Help Me Choose!

Help me choose!

Love triangle: Minho likes Hannah, You like Hannah too (reader ends up with Minho)

OF INK AND CHARCOAL.

Artist! Hyunjin x Writer! Reader

Theme: sad, drifting away from each other, hope towards end

You sat by the window, your laptop open, fingers tapping idly against the keyboard. Outside, the sky was bleeding into sunset—the colors fierce and bold, blending like they couldn't decide whether to end the day or prolong the inevitable.

It made you think of the words in Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar:

"I felt my lungs inflate with the onrush of scenery—air, mountains, trees, people. I thought, 'This is what it is to be happy.' But happiness, too, can feel like suffocation."

You often found yourself writing through that lens. Capturing moments that stood still, forever on the brink of something profound. But today, your mind was blank, heart weighed down by an inexplicable heaviness. It was like you had too many words, too many emotions, and no way to release them.

“I don’t want a box of fancy chocolates, I want you, sitting next to me”

The words were those that you said, yesterday was your 4th year anniversary, and he wasn’t home.

Or rather a house, because it refused to be your home, not anymore.

He thought you were overthinking, He said many anniversaries like this would come, that you both could spend them in amazing ways when things weren’t so busy. But that’s when it hit you—he actually believed you’d be together for a long time. That there were countless tomorrows waiting for the two of you.

He didn’t understand.

It wasn’t about the day. It was about him. About how he was drifting further away from you with every passing second, and he didn’t even realize it. People change; so did he.

He used to be your best friend, your confidant, the one who understood every silence, every glance. He could finish your thoughts before you even had to speak them. Now, the silence between you is heavy, tense, and unbearable. You’ve started to feel like strangers who share the same space but live in entirely different worlds. You’re still here, still trying, but him? He’s somewhere else.

You feel like strangers, when you meet a stranger, you smile, not out of undying love, out of compulsion.

He thinks it’s about the missed anniversary. But it’s not. It’s about all the moments that have passed with him not truly seeing you. You’re right there in front of him, but it’s like he’s looking past you, through you, at something else—something you can’t reach.

The problem is, he doesn’t notice. He doesn’t see how his distance is tearing you apart. How your conversations have become shallow, how the meaningful exchanges you used to have are now just brief, distracted words before he retreats into his world. You wonder if he even remembers what it used to be like, back when the two of you would sit in silence, and it would still feel full, still feel like everything was right in the world.

Now, the silence feels empty, a void between you that grows wider each day.

He spends more time with his art, disappearing into it. And maybe, that’s where he’s been hiding all along. You think of how he once told you that art was about capturing a moment, freezing it in time so it could live forever. But you don’t want to live in frozen moments. You want him here, now, fully present. You want him to realize that the distance between you isn’t something that can be brushed aside with promises of a future. It’s something that needs to be addressed now.

He’s always that you tend to dwell too much on feelings, on little things that don’t matter. But this isn’t little. This is everything.

You miss the way he used to look at you, the way his presence alone could make you feel whole. Now, even when he’s there, it’s like he’s somewhere else. You see it in the way his eyes glaze over when you talk, how his focus always seems to drift. You’ve started to wonder if he even cares anymore, if he even realizes that his absence—though physical—has become emotional too.

The truth is, you don’t care about fancy chocolates or grand gestures. You never did. You just want him. You want the man who used to make you feel like the only person in the room, the man who used to understand you without needing to ask. You don’t need extravagant gifts. You need his time, his attention, his love—the way it used to be.

But he doesn’t see that. He thinks there’s always time. That you can make it up later. But what he doesn’t realize is that every day he pulls away, a little more of you pulls back too. The cracks in your relationship are growing, and the longer they’re ignored, the harder they’ll be to repair. He thinks you’re just upset because of the anniversary. But this has been building for months, maybe even longer. And now, it feels like you’re both on the verge of breaking.

