner.

Screeeech.

He whipped his head around, alarmed at the detestable sound of car tires coming to an abrupt halt. The splash of the water puddles echoed throughout the hollow streets, leaving the unsettling silence snickering back at him.

He peered from underneath his hood at the purring car, circumspecting the situation with a hard glare. A Rosso Scuderia Ferrari, neatly scrubbed and well maintained. It looked fairly recognizable...

He gazed at the beautiful car as the click of the door signaled that it had been unlocked. A short yet compact figure briskly climbed out, as if in a critical situation. It ran in his direction; something told him it was innoxious to linger around.

"Oi!" yelled a resonant voice. The accent was unmistakably different, neither American nor Korean. The boy's face came into focus as it was illumined by the overhead street lights. He splattered the rainwater puddles everywhere, obnoxiously disturbing the pin-drop silence of the street apart from the hum of the car. His parted golden-orange locks bounced up and down as he pelted across the street.

"Yah! Yongbok, what are you doing at this time of the night?" asked the older, taking his delicate hands out of his pockets and brushing his hair aside.

"I said quit calling me that shit! You know I loathe it. Nevermind that," responded the young boy, catching his breath.

"Then what are you doing here?"

The teen bit his lip, checking his pulse. He tried suppressing his concern, but his trembling hands gave them away.

"Come now..." the younger blurted out. His eyes were enveloped with panic.

"We're in da-"

Bang!

The sound resonated throughout the block, leaving an uncanny hush upon the streets. Even the chittering of the crickets ceased.

"Fuck."

Who are they....? Well, you'll have to guess for now. ;)