lotus || j.jk.

08

"Ha," he sighs, a large hand running down his face.

Truth be told, he wasn't actually so worked up or bothered about it, yet he can't help but feel a little lethargic anyway.

Disappointed, more like, is the right word for the feeling. He is a perfectionist, after all, in his craft.

He should've been more careful.

He knows this - clearly so - but the circumstances at the time of the happening made it almost impossible.

How was he supposed to know she would retaliate? It's never happened before and, given the afflictions he had caused, he didn't think it was possible.

His mind adrift in the memory, a thumb comes up to the corner of his masked mouth and brushes over the spot where a bruise from the scuffle had blossomed and withered rather quickly.

He's thankful he put in the extra effort to get the evidence of his injuries to heal as fast as possible.

No words could describe how disgusted he felt looking in the mirror and seeing the mark left on him.

It is not allowed. No one is allowed to hurt him.

Ungrateful bitch.

The voice inside his head seethes and curses, his blood simmering again. He would be dishonest, though, if he said he wasn't mildly impressed.

It was the first time anyone tried to fight back, and tenacity is a trait he always admired.

Oh Yoon-ah.

She had some spirit in her.

Admired or not, impressed or unimpressed - she ultimately wound up the same as the rest and that's what mattered.

His eyes shutting, his head falls softly into his chilled palms. His curls hang over his fingers and brushes against the back of his hands, the sensation featherlight.

He's suddenly doused with euphoria and he tries to counter the fervid feeling with a deep inhale.

He remembers her so vividly; the kind smile lingering on her lips, looking at him like a divine deity ready to grant his supplication.

Why had she been so open to him? Was it truly a display of her naivety or was she so arrogant to think no harm would come to her?

Whatever it was, he was thankful - even if she repaid his favor with a literal slap in the face.

He reconciles that he can't be so mad at her though - sometimes nice people forget to be kind too. He just hopes - wherever she is - that she understands why it had to be done.

Licking his cold lips, he languidly lifts his head and opens his eyes.

He toys with the silver ring wrapped around his finger but pays no mind to the small red blots encased in bruises strewn against the valley of his battered knuckles.

A finger runs through the bumps of the small cuts littered around his otherwise smooth hand and he finds a larger bruise in his exploration.

A searing pain jumps at him as he rams his thumb on the injury, only pushing him to dig on it harder.

He remembers her so vividly; she looked like an angel.

Even with the perpetual look of terror on her pale, bloodied face that night, her mindless screaming, the violent thrashing, the feeling of her bones against his fists, the warmth of her blood splattered against his skin, or her ridiculous pleading.