You wish you could find the right words to make him understand, to make him see what’s happening between you. But every time you try, you stop yourself. Because deep down, you know that he’s not ready to hear it. Or worse, he doesn’t want to.

People change. You’ve changed too, but you’ve grown in ways that are trying to hold onto him, while he’s slipping away into someone you barely recognize. And the hardest part is knowing that he thinks everything is fine. That you have time. That you’ll figure it out later.

But you don’t want to live in the future. You want the present. You want him next to you, really next to you, not just physically, but emotionally, mentally, in every way that matters.

Because you’re tired of waiting. You’re tired of hoping that things will get better on their own, that the distance between you will magically close. You know now that it won’t—not unless something changes. Not unless he changes.

Hyunjin must have noticed the stillness, as he quietly approached.

He stood behind you, his fingers brushing against your shoulder, warm and grounding. you tilted your head back to meet his gaze, but his eyes were somewhere else—far off in a world you couldn't reach.

"Writer's block?" he asked softly, his voice like the brush of a fine-tipped pen over canvas.

You shrugged, looking out at the twilight, thinking of how words could so easily fail when you needed them most.

It wasn't that, and the fact that he failed to recognise that was proof, that he indeed is drifting.

"Something like that."

He knelt beside you, his head resting against your knee.

Hyunjin had never needed words in the way you did. His language came in strokes, colors, textures—the way paint blended into something more than itself, how the space between two figures could tell a thousand stories without saying a word.

He pulled out a sketchbook, his charcoal pencil already dancing over the page. He didn’t need to speak; his art was the dialogue. The curves and edges of the lines formed into abstract shapes, slowly coming into focus.

You watched as he sketched two figures—"us" he said. But something was different.

"You’ve drawn us before," you said, your voice softer now. "Why does this feel different?"

Hyunjin paused, looking at the sketch. "It’s not about us. It’s about the distance between us."

you stared at the unfinished drawing, your breath catching in your throat. "Distance?"

His hand traced the space between the two figures he’d drawn. "We’re close, but not touching. Like we’re in different worlds... I don’t know how to explain it with words, but sometimes, I feel like we’re speaking different languages."

So he did feel it.

It made you think of Picasso, how his blue period captured his own internal isolation—despair hidden in soft hues, sadness under every stroke.

Hyunjin smiled, though his eyes remained serious. "I think silence is a language all on its own. Just like your pauses when you write, they say just as much as the words."

The silence stretched between you both then, a moment so textured with meaning that words would have felt intrusive. You turned away from the window and faced him, the intensity of his gaze making you feel as though you were a character in one of his pieces—forever captured on canvas, never truly understood.

"Do you ever feel like we’re stuck in our own worlds?" you asked, voice barely above a whisper. "You, with your art. Me, with my writing. Sometimes I wonder if we’re talking past each other."

He frowned, his fingers pausing over the sketchbook. "Sometimes, yes. But I don’t think that’s a bad thing. I think we’re just... translating differently."

You suddenly remembered a quote from

Murakami's Norwegian Wood:

"What happens when people open their hearts?" I asked. "They get better," she said.

You wanted to believe that. That even in the silence between you both, even in the spaces, that you were opening your hearts in the only ways you knew how.

"I write because I want to make sense of things," You said quietly. "But you—" You hesitated, unsure if you were getting it right. "You create to express what can’t be made sense of, don’t you?"

He smiled, his eyes softening. "Exactly."

For Hyunjin, art was never about answers. It was about capturing moments that words could never fully express. He often spoke of how Van Gogh’s Starry Night wasn’t about the sky or the stars—it was about feeling the vastness of everything and knowing you were a part of it, yet so far away from touching it all.

He slid the sketchbook toward you, and you stared at the drawing again. The figures—"us"—still remained apart. But this time, you noticed something you hadn’t before. The way his hand had darkened the space between 'us', as if to suggest that the distance wasn’t empty, but full of unsaid things.

