TARGET

서른 아홉

He couldn't quite understand what prompted him to take upon this excursion.

He couldn't quite fathom why he decided to listen to it

He couldn't quite comprehend why he was bolting against a sea of gravel squelching underneath his feet, feeding themselves into the crevices his combat boots; his heartbeat like a symphony of consecutive gunshots, echoing in the temple of his head; the power, the disquiet pooling in his stomach.

Haechan couldn't, admittedly, grasp why he broke his promise, the rudimentary doctrine of his lively continuance up to that point.

He couldn't discern why he kicked in the ventilator, crawled through the compact area, chilled metal biting his knees, dust clinging onto the woven fabric upon his back.

Nor could Haechan figure out how he made it to the dilapidated ruins of what were to be considered the entry way to the west wing.

He would prefer to sit and ponder, what in his right mind incited him to enact the absurd notion,

but it was too late.

He could conceive, elucidate even, the stark vision in his mind:

His naked, frail body, laying upon an expanse of pure midnight ink. His skin, cadaverous, the veins, a deep raven taint, a panoply to the likes of spectacle. As he relinquished his body, mind, and spirit, to it, relished in its power and resented its calamity.

And slowly, the ink would rise from before the soles of his feet, suspend its grotesque body mid air, and slowly...

He began walking towards the entrance of the scene,

...slowly poured its ink upon his chest, the rhythmic nature of the ink tapping against his rib cage stagnant against the palpitations of his heart...

sounds fading as juxtapose to the growing proximity of his vessel and the ruckus,

he was drowning. He inhaled the ink helplessly, his lungs absorbing it analogous to a sponge,

Breathe.

Breathe.

Breathe?

Oh no.... haechanie,

you know what you need to do.

Please...

Its too late now, darling-

Go ahead,

I like hearing your pretty voice.

___

It was all crumbling.

It wasn't supposed to be like this.

"SEUNGKWAN, TO YOUR LEFT,"

He swiveled his head, dodging the protruding fist and maneuvering the limb under is arm, twisting it in a mannerism that would enable him to throw the guard onto the floor over his shoulder.

But some weak ass guard was the least of his problems:

He hated being reliant, but it definitely isn't ideal when your two main Starborn are out of commission, and your 2 V 2 with two targets with a Stargift and a half-