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a soft knock at the door tears up the silence, yet you don't flinch nor move, being too immersed in your work. you continue typing your project for the next day, gentle mumbles emitting from your lips here and there and at that moment you don't hear anything else apart from them.
a second knock, more demanding than the first, breaks your series of thoughts, yet you still don't look away from the bright screen. with a frustrated sigh you allow the presence who's standing behind the door to enter and with rushing footsteps, he walks immediately into the bathroom.
the faucet opens abruptly and the water runs fast. you hear a few things hitting the ground fiercely and that's what catches your attention, eventually looking up with furrowed eyebrows. "mingi?" you question insecurely, but your voice gets lost somewhere in the room. you don't know anyone else who would come to your house this late at night.
"mingi??" you repeat a bit louder and with a worry that you can't even control, yet silence greets you once again. you abandon your laptop quickly and walk towards the bathroom with a hasty pace. "mingi is that-"
your body freezes once you enter the messy room. your voice gets stuck somewhere in your throat and that's where a huge lump disembarks, way too difficult to be swallowed. you feel no blood flowing through your veins and not even a wonder can change that, unless that horrifying sight in front of you vanishes magically.
you stare down with a shaky breath. it's like someone has pulled a finger by force and painted with it upon the wooden floor, from your bedroom door till where mingi stands. and that painter, the male in front of you in that case, chose the red color. blood. nothing but huge drops of blood. vivid and thick, its smell evident and fresh all around the room.
it flows thickly over his fingers, coating them proudly. he seems cold, his skin paler than a wandering cloud in a snowy night. there are wounds dancing all over his face, deep and red. his eyes watch yours deeply, yet you can't read what he's thinking of. he doesn't seem entranced, however, by the new color of his skin, desperately trying to wash it off with both shaking hands and breath.
"you must think i'm a fool." he says sternly, yet a gentle sniffle accompanies his sentence. you ignore his saying and move quickly to get wet towels and napkins in your trembling embrace. your hands wander over the counter that is home to cotton wool and tissues. "go sit on my bed." you instruct him with a low voice.
he exhales deeply. "y/n, let's just talk-"
"in my room mingi!" you cry out. this isn't the time for talking nor empathizing. he's a mess and in need of immediate help. you have already talked about this several times before, but there he is again...a bloody picture that will haunt your dreams for an eternity.