"This is how I feel when you’re lost in your stories," Hyunjin said. "Like you’re right next to me, but your mind is miles away. I don’t know if you’re with me or somewhere else."

you ran my fingers over the page, over the shadowed space. "Maybe that’s just how we’re meant to be. Maybe that space is what gives us room to grow."

He watched me for a moment, his lips parting as if to say something, but then he paused. Instead, he reached for his paintbrush, dipped it in blue, and ran it over the page. The blue spilled between the figures, a vibrant, living thing, connecting us in a way the lines alone couldn’t.

"It’s not about closing the distance," he murmured. "It’s about filling it with something meaningful."

You sat with that for a moment, letting it sink in. How you had both been trying to make sense of the space between yourselves in your own ways—you with your words, him with his art. But maybe Hyunjin was right. Maybe the space wasn’t something to fear or fill, but to cherish. A space where your worlds could coexist without fully merging.

"Virginia Woolf once wrote," You began, " ‘I am rooted, but I flow.’ I think that’s us. We’re both rooted in who we are—me as a writer, you as an artist—but we flow through each other’s worlds. We don’t need to be the same to be together."

He reached across the table then, his fingers brushing yours, and for the first time in what felt like forever, the silence between you both wasn’t heavy. It was light. Full.

Hyunjin smiled, his eyes softening as he closed the sketchbook. "We don’t need words or paintings for everything. Sometimes, just being here is enough."

Put a secret in my ask box.

I Just Killed My Ex

Mentally Unstable! Hyunjin x Psychopath! Reader

warning: mentions of killing, and violence

You stood over the lifeless body, your breath steady and unnervingly calm. His eyes remained wide open, frozen in an expression of shock and betrayal, reflecting the pale moonlight that filtered through the thick canopy of trees. The woods, dark and dense, loomed around you, swallowing all other sounds except the distant rustling of leaves and the soft hoot of an owl. The woods had always been his greatest fear, ever since he was a child. That’s why you chose this place. You lured him here with the perfect bait—promises of a romantic evening, the illusion of affection that he so desperately craved.

The blade in your hand glistened, slick with the blood you’d just spilled, each crimson droplet sliding down its length with a kind of grace. You glanced down at the handle, the smooth wood fitting comfortably in your grip, before shifting your gaze back to him. A slow smile tugged at your lips, curling them into a smirk as you admired your handiwork.

"Y/N… why the woods? You know I hate it here, it’s too dark…," he'd whined earlier, his voice trembling with the same unease you’d always found so irritating. You remembered the way his eyes darted nervously from tree to tree, as if expecting the shadows to leap out at him.

You had chuckled softly at his discomfort, leaning in close to murmur sweetly, "Why are you scared?" Your hand had traced lazy, gentle patterns down his arm, a gesture that once reassured him. "I’m the one who’s going to have to walk back alone."

The way his brow furrowed in confusion, the slight quiver in his lips as he tried to make sense of your words—it was almost too easy.

"W-What?" he had stammered, the fear creeping into his voice.

But he never got an answer.

His hands had reached up, grasping weakly at your wrists as though that could stop you. You watched, emotionless, as the light slowly faded from his eyes. The strength in his grip loosened, his arms falling limply to his sides.

Now, as you stood over him, the wind ruffled your hair, carrying away the metallic scent of blood. The darkness of the woods no longer seemed menacing to you—it was a sanctuary. You had planned every detail, down to the exact moment the moon would be highest in the sky, casting its cold light over your final act.

The shadows embraced you, and for the first time in a long while, you felt in control. You knelt beside him, wiping the blade clean on his shirt, then stood again, taking in the stillness of the night. His body was just another part of the landscape now, another piece of the scene you had made.

Without a second glance, you turned and walked away, the leaves crunching softly underfoot. You wouldn’t be walking back alone after all—not really. His fear had died with him, but yours? Yours had just begun to bloom.

