the apartment is too cold.
it's always too cold when he wakes up, despite wrapped in the warmest blankets he owns. boreas' breath manages to get through the threads and coat his skin in ice. frost lines his walls (they're so shiny, he could see his warped reflection on it). it's only fall and their heater never works. he's too cold.
and as it turns out, the whole building was cold.
each person on every floor steps out of their apartments, blankets and sweaters over their shoulders. socks with holes and pajama pants with rips. they all have that glazed look with stardust in their eyes. their voices creak like the floors and they are too airy to understand what it is they're saying. it sounds empty.
the landlord says, "this building is a morgue."
(the landlord, █████, is a lady who has chipped red nails that go perfectly with her dark skin and furry scarves, polka dotted in black and white. she wears a wooden cross on her neck that dangles annoyingly whenever she moves, and asks the tenants if they want to have a "cup of joe" too often).
"where are the bodies then?" a woman asks.
(█████ was the one on the third floor. she had dogs that barked too loud, wore silk nightgowns with converse sneakers and had the touch of death. she talks to her walls as if something is living inside, which there was, and gives flowers through the mail slot of people's doors. they wilt in seconds).
"gone probably," a man says.
(fourth floor, fourteenth room. ██████ pickpocketed and stole, not money, but mints. he has bulging eyes and cracked lips. his cheeks are sunken in and he leaves a miasma of mothballs and bleach when he walks past you. his scent is like a ghost that walks in right through your doors).
gone, taeyong thinks as he stands with his mother, who's mouth is shut. of course they are.