You stared down at the body, your breath now coming in measured, calculated intervals as the reality of what needed to be done next settled in. The blade still shone in your hand, but its purpose had been fulfilled. Now, it was just dead weight, like him. The woods were vast, dark, and suffocating, but you couldn’t leave him here. No. He had to come back with you. This wasn’t over yet.

With a sigh, you crouched beside him, brushing aside the stray twigs and leaves that clung to his clothes. His lifeless body looked heavier now, limp and uncooperative. You grabbed him by the ankles, testing his weight with a small tug. The thought crossed your mind briefly—how odd it was to be this close to someone you once shared intimate moments with, now reduced to a mere object, something to be moved, disposed of.

The first tug was awkward, his legs dragging across the forest floor with a dull scrape. The sound was unsettling but strangely satisfying, the friction against the earth a reminder of his final resistance. You adjusted your grip, digging your heels into the dirt for leverage, and began the grueling process of pulling him through the trees. His body bumped over roots and uneven ground, his head lolling to one side, as if he were a puppet whose strings had been cut.

You glanced over your shoulder occasionally, scanning for any signs of movement, for any witnesses that might be lurking in the darkness. The woods were silent, save for the sounds of your labor and the occasional distant hoot of an owl. Each pull sent a surge of adrenaline through you, driving you forward.

It wasn’t long before the clearing came into view, the distant outline of the city lights barely visible through the gaps in the trees. You had parked your car far enough away that no one would suspect anything, but close enough that you could still manage to get him inside without drawing too much attention. You hadn’t planned on him being this heavy, though. The trek felt longer, more arduous with each step, but the adrenaline coursing through your veins dulled the physical strain.

After what felt like hours, you finally reached the edge of the woods. His body was covered in dirt and leaves now, his clothes torn from being dragged across the rough terrain. You wiped the sweat from your brow and glanced at the car, hidden just out of sight, parked along a secluded stretch of road. The hardest part was yet to come.

You heaved him up into the trunk, your muscles screaming in protest as you shoved him inside. The thud of his body hitting the metal interior echoed in the night, but no one was around to hear. You slammed the trunk shut, the sound final, like a door closing on this chapter.

Back at the apartment, you parked in the underground lot, grateful for the late hour and the quiet that enveloped the building. You moved swiftly, methodically, hauling his body from the trunk and into the elevator, avoiding the security cameras you had already noted during your planning. His weight dragged behind you, a burden both literal and symbolic, as you made your way to the door.

Once inside, you exhaled, surveying the dimly lit space. The apartment felt too clean, too pristine, as though it had been waiting for this. You wiped your hands on your black jeans, smearing them with dirt and blood, and turned your gaze to the body lying in the middle of the room.

This was your sanctuary, your carefully curated life, and he was the one thing that didn’t belong anymore. But now, it was his final resting place. His presence here would serve a new purpose.

With a grim determination, you dragged him across the floor one last time, positioning him where you wanted—just another piece in your plan.

The hospital loomed in the distance, its sterile glow cutting through the night like a beacon. A smart choice, really—neutral ground where you could blend in and buy yourself time. No one would suspect you here. Hospitals were filled with people consumed by their own tragedies, chaos and misery woven into the very walls. It would be easy to slip through unnoticed, another face among the wounded and weary.

The stench of iron clung to you, lingering in the air like some perverse perfume. Blood, still warm, dripped slowly from your fingertips, splattering onto the cold pavement with each step. The sound of it hitting the ground was faint, barely audible over the distant hum of traffic, but to you, it might as well have been a drumbeat echoing your guilt. Your black clothes, chosen with care for their ability to conceal, now felt heavy, saturated with the evidence of your crime. The fabric stuck to your skin, wet and uncomfortable, the drying blood forming a layer that made your every movement feel deliberate. You could feel it like a second layer of skin, invisible to everyone but yourself.

You walked toward the hospital’s entrance, the automatic doors hissing open as you approached, like a mechanical sigh welcoming you into a world of antiseptic smells and soft murmurs. The fluorescent lights were harsh against your bloodshot eyes, casting everything in a cold, sterile light that contrasted sharply with the warmth of the blood that still clung to you. But no one looked twice. The rush of nurses, doctors, and patients barely spared a glance in your direction. To them, you were just another face, just another body passing through.

The blood from your ex seeped through your clothes in places, sticky and warm, though no one noticed. Not yet. Your dark attire hid the worst of it, but you could still feel it, the wet patches where his life had spilled over and marked you as something other than innocent. You kept walking, your pace steady but not hurried. Panic would give you away. You couldn’t afford that. Not now.

He had to die.

The thought repeated in your mind, a mantra of justification, though you weren’t sure who you were trying to convince—yourself or the ghost of him that still lingered in your thoughts. His face flickered across your memory, that familiar sneer curling his lips, the look of disdain that he always wore when he talked to you. That condescending tone, the way he spoke as though every word you said was meaningless, as though you were some toy to be played with and discarded. His cruelty had always been so subtle, so artful. He never hit you, never screamed at you. No, he was much smarter than that.

He twisted your thoughts until you didn’t know where his desires ended and yours began. He made you doubt yourself, question everything you once held dear. Slowly, over time, he chipped away at you, stripping you down until you were a hollow version of the person you used to be. You tried to leave, once. You packed your bags, stood in the doorway, but he had stopped you with nothing more than a few choice words—a promise to change, a fleeting moment of tenderness that made you second-guess everything. You had been weak then, afraid. But not anymore.

Now, you were free.

But freedom came with a price, and as you stood in the sterile hospital hallway, the weight of what you’d done settled over you like a shroud. You could almost feel his ghost following you, whispering in your ear, telling you that you would never really escape him. He would haunt you, a constant presence, until the guilt consumed you whole. But you didn’t care. You could live with the guilt. It was better than living with him.

You moved through the hospital with purpose, though each step felt heavier than the last. Every door you passed felt like an invitation to turn back, to undo the irreversible, but you pushed forward. You knew why you had come here, knew that the hospital wasn’t just a hiding place—it was a temporary refuge from the storm that raged inside you.

The fluorescent lights flickered overhead as you approached the front desk, the buzz of the hospital growing quieter in your ears as your mind raced. You leaned against the counter, feigning calm as you scanned the waiting room, your pulse thrumming under your skin. It was busy—families waiting for news, doctors rushing between patients, nurses scribbling down charts. No one cared about the woman in bloodstained black clothes who had just walked through the doors. Not yet.

You tapped your fingers against the counter, your mind flickering back to his face once more. You saw the sneer again, heard his voice—the way he’d called you pathetic, small. But not this time. This time, you had made sure he would never speak again. And as the hospital buzzed with life around you, you felt a twisted sense of satisfaction settle in your chest. He was gone, and you were still here.

You were still free. But for how long?

"Good evening, how can I help you?" the nurse chirped, her voice unnervingly bright, the kind of overused politeness that made her seem robotic. She had no idea who you were, no idea what you had done just hours ago. And that was the beauty of it.

"I’d like to donate blood," you replied smoothly, your voice soft but unwavering. You kept your expression neutral, even innocent, as if nothing in the world could be out of place.

The nurse blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the request. "Oh, sure… um, we just need to take your vitals first. If you’ll follow me—"

"No need," you cut her off with a slight wave of your hand, tilting your head with genuine confusion, as if she had suggested something absurd. "I’ve got plenty of blood at home. I can bring it in buckets if you want."

Her face changed in an instant. The nurse’s eyes widened, her friendly mask cracking as she tried to process what you had just said. The color drained from her cheeks, leaving her as pale as the hospital walls behind her. Her hands trembled—ever so slightly—but enough for you to notice, enough to spark that amusement inside you.

She stammered, trying to find her voice, but nothing coherent came out. Instead, she mumbled something under her breath, barely audible, and then turned on her heel, her shoes squeaking against the polished floor as she hurried away toward the back room. You watched her flee, your eyes following her retreating figure as she scurried off like a frightened animal.

The sight amused you. She was weak, terrified—just like him.

A cruel smirk crept across your face, spreading slowly as you leaned back against the counter. You could still see the look on her face, the way her hands shook as she fumbled to escape your presence. People like her were so easy to scare, so fragile. All it took was a few carefully chosen words, a subtle shift in tone, and they crumbled.

You glanced around the waiting area, the sterile atmosphere now tinged with your silent amusement. It was almost too easy. You had come here to buy time, to distance yourself from the body you had left behind, but this… this was a bonus. Watching people break under the weight of their own fear, just like he had, gave you a sense of control. It reminded you that you weren’t weak anymore.

The nurse hadn’t returned, and you doubted she would. The idea of her cowering in the back room, trying to explain what had just happened to her colleagues, made you chuckle under your breath. You imagined her recounting the conversation, her voice shaking, her eyes darting around in fear that you might still be lurking.

You leaned against the counter, waiting patiently, your smirk never fading.

Not long after, an older nurse emerged from the same door, her hair white as snow, her movements slow. There was something about her—a quiet strength, a knowing look in her eyes that came from years of experience. She wasn’t like the younger nurse who had fled in terror. No, this woman had seen her fair share of strange things. She wouldn’t be easily shaken.

"My dear," she said, her voice soft and warm, approaching you with a gentle smile. "Don’t mind that young one. She’s easily spooked. You seem like a lovely girl. Kind. Strong. This generation’s a bit misunderstood, but you all have good hearts deep down."

You blinked, her words falling over you like syrup, thick and sweet. Kind? She was calling you kind? The irony of it curled inside your chest like a snake ready to strike. The words dripped from her lips, heavy with patronizing sympathy, as though she thought she could read you—like you were some lost child she could save with a few soft-spoken reassurances.

"You're kind."

"Kind," you echoed, the word rolling off your tongue in a whisper of disbelief, tasting bitter, soaked in irony. Did she even know what she was saying? Could she sense the darkness lurking beneath your skin, or was she blind to it? You almost laughed at the absurdity of it all.

The older nurse’s smile never wavered. She reached out and squeezed your shoulder, the gesture meant to comfort, but all you could feel was the weight of her hand—a reminder of the blood that still clung to you, the blood she had no idea was there.

Then her fingers brushed against something wet, and her smile faltered. Slowly, she pulled her hand back, her expression shifting as she looked down at her palm. Blood. Dark, sticky blood smeared across her skin, clinging to her fingers like the evidence of a sin too great to be washed away. Her face drained of color, the warmth that had once been in her eyes replaced with a growing sense of dread.

Her gaze flicked from her hand to your face, and in that moment, the truth crashed into her like a slow, suffocating wave. She knew.

But she didn’t say a word. Her lips parted slightly, but no sound came. It was as if the air had been knocked out of her lungs, as if her mind was trying to grasp the horror of what stood in front of her but couldn’t quite catch up.

And then, like an omen, the distant sound of sirens broke the silence. Faint at first, but growing louder, closer. They were coming. For you.

The nurse’s eyes widened, panic finally creeping into her expression. You could see it—the fear, the dawning horror that spread across her face as the reality of the situation settled in. She had touched the blood. His blood. And now, she understood.

But she didn’t scream. She didn’t call for help. She just stood there, frozen in disbelief, her eyes locked onto yours, as though she were trying to reconcile the image of the "kind, strong" girl she had seen with the truth of what you had done.

You let your gaze linger on her, savoring the moment, the way her confidence crumbled under the weight of her realization. Her world was shattering in slow motion, and you… you were the cause.

With a soft, almost cruel smile, you turned away, your steps calm, measured, as if the sirens weren’t growing louder with every passing second. You could feel the nurse’s eyes on you, still too stunned to move, too overwhelmed to react. It was perfect. The fear, the silence, the power you held in that fleeting moment.

But you didn’t have time to relish it. The sirens were closing in, and you needed to disappear. Without a glance back, you slipped out the hospital doors and into the night, leaving the nurse—and everything she now knew—behind.

Without thinking, you bolted, pushing through the hallway doors as the wail of sirens grew louder, chasing you through the sterile corridors. Your heart pounded in your chest, every step echoing against the cold tile floors. You needed a way out, fast.

You ran deeper into the hospital, barely aware of your surroundings, just desperate to escape. Rounding a corner, you slammed into someone—a tall, thin man in a hospital uniform. His face was pale, almost sickly, and his hair was a wild mess, framing his hollow eyes. He looked like he had been here far too long. A mental patient.

"Watch it," you muttered, trying to shove past him. But he just stood there, unmoving, his gaze shifting from your face to the floor beneath you. It was as if he could see through you, into the blood-soaked secret you carried.

Without a second thought, you grabbed his wrist and yanked him into the nearest room—a laundry room, dimly lit and cluttered with piles of clothes. The harsh fluorescent lights flickered and buzzed, casting a sickly glow over everything.

Slamming the door shut behind you, you pulled out your knife and pressed it against his throat. The blade still had traces of blood on it, glistening under the light.

"Take off your clothes," you ordered, your voice cold and unflinching. You needed to blend in, to disappear before the sirens reached the hospital.

His breath hitched, but he didn’t resist. Slowly, almost too calmly, he began to undress, his movements methodical, his gaze never leaving yours. There was something in his eyes, amusement gleaming in them, as if he found the entire situation entertaining.

When he was down to his undergarments, he sat on the wet floor, folding his legs beneath him like a child. His stare never wavered. He watched you with a kind of fascination as you tore off your blood-soaked clothes, swapping them for his. The fabric was cold against your skin, damp from the humidity of the room. As you changed, you noticed the water on the floor—the blood from your clothes seeping into it, swirling like red ink in a puddle.

His eyes became crescent moons as he saw it too. His lips curled into a small, smile. "That’s not your blood, is it?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper but filled with delight, as though the truth excited him.

"No," you replied simply, pulling the patient uniform over your body. "It’s not."

The room fell into silence, save for the soft dripping of water and the distant hum of the hospital around you. You could feel his eyes on you, burning with curiosity, his mind racing to understand you, to piece together the kind of person you must be.

He looked down at the bloodied water, his grin widening. "You killed someone."

You shot him a cold glare, but he didn’t flinch. If anything, he seemed even more excited by your reaction.

"I like you," he murmured, his voice dark and playful, like a child discovering a new toy. "Take me with you."

"No." Your response was immediate, firm.

As you moved toward the door, his hand shot out, grabbing your ankle with surprising strength. His grip was tight, almost desperate. "Take me with you," he repeated, his eyes gleaming with a dangerous sort of determination.

Your eyes narrowed, your grip tightening on the knife. "No."

He stood up, quick and agile, pulling clothes from a nearby pile and dressing himself in them as though he had planned for this all along. "If you don’t take me," he said, his tone light, almost sing-song, "I’ll scream."

The threat hung in the air between you. You stared at him, your mind racing. He was unstable, that much was clear. But he wasn’t lying. He would scream, and the sirens were already too close. If he screamed, you’d be caught. You didn’t have a choice.

"You're insane," you muttered, your voice filled with frustration.

He grinned, a wild, manic grin that sent a shiver down your spine. "Maybe. But if you don’t take me, I’ll scream."

"Fine," you growled, grabbing his wrist and yanking him to his feet. You didn’t have time to argue. You had to get out, and now, he was coming with you whether you liked it or not.

You rushed to your car, the man—Hyunjin—you had asked in a hurry, following close behind, his eyes gleaming with excitement. Once inside, you sped off, leaving the hospital behind, the distant wail of sirens fading into the night.

The drive to your house was silent, tension filling the small space between you. Hyunjin sat next to you, his eyes flitting between the road and your hands on the steering wheel, a barely concealed excitement bubbling beneath the surface.

When you finally pulled up to your house, you led him inside. He followed closely, his eyes scanning the space—until they landed on the body.

Your ex, lying on the floor in a pool of his own blood.

Hyunjin let out a delighted whistle. "You’ve been busy."

You shot him a glare, you walked over to the body, nudging it with your foot. His head fell to the side when Hyunjin tried to touch his face and the blood fell on your shoes. You ran your foot over the dead man's shirt to wipe off the blood.

"He deserved it."

"I’m sure he did," Hyunjin said, his voice dripping with amusement. "And now what? We just… live with it?"

You glanced at him, your expression unreadable. "You’re not going to run?" you asked, curious.

He shook his head, a smile playing on his lips. "Why would I? You’re interesting."

"Interesting?"

"Yes," he said, stepping closer to you. "You’re like me, you're fun." His eyes gleamed with that same unsettling light from before. "We could be good together, you know."

You stared at him for a long moment, weighing his words. He was dangerous, unpredictable. But then again, so were you.

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to have someone like him around.

...

The door slams behind you as you enter the apartment, your pulse racing with the thrill of what you’ve just done. There’s a certain satisfaction lingering on your lips, a wicked smile you can’t quite hide.

You step over to the mirror, admiring the streaks of blood on your cheek. Not yours, of course. Never yours. A laugh bubbles up from your chest as you lean closer to your reflection.

"Beautiful."

The voice startles you, and you turn to find Hyunjin lounging on the couch, his head tilted as he watches you, eyes glittering with something. He looks far too calm, for someone who just saw you walk in like this.

"Is that why you're still here?" you ask, raising an eyebrow. "Because I’m a monster?"

His lips curve up into a slow, smile, his eyes narrowing with amusement. "Because you’re the only one who makes me feel alive," he says, voice as smooth as velvet, dripping with sweetness.

"Isn’t that what you wanted? To save me?"

You walk toward him slowly, every step deliberate, predatory. "I didn’t save you, Hyunjin, you begged me to get you outta there."

Hyunjin’s fingers trace along the edge of the couch, his gaze unwavering. There’s a flicker of madness behind his calm exterior, one that mirrors your own. It’s what drew you to him in the first place. The way he teeters on the edge of insanity, always so close to falling, but never quite letting go.

"Maybe that’s why I like you," he whispers, his voice barely audible. "Because I want you to break me completely."

You laugh, the sound echoing through the room, cold and hollow. "You say that, but can you handle me, Hyunjin?"

He stands, slow, until he’s towering over you. His fingers brush your cheek, lingering over the blood like a lover’s touch. "Why do you think I’ve stayed?" His lips are close to your ear now, his breath hot against your skin. "I crave the chaos. I crave you."

You can feel the tension in the air between you two, the dangerous pull of your shared madness. There’s a sick beauty in it, the way you both destroy and rebuild each other, over and over again. No one else would understand it. No one else would survive it.

"You’ll fall apart," you warn, even as your hands wrap around his neck, pulling him closer.

His eyes meet yours, and for the first time tonight, you see it — the madness, the desperation. It’s consuming him, just like it’s consumed you.

"Then let me fall," he murmurs, his voice heavy with longing. "Let me fall into you, Y/N."

Your grip tightens, and for a moment, there’s silence. Complete and utter silence.

Then, Hyunjin smiles —while smearing that blood on your face a little more— that wicked, broken smile that matches yours so perfectly. You press your lips to his, hard and unforgiving, feeling his breath hitch as the weight of your shared insanity finally crashes down.

There’s no redemption here. Just sweet surrender.

Together